Tag Against Time

by Helen Hughes Vick

  A man’s head and shoulders reappeared. “Come out here, boy,” his gravely voice ordered.

  Tag gulped down his heart and crawled out. An elderly man, a middle-aged woman, and two small children hiding behind the woman’s long full skirts, stood on the path.

  “What are you doing in there?” Deep lines molded the long face of the man, in his late sixties. He wore denim pants, a long-sleeved shirt, high black boots, and a sagging felt hat.

  Tag tried to sound innocent. “Looking around like everyone else.”

  “Don’t remember you coming out with this group.” The man stared over his wire-rimmed eyeglasses at Tag.

  “He’s not with us, Mr. Pierce,” stated the woman. She folded her arms across her ample chest, “And I certainly don’t want him with us. Heaven only knows where he came from and what he brought with him.” She swung around almost knocking down the little girl still hiding behind her skirt. “Come children. Let’s go on.”

  Mr. Pierce pondered Tag. “How did you get out here, boy?”

  “Walked.”

  “Good long jaunt from town,” Mr. Pierce rubbed his stubby chin. “Been here before?”

  “A couple of times. My dad was . . . is, an archaeologist. The ruins are great, aren’t they? Sort of like walking back into time and all.” Tag moved. “Well, I got to be going.”

  Mr. Pierce blocked his path, “You must be mighty interested in dead Indians to come clear out here from town alone. Maybe, I can persuade Mrs. Ayer to let you ride back with them.”

  “No thanks.” Tag nonchalantly dusted the dirt from the front of Sean’s shirt. “I want to spend more time in the canyon, you know, just looking around.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tag.”

  Mr. Pierce inspected him up and down. “You’re mighty skinny. Been a while since you ate?”

  “Years.”

  “You go on up to the ranger cabin, and tell Mrs. Pierce to feed you. I’ll be up after Mrs. Ayer and her children have seen enough. You need a place to sleep, too? Our front porch is a lot safer than sleeping out in the open with the bears.” He moved to one side.

  Tag hurried passed him. “Thanks, Mr. Pierce. I’ll be happy to work for food and a place to sleep.”

  “Just you mind your manners around Mrs. Pierce. She’s a bit persnickety about all the pleases and thank yous.”

  Tag trotted up the path. As soon as Mr. Pierce was out of sight, his first thought was to escape. He darted in the direction of the cave. His stomach growled in an angry response to his flight. “Quiet!” Tag put his hand on his empty stomach as he ran along. “I’ll feed you at the next stop in . . .”

  A cold breeze lashed Tag’s face. He jerked to a stop. Tingling sensations ran up and down his spine.

  “My son . . .”

  “I know—I know!” Tag interrupted Great Owl’s voice in the sudden cold breeze. “There is something I need to do here.” He shrugged his shoulders, took a deep breath, and started back down the path. “I just wish you’d give me a little more help here, like telling me what it is I am supposed to do!”

  11

  Tag knew he could find the ranger cabin. It wasn’t far from where the Visitor Center would stand in the nineteen-nineties. In the future, special ranger-guided tours would take a limited number of tourists to the old cabin, but he had walked there many times from his parents’ trailer. It was one of his favorite getaway-to-be-alone places. What would it be like now, in 1916? His stomach twisted and growled in hunger. He sure hoped Mrs. Pierce was a good cook.

  As Tag passed the destruction of Singing Woman’s home, new determination thundered through him.

  “I’ll make them listen this time!” he vowed.

  The wind whispered in the trees, “How?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pierce,” Tag took the tin plate heaped with scrambled eggs and thick slices of homemade wheat bread. His mouth watered at the aroma. “Thanks for letting me clean up also.”

  “You are more than welcome. Sit there on the front porch and eat,” Mrs. Pierce said in a thick southern accent.

  “Yes Ma’am. It looks delicious.”

  Mrs. Pierce was a good number of years younger than her husband. Her long dark hair was twisted in a tight knot on the top of her head. Her clear blue eyes inspected Tag openly. “It’s just eggs. What did William think I would feed you at this time of day? That man is always sending hungry stomachs my way. Guess he remembers his own blue belly being empty all through the War Between the States.”

  Shoveling in the eggs, Tag nodded.

  “You’re pretty young to be out on your own. What are you? Fifteen or sixteen? But then, fifteen was plenty old for our southern boys to put on the gray and die.” She reached back and adjusted the strings to the white apron covering her long, calico dress. “My daddy was but eighteen when he fought at Antietam. He lost both of his younger brothers in that battle. Well, eat up, and if you want more, just holler.” The screen door slammed behind her.

  What would she do, if she knew I was only twelve? Tag started in on the crusty bread. It pays to be tall after all.

  Tag studied the log cabin as he ate. It wasn’t very big, maybe two rooms. He knew that eventually additions would be added making it four rooms. A large garden grew on the east side of the cabin. An unhitched buckboard wagon stood by the corral in the back, while three horses rested in the shade of ponderosa pine trees at one end of it. Another horse, hitched to a two-seated, open carriage, waited patiently near the corral. An outhouse peeked through the scrub oak and pine trees beyond.

  Tag tried to remember how long the cabin served as the first ranger station. Wasn’t it 1930 or 40 something? He looked toward the rim of the canyon to where the Park Service Visitor Center would be someday. Will there be anything left for people to visit by then?

  Uneasiness snaked through Tag remembering Great Owl’s words as they parted hundreds of years ago. “There is much your people must learn from the mistakes of my people. If your people are going to survive, they too must learn to live in peace and harmony with each other and with Mother Earth.”

  Frustration piped through Tag. But no one listens to a skinny kid from nowhere!

  He heard the Ayer children’s laughter. They appeared through the trees chasing each other. Mr. Pierce and Mrs. Ayer strolled behind. Mrs. Ayer stopped short when she saw Tag on the steps. “Henry and Gretchen, get into the carriage. Thank you, Mr. Pierce.” She glared at Tag, shook her head, marched over to the carriage, and heaved herself up. “Please tell Mrs. Pierce good-bye for me.”

  The children stared at Tag as the carriage rolled by. “See, I told you. Ghosts do too eat,” said the boy, pointing at Tag.

  “Seems you have become the legendary ghost boy.” Mr. Pierce eased himself down next to Tag and chuckled.

  Tag set the empty plate down. “Ghost boy?”

  “Story has it that some thirty years ago, local ruffians were digging in the ruins when a tall, thin, curly-headed boy appeared out of nowhere. The mysterious boy beat up the ruffians, broke one of their ankles, and then just disappeared into thin air with a huge clap of thunder. That nasty break caused poor old Horace to limp ever since.” Mr. Pierce took off his hat and drew out a red bandanna from his pocket. “Many people claim to have seen the ghost boy drifting in and out of the ruins just after dusk.” He wiped his high forehead. “Some say he’s searching for his family who abandoned him here, but others say he’s the guardian spirit of the canyon sent by some Indian deity.”

  “People really believe that?”

  “Yup.” Mr. Pierce smiled and put his bandanna back in his pocket. “Course, I don’t refute it none. The stories tend to keep people out of my hair after sunset, especially Horace.”

  The sound of wagon wheels and voices drifted through the trees. “Another group is coming, and I haven’t even rested up yet. More and more people come each summer. We had right near four hundred last year alone. Why, some people are even driving horseless carriages clear out h
ere.” Mr. Pierce shook his head. “I don’t know why any man would want such a loud, smelly contraption. Now you take those black Tin Lizzies made by that New Yorker, Henry Ford. Everyone is buying them, but with gasoline costing a whole quarter a gallon it is too expensive for anyone to fill up the tank! Good thing too, because when you go up a steep hill, likely as not, the gas tank under the front seat slops all over your boots. That’s not my idea of progress. No sir. Just give me a good team of horses and a sturdy wagon any day.”

  A buckboard, driven by a large man, appeared between the tall pines on the dirt road. Two women sat beside him. A variety of people filled the back of the wagon.

  “Quite a group,” Mr. Pierce said, standing up. “Automobiles will never replace the good old wagon for groups that big.”

  “I’ll take my plate inside to Mrs. Pierce, and see if there is anything she needs done.” Tag had no desire to meet the newcomers. He tapped on the screen door and went in.

  A small, horsehair settee, an oak rocking chair, and a desk stacked with papers occupied the front of the room. Red and black Navajo rugs covered much of the pine-plank floor. A long shelf displaying the ancient ones’ pottery and baskets ran along the front wall. Tag’s stomach knotted up. He tore his eyes away from the shelf that flaunted his ancient friends’ personal belongings.

  An oak table with an oilcloth covering and two pressed-back oak chairs stood near the rear of the room by a large iron cookstove and a dry sink. He could see a narrow, quilt-covered bed in the room off to the left.

  “Thank you. It is the best meal that I’ve had in years.” Tag set the plate on the dry sink. “Can I help you with anything, Mrs. Pierce?”

  “Know how to weed?” Mrs. Pierce answered without looking up from the pot she was stirring.

  Tag went out the back door and toward the garden, keeping his head down. He knelt between the tall stalks of corn, keeping his back toward the corral where the people piled out of the wagon.

  “Right nice day for a picnic,” Mr. Pierce’s voice said. “I just got back from taking another group down, so I’m a bit tired.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Pierce, we know the way,” answered a husky voice. “We’ll do just fine on our own.”

  Tag peeked through the stalks. There were at least eight people carrying huge picnic baskets on their arms.

  “I’m sure you will. I’ll walk down in a bit and just remind everyone they are not allowed to dig in the ruins for artifacts. What’s lying around in sight is one thing, but digging for mementos is another.”

  Tag bit his tongue as he watched Mr. Pierce lead the group toward the trailhead. He yanked out a weed and threw it over his shoulder. Eight picnic baskets! I bet Mr. Pierce won’t even search the baskets when those vultures come back. Tag pitched another weed over his head.

  “I was right,” Tag whispered hours later. He stood behind the screen door of the cabin watching the picnickers hoisting their heavy baskets into the wagon. “He’s not even going to ask if they took anything.” Desperation replaced his anger. What could he do?

  “You must be hungry,” Mrs. Pierce came through the door, “after all the weeding and wood-cutting you did this afternoon. Dinner will be ready soon. Go on out and sit with Mr. Pierce till it’s ready.”

  How can I explain it all to him? Tag thought, watching Mr. Pierce whittling a toothpick from a twig. How does someone tell an old man, who fought in the Civil War, to get tough and do the job that he was hired to do?

  “Mrs. Pierce said you did a good job on the garden and filled the woodbox too.” Mr. Pierce snapped his pocket knife shut. “She’s cooking chicken and dumplings tonight.” He inspected the toothpick and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “We’ll get a bedroll made up here on the porch before it gets dark. Glad you’re spending the night.”

  “I appreciate you inviting me.” Tag said, looking out into the forest. It’s useless. Even if I knew how to say it, Mr. Pierce wouldn’t change. He’s just too kindhearted. His anger died. The weariness that depression brings flooded over him.

  I’m fighting a no-win battle against time and man.

  12

  Tag pushed his plate away. “Mrs. Pierce, that was the best breakfast I have had in at least thirty years. Thank you.”

  “Thirty years, you don’t say.” Mrs. Pierce chuckled, dismissing Tag’s truthfulness as a joke. “I’d have guessed at least fifty years by the looks of those ribs sticking through your skinny chest.”

  Mr. Pierce stood up from the table. “You stay with us a while and Mrs. Pierce will fatten you up good. She’s the best cook in the North, South, and Southwest.” He winked at his wife as she cleared the table. “Well, Tag, do you think you could help with special folks visiting the canyon today?” He strolled toward the front door.

  “Sure!” Tag rushed to hold the door open. “You just tell me where you want me to take them.”

  Mr. Pierce peered over his round wire-rimmed glasses. “It sounds like you’re trying to steal my job from me.”

  “Oh, no sir. I just want to . . .” Tag’s face felt hot.

  Mr. Pierce eased himself down on the porch step. He winked at Tag. “I’m just funning with you. Although, it might be best for you to come along with me a few times to learn the ins-and-outs of the rangering before you start out on your own.”

  “Yes, sir. Whatever you say. I don’t know as much as you do about the canyon, but I want to learn.”

  Mr. Pierce dug into his back pants pocket and pulled out his bandanna. “Word came yesterday that the Coltons would be back today.”

  “The Coltons?” Tag tried to keep his excitement out of his voice.

  “Dr. Harold and Mary-Russell Colton from Pennsylvania. Do you know them? No? I didn’t think that you did.” Mr. Pierce took off his glasses. “Dr. Colton is a professor at the University of Pennsylvania. Studies animals, I believe. His wife is a well-known artist.” Mr. Pierce spit on his glasses and wiped them in careful strokes with his bandanna. “They came to the canyon four years ago on their honeymoon. They’ve been back every summer since. Seems they enjoy our little display of ancient life here. Might as well move here, I say. But then they are northerners, and northerners are not the brightest at times.” Mr. Pierce plopped his glasses back on his thin nose. “But don’t tell Mrs. Pierce I said that.”

  Tag nodded, trying to keep from doing an Irish jig right there. He knew the Coltons, not personally, of course. They died before he was born, but he knew of them. Dr. Harold Sellers Colton and Mary-Russell Colton established the Museum of Northern Arizona and dedicated it to the preservation and study of ancient and contemporary Indian cultures. It was one of the few places that both he and his dad loved. His dad didn’t care for sports, movies, TV, or even video arcades, all the things Tag loved. Archaeology seemed to consume his dad twenty-four hours a day. Homesickness welled up in Tag’s heart, remembering the hours spent with him at the museum. Because of his dad’s job with the Park Service, together they were allowed to explore a huge, private storage room with ceiling-high shelves. Each gray metal shelf held hundreds of artifacts—from pottery to stone tools and shell jewelry. Dad took hours explaining different items on the high shelves; how they were made and used, and where they came from. Tag especially enjoyed all the interesting or strange tidbits of information Dad added. It was during these hours that Tag had truly felt close to his father. He had gained most of his archaeology knowledge at his dad’s elbow while exploring the Museum of Northern Arizona.

  Now, Tag’s eyes stung with little bullets of tears. Please Taawa. Let me go there again with Dad, Tag prayed as a dusty black automobile bounced up the road to the cabin.

  “Mr. Pierce said that you are from Pennsylvania. Aren’t the winters awfully cold there?” Tag asked as he and Dr. Colton stood outside Great Owl’s home. Mrs. Colton and their two-year-old son, Ferrell, were exploring some of the other ruins.

  “Yes, and they seem to get colder each year.” Dr. Colton had a long face with a beard and mustache. Dressed i
n work clothes, he reminded Tag of his dad’s archaeologist friends in the future. Dr. Colton’s intense eyes missed nothing as he crawled in and out of the ruins. “I’ve never been here in the winter, but it must be beautiful with the snow on the San Francisco Peaks.”

  “The Peaks are gorgeous and have great skiing, too.”

  Dr. Colton peered at Tag. “Skiing?”

  Realizing his time-error, Tag rushed on. “And then there is the Grand Canyon, it’s just a few hours away. You haven’t lived until you have seen the Grand Canyon in the winter. It is perfect for Mrs. Colton to paint, and there are all kinds of wild animals for you to study. I’m sure that the University in Flagstaff needs a good zoology professor.”

  “University? Do you mean the Normal School?” Dr. Colton rubbed his beard. “It’s only a few years old. I’m not sure if the school even has a zoology department.”

  “You are the perfect person to start it. Of course, you’ll need a museum to display all the fossils and dinosaurs you’ll find. You know that northern Arizona doesn’t have a museum at all, which is a real shame considering all the Indian ruins and artifacts around. And . . .”

  Dr. Colton held his hands up, “Wait a minute, young man. Do your parents have land to sell, or has Flagstaff hired you to promote their town?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.” Tag shifted uncomfortably and ran his fingers through his hair, getting them tangled in his tight curls. “I—I just love Flagstaff so much that I think everyone should move here, especially someone like you.”

  “You sound just like Sean O’Farrell.” Dr. Colton started down the path away from Great Owl’s house.

  Tag’s heart stopped. “You knew—know Sean?” He ran after Dr. Colton. Could Sean still be alive?

  “We had dinner with him at his house last night, along with his wife, Kathryn, and their youngest son, Michael T. If I remember correctly, Sean was the one that advised us to come to Walnut Canyon first.”