Tag Against Time

by Helen Hughes Vick

  “Papa!” Colton’s own son, Ferrell, called. His dark hair twisted and curled with sweat, despite the short, blue, dress-like outfit he wore. His small, black boots came to above his ankles and laced up the front. He scurried up the narrow path on chubby bare legs with Mrs. Colton close behind. “Papa, look.” He held his tiny hand up to his father.

  Dr. Colton knelt and put his arm around Ferrell. “Let’s see what great treasure you’ve found.”

  Ferrell opened his fist and held out a piece of broken pottery about the size of a half-dollar.

  “Well, well.” Dr. Colton turned the sherd over in his hand. “This is a treasure. The black design on the white pottery is striking. I didn’t realize that these Indians painted their pottery.”

  Tag couldn’t resist. “They didn’t.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Colton said, joining the group. She was a petite woman with pleasant blue eyes. Her long, split skirt made climbing into the ruins easier. “Mr. Pierce said many of the pottery sherds around have designs on them.”

  “He’s right. The ancient ones who lived here didn’t paint their own pottery, though. They traded for it.” Tag saw Mr. Pierce working his way up the path. “I’m sure Mr. Pierce can tell you more about it.”

  “More, more rocks,” Ferrell bounced up and down clutching his father’s pant legs.

  Dr. Colton picked him up and squeezed him. “Maybe Tag can help you find more sherds.”

  “Is everything all right with you folks?” Mr. Pierce said, stopping next to Mrs. Colton. “Sorry I had to leave you all, but I had another group of visitors that I needed to check on.”

  “We are fine, William. Tag was just explaining how the painted pottery was not made here, but was bartered for.” Dr. Colton handed the sherd to his wife. “Fascinating isn’t it, Mary? Such a distinctive design.”

  “I wonder if each tribe or geographic area created and used its own paint colors and specific designs?” Mrs. Colton examined the sherd with her long fingers. “If they did, then you could determine where each piece of ceramic was made.”

  Dr. Colton added with interest, “That information also gives clues to trade routes. William, did the different geographic groups have their own pottery designs?”

  Mr. Pierce rubbed his chin and gazed at Tag. “That’s a good question.”

  “Ferrell, let’s go look for some more sherds.” Tag said trying not to sound too eager to escape Mr. Pierce’s penetrating stare.

  “More pretty rocks,” Ferrell stated, half an hour later. He squatted in the middle of the path. He dropped the three small sherds in his chubby hand to pick up a large, black-on-red sherd near his feet.

  “Sherds, Ferrell. They are sherds.” Tag knelt next to the child. This was the fourteenth time Ferrell had stopped to exchange the sherds he clutched. “You can’t carry them all, so which one do you want to take?” Tag smiled watching the toddler playing with the sherds at his feet. He’s so cute. I wonder if all two-year-olds are like Ferrell?

  The memory of another young boy, Small Cub, took over Tag’s mind. Despite the language barrier between them, he remembered talking to Small Cub just like he did to Ferrell. Small Cub was a chatterbox too. Though he tried, Tag couldn’t picture Small Cub even being any other age than four. Where was Small Cub now? Goose bumps covered Tag’s arms at the thought, and he pushed the obvious answer out of his mind.

  Tag held his arms out for Ferrell. “Come on, big guy. We’d better go find your parents.”

  Two men appeared on the trail above. Each hauled a huge picnic hamper. “The black and white pot alone is worth a dollar.” The taller man’s huge nose looked like a hooked beak.

  The second man, in a bright red shirt, with a bald head reminded Tag of a turkey vulture. “Not bad for just an hour’s work. The little bowls I dug up are worth a nickel each.” The two stopped chatting when they saw Tag and Ferrell.

  Tag stood up and stared at the men as they moved closer. Which one of his friends’ belongings were stashed in the men’s picnic baskets: Littlest Star’s stew bowls or maybe one of Fawn’s beautifully-shaped vases? Anger consumed Tag. He cleared his throat. “Nice day, isn’t it?” He figured starting out friendly was safer.

  “Right nice,” Turkey Vulture said. His eyes were small, sunken, black slits.

  Tag stood in the middle of the path blocking the men. “I think it is best for me to warn you that it is against the law to steal anything from the ruins.” He tried to make his voice deep.

  Beak Nose glared. “You don’t say. Now move aside.”

  “Those baskets look heavy.” Tag’s knees began to shake. How far did he dare push, especially with Ferrell to worry about?

  “What’s in our baskets is none of your concern,” anger rimmed Turkey Vulture’s voice. “Move aside.” With a hard shove he knocked Tag to one side and scrambled around Ferrell, still squatting in the path.

  “Best keep your mouth shut, boy.” Beak Nose threatened as he jostled past Tag. With long strides he followed his companion around a bend in the path.

  “Well, here they are,” Mr. Pierce’s voice said, behind Tag. “Looks like the boys have had a right good time together.”

  Ferrell rushed toward his mother and father. “Look, pretty rocks.”

  Tag clenched his fist and tried to swallow his anger. Mr. Pierce must have seen Turkey Vulture and Beak Nose with their loot, but he hadn’t stopped them.

  It is useless. Totally useless, Tag’s mind screamed. I can’t do this alone, but who will help me?

  13

  Tag shifted the sleeping Ferrell to a more comfortable spot on his lap. The toddler had fallen asleep in Tag’s arms the instant the Model T Ford started bouncing along the dirt road toward Flagstaff. As in a horse-drawn wagon, the ride was bone-jarring, but at least the leather seat was padded.

  Tag was fascinated by the inside of the convertible coupe, as he watched Dr. Colton drive. The dash was plain, except for the battery switch. There was no generator. The switch was thrown after the motor was started. Tag had been granted the honor of starting up the Tin Lizzie by turning the crank that protruded from the front of the car. The four cylinder engine made a distinctive but indescribable roar that Tag knew he’d never forget. The three pedals on the floorboard didn’t seem to function the same as those of the cars in the future, so Tag asked Dr. Colton about them.

  “This one is the brake, this one is low gear,” Dr. Colton explained, “and the last one is for high gear. Takes a bit of practice to operate the gear shifts while controlling the gas feed here on the steering wheel.” Dr. Colton shifted into high gear as the Lizzie picked up speed going down an incline. “Tag, would you to like to try driving her?”

  “But I don’t have a driver’s license.”

  “A what?” Mrs. Colton said, looking at Tag. She sat between Tag and her husband. “I didn’t know that Arizona required any kind of license in order to drive an automobile.”

  “Just for women, I believe, dear.” Dr. Colton winked at Tag. “I can’t get over how interesting the pottery sherds are that Ferrell found.”

  Mrs. Colton nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. Perhaps we can find a book on ancient pottery and designs.”

  Tag sat back listening and letting the rush of air cool him off. One more adventure I can share with Dad: riding in a Tin Lizzie with Dr. Harold Colton and Mary-Russell Colton, discussing the ancient ones at Walnut Canyon! Why it is—or will be Dr. Colton who names the ancient ones Sinagua.

  An unnamed fear swirled around Tag. His heart lurched. What if the Coltons don’t move to Flagstaff? Tag hugged Ferrell’s cuddly body closer trying to ignore the possibility. “I really appreciate you giving me a ride into town, Dr. and Mrs. Colton.”

  “It is our pleasure. Your knowledge of the ancient Indians is fascinating. You are a remarkable young man.” Mrs. Colton’s violet perfume smelled wonderful. She reached out and caressed Ferrell’s pudgy cheek. “Besides, Ferrell doesn’t take to just anyone. Thank you for helping with him. I’m surpr
ised Mr. Pierce could spare you with so many people at the canyon today.”

  “Oh, he won’t even notice I’m gone,” Tag replied. He hadn’t told Mr. Pierce he was going into Flagstaff with the Coltons. Tag’s stomach flipped with a hungry flop and then knotted with the reality of the situation. Was he doing the right thing? What would Sean say and do when he just showed up on his doorstep? I hope he still believes in not asking personal questions, like: Where did you go thirty years ago? Why haven’t you aged a day since then? Tag’s mind whirled in a cycle of confusion and apprehension. But deep within, he felt he was doing the right thing in seeking Sean’s help.

  I’ll help you anyway I can . . ., Sean’s words spoken thirty years ago broke the circle of anxiety in Tag’s mind. Yes, he was doing the right thing, the only thing he could do. The problem of destruction and pilfering at the canyon was more than just one twelve-year-old ghost boy could handle.

  Tag settled back in the seat and listened to Dr. and Mrs. Colton’s animated discussion of ceramic designs. Keen interest sparkled in their eyes. They’re really getting into pottery! Tag hugged Ferrell. The sleeping child shifted and snuggled tighter against Tag. I am definitely going to talk to Dad and Mom about a little brother when I get back.

  A wave of homesickness filled Tag’s body and soul. It was a mixture of a profound longing for his mother’s own loving arms and yearning for the wide-eyed, inquisitive, four-year-old, Small Cub. Tag leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes against burning tears.

  “Thanks again for the ride.” Tag jumped out of the Ford and swung his backpack onto his shoulder.

  Mrs. Colton settled Ferrell in her lap. “You are more than welcome, Tag. Are you sure you can get back to the canyon?”

  “Positive.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that Sean O’Farrell and you were conspiring to get us to move to Flagstaff,” Dr. Colton said.

  Mrs. Colton winked at Tag as the automobile began to roll. She called over the engine’s roar, “A plot that works, I hope.”

  “So do I!” Tag waved, “so do I.”

  What will happen to the course of history if the Coltons don’t move to Flagstaff? The thought again hit Tag in a wave of fear. A cold shiver crept up his back. Maybe he should go after the Coltons and do some more persuading.

  “Don’t worry. My pa will talk them into moving here.” The young voice sounded confident to the point of being cocky.

  Tag whipped around.

  Sean’s once-small house was now a large two-story structure with an ornate wrought iron fence surrounding it. A boy, about ten years old, with brilliant copper-colored hair and deep-blue eyes, grinned at Tag through the fence.

  “Are you here to see my pa?” Reddish freckles dotted every inch of the boy’s round face. The orange-gold hair was even curlier than Tag’s brown hair. The boy’s deep-blue, gregarious eyes were undoubtedly inherited from Sean.

  “Is your dad here?”

  The boy shimmied over the high fence in a fast, fluid movement and dropped beside Tag. He wore knickers, calf-length pants, and a faded cotton, striped shirt that buttoned down the front. The middle button was missing. His bare feet were a mass of freckles. “Nope. Pa’s at his office.” The boy inspected Tag. Curiosity danced in his eyes. “He didn’t say he was expecting anyone.”

  “Michael T. O’Farrell is the woodbox filled yet?” A small round woman in an ankle-length blue dress and a long white apron called from the front porch. White hair curled around her wrinkled but pleasant face.

  “No Ma,” Michael called over his shoulder. “What’s your name?” he asked under his breath, still looking at his mother.

  “Tag.”

  Michael’s face whipped around, his blue eyes wide, his mouth open.

  “Michael T. O’Farrell, whom are you talking to there?”

  Hearing his mother’s call, Michael shook himself back to reality. When he spoke, his voice sounded shaky. “Err . . . Ugh . . . just this gentleman. He needs to talk to Pa.”

  “Then bring him in to use the telephone to talk to Mr. O’Farrell.”

  “No, Ma. He has face-to-face business with Pa. I am going to take him right down to the office before Pa leaves for his trip.” Michael sprang down the dirt road with catlike grace. “Come on, or Ma will put you to work splitting wood, too,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Michael T. O’Farrell, you come right back here after. I don’t want you traipsing all over town.” Tag heard Mrs. O’Farrell’s Irish accent call as he ran after Michael, sprinting down the dirt road.

  “Tag—that’s a funny name,” Michael said, slowing his pace.

  Tag saw Michael scrutinizing him out of the corner of his eye. “It’s just a nickname.” He picked up his speed.

  “You’re not from around here are you?” The much-shorter Michael trotted to keep pace with Tag.

  “No.” The tone of Tag’s voice got his message across. Michael fell silent.

  After a few minutes Michael ventured, “Bet your ma doesn’t make you fill the woodbox.”

  “Well no, actually she doesn’t.”

  “I keep telling Pa that ten is too old to be filling the woodbox and weeding the garden. None of my five older brothers chopped wood when they were ten. They were all helping Pa at the office and all. Pa let all of them go on surveying trips when they were eight, but he won’t even let me go with him on his trip today! Ma says two weeks is too long for her to have me gone.” He shook his head. His curly hair gleamed copper in the bright sun. “It’s not fair. It’s just plain unfair.”

  Tag slowed his pace a bit. The conversation was on safer ground now. “It must be nice to have older brothers.”

  “Not when they’re all grown and married, which means I get to do all the chores, which isn’t fair either!” Michael peered over at Tag. “Do you know any of my brothers?”

  Michael hadn’t inherited Sean’s trait of respecting other’s privacy. Tag picked up his pace again. “No.”

  “Then your business must just be with Pa.” Michael watched Tag out of the corner of his eye. “Must be real important business the rate you are going.”

  “You said your pa was leaving on a trip.” Tag concentrated on the houses they passed. None of the houses existed thirty years ago. “Flagstaff has really grown,” he muttered.

  “Pa says that when he first built our house there wasn’t a neighbor for a mile. It was just a little house then. Pa added rooms with each boy.” Michael watched Tag’s face. “Maybe you saw our house when it was first built.”

  Uneasiness churned in Tag with Michael’s statement. The remark was just like the leading comments that TV lawyers would make in the future. Tag sensed more behind Michael’s remarks than just a ten-year-old’s curiosity. “What time is your pa leaving?”

  “As soon as my brothers, Patrick and Jonathan, get back from Phoenix on the afternoon train.” Michael jogged to keep up with Tag. “Come on. We’d better take the shortcut.”

  The shortcut sliced through an open field, across three backyards, down a road, and ended at the corner of Leroux Street and Rail Road Avenue. The railroad still ran along the south side of Rail Road Avenue, but now the many buildings on the opposite side were two-story brick buildings, instead of wood. Tag recognized some of the buildings as ones still standing in the nineteen-nineties. Horse-drawn carriages and wagons shared the rutted, dirt street with a good number of automobiles, mostly Tin Lizzies. Tag knew that this wide dirt road would be a part of the famous Route 66, the first major coast-to-coast highway. Refugees from the Dust Bowl would use Route 66 as an escape route to the promised land of southern California.

  “Pa’s office is just a few blocks away,” Michael said, working his way through the many people on the wooden sidewalk. “Looks like the train just got in.” He pointed to a large crowd of people congregated around the now sandstone depot across the street. “It’s too crowded. Let’s go the back way.” He ducked in between two buildings and into a wide, back alle
y. On both sides of the alley, stacks of crates, boxes, tools, and other odds and ends leaned against the backs of the brick buildings. “It will be faster going back here.” Michael hurried past a gambling hall with old tables and chairs piled high by its door.

  “My pa told you to keep away from here! We don’t want you burnin’ down our gambling establishment,” snarled a whiny voice. A Chinese boy, smaller than Michael, sailed out from between the gambling hall and the neighboring restaurant. The nine-year-old boy, with long, blue-black hair braided into a pigtail, landed stomach first at Tag’s feet with a cry. The huge, white bundle that he clutched fell open, scattering dirty tablecloths and other restaurant linen. Tag bent down to help the boy as he scrambled to gather up the spilled laundry.

  An overweight boy with coarse black hair and a long, mean face swaggered toward the Chinese boy. Michael jumped in front of the Chinese boy and Tag, his feet spread apart and his fist clenched, ready to fight. “Leave Chen alone, Horse Face. Chen has every right to be here to pick up the restaurant’s laundry.” Horse Face was three inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Michael, but Michael didn’t seem to notice.

  “So potato-eatin’ Irish scum like chop suey, too,” Horse Face said.

  “That’s because,” Michael suddenly acquired a thick Irish brogue, “the Irish have brains instead of horse plop.”

  Horse Face lunged toward Michael.

  Michael sprang to one side. Chen rolled to the other side. Horse Face’s feet tripped over Chen’s gyrating legs. The fat boy stumbled against Tag, toppling Tag on his back. Horse Face landed nose-to-nose on top of Tag. The air in Tag’s lungs gushed out under the boy’s weight. Horse Face’s large brown eyes sparked anger. Tag shoved him off, trying to get to his feet. Horse Face grabbed Tag’s shirttail and pulled him back. Tag swung around with his fist, but was yanked up backwards by his shirt collar.

  “Leave my son alone, you stinkin’ brat.” Alcohol-laced breath roared into Tag’s face as he was spun around by the shoulders.