The Night Visitor (15 page)

Even so, from long habit, Robert Newton removed a small flashlight from his coat pocket. He moved with great delicacy into a position where he could kneel by the specimen of fossilized bone. He focused the flashlight on the longitudinal marks. The specialist in butchering marks cocked his head to one side, and ran a fingertip along the shallow incisions.

He blinked. Muttered to himself. Scowled. Pulled thoughtfully at a pendulous earlobe.

Moses and his daughter waited breathlessly.

Nathan McFain stood with his hands in his coat pockets. Chewing a wad of tobacco.

Horace Flye's sly gaze darted back and forth, between the little man in the excavation and the pretty, anxious face of Delia Silver.

Cordell York smirked. He knew what would happen. Newton would choke.

The expert finally cleared his throat.

All the spectators leaned forward.

“Well,” Newton said, “one can be certain that the marks are quite old.”

This was an unnecessary observation. It was clear enough that the marks had not been made at a later date than the death of the great beast.

It was almost a minute before he spoke again. He looked up, blinking into the blinding lights to find Moses' familiar profile. “One might say… that these incisions could very well be butchering marks.”

Moses was pleased, but cautious. One word was worrisome.
Could.

Cordell York, who had remained aloofly silent, leaped on this.
“Could be
, Robert, or
are?
If you're certain, you surely won't leave us in suspense. You realize,” the surgeon added meaningfully, “the import of your conclusions.”

Newton most certainly did realize. He was ninety-nine percent certain that these were butchering marks, made by a flint implement. But if he said so, Cordell York would think him an old fool. But if he left a way open that these marks just might possibly have been made by… say the teeth of a saber-toothed cat… then he'd be off the hook.

Professor Newton, who was too old to be kneeling in drafty tents in cold weather, pushed himself painfully to his feet.

“Well. Bob,” York pressed, “let's not equivocate. What do we have here, definitive marks of human butchering activity? Or something… more to be expected for remains of such a great age?”

Newton avoided Dr. York's glare. He glanced meekly at Delia, then at Moses. His voice was barely above a whisper. “These… ahhh… incisions on the left anterior femur… One might very well believe them to be evidence of butchering. But more study is required before one can reach a definite conclusion.”

There was a heavy silence.

Finally Moses Silver spoke. “Robert, you know damn well that they're butchering marks.”

Dr. York, who was enjoying himself immensely, leaned threateningly over the shorter man. “Well—what say you, Robert? Could the incisions on the bone possibly have been made by a scavenging animal? We await the light of your lamp… Do illuminate us.”

The elderly man was terribly weary from the trip. And didn't like being caught in the middle between two strong personalities. He simply shrugged. Brushed the dust off his trousers. And walked out of the tent.

Cordell York leaned back and laughed. “Old Bob, now he's a real pissant, isn't he?”

For once, Moses Silver found himself in complete agreement with the arrogant ass.

Delia sat down at the card table and put her face in her hands.

The surgeon slipped the scalpel under Moses' skin. “Looks like you'll get no firm support from Bob.” And twisted it. “Probably your mammoth died of old age. And wolves chewed on the bones.”

Moses faced off with his tormentor. “They're butcher marks, dammit. You heard him say so.”

York, who sensed some hostility from Delia, shifted immediately to his amiable persona. “Moses, if this was an eleven-thousand-year-old site, there wouldn't be any doubt about it. I do believe that Robert thinks you might have a thirty-odd-thousand-year-old human kill site here.
Might.
But if he says straight-out that those are butcher-marks, he'll have a dozen experts ripping him apart even before they see the evidence for themselves. He doesn't want to risk his reputation with a definitive statement.”

Moses sat down beside his daughter. Doc York was right, of course. As usual. The big horse's ass.

The influential man sat down with his hosts. His face softened. “Look, Moses, I know you think I'm a hardnose.”

Without thinking, Moses nodded his agreement with this statement.

This candor amused the eminent surgeon. “But what you're proposing flies in the face of mountains of evidence …”

Moses snapped at him. “Doc, the mere fact that no one has found definitive proof of a very early date for human occupation of the Americas does not constitute
mountains of evidence.
It is merely
lack
of evidence.” He pointed a shaking finger to indicate the exposed fossil bones. “Now we have it. Butcher marks on a mammoth kill. Twenty millennia before Clovis.”

York spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “You may very well be right.”

Both Silvers looked up in genuine surprise.

“But,” York continued quickly, “a few thin lines incised on an ancient fossil bone—though they have the
appearance
of
butcher marks—are not sufficient. To turn North American prehistory on its head, your proof must be absolutely indisputable. Otherwise, virtually no one will accept this as a human kill site.”

Moses nodded wearily at the wisdom of York's words.

“What you need,” the surgeon said reasonably, “is what they found with those bison bones down at Clovis. You need a projectile point. Or a skinning knife. Or a bone awl. Even a simple scraper. An artifact indisputably made by the hand of man.”

“Or,” Delia added with a sly smile, “by the hand of woman.”

This remark broke the tension.

“Doc,” Moses said earnestly, “I got a proposition for you.”

York, ignoring this impudent use of his nickname, cocked his head. “I'm listening.”

“You and Bob Newton join us in the dig. If this proves to be a human kill site—and you can be the final judge of that—then we'll all be co-investigators.” He looked to his daughter for her assent; she nodded. “We'll have four authors for the first paper. On the other hand, if you decide it's nothing worth writing home about,” he shrugged, “well, me and Delia will slog through it.”

“Interesting notion,” York said. “Very interesting.” His contributions to paleontology had always been of two kinds. Intellectual or cash. He'd never actually taken part in a dig. Might be good fun, at that. He got to his feet. “I'll have to give it some thought. If I should decide to take you up on it, I'll have a talk with the pissant.” He bowed to Delia, and turned on his heel.

When he had left the tent, Delia smiled at her father. “Daddy, you're a genius.”

“I will not deny it,” Moses said affably. Here was the way it all stacked up: Robert Newton was almost certain this was a kill site but was afraid to commit himself for fear of ridicule from his colleagues. Cordell York probably thought so too. And Moses had offered them a tempting proposition. Join up and share the glory if it turns out we've got the find of the century. If it turns out to be nothing, you can disassociate
yourself from it. They had little to lose and everything to gain. And Doc York, who loved to needle his less fortunate colleagues in the pages of his influential journal, could certainly not criticize a dig that he'd had a major part in. So if the butcher marks held up to further scrutiny by other experts, York could hardly be a nay-sayer—which was what he enjoyed almost as much as the glory of a stupendous find. No, the smart-assed surgeon had a big decision to make before dawn. The knowledge that Cordell York might have a hard time sleeping tonight pleased Moses immensely.

No one had paid the least attention to Nathan McFain, who owned the site. The rancher-entrepreneur was considerably annoyed to be ignored by this gathering of eggheads. “Well,” he grumped, “does this mean I got two more free tenants in my cabins?” The paleontologist and his daughter were paying no rent.

“No,” Moses said with a sly grin. “Charge them. And not the off-season rental. Quote them your summer rates. They can afford it.”

McFain grinned wolfishly. He was almost beginning to like this old guy. “While you was gone to the airport, I rented a cabin to Ralph Briggs. He has a fancy antique shop up at Granite Creek, and likes all kinda old stuff. Said he wanted to watch the dig.”

Moses scowled at the rancher. “This is a delicate piece of science we're doing here, Mr. McFain. We don't need any rubbernecks hanging around in the tent.”

McFain shrugged this protest off. “I already told Briggs he could have a look-see. He won't bother you none.”

The paleontologist sighed. “Very well. But remember that we have an agreement—I'm in charge of the work under the tent. Don't make any more such arrangements without checking with me first.”

“Father's right,” Delia added. “We can't be stumbling over tourists while we work.”

The rancher nodded amiably. No point in pushing these eggheads too far.

Horace Flye made his way to Delia's side. “Ma'am… you
want me to start turning off them lights and kinda puttin' things back in order?”

She patted him on the hand, caring not that her father noticed this small demonstration of endearment. “Yes,” she said. “We're done for the night.”

C
HARLIE
M
OON SAT
with his elbows on his desk. Outside his office window, a hook-billed raven landed lightly on the bare branch of a Russian olive. The bird cocked its soot-black head and peered through the window at the Ute policeman. Moon stared back. Wasn't hard to see how—a long time ago—the People had come to believe that such feathered creatures were something more than animals. They were sometimes witches who'd shifted form. Or they carried spirits of the dead to spy on the living. Some of the older people among the Utes still believed this.

Charlie Moon turned away from the raven and dismissed his musings about the exotic myths of his people. The police officer directed his attention to the mundane business at hand. A stack of arrest reports. Patrol schedules. Upcoming vacations. Annual performance reviews. He'd do the work. The chief—if he wasn't busy reading travel brochures—would perform a cursory examination, then scrawl his name at the bottom of the page. Moon's desk work had slowly increased
over the past six months. He was gradually becoming more of an office manager than a patrol cop. In fact, he had been given a fancy title that he hadn't asked for. Deputy chief of police. So he wouldn't complain about doing ninety percent of the chief's work for an extra dollar and seventy-five cents an hour to go with the title. The chief of police, who had begun to talk about retirement, was assigning much of his drudge-work to Moon. Roy Severo was barely sixty, but he had dreams of travel with his young wife. To the South Seas, perhaps. Charlie Moon suspected that the council would ask him to take on the chief's job as soon as Severo opted for his golden years.

Moon was the council's first choice for two reasons. First, he was liked and respected by virtually every member of the tribe. More important, he showed no interest in tribal politics, and so would not use a promotion as a stepping stone to higher office. And the odd fact that he had no interest in being chief of police made him irresistibly attractive as the right man for this very sensitive tribal position.

He pushed aside the arrest reports, and checked the day's patrol schedule.

Elena Chavez was covering the west side of the reservation this morning and—according to the dispatcher's notes—had nothing much to report except a broken-down camper from Connecticut. She'd called in a tow truck. Daniel Bignight was working the other end of the reservation. He'd stopped three speeders at the turnoff from Route 60 near Lake Capote, but bighearted Daniel wouldn't give anyone a ticket unless they were drunk. Or got a bit too smart. Or made some dumb excuse like the speedometer hasn't worked right since I hit the deer, Officer. Charlie Moon, who was pleased that nothing untoward was spoiling an almost perfect morning, allowed his mind to drift toward plans for lunch.

Roy Severo appeared behind Moon's chair and cleared his throat. Moon pretended not to hear his boss. Severo pitched the latest issue of the
Southern Ute Drum
onto his subordinate's desk. The
Drum
now ran weekly articles about the progress of the excavation on Nathan McFain's land.

“There's been some talk,” Severo said. “About them elephant bones.”

Moon, who heard all the tribal gossip, understood that this opaque remark referred to mutterings among members of the tribal council. “What kind of talk?”

“Well,” the chief scratched at a thick shock of iron-gray hair, “there's been disputes for a long time about the boundary between the west side of Nathan McFain's pasture and tribal lands. Some of the People claim that Navajo rascal has been moving his boundary markers a yard or two onto our land every time he got a chance.”

“McFain,” Moon pointed out, “is only one-quarter Navajo.”

Severo snorted. “And three-quarters schemer.”

Moon thought it useful to inject a bit of relevant history into the conversation. “For at least fifty years, the land on our side of the fence has been leased by Tony Sweetwater's family for sheep grazing. The main markers are a half dozen boulders. McFain claims the Sweetwaters rolled the boundary markers way over onto his land first. When he rolled 'em back, it was just to make things right. He claims he finally had to put up a fence to keep the Sweetwater sheep from grazing out of the flowerpots on his porch.”

Severo grunted. “Well, whatever might've happened way back when, there's some talk.” The chief of police tapped his finger on the
Drum
article. “Some of the council members figure McFain's elephant diggings may be on Southern Ute land. And they don't feel easy about old bones being dug up. You know, having that Navajo make a profit by disturbing the elephant's spirit's rest and all that.”