The sound of a jet boomed across the sky.
Tag wrapped the paho in its buckskin. He placed it in the bottom of the pack along with the flashlight and sandals. Sean’s shirt went on top. Tag slung the pack on his back and started to climb down the cliff. I’ll think about what to do with the paho later, but for now—pizza, tonight!
The Island Trail lay deserted. “Pass closing time, which means dinner time,” Tag said, sprinting along the black-topped trail. The ruins looked just like they had when he left in 1993.
He stopped at Littlest Star’s metate. Everything looks just like it did when Littlest Star stood here grinding corn. They’ll never know what an accurate job they did restoring things, until I tell them!
Tag headed for Great Owl’s house. He’d stop for just a minute. He laughed. For old times’ sake!
“Hey man, do you really think this is a good place to dig?” The voice came from below the Island Trail.
“Keep it down, Slash. Someone will hear you,” answered a second voice.
Adrenaline shot through Tag.
“Sure, like who? Why do you think that I spent so much freakin’ time finding out when all the Park Service pigs would be gone?”
“What if someone decided not to go to the party?”
Tag slid behind two trees growing on the side of the trail. He tried to see down over the trail, but couldn’t discern who was talking. They had to be directly below, under the next strata of rocky ledge.
Slash answered, “Man, no one is going to miss that retirement bash. The guy was Chief Ranger here for a thousand years. Everyone and their dogs will be in town for it. Hey, Robert, I found something!”
Memories clicked in Tag’s head. Flute Maiden had taken Walker and him into an isolated storage room to find a loincloth for him. The room had been full of huge, brown-ware jars and enormous storage baskets.
It was below the village. Those skunks are digging in Flute Maiden’s storeroom! Tag worked his way down through the trees and boulders.
“Groovy man! Looks like this pot is huge,” exclaimed Slash.
“Be careful. Go slow. If it’s all in one piece, it will be worth a year’s salary at the college.”
Tag saw two men. He slipped behind a boulder just to the left of them.
“Hang it in your ear man, I am being careful,” answered Slash. Even kneeling down, digging with a small shovel, he looked tall. He wore a faded black T-shirt with BEATLES: MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR, 1968, printed across the front. His brown hair looked like a cross between a bushy ponytail and a squirrel’s tail. Dark sideburns melted into a scruffy, Bible-type beard. A long, wide knife scabbard hung from his leather belt, which was holding up ragged bell-bottom jeans.
Tag stiffened behind the boulder. How old was the Beatles shirt, a year or two? It didn’t matter. Disappointment seeped through him—he was still a long way from his own time. He peeked around the boulder.
The other man, Robert, kneeling beside Slash, was huge. His small eyes were mere slits in his hairless, melon-shaped face. His short, black hair looked like a businessman’s. A bulge of white fat rolled out from under his expensive, blue polo shirt. “I knew it! This had to be a storage room, and there has to be a lot more stuff buried here, too.”
“Far out! With the full moon,” Slash said, throwing a shovelful of dirt to his side, “we can dig all night and haul everything out before the Tree Pigs open up in the morning.”
Robert sat back on his massive rump and wiped his sweaty face. “It’ll be days before anyone comes down here, since it’s off the Island Trail.”
“Groovy. We can come again tomorrow since the moon will still be out enough to see by.”
“Maybe, but it’s risky,” Robert said, digging again. “They patrol the monument pretty heavy every night.”
“They’re just Tree Pigs. They can’t do anything!”
That’s what you think, you dumb hippie, Tag fought to keep from screaming. He needed to get help.
Tag slipped through the trees and started climbing the steep incline. Rocks shot out from his shoes and rolled down. He froze.
“Hey man, what was that?”
Tag struggled up as fast as he could through the thick trees. His backpack got caught on a tree. He tugged, but the pack wouldn’t budge. Tag tried to slip out of it, but it got tangled up even more. Someone was coming up the ledge below him.
Tag pulled with all his weight. A branch broke with an explosive pop. He fell flat on his face. Tag got to his knees and scooted up on all fours. The edge of the paved trail was just a foot above him. He scrambled over the ledge.
Someone grabbed his right foot.
Tag ate dirt.
“What you doing here, kid?” Slash dragged Tag down the hill toward him.
Tag flipped onto his back and kicked with his free leg. “Let me go you dirty pothunter.”
Slash seized Tag’s left foot and yanked. He grabbed Tag by the shoulders and lifted him up off the ground. “Shut up, you little creep.”
Spit sprayed Tag’s face. The smell of patchouli oil and stale body odor saturated his nose. Tag kicked. His first kick hit a thigh. The next one smashed in closer to the center. Slash doubled over, swearing.
Bear-tight arms grabbed him around the middle and started squeezing the breath out of him.
“Settle down, creep,” Robert growled into Tag’s ear. “I’d just as soon break you in half as look at you.”
Tag couldn’t get air into his lungs. His head swam and black dots blurred his vision. Tag felt himself going limp. He hit the ground, hard.
Robert stood like a giant above him. “Don’t get up, or I’ll kill you right now.”
“Who is he? How did he get here?” Slash asked, trying to stand up straight, his face bloodless.
“He is the legendary ghost boy, for all it matters to me, but I bet I know what he’s doing.” Robert ripped Tag’s pack off and opened it. He threw Sean’s shirt on the ground and pulled out the yucca sandals. “Looks like you’ve been lucky tonight. These are in mint condition.” He glared down at Tag. “Where did you find them?”
Tag stared back.
“What else do you have in here?” Robert pulled out the buckskin bundle and dropped the pack onto the ground.
Tag leaped up.
Slash knocked him flat. “Stay put, creep.”
“It’s a paho!”
“What’s a paho?” Slash asked.
“A prayer stick. The Indians make pahos as offerings to the gods.” Robert turned the paho over. “I’ve never seen one like this before. It’s ancient, probably priceless. Where did you find this?”
“Answer him.” Slash pulled Tag to his feet. “Where did you get it?”
Tag snapped back, “I don’t know.”
Slash lifted his fist.
“Don’t, Slash. We don’t have time to deal with him now.”
“But . . .”
“Let’s keep working while we can. When we finish, we’ll take the kid with us. He’ll tell us where he got these things, that is, if he wants to live.” Robert put the paho and sandals back into the pack. “Go up to the truck and bring back the boxes to carry the stuff. I’ll take the kid back with me.” He slung the pack over his shoulder and grabbed Tag by the back of the neck. “Bring back the rope under the truck seat so we can tie him up.” He pushed Tag ahead of him. “Bring the rifle, too, just in case.”
“Are you sure you can handle him?”
Robert grunted. “I’ll just sit on him, if I have to.”
A large storage jar stood partially exposed amidst the rubble of limestone slabs. Tag could see that the two had dug in other spots before finding the jar.
Robert shoved him down on the ground. “Move and you’re dead.” He put Tag’s pack a few yards away, next to an extra shovel and pick. Robert came back, knelt down, and started digging around the pot.
How long had it been since Slash went up the canyon—three or four minutes? How long will it take him to get back? Tag looked at Rober
t and his backpack laying just beyond him. There was no way to get the pack, but through Robert.
And no way home without the paho in my backpack!
Tag drew out his stone knife from his waistband and bolted to his feet. Robert looked up just as Tag rammed into him. It was like smashing into a ton of flab. Robert swayed, but grabbed hold of Tag.
Tag jammed the tip of his knife into Robert’s hand and jerked away as the man screamed in pain. Tag stumbled backwards to the ground, but sprang back up. Robert lurched at him. Tag took off in the opposite direction, leaping over rocks and bushes. Robert huffed and puffed behind him.
Taawa, help me get away from this fat—fat, of course! Where was he? Tag tried to get his bearings as he ran. Could he find the right path?
He veered to his left and down the side of the canyon. Tag fell, and slid down the steep incline on his fanny. He got back up on his feet just as Robert started thundering down the hill.
There—there it is, the secret passage! The ancient ones had used a natural chimney up a sheer rock wall as a shortcut up to their village from below. As Walker had so aptly pointed out, it was also an escape route.
Tag’s lungs felt like fire. He whipped his head around to see Robert’s bright red face and huge belly flopping up and down, not far behind.
He sprinted up the narrow path that ended at a fifty-foothigh cliff. A huge, twenty-foot-long, flat slab of limestone leaned against the bottom of the cliff. It rose twelve feet, with its top resting against the cliff’s face.
The entrance between the slab and the base of the cliff looked wider than Tag remembered. Maybe this isn’t going to work! He slipped into the passage.
In the waning light of the evening, the five-foot passageway between the slab and cliff was dim. Tag pushed through. The sides of the passage narrowed.
Yes!
After three feet, Tag had to turn sideways. His nose almost touched the cliff’s base while his back rubbed the limestone slab. Tag squeezed through the last few feet.
The passage ended at the mouth of the natural chimney running up the face of the cliff. Tag heard Robert’s heavy panting just outside the passage.
“You’re not going to get away, creep. Come on out now!”
Tag slipped his knife into his waistband and shouted, “In your dreams.” He swung himself into the shaft in the cliff. He looked up the sheer wall. His heart stopped. There was light at the top of the fifty-foot shaft, but the finger- and toe-notches chiseled up the chimney were hidden in shadows. How can I ever make it? His body shook with cold fear.
Robert’s heavy footsteps filled the passage.
Taawa, help me! Tag reached up to the first finger-hold and pulled himself up. He fought to keep his eyes aimed up toward the opening so far above him. His hands were wringing wet with sweat. “One hand, then one foot,” he panted, pulling himself up higher.
“Hey!” Robert’s frightened scream echoed in the passage below. “I’m stuck! Help me, kid, I can’t move!”
Tag laughed. His left foot slipped out of its hold. His laughter stopped dead as he to clung to the sheer wall. Finding the foothold again, Tag pulled himself up. Keep going . . . just keep going!
He thrust himself over the edge of the crevice and lay panting. Tag crawled away from the opening and struggled to his feet.
Got to get the paho! Tag started towards the ruins. He had to double back through the village and then down to get his backpack. Without the paho, he was doomed to stay here in the turbulent hippie age, as his dad had referred to it. Dad! Where was Dad right now? In Kansas on the farm with Grandpa growing wheat, or would he be in college? Was Dad a hippie? Tag couldn’t imagine Dad with a ponytail, beard, or bell-bottom pants. Suddenly, Tag realized how little he knew about his own father’s life. If he ever made it back home, he would change that!
Where is Slash? he wondered as he raced passed Great Owl’s House. He had to get down to the storage room before Slash did.
The backpack lay out in the open where Robert had thrown it. Slash was nowhere in sight. Tag sprinted out from behind a tree. The paho was there in the top of the pack. Tag exploded with hope. All he had to do was get back to the cave, and he was home free!
“Hold it right there,” commanded an authoritative voice from behind him. “You are under arrest for pothunting!”
20
Tag clutched his backpack. His heart thundered in his throat. This couldn’t be happening. Had he escaped from Robert and retrieved the paho, only to get arrested for pothunting?
“Drop the pack. Turn around slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them. Do it. Now!”
Tag let the pack drop, stretched his arms above his head, and turned around. The copper-haired, young man wore a flat-brimmed, Smoky-the-Bear hat and gray shirt. A gold, shield-shaped badge hung over his left shirt pocket. A small police radio was clipped onto his thick leather belt, next to an empty holster. A small revolver pointed at Tag.
The ranger, in his early twenties, started toward Tag. “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can,” he stopped a foot from Tag. “You’re just a kid!” Keeping his gun on Tag, he looked around. “You’re not alone are you?”
“No, but I am not . . .”
“Quiet!” The ranger slipped his revolver into the holster and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
“But, there’s . . .” Cuffs bit into his wrists as the ranger whirled him around. Tag felt his stone knife being yanked out of his waistband.
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” The man spun Tag around to face him and demanded in a low voice, “How many others are with you, and where are they now?”
“Two, but I’m not with them. I just . . .”
The ranger pulled the yucca sandals out of the pack. “Then explain the knife and these sandals, and what’s in this buckskin?”
“I can explain everything, but you’ve got to listen to me! There are two guys. The fat one is stuck in a passageway and the other . . .”
“Have you been smoking something funny, kid?”
“No! The other one went to get a . . .”
A blast shattered the air. A cloud of dust exploded three inches from Tag’s feet. A second blast followed. Something whizzed passed Tag’s ear and zinged off the rock ledge behind him.
“Come on.” The ranger pushed Tag toward a boulder. Tag stumbled over his feet and went down. Another bullet zinged by. The ranger jerked Tag up by the handcuffs and started running with him. He pushed Tag behind the boulder. Another shot rang out.
Tag spit out dirt. The Ranger lay inches from him, his face twisting in pain as he clutched his thigh. A dark spot was soaking his green pants leg. “He hit you!” Tag sat up.
“Stay down.”
“But you’re going to bleed to death.” Tag could see Gary O’Farrell on the nameplate pinned over his the ranger’s right pocket.
“Your friend will blow your head off if you don’t stay down.”
Another bullet zinged over their heads.
“He’s not my friend. I’ve been trying to tell you that. Where are the keys to the cuffs? If you don’t let me help, we are both going to get killed.” Tag met Gary’s steel-blue eyes.
Gary reached into his pants pocket. “Turn over.” He groaned in pain as he unlocked the cuffs. “Who are you?”
“No one interesting.” Tag flipped over and slipped off his T-shirt. “Can you use your radio to get help?” From the whiteness of Gary’s face, Tag was afraid that he was going to lose consciousness.
“The only person who can pick up a transmission this low in the canyon is the Park Service Dispatcher.”
Tag tore off the bottom of his shirt. “Who is in town at the retirement party, right?”
“How did you know that?”
“I heard the two pothunters talking about the party.” Tag pressed the strip of shirt against Gary’s leg. “Why didn’t you go?”
Gary spoke through gritted teeth. “The superintendent and I nev
er got along. He didn’t think that there was any need for rangers to carry guns.”
The bandage was already soaking through. He’s going to bleed to death if I don’t get help! Tag tore off another strip. “If I get up higher, can some other agency, Flagstaff Police or the sheriff’s department, pick up the call?”
“Possibly. But your friend will get you first.”
“He’s not my friend. I can get away if I crawl along this ledge and then climb up. Besides it’s getting dark, that will help. Give me the radio.”
“You’re crazy. With a full moon tonight, there is no way you can do it.”
“You’d be surprised what I can do. Give me the radio. Here take the rest of my shirt. You’re going to need it.” Tag traded for the radio. “By the way, are you a relative of Sean O’Farrell, the surveyor who lived here in the late 1800’s, early 1900’s?”
“He was my great-grandfather.” Gary stared at Tag. “Why?”
Tag slipped the radio onto his waistband. “Sean fought to protect this canyon, too. You look like him, especially your eyes. Can you keep Slash away with your revolver? Good. I’ll be back with help.” He slithered away on his belly.
Other than the rocks scraping the skin off his bare belly, Tag had no trouble moving along the ledge. He saw the first stars poke through the darkening sky as he started up the canyon. It took only a few minutes to reach the Island Trail. The moon’s bright face smiled down at him, or was it laughing at him?
“Any unit, officer down, officer down, at Walnut Canyon,” Tag called into the radio as he ran up the paved trail. He leaped up the first set of steps.
I’m not high enough out of the canyon yet. He bounded up the next set of steps. Through the canyon below, a shot echoed . . . Two more bursts followed.
Tag’s legs felt like jelly. A small revolver was no match for a high-powered rifle. Was Gary still alive?
Please Great Taawa, help him.
He pushed himself up the next five steps, repeating his call on the radio. What if no one picked up his transmission? What were the chances that anyone would be scanning the Park Service frequencies? Tag wasn’t even sure if the small handset radio had the capability of transmitting more than a few miles.
Tag Against Time Page 11