Tag Against Time Read Free

now, whenever that was. He yearned to be a part of the living history of Walnut Canyon so that he could tell his father all about it.
    By the look of things, Tag had a gut feeling that the vandals and pothunters had not yet done their dirty work of destroying and stealing time. His heart thundered at the thought of grave hunters looting his friends’ graves.
    â€œI know the human vultures will come,” Tag’s voice was low and intense. “But I will protect the ancient ones’ home and whatever they left behind!” Even as he spoke the words, his mind questioned how.
    Looking up into the cloudless sky, he whispered, “Great Taawa, God of the ancient ones, please help me find a way.”
    He adjusted the pack on his shoulders and eased himself, legs first, over the edge of the cliff. Tag searched with his feet for the first notch chiseled into the face of the cliff.
Where is it?
His heart pounded in his ears. His foot slipped into a toehold, and he lowered himself down, balancing in the notch while feeling for the next toehold with his other foot.
    Tag rested his body against the face of the cliff. His fingers clung to mere cracks. He gazed down. The sheer wall below looked about a hundred feet high. Sweat poured into his eyes. “Don’t look down!”
    Tag aimed his eyes straight ahead at the multicolored limestone. He blinked to clear his eyes and took a deep breath. “Don’t be such a wimp. Even if you do fall, it won’t kill you.” His halfhearted words died against the wall. He lowered his foot, feeling for the next notch. “Just break a leg or something,” he mumbled, turning his head to the other side.
    Two black bulging eyes glared back at him. A whiplike tongue lashed toward his face.

3

    Tag jerked away from the bulging eyes and lashing tongue inches from his nose. His scream filled the canyon as his right foot slipped out of its toehold. He clung to the wall, feet flailing in the air. Sweat ran into his eyes. His nails broke. The wall became a blur as Tag plummeted downward.
    I’m dead
 . . .
    One foot—two feet, the skin on his cheek peeled off. Blasts of pain shot though his arms as they banged against the limestone. He slammed down into a heap at the base of the cliff.
    Tag tasted blood and reached up to touch his mouth. His shaking hand missed his mouth and hit his cheek. A thousand pinpricks lit his face on fire. Through the sweat and tears, Tag saw blood on his hands. He fought off the wave of fear and pain sweeping his body.
    He inspected his arms—scraped, banged up, but not broken. His legs were okay, but felt like Jell-O. Tag eased himself up. “You’re all right,” he reassured himself.
    Tag looked up the cliff. What had he seen? The image of the hideous face filled his mind.
A lizard, a dumb old lizard!
Anger replaced his fear.
How could I have been so stupid, careless . . . lucky? What would have happened if I had broken my leg or gashed my head open?
    An unnatural silence pierced the sweltering air. He took a deep breath. Yes, he was lucky this time, but would his luck hold? Tag’s scalp tightened.
    The steep, narrow path leading to the village was unchanged except for the heat waves rolling off the boulders and deep ledges. Tag lived on the rim of the canyon with his parents for five years in the twentieth century, but he had never felt such heat in the canyon before.
It feels more like Phoenix in the summer than cool northern Arizona
. Tag wiped the sweat out of his eyes. Maybe he should have taken the shortcut up to the village. The thought of scaling up the forty-foot-high narrow chimney sent a shiver through him. No, the long way to the village was safer. It wasn’t far now—just around the next bend.
    Tag stopped short to catch his breath and steady his emotions. What would he find? What if there are still people living in the village? The speculation boomeranged through his mind,