Mists of Dawn (6 page)

Mark Nye smiled and pointed at the dog. “You must have been feeding Fang some atomic-powered dog food,” he told his uncle. “If we don’t do something pretty soon, he’ll tear the road apart.”

Doctor Robert Nye took a battered pipe out of his hip pocket and filled it with tobacco from a can that had seen better days. “Fang’s quite a dog,” he agreed. “He’s doing his level best to live up to his name.”

As if to prove the doctor’s point, Fang attacked a clump of grass viciously and yelped a challenge to the world in general. Lightning began to flicker in the mountains, and a distant rumble of thunder rolled down upon them from the hills. There was a faint smell of rain in the air and a cool breeze began to sigh across the valley floor.

Quite suddenly, two dark figures loomed up ahead of them on the road. Fang took one very short look at them and promptly abandoned his plans to be a great fighter. He dashed back to Mark at full speed and then, considering himself safe, tried a hesitant growl that proved to be magnificently ineffective.

As they drew nearer, the two figures proved to be Indians. They were of medium height, with straight black hair and dark eyes, and they were dressed in faded jeans and cotton shirts. Mark recognized one of them and waved a greeting.

“Howdy, Tino,” he said. “Looks like we’re about to get wet.”

Tino paused. “Soon now,” he agreed. “How does it go with you, Mark?”

“Fine, thanks—though I think you two scared Fang here half to death.”

The Apache winked solemnly. “Injun scalpum,” he
said,
imitating
the
strange
dialect
affected
by
the
tourists
when
they
talked
to
the
Indians.

Doctor
Nye
and
Mark
laughed
and
waved
good-by
as
the
two
Apaches
moved
along
on
their
way
to
the near-by
Mescalero
reservation.
It
was
almost
dark
now, and
the
evening
was
hushed
with
the
threat
of
rain.

“A
lot
of
history
just
walked
by
us
then/’
Mark
said thoughtfully.

Doctor
Nye
puffed
on
his
pipe
and
nodded
agreement.
“Tino
is
a
member
of
a
proud
race,”
he
said.
“The blood
that
flows
in
his
veins,
the
blood
of
the
Mescalero Apaches,
is
the
blood
that
goes
back
to
Gion-na-tah, who
finally
had
to
surrender
to
his
friend,
Kit
Carson —the
blood
that
goes
back
to
the
warriors
who
fought with
the
great
Victorio,
back
to
the
wily
Nana,
who
at eighty
years
of
age
led
fifteen
braves
against
over
a thousand
soldiers,
and
back
to
the
most
famous
Apache of
them
all—Geronimo.”

Mark
smiled.
“We
wouldn’t
have
walked
by
them quite
so
easily
seventy-five
years
ago.
Not
even
Fang could
have
helped
us
much.”

“The
Indians
were
old
when
Rome
was
young,’* Doctor
Nye
mused,
as
the
road
began
to
rise
into
the hills.
“There
were
Indians
here
in
the
United
States when
our
ancestors
in
Europe
still
lived
in
caves.”

When
Rome
was
young.
Mark
felt
his
pulse
quicken as
the
phrase
fired
his
imagination.
Out
of
the
corner of
his
eye,
he
looked
at
the
figure
of
his
uncle
walking beside
him.
He
thought
of
his
uncle’s
strange
dream,
a dream
shared
with
him
alone—would
it
ever
come true?

Could
they
go
back?

Rome,
Imperial
Rome.
Visions
of
grandeur
raced through
Mark’s
head—visions
made
more
vivid
and
real than
ever
by
the
secret
he
shared
with
his
uncle.
Rome in
the
days
of
the
Caesars—a
mighty
city,
hub
of
a fabulous
empire,
rich
with
glories
that
lived
on
still in
the
pages
of
history,
that
had
never
been
forgotten. Rome
with
its
seven
hills,
its
mighty
temples,
its
art and
literature,
its
bloody
games
in
the
roaring
Colosseum,
now
an
empty
ruin
in
modern
Rome
.
.
.

Rome—with
the
great
figures
of
history
walking
its streets
under
a
warm
Italian
sun.
Julius
Caesar
himself,
that
wonderful,
lonely
man,
and
his
adopted
son, Augustus.
Cicero,
rich
in
eloquence,
and
the
plotter Catiline,
who
heard
the
orations
that
spelled
his
doom. The
twisted
Nero
and
the
mad
Caligula.
The
curious and
appealing
Claudius—did
he
yet
live,
lost
somewhere
in
the
mists
of
time?