Tag Against Time (6 page)

I need to stop for supplies,” Sean said. The box wagon bumped along the rutted, dirt road. The sound of hammers pounding drowned out Sean's words. The aroma of freshly-cut lumber mingled with the smell of horses and dust. Tag saw five new, wooden houses under construction in this block alone. Most of the wooden frame houses they passed appeared new. People waved at Sean and he greeted each by name in his loud brogue. Tag felt the people scrutinizing him, and his apprehension grew by the minute.

“There sure is a lot of building going on,” Tag said as they passed two large buildings in different stages of construction.

Sean nodded as he waved to one of the carpenters. “It's the result of last year's fire. With all the wooden buildings and no water to fight it, the fire took out all of Old Town. Most people are rebuilding here.”

“No water?”

“There is plenty of lumber and grazing land around Flagstaff, but no water to speak of.” Sean tipped his bowler hat at four men gathered in front of another new building. “There is only one dependable natural spring in this area.”

“What about Lake Mary? It's only seven miles away. The town should pump its water here.”

Sean pushed his bowler back on his head and stared at Tag. “Now, I don't know of any Lake Mary around here.”

“But I've fished in it a hundred . . .” Tag bit off his words realizing his mistake.
How stupid can I be? Lake Mary is—or will be, a man-made lake. It probably hasn't even been thought of, yet
. Why hadn't he paid more attention to Flagstaff history in Social Studies? He felt Sean's eyes still on him. Things could get very tricky. Tag looked the other way. He'd have to watch everything he said.

“We call this Railroad Avenue,” Sean said, as if trying to ease the sudden tension between them. “The rail depot is another reason folks are rebuilding here.” The railroad tracks ran along the south side of the wide street. Wooden frame buildings lined the opposite side of the rutted road, facing the tracks. Tag counted three general stores, ten saloons and gambling halls, one bakery, and numerous other businesses. Women in bonnets and long dresses, carrying parasols, strolled along the wooden sidewalks. Men wore denim pants, bright suspenders, vests, long-sleeved shirts, and a surprising variety of hats. Many men's faces bristled with mustaches, beards or both.

On a corner, a large, one-story, stone-cut building stood out from all the wooden frame structures. A sign over the door read
Brannen and Company
. People milled around on the wide, wooden walk in front of the store. Horses, hitched to
metal posts on the west side, flicked their tails at the numerous flies. A variety of wagons and carriages stood behind the building.

Sean maneuvered his huge wagon next to a fancy looking carriage and tied the reins to the hand brake. “Brannen's is busy as usual.” He climbed out of the wagon. “I'm glad my order should be ready. Coming?”

It felt like the wagon had jarred every tooth in his head loose, while the wooden seat had flattened his behind.

Anything is better than staying in this wagon any longer, Tag thought, as he jumped down.

Two railroad boxcars stood directly across the street. “The Atlantic and Pacific Railroad Station,” Tag read the sign on the boxcars. “But the Santa Fe Railroad . . .” He stopped, seeing Sean's look. Tag groaned inside.
The Atlantic and Pacific must be the original railroad through Flagstaff. The Santa Fe will buy out the Atlantic and Pacific sometime in the future
.

Tag smiled and pointed to the boxcars. “The Santa Fe Railroad has stations like that in other towns. It's a great idea recycling boxcars.”

“Re-what?” Sean's eyes squinted as if to see him clearly.

Tag's stomach knotted up. “Recycling—reusing something in a new or different way.”

“Never heard of such a thing.” Sean shook his head, turned and went into the store. Tag followed, biting his tongue.

Brannen's store looked like a set for a western movie. Everything a person could need, in 1885, was stacked on shelves that reached to the ceiling. Harnesses, lanterns, ropes, an assortment of tools, and other strange-looking objects hung from the open-beam ceiling.

A high counter ran the length of one side of the store. A large man with a dark, handlebar mustache stood behind a massive cash register just inside the door. “Been expecting you Mr. O'Farrell,” he greeted. “Your order is ready. You're going to feed those gents from Washington mighty good, by the looks of things. They came in on the train this morning and are with Michael Riordan now.”

“Good. I am sure Michael will feed them till tomorrow.” Sean leaned on the counter. “Mr. Brannen, this is Tag, my new assistant.”

Tag put his hand out to shake. Mr. Brannen, hands still on the counter, inspected him from head to foot. His eyes shot back to Sean, questioning. Uneasiness flooded Tag.

“We'll be needing a few extra cans of stew, beans, peaches, and throw in a couple more pounds of flour, sugar, and coffee in my order, please,” Sean said. “Call us when it's ready. We'll browse around.” He strolled towards the back of the store, while speaking to the numerous shoppers.

Tag followed through the jungle of shelves that accommodated shoes, hats, washtubs, door knobs, baskets, coffee grinders, pots, kettles, dishes, tents, blankets, brooms, and hundreds of other items. He touched an item here and there, not knowing what some of them were.
Wait till I tell Mom about this
. A wave of homesickness swept through him. His mom loved searching for bargains in the malls as much as his dad loved hunting for ancient artifacts in dusty old ruins.

Two plump women in large bonnets fingered colorful bolts of material near the center of the store. A small boy with short pants and dirty bare feet stood next to them. He sucked his thumb with noisy slurps. The three looked up and stared at Tag.

“The green cloth would complement your eyes, Mrs. Whipple.” Sean tipped his hat and moved on.

Whispers followed Tag. “Do you know that strange boy with Mr. O'Farrell?”

“No. But he hasn't had a bath in years.”

“What kind of mother would let her child leave the house wearing such peculiar and filthy clothing?”

“Must be an orphan.”

Tag ducked behind a display shelf of long underwear and corsets. He felt his face burning. His heart rammed against his ribs.
If I ever get out of here, I'll never leave the canyon again
.

Feeling eyes burning a hole through his back, Tag whipped around. The barefooted boy stood a few feet away. In between sucks on his thumb, he asked, “Where are you from? Why are you wearing that funny, pink shirt?” Slurp. “Don't your ma ever make you comb your hair?” Slurp. “What you got in that bag on your back?”

Sean appeared behind the boy. “Master Whipple, how's that thumb tasting today?”

Tag marched back through the store, without looking to his left or right. He climbed into the seat of the wagon. People on the sidewalk gawked at him. The warm air buzzed with their whispered questions and remarks. Tag sat on the hard seat; shoulders squared, trying to appear calm and confident. But his face was on fire, his stomach did double flips.

What is keeping Sean? Is he in there telling everyone about me?
Tag stiffened with fear. Was Sean sending for the cops—sheriff or whatever they had in these days—to arrest him for being a runaway or something?
I'd better get out of here
. He started to climb out of the wagon.

Sean came out of the store carrying a wooden box. “This
is the last of it.” He slid the box next to the other boxes already loaded in the back of the wagon. “That should last us the week we'll be at the canyon.” Sean climbed in next to Tag, untied the wagon reins and said to his horse, “Let's go home, O'Riley.” The wagon jolted down the street.

“One thing I can't tolerate is busy-bodies. Every man has a right to his own privacy, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else.” Sean flicked the reins. O'Riley picked up speed.

Sean's house was comfortably tidy. The kitchen and bedroom were more than enough for one person. The parlor, as Sean called it, served as his office. There was a small barn behind the house and an outhouse a few hundred feet beyond. Tag noticed a large tin washtub hanging on the side of the barn.

“Would you have enough water to spare for a bath?” Tag set down the last box of supplies on the kitchen table.

Sean hung his hat on a hook near the back door. “That I would, and enough for you to wash your clothes, too. Go get the tub. I'll find you some clothes to wear.” He grinned. “And a comb.”

Tag didn't know which was more fun, trying to bathe in cold water with his knees scrunched almost up to his chin of using a scrubbing board to wash his clothes on. Combing his curly hair proved painful. “Six hundred years worth of snarls and rat nests,” Tag mumbled while pulling the comb through his thick tangles. “Mom would die—just die if she saw my hair like this.”

Sean's old denim pants were huge at the waist, three inches too long, but clean. Tag rolled a deep cuff in the legs. The long-sleeved blue cotton shirt was soft from usage.

“You look good in that shirt,” Sean said, as Tag came
back into the house after hanging his clothes up on the line outside. “The shirt is a might more practical to work in, too. Ready for dinner?”

Later, with a full stomach, Tag crawled into the bedroll of thick quilts on the parlor floor. Exhausted, he had been barely able to finish the fried chicken and hash browns that Sean cooked. So tired that he hadn't even asked the hundreds of questions he wanted to about the men from Washington.

Who could they be?
Tag burrowed down into the hand-sewn nest. Apprehension swirled around his questions.

Got to be careful—got to keep my mouth shut
.

Sleep took his questions and worries into its warm darkness.

Tag tossed and twisted. The bedroll's quilts knotted around him like a mummy wrap. His dreams played themselves out in unrelenting black and gray shadows of reality.

The rectangular limestone slabs of Great Owl's house were a pile of rubble cascading down the steep canyon side. Yet the low, narrow T-shaped door stood like a skeleton under the deep overhang. Dark gray smoke drifted out of the doorway in lazy curlicues. Tag heard echoing voices in the smoke as it floated towards him, surrounding him in a hazy whirl.

“I don't want to leave our home!” Small Cub's voice cried, turning the haze a bluish color. “I want to take my mug with me.”

Dark blue smoke glided out of the doorway and strayed up the pathway. “You must choose whom you will follow; Gray Wolf or me . . .”

“Walker, Walker,” Tag called. His throat burned and his
eyes watered from the thick smoke. He waved his hands trying to clear the air. “Wait Walker. I want to come with you!” He tripped over his feet, landing on his knees.

The hollow echo of Great Owl's voice drifted out of the doorway in a plume of white smoke. “Time for you to do that which you were sent to do.”