Tag Against Time (5 page)

“That's mine, you thief!”

Tag whirled around. A husky body was silhouetted in the doorway. “Who said you could come in here?” The teenager was about the same height as Tag, but heavier. His shaggy, dirty black hair looked like it was cut with a knife. As he moved closer, his body odor made Tag's eyes water. “This is my territory.” Crude features and a large mouth carved in meanness made up the square face.

“When did Congress pass that legislation?” Tag tried to sound tough. His knees shook.

The boy grabbed the neck of Tag's T-shirt and pulled him close. “Real smart, ain't you?” His breath gagged Tag.

“Smart enough to know to brush my teeth.” A hard blow knocked Tag's breath out. He doubled over. The mug was wrenched out of his hand. Tag tried to protest but couldn't because of the pain.

“Horace, who you talkin' to in there?” A pimpled face peered through the low doorway.

“Just some skinny rat trying to steal our stuff.”

The newcomer, with just his head showing through the narrow doorway, glared at Tag. “He looks more like some old dirty sheep with all that curly hair. Don't recognize him, do you?”

“Haven't really looked at him, Kern.” Horace grabbed the seat of Tag's pants and hurled him toward the doorway.

Tag fell face first below Kern's pimply face. Kern reached down, got hold of Tag's shirt, and dragged him through the doorway. Horace helped from the rear. Tag landed with a dusty thump outside the ruin. He didn't even try to get up.

“Who are you?” Kern demanded. He was the same size and age as Horace, fifteen or sixteen, and wore the same kind of denim overall pants without a shirt. Worn, heavy leather shoes without stockings covered his feet. Uneven, dirty, yellowish hair hung around his small ears.

Horace crawled out of Great Owl's house. In the bright light, he looked even meaner. “Don't matter who he is or who he ain't. He's stealing our stuff.” Horace held up Small Cub's mug.

Kern took the mug with dirty hands that hadn't yet grown into the rest of his body. “Looks like he's mighty fond of this sorry lookin' piece of trash, wouldn't you say?” He hurled the mug against the stone wall.

As it shattered, Tag exploded. He slammed into Kern headfirst. Horace seized him from behind. “Let go of me!” Tag struggled, but Horace held him tight.

“What's that there tote on your back? You got more of our things in there, ain't you?” Kern ripped Tag's backpack off. “Never seen a pouch like this. Then I never seen anyone wearin' a shirt like that before neither. Wearin' pink around here is dangerous, boy.”

“Look at them funny shoes.” Horace shook Tag. “Where you from, kid?”

“Where people act like human beings.” A knee slammed into Tag's kidney.

Horace laughed. “A New Yorker, I bet.”

Kern pulled out Tag's ceramic canteen from the pack. “This here might fetch a nickel.” He set it down on the ground. A grin spread across his grimy face. “Now what's this wrapped up all nice and pretty in buckskin?”

Tag's heart stopped.
The paho—my key into time!

Tag fought Horace's death grip. Horace growled, “Hold still, you skinny rat.”

“He's mighty concerned about whatever is all wrapped up in this here buckskin.” Kern smiled, showing his rotted brown teeth. He unwrapped the paho and held it up. “Well, look here, Horace. Strange lookin' thing with feathers and all. Looks mighty old, must be worth somethi . . .”

“What might you be doing going through another man's belongings, Kern Greely?” a voice with a heavy brogue asked from behind the three boys.

Horace swung around, his grip loosening. Tag yanked away and sprang at Kern. His shoulder smashed into Kern's chest, as he snatched the paho. Kern toppled. Tag, clutching the paho, sprawled out on top of him, near the edge of the steep path. Kern started shoving.

Tag rolled toward the ledge. Someone grabbed the back of his pants and yanked him upwards. Kern scrambled to his feet, seized Tag's canteen, and disappeared down the path.

Tag swung around, fists flying, expecting to see Horace's ugly face. Instead, he met two steel-blue eyes staring out from under bushy red eyebrows.

“No use in fighting me, young man.” The red-haired, fair-skinned man, caught Tag's hands. His grip was firm, but the look in his eyes, kind. He was three or four inches taller than Tag and smelled of campfire smoke and dust. His dark, heavy cotton pants showed signs of hard wear. The long-sleeved, striped cotton shirt that he wore had a low-cut collar. “Those two hoodlums skeedaddled, and I won't hurt you.”

Something in the man's firm but gentle voice reached through Tag's anger, fear, and loneliness. He stopped tussling. The man, in his early twenties, released him, smiled, and put out his hand. “I'm Sean O'Farrell.”

Tag slipped the paho into his waistband and took the man's large, rough hand. “Tag Grotewald. Thanks for helping me.”

“Those two are the devil's own. I feel sorry for anyone that tangles with them. Are you all right?”

Tag picked up the piece of buckskin laying next to his backpack. “Yeah.” He shoved the paho and buckskin in the pack. He felt Sean's eyes on him.

“Tag, that's a strange name.”

“It's short for Trumount Abraham Grotewald.” Tag buckled up the pack. He wished the man would stop asking so many questions.

“Can't say I know your parents.”

Tag slung his pack on his back and stood up. “I'm just passing through.” His stomach growled.

“I'd say it's about time to eat a bit of lunch, by the looks
of the sun. I'm just getting back from a week of surveying and have plenty of rations left up in my wagon.” Starting up the path, he glanced over his shoulder. “Care to join me?”

Tag's empty stomach won over his cautioning mind. He followed Sean up the dirt path.

“More beans?” Sean asked. Tag nodded, his mouth full. Sean opened another can with his knife. “How long since you ate last?”

Tag shoveled the last of the first can of beans into his mouth. “A couple of hundred years is all.” He took a bite of cold biscuit. It was coarse, but tasted delicious.

Sean leaned back against the pine tree perched on the rim of the canyon. He watched Tag start on the second can of beans. “I remember how hungry I got when I first came to America.”

“From Ireland?”

“Yes. I was about your age, twelve.”

“With your parents?”

Sean's eyes glazed over as he stared at the San Francisco Peaks to the northwest. The horse hitched to the nearby box wagon whinnied and stamped its feet. A bee buzzed in the still air. “I came alone. My folks died in Ireland and my baby sister and three brothers before them.” Sean looked back at Tag. “It's not easy to be alone and a darn shame if you don't have to be. Families, that's what life is all about.”

Tag swallowed the beans in his mouth, a lump growing in his throat. He didn't like the way the conversation was going. “You're a surveyor?”

“I came here in 1880 to do the final survey for the railroad. It only took me a week to know this was where I wanted to settle down.” Sean moved his arm in a wide circle.

“This area has everything, thick forests and colorful deserts, huge mountains and deep canyons.” Sean paused, gazing down into the canyon below. His sharp eyes softened. “You take this canyon and its ruins for example. There is a mystery here, a real life mystery. Why did all the people whc built those cliff houses leave? What could have made them abandon their safe, warm homes?”

Tag studied Sean's face washed in shadows of melancholy. He saw tears in the man's blue eyes.

“The first time I went down in the canyon, I felt a strong kinship with those people.” Sean's eyes met Tag's. “I think they were forced to leave because of sickness and death, just like I was forced to leave Ireland. I feel the sorrow and pain they fell burying their loved ones. I know the sadness and fear they fell leaving the only home they knew.”

Tag fought the tears pricking the backs of his eyes. He looked away from Sean, staring at the can of beans in his hand. The ache in his throat wouldn't let him swallow the food in his mouth.

Sean's voice finally broke the silence. “Three years ago in 1882, when the line came into Flagstaff, I left the railroad. 1 set up my own surveying company and have been my own man since.” He leaned back against the tree again. “Doing well, I might add.”

“Flagstaff must be growing.” Tag took another bite of biscuit.

Sean stretched out his long legs and crossed them. “The railroad has made Flagstaff a real boom town. The lumber and cattle business are growing fast. People are moving in every day, setting up a new business or homesteading.” Sean leaned forward, “There is even talk about putting a rail line
right up to the rim of the Grand Canyon. Can you imagine that? When that happens, we'll have more tourists than a dog has fleas.”

“Yeah, and they will all want to come see Walnut Canyon and take home a souvenir that once belonged to the ancient ones.” The words burst out before Tag could edit them. He met Sean's studying eyes. “Well, it's true, and there won't be anything left of the ancient ones' culture for people in the future to see or to study.”

Sean rubbed his close-shaven chin. “You're right, son. Horace and Kern are prime examples of what you are saying. I saw their horses when I was passing by. That's why I stopped to see what mischief they were up to. They'd steal their own mother's corset if they thought it would fetch a penny.”

“What's being done to protect the canyon?” Tag slammed down the empty bean can. “There has to be something done, and done right now so that archaeologists in the future can . . .” Tag stopped, seeing the look on Sean's face.

“Now you are a fine one to be talking, considering what I saw you stash in your satchel there.”

“The rightful owner gave that to me. I didn't steal it!” Tag bolted to his feet. “Thanks for the food. I need to get going.” He felt Sean's hand on his shoulder.

“There's no need to hurry off, son. I believe you and agree with you. More
does
need to be done to preserve this canyon's treasures. My blood boils every time I come here and see more destruction than the last time. I'm not the only one who feels that way either.” Sean dropped his hand from Tag's shoulder. “There are others who care also, but not many people have the time or energy to keep an eye on the
canyon. We're always looking for people and ideas to help.” He bent down and starting cleaning up the empty bean cans. “In fact, tomorrow I am meeting with two men from the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D. C. They are here to study what you call the ancient ones. We're hoping they might have some ideas on how to help protect the canyon and its artifacts.”

Sean looked straight into Tag's eyes. “If you're not in too much of a hurry to get wherever you're going, maybe you'd like to meet these men. You have some ideas too, I bet. There is plenty of room at my place for you, if you don't mind sleeping on the floor.”

Warning bells went off in Tag's mind. His clothes alone, the hot-pink T-shirt and high-top jogging shoes, made him stand out. People were sure to notice him and ask questions with no easy answers. What if something happened so he couldn't get back to the cave before the time window shut? Did the moon have to be full to illuminate the passageway of time, or would a quarter-moon do?

“There is much for you to do here and now,” Great Owl's voice sang in the trees'song.

Tag's body shuddered from the cold shiver racing up his back.

“Son, are you all right?” Sean touched his arm. Tag flinched. “You don't have to stay if you don't want too.”

Tag's confused and frightened thoughts screamed,
But what will happen to the canyon if I don't?