The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries Read Free Page B

buff-colored sand had collected in small dunes—called sand shadows by the geomorphologists. In other places bare outcrops of sandstone concentrated the sun’s heat, ironic reminders of the ancient ocean that had once covered New Mexico and Arizona tens of millions of years past.
    In another time, a mere thousand years ago, this same desert stretch had grown Ponderosa pine, juniper, and lots of grass. But that was before the Anasazi had come with their stone axes, before the frenzied building of the “Great Houses,” when over two hundred and fifty thousand trees had been cut for construction alone, not to mention the wood needed to light the giant pueblos, fire the exquisite pottery, cook their meals, and heat their homes. That was before the Anasazi population had burgeoned, and they had planted every arable hectare in corn, beans, and squash.
    By the end of the eleventh century these eroded ridges had been denuded. Violent monsoon rains had washed away the topsoil, exposed the slick rock, and carved deep arroyos into the flood plains. Each centimeter had lowered the critical water tables. After the exhausted soil finally dried out, most of the people left.
    Dusty crossed the cattle guard that separated Chaco Culture National Monument from the surrounding Navajo lands, and sighed as his all-terrain tires hummed on the irregular pavement. He waved at the stone-and-wood Park Service entry sign, its white letters looking so crisp on the brown background.
    To his right lay Pueblo Alto, the nexus of the fabulous Anasazi road system that radiated out to the north, east, west, and south. The ruined pueblo stood hunched and broken against the western horizon. Incongruously, the cell phone chimed. Dusty rounded the curve that led into Mockingbird Canyon, blew the thin coating of dust from the gray plastic, and punched the “Send” button. “Stewart here. It’s your nickel.”
    “You’re dating yourself, Stewart,” Maggie Walking Hawk Taylor’s familiar voice chided. “It’s like a dollar a minute out here, when you can get any reception at all.”
    “I like dating myself.” Stewart smiled, his left hand resting on the use-polished steering wheel. “It’s cheaper, and I don’t have to impress myself with a forty-dollar bottle of wine.”
    “No wonder no woman will have you for more than two months. You’re also late. Where are you?”
    He ignored the comment about women. He’d just avoided falling into that funk, and he’d be damned if he’d let Maggie edge him into the abyss. “Just dropping down into the canyon. We got held up in Albuquerque. Had a major disaster. The usual place, the one that carries Guinness, was out of stock. We had to convoy across half the city, including a stop at Page One Bookstore—”
    “You had to go to the bookstore to find Guinness?”
    “I wish. Anyway, I’ll be at the Park Service headquarters building in five minutes.”
    “Great, but I’m out at the site. Like I said, you’re late. Knowing how you play fast and loose with the rules, I thought maybe you’d decided to screw the paperwork and gone straight to the dig.”
    “I always obey the rules. Oh, and it’s not a dig until we get a shovel into the ground. Technicalities, you know, Maggie?”
    “If you weren’t such a brilliant archaeologist, I’d nail you, Stewart.” He heard the smile in her voice. “Anyway, I wanted to get out of the office. You know, away from the phone. I’ve got all of the paperwork here: excavation permit, a list of ten thousand park rules, the special camping permit, tons of safety requirements, and all the other bureaucratic horse pucky they pay me to enforce.” A pause. “Oh, by the way, you’re not packing that big pistol around, are you? No, firearms—”
    “I left my pistol at home, Maggie,” Dusty interrupted and used his heel to jam his Model 57 Smith & Wesson back under the seat out of sight. “See you there in about fifteen.”
    “I’ll be waiting.”
    He punched the