Thunderhead
by 
Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child 

 
1
 
THE FRESHLY PAVED ROAD LEFT SANTA FE and arrowed west through pion trees. An 
amber-colored sun was sinking into a scrim of dirty clouds behind the snowcapped 
Jemez Mountains, drawing a counterpane of shade across the landscape. Nora Kelly 
guided the rattletrap Ford pickup along the road, down chamisa-covered hills and 
across the beds of dry washes. It was the third time she had been out here in as 
many months. 
As she came up from Buckmans Wash into Jackrabbit Flatswhat had once been 
Jackrabbit Flatsshe saw a shining arc of light beyond the pions. A moment 
later, her truck was speeding past manicured greens. A nearby sprinkler head 
winked and nodded in the sun, jetting water in a regular, palsied cadence. 
Beyond, on a rise, stood the new Fox Run clubhouse, a massive structure of fake 
adobe. Nora looked away. 
The truck rattled over a cattle guard at the far end of Fox Run and suddenly, 
the road was washboard dirt. She bounced past a cluster of ancient mailboxes and 
the crude, weatherbeaten sign that read RANCHO DE LAS CABRILLAS. For a moment, 
the memory of a summer day twenty years before passed through her mind: once 
again she was standing in the heat, holding a bucket, helping her father paint 
the sign. Cabrillas, hed said, was the Spanish word for waterbugs. But it was 
also their name for the constellation Pleiades, which he said looked like water 
skaters on the shining surface of a pond. To hell with the cattle, she 
remembered him saying, swabbing thick letters with the paintbrush. I bought 
this place for its stars. 
The road turned to ascend a rise, and she slowed. The sun had now disappeared, 
and the light was draining fast out of the high desert sky. There in a grassy 
valley stood the old ranch house, windows boarded up. And beside it, the frowsy 
outlines of the barn and corrals that were once the Kelly family ranch. No one 
had lived here in five years. It was no great loss, Nora told herself: the house 
was a mid-fifties prefab, already falling apart when she was growing up. Her 
father had spent all his money on the land. 
Pulling off the road just below the brow of the hill, she glanced toward the 
nearby arroyo. Somebody had surreptitiously dumped a load of broken 
cinderblocks. Maybe her brother was right and she should sell the place. Taxes 
were going up, and the house had long ago passed the point of no return. Why was 
she holding on to it? She couldnt afford to build her own place therenot on an 
assistant professors salary, anyway. 
She could see the lights coming on in the Gonzales ranch house, a quarter mile 
away. It was a real working ranch, not like her fathers hobby ranchito. Teresa 
Gonzales, a girl shed grown up with, now ran the place by herself. A big, 
smart, fearless woman. In recent years, shed taken it upon herself to look 
after the Kelly ranch, too. Every time kids came out to party, or drunken 
hunters decided to take potshots at the place, Teresa rousted them and left a 
message on the answering machine at Noras townhouse. This time, for the past 
three or four nights, Teresa had seen dim lights in and around the house just 
after sunset, andshe thoughtlarge animals slinking about. 
Nora waited a few minutes, looking for signs of life, but the ranch was quiet 
and empty. Perhaps Teresa had imagined the lights. In any case, whoever or 
whatever it was seemed to have left. 
She eased the truck through the inner gate and down the last two hundred yards 
of road, parked around back, and killed the engine. Pulling a flashlight out of 
the glove compartment, she stepped lightly onto the dirt. The door of the house 
hung open, held precariously by a single hinge screw, its lock cut off long ago 
with bolt cutters. A gust swept through the yard, picking up skeins of dust and 
moving the door with a restless whisper. 
She flicked on the flashlight and stepped onto the portal. The door moved aside 
at her push, then swung back stubbornly. She gave it an annoyed kick and it fell 
to the porch with a clatter, loud in the listening silence. She stepped inside. 
The boarded windows made the interior difficult to make out, yet even so it was 
clearly a sad echo of her memory of the house she grew up in. Beer bottles and 
broken glass lay strewn across the floor, and some gang member had spray-painted 
a tagline on the wall. Some of the boards covering the windows had been pried 
away. The carpet had been ripped up, and sofa cushions sliced in half and tossed 
about the room. Holes had been kicked in the drywall, along with liberal 
pepperings from a .22. 
Perhaps it wasnt that much worse than the last time. The rips on the cushions 
were new, along with the ragged holes in the wall, but the rest she remembered 
from her previous visit. Her lawyer had warned her that in its present condition 
the place was a liability. If a city inspector ever managed to get out here, he 
would immediately condemn it. The only problem was, tearing the thing down would 
cost more than she hadunless, of course, she sold it. 
She turned from the living room into the kitchen. Her flashlight beam swept over 
the old Frigidaire, still lying where it had been overturned. Drawers had 
recently been removed and strewn about the room. The linoleum was coming up in 
big curls, and someone had hastened the process, peeling off strips and even 
ripping up floorboards to expose the crawlspace underneath. Vandalism is hard 
work, she thought. As her eyes roved over the room again, something began to nag 
at the back of her mind. Something was different this time. 
She left the kitchen and began to climb the stairs, kicking aside wads of 
mattress ticking, trying to bring the thought into focus. Sofa cushions sliced, 
holes punched in walls, carpeting and linoleum ripped up. Somehow, this fresh 
violence didnt seem quite as random as it had in the past. It was almost as if 
someone was looking for something. Halfway up the darkness of the stairwell, she 
stopped. 
Was that the crunch of glass underfoot? 
She waited, motionless in the dim light. There was no sound but the faint 
susurrus of wind. If a car had driven up, shed have heard it. She continued up 
the stairs. 
It was even darker up here, all the windowboards still in place. She turned 
right on the landing and shone the flashlight into her old bedroom. Again she 
felt the familiar pang as her eyes moved over the pink wallpaper, now hanging in 
strips and stained like an old map. The mattress was one giant packrats nest, 
the music stand for her oboe broken and rusted, the floorboards sprung. A bat 
squeaked overhead, and Nora remembered the time shed been caught trying to make 
a pet out of one of them. Her mother had never understood her childish 
fascination for the creatures. 
She moved across the hall to her brothers room, also a wreck. Not so different 
from his current place. But over the smell of ruin, she thought she detected the 
faintest scent of crushed flowers in the night air. Strangethe windows are all 
shuttered up here. She moved down the hall toward her parents bedroom. 
This time, there was no mistaking it: the faint tinkle of broken glass from 
below. She stopped again. Was it a rat, scuttling across the living room floor? 
She moved silently back to the top of the landing, then paused. There was 
another sound from below: a faint thud. As she waited in the darkness, she heard 
another crunch, sharper this time, as something heavy stepped on broken glass. 
Nora exhaled slowly, a tight knot of muscle squeezing her chest. What had begun 
as an irritating errand now felt like something else entirely. 
Who is it? she called out. 
Only the wind answered. 
She swung the flashlight beam into the empty stairwell. Usually, kids would run 
at the first sight of her truck. Not this time. 
This is private property! she yelled in her steadiest voice. And youre 
trespassing. The police are on their way. 
In the ensuing silence, there came another footpad, closer to the stairwell. 
Teresa? Nora called again, in a desperate hope. 
And then she heard something else: a throaty, menacing sound that was almost a 
growl. 
Dogs, she thought with a sudden flood of relief. There were feral dogs out 
there, and theyd been using the house as a shelter. She chose not to think 
about why this was somehow a comforting thought. 
Yah! she cried, waving the light. Get on out of here! Go home! 
Again, silence was the only reply. 
Nora knew how to handle stray dogs. She stomped down the stairs, speaking loudly 
and firmly. Reaching the bottom, she swept the beam across the living room. 
It was empty. The dogs must have run at the sound of her approach. 
Nora took a deep breath. Even though she hadnt inspected her parents bedroom, 
she decided it was time to go. 
As she headed for the door, she heard another careful footstep, then another, 
excruciatingly slow and deliberate. 
She flashed her light toward the sounds as something else registered: a faint, 
breathy wheeze, a low, monotonous purring mutter. That same scent of flowers 
wafted through the heavy air, this time stronger. 
She stood motionless, paralyzed by the unfamiliar feeling of menace, wondering 
if she should switch off the flashlight and hide herself or simply make a run 
for it. 
And then out of the corner of her eye she saw a huge, pelted form racing along 
the wall. She turned to confront it as a stunning blow landed across her back. 
She fell sprawling, feeling coarse fur at the nape of her neck. There was a 
maniacal wet growling, like the slavered fighting of rabid hounds. She lashed 
into the figure with a vicious kick. The figure snarled but relaxed its grip 
slightly, giving Nora a moment to wrench free. Just as she jumped up, a second 
figure slammed into her and threw her to the ground, landing atop her. Nora 
twisted, feeling broken glass digging into her skin as the dark form pinned her 
to the ground. She glimpsed a naked belly, covered with glowing spots; jaguar 
stripes; claws of horn and hair; a midriff, dank and mattedwearing a belt of 
silver conchos. Narrow eyes, terrifyingly red and bright, stared at her from 
grimy slits in a buckskin mask. 
Where is it? a voice rasped in her face, washing her in the cloyingly sweet 
stench of rotten meat. 
She could not find the voice to reply. 
Where is it? the voice repeated, crude, imperfect, like a beast aping human 
speech. Vicelike claws grasped her roughly around the neck and right arm. 
What she croaked. 
The letter, it said, claws tightening. Or we rip your head off. 
She jerked in sudden fevered struggle, but the grip on her neck grew stronger. 
She began to choke in pain and terror. 
Suddenly, a flash of light and a deafening blast cut through the darkness. She 
felt the grip slacken, and in a frenzy she twisted free of the claws. She rolled 
over as a second blast ripped a hole in the ceiling overhead, showering her with 
bits of lathe and plaster. She scrambled desperately to her feet, shards of 
glass skittering across the floor. Her flashlight had rolled away, and she spun 
around, disoriented. 
Nora? she heard. That you, Nora? Framed in the dim light of the front door, 
a plump figure was standing, shotgun hanging forward. 
Teresa! Nora sobbed. She stumbled toward the light. 
You okay? Teresa asked, grabbing Noras arm, steadying her. 
I dont know. 
Lets get the hell out of here. 
Outside, Nora sank to the ground, gulping the cool twilight air and fighting 
down her pounding heart. What happened? she heard Teresa ask. I heard noises, 
some kind of scuffle, saw your light. 
Nora simply shook her head, gasping. 
Those were some hellacious-looking wild dogs. Big as wolves, almost. 
Nora shook her head again. No. Not dogs. One of them spoke to me. 
Teresa peered at her more closely. Hey, your arm looks bitten. Maybe youd 
better let me drive you to the hospital. 
Absolutely not. 
But Teresa was scanning the dim outlines of the house, eyebrows knitted. They 
sure did leave in a hurry. First kids, now wild dogs. But what kind of dogs 
could vanish so 
Teresa, one of them spoke to me. 
Teresa looked at her, more searchingly this time, a skeptical look creeping into 
her eyes. Mustve been pretty terrifying, she said at last. You shouldve 
told me you were coming out. Id have met you down here with Seor Winchester. 
She patted the gun fondly. 
Nora looked at her solid figure, her rattled but capable face. She knew the 
woman didnt believe her, but she didnt have the energy to argue. Next time I 
will, she said. 
I hope there wont be a next time, said Teresa gently. You need to either 
tear this place down, or sell it and let someone else tear it down for you. Its 
becoming a problem, and not just for you. 
I know its an eyesore. But I just hate to think of letting it go. Im sorry 
its caused trouble for you. 
I wouldve thought this might change your mind. Want to come in for a bite of 
something? 
No thanks, Teresa, Nora said as firmly as she could. Im all right. 
Maybe, came the reply. But you better get a rabies shot anyway. 
Nora watched as her neighbor turned onto the narrow trail that headed back up 
the hill. Then she eased into the drivers seat of her truck and locked all the 
doors with a shaking hand. She sat quietly, feeling the air move in and out of 
her lungs, watching Teresas dim form merge slowly with the dark bulk of the 
hillside. When at last she felt in full control of her limbs, she reached for 
the ignition, wincing at a sudden stab of pain in her neck. 
She turned over the engine, unsuccessfully, and cursed. She needed a new 
vehicle, along with a new everything else in her life. 
She tried it again, and after a sputtering protest the engine coughed into life. 
She punched off the headlights to conserve the battery and, slouching back 
against the seat, gently pumped the accelerator, waiting for the engine to 
clear. 
To one side, a flash of silver winked briefly. She turned to see a huge shape, 
black and furred, bounding toward her against the last twilight in the western 
sky. 
Nora slammed the old truck into gear, punched on the headlights, and gunned the 
engine. It roared in response and she went fishtailing out of the yard. As she 
careened through the inside gate, she saw with consummate horror that the thing 
was racing alongside her. 
She jammed the accelerator to the floor as the truck slewed across the ranch 
road, spraying mad patterns of dirt, whacking a cholla. And then, the thing was 
gone. But she continued to accelerate down the road to the outer gate, wheels 
pounding the washboard. After an unbearably long moment, her headlights finally 
picked up the outer cattle guard looming from the darkness ahead, the row of old 
mailboxes nailed to a long horizontal board beside it. Too late, Nora jammed on 
the brakes; the truck struck the cattle guard and was airborne. She landed 
heavily and skidded in the sand, striking the old board. There was the crunch of 
splintering wood and the boxes were flung to the ground. 
She sat in the truck, breathing hard, dust smoking up around her lights. She 
dropped into reverse and gunned the engine, feeling panic as the wheels dug into 
the deep sand. She rocked twice before the truck stalled. 
In the glow of the headlights, she could see the damage. The row of ranch 
mailboxes had been a rickety affair to begin with, and they had recently been 
supplanted by a shiny new set of post office boxes that stood nearby. But she 
could not back up: there was no choice but to go forward. 
She jumped out and, glancing around for any sign of the figure, moved around to 
the front of the truck, picked up the rotten, abandoned mailboxes, and dragged 
them aside into the brush. An envelope lay in the dirt, and she grabbed it. As 
she turned to step back into the truck, the headlights caught the front of the 
envelope. Nora froze for a moment, gasping in surprise. 
Then she shoved it in her shirt pocket, jumped into the truck, and peeled back 
onto the road, careening toward the distant, welcoming lights of town. 
 

2
 
THE SANTA FE ARCHAEOLOGICAL INSTITUTE stood on a low mesa between the Sangre de 
Cristo foothills and the town of Santa Fe itself. No affiliated museum opened 
its doors to the public, and classes were limited to invitation-only graduate 
seminars and faculty colloquiums. Visiting scholars and resident professors 
outnumbered students. The campus sprawled across thirty acres, its low adobe 
buildings almost invisible among the walled gardens, apricot trees, tulip beds, 
and rows of ancient, blossom-heavy lilacs. 
The Institute was devoted almost exclusively to research, excavation, and 
preservation, and it housed one of the finest prehistoric southwestern Indian 
collections in the world. Wealthy, reserved, and much wedded to its traditions, 
it was looked on with both awe and envy by professional archaeologists across 
the country. 
Nora watched the last of her students leave the low-ceilinged adobe classroom, 
then gathered her notes and slotted them into an oversized leather portfolio. It 
was the final class of her seminar, The Chaco Abandonment: Causes and 
Conditions. Once again, she was struck by the unusual attitude of students at 
the Institute: quiet, respectful, as if unable to believe their good fortune in 
being granted a ten-week resident scholarship. 
Stepping out of the cool darkness into the sunlight, she walked slowly along the 
graveled path. The Pueblo Revival buildings of the campus, with their organic 
sloping walls and projecting vigas, were painted a warm rust color by the 
morning light. A thunderhead was developing over the mountains, dark beneath but 
topped with a spreading crown of brilliant white. As she glanced up to look at 
it, a sharp pain lanced one side of her bruised neck. She reached to massage it 
as a dark shadow seemed to come across the sun. 
Passing the parking lot, she traced a circuitous route toward the rear of the 
campus, turning at last down a flagstone walk columned with lombardy poplars and 
old Chinese elms. The walkway ended at a nondescript building whose small wooden 
sign read simply RECORDS. 
Nora showed her badge to the guard, signed in, and went down the hall to a low 
doorway, stopping at the cement steps that led down into the gloom. Down to the 
Map Vault. 
She tensed for a moment, the darkness of the stairs bringing back another 
unwanted memory of the evening before. Again, she felt the broken glass stabbing 
into her skin, the tightening claws, the sickly sweet smell . . . 
She shook the memory away and started down the narrow steps. 
The Institutes collections contained innumerable priceless artifacts. Yet 
nothing on campus, or in its extensive collections, was as valuable, or as 
guarded, as the contents of the Map Vault. Although the vault contained no 
treasure, it housed something far more valuable: the location of every known 
archaeological site in the Southwest. There were more than three hundred 
thousand such sites, from the most insignificant lithic scatter to huge ruins 
containing hundreds of rooms, all carefully marked on the Institutes U.S.G.S. 
topographical map collection. Nora knew that only the tiniest fraction of these 
sites had ever been excavated; the rest lay slumbering under the sand or hidden 
in caves. Each site number corresponded to an entry in the Institutes secure 
database, containing everything from detailed inventories to surveys to 
digitized sketches and letterselectronic treasure maps leading to millions of 
dollars worth of prehistoric artifacts. 
How strange, Nora had always thought, that such a place would be guarded by Owen 
Smalls. Resplendent in beat-up leathers, heavily muscled, Smalls always looked 
like he had just returned from a harrowing expedition to the farthest corners of 
the earth. Very few who met the man realized he was an Eastern boy from a 
wealthy family, a summa cum laude graduate of Brown University, who if placed 
out in the desert would be dead or lostor bothwithin the hour. 
The steps ended at a metal door with a small casement window, a red light 
glowing above it. Nora dug into her bag, extracted her security card, and 
inserted it into the slot. When the light turned green, she heaved the door open 
and stepped inside. 
Smalls occupied a fanatically neat little office outside the vault itself, 
overlooking the reading area. He rose as he saw her enter, placing a book 
carefully on his desk. 
Dr. Kelly, he said. Nora, right? 
Morning, Nora said as casually as possible. 
Havent seen you around for a while, Smalls replied. Too bad. Hey, whatd you 
do to your arm? 
Nora glanced briefly at the bandage. Just a scratch. Owen, I need to look at a 
couple of maps. 
Smalls squinted back. Yeah? 
In the C-3 and C-4 quadrants of Utah. Kaiparowits Plateau. 
Smalls continued scrutinizing her, shifting his weight, sending a creak of 
leather echoing through the room. Project number? 
We dont have a project number yet. Its just a preliminary survey. 
Smalls placed two giant, hairy hands on the desk and leaned over them, looking 
at her more intently. Sorry, Dr. Kelly. You need an approved project number to 
look at anything. 
But its just a preliminary survey. 
You know the rules, Smalls replied, with a disparaging grin. 
Nora thought fast. There was no way that Blakewood, the Institutes president 
and her boss, would assign a project number based on the meager information she 
could give him. But she remembered working on a project in a different part of 
Utah, two years before. The project was still current, if a bit moribundshe had 
a bad habit of not finishing things up. What was the damn project number? 
Its J-40012, she said. 
Smalls bushy eyebrows raised. 
Sorry, I forgot it was just assigned. Look, if you dont believe me, call 
Professor Blakewood. She knew her boss was at a conference in Window Rock. 
Smalls turned to the computer on his desk and rapped at the keys. After a 
moment, he looked up at Nora. Seems to be approved. C-3 and C-4, you said? He 
resumed his typing, the keys ludicrously small in his hands. Then he cleared the 
screen and stepped away from the desk. 
Nora followed as he stepped up to the vault and swung the door open. Wait 
here, he said. 
I know the routine. Nora watched as he stepped into the vault. Inside, bathed 
in pitiless fluorescent light, lay two rows of metal safes, locked doors across 
their tops. Smalls approached one, punched in a code, and lifted its door. 
Hanging within the safe were countless maps, sandwiched in layers of protective 
plastic. 
There are sixteen maps in those quadrants, Smalls called out. Which ones do 
you want to see? 
All of them, please. 
Smalls paused. All sixteen? Thats eight hundred eighty square miles. 
As I said, its a survey. You can always call Professor 
Okay, okay. Holding the maps by the edges of their metal rails, Smalls stepped 
out of the vault, nodding Nora toward the reading area. He waited until she sat 
down, then gently placed the maps on the scarred surface of the Formica table. 
Use those, he said, indicating a box of disposable cotton gloves. Youve got 
two hours to complete your study. When youre done, let me know and Ill replace 
the maps and let you out. He waited while she donned a pair of gloves, then 
grinned and returned to the vault. 
Nora sat at the table as he shut first the safe, then the vault, and returned to 
his office. Youll know when Im done, she thought to herself. The reading 
area consisted of a large table with a single chair, placed in clear view of 
Smallss glass-windowed office. It was a cramped, exposed space. Not at all 
suitable for what she had in mind. 
She took a deep breath, flexed her white-gloved fingers. Then, carefully, she 
spread the maps out on the table, the plastic crackling as she aligned them 
along their edges. The sequence of 7.5-minute mapsthe most detailed U.S. 
Geological Survey maps madecovered an exceedingly remote area of southern Utah, 
framed by Lake Powell to the south and east and Bryce Canyon to the west. It was 
almost entirely Bureau of Land Management country: federal land that, in effect, 
nobody had any use for. Nora had a good idea of what the area was like: 
slickrock sandstone country, bisected by a diagonaltrending maze of deep 
canyons and escarpments, sheer walls, and barren scabland. 
It was into this desolate triangle, sixteen years before, that her father had 
disappeared. 
She remembered with painful vividness how, as a twelve-year-old, she had pleaded 
to go along with the searchers. But her mother had given a brusque, dry-eyed 
refusal. And so she spent two tormented weeks, listening for news on the radio 
and poring over topographical maps. Maps just like this one. But no trace was 
ever found. Then her mother instituted proceedings to have him declared legally 
dead. And Nora had never looked at a map of the area since. 
Another deep breath. This would be the hard part. Making sure her back was to 
Owen Smalls, Nora slid two fingers into her jacket and removed the letterthe 
letter she had never allowed from her person since she found it, just 
nightmarish hours before. 
The envelope was discolored and brittle, addressed faintly in pencil. And there, 
as she had in the glow of the headlights the previous night, she read the name 
of her mother, dead six months, and the address of the ranch that had been 
abandoned for five years. Slowly, almost unwillingly, she moved her gaze to the 
return address. PADRAIC KELLY, it confirmed in the generous, loopy hand she 
remembered so well. Somewhere west of the Kaiparowits. 
A letter from her dead father to her dead mother, written and stamped sixteen 
years ago. 
Slowly and carefully, in the fluorescent silence of the Map Vault, she removed 
the three sheets of yellowed paper from the envelope and smoothed them beside 
the maps, shielding them from Smalls view with her body. Again, she glanced at 
the strangest things of all: the fresh postmark and POSTAGE DUE stamp, showing 
the letter had been mailed from Escalante, Utah, only five weeks before. 
She brushed her fingers along the soiled paper, over the red POSTAGE DUE notice 
and the badly faded ten-cent stamp. The envelope looked as if it had been wet, 
and then dried. Perhaps it had been found floating in Lake Powell, swept down 
the canyons in one of the flash floods the area was famous for. 
For perhaps the hundredth time since she first read the letter the night before, 
she found herself forced to squash a surge of hope. There was no way her father 
could still be alive. Obviously, somebody had found the letter and mailed it. 
But who? And why? 
And, more frighteningly: was this the letter the creatures in the abandoned 
ranch house were after? 
She swallowed, throat painfully dry. It had to be; there was no other answer. 
A loud squeak shattered the silence as Smalls shifted in his chair. Nora 
started, then slipped the envelope beneath the nearest map. She turned to the 
letter. 
  Thursday, August 2 (I think), 1983 

  Dearest Liz, 
  Although Im a hundred miles from the nearest post office, I couldnt wait to 
  write you any longer. Ill mail this first thing when I hit civilization. 
  Better yet, maybe Ill hand-deliver it, and a lot more besides. 
  I know you think Ive been a bad husband and father, and maybe youre right. 
  But please, please read this letter through. I know Ive said it before, but 
  now I can promise you that everything will change. We will be together again, 
  Nora and Skip will have their father back. And we will be rich. I know, I 
  know. But, dear heart, this time its for real. Im about to enter the lost 
  city of Quivira. 
  Remember Noras school report on Coronado, and his search for Quivira, the 
  fabled city of gold? I helped her with the research. I read the reports, the 
  legends of some Pueblo Indian tribes. And I got to thinking. What if all the 
  stories Coronado heard were true? Look at Homers Troyarchaeology is full of 
  legends that have turned out to be fact. Maybe there was a real city out 
  there, untouched, containing a fabulous treasure of gold and silver. I found 
  some interesting documents that gave an unexpected hint. And I came out here. 
  I didnt really expect to find anything. You know me, always dreaming. But, 
  Liz, I did find it. 
Nora turned to the second page, the crucial page. The writing grew choppy, as if 
her father had grown breathless with excitement and could barely take the time 
to scribble the words. 
  Coming east from Old Paria, I hit Hardscrabble Wash past Rameys Hole. Im not 
  sure which side canyon I tookon a whim, mostlymaybe it was Muleshoe. There I 
  found the ghostly trace of an ancient Anasazi road, and I followed it. It was 
  faint, fainter even than the roads to Chaco Canyon. 
Nora glanced at the maps. Locating Old Paria beside the Paria River, she began 
sweeping the nearby canyon country with her eyes. There were dozens of washes 
and small canyons, many unnamed. After a few minutes her heart leaped: there was 
Hardscrabble, a short wash that ran into Scoop Canyon. Scanning the area 
quickly, she found Rameys Hole, a large circular depression cut by a bend in 
the wash. 
  It went northeast. It exited Muleshoe Canyon, Im not exactly sure where, on 
  an old trail pecked into the sandstone, and I crossed maybe three more canyons 
  in the same way, following ancient trails. I wish I had paid more attention, 
  but I was so excited and it was getting late. 
Nora traced an imaginary line northeast from Rameys Hole, still following 
Muleshoe. Where had the trail jumped out of the canyon? She took a guess and 
counted three canyons over. This brought her to an unnamed canyon, very narrow 
and deep. 
  I traveled the next day upcanyon, veering northwest, sometimes losing the 
  trail, sometimes finding it again. It was very tough going. The trail jumped 
  to the next canyon through a kind of gap. This, Liz, was where I got lost. 
Breathing quickly, Nora traced the unnamed canyon, traveling across a corner of 
the next map and into a third, miles of deadly desert travel for every inch her 
finger moved. How far would he have gone that day? There was no way of knowing 
until she saw the canyon herself. And where was this gap? 
Her finger came to a stop amid a welter of canyons, spread over almost a 
thousand square miles. Frustration welled within her. The directions in the 
letter were so vague, he could have gone anywhere. 
  The canyon split, and split again, God knows how many times. Two days I went 
  up. This is unbelievably remote canyon country, Liz, and when youre in the 
  bottom of a canyon you cant see any landmarks to orient yourself. Its almost 
  like hiking in a tunnel. Despite the maddening twists and turns, it somehow 
  had the feel of an Anasazi road to me. But only when I reached what I call the 
  Devils Backbone, and the slot canyon beyond, was I sure. 
She turned to the final page. 
  You see, Ive found the city. I know it. There is a damn good reason why it 
  remained unknown, when you see how fiendishly they hid it. The slot canyon led 
  to a very deep, secret canyon beyond. Theres a hand-and-toe trail leading up 
  the rock face here to what must be a hidden alcove in the cliffs. Its 
  weathered, but I can still see signs of use. Ive seen trails like this below 
  cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde and Betatakin, and Im certain this one also 
  leads to a cliff dwelling, and a big one. Id try the trail now, but its 
  exceptionally steep and growing dark. If I can make it up the face without 
  technical climbing gear, Ill try to reach the city tomorrow. 
  I have enough food for a few more days, and there is water here, thank God. I 
  believe I must be the first human being in this canyon in eight hundred years. 

  It is all yours if you want it. The divorce can be reversed and the clock 
  turned back. All that is past. I just want my family. 
  My darling Liz, I love you so much. Kiss Nora and Skip a million times for me. 


  Pat 
That was it. 
Nora carefully slipped the letter back into its envelope. It took longer than it 
should have, and she realized her hands were shaking. 
She sat back, filled with conflicting feelings. She had always known her father 
was a pothunter of sorts, but it shamed her that he would consider looting such 
an extraordinary ruin for his own private gain. 
And yet she knew her father wasnt a greedy man. He had little interest in 
money. What he loved was the hunt. And he had loved her and Skip, more than 
anything else in the world. She was sure of that, despite everything her mother 
had said. 
She gazed once again over the expanse of maps. If the ruin was really as 
important as he made out, it must also be unknown. Because she could see from 
the maps that nothing remotely like it had been marked. The closest human 
habitation seemed to be an extremely remote Indian village, marked NANKOWEAP, 
that was at least several days journey away at the far edge of the tangle of 
canyons. According to the map, there werent even any roads to the village; just 
a pack trail. 
The archaeologist in her felt a surge of excitement. Finding Quivira would be a 
way to vindicate her fathers life, and it would also be a way to learn, 
finally, what had happened to him. And, she thought a little ruefully, it 
wouldnt hurt her career, either. 
She sat up. It was clearly impossible to determine where he had gone by looking 
at the maps. If she wanted to find Quivira, and perhaps solve the mystery of her 
fathers disappearance, she would have to go into that country herself. 
Smalls looked up from his book as she leaned into his office. Im done, thank 
you. 
Youre welcome, he replied. Hey, its lunchtime, and once I lock up Im going 
to grab a burrito. Care to join me? 
Nora shook her head. Got to get back to my office, thanks. Ive got a lot of 
work to do this afternoon. 
Ill consider that a raincheck, Smalls said. 
Too bad we live in the desert. Nora went out the door to the sound of harsh 
laughter. 
As she climbed the dark stairs, the bandage pulled against her arm, reminding 
her once again of the previous evenings attack. She knew that, logically, she 
should report it to the police. But when she thought of the investigation, the 
disbelief, the time it would all take, she couldnt bring herself to do it. 
Nothing, nothing, could interfere with what she had to do next. 
 

3
 
MURRAY BLAKEWOOD, PRESIDENT OF the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute, turned his 
shaggy gray head toward Nora. As usual, his face bore a look of distant 
courtesy, hands loosely folded on the rosewood table, eyes steady and cool. 
The lighting in the office was soft, and the walls were lined with discreetly 
lit glass cases, filled with artifacts from the museums collection. Directly 
behind his desk was a seventeenth-century gilded Mexican reredos, and on the far 
wall was a first-phase Navajo chiefs blanket, woven in the Eyedazzler 
patternperhaps one of only two of its kind still in existence. Normally, Nora 
could hardly tear her eyes from the priceless relics. Today she didnt spare 
them a glance. 
Here is a map of the area, she said, pulling a 30-by-60-minute quadrangle map 
of the Kaiparowits Plateau from her oversized portfolio and smoothing it in 
front of Blakewood. See, Ive marked the existing sites along here. 
Blakewood nodded, and Nora took a deep breath. There was no easy way to do this. 

In a rush she said, Coronados city of Quivira is right here. In these canyons 
west of the Kaiparowits Plateau. 
There was a silence, then Blakewood leaned back in his chair, speaking in a 
gently ironic tone. There were a couple of steps missing there, Dr. Kelly, and 
you lost me. 
Nora reached into her portfolio and brought out a photocopied page. Let me read 
you this excerpt from one of the Coronado expedition reports, written around 
1540. She cleared her throat. 
  The Cicuye Indians brought forward a slave to show the General, who they had 
  captured in a distant land. The General questioned the slave through 
  interpreters. 
  The slave told him about a distant city, called Quivira. It is a holy city, he 
  said, where the rain priests live, who guard the records of their history from 
  the beginning of time. He said it was a city of great wealth. Common table 
  service was generally of the purest smoothed gold, and the pitchers, dishes 
  and bowls were also made of gold, refined, polished and decorated. He called 
  the gold acochis. He said they despised all other materials. 
  The General questioned this man as to where the city lay. He replied that it 
  was many weeks travel, through the deepest canyons and over the highest 
  mountains. There were vipers, floods, earthquakes and dust storms in that 
  distant country, and none who traveled there ever returned. Quivira in their 
  language means The House of the Bloody Cliff. 
She returned the sheet to her portfolio. Elsewhere in the report, theres a 
reference to ancient ones. Clearly that would be the Anasazi. The word anasazi 
means 
Ancient enemies, said Blakewood gently. 
Right, Nora nodded. Anyway, House of the Bloody Cliff would imply that its 
some kind of cliff dwelling, undoubtedly in the redrock canyon country of 
southern Utah. Those cliffs shine just like blood when it rains. She tapped the 
map. And where else could a large city be hidden except in those canyons? 
Moreover, this area is famous for its flash floods, which come up out of nowhere 
and scour the whole place clean. And it lies over the Kaibab Volcanic Field, 
which creates a lot of low-level seismic activity. Every other place has been 
carefully explored. This canyon country was a stronghold of the Anasazi. This 
has got to be the place, Dr. Blakewood. And I have this other narrative that 
says Nora stopped as she saw Blakewood beginning to frown. 
What evidence do you have? he asked. 
This is my evidence. 
I see. Blakewood let out a sigh. And you want to organize an expedition to 
explore this area, funded by the Institute. 
Thats right. I would be happy to write the grants. 
Blakewood looked at her. Dr. Kelly, thishe gestured to the mapis not 
evidence. This is the sheerest kind of speculation. 
But 
Blakewood held up his hand. Let me finish. The area you describe is perhaps a 
thousand square miles. Even if it contained a large ruin, how do you propose to 
find it? 
Nora hesitated. How much should she tell him? I have an old letter, she began, 
that describes an Anasazi road in these canyons. I believe the road would lead 
to the ruin. 
A letter? Blakewoods eyebrows elevated. 
Yes. 
Written by an archaeologist? 
Right now, Id rather not say. 
A shadow of irritation crossed Blakewoods face. Dr. KellyNoralet me point 
out a few practical matters here. Theres not enough evidence, even with this 
mysterious letter of yours, to justify a survey permit, let alone an excavation. 
And as you pointed out yourself, the areas known for extremely severe summer 
thunderstorms and flash floods. Even more to the point, the Kaiparowits Plateau 
and the country to its west encompasses the most complicated canyon system on 
the planet. 
The perfect place to hide a city, Nora thought to herself. 
Blakewood stared at her briefly. Then he cleared his throat. Nora, Id like to 
give you some professional advice. 
Nora swallowed. This wasnt how she had envisioned the conversation developing. 
Archaeology today isnt like it was a hundred years ago. All the spectacular 
stuff has been found. Our job is to move more slowly, assemble the little 
details, analyze. He leaned toward her. You always seem to be looking for the 
fabulous ruin, the oldest this or biggest that. None of that exists anymore, 
Nora, even around the Kaiparowits Plateau. There have been archaeological survey 
parties in that area at least half a dozen times since the Wetherills first 
explored those canyons. 
Listening, Nora struggled to keep her own doubts at bay. She herself knew there 
was no way to be certain whether her father actually reached the city. But there 
was no mistaking the tone of certainty in his letter, or the high flood of his 
triumph. And there was something else: something always present now in the back 
of her mind. Somehow, those menthose creaturesthat attacked her in the 
farmhouse had known about the letter. That meant they, too, had reason to 
believe in Quivira. 
There are many lost ruins in the Southwest, she heard herself say, buried in 
sand or hidden under cliffs. Take the lost city of Senec. That was a huge ruin 
seen by the Spanish that has since disappeared. 
There was a pause as Blakewood tapped a pencil on the desktop. Nora, theres 
something else Ive been meaning to discuss with you, he said, the look of 
irritation more plain now. Youve been here, what, five years? 
Five and a half, Dr. Blakewood. 
When you were hired as an assistant professor, you realized what the tenure 
process involved, correct? 
Yes. Nora knew what was coming. 
You will be up for review in six months. And frankly, Im not sure your tenure 
will be approved. 
Nora said nothing. 
As I recall, your work in graduate school was brilliant. That is why we brought 
you on board. But once you were hired, it took you three years to finish your 
dissertation. 
But Dr. Blakewood, dont you remember how I got tied up at the Rio Puerco 
site? She stopped as Blakewood raised his hand again. 
Yes. Like all of the better academic institutions, we have a scholarship 
requirement. A publishing requirement. Since you brought up the Rio Puerco site, 
may I ask where the report is? 
Well, right after that, we found that unusual burned jacal on the Gallegos 
Divide 
Nora! Blakewood interrupted, a little sharply. The fact is, he went on in 
the ensuing silence, you jump from project to project. You have two major 
excavations to write up in the next six months. You dont have time to go 
chasing some chimera of a city that existed only in the imagination of the 
Spanish conquistadors. 
But it does exist! Nora cried. My father found it! 
The look of astonishment that came across Blakewood did not sit well on his 
normally placid face. Your father? 
Thats right. He found an ancient Anasazi road leading into that canyon 
country. He followed it to the site, to the very hand-and-toe trail leading up 
to the city. He documented the entire trip. 
Blakewood sighed. Now I understand your enthusiasm. I dont mean to criticize 
your father, but he wasnt exactly the most . . . His voice trailed off, but 
Nora knew the next word was going to be reliable. She felt a prickling sensation 
move up her spine. Careful, she thought, or you could lose your job right here 
and now. She swallowed hard. 
Blakewoods voice dropped. Nora, were you aware that I knew your father? 
Nora shook her head. A lot of people had known her father: Santa Fe had been a 
small town, at least for archaeologists. Pat Kelly always had an uneasy 
relationship with them, sometimes providing valuable information, other times 
digging ruins himself. 
In many ways he was a remarkable man, a brilliant man. But he was a dreamer. He 
couldnt have been less interested in the facts. 
But he wrote that he found the city 
You said he found a prehistoric hand-and-toe trail, Blakewood broke in. Which 
exist by the thousands in canyon country. Did he write that he actually found 
the city itself? 
Nora paused. Not exactly, but 
Then Ive said all Im going to say on this expeditionand on your tenure 
review. He refolded his old hands, the fine pattern of wrinkles almost 
translucent against the burnished desktop. Is there anything else? he asked 
more gently. 
No, Nora said. Nothing else. She swept her papers into the portfolio, spun 
on her heels, and left. 
 

4
 
NORA SCANNED THE CLUTTERED APARTMENT with dismay. If anything, it was worse than 
she remembered. The dirty dishes in the sink looked as unwashed as when shed 
seen them a month before, tottering so precariously that no additional plates 
could be added, the lower strata furred in green mold. Sink full, the 
apartments occupant had apparently taken to ordering pizzas and Chinese food in 
disposable cartons: a tiny pyramid rose from the wastebasket and trailed onto 
the nearby floor like a bridal veil. A flood of magazines and old newspapers lay 
on and around the scuffed furniture. Pink Floyds Comfortably Numb played from 
speakers barely visible behind piles of socks and dirty sweatshirts. On one 
shelf stood a neglected goldfish bowl, its water a murky brown. Nora glanced 
away, unwilling to look too closely at the bowls occupants. 
There was a cough and a sniff from the apartments inhabitant. Her brother, 
Skip, slouched on the decomposing orange couch, propped his dirty bare feet up 
on a nearby table and looked over at her. He still had little bronze curls 
across his forehead and a smooth, adolescent face. Hed be very handsome, Nora 
thought, if it werent for the petulant, immature look to his face, his dirty 
clothes. It was hardpainful, reallyto think of him as grown up, his physics 
degree from Stanford barely a year old, and doing absolutely nothing. Surely it 
was just last week shed been babysitting this wild, happy-go-lucky kid with a 
brilliant knack for driving her crazy. He didnt drive her crazy anymorejust 
worried. Sometime after their mothers death six months ago, hed switched from 
beer to tequila; half a dozen empty bottles lay scattered around the floor. Now 
he drained a fresh bottle into a mason jar, a sullen look on his inflamed face. 
A small yellow worm dropped from the upended bottle into the glass. Skip picked 
it out and tossed it into an ashtray, where several other similar worms lay, 
shriveled now to husks as the alcohol had evaporated. 
Thats disgusting, Nora said. 
Im sorry you dont value my collection of Nadomonas sonoraii, Skip replied. 
If Id appreciated the benefits of invertebrate biology earlier, Id never have 
majored in physics. He reached over to the table, pulled open its drawer, and 
removed a long, flat sheet of plywood, handing it to Nora with a sniff. One side 
of the board had been set up in imitation of a lepidopterists collection. But 
instead of butterflies, Nora saw thirty or forty mescal worms, pinned to its 
surface like oversized brown commas. Wordlessly, she handed it back. 
I see youve done some interior decorating since the last time I came by, Nora 
said. For example, that crack is new. She nodded at a huge gash that traveled 
from floor to ceiling along one wall, exposing ribs of plaster and lath. 
My neighbors foot, Skip said. He doesnt like my taste in music, the 
philistine. You ought to bring your oboe over sometime, make him really mad. So 
anyway, what made you change your mind so fast? I thought you were going to hold 
on to that old ranch until hell froze over. He took a long sip from the mason 
jar. 
Something happened there last night. She reached over to turn down the music. 
Oh yeah? Skip asked, looking vaguely interested. Some kids trash the place or 
something? 
Nora looked at him steadily. I was attacked. 
The sullen look vanished and Skip sat up. What? By who? 
People dressed up as animals, I think. Im not sure. 
They attacked you? Are you all right? His face flushed with anger and concern. 
Even though he was the younger brother, resentful of her interference and ready 
to take offense, Skip was instinctively protective. 
Teresa and her shotgun came along. Except for this scratch on my arm, Im 
fine. 
Skip slouched back, the energy gone as quickly as it had arrived. Did she drill 
the bastards with lead? 
No. They got away. 
Too bad. Did you call the cops? 
Nope. What could I say? If Teresa didnt believe me, they certainly wouldnt. 
Theyd think I was nuts. 
Just as well, I guess. Skip had always distrusted policemen. What do you 
suppose they wanted? 
Nora didnt reply immediately. Even as shed knocked on his door, shed still 
been debating whether or not to tell him about the letter. The fear of that 
night, the shock of the letter, remained with her constantly. How would he 
react? 
They wanted a letter, she said at last. 
What kind of letter? 
I think it was this one. Carefully, she pulled the yellowed envelope from her 
breast pocket and laid it on the table. Skip bent over it, and then with a sharp 
exhalation picked it up. He read in silence. Nora could hear the clock ticking 
in the kitchen, the faint sound of a car horn, the rustle of something moving in 
the sink. She could also feel her own heart pounding. 
Skip laid the letter down. Where did you find this? he asked, eyes and fingers 
still on the envelope. 
It was near our old mailbox. Mailed five weeks ago. They put up new mailboxes 
but our address wasnt included, so I guess the mailman just stuck it in the old 
box. 
Skip turned his face to her. Oh, my God, he said weakly, eyes filling with 
tears. 
Nora felt a pang: this was what shed been afraid of. It was a burden he didnt 
need right now. I cant explain it. Somebody found it somewhere, maybe, and 
dropped it in the mail. 
But whoever found it would also have found Dads body Skip swallowed and 
wiped his face. You think hes alive? 
No. Not a chance. He would never have abandoned us if he were alive. He loved 
us, Skip. 
But this letter 
Was written sixteen years ago. Skip, hes dead. We have to face that. But at 
least now we have a clue to where he might have died. Maybe we can find out what 
happened to him. 
Skip had kept his fingers pressed to the envelope, as if unwilling to relinquish 
this unexpected new conduit to his father. But at these last words, he suddenly 
removed his hand and leaned back on the couch. These guys who wanted the 
letter, he said. Why didnt they look in the mailbox? 
I actually found it in the sand. I think it might have blown outthe mailbox 
door was missing. And those old boxes looked like they hadnt been used for 
years. But I really dont know for sure. I kind of knocked them down with my 
truck. 
Skip glanced back at the envelope. If they knew about the farmhouse, you 
suppose they also know where we live? 
Im trying not to think about that, Nora replied. But she was. Constantly. 
Skip, more composed now, finished the last of his drink. How the hell did they 
find out about this letter? 
Who knows? Lots of people have heard the legends of Quivira. And Dad had some 
pretty unsavory contacts 
So Mom said, he interrupted. What are you planning to do? 
I figured Nora paused. This was going to be the hard part. I figured the way 
to find out what happened to him would be to find Quivira. And that will take 
money. Which is why I want to put Las Cabrillas on the market. 
Skip shook his head and gave a wet laugh. Jesus, Nora. Here Ive been living in 
this shithole, with no money, begging you to sell that place so I could get my 
feet on the ground. And now you want to blow what nest egg weve got looking for 
Dad. Even though hes dead. 
Skip, you could always get your feet on the ground by finding a job  Nora 
began, then stopped. This wasnt why she came here. He sat on the sofa, 
shoulders hunched, and Nora found her heart melting. Skip, it would mean a lot 
to me to know what happened to Dad. 
Look, go ahead and sell the place. Ive been saying that for years. But dont 
use my share of the money. Ive got other plans. 
To mount an archaeological expedition might take a little more than just my 
share. 
Skip sat back. I get it. So the Institute wont fund anything, right? Cant say 
Im surprised. I mean, it says here he never saw the city! Hes all worked up 
over a trail. Theres a leap of faith in this letter, Nora. You know what Mom 
would say about this? 
Yes! Shed say he was just dreaming again. Are you saying it, too? 
Skip winced. No. Im not siding with Mom. The scornful tone had been stung 
from his voice. I just dont want to lose a sister the way I lost a father. 
Come on, Skip. Thats not going to happen. In the letter, Dad says he was 
following an ancient road. If I can find that road, it would be the proof I 
need. 
Skip pushed his feet to the floor, elbows on his knees, a scowl on his face. 
Suddenly he straightened up. Ive got an idea. A way that maybe you can find 
that road, without even going out there. I had a physics professor at Stanford, 
Leland Watkins. Now he works for JPL. 
JPL? 
The Jet Propulsion Laboratory at Cal Tech. Its a branch of NASA. 
Hows that going to help us? 
This guys been working on the shuttle program. I read about this specialized 
radar system they have that can see through thirty feet of sand. They were using 
it to map ancient trails in the Sahara Desert. If they can map trails there, why 
not in Utah? 
Nora stared at her brother. This radar can see old roads? 
Right through the sand. 
And you took a class from this guy? You think he still remembers you? 
Skips face suddenly became guarded. Oh, yeah. He remembers me. 
Great! So call him up and 
Skips look stopped her. I cant do that, he said. 
How come? 
He doesnt like me. 
Why not? Nora was discovering that a lot of people didnt like Skip. 
He had this really cute girlfriend, a graduate student, and I . . . Skips 
face colored. 
Nora shook her head. I dont want to hear about it. 
Skip picked up the yellow mescal worm and rolled it between finger and thumb. 
Sorry about that. If you want to talk to Watkins, I guess youre going to have 
to call him yourself. 
 

5
 
NORA SAT AT A WORKTABLE IN THE Institutes Artifact Analysis Lab. Lined up in 
front of her, beneath the harsh fluorescent light, were six bags of heavy-mil 
plastic bulging with potsherds. Each was labeled RIO PUERCO, LEVEL I in black 
marker. In one of the nearby lockers, carefully padded to eliminate bag wear, 
were four more bags marked LEVEL II and yet another marked LEVEL III: a total of 
one hundred and ten pounds of potsherds. 
Nora sighed. She knew that, in order to publish the report on the Rio Puerco 
site, every sherd had to be sorted and classified. And after the sherds would 
come stone tools and flakes, bone fragments, charcoal, pollen samples, even hair 
samples; all patiently waiting in their metal cages around the lab. She opened 
the first bag and, using metal forceps, began placing artifacts on the white 
table. Glancing up at a buzzing light, she could see a corner of white cloud 
scud past the tiny barred window far above her head. Like a damn prison, she 
thought sourly. She glanced at the nearby terminal, blinking the data entry 
screen into focus. 

TW-1041 
Screen 25 

SANTA FE ARCHAEOLOGICAL INSTITUTE
Context Recording / Artifact Database

Site No 
Area/Section 
Plan No 
Accession No 
Coord 
Provenance 
Recorded by 
Site Book Ref 
Grid Square 
Context Code 
Lev/Stratum 
Trinomial Desig 
Excav Date 
Lev Bag         Of 
Artifact Description (4096 chars max) 

CONFIDENTIALDO NOT DUPLICATE

She understood precisely why this kind of statistical research was necessary. 
And yet she couldnt help but feel that the Institute, under Murray Blakewoods 
guidance, had become shackled by an obsession with typology. It was as if, for 
all its vast collections and reservoir of talent, the Institute was ignoring the 
new developmentsethnoarchaeology, contextual archaeology, molecular 
archaeology, cultural resource managementtaking place outside its thick adobe 
walls. 
She pulled out her handwritten field logs, tabulating the artifacts against the 
information she entered into the database. 46 Mesa Verde B/W, 23 Chaco/McElmo, 2 
St. Johns Poly, 1 Soccoro B/W . . . Or was that another Mesa Verde B/W? She 
hunted in the drawer for a loup, rummaging unsuccessfully. Hell with it, she 
thought, placing it to one side and moving on. 
Her hand closed over a small, polished piece of pottery, evidently the lip of a 
bowl. Now this is more like it, she thought. Despite its small size, the 
fragment was beautiful, and she still remembered its discovery. Shed been 
sitting beside a thicket of tamarisk, stabilizing a fragile basket with 
polyvinyl acetate, when her assistant Bruce Jenkins gave a sudden yelp. Chaco 
Black-on-Yellow Micaceous! hed screeched. God damn! She remembered the 
excitement, the envy, that the little fragment had generated. And here it was, 
sitting forlorn in an oversized Baggie. Why couldnt the Institute devote more 
energy to, say, learning why this fantastic style of pottery was so rarewhy no 
complete pots had ever been found, why nobody knew where it came from or how it 
was madeinstead of ceaselessly numbering and cross-tabulating, like accountants 
of prehistory? 
She stared at the potsherds spread out in a dun-colored line. With a sudden 
movement, she pushed away from the desk and turned toward the phone, dialing 
information. 
Pasadena, she said into the phone. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory. It took 
one external and two internal operators to learn that Leland Watkinss extension 
was 2330. 
Yes? came the voice at last, high-pitched and impatient. 
Hello. This is Nora Kelly, at the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute. 
Yes? the voice repeated. 
Am I speaking to Leland Watkins? 
This is Dr. Watkins. 
Id like a moment of your time, Nora said, talking quickly. Were working on 
a project in southeastern Utah, looking at ancient Anasazi roads. Would it be 
possible for you 
We dont have any radar coverage in that area, interrupted Watkins. 
Nora took a deep breath. Is there any way we might cooperate in getting some 
radar coverage? You see 
No, there is no way, said Watkins, his voice growing nasal in irritation. 
Ive got a list a mile long of people waiting for radar coverage: geologists, 
rain forest biologists, agricultural scientists, you name it. 
I see, said Nora, trying to keep her voice even. And what about the 
application process for such coverage? 
Were backed up two years with applications. And Im too swamped to talk to you 
about it. The shuttle Republic is in orbit right now, as you probably know. 
Its rather important, Dr. Watkins. We believe 
Everythings important. Now, will you excuse me? Write if you want that 
application. 
And the address? Nora stopped as she realized she was talking to a dial tone. 

Arrogant prick! she shouted. Im glad my brother boned your girlfriend! She 
slammed the phone into its cradle. 
Then she paused, staring speculatively at the phone. Dr. Watkinss extension had 
been 2330. 
Reaching again, she slowly and deliberately dialed a long-distance number. 
Yes, she said after a moment. Give me extension 2331, please. 
 

6
 
WITH A HEAVY SIGH, PETER HOLROYD SETTLED himself on the old tractor-style seat, 
turned the right handgrip to retard the spark advance, and kicked the engine 
into ferocious life. He sat for a minute, letting the motorcycle warm up. Then 
he dropped into first, turned out of the complex into the California Boulevard 
traffic, and headed west toward Ambassador Auditorium. A thin haze hung over the 
San Gabriel Mountains. As usual, his eyesraw from a long day of poring over 
massive computer screens and false-color imagessmarted in the ozone. Free of 
the purified atmosphere of the complex, his nose began to run freely, and he 
hawked a generous blob of phlegm onto the blacktop. A small plastic image of the 
Michelin tire mascot had been glued to the gas tank, and he reached down to rub 
its fat belly. O God of California traffic, he intoned, grant me safe 
passage, free of rain, loose gravel, and tight drivers. 
Ten blocks and twenty minutes later, he nosed the old motorcycle south, heading 
for Atlantic Boulevard and his Monterey Park neighborhood. Traffic was easier 
here, and he shifted into third for the first time since starting the engine, 
letting the wind blow away the heat of the cylinders beneath him. His thoughts 
returned once again to the persistent archaeologist who had kept him on the line 
for such a long time that morning. In his mind, he saw a dumpy, mousy-looking 
academic with chopped-off hair and no social graces. He had promised nothing 
except a meeting. A meeting far from JPL, of courseif Watkins got even a whiff 
of extracurricular dealings, hed be in deep shit. But these hints of a lost 
city had intrigued him more than he wanted to admit. Holroyd hadnt had much 
luck with women, and the thought that onemousy or notwas willing to drop 
everything and drive all the way from Santa Fe to meet with him was flattering. 
Besides, shed promised to pay for dinner. 
After a brief, easy run, the streets grew more congested and aggressively urban. 
Another three blocks, another three lights, and he nosed up onto the sidewalk 
beside a row of four-story buildings. Pulling a brown bag from beneath the 
bungee cord on the rear fender, he craned his neck up toward his apartment. 
Ancient yellow curtains twitched limply in the hot, fitful breeze. They were a 
bequest of a previous tenant and had never felt air conditioning. Snorting 
again, Holroyd angled across the street and headed toward the intersection, 
where the sign for Als Pizza glowed against the gathering dusk. 
He glanced around and slid into his usual booth, enjoying the chill air of the 
restaurant. The traffic had made him late, but the place was still empty. 
Holroyd tried to decide whether he felt disappointed or relieved. 
Al himself came over, a small, impossibly hirsute man. Good evening, 
professor! he cried. Nice night, eh? 
Sure, said Holroyd. Over Als hair-matted shoulder, he could see a small 
television, its grainy image struggling through a film of grease. It was always 
tuned to CNN, and the sound was always off. There was an image of the shuttle 
Republic, showing an astronaut floating upside down, tethered by a white cord, 
the magnificent blue orb of Earth as a backdrop. He felt a quick familiar 
feeling of longing and turned back to Als cheerful face. 
Al slapped the table with a floury hand. What tonight? Weve got good anchovy 
pizza, coming out in five minutes. You like anchovy? 
Holroyd hesitated a moment. Probably shed thought better of making such a long 
trip; after all, he hadnt exactly been encouraging on the telephone. I love 
anchovies, he said. Bring me two slices. 
Angelo! Two slices anchovy for the professor! Al cried as he swept back behind 
the counter. Holroyd watched him walk away, then reached for the paper bag and 
dumped the contents onto the tabletop. A notebook, two blue high-lighters, and 
paperback copies of The White Nile, Aku Aku, and Lansings Endurance fell out. 
With a sigh, he fanned the pages of Endurance, located the paper clip, and 
settled back. 
He heard the familiar squeal of the pizza parlor door and caught a glimpse of a 
young woman struggling through, lugging a large portfolio case. She had unusual 
bronze-colored hair that broke in waves over her shoulders, and penetrating 
hazel eyes. Her body was slim, and as she dragged the case through the door he 
couldnt help but notice a shapely rear. She turned and he looked up quickly, 
guiltily, only to be arrested by her face: smart, restless, impatient. 
This couldnt be her. 
The woman glanced up and the hazel eyes met his. He quickly shut the book and 
smoothed a hand over his hair, made unruly by the motorcycle ride. The woman 
walked straight toward him, dumped her portfolio on the table, and slid into the 
far side of the booth with a cool rustle of her long legs. She brushed back the 
copper-colored hair. Her skin was tan, and he noticed a scattering of freckles 
along the bridge of her nose. 
Hi, she said. Are you Peter Holroyd? 
He nodded. And experienced a moment of panic. This was not the frowsy scholar 
hed expected: this woman was lovely. 
Im Nora Kelly. She extended her hand. 
Holroyd hesitated a moment. Then he put the book down and shook the proffered 
hand. The fingers were cool and unexpectedly strong. 
Sorry to corner you like this. Thanks for meeting with me. 
Holroyd tried a smile. Well, your story was interesting. But a little vague. 
Im interested in hearing more about this lost city in the desert. 
Well, Im afraid it has to be vague for the time being. You can understand the 
need for secrecy. 
Then Im not sure what I can do for you, Holroyd said. Its like I told you 
on the phone. All those requests have to go through my boss. He hesitated. Im 
just here to learn a little more. 
Your boss would be Dr. Watkins. Yes, I talked to him, too. Real nice guy. 
Modest, too. I like that in a man. Too bad he couldnt spare me more than nine 
seconds. 
Holroyd began to laugh, then quickly stifled himself. So whats your position 
at the Institute? he asked, shifting in the booth. 
Im an assistant professor. 
Assistant professor, Holroyd repeated. And youre the one in charge of the 
expedition? Or is there someone else? 
The woman gave him a penetrating look. Im kind of at the same level you are. 
Fairly low down on the totem pole, not really in control of my own destiny. 
This, she patted her portfolio, could change all that. 
Holroyd wasnt sure if he should be offended. So when exactly do you need the 
data? It might speed things up if the Institutes president contacted my boss 
directlyhes always impressed by big names. He mentally kicked himself for 
sounding a disparaging note about his boss. You never knew when something like 
that might find its way back, and Watkins was not the forgiving type. 
She leaned toward him. Mr. Holroyd, Ive got a confession to make. Im not 
working right now with the complete support of the Institute. The fact is, they 
wont even consider an expedition to find this city until I bring them proof. 
Thats why I need your help. 
Why are you so interested in finding this city? 
Because it could be the greatest archaeological discovery of our time. 
And how do you know that? 
Al appeared, bearing two huge slices of pizza dense with anchovies. He slid them 
under Holroyds nose. A salty aroma wafted upward. 
Not on the portfolio! the woman cried. Taken aback by the sudden tone of 
command, Al scooped the slices onto a neighboring table, apologizing profusely 
as he backed away. 
And bring me an iced tea, please! she called after him, then turned back to 
Holroyd. Look, Petercan I call you Peter?I didnt drive all the way here to 
waste your time on some dime-a-dozen digsite. She drew closer, and Holroyd 
caught a faint clean scent of shampoo. Ever hear of Coronado, the Spanish 
explorer? He came into the Southwest in 1540, looking for the Seven Cities of 
Gold. A friar had gone north years before, looking for souls to save, and he 
returned with a huge, drilled emerald crystal and stories of lost cities. But 
when Coronado himself came northward, he found only the mud pueblos of the 
Indian tribes of New Mexico, none of whom had gold or wealth. But at a place 
called Cicuye, the Indians told him about a city of priests, called Quivira, 
where they ate from plates of gold and drank from golden goblets. Of course, 
this drove Coronado and his men into a frenzy. 
The tea came, and she cracked the plastic seal from the cap and took a sip. 
Some of the natives told him Quivira was way to the east, in present-day Texas. 
Others said it was in Kansas. So Coronado and his army went eastward. But when 
he got to Kansas, the Indians said Quivira was far to the west, in the country 
of the Red Stones. Eventually, Coronado returned to Mexico, a broken man, 
convinced hed been chasing a chimera. 
Interesting, Holroyd said. But it doesnt prove anything. 
Coronado wasnt the only one to hear these stories. In 1776, two Spanish 
friars, Escalante and Dominguez, traveled westward from Santa Fe, trying to 
blaze an overland route to California. Ive got their report here somewhere. 
She dug into her portfolio, retrieved a creased sheet of paper, and began 
reading. 
  Our Paiute guides took us through difficult country, by what seemed to us a 
  perverse route, northward instead of westward. When we remarked upon this, the 
  response was that the Paiutes never traveled through the country to the west. 
  Asked the reason, they became sullen and silent. Halfway through our journey, 
  near the Crossing of the Fathers on the Colorado River, half of them deserted. 
  It was never clear from the rest exactly what lay to the west that caused such 
  strong emotion. One spoke of a great city, destroyed because the priests there 
  had enslaved the world, and tried to usurp the power of the sun itself. Others 
  hinted darkly of a slumbering evil which they dared not awaken. 
She replaced the sheet of paper. And thats not all. In 1824, an American 
mountain man by the name of Josiah Blake was captured by Ute Indians. In those 
days, exceptionally brave captives were sometimes offered a choice between death 
or joining the tribe. Blake naturally joined the tribe. He later married a Ute 
woman. Utes are nomadic, and at certain times of the year they would venture 
deep into the Utah canyon country. Once, in a particularly remote area west of 
the Escalante, a Ute pointed toward the setting sun and mentioned that in that 
direction lay a ruined city of fabulous wealth. The Utes never ventured any 
closer, but they gave Blake an engraved turquoise disk that had supposedly come 
from the city. When he finally got back to white civilization ten years later, 
he swore that one day he would find this lost place. Eventually, he went back to 
look for it and was never seen again. 
She took another sip of tea and placed the bottle carefully beside the 
portfolio. Today, people assume these are all just myths, or maybe lies told by 
the Indians. But I dont think it was either a myth or a lie. The location of 
the lost city is too consistent across all of the stories. I believe the reason 
nobody has ever found this city is because it is hidden in the most remote 
section of the lower 48. Like other Anasazi cities, it was probably built high 
up on a cliff, in an alcove or under an overhang. Or perhaps its simply been 
buried in drifting sand. And thats where you come in. Youve got what I need, 
Peter. A radar system that can pinpoint the city. 
Despite himself, Holroyd found himself drawn into the story and its promise of 
adventure. He cleared his throat, searching for a note of reasonableness. 
Excuse me for saying it, but this is rather a long shot. First of all, if the 
city is hidden, no radar could see it. 
But I understand your Terrestrial Imager can see through sand as well as clouds 
and darkness. 
Thats correct. But not rock. If its under a ledge, forget it. Second 
But I dont want you to find the city itself. Just the road leading up to it. 
Here, look at this. She opened her portfolio and pulled out a small map of the 
Southwest, overlain with several thin, straight lines. A thousand years ago, 
the Anasazi built this mysterious road system, connecting their large cities. 
These are the roads that have been mapped. Each one leads to or from a major 
city. Your radar could surely see those roads from space. Right? 
Maybe. 
I have an old reporta letter, actuallythat states there is a similar road 
leading into this warren of canyons. Im certain it leads to the lost city of 
Quivira. If we could trace that road on a satellite image, wed know where to 
look. 
Holroyd spread his hands. But its not that simple. Theres the waiting list. 
Im sure Watkins must have told you about that, he loves to talk about it. 
Theres two years worth of applications for 
Yes, he told me all about that. But who actually decides what the radar 
examines? 
Well, the imaging applications are prioritized by urgency and date of receipt. 
I take the pending jobs, and 
You. Nora nodded in satisfaction. 
Holroyd fell silent. 
Im sorry. Nora said suddenly. Your dinners getting cold. She replaced the 
map in her portfolio as Holroyd gathered up the congealing slices of pizza. So 
it would be a simple matter to, say, push one of the applications to the top of 
the queue? 
I suppose. Holroyd sank his teeth into the pizza, barely tasting it. 
See? I fill out an application, you move it to the top of the pile, and we get 
our images. 
Holroyd swallowed hard. And just what do you think Dr. Watkins, or the boys at 
NASA, would think of my ordering an orbit change for the space shuttle just so 
it could fly over your area? Why should I help you with this? Id be risking my 
assI mean, my job. 
Nora looked at him. Because I think youre more than just some bean-counting 
drone. Because I think youve got the same kind of fire in your gut that Ive 
got. To find something thats been lost for centuries. She gestured at the 
table. Why else would you be reading these books? Each one of them is about 
discovering the unknown. Finding Quivira would be like discovering those cliff 
dwellings at Mesa Verde. Only greater. 
Holroyd hesitated. 
I cant, he said after a moment, in a very quiet voice. Youre asking for the 
impossible. He realized with a thrill of fear that, for an instant, hed 
actually been considering how he could help her. But the whole idea was crazy. 
This woman had no proof, no credentials, nothing. 
And yet he found himself unaccountably drawn in by her, by her passion and 
excitement. He had been to Mesa Verde as a child. The memory of those vast 
silent ruins still haunted him. He looked around, trying to collect his 
thoughts. He glanced at Nora, gazing back at him expectantly. Hed never seen 
hair quite that color, a burnished coppery sheen, almost metallic. Then his view 
moved back to the little image on the television screen of the Republic floating 
in space. 
Its not impossible, Nora said in an undertone. You give me the application, 
I fill it out, and you do what you have to do. 
But Holroyd was still staring at the image: the shining ivory shuttle drifting 
through space, the stars hard as diamonds, the earth endless miles below. It was 
always like that. The excitement of discovery that he had longed for growing up, 
the chance to explore a new planet or fly to the moonall those dreams had 
withered in a cubicle at JPL, while he watched someone elses adventure unfold 
on a dirty monitor. 
Then he realized with a start that Nora had been staring at him. When did you 
join JPL? she asked, abruptly changing the subject. 
Eight years ago, he said, right out of graduate school. 
Why? 
He stopped, surprised by the bluntness of the question. Well, he said, I 
always wanted to be part of the exploration of space. 
I bet you grew up wanting to be the first man on the moon. 
Holroyd blushed. I was a little late for that. But I did have dreams of going 
to Mars. 
And now theyre up there, orbiting the earth, and youre sitting here in a 
greasy pizza parlor. 
It was as if she had read his mind. Holroyd felt a surge of resentment. Look, 
Im doing just fine. Those guys wouldnt be up there if it werent for me and 
others like me. 
Nora nodded. But its not quite the same thing, is it? she said softly. 
Holroyd remained silent. 
What Im offering is a chance for you to be part of what might be the greatest 
archaeological discovery since King Tut. 
Yeah, said Holroyd. And my part would be to do for you just what I do for 
Watkins: crunch some data and let someone else run with it. Im sorry, but the 
answer is no. 
But the woman never took her hazel eyes from his. She was silent, and it seemed 
to Holroyd that she was making some kind of private decision. 
Maybe I can offer you more than that, she said at last, her voice still low. 
Holroyd frowned sharply. Like what? 
A place on the expedition. 
Holroyd felt his heart accelerate. What did you say? 
I think you heard me. Well need a remote sensing and computer specialist. Can 
you handle communications gear? 
Holroyd swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Then he nodded. Ive got gear 
youve never even dreamed of. 
And how are you set for vacation? Could you take two, maybe three weeks off? 
Ive never taken a vacation, Holroyd heard himself say. Ive got so much time 
accrued, I could leave for six months and still get paid. 
Then thats it. You get me the data, and I get you on the expedition. I 
guarantee it, Peter, you wont be sorry. Its an adventure youd remember for 
the rest of your life. 
Holroyd glanced down at the womans hands, tapered and beautiful, clasped 
together expectantly. He had never met anyone so passionate about something. He 
realized he was having a hard time catching his breath. 
I he began. 
She leaned forward quickly. Yes? 
He shook his head. This is all too sudden. I have to think about this. 
She looked at him, appraisingly. Then she nodded. I know you do, she said 
softly. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a piece of paper and handed it 
to him. Heres the number of the friends apartment where Im staying. But, 
Peter, dont think too long. I can only stay a couple of days. 
But Holroyd barely heard her. He was putting something together in his head. 
Im not necessarily saying Ill do it, you understand, he said in a lower 
tone. But heres how it could work. You wouldnt need to put in a request. The 
shuttles devoting the last three days of the mission to radar sweeps, 
sixty-five orbits at varying latitudes. Theres this mineral exploration company 
thats been wanting a sweep of some areas of Utah and Colorado. Weve put them 
off for a while now. I could fit them into the lineup. Then Id extend their run 
slightly to get the areas you need. The only thing youd have to do is put in a 
purchase request as soon as the data is downloaded from the shuttle. Normally 
the data is proprietary for a couple of years, but the right kind of academic 
requests can get around that. Id lead you through the red tape when the time 
comes. 
A purchase request? You mean I have to pay? 
Its very expensive, said Holroyd. 
What are we talking here? A couple of hundred bucks? 
More like twenty thousand. 
Twenty thousand dollars! Are you crazy? 
Sorry. Thats something not even Watkins can control. 
Where the hell am I going to get twenty thousand dollars? Nora exploded. 
Look, Id be arranging an alteration in the orbit of a United States spacecraft 
for you. Thats bad enough. What else do you want me to do, steal the damn 
data? 
There was a silence. 
Now theres an idea, said Nora. 
 

7
 
IF NORA HAD EVER WALKED INTO A HOTTER, stuffier place than Peter Holroyds 
apartment, she couldnt remember it. The air was not just dying here, she 
decided; it was dead and decomposing. 
Got any ice? she asked. 
Holroyd, who had walked down the four flights of stairs to retrieve his mail and 
open the door for her, shook his shaggy head. Sorry. Freezers busted. 
Nora watched him sort through his mail. Below the mop of sandy hair, the very 
white skin of his face was stretched over two prominent cheekbones. As he moved, 
his limbs never seemed to be in the right place, and his legs seemed a little 
short for his narrow torso and bony arms. And yet the overall impression of 
melancholy was countered by a pair of intelligent green eyes that looked 
hopefully out on the world. His taste in clothes was questionable: striped brown 
polyester pants, topped by a V-neck short-sleeved checkered shirt. 
Grimy yellow curtains flapped apathetically in the travesty of a breeze. Nora 
walked to the window, glancing south toward the dusky boulevards of East L.A. 
Then she looked down toward the nearby intersection and the front window of Als 
Pizza. Shed spent the last two nights at a friends house in Thousand Oaks. 
This was an ugly little corner of L.A., and she felt a sudden sympathy for Peter 
and his longing for adventure. 
She took a step back. The apartment was so barren she was unable to determine 
what kind of housekeeper Holroyd was. A small bookcase, made up of plywood 
strips balanced on cinderblocks. Two elderly Adirondack chairs, festooned with 
back issues of Old Bike Journal. An ancient motorcycle helmet on the floor, 
scarred and scuffed. Is that your bike I saw chained to the lamppost? Nora 
asked. 
Yup. An old 46 Indian Chief. Mostly. He grinned. Inherited a basket case 
from my great-uncle, and scrounged the rest of the parts here and there. You 
ride? 
My dad had an old dirt bike I used to ride around the ranch. Rode my brothers 
Hog once or twice before he laid it down on Route 66. Nora looked back toward 
the window. There was a row of very strange-looking plants: black, crimson, a 
riot of drooping stalks and pendulous flowers. Must be the only things around 
here that enjoy the heat, she thought. 
A small plant with dark purple flowers caught her attention. Hey, whats this? 
she asked, reaching out curiously. 
Holroyd looked over, then dropped the mail. Dont touch that! he cried. Nora 
jerked her hand away. 
Its belladonna, Holroyd said, bending to pick up the scatter. Deadly 
nightshade. 
Youre kidding, Nora said. And this? She pointed to a neighboring plant, a 
small flower with exotic maroon spikes. 
Monkshood. It contains aconitine, which is a really terrific poison. In the 
tray there are the three deadliest mushrooms: the Death Cap, Fools Mushroom, 
and A. virosa, the Destroying Angel. And in that pot on the sill 
I get the picture. Nora turned away from the Death Cap, its horrible mantle 
resembling plague-spotted skin, and gazed once again around the bare apartment. 
Enemies bothering you? 
Holroyd tossed the mail into the garbage and barked a laugh, his green eyes 
suddenly catching the light. Some people collect stamps. I collect botanical 
poisons. 
Nora followed him into the kitchen, a small, cramped area almost as free of 
furniture as the rest of the apartment. A large wooden table had been pushed up 
against the old refrigerator. Sitting on the table were a keyboard, a 
three-button mouse, and the largest monitor she had ever seen. 
Holroyd smiled at her appreciative glance. Not a bad chunk of video real 
estate, is it? Just like the ones at the Lab. A few years ago Watkins bought 
these for all his top imaging staff. He assumes that no one who works for him 
has a social life. Pretty good assumption, at least as far as Im concerned. He 
glanced at her. 
Nora raised a speculative eyebrow at him. So you do bring some homework with 
you, after all. 
The smile vanished as he caught the implication. Only declassified homework, 
he replied, as he reached into a rumpled Jiffy bag and pulled out a rewriteable 
DVD disk. What you asked for doesnt exactly fit that category. 
Can I ask how you did it? 
I took the raw data from the shuttle feed this morning and burned an extra copy 
onto the disk. Ive always got a handful of disks in my backpack; nobody would 
know the difference. He waggled the disk and it flashed in the dim light, 
sending out a coruscation of color. If you have the right clearance, stealing 
data isnt difficult. Its just that, if you get caught, the penalties are much 
stiffer. Much stiffer. He grimaced. 
I realize that, said Nora. Thank you, Peter. 
He looked at her. You knew Id help, didnt you? Even before you left the pizza 
parlor. 
Nora returned the glance. It was true; once hed described the way he could 
access the data, she felt certain hed agree. But she did not want to hurt his 
pride. I hoped you would, she replied. But I wasnt really sure until you 
called the next morning. And I cant tell you how much I appreciate it. 
Nora realized Holroyd was blushing. He quickly turned his back and opened the 
refrigerator door. Inside, Nora could see two cans of alcohol-free beer, some V8 
juice, and a large computer CPU. Looking more closely, she noticed the computer 
was connected to the monitor by cables running through a small insulated hole in 
the back of the refrigerator. 
Too hot out here, Holroyd said, sliding the disk into the computer housing and 
closing the refrigerator door. Put your topo over there, okay? 
Nora began to unroll the map, then paused. You realize this wont be like 
crunching numbers all day long in an air-conditioned lab, she said. On a small 
dig like this, everybody does double or triple duty. Youd be coming along as an 
assistant, specializing in image sensing. Only theyre not called assistants 
on archaeological digs. Theyre called diggers. For a reason. 
Holroyd blinked at her. What are you trying to do? Talk me out of going? 
I just want to make sure you know what youre getting into. 
Youve seen the books I read. I know it wont be a picnic. Thats part of the 
challenge, isnt it? He sat down at the wooden table and pulled the keyboard 
toward him. Im risking a possible prison sentence, bringing you this data. You 
think Im afraid of a little digging? 
Nora smiled. Point taken. She pulled up a plastic chair. Now how does this 
thing work, exactly? 
Radars just another kind of light. We shine it down on Earth from the shuttle, 
and it bounces back changed. The Terrestrial Imager simply takes digital 
photographs of what bounces back, and then combines them. Holroyd punched some 
keys. There was a brief pause, then a small window opened at the bottom of the 
screen, displaying scrolling messages as a complex program began to boot. 
Several other small windows flew open in corners of the screen, displaying 
various software tools. Then a large window appeared at the screens center. 
Holroyd moused the cursor through several menus. Finally, an image began rolling 
down the large central screen, line by line, painted in artificial reds. 
Is that it? Nora stared at the screen in disappointment. This was the last 
thing shed expected: confusing monochromatic patterns like no landscape she had 
ever seen. 
Its just the beginning. The Imager takes infrared emissions and radiometry 
into account, but that would take too long to explain. It also looks at the 
earth in three different radar bands and two polarizations. Each color 
represents a different band of radar, or a different polarization. Im going to 
paint each color on to the screen, layering one on top of the other. Thisll 
take a few minutes. 
And then well be able to see the road? 
Holroyd gave her an amused look. If only it were that simple. Were going to 
have to beat the shit out of the data before we can see the road. He pointed. 
This red is L-Band radar. It has a wavelength of twenty-five centimeters and 
can penetrate five meters of dry sand. Next, Ill add C-Band. 
A blue color scrolled down. 
This C-Band has a six-centimeter wavelength, and it can penetrate at most two 
meters. So what you see here is a little shallower. More key taps. And here 
goes X-Band. Thats three centimeters. Basically, it gives you the surface 
itself. 
A neon green color rolled down the screen. 
I dont see how you can even begin to figure all this out, said Nora, gazing 
at the distorted swaths of colors. 
Now Im going to paint in the polarizations. The outgoing radar beam is 
polarized either horizontally or vertically. Sometimes you send down a beam 
horizontally polarized, and it bounces back vertically polarized. That usually 
happens when the beam encounters a lot of vertical tree trunks. 
Nora watched as another color was added to the screen. It was taking longer for 
the program to paint the image on the screen; obviously, the computational 
problem was becoming more complex. 
Looks like a de Kooning, said Nora. 
A what? 
Nora waved her hand. Never mind. 
Holroyd turned back to the screen. What weve got is a composite image of the 
ground, from the surface to about fifteen feet deep. Now its a matter of 
canceling out some of the wavelengths and multiplying others. This is where the 
real artistry comes in. Nora could hear a touch of pride in his voice. 
He began typing again, more quickly this time. Nora watched as a new window 
opened on the screen, lines of computer code racing as routines were added and 
deleted. The remote desert vastness was suddenly covered by a thin web of 
tracks. 
My God! Nora cried. There they are! I had no idea the Anasazi 
Hold on a minute, interrupted Holroyd. Those are modern trails. 
But this area isnt supposed to have any roads. 
Holroyd shook his head. Some of these are probably wild horse trails, deer 
trails, coyote trails, mountain lion trails, maybe even four-wheel-drive tracks. 
There was some prospecting for uranium in this area in the fifties. Most of 
these tracks you wouldnt be able to see on the ground. 
Nora slumped back in her chair. With all those trails, how can we ever find the 
Anasazi one? 
Holroyd grinned. Be patient. The older the road, the deeper it tends to lie. 
Very old roads also tend to spread through erosion and wind. The pebbles ancient 
travelers turned up have been smoothed over time, while new roads are covered 
with sharper pebbles. The sharper pebbles backscatter more strongly than the 
smooth ones. 
He continued to type. No one knows why, but sometimes dramatic things happen if 
you multiply the values of two wavelengths together, or divide them by each 
other, or cube one and take the square root of another and subtract the cosine 
of your mothers age. 
Doesnt sound very scientific, said Nora. 
Holroyd grinned. No, but its my favorite part. When datas buried as deeply as 
this, it takes real intuition and creativity to tease it out. 
He worked with steady determination. Every few minutes the image changed: 
sometimes dramatically, sometimes subtly. Once Nora asked a question, but 
Holroyd merely shook his head, brow furrowed. At times, all the roads vanished; 
Holroyd would curse, type a flurry of commands, and the roads returned. 
Time crawled by, and Holroyd grew increasingly frustrated. The sweat stood out 
on his brow, and his hands flew across the keys, hitting them with greater 
force. Noras back began to ache, and she found herself shifting constantly in 
the cheap chair, trying to find a comfortable position. 
At last, Holroyd sat back with a muttered curse. Ive tried all the methods, 
all the tricks. The data just wont put out. 
What do you mean? 
Either I get a million roads and trails, or I get nothing. He got up and went 
to the refrigerator. Beer? 
Sure. Nora glanced at the clock. It was seven, but the apartment was still 
insufferably hot. 
Holroyd sat down again, passing her the beer and propping a leg up on the 
computer table. A knobby ankle protruded from below the cuff, pale and hairless. 
Is there anything unusual about the Anasazi roads? Something that might 
differentiate them from all these animal trails and modern stuff? 
Nora thought for a moment, then shook her head. 
What were the roads used for? 
Actually, they werent really roads at all. 
Holroyd pulled his leg from the table and sat up. What do you mean? 
Theyre still a deep archaeological mystery. The Anasazi didnt know about the 
wheel and they didnt have any beasts of burden. They had no use for a road. So 
why they would take such trouble to build them has always puzzled 
archaeologists. 
Go on, Holroyd urged. 
Whenever archaeologists dont understand something, they cop out by saying it 
served a religious purpose. Thats what they say about the roads. They think 
they might have been spirit pathways, rather than roads for living beings to 
travel on. Roads to guide the spirits of the dead back to the underworld. 
What do these roads look like? Holroyd took a swig of beer. 
Not much of anything, Nora said. In fact, theyre almost impossible to see 
from the ground. 
Holroyd looked at her expectantly. How were they built? 
The roads were exactly thirty feet wide, surfaced with adobe. On the Great 
North Road it appears that pots were deliberately broken on the road surface to 
consecrate it. The roads were dotted with shrines called herraduras, but we have 
no idea 
Wait a minute, Holroyd interrupted. You said they were surfaced with adobe. 
What exactly is adobe? 
Mud, basically. 
Imported? 
No, usually just the local dirt mixed with water, puddled and plastered. 
Too bad. The excitement left Holroyds voice as quickly as it came. 
Theres not much else. When the Great North Road was finally abandoned around 
1250, it seems to have been ritually closed. The Anasazi piled brush on the road 
and set it on fire. They also burned all the shrines along the road. And they 
burned several large structures too, one of which I excavated a few years ago, 
called Burned Jacal. Seems it was some kind of lighthouse or signaling 
structure. God knows what they used it for. 
Holroyd sat forward. They burned brush on the road? 
The Great North Road, anyway. Nobody has done much research on the other 
roads. 
How much brush? 
A lot, said Nora. We found large swaths of charcoal. 
Holroyd slammed down the beer, swivelled in his chair, and began hitting keys 
once again. Charcoalcarbonhas a very specific radar signature. Even tiny 
amounts of it absorb radar. It has an almost nonexistent backscatter. 
The image on the screen began to shift. So what were going to look for, he 
murmured, is just the opposite of what Ive been searching for all this time. 
Instead of looking for a particular reflection, were going to look for a 
shadow. A linear hole in the data. He punched a final key. 
Nora watched as the image on the screen disappeared. And thenas a new image 
scrolled down the screen with maddening slownessshe saw a long, faint, sinuous 
black line etch itself across the landscape: broken in countless spots, yet 
unmistakable. 
There it is, said Holroyd quietly, sitting back and looking at her, his face 
shining with triumph. 
Thats my road to Quivira? Nora asked, her voice trembling. 
No. Thats our road to Quivira. 
 

8
 
NORA WORKED HER WAY THROUGH THE early evening traffic, struggling to keep the 
highway ahead from blurring into parallel images. She was tired, more tired than 
she could remember being since her marathon study sessions of graduate school. 
Though Holroyd had offered to put her up in his apartment the night before, she 
had instead opted to drive straight back to Santa Fe and the Institute. She had 
arrived a little after ten in the morning. The day had dragged as Nora, 
exhausted and distracted, tried to wrap up the end-of-term business. Again and 
again, her mind had turned back to Quivira and what her next step should be. She 
sensed it was pointless to approach Blakewood again, even with this startling 
discovery; there was little chance of him changing his mind. She had passed him 
in a hallway shortly after noon, and his greeting was decidedly cool. 
She slowed, downshifting to second as she turned into Verde Estates, her 
townhouse development. The afternoon had ended on an unexpected note: a call 
from Ernest Goddards office, requesting a meeting the following morning. Nora 
had never even spoken to the Institutes chairman of the board, and she could 
think of no reasonno good reason, anywaywhy he would want to see her. Shed 
been absent from the Institute without notice for two days, and had made no 
headway on the Rio Puerco ceramics. Perhaps Blakewood had put a bug in his ear 
about the troublesome junior professor. 
Nora switched on her headlights as she navigated through the curving lanes. 
Verde Estates might be a development, but it was older and it lacked the 
ludicrous Santa Festyle pretensions of the newer condo complexes. There had 
been time for a good growth of fruit and fir trees, softening the edges of the 
buildings. A calm warmth began to flow into her tired limbs as she maneuvered 
into her parking space. Shed take half an hour to relax, then fix a light meal, 
take a shower, and fall into bed. Her favorite way to unwind had always been to 
work on her oboe reeds. Most people found reed-making a tiresome, endless 
nuisance, but she had always enjoyed the challenge. 
Twisting the key out of the ignition, she grabbed her portfolio and bags and 
started across the blacktop toward her door. Already, she was mentally laying 
out the tools shed need: jewelers loup; a piece of good French cane; silk 
thread; sheets of fish skin to plug leaks. Mr. Roehm, her high-school oboe 
teacher, had said that making double reeds was like fly-tying: an art and a 
science in which a thousand things could go wrong, and in which the tinkering 
was never done. 
She unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Dropping her things, she leaned 
back against the door and closed her eyes wearily, too exhausted for the moment 
to turn on the lights. She heard the low growl of the refrigerator, a dog 
barking hysterically in the distance. The place had a smell she didnt remember. 
Odd, she thought, how things can grow unfamiliar in just two days. 
Something was missing: the familiar click-clack of nails on the linoleum, the 
friendly nuzzling of her ankles. Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself away 
from the door and snapped on the lights. Thurber, her ten-year-old basset hound, 
was nowhere in sight. 
Thurber? she called. She thought of going outside to call for him, but changed 
her mind immediately: Thurber was the most domesticated animal on the planet, 
for whom the great outdoors was something to be avoided at all costs. 
Thurber? she called again. Dropping her purse on the front table, her eyes 
fell on a note: Nora, please call. Skip. Reading this, Nora smirked. Must need 
money, she thought; Skip normally never used please in a sentence. And that 
explained Thurbers absence. Shed asked Skip to feed Thurber while she was in 
California, and no doubt hed taken the pooch back to his apartment to save 
himself time. 
Turning away, she started to take off her shoes, then changed her mind when she 
noticed a scattering of dust on the floor. Gotta clean this damn place, she 
thought as she headed for the stairs. 
In the bathroom she shrugged off her blouse, washed her face and hands, dampened 
her hair, and then pulled on her favorite reed-making sweatshirt, a ragged thing 
from the University of Nevada at Las Vegas. Walking into her bedroom, she 
stopped to look around a moment. Shed been so quick to judge Holroyds 
apartment, almost eccentric in its barrenness, its lack of personality. And yet, 
in its way, her own place was not that different. Somehow, shed never had time 
to give much thought to decorating. If furnishings were a window into the soul, 
what did this jumble of rooms say about her? A woman who was too busy crawling 
around ruins to fix up her own place. Almost everything she had belonged to her 
parents; Skip had refused to take anything except her dads book collection and 
old pistol. 
With a smile and a shake of her head, she reached automatically for the brush on 
top of her dresser. 
And found it gone. 
She paused, hand outstretched, motionless with perplexity. Her brush was always 
in the same place: the archaeologist in her insisted on keeping her possessions 
in situ. Her damp hair felt cool on the back of her neck as she mentally went 
through the motions of three mornings before. Shed washed her hair as usual, 
dressed as usual, combed her hair as usual. And replaced the brush as usual. 
But now it was missing. Nora stared at the strange, inexplicable gap between the 
comb and the box of tissue. Goddamn Skip, she thought suddenly, irritation 
mingling with relief. His own bathroom was a solid mass of mildew, and he liked 
to sneak showers at her place when she was away. Hed probably dumped it 
someplace, and . . . 
Then she paused and took a breath. Something in her gut told her that this had 
nothing to do with Skip. The strange smell, the dust in the hall, the feeling 
that things were not right . . . She whirled around, searching for anything else 
that might be missing. But everything seemed to be in place. 
Then she heard a faint scratching sound coming from outside. She looked over, 
but the black windows only reflected the interior. She turned off the lights 
with a quick brush of her hand. It was a clear, moonless night, the desert stars 
spread out like diamonds across the velvet blackness beyond her window. The 
scratching came again, louder this time. 
With a surge of relief, she realized it must be Thurber, waiting at the back 
door. On top of everything else, Skip had managed to leave the dog outside. 
Shaking her head, Nora walked downstairs and through the kitchen. She twisted 
the deadbolt on the door and yanked it open, kneeling as she did so for the 
anticipated nuzzle. 
Thurber was nowhere to be seen. A skein of dust swirled on the concrete step, 
flaring into sharp relief as the headlights of a car approached along the back 
alley. The headlights swept across the grass, past a stand of pines, and 
silhouetted a large presence, furred and dark, springing back into the 
protective darkness. As she stared, Nora realized she had seen that movement 
beforea few nights before, when the same object had raced alongside her truck 
with horrifying unnatural speed. 
She stumbled backward into the kitchen in a rush of terror, face hot, gulping 
air. Then the moment of paralysis passed. Filled with sudden anger, she grabbed 
a heavy flashlight from the counter and dashed for the door. She stopped at the 
threshold, the flashlight revealing nothing but the peaceful desert night. 
Leave me the hell alone! she cried into the blackness. There was no dark 
figure, no prints in the damp earth beyond the door; only the lost sigh of the 
wind, the crazed barking of a distant dog, and the rattle of the flashlight in 
her shaking hand. 
 

9
 
NORA STOPPED OUTSIDE A CLOSED OAKEN door labeled CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD, SANTA FE 
ARCHAEOLOGICAL INSTITUTE. Clutching more tightly to the portfolio that now never 
left her side, she looked carefully down the hall in both directions. She was 
uncertain whether the nervousness she felt had to do with the events of the 
night before or with the impending meeting. Had word of her shenanigans at JPL 
somehow gotten out? No, that was impossible. But maybe this was going to be a 
dismissal anyway. Why else would Ernest Goddard want to see her? Her head ached 
from lack of sleep. 
All she knew about the chairman was what she had read, along with the rare 
newspaper photo and even rarer glimpse of his striking figure around campus. 
Although Dr. Blakewood might have been prime mover and chief architect of the 
Institutes vision, Nora knew that Goddard was the real power and money behind 
Blakewoods throne. And unlike Blakewood, Goddard had an almost supernatural 
ability to cultivate the press, managing to get the occasional tasteful and 
laudatory article placed in just the right venue. She had heard several 
explanations for the mans tremendous wealth, from inheriting a motor oil 
fortune to discovering a submarine full of Nazi goldnone of which seemed 
credible. 
She took a deep breath and grasped the doorknob firmly. Maybe a dismissal would 
be a good thing at this point. It would free her to pursue Quivira unhindered. 
The Institute, in the person of Dr. Blakewood, had already passed judgment on 
her proposed expedition. Holroyd had given her the ammunition she needed to take 
the idea somewhere else. If the Institute wasnt interested, she knew she would 
find a place that was. 
A small, nervous secretary ushered her through the reception area to the inner 
office. The space was as cool and spare as a church, with whitewashed adobe 
walls and a Mexican tiled floor. Instead of the imposing power desk Nora had 
expected, there was a huge wooden worktable, badly scuffed and dented. She 
looked around in surprise; it was the exact opposite of Dr. Blakewoods office. 
Except for a row of pots on the worktable, lined up as if at attention, the room 
was devoid of ornamentation. 
Behind the worktable stood Ernest Goddard, longish white hair haloing his gaunt 
face, a salt-and-pepper beard below lively blue eyes. One hand held a pencil. A 
rumpled cotton handkerchief drooped from his jacket pocket. His body was thin 
and frail, and his gray suit hung loosely on his bony frame. Nora would have 
thought he was ill, except that his eyes were clear, bright, and full of fire. 
Dr. Kelly, he said, laying down the pencil and coming around the worktable to 
shake her hand. So good to meet you at last. His voice was unusual: low, dry, 
barely higher than a whisper. And yet it carried enormous authority. 
Please call me Nora, she replied guardedly. This cordial reception was the 
last thing she expected. 
I believe I will, Goddard paused to remove the handkerchief and cough into it 
with a delicate, almost feminine gesture. Have a seat. Oh, but before you do, 
take a look at these ceramics, will you? He poked the handkerchief back into 
his pocket. 
Nora approached the table. She counted a dozen painted bowls, all peerless 
examples of ancient pottery from the Mimbres valley of New Mexico. Three were 
pure geometrics with vibrant rhythms, and two contained abstract insect designs: 
a stinkbug and a cricket. The rest were covered with anthropomorphicssplendidly 
precise, geometric human figures. Each pot had a neat hole punched in the 
bottom. 
Theyre magnificent, Nora said. 
Goddard seemed about to speak, then turned to cough. A buzzer sounded on the 
worktable. Dr. Goddard, Mrs. Henigsbaugh to see you. 
Send her in, Goddard said. 
Nora threw him a glance. Shall I 
You stay right here, Goddard said, indicating the chair. This will only take 
a minute. 
The door opened and a woman of perhaps seventy swept into the room. Immediately, 
Nora recognized the type: Santa Fe society matron, rich, thin, tan, almost no 
makeup, in fabulous shape, wearing an exquisite but understated Navajo squash 
blossom necklace over a silk blouse, with a long velveteen skirt. 
Ernest, how delightful, she said. 
Wonderful to see you, Lily, Goddard replied. He waved a spotted hand at Nora. 
This is Dr. Nora Kelly, an assistant professor here at the Institute. 
The woman glanced from Nora to the worktable. Ah, very good. These are the pots 
I told you about. 
Goddard nodded. 
My appraiser says theyre worth five hundred thousand if theyre worth a penny. 
Extremely rare, he said, and in perfect condition. Harry collected them, you 
know. He wanted the Institute to have them when he died. 
Theyre very nice 
I should say they are! the woman interrupted, patting her impeccable hair. 
Now about their display. I realize, of course, that the Institute doesnt have 
a formal museum or anything of that sort. But in light of the value of these 
pots, obviously youll want to create something special. In the administration 
building, I imagine. Ive spoken to Simmons, my architect, and hes drawn up 
plans for something were calling the Henigsbaugh Alcove 
Lily. Goddards whispery voice assumed a very subtle edge of command. As I 
was about to say, were deeply appreciative of your late husbands bequest. But 
Im afraid we cant accept it. 
There was a silence. 
I beg your pardon? Mrs. Henigsbaugh asked, her voice suddenly cold. 
Goddard waved his handkerchief at the worktable. These bowls came from graves. 
We cant take them. 
What do you mean, from graves? Harry bought the pots from reputable dealers. 
Didnt you get the papers I sent along? Theres nothing about graves in them. 
The papers are irrelevant. Our policy is not to accept grave goods. Besides, 
Goddard added more gently, these are very beautiful, its true, and were 
honored by the gesture. But we have better examples in the collection. 
Better examples? thought Nora. She had never seen finer Mimbres bowls, not even 
in the Smithsonian. 
But Mrs. Henigsbaugh was still digesting the grosser insult. Grave goods! How 
dare you insinuate they were looted 
Goddard picked up a bowl and poked one finger through the hole in its bottom. 
This pot has been killed. 
Killed? 
Yes. When the Mimbres buried a pot with their dead, they punched a hole in the 
bottom to release the spirit of the pot, so it could join the deceased in the 
underworld. Archaeologists call it killing the pot. He replaced the bowl on the 
table. All these pots have been killed. So you see they must have come from 
graves, no matter what the provenience says. 
You mean youre going to turn down a half-million-dollar gift, just like that? 
the woman cried. 
Im afraid so. Ill have them carefully crated and returned to you. He coughed 
into his handkerchief. Im very sorry, Lily. 
Im sure you are. The woman spun around and left the office abruptly, leaving 
a faint cloud of expensive perfume in her wake. 
In the silence that followed, Goddard settled onto the edge of the table, a 
thoughtful look on his face. Youre familiar with Mimbres pottery? he asked. 
Yes, Nora replied. She still could not believe he had turned down the gift. 
What do you think? 
Other institutions have killed Mimbres pots in their collections. 
We are not other institutions, Goddard replied in his soft whisper. These 
pots were buried by people who respected their dead, and we have an obligation 
to continue that respect. I doubt Mrs. Henigsbaugh would approve of us digging 
up her dear departed Harry. He settled into a chair behind the worktable. I 
had a visit from Dr. Blakewood the other day, Nora. 
She stiffened. This was it, then. 
He mentioned that you were behind in your projects, and that he felt your 
tenure review might go poorly. Care to tell me about it? 
Theres nothing to tell, Nora said. Ill submit my resignation whenever. 
To her surprise, Goddard grinned at this. Resignation? he asked. Why on earth 
would you want to resign? 
She cleared her throat. Theres no way, in six months, Im going to be able to 
write up the Rio Puerco and Gallegos Divide projects, and She stopped. 
And what? Goddard asked. 
Do what I need to do, she finished. So I might as well resign now, and save 
you the trouble. 
I see. Goddards glittering eyes never left hers. Do what you need to do, you 
say. Might that be searching for the lost city of Quivira? 
Nora looked sharply at him, and once again the chairman grinned. Oh, yes. 
Blakewood mentioned that, too. 
Nora remained silent. 
He also mentioned your sudden absence from the Institute. Did it have something 
to do with this idea of yours, this search for Quivira? 
I was in California. 
I should have thought Quivira was somewhat east of there. 
Nora sighed. What I did was on my own time. 
Dr. Blakewood didnt think so. Did you find Quivira? 
In a way, yes. 
There was a silence in the room. Nora looked at Goddards face. The grin was 
suddenly gone. 
Would you care to explain? 
No, said Nora. 
Goddards surprise lasted only for a moment. Why not? 
Because this is my project, Nora said truculently. 
I see. Goddard eased himself off the table and leaned toward Nora. The 
Institute might be able to help you and your project. Now tell me: what did you 
find in California? 
Nora moved in her chair, considering. I have some radar images that show an 
ancient Anasazi road leading to what I believe is Quivira. 
Do you indeed? Goddards face expressed both astonishment and something else. 
And just where did these images come from? 
I have a contact inside the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. He was able to digitally 
manipulate radar images of the area, canceling out the modern tracks and leaving 
the ancient road. It leads straight into the heart of the redrock country 
mentioned in the early Spanish accounts. 
Goddard nodded, his face curious and expectant. This is extraordinary, he 
said. Nora, youre a woman of many surprises. 
Nora said nothing. 
Of course, Dr. Blakewood had reasons to say what he did. But perhaps he spoke a 
little precipitously. He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. What if we 
make this search for Quivira our project? 
Nora paused. Im not sure I understand. 
Goddard withdrew his hand, stood up, and walked slowly around the room, looking 
away from her. What if the Institute were to fund this expedition of yours, 
roll back your tenure review? How would that sound? 
Nora gazed at the mans narrow back, absorbing what he had just said. That 
would sound unlikely, if you dont mind my saying so, she answered. 
Goddard began to laugh, only to be cut short by a series of coughs. He returned 
to the worktable. Blakewood told me about your theories, about your fathers 
letter. Some of the things he said were less than generous. But it happens that 
I, too, have long wondered about Quivira. No less than three early Spanish 
explorers in the Southwest heard these stories about a fabulous golden city: 
Cabeza de Vaca in the 1530s, Fray Marcos in 1538, and Coronado in 1540. Their 
stories are too similar to be fiction. And then in the 1770s, and again in the 
1830s, more people came out of that wilderness, claiming to have heard of a lost 
city. He looked up at her. Theres never been a question in my mind that 
Quivira existed. The question was always exactly where. 
He circled the table and came to rest on its corner once more. I knew your 
father, Nora. If he said he found evidence for this lost city, Id believe him. 

Nora bit her lip against an unexpected well of emotion. 
I have the means to put the Institute squarely behind your expedition. But I 
need to see the evidence first. The letter and the data. If what you say is 
true, well back you. 
Nora placed a hand on her portfolio. She could hardly believe the turnaround. 
And yet, she had seen too many young archaeologists lose credit to their older, 
more powerful colleagues. You said this would be our project. Id still like to 
keep it my project, if you dont mind. 
Well, perhaps I do mind. If Im going to fund this expeditionthrough the 
Institute, of courseI would like control, particularly over the personnel. 
Who did you envision leading the expedition? she asked. 
There was the slightest of pauses while Goddard steadily met her gaze. You 
would, of course. Aaron Black would go along as the geochronologist, and Enrique 
Aragon as the medical doctor and paleopathologist. 
Nora sat back, surprised at the rapidity with which his mind worked. Not only 
was he thinking ahead to the expedition, but he was already peopling it with the 
best scientists in their fields. If you can get them, she said. 
Oh, Im reasonably sure I can get them. I know them both very well. And the 
discovery of Quivira would be a watershed in southwestern archaeology. Its the 
kind of gamble an archaeologist cant resist. And since I cant go along 
myselfhe waved his handkerchief in explanationId want to send my daughter 
in my stead. She got her undergraduate degree from Smith, just took her Ph.D. at 
Princeton in American archaeology, and shes anxious to do some fieldwork. Shes 
young, and perhaps a little impetuous, but she has one of the finest 
archaeological minds Ive ever encountered. And shes highly skilled at field 
photography. 
Nora frowned. Smith, she thought to herself. Im not sure thats a good idea, 
she said. It might muddy the chain of command. And this is going to be a 
difficult trip, particularly for a . . . She paused. A sorority girl. 
My daughter must go along, said Goddard quietly. And she is no sorority 
girl, as you shall discover. An odd, mirthless smile flashed briefly across 
his lips before disappearing. 
Nora looked at the old man, realizing the point was nonnegotiable. Quickly, she 
considered her options. She could take the information she had, sell the ranch, 
and head into the desert with people of her own choosing, gambling that she 
could find Quivira before her money ran out. Or she could take her data to 
another institution, where it would probably be a year or two before they could 
organize and fund a trip. Or she could share her discovery with a sympathetic 
backer uniquely qualified to outfit a professional expedition, leading the top 
archaeologists in the country. The price of admission was taking the backers 
daughter along for the ride. No contest there, she thought. 
All right. She smiled. But Ive got a condition of my own. I need to take the 
JPL technician who assisted me along as a remote imaging specialist. 
Im sorry, but Id like to reserve the personnel decisions. 
It was the price of getting the data. 
There was a silence. Can you vouch for his credentials? 
Yes. Hes young, but hes got a lot of experience. 
Very well. 
Nora was surprised at Goddards ability to take a challenge, parry, and come to 
a decision. She found herself beginning to like him. 
I also think we have to keep this confidential, she continued. The expedition 
has to be assembled very quickly and very secretly. 
Goddard looked at her speculatively. May I ask why? 
Because . . . Nora stopped. Because I think Im being shadowed by mysterious 
figures who will stop at nothing to find the location of Quivira. But she 
couldnt say that to Goddard; hed think her crazy, or worse, and rescind his 
offer in an instant. Any hint of a problem would complicate, maybe even wreck, 
the expedition. Because this information is very sensitive. Think what would 
happen if pothunters learned about it and tried to loot the site before we could 
reach it. And on a practical matter, we have to move fast. The flash flood 
season will be on us soon. 
After a moment, Goddard nodded slowly. That makes sense, he said. Id like to 
include a journalist on the expedition, but Im sure his discretion can be 
relied on. 
A journalist? Nora burst out. Why? 
To chronicle what may be the most important find in twentieth-century American 
archaeology. Imagine the story the world would have lost if Howard Carter had 
not had the London Times covering his discovery. I actually have somebody in 
mind, a New York Times reporter with several books to his credit, including an 
excellent profile of the Boston Aquarium. I think he can be relied upon not only 
to be a good digger but to produce a highly favorableand highly visibleaccount 
of you and your work. He glanced at Nora. You have no objection to ex post 
facto publicity, certainly? 
Nora hesitated. This was all happening so fast: it was almost as if Goddard had 
worked it all out before even talking to her. As she thought back over their 
conversation, she realized he must have. It occurred to her that there might be 
a reason for his excitement that he was not sharing with her. 
No, she said, I guess not. 
I didnt think so. Now lets see what youve got. 
Goddard pushed away from the desk as Nora reached into her portfolio and removed 
a 30-by-60-minute U.S.G.S. topo. The target area is this triangle just to the 
west of the Kaiparowits Plateau, here. As you can see, it contains dozens of 
canyon systems that all eventually drain into Lake Powell and the Grand Canyon, 
to the south and east. The closest human settlement is a small Nankoweap Indian 
encampment sixty miles to the north. 
Then she handed Goddard a sheet of paper: a U.S.G.S. 7.5-minute topographic map, 
onto which Holroyd had overprinted in red the final image from his computer, 
properly scaled. This is an image taken from last weeks shuttle overflight, 
digitally enhanced. The faint, broken black line across it is the ancient 
Anasazi road. 
Goddard took the sheet into his thin pale hands. Extraordinary, he murmured. 
Last weeks flight? Again he looked at Nora, a curious admiration in his eyes. 

The dotted line shows a reconstruction of my fathers route through this 
country, following what he thought to be that road. When we extrapolated the 
road from the shuttle radar image onto this map, it matched my fathers route. 
The road seems to lead northwestward from Betatakin Ruin, through this maze of 
canyons, and over this huge ridge, which my father labeled the Devils Backbone. 
It then appears to lead into a narrow slot canyon, ending up in this tiny, 
hidden canyon, here. Its somewhere in this canyon that we hope to find the 
city. 
Goddard shook his head. Amazing. But Nora, all the ancient Anasazi roads we 
know about, Chaco and the rest, run in absolutely straight lines. This road 
winds around like a broken spring. 
I thought of that, too, Nora said. Everyones always thought Chaco Canyon was 
the center of Anasazi culture, the fourteen Great Houses of Chaco with Pueblo 
Bonito at their hub. But look at this. 
She pulled out another map, showing the entire Colorado Plateau and San Juan 
Basin. In the lower right-hand corner, an archaeological site diagram of Chaco 
Canyon had been overlaid, showing the huge ruin at Pueblo Bonito surrounded by a 
circle of outlying communities. A heavy red line had been drawn from Pueblo 
Bonito, through the circle, through a half dozen other major ruins, and running 
arrow-straight to the upper left hand corner of the map, terminating in an X. 
That X marks what I calculate to be the location of Quivira, Nora said 
quietly. All these years weve believed that Chaco itself was the destination 
of the Anasazi roads. But what if Chaco wasnt the destination? What if, 
instead, it was the collecting point for a ritual journey to Quivira, the city 
of priests? 
Goddard shook his head slowly. This is fascinating. Theres more than enough 
evidence here to justify an expedition. Have you given any thought to how you 
might get in there? Helicopters, for example? 
That was my first thought. But this isnt a typical remote site. Those canyons 
are too narrow and most are a thousand feet deep. There are high winds, beetling 
rimrock, and no flat areas to land. Ive studied the maps carefully, and theres 
no place within fifty miles to safely land a helicopter. Jeeps are obviously out 
of the question. So well have to use horses. Theyre cheap and can pack a lot 
of gear. 
Goddard grunted as he stared at the map. Sounds good. But Im not sure I see a 
route in, even on horseback. All these canyons box up at their sources. Even if 
you used this Indian settlement far to the north as your jumping-off point, it 
would be one hell of a ride just to get to the village. And then, waterless 
country for the next sixty miles. Lake Powell blocks access to the south. He 
looked up. Unless you . . . 
Exactly. Well float the expedition up the lake. Ive already called the 
Wahweap Marina in Page, and they have a seventy-foot barge that will do the job. 
If we started at Wahweap, floated the horses up to the head of Serpentine 
Canyon, and rode in from there, we could be at Quivira in three or four days. 
Goddard broke into a smile. Nora, this is inspired. Lets make it happen. 
Theres one other thing, Nora said, replacing the maps in her portfolio 
without looking up. My brother needs a job. Hell do anything, really, and I 
know with the right supervision hed be great at sorting and cataloging the Rio 
Puerco and Gallegos Divide material. 
We have a rule against nepotism Goddard began, then stopped as Nora, despite 
herself, began to smile. The old man looked at her steadily, and for a moment 
Nora thought he would erupt in anger. But then his face cleared. Nora, you are 
your fathers daughter, he said. You dont trust anybody, and youre a damn 
good negotiator. Any other demands? Youd better present them now, or forever 
hold your peace. 
No, that covers it. 
Silently, Goddard extended his hand. 
 

10
 
THERE WAS AN ABRUPT HAMMERING SOUND; Nora almost dropped the artifact in her 
hands and looked up from her desk in a panic, heart galloping. Skips scowling 
face was framed in the glass window of her office door. She slumped back in her 
chair and breathed out. Skip raised one hand, and, with an exaggerated gesture, 
pointed downward at the doorknob. 
You almost gave me a heart attack, she said as she let him in. Her fingers 
still trembled as she closed and relocked the door. Not to mention the loss of 
two years of my salary if Id dropped that Mogollon pot. 
Since when did you start locking your office? Skip said, slouching into the 
only chair not covered with books and tugging a large satchel onto his knees. 
Look, Nora, theres something 
First things first, Nora interrupted. You got my message? Skip nodded and 
passed over the satchel. Nora unlooped the leather straps and looked inside. Her 
fathers old Ruger lay at the bottom, shoved into a battered holster. 
What do you want it for, anyway? Skip asked. Some academic rivalry that needs 
settling? 
Nora shook her head. Skip, I want you to be serious for a minute. The 
Institutes agreed to fund an expedition to Quivira. Ill be leaving in a couple 
of days. 
Skips eyes widened. Fantastic! You dont waste any time, do you? When do we 
go? 
You know perfectly well youre not going, said Nora. But Ive arranged a job 
for you, here at the Institute. Youll start work next Monday. 
The eyes narrowed again. A job? I dont know jack shit about archaeology. 
All that time you spent, crawling around the ranch on your hands and knees with 
Dad, looking for potsherds? Come on. Anyway, its an easy assignment, first-year 
stuff. My associate Sonya Rowling will show you around, get you started, answer 
questions, keep you out of trouble. 
She cute? 
Shes married. Look, Ill be gone about three weeks. If you dont like it by 
the time I get back, you can quit. But itll keep you occupied for the time 
being. And maybe keep you in a safe place during the day, she thought. You 
wont mind looking after my place while Im gone? And youll leave my stuff 
alone, for a change? She shook her head. You use my shower, you steal my 
hairbrush . . . I ought to start charging rent. 
I didnt steal your hairbrush! Skip protested. I mean sure, I used it, but I 
put it back. I know how neurotic you are about that kind of thing. 
Not neurotic. Just neat. She glanced over. Speaking of looking after my 
place, wheres Thurber? Didnt you bring him? 
A funny look came over Skip. Thats what I wanted to tell you, he said in a 
low voice. Thurbers missing. 
Nora felt the air leave her lungs in a sudden rush. Missing? she repeated. 
Skip looked down abjectly. 
What happened? 
Skip shook his head. Dont know. It was the second night you were gone. He was 
fine the first night, or as fine as he ever gets. When I came in the second 
night and called for him, he was gone. It was weird. The door was locked, all 
the windows were shut. But there was this funny smell in the air, almost like 
flowers. There was some dog barking like mad outside, but it didnt sound like 
Thurber. I went outside anyway and looked around. He must have jumped the fence 
or something. He sighed deeply and looked at his sister. Im really sorry, 
Nora. I looked all over for him, I talked to the neighbors, I called the pound . 
. . 
You didnt leave a door open? Nora asked. The raw anger shed felt the night 
before, the feeling of violation, was gone, leaving only a strange and terrible 
fear behind. 
No, I swear I didnt. Like I said, everything was locked up. 
Skip, I want you to listen to me, she said in a low voice. When I got home 
last night, I could tell something wasnt right. Somebody had been in the 
apartment. The place was dirty. My hairbrush was missing. There was a strange 
smell, the same one you noticed. And then I heard some scratching, and went 
outside She stopped. How could she explain it: the humped, fur-covered figure, 
the strange lack of footprints, the feeling of utter alienness that had come 
across her as she stood in the dark, flashlight in hand? And now Thurber . . . 
Skips skeptical look changed suddenly to concern. Hey, Nora, youve had quite 
a week, he said. First that thing out at the ranch, then this expedition 
coming together out of nowhere, and Thurber disappearing. Why dont you go home 
and rest up? 
Nora looked into his eyes. 
What? he asked. Are you afraid to go home? 
It isnt that, she replied. I had the locksmith out this morning to install a 
second lock. Its just that . . . She hesitated. I just have to keep a low 
profile for the next day or two. I can take care of myself. Once Im out of 
Santa Fe, there wont be any more problems. But, Skip, promise me youll be very 
careful while Im gone. Ill leave Dads gun in the bedside table drawer in my 
apartment. I want you to have it after I leave. And dont go by the old place, 
okay? 
You afraid the Creature from the Black Lagoon will get me? 
Nora rose quickly. Thats not funny, and you know it. 
All right, all right. I never visit that broken-down old shack anyway. Besides, 
after what happened, Ill bet Teresas watching that place like a hawk, finger 
on the trigger. 
Nora sighed. Maybe youre right. 
I am right. You wait and see. Black Lagoon, zero. Winchester, one. 
 

11
 
CALAVERAS MESA LAY SLUMBERING UNDER the midnight sky, a shadowy island rising 
out of an ocean of broken rockthe vast El Malpas lava flow of central New 
Mexico. A screen of clouds had moved over the stars, and the mesa lay still 
underneath: silent, dark, uninhabited. The nearest settlement was Quemado, fifty 
miles away. 
Calaveras Mesa had not always been uninhabited. In the fourteenth century, 
Anasazi Indians had moved into its south-facing cliffs and hollowed out caves in 
the soft volcanic tuff. But the site had proved uncongenial, and the caves had 
been abandoned for half a millennium. In this distant part of El Malpas, there 
were no roads and no trails; the caves remained undisturbed and unexcavated. 
Two dark forms moved among the silent broken rafts and blocks of frozen lava 
that lapped the sides of the mesa. They were covered with thick pelts of fur, 
and their movements had the combined swiftness and caution of a wolf. Both 
figures wore heavy silver jewelry: concho belts, squash blossom necklaces, 
turquoise disks, and old sand-cast bow guards. Beneath the heavy pelts, naked 
skin was daubed with thick paint. 
They reached the talus slope below the caves and began to ascend, picking their 
way among boulders and rockfalls. At the bottom of the cliff itself they rapidly 
ascended a hand-and-toe trail and disappeared into the dark mouth of a cave. 
Inside the cave, they paused. One figure remained at the mouth while the second 
moved swiftly to the back of the cave. He pushed aside a rock, revealing a 
narrow passage, and wriggled through into a smaller room. There was a faint 
scratching sound and the wavering light of a burning splinter revealed that this 
room was not empty: it was a small Anasazi burial chamber. In niches carved in 
the far wall lay three mummified corpses, a few pathetic broken pots left beside 
them as offerings. The figure placed a ball of wax with a bit of straw stuck 
into it on a high ledge, lighting it with an uncertain glow. 
Then he moved to the central corpse: a gray, delicate form wrapped in a rotting 
buffalo hide. Its mummified lips had drawn back from its teeth and its mouth was 
open in a monstrous grimace of hilarity. The legs of the corpse were drawn up to 
the chest and the knees had been wrapped with woven cords; its eyes were two 
holes, webbed with shreds of tissue; its hands were balled up into shriveled 
fists, the fingernails hanging and broken, gnawed by rats. 
The figure reached in and cradled the mummy with infinite gentleness, removed it 
from the niche, and laid it down in the thick layer of dust on the cave floor. 
Reaching into the pelt, he removed a small woven basket and a medicine bundle. 
Tugging open the bundle, he extracted something and held it up to the uncertain 
light: a pair of delicate bronze hairs. 
The figure turned back to the mummy. Slowly, he placed the hairs in the mouth of 
the mummy, pushing them deep into the mummys throat. There was a dry crackling 
noise. Then the figure leaned back; the candle snuffed out; and absolute 
darkness fell once again. There was a low sound, a mutter, then a name, intoned 
again and again in a slow, even voice: Kelly . . . Kelly . . . Kelly . . . 
A long time passed. There was another scratch of a match, and the wax was relit. 
The figure reached into the basket, then bent over the corpse. A razor-sharp 
obsidian knife gleamed in the faint light. There was a faint, rhythmic scraping 
noise: the sound of stone cutting through crisp, dry flesh. The figure soon 
straightened up, holding a small round disk of scalp, dotted with the whorl of 
hair from the back of the mummys head. The figure placed it reverently in the 
basket. 
The figure bent once more. There was now a louder, digging noise. After a few 
minutes, there was a sharp rap. The figure held up a disk of skullbone, examined 
it, then placed it in the basket beside the scalp. Next, he moved the knife down 
the mummy until it reached the clenched, withered fists. He gently pulled aside 
the rotted tatters of buffalo hide from the hands, caressing them in his own. 
Then he worked the knife between the fingers, methodically prying them loose and 
breaking them off one at a time. Cupping each finger, he cut off the whorl of 
fingerprint and placed the desiccated chips of flesh into the basket. Then the 
figure moved down to the toes, breaking them off the body like breadsticks and 
quickly carving off the toe prints. Small showers of dust rained onto the cave 
floor. 
The little basket filled with pieces of the corpse as the makeshift candle 
guttered. The figure quickly rewrapped the mummy and lifted it back into its 
niche in the wall as the light winked out. Picking up the basket, he left the 
chamber and rolled the rock back into place. Gingerly, he pulled a buckskin bag 
from the pelt, unwound the tight knot of leather that sealed it shut, and teased 
the bag open. Holding it away from himself, he carefully sprinkled a thin trail 
of some powdery substance along the base of the rock. Then he carefully sealed 
up the bag and rejoined his companion at the cave entrance. Swiftly and 
silently, they descended the cliff face and were once again swallowed up in the 
darkness of the great lava flow of El Malpas. 
 

12
 
THE HEADLIGHTS OF NORAS TRUCK SWUNG across the predawn dark, scissoring through 
clouds of dust rising from the corrals, highlighting the wooden gates of the 
dude ranch. She came to a stop in a rutted parking area and killed the motor. 
Nearby, she could see two dark-colored vehicles, a pickup and a van, each 
bearing the Institutes seal. Two slant-load horse trailers had been backed up 
to nearby horse pens, and ranch hands were loading horses into them under 
electric lights. 
Nora stepped out into the coolness of the early morning air and looked around. 
The sky would not begin to lighten for another half hour or so, but already 
Venus was rising, a sharp fleck of light against the velvet sky. The Institute 
vehicles were empty, and Nora knew everyone must already be at the fire circle, 
where Goddard planned to introduce the expedition to one another and say a brief 
farewell. In an hour, they would begin the long drive to Page, Arizona, at the 
end of Lake Powell. It was time she met the others. 
But she lingered a moment. The air was filled with the sounds of her childhood: 
the slap of latigo, the whistles and shouts of the cowboys, the boom of prancing 
hooves in the trailers, the clang of stock gates. As the aroma of pion smoke, 
horses, and dust drifted near, a tight knot that had been growing within her 
began to relax. Over the last three days she had been supremely cautious, 
supremely vigilant, and yet she had seen nothing more to alarm her. The 
expedition had come together with remarkable speed and smoothness. Not a word 
had leaked out. And here, away from Santa Fe, Nora found some of the tension 
that had kept her so painfully on edge begin to ebb. The mystery of who had 
mailed her fathers letter was never far from her thoughts. But at least, once 
they were on the trail, she would leave her strange pursuers far behind. 
A cowboy in a battered hat strode out of the corral, leading a horse in each 
hand. Nora turned to look at him. The man was barely five feet tall, skinny, 
barrel-chested and bandy-legged. He turned and shouted to some hands deeper in 
the dusty darkness, bracketing the orders with four letter words. That must be 
Roscoe Swire, she thought: the wrangler Goddard had hired. He seemed a sure 
enough hand, but as her father had always said, he aint a cowboy til you see 
him ride. She again felt a momentary annoyance at how the Institutes chairman 
had taken over the hiring of all personnel, even the wrangler. But Goddard was 
paying the bills. 
She pulled her saddle out of the back of her truck and stepped around. Roscoe 
Swire? she asked. 
He turned and removed his hat in a gesture that managed to be both courtly and 
ironic. At your service, he said in a surprisingly deep voice. He had a great 
overhanging mustache, droopy lips, and large, cow-sad eyes. But there was a 
certain scrappiness, even truculence, about his manner. 
Im Nora Kelly, she said, shaking the small hand. It was so rough and scabby, 
it was like grasping a burr. 
So youre the boss, said Swire with a grin. Pleased. He glanced at the 
saddle. What you got there? 
Its my own. I figured youd want to load it with the rest in the front of the 
trailer. 
He slowly placed his hat back on his head. Looks like its been drug around a 
bit. 
Ive had it since I was sixteen. 
Swire broke into another smile. An archaeologist who can ride. 
I can pack a set of panniers and throw a pretty good diamond hitch, too, said 
Nora. 
At this, Swire took a small box of gingersnaps out of his pocket, placed one 
underneath his mustache, and began to chew. Well, now, he said, when his mouth 
was full, you aint shy about your accomplishments. He took a closer look at 
her gear. Valle Grande Saddlery, three-quarter-rigged with the Cheyenne roll. 
You ever want to sell this, you let me know. 
Nora laughed. 
Look, the others just went up to the circle. What can you tell me about them? 
Buncha New Yorkers on vacation, or what? 
Nora found herself liking Swire and his sardonic tone. Most of them I havent 
met. Its a mixed group. People seem to think all archaeologists are like 
Indiana Jones, but Ive met plenty who couldnt ride to save their lives, or 
whod never ventured beyond the classroom and lab. It all depends on what kind 
of work theyve done. I bet therell be a couple of sore butts by the end of the 
first day. She thought about Sloane Goddard, the sorority girl, and wondered 
how she, Holroyd, and the rest were going to fare on horseback. 
Good, said Swire. If they aint sore, they aint having fun. He pushed 
another gingersnap into his mouth, then pointed. Its up that way. 
The fire circle lay north of the corrals, hidden in a stand of scrub juniper and 
pion. Nora followed the trail, quickly spotting the flickering fire through the 
trees. Huge ponderosa logs were arranged in broad rings, three deep. The circle 
lay at the base of a tall bluff, which was pockmarked here and there by caves, a 
pendulous overhang across its top. Light from the fire leaped and flickered, 
painting the sandstone bluff lurid colors against the dark. A fire circle before 
a long journey was an old Pueblo custom, Nora knew, and after witnessing the 
incident with the Mimbres pots, she wasnt particularly surprised Goddard had 
suggested it. It was another indication of his respect for Indian culture. 
She stepped into the firelight. Several figures were seated on the ponderosa 
logs, murmuring quietly. They turned at her approach. She immediately recognized 
Aaron Black, the imposing geochronologist from the University of Pennsylvania: 
six-foot-five-inches tall or more, with a massive head and hands. He held his 
head erect, chin jutting forward, which both added to his stature and gave him a 
slightly pompous air. 
But the look belied Blacks towering reputation. She had seen him at numerous 
archaeological meetings, where he always seemed to be giving a paper debunking 
some other archaeologists shaky but hopeful dating of a site; a man of 
intellectual rigor who clearly enjoyed his role as spoiler of his colleagues 
theories. But he was the acknowledged master of archaeological dating, at once 
feared and sought after. It was said that he had never been proved wrong, and 
his arrogant face looked it. 
Dr. Black, Nora said, stepping forward. Im Nora Kelly. 
Oh, Black said, standing up and shaking hands. Pleased to meet you. He 
looked a little nonplussed. Probably doesnt like the idea of having a young 
woman for a boss, she thought. Gone were the trademark bow tie and seersucker 
jacket of his archaeological conferences, replaced by a brand-new desert outfit 
that looked as if it had been lifted straight out of the pages of Abercrombie & 
Fitch. Hes going to be one of the sore ones, Nora thought. If he doesnt get 
his ass killed first. 
Holroyd came over and shook her hand, gave her a quick awkward hug, and then, 
embarrassed, stepped back in confusion. He had the luminous face of a Boy Scout 
setting out on his first camping trip, his green eyes shining hopefully. 
Dr. Kelly? came a voice from the darkness. Another figure stepped into the 
light toward her, a small, dark man in his middle fifties who radiated an 
unsettling, even caustic intensity. He had a striking face: dark olive skin, 
black hair combed back, veiled eyes, a long, hooked nose. Im Enrique Aragon. 
He briefly took her hand; his fingers were long, sensitive, almost feminine. He 
spoke with a precise, dignified voice, in the faintest of Mexican accents. She 
had also seen him many times at conferences, a remote and private figure. He was 
widely considered to be the countrys finest physical anthropologist, winner of 
the Hrdlicka Medal; but he was also a medical doctora highly convenient 
combination, which had undoubtedly figured in Goddards choice. It amazed her 
again that Goddard could have gotten professionals of the stature of Black and 
Aragon at such short notice. And it struck her even more forcefully that she 
would be directing these two men, very much her superior in both age and 
reputation. Nora shook off the sudden surge of doubt: if she was going to lead 
this expedition, she knew, she had better start thinking and acting like a 
leader, not an assistant professor always deferring to her senior colleagues. 
Weve been making introductions, Aragon said with a brief smile. This is 
Luigi Bonarotti, camp manager and cook. He stepped aside and indicated another 
figure who had come up behind him to meet Nora. 
A man with dark Sicilian eyes leaned over and took her hand. He was impeccably 
dressed in pressed khakis, beautifully groomed, and Nora caught the faint whiff 
of an expensive aftershave. He took her hand and half-bowed with a kind of 
European restraint. 
Are we really going to have to ride horses all the way to the site? Black 
asked. 
No, Nora said. Youll get to walk some, too. 
Blacks face tightened with displeasure. I should have thought helicopters 
would make more sense. Ive always found them sufficient for my work. 
Not in this country, Nora said. 
And wheres the journalist whos going to be documenting all this for 
posterity? Shouldnt he be here? Ive been looking forward to meeting him. 
Hes joining us at Wahweap Marina, along with Dr. Goddards daughter. 
The others began to range themselves around the fire and Nora settled down on a 
log, enjoying the warmth, inhaling the scent of cedar smoke, listening to the 
hiss and crackle taunt the surrounding darkness. As if from far away, she heard 
Black still muttering about having to ride a horse. The flames capered against 
the sandstone bluff, highlighting the black, ragged mouths of caves. She thought 
she saw a brief glow of light inside one of the caves, but it vanished as 
quickly as it had come. Some trick of the eye, perhaps. For some reason, she 
found herself thinking of Platos parable of the cave. And what would we look 
like, she thought, to those dwellers deep inside, gazing at shadows on the wall? 

She realized that the murmur of conversation around her had died away. Everyone 
was staring at the fire, absorbed in their own thoughts. Nora glanced at the 
excited Holroyd, pleased that the remote-sensing specialist wasnt having second 
thoughts. But Holroyd was no longer staring at the fire: he was staring beyond 
it, into the darkness of the cliff face. 
Nora noticed Aragon look up, then Black. Following their gaze, she again saw a 
flash of light inside one of the caves beyond the fire, fitful but unmistakable. 
There was a faint clicking noise, and more yellow flashes. Then a lone figure 
resolved itself, gray on black, against the darkness of the cave. As it stepped 
forward out of the shadow of the sandstone bluff, Nora recognized the gaunt 
features of Ernest Goddard. He came silently toward the group, his white hair 
painted crimson by the fire, staring at them through the flames and smoke. He 
moved something within his hand, and the flashes returned yet again, flickering 
through his narrow fingers. 
He stood for a long moment, holding each person in turn in his gaze. Then he 
slipped whatever was in his hand into a leather bag and tossed it over the 
flames to Aragon, closest on the circle. Rub them together, he said, his 
whispery voice barely audible above the crackle of the campfire. Then pass them 
around. 
When Aragon handed her the bag, Nora reached inside and felt two smooth, hard 
stones. She drew them out and held them to the firelight: beautiful specimens of 
quartz, river-tumbled by the look of them, carved with the ritual spiral design 
that signified the sipapu, the Anasazi entrance to the underworld. 
In that instant, she recognized them for what they were. Pulling them out of the 
glare of the fire, she rubbed them together, watching the miraculous internal 
sparks light up the hearts of the stones, flickering fiercely in the dark. 
Watching her, Goddard nodded. 
Anasazi lightning stones, he said in his quiet voice. 
Are they real? asked Holroyd, taking them from Nora and holding them to the 
firelight. 
Of course, said Goddard. They come from a medicine cache found in the great 
kiva at Keet Seel. We used to believe the Anasazi used them in rain ceremonies 
to symbolize the generation of lightning. But we arent sure anymore. The carved 
spiral represents the sipapu. But then again, it might represent a water spring. 
Again, nobody knows for sure. 
He coughed lightly. And thats what Im here to say to you. Back in the 
sixties, we thought we knew everything about the Anasazi. I remember when the 
great southwestern archaeologist Henry Ash urged his students to seek other 
venues. Its a sucked orange, he said. 
But now, after three decades of mysterious and inexplicable discoveries, we 
realize that we know next to nothing about the Anasazi. We dont understand 
their culture, we dont understand their religion. We cannot read their 
petroglyphs and pictographs. We do not know what languages they might have 
spoken. We do not know why they covered the Southwest with lighthouses, shrines, 
roads, and signaling stations. We do not know why, in 1150, they suddenly 
abandoned Chaco Canyon, burned the roads, and retreated to the most remote, 
inaccessible canyons in the Southwest, building mighty fortresses in the cliff 
faces. What had happened? Who were they afraid of? A century later, they 
abandoned even those, leaving the entire Colorado Plateau and San Juan Basin, 
some fifty thousand square miles, uninhabited. Why? The fact is, the more we 
discover, the more intractable these questions become. Some archaeologists now 
believe we will never know the answers. 
His voice had dropped even further. Despite the warmth of the fire, Nora 
couldnt help shivering. 
But I have a feeling, he whispered, his voice weaker, hoarser. I have a 
conviction that Quivira will contain answers to these mysteries. 
He glanced at each of them again, in turn. All of you are about to embark on 
the adventure of a lifetime. Youre headed for a site that may prove to be the 
biggest archaeological discovery of the decade, perhaps even the century. But 
lets not fool ourselves. Quivira will be a place of mystery as well as 
revelation. It may well pose as many questions as it answers. And it will 
challenge you, physically and mentally, in ways you cannot yet imagine. There 
will be moments of triumph, moments of despair. But you must never forget that 
you are representing the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute. And what the 
Institute represents is the very highest standard of archaeological research and 
ethical conduct. 
He fixed Nora with his gaze. Nora Kelly has been with the Institute only five 
years, but she has proven herself an excellent field archaeologist. She is in 
charge, and I have put my complete trust in her. I dont want anyone to forget 
that. When my daughter joins you in Page, she will also report to Dr. Kelly; 
there can be no confusion of command. 
He took a step away from the fire, back toward the darkness of the overhanging 
bluff. Nora leaned forward, straining to hear, as his whisper mingled with the 
muttering fire. 
There are some who do not believe the lost city of Quivira exists. They think 
this expedition is foolhardy, that Im throwing my money away. There is even 
fear this will prove an embarrassment to the Institute. 
He paused. But the city is there. You know it, and I know it. Now go and find 
it. 
 

13
 
THE EXPEDITION PASSED THROUGH PAGE, ARIZONA, at two oclock that afternoon, the 
horse trailers followed by the pickup and the van, threading caravan-style down 
through town to the marina, where they edged into the gigantic asphalt parking 
lot facing Lake Powell. Page was one of the new Western boomtowns that had 
sprung up like a rash on the desert, built yesterday and already shabby. Its 
trailer parks and prefabs sprawled down toward the lakeshore through a barren 
landscape of greasewood and saltbush. Beyond the town rose the three surreal 
smokestacks of the coal-fired Navajo Generating Station, each climbing almost a 
quarter mile into the sky, issuing plumes of white steam. 
Beyond the town lay the marina and Lake Powell itself, a green sinuosity worming 
its way into a fantastical wilderness of stone. It was huge: three hundred miles 
long, with thousands of miles of shoreline. The lake was a breathtaking sight, a 
sharp contrast to the banality of Page. To the east, the great dome of Navajo 
Mountain rose like a black skullcap, the ravines at its top still wedged with 
streaks of snow. Farther up the lake, the buttes, mesas, and canyons were 
layered one against the other, the lake itself forming a pathway into an 
infinity of sandstone and sky. 
Staring at the sight, Nora shook her head. Thirty-five years before, this had 
been Glen Canyon, which John Wesley Powell had called the most beautiful canyon 
in the world. Then the Glen Canyon dam was built, and the waters of the Colorado 
River slowly rose to form Lake Powell. The once silent wilderness, at least 
around Page, was now filled with the roar of cigarette boats and jetskis, the 
sounds mingling with the smell of exhaust fumes, cigarette smoke, and gasoline. 
The place had the surreal air of a settlement perched at the end of the known 
world. 
Beside her, Swire frowned out the window. They had talked horses most of the 
trip, and Nora had come to respect the cowboy. I dont know how these horses 
are going to like floating on a barge, he said. We might have ourselves a 
surprise swimming party. 
Well be able to drive the trailers right onto the barge and unhook them, Nora 
replied. They never have to be unloaded. 
Until the far side, you mean. Swire fingered the heavy mustache that drooped 
beneath his nose. Dont see any sign of that Sloane gal, do you? 
Nora shrugged. Sloane Goddard was supposed to fly directly into Page and meet 
them at the marina, but there was no sign of any Seven Sisters sorority types 
among the fleshy, beer-bellied throngs milling around the docks. Perhaps she was 
waiting in the air-conditioned fastness of the managers office. 
The two trailers pulled up on the vast cement apron of West Boatramp. The van 
and the pickup came up behind and the company emerged into the sweltering heat, 
followed by the four Institute employees who would drive the vehicles back to 
Santa Fe. 
Down here near the water, Nora could see Wahweap Marina in all its glory. 
Styrofoam cups, beer cans, plastic bags, and floating pieces of newspaper bobbed 
in the brown shallows at the bottom of the boatramp. SKI ONLY IN CLOCKWISE 
DIRECTION read one sign and nearby was another: LETS ALL HAVE FUN TOGETHER! 
Endless ranks of moored houseboats lined the shore in either direction, enormous 
floating metal-sided RVs. They were painted in garish colorsmotel greens and 
yellows, polyester brownsand sported names like Lil Injun and Dads Desire. 
What a place, Holroyd said, stretching and looking around. 
Its so hot, Black said, wiping his brow. 
As Swire went to help back the horsetrailers around, Nora noticed an incongruous 
sight: a black stretch limousine flying down the parking lot toward the docks. 
The crowds noticed it too, and there was a small stir. For a moment, Noras 
heart sank. Not Sloane Goddard, she thought, not in a limo. She was relieved 
when the car came to a halt and a tall young man tumbled rather awkwardly out of 
the back, straightened up his skinny frame, and took in the marina through dark 
Ray-Bans. 
Nora found herself staring at him. He was not particularly handsome, but there 
was something striking in the high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and especially in 
the bemused, confident way he surveyed the scene before him. His soft brown hair 
was wild, sticking out every which way, as if he had just climbed out of bed. 
Who in the world can he be? she wondered. 
Several teenagers in the crowd instinctively moved toward him, and soon a crowd 
gathered. Nora could see the man was talking animatedly. 
Black followed her stare. Wonder who that guy is? he asked. 
Tearing her glance away, Nora left the group to gather up their gear and went in 
search of Ricky Briggs, one of the marinas managers. Her route to the marina 
headquarters took her past the limo, and she paused at the edge of the crowd, 
intrigued, glancing again at the man. He was dressed in starchy new jeans, a red 
bandanna, and expensive alligator cowboy boots. She could barely hear his voice 
over the hubbub of the crowd, making comments while he waved a paperback book in 
one hand. As she watched, he scribbled an autograph in it, then handed it to a 
particularly ripe-looking girl in a string bikini. The small crowd laughed and 
chattered and clamored for more books. 
Nora turned to a woman standing at the fringe of the crowd. Who is he? 
Dunno, the woman said, but hes gotta be famous. 
As she was about to walk on, Nora heard, quite distinctly, the words Nora Kelly. 
She stopped. 
Its a confidential project, the man was saying in a nasal voice. I cant 
talk about it, but youll read about it soon enough 
Nora began pushing through the crowd. 
in the New York Times and in book form 
She elbowed past a heavyset man in flowered trunks. 
a fantastic expedition to the farthest corner of 
Hey! Nora cried, bursting through the last of the crowd. The young man looked 
down at her, surprise and consternation on his face. Then he broke into a smile. 
You must be 
She grabbed his hand and began pulling him through the crowd. 
My luggage he said. 
Just shut the hell up, she retorted, dragging him through the stragglers at 
the edge of the crowd, who parted before her fury. 
Just hold on a minute the man began. 
Nora continued to pull him across the tarmac toward the horse trailers, leaving 
the perplexed crowd behind to disperse. 
Im Bill Smithback, the man said, trying to extend his hand as he skipped 
alongside of her. 
I know who you are. Just what the hell do you mean, making a spectacle of 
yourself? 
A little advance publicity never hurt 
Publicity! Nora cried. She stopped at the horse trailer and faced him, 
breathing hard. 
Did I do something wrong? Smithback said, looking innocent, and holding a book 
up to his chest like a shield. 
Wrong? You arrive here in a limo, like some kind of movie star 
I got it cheap at the airport. And besides, its hot as hell out here: limos 
have excellent air conditioning 
This expedition, Nora interrupted, is supposed to be confidential. 
But I didnt reveal anything, he protested. I just signed a few books. 
Nora felt herself beginning to boil over. You may not have told them where 
Quivira is, but you sure as hell alerted them that somethings going on. I 
wanted to get in and out of here as quietly as possible. 
I am here to write a book, after all, and 
One more stunt like that and there wont be a book. 
Smithback fell silent. 
Suddenly Black appeared out of nowhere with an ingratiating smile, hand 
extended. Delighted to meet you, Mr. Smithback, he said. Aaron Black. Im 
looking forward to working with you. 
Smithback shook the proffered hand. 
Nora watched with irritation. She was seeing a side of Black that wasnt obvious 
from the SAA meetings. She turned to Smithback. Go tell your chauffeur to bring 
your stuff and put it with the rest. And keep a low profile, okay? 
Hes not exactly my chauffeur 
Do you understand? 
Hey, does that hole in your head have an off switch? Smithback asked. Because 
its getting a little strident for my tender ears. 
She glared at him. 
Okay! Okay. I understand. 
Nora watched as he went shambling off toward the limousine, head drooping in 
mock embarrassment. Soon he was back, carrying a large duffel. He slung it on 
the pile and turned to Nora with a grin, bemused composure regained. This place 
is perfect, he said, glancing around. Central Station. 
Nora looked at him. 
You know, he explained, Central Station. That squalid little spot in Heart of 
Darkness. The last outpost of civilization where people stopped before heading 
off into the African interior. 
Nora shook her head and walked toward a nearby complex of stuccoed buildings 
overlooking the water. She found Ricky Briggs ensconced in a messy office, a 
short, overweight man yelling into a telephone. Goddamned Texican assholes, he 
said, slamming the phone into its cradle as Nora entered. He looked up, his gaze 
traveling slowly up and down her body. Nora felt herself bristling. Well, now, 
what can I do for you, missy? he asked in a different tone, leaning back in the 
chair. 
Im Nora Kelly, from the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute, she said coldly. 
You were supposed to have a barge here ready for us. 
Oh, yeah, he said, the smile vanishing. Picking up the phone again, he punched 
in a number. Theyre here, the group with the horses. Bring the barge around. 
He replaced the phone, then turned and without another word charged for the 
door. As she scrambled to follow, she realized she was showing a little more 
bitchiness than was good for a leader of an expedition. She wondered what it was 
about Smithback that had suddenly made her flare up like that. 
Nora followed Briggs around the side of the complex and down the blacktop to a 
long floating dock. Planting himself at the edge of the dock, Briggs began 
yelling at the nearby boaters to clear away their craft. Then he swivelled 
toward Nora. Turn the horse trailers around and back em down to the water. 
Unload the rest of your gear and line it up on the dock. 
After Nora gave the orders, Swire came around and jerked his head in the 
direction of Smithback. Whos the mail-order cowboy? he asked. 
Hes our journalist, said Nora. 
Swire fingered his mustache thoughtfully. Journalist? 
It was Goddards idea, said Nora. He thinks we need someone along to write up 
the discovery. She stifled the comment that was about to come; it would do no 
good to badmouth either Goddard or Smithback. It puzzled her that Goddard, who 
had chosen so well with the rest of the expedition personnel, had picked someone 
like Smithback. She watched him hefting gear, his lean arms rippling with the 
effort, and felt a fresh stab of irritation. I go to all this trouble to keep 
things quiet, she thought, and then this smug jerk comes along. 
As Nora returned to the ramp to help guide the trailers, a great barge hove into 
view, davits streaked with dirt, aluminum pontoons stoved and dented in 
countless places. LANDLOCKED LAURA was stenciled across the tiny pilothouse in 
rough black letters. The barge eased around a bend in the harbor, its engines 
churning in reverse as it approached the cement apron. 
* * *
It took a half hour to load the trailers. Roscoe Swire had handled the horses 
with great skill, keeping them calm in spite of the chaos and noise. Bonarotti, 
the cook, was loading the last of his equipment, refusing to let anyone else 
lend a hand. Holroyd was checking the seals on the drysacks that held the 
electronics gear. Black was leaning against a davit, tugging at his collar and 
looking overheated. 
Nora looked down at her watch. Sloane Goddard had still not shown up. They had 
to make the sixty-mile trip to the trailhead by nightfall: offloading the horses 
after dark would be too complicated and dangerous. 
She jumped aboard and entered the tiny pilothouse. The barges captain was 
fiddling with a sonar array. He looked like he might have just stepped off a 
porch in Appalachia: long white beard, dirty porkpie hat, and farmers overalls. 
WILLARD HICKS was sewn in white letters on his vest pocket. 
The man looked over at her and removed a corncob pipe from his mouth. We need 
to shake a leg, he said. We dont want to piss him off any more than he is 
already. He grinned and nodded out the window toward Briggs, who was already 
bawling to them, Move out, for chrissakes, move out! 
Nora looked up the ramp toward the parking lot, shimmering in the heat. Get 
ready to shove off, then, she said. Ill give the word. 
The expedition was gathering forward of the pilothouse, where some grimy lawn 
chairs had been arranged around an aluminum coffee table. A dilapidated gas 
grill stood nearby, coated in elderly grease. 
She looked around at the people she would be spending the next several weeks 
with: the expedition to discover Quivira. Despite impressive credentials, they 
were a pretty diverse bunch. Enrique Aragon, his dark face lowering with some 
emotion he seemed unwilling to share; Peter Holroyd, with his Roman nose, small 
eyes, and oversized mouth, smudges of dirt decorating his workshirt; Smithback, 
good humor now fully recovered, showing a copy of his book to Black, who was 
listening dutifully; Luigi Bonarotti, perched on his gear, smoking a Dunhill, as 
relaxed as if he were sitting in a caf on the Boulevard St. Michel; Roscoe 
Swire, standing by the horse trailers, murmuring soothing words to the nervous 
horses. And what about me? she thought: a bronze-haired woman in ancient jeans 
and torn shirt. Not exactly a figure of command. What have I gotten myself into? 
She had another momentary stab of uncertainty. 
Aaron Black left Smithback and came over, scowling as he looked around. This 
tub is god-awful, he winced. 
What were you expecting? Aragon asked in a dry, uninflected voice. The Ile de 
France? 
Bonarotti removed a small flask from his carefully pressed khaki jacket, 
unscrewed the glass top, and poured two fingers into it. Then he added water 
from a canteen and swirled the yellowish mixture. He rehung the canteen on a 
davit bolt and offered the glass around. 
What is that? Black asked. 
Pernod, came the reply. Lovely for a hot day. 
I dont drink, said Black. 
I do, Smithback said. Hand it on over. 
Nora glanced back at Willard Hicks, who tapped an imaginary watch on his wrist. 
She nodded in understanding and slipped the mooring lines from the dock. There 
was an answering roar from the diesels, and the boat began backing away from the 
ramp with a hideous scraping sound. 
Holroyd glanced around. What about Dr. Goddard? 
We cant wait around here any longer, Nora said. She felt a strange sense of 
relief: maybe she wasnt going to have to deal with this mysterious daughter, 
after all. Let Sloane Goddard come after them, if she wanted. 
The team looked at one another in surprise as the barge began a slow turn, the 
water boiling out from the stern. Hicks gave a short blast on the airhorn. 
Youve got to be kidding! Black cried. You arent really leaving without 
her? 
Nora looked steadily back at the sweaty, incredulous face. Oh, yes, she said. 
Im really leaving without her. 
 

14
 
THREE HOURS LATER, THE LANDLOCKED Laura had left the chaos of Wahweap Marina 
fifty miles behind. The wide prow of the barge cut easily through the turquoise 
surface of Lake Powell, engines throbbing slightly, the water hissing along the 
pontoons. Gradually, the powerboats, the shrieking jetskis, the garish 
houseboats had all dropped away. The expedition had entered into a great 
mystical world of stone, and a cathedral silence closed around them. Now they 
were alone on the green expanse of lake, walled in by thousand-foot bluffs and 
slickrock desert. The sun hung low over the Grand Bench, with Neanderthal Cove 
appearing on the right, and the distant opening of Last Chance Bay to the left. 
Thirty minutes before, Luigi Bonarotti had served a meal of cognac-braised, 
applewood-smoked quail with grapefruit and wilted arugula leaves. This 
remarkable accomplishment, achieved somehow on the shabby gas grill, had 
silenced even Blacks undertone of complaints. They had dined around the 
aluminum table, toasting the meal with a crisp Orvieto. Now the group was 
arranged around the barge in lethargic contemplation of the meal, awaiting 
landfall at the trailhead. 
Smithback, who had dined very well and consumed an alarming quantity of wine, 
was sitting with Black. Before dinner, the writer had made some cracks about 
camp cooking and varmint stew, but the arrival of the meal changed his tone to 
one approaching veneration. 
Didnt you also write that book on the museum murders in New York City? Black 
was asking. Smithbacks face broke into an immensely gratified smile. 
And that subway massacre a few years back? 
Smithback reached for an imaginary hat and doffed it with a grandiose flourish. 
Black scratched his chin. Dont get me wrong, I think its great, he said. 
Its just that . . . well, Ive always understood that the Institute was a 
low-profile entity. 
Well, the fact is Im no longer Bill Smithback, terror of the tabloids, 
Smithback replied. I work for the buttoned-down, respectable New York Times 
now, occupying the position formerly held by a certain Bryce Harriman. Poor 
Bryce. He covered the subway massacre, too. Such a pity that my masterpiece of 
investigative reportage was his lost opportunity. He turned and grinned at 
Nora. You see, Im a paragon of journalistic respectability that even a place 
as stuffy as your Institute cant object to. 
Nora caught herself as she was about to smile. There was nothing amusing in the 
journalists braggadocio, even if it was tempered with a touch of 
self-deprecation. She looked away with a stab of irritation, wondering again at 
Goddards idea of bringing a journalist along. She looked toward Holroyd, who 
was sitting on the metal floor of the barge, elbows on his knees, reading what 
to Noras mind was a real book: a battered paperback copy of Coronado and the 
City of Gold. As she watched him, Holroyd looked up and smiled. 
Aragon was standing at the bowrail, and Roscoe Swire was again by the horses, 
wad of tobacco fingered into his cheek, jotting in a battered journal and 
occasionally murmuring to the animals. Bonarotti was quietly smoking a 
postprandial cigarette, one leg thrown over the other, head tilted back, 
enjoying the air. Nora was surprised and grateful for the cooks efforts on this 
first day of the journey. Nothing like a good meal to bring people together, she 
thought, replaying in her mind the lively meal, the friendly arguments about the 
origins of the Clovis hunters, and the proper way to excavate a cave sequence. 
Even Black had relaxed and told an exceedingly foul joke involving a 
proctologist, a giant sequoia, and tree-ring dating. Only Aragon had remained 
silentnot aloof, exactly; just remote. 
She glanced over at him, standing motionless at the rail, gazing out into the 
fading light, his eyes hard. Three months on the Gallegos Divide, excavating the 
burned jacal site, had taught her that the human dynamic in an expedition of 
this sort was of crucial importance, and she didnt like his resolute silence. 
Something was not right with him. Casually, she strolled forward until she was 
standing at the rail beside him. He looked over, then nodded politely. 
Quite a dinner, she said. 
Astonishing, said Aragon, folding his brown hands over the railing. Signore 
Bonarotti is to be complimented. What do you suppose is in that curio box of 
his? 
He was referring to an antique wooden chuckbox with innumerable tiny 
compartments the cook kept locked and under jealous guard. 
No idea, Nora said. 
I cant imagine how he managed it. 
You watch. Itll be salt pork and hardtack tomorrow. 
They laughed together, an easy laugh, and once again Aragon gazed forward, 
toward the lake and its vast ramparts of stone. 
Youve been here before? Nora asked. 
Something flitted across the hollow eyes: the shadow of a strong emotion, 
quickly concealed. In a way. 
Its a beautiful lake, Nora went on, uncertain how to engage the man in 
conversation. 
There was a silence. At last, Aragon turned toward her again. Forgive me if I 
dont agree. 
Nora looked at him more closely. 
Back in the early sixties I was an assistant on an expedition that tried to 
document sites here in Glen Canyon, before it was drowned by Lake Powell. 
Suddenly, Nora understood. Were there many? 
We were able to document perhaps thirty-five, and partially excavate twelve, 
before the water engulfed them. But the estimate of total sites ran to about six 
thousand. I think my interest in ZST dates from that event. I remember shoveling 
outshoveling out a kiva, water lapping just three feet below. That was no way 
to treat a sacred site, but we had no choice. The water was about to destroy 
it. 
Whats a kiva? Smithback asked as he strolled over, his new cowboy boots 
creaking on the rubber deck. And who were the Anasazi, anyway? 
A kiva is the circular, sunken structure that was the center of Anasazi 
religious activity and secret ceremonies, Nora said. It was usually entered 
through a hole in the roof. And the Anasazi were the Native Americans who 
peopled this region a thousand years ago. They built cities, shrines, irrigation 
systems, signaling stations. And then, around 1150 A.D. their civilization 
suddenly collapsed. 
There was a silence. Black joined the group. Were these sites you worked on 
important? he asked, working a toothpick between two molars. 
Aragon looked up. Are there any unimportant sites? 
Of course, Black sniffed. Some sites have more to say than others. A few poor 
outcast Anasazi, scrabbling out a living in a cave for ten years, dont leave us 
as much information as, say, a thousand people living in a cliff dwelling for 
two centuries. 
Aragon looked coolly at Black. Theres enough information in a single Anasazi 
pot to occupy a researcher for his entire career. Perhaps its not a matter of 
unimportant sites, but unimportant archaeologists. 
Blacks face darkened. 
What sites did you work on? Nora asked quickly. 
Aragon nodded toward an open reach of water to starboard. About a mile over 
there, maybe four hundred feet down, is the Music Temple. 
The Music Temple? Smithback echoed. 
A great hollow in the canyon wall, where the winds and the waters of the 
Colorado River combined to make haunting, unearthly sounds. John Wesley Powell 
discovered and named it. We excavated the floor and found a rare Archaic site, 
along with many others in the vicinity. He pointed in another direction. And 
over there was a site called the Wishing Well, a Pueblo III cliff dwelling of 
eight rooms, built around an unusually deep kiva. A small site, trivial, of no 
importance. He glanced pointedly at Black. In that site, the Anasazi had 
buried with loving care two small girls, wrapped in woven textiles, with 
necklaces of flowers and seashells. But by then there was no time left. We 
couldnt save the burials; the water was already rising. Now the water has 
dissolved the burials, the adobe masonry that held the stones of the city in 
place, destroyed all the delicate artifacts. 
Black snorted and shook his head. Hand me a tissue, somebody. 
The boat moved past the Grand Bench. Nora could see the dark prow of the 
Kaiparowits Plateau rising far behind it, wild, inaccessible, tinged dusky rose 
by the setting sun. As if in response, the boat began to turn, heading for a 
narrow opening in the sandstone walls: the foot of Serpentine Canyon. 
Once the boat was inside the narrow confines of the canyon, the water turned a 
deeper green. The sheer walls plunged straight down, so perfectly reflected it 
was hard to tell where stone stopped and water began. The captain had told Nora 
that almost nobody came up into that canyon: there were no camping sites or 
beaches, and the walls were so high and sheer that hiking was impossible. 
Holroyd stretched. Ive been reading about Quivira, he said, indicating the 
book. Its an amazing story. Listen to this: 
  The Cicuye Indians brought forward a slave to show the General, who they had 
  captured in a distant land. The General questioned the slave through 
  interpreters. The slave told him about a distant city, called Quivira. It is a 
  holy city, he said, where the rain priests live, who guard the records of 
  their history from the beginning of time. He said it was a city of great 
  wealth. Common table service was of the purest smoothed gold, and the 
  pitchers, dishes and bowls were also of gold, refined, polished and decorated. 
  He said they despised all other materials. 
Aaah, Smithback said, rubbing his hands with an exaggerated air. I like that: 
they despised all other materials. Gold. Such a pleasant word, dont you think? 

There isnt a shred of evidence of any Anasazi Indians having gold, Nora said. 

Dinner plates made of gold? Smithback said. Excuse me, Madame Chairman, but 
that sounds pretty specific to me. 
Then prepare to be disappointed, said Nora. The Indians were only telling 
Coronado what they knew he wanted to hear in order to keep him moving on. 
But listen, Holroyd said, it goes on: The slave warned the General not to 
approach the city. The Rain and Sun Priests of Xochitl guard the city, he said, 
and call down the God of the Dust Devil on those who approach without their 
leave, and thereby destroy them. 
D-d-d-destroy them? Smithback leered. 
Nora shrugged. Typical in these old reports. A hard kernel of truth at the 
center, embellished to increase dramatic effect. 
Hicks stepped out of the cabin, his stringy form framed in the battered 
pilothouse light. Sonars giving me shoaling water here, he said. The canyon 
bottoms coming up. Well probably be hitting the end of the lake round another 
bend or two. 
Now everyone came to the front rail, peering eagerly into the gloom. A 
searchlight snapped on above the pilothouse, illuminating the water ahead of 
them. It had changed color again to a dirty chocolate. The barge nosed its way 
past battered tree limbs, around dark curtains of stone that rose hundreds of 
feet. 
They passed another sharp bend and dismay suddenly dragged at Noras heart. 
Blocking the far end of the canyon was a huge mass of floating debris: scarred 
tree trunks, branches, and stinking mats of rotting pine needles. Some of the 
tree trunks were five feet in diameter, horribly gouged and ripped as if by 
supernatural force. Beyond the tangle, Nora could make out the end of the lake: 
a wedge of sand at the mouth of a creek, deep crimson in the gloom. 
Hicks threw the engine into neutral and came out of the pilothouse, puffing 
silently and staring down the beam of the searchlight. 
Where did all those huge trees come from? Nora asked. I havent seen a tree 
since we left Page. 
Flash floods, said Hicks, chewing on his corncob. All that stuff gets washed 
down from the mountains, hundreds of miles sometimes. When the wall of water 
hits the lake, it just dumps everything here. He shook his head. Never seen 
such a snarl. 
Can you get through it? 
Nope, said Hicks. Tear my propellers right up. 
Shit. How deep is the water? 
Sonar says eight feet, with holes and channels down to fifteen. He gave her a 
curious look. Might be a good time to think about turning around, he murmured. 

Nora glanced at his placid face. Now why would we want to do that? 
Hicks shrugged. It aint no business of mine, but I wouldnt head into that 
backcountry for all the money in the world. 
Thanks for the advice, Nora said. You have a life raft, right? 
Yup, inflatable. You sure cant load horses into it. 
The expedition had gathered around, listening. Nora heard Black mutter something 
about knowing horses were a bad idea. 
Well swim the horses in, Nora said. Then well bring the gear on the raft. 
Now, hold on began Swire. 
Nora turned to him. All we need is a good horse to lead and the others will 
follow. Roscoe, Ill bet youve got a good swimmer in that bunch. 
Sure, Mestizo, but 
Good. You swim him in yourself, and well push the others in afterward. They 
can swim through one of those gaps between the logs. 
Swire stared at the blockage before them, a crazy dark tangle in the ghostly 
illumination of the searchlight. Those gaps are pretty small. A horse could get 
snagged on brush, or maybe gut himself on an underwater limb. 
Do you have another idea? 
Swire looked out over the water. Nope, he said. Guess I dont. 
Hicks opened a large deck locker and, with the help of Holroyd, pulled a heavy, 
shapeless rubber mass out of its depths. Swire led a large horse out of one of 
the trailers, then threw a saddle over his back. Nora noticed he did not put on 
a halter or bridle. Aragon and Bonarotti began to move the gear toward the raft, 
readying it for transport. Black was standing near the trailers, watching the 
proceedings with a doubtful expression. Swire handed him a quirt. 
Whats this for? Black asked, holding it at arms length. 
Im going to swim this horse in to shore first, Swire replied. Nora will lead 
the rest out one by one. Your job is to make them jump into the water after me. 

Oh, really? And just how do I do that? 
You quirt em. 
Quirt them? 
Whip their asses. Dont let them stop to think. 
Thats insane. Ill be kicked. 
None of these horses are kickers, but be ready to dodge anyway. And make a 
sound like this. Swire made a loud, unpleasant kissing sound with his lips. 
Maybe flowers and a box of chocolates would be easier, Smithback cracked. 
I dont know anything about horses, Black protested. 
Course you dont. But it dont take a professional waddy to whack a horses 
ass. 
Wont it hurt the horses? 
Itll sting some, Swire replied. But we dont got all night to sweet-talk 
em. 
Black continued to stare at the quirt with a frown. Watching him, Nora wasnt 
sure what the scientist was more upset by: quirting the horses or being ordered 
about by a cowboy. 
Swire vaulted into the saddle. Keep em coming one at a time, but let the water 
clear so they aint jumping on each others backs. 
He turned and shoved the spurs to his horse. The animal obeyed instantly and 
leaped into the water, momentarily disappearing and then surfacing again, 
blowing hard, nose up to the air. Expertly dismounting in midair, Swire had 
landed beside the horse, hand on the saddlehorn. Now he began urging the animal 
forward in a low voice. 
The rest of the horses pranced restlessly in the trailers, snorting through 
dilated nostrils and rolling their eyes with apprehension. 
Lets go, Nora said, easing the second horse forward. It stepped toward the 
edge of the barge, then balked. Quirt him! she cried to Black. To her relief, 
Black stepped forward with a determined look and smacked the horse across the 
rump. The horse paused, then leaped, landing with another roar of water and 
struggling after Swires horse. 
Smithback was watching the proceedings with amusement. Nicely done! he cried. 
Come on, Aaron, dont tell me thats the first time youve handled a whip. Im 
sure Ive seen you hanging around the West Village leather bars. 
Smithback, go help Holroyd with the raft, Nora snapped. 
Yassuh. Smithback turned away. 
One at a time, they coaxed the rest of the horses into the water until they 
formed a ragged, struggling line, nose to tail, threading their way through a 
gap in the tangle of trees and heading for the beach. Nora locked down the 
trailers, then turned to watch Swire clamber out of the water at the far end, 
bedraggled and dripping in the yellow glow of the searchlight. Securing his 
horse, he waded back into the water with yips and shouts, herding the rest onto 
dry land. Soon he had gathered them into a disconsolate mass and pushed them 
upcanyon, clearing the landing site. 
Nora watched a moment longer, then turned to Black. That was very well done, 
Aaron. 
The geochronologist blushed with pride. 
Nora looked at the rest of the group. Lets get this gear offloaded. Captain, 
many thanks for your help. Well make sure the raft is well hidden while were 
upcanyon. See you in a couple of weeks. 
Lest I see you first, Hicks replied dryly as he disappeared into the 
pilothouse. 
Around eleven, in the intense silence of the desert night, Nora took a last tour 
of the somnolent camp, then threw her bedroll some distance from the others, 
carefully sculpting the sand underneath for her hips and shoulders. To minimize 
the panicky, last-minute adjustments that always seemed to accompany packtrips, 
she had seen to it that the gear was already weighed and stowed in the panniers, 
ready for loading in the morning. The horses were hobbled some distance away, 
contentedly chewing the last of their alfalfa. The rest of the group was either 
asleep in their tents or quickly nodding off in their sleeping bags by the dying 
light of the fire. And the Landlocked Laura was well on her way back to the 
marina. The expedition had begun in earnest. 
She eased into the bedroll, breathing easily. So far, so good. Black was a pain 
in the ass, but his expertise outweighed his querulous personality. Smithback 
was an annoying surprise, but with that strong back and arms hed make a good 
digger, and shed make sure he was well occupied with the shovel, whether he 
liked it or not. Before going to bed, he had insisted on pressing a copy of his 
book into her hands; shed dumped it unceremoniously into a duffel. 
On the other hand, Peter Holroyd was proving to be a real trouper. Shed caught 
him giving her several furtive glances during the ride up Lake Powell, and Nora 
wondered if he wasnt a little bit infatuated. Perhaps shed inadvertently 
played on that in persuading him to steal the data from JPL. She felt a 
momentary twinge of guilt. But then again, shed kept her promise. He was on the 
expedition. The boys probably mistaking gratitude for puppy love, she thought, 
moving on. Bonarotti was one of those unflappable people who never seemed put 
out by anything, as well as being a fabulous camp cook. And Aragon would 
probably open up once they got away from his hated Lake Powell. 
She stretched out comfortably. It was shaping up to be a good group. Best of 
all, there was no Sloane Goddard to deal with. Among Black, Aragon, and herself, 
there was more than enough expertise to go around. Dr. Goddard had nothing but 
his own daughters tardiness to blame. 
Starlight glowed faintly from the distant bluffs and turrets of Navajo 
sandstone. A chill had crept into the air: in the high desert, night came on 
fast and sure. She heard a low murmuring, the drifting smell of Bonarottis 
cigarette. Into the silence the faint calls of the canyon wrens echoed back and 
forth, tinkling like bells, mingling with the faint lapping of water on the 
shoreline just below the camp. Already they were many miles from the nearest 
outpost of humanity. And the distant, hidden canyon they were headed to was much 
farther still. 
At the thought of Quivira, Nora felt the weight of responsibility return again. 
There was a potential for failure here, too, she knew: a tremendous potential. 
They might not find the city. The expedition might break up over personality 
conflicts. Worst of all, her fathers Quivira might turn out to be some ordinary 
five-room cliff dwelling. That was what worried her the most. Goddard might 
forgive her for leaving without his daughter. But despite all the fine words, he 
and the Institute would not forgive her if she returned with a superb site 
report on a tiny Pueblo III cliff dwelling. And God only knew what kind of 
withering article Smithback might write if he felt his precious time had been 
wasted. 
There was the distant yipping of a coyote, and she wrapped the bedroll more 
tightly around her. Unbidden, her thoughts returned to Santa Fe, to that night 
in the deserted ranch house. Shed been very careful to keep the maps and radar 
images under her control at all times. Shed impressed everyone with the need 
for discretion, citing pothunters and looters as her concern. And then into the 
midst of her careful plans blundered Smithback. . . . 
Still, she knew it was unlikely that Smithbacks comments would filter back to 
Santa Fe, and beyond the mention of her name nothing hed said was specific 
enough to give away the purpose of the expedition. And most likely, the bizarre 
figures who had attacked her had given up by now. Where she was going, it would 
take a determined, even desperate person to follow, someone who knew the craft 
of desert travel far better than even Swire did. Certainly no boats had followed 
them up the lake. The fear and annoyance subsided, and in their absence came 
sleep, and dreams of dusty ruins, and nodding columns of sunlight cutting 
through the murk of an ancient cave, and two dead children draped in flowers. 
 

15
 
TERESA GONZALES SAT UP SUDDENLY, LISTENING in the dark. Teddy Bear, her giant 
Rhodesian Ridgeback, who generally slept outside in the summer, was whining at 
the back door. Ridgebacks had been bred to hunt and kill lions in Africa. He was 
a very gentle dog, but he was also extremely protective. She had never heard him 
whine before. He was just back from the vets, where hed been languishing for 
two weeks, recovering from a nasty infection; maybe the poor thing was still 
traumatized. 
She got out of bed and went through the dark house to the door. The dog came 
slinking in, whimpering, its tail clamped between its legs. 
Teddy, she whispered, whats wrong? You all right? 
The dog licked her hand and retreated across the kitchen, sliding his huge bulk 
under the kitchen table. Teresa looked out the kitchen door, down into the sea 
of darkness toward the old Las Cabrillas ranch house. There were no lights in 
the draw, and without a moon Teresa couldnt see the outlines of the abandoned 
house. Something out there had scared him half to death. She listened, and 
thought she heard a faint sound of breaking glass and the distant howl of an 
animal. Definitely too low-pitched and hoarse to be a coyote, but it didnt 
sound like any dog Teresa had heard, either. It sounded like a wolf, if you got 
right down to it. But Teddy would never have retreated like that from a lone 
wolf, or even a cougar. Perhaps it was a whole pack of wolves. 
The muttered low howl was answered by another, a little closer. The dog whined 
again, louder, and pressed itself back into the darkness under the table. There 
was a dribbling sound, and Teresa saw he was urinating in his fright. 
She paused, hand on the doorframe. Until two years ago, there had been no wolves 
in New Mexico. Then the Game and Fish Department introduced some into the Pecos 
Wilderness. Guess a few have wandered down from the mountains, she thought. 
Teresa went back to her room, peeled off her nightgown, slid on her jeans, 
shirt, and boots, then walked across the room and opened the gun locker. The 
weapons gleamed dully against the darkness. She reached for her current 
favorite, a Winchester Defender, with its 18-inch barrel and extended magazine 
tube. It was a good, light gun, billed as a defensive weapon with unparalleled 
stopping power. Just another way of saying it was very good at killing people. 
Or wolves, for that matter. 
She slid in a magazine: eight Federal ammo casings of 12-gauge double-ought lead 
buck. This wasnt the first time since the attack on Nora that shed heard 
sounds from the Kelly ranch. And once, driving back from Santa Fe, shed seen a 
low, dark shape skulking around the old mailbox rack. Had to be wolves; nothing 
else made sense. Theyd confronted Nora in the farmhouse that night. Must have 
rattled her so badly she thought she heard them speak. Teresa shook her head. 
Not like Nora to wig out like that. 
Wolves that didnt fear humans could be dangerous, and Teresa didnt want to 
meet up with them without a gun. Better to deal with the problem directly. If 
Game and Fish wanted to make a stink, let them. She had a ranch to run. 
She tucked the shotgun under her arm, shoved a flashlight into her back pocket, 
and crept back to the kitchen door, careful not to turn on any lights. She heard 
Teddy whining and snuffling as she left, but he made no move to follow her. 
She stepped onto the back porch and eased the door shut behind her. There was a 
faint creaking of floorboards as she moved down the steps. Then she angled 
toward the wellhouse and the trail that began just beyond. Teresa was a large, 
heavy-boned woman, but she had the natural stealthy movements of a feline. At 
the wellhouse she inhaled deeply, steadied the gun, then eased down the trail in 
the inky blackness. She had descended the trail countless times to play with 
Nora when they were children, and her feet remembered the way. 
Soon she was on the flat. The Kelly ranch house stood across the draw, just on 
the side of the rise, its low roof outlined against the night. In the faintest 
starlight, she could see the front door was open. 
She waited for what seemed a long time, listening, but there was only the 
susurrus of wind in the pion trees. The shotgun felt cold and reassuring in her 
hands. 
She sampled the breeze: she was downwind of the house, which meant the wolves 
couldnt scent her. There was a strange odor in the air that reminded her of 
morning glories, but nothing else. Perhaps the animals had heard her and run 
off. Or perhaps they were still in the house. 
She snapped off the safety and gripped the flashlight tight against the 
Winchesters barrel. Then she moved toward the front of the house. The building 
was striped in wavy starlight, looking strangely like a drowned, abandoned 
temple. She could use the light to freeze any animal that came into view, giving 
her a stationary target. 
And then Teresa heard something, at the edge of audibility, that was not a wolf. 
She stopped to listen. It was a low, monotonous chanting drone, a hoarse, 
guttural cadence, dry and faint as parched leaves. 
It came from inside the house. 
Teresa licked her dry lips and took a deep breath. She stepped onto the front 
porch and waited for a minute, then two. As quietly as she could, she took two 
more steps forward, covered the inside of the house with her gun, and switched 
on the flashlight. 
The house was as she remembered it from the previous week: a hurricane of ruin, 
dust, and old decay. The smell of flowers was stronger here. Quickly, she probed 
the corners and doorways with the light, seeing nothing. Through a broken 
rectangle of window, the night wind gently swelled the stained curtains. The 
chanting was louder now, and it seemed to be coming from upstairs. 
She crept to the bottom of the stairs, switching off the light. These were 
obviously not animals. Perhaps Nora had been right after all: shed been 
attacked by men wearing masks, rapists perhaps. She remembered how 
uncharacteristically frightened Teddy Bear had been. Perhaps it would be better 
for her to creep quietly home and telephone the cops. 
But noby the time the cops arrived, with their flashing lights and clomping 
boots, these bastards would have slipped away into the shadows. And Teresa would 
be left with the nagging worry about when they might show up again. Perhaps 
theyd try her house next time. Or perhaps theyd catch her out away from home, 
when she was unarmed . . . 
Her grip tightened on the shotgun. The time to act was now, while she could. Her 
father had taught her how to hunt; she was an expert stalker. She had a weapon 
that she knew how to use. And she had the advantage of surprise. With infinite 
caution, she began to ascend the stairs. She moved instinctively, shifting her 
weight from foot to foot with extreme deliberation. 
She paused again at the top of the stairs. The starlight filtering through the 
windows below was too faint here to make out anything but the vaguest of shapes, 
but her ears told her that the sound was coming from Noras old room. She took 
two steps, then paused to take several breaths, check her control. Whoever it 
was, she was taking no chances. 
She braced herself, gun in both hands, the flashlight firm against the barrel. 
Then with one smooth, swift motion she stepped forward, kicked the door fully 
open, swivelled the gun into position, and snapped on the flashlight. 
It took a moment for her brain to register what her eyes saw. Two figures, 
covered head to toe in heavy, dank pelts, crouched in the center of the room. 
Their red eyes turned toward the light, unblinking, feral. Between them rested a 
human skull, its top missing. Inside the skull was a small collection of 
objectsa dolls head, some hair, a girls barretteNoras old things, Teresa 
realized, frozen with horror. 
Suddenly one of the forms leaped up, moving faster than she thought possible. It 
passed out of the beam of her flashlight as she jerked the trigger. The shotgun 
bucked in her hands and the deafening roar seemed to shake the house itself. 
She blinked, straining to see through the dust and smoke. There was nothing but 
a ragged, smoking hole in the bedroom wall. Both figures had now vanished. 
She pumped another round into the chamber and pivoted, covering the room with 
the yellow pool of light. Her breath rasped in and out as the noise fell away 
and the dust settled back into the gloom. People didnt move like that. Here, by 
herself, behind the flashlight, she felt suddenly, terribly vulnerable. She had 
a momentary impulse to turn off the light, find shelter in the darkness. But she 
sensed that darkness alone would not protect her from these creatures. 
Teresa had grown up a brave girl, big and strong for her age. Shed had no older 
brothers to keep her in line, and she had been able to beat up anybody in her 
class, boy or girl. Nowstanding in the darkened doorway, breathing hard, eyes 
alert to any movementTeresa felt an unfamiliar sense of panic threaten to 
envelope her. 
She tore her gaze from the dark emptiness of the room, pivoted again, and 
scanned the hallway. The house was utterly silent except for her breathing. 
Other darkened bedroom doors, black on black, opened to the wrecked hall. 
She had to get downstairs, she realized. There, she could switch off the light, 
let the starlight aid her. She glanced toward the stairs, imprinting their 
location in her mind. Then she switched off the light and darted forward. 
A black shape lunged diagonally out from a far bedroom. With an involuntary cry, 
Teresa turned and jerked the trigger. Eyes blinded by the muzzle flare, she 
stumbled backward and half rolled, half fell down the stairs, shotgun clattering 
away into the darkness. She scrambled to her knees at the bottom step, a sharp 
pain spiking through one ankle. 
At the top of the stairs a large shape crouched, staring silently down at her. 
Teresa whirled, searching in the faint starlight for her weapon. But instead of 
the shotgun, her gaze fell upon the second shape, framed in the kitchen doorway, 
coming toward her with a slow confidence that was somehow terrible. 
Teresa stared at the figure for a moment, paralyzed with terror. Then she turned 
and limped toward the door, scattering glass, a low whimper escaping her throat. 

 

16
 
THE NEXT MORNING, NORA AWAKENED TO A marvelous smell. She stretched luxuriously, 
still wrapped within a wonderful, receding dream. Then, hearing the clatter of 
tins and the murmur of conversation, she opened her eyes and jumped out of her 
bedroll. It was six-thirty, and the camp had already gathered around a pot of 
coffee hanging over an open fire. Only Swire and Black were missing. Bonarotti 
was busy at the grill, the delicious aroma wafting from his sizzling fry pan. 
She quickly stowed her gear and washed up, embarrassed at oversleeping on the 
first morning. Up the canyon she caught a glimpse of Swire, brushing down the 
horses and checking their feet. 
Madame Chairman! Smithback called out good-humoredly. Come on over and have a 
sip of this ebony nectar. I swear its even better than the espresso at Caf 
Reggio. 
Nora joined the group and gratefully accepted a tin cup from Holroyd. As she 
sipped, Black emerged from a tent, looking frowsy and bedraggled. Wordlessly, he 
stumbled over and helped himself to coffee, then squatted on a nearby rock, 
hunched over his tin. 
Its cold, he muttered. I barely slept a wink. Normally, on the digs I 
investigate, they at least have a couple of RVs parked nearby. He looked around 
at the surrounding cliffs. 
Oh, you slept fine, Smithback said. Ive never heard such a cacophony of 
snores. He turned to Nora. How about if we institute co-op camping for the 
rest of the trip? Ive heard all about the tent-creeping that goes on around 
expeditions like this. He cackled salaciously. Remember, happiness is a double 
mummy bag. 
If you want to sleep with the opposite sex, Ill have Swire put you out with 
the mares, Nora replied. 
Black barked a laugh. 
Very funny. Coffee in hand, Smithback settled on a fallen log, next to Black. 
Aragon tells me that youre an expert on artifact dating. But what did he mean 
when he said you were a Dumpster diver? 
Oh, he said that, did he? Black gave the older man an angry glare. 
Aragon waved his hand. Its a technical term. 
Im a stratigrapher, Black said. Often, midden heaps provide the best 
information at a site. 
Midden heaps? 
Trash piles, said Black, his lips compressing. Ancient garbage dumps. Usually 
the most interesting part of a ruin. 
Coprolite expert, too, said Aragon, nodding toward Black. 
Coprolite? Smithback thought for a moment. Isnt that fossilized shit, or 
something? 
Yes, yes, Black said with irritation. But we work with anything to do with 
dating. Human hair, pollen, charcoal, bone, seeds, you name it. Feces just 
happens to be especially informative. It shows what people were eating, what 
kind of parasites they had 
Feces, said Smithback. Im getting the picture. 
Dr. Black is the countrys leading geochronologist, Nora said quickly. 
But Smithback was shaking his head. And what a business to be in, he chortled. 
Coprolites. Oh, God. There must be a lot of openings in your field. 
Before Black could answer, Bonarotti announced breakfast was ready. He was 
dressed, as the day before, in a neatly ironed jacket and pressed khaki 
trousers. Nora, grateful for the interruption, wondered how he could have kept 
so prim while everyone else was already verging into grubbiness. The wonderful 
aroma stanched further curiosity, and she quickly fell in line behind the rest. 
Bonarotti slid a generous slice of perfectly cooked omelette onto her plate. She 
took a seat and dug in hungrily. Perhaps it was the desert air, but shed never 
tasted eggs half as delicious. 
Heaven, Smithback mumbled, mouth full. 
It has a slightly unusual flavor, almost musky, Holroyd said, looking at the 
forkful in front of him. Ive never tasted anything like it before. 
Jimson weed? Swire asked, only half jokingly. 
I dont taste anything, Black said. 
No, I know what you mean, Smithback said. Its vaguely familiar. He took 
another bite, then set his fork down with a clatter. I know. At Il Mondo 
Vecchio on Fifty-third Street. I had a veal dish with this same flavor. He 
looked up. Black truffles? 
Bonarottis normally impassive eyes lit up at this, and he stared at Smithback 
with new respect. Not quite, he replied. The cook turned to his curio box, 
opened one of the countless drawers, and pulled out a dusky-colored lump, about 
the size of a tennis ball. It was flat along one side where it had been scraped 
by a knife. 
Angels and ministers of grace defend us, Smithback breathed. A white truffle. 
In the middle of the desert. 
Tuber magantum pico, Bonarotti said, placing it carefully back in the drawer. 
Smithback shook his head slowly. Youre looking at about a thousand dollars 
worth of fungus right there. If we dont find that huge stash of Indian gold, we 
can always raid the Cabinet of Doctor Bonarotti. 
You are welcome to try, my friend, Bonarotti said impassively, pulling open 
his jacket and patting a monstrous revolver snugged into a holster around his 
waist. 
There was a nervous laugh all around. 
As Nora returned to her breakfast, she thought she heard a noise: distant but 
growing louder. Looking around, she noticed the others heard it, too. The sound 
echoed around the canyon walls and she realized it was a plane. As she searched 
the empty blue sky, the noise increased dramatically and a float plane cleared 
the sandstone canyon rim, early morning sun glinting off its aluminum skin and 
bulbous pontoons. From upcanyon, the horses eyed it nervously. 
That guys awfully low, said Holroyd, staring upward. 
He aint just low, Swire said. Hes landing. 
They watched as the plane dipped, its wings waggling an aviational hello. It 
straightened its line, then touched down, sending up two fins of water in a 
flurry of spray. The engines revved as the plane coasted toward the tangle of 
logs. Nora nodded to Holroyd to take the raft out to meet them. Inside the 
cockpit, she could see the pilot and copilot, checking gauges, making notes on a 
hanging clipboard. At last the pilot climbed out, waved, and swung down onto one 
of the pontoons. 
Nora heard Smithback whistle softly beside her as the pilot took off a pair of 
goggles and a leather helmet, giving her short, straight black hair beneath a 
shake. Fly me, he said. 
Stow it, she snapped. 
The pilot was Sloane Goddard. 
Holroyd had reached the side of the plane by now, and Goddard began swinging 
duffels into the raft from the cargo area behind the planes seats. Then she 
slammed the hatch shut, slid down into the raft, and gave the copilot a sign. As 
Holroyd rowed back through the tangle of debris, the plane turned and began to 
taxi down the canyon, where it revved its engines and began its takeoff. Noras 
eyes moved from the vanishing plane back to the rapidly approaching figure. 
Sloane Goddard was sitting in the rear of the raft, talking to Holroyd. She wore 
a long aviators leather jacket, jeans, and narrow boots. Her hair was done in a 
classic short pageboy, almost decadent in its anachronism, that reminded Nora of 
a Fitzgerald-era flapper from a 1920s fashion magazine. The almond-shaped, 
brilliant amber eyes and sensuous mouth with its faint, sardonic curve lent an 
exotic touch to her features. She looked almost Noras age, perhaps in her mid- 
to late twenties. Nora realized, quite consciously, that she was looking at one 
of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. 
As the raft ground to a halt on the shore, Sloane leaped nimbly out and came 
walking briskly into camp. This wasnt the skinny sorority girl Nora had 
imagined. The woman approaching her had a voluptuous figure, yet whose movements 
hinted at quick, lithe strength. Her skin was tan and glowed with health, and 
she brushed back her hair with a gesture that was both innocent and seductive. 
Still grinning, the woman walked over to Nora, slipped off her glove, and 
extended her hand. The skin was soft, the grip was cool and strong. 
Nora Kelly, I presume? she said, eyes twinkling. 
Yes, Nora exhaled. And you must be Sloane Goddard. The belated Sloane 
Goddard. 
The grin widened. Sorry about the drama. Ill tell you about it later. Right 
now, Id like to meet the rest of your team. 
Noras alarm at this easy tone of command abated at the words your team. Sure 
thing, she said. Youve met Peter Holroyd. She indicated the image 
specialist, who was now bringing up the last of the womans gear, then turned 
toward Aragon. And this is 
Im Aaron Black, Black said out of turn, approaching the woman with an 
extended hand, his belly sucked in, his back straight. 
Sloanes grin widened. Of course you are. The famous geochronologist. Famous 
and feared. I remember your paper demolishing the Chingadera Cave dating at the 
last SAA meeting. I felt sorry for that poor archaeologist, Leblanc. I dont 
think hes been able to hold his head up since. 
At this reference to the destruction of another scientists reputation, Black 
swelled with visible pleasure. 
Sloane turned. And you must be Enrique Aragon. 
Aragon nodded, face still inscrutable. 
Ive heard my father speak very highly of your work. Think well find many 
human remains in the city? 
Unknown, came the reply. The burial grounds for Chaco Canyon have never been 
found, despite a century of searching. On the other hand, Mummy Cave yielded 
hundreds of burials. Either way, I will be analyzing the faunal remains. 
Excellent, Goddard nodded. 
Nora looked around, intending to complete the introductions and get underway as 
quickly as possible. To her surprise, Roscoe Swire had abruptly shuffled off and 
was busying himself with the horses. 
Roscoe Swire, right? Sloane called out, following Noras eyes. My fathers 
told me all about you, but I dont think weve ever met. 
No reason we should have, came the gruff answer. Im just a cowboy trying to 
keep a bunch of greenhorns from breaking their necks out here in slickrock 
country. 
Sloane let out a husky laugh. Well, I heard that youve never fallen off a 
horse. 
Any cowboy tells you that is a liar, said Swire. My butt and the ground are 
tolerably well acquainted, thank you. 
Sloanes eyes twinkled. Actually, my father said he could tell you were a real 
cowboy, because when you showed up for the interview you had real horseshit on 
your boots. 
Swire finally grinned, fishing a gingersnap out of his shirt. Well, now, he 
said, Ill accept that compliment. 
Nora waved toward the writer. And this is Bill Smithback. 
Smithback swept an exaggerated bow, cowlick jiggling frantically atop the brown 
mop of hair. 
The journalist, said Sloane, and Nora thought she heard a brief note of 
disapproval in Sloanes voice before the dazzling smile returned full-proof. My 
father mentioned hed be contacting you. Before Smithback could reply, Sloane 
had turned toward Bonarotti. And thank God youre along, Luigi. 
The cook nodded in return, saying nothing. 
How about breakfast? she asked. 
He turned to the grill. 
Im ravenous, Sloane added, accepting a steaming plate. 
Youve met Luigi before? Nora asked, sitting down beside Sloane. 
Yes, last year, when I was climbing the Cassin Ridge on Denali. He was 
operating the base camp kitchen for our group. While everybody else on the 
mountain was eating gorp and logan bread, we dined on duck and venison. I told 
my father he had to get Luigi for this expedition. Hes very, very good. 
Im very, very expensive, Bonarotti replied. 
Sloane tucked into the omelette with gusto. The others had instinctively drawn 
round again, and Nora wasnt surprised: the younger Goddard was not only 
beautiful butsitting there in the wilderness in her leather jacket and faded 
jeansshe radiated charisma, ironic good humor, and the kind of easy 
self-confidence that came with money and good breeding. Nora felt a mixture of 
relief and envy. She wondered what kind of impact this new development would 
have on her position as leader. Best to get things established right away, she 
thought. 
So, she began. Care to explain the dramatic entrance? 
Sloane looked at her with her lazy smile. Sorry about that, she said, putting 
aside the empty plate and leaning back, coat thrown open to expose a checked 
cotton shirt. I was delayed back at Princeton by a failing student. Ive never 
failed anybody, and I didnt want to start now. I worked with him until it 
became too late to mess with commercial airlines. 
You had us worried back there at the marina. 
Sloane sat up. You didnt get my message? 
No. 
I left it with somebody named Briggs. Said hed pass it along. 
Must have slipped his mind, said Nora. 
Sloanes grin widened. Its a busy place. Well, you did the right thing, 
leaving without me. 
Swire brought the horses back down the canyon from their grazing ground, and 
Nora went over to help with the saddling. To her surprise, Sloane followed 
behind and joined in, deftly saddling two horses to Swires three. They tied the 
horses to some brush as Swire started on the pack animals, throwing on the pads 
and sawbuck packsaddles, hooking on the panniers, carefully balancing the more 
awkward equipment, throwing a manty over each load and tying it down. As soon as 
each horse was packed they passed it to Sloane, who brought it upcanyon. 
Bonarotti was packing the last of the cooking gear, while Smithback was 
stretched out comfortably nearby, debating with the cook whether barnaise or 
bordelaise was the more noble sauce for medallions of beef. 
At last, Nora stood back from the final horse, breathing hard, and looked at her 
watch. It was just past eleven: still enough time for a decent ride, but short 
enough to help break in the greenhorns. She glanced at Swire. Want to give them 
their first lesson? 
Nows as good a time as any, he said, hitching up his pants and looking at the 
group. Who here knows anything about riding? 
Black began to raise his hand. 
I do, said Smithback instantly. 
Swire ranged his eyes across Smithback, his mustache drooping skeptically. That 
right? he said, spitting a stream of tobacco. 
Well, I did, anyway, the writer returned. Its like riding a bike; itll come 
back fast. 
Nora thought she saw Swire grin beneath his droopy mustache. Now the first 
thing is the introductions. 
There was a puzzled moment while Swire gazed around the group. These two horses 
are mine, the buckskin and the sorrel. Mestizo and Sweetgrass. Since Mr. 
Smithback heres an experienced rider, Im gonna give him Hurricane Deck to ride 
and Beetlebum to pack. 
There was a sudden guffaw from Black, with an uncomfortable silence from 
Smithback. 
Any special significance to the names? Smithback asked with exaggerated 
nonchalance. 
Nothing in particular, said Swire. Just a few habits they have, is all. You 
got a problem with those two fine horses? 
Oh, no, no way, said Smithback a little weakly, eyeing the big shaggy gray 
horse and its strawberry roan companion. 
Theyve only killed a few greenhorns, and they were all New Yorkers. We dont 
have any New Yorkers here, do we? 
Certainly not, Smithback said, pulling on the brim of his hat. 
Now for Dr. Black here, Ive got Locoweed and Hoosegow. For Nora, Ive got my 
best mare, Fiddlehead. Crow Bait will be your pack horse. Dont let the name 
fool you: he may be an ugly, coon-footed, ewe-necked, mule-hipped cayuse, but 
hell pack two hundred pounds from here to the gates of hell, no problem. 
Lets hope he doesnt have to go that far, Nora replied. 
Swire parceled out the horses according to ability and temperament, and soon 
everyone was holding a pair of horses by the halters and reins. Nora lofted 
herself into the saddle, Goddard and Aragon following her example. Nora could 
see from Sloanes lightly balanced seat that she was an expert horsewoman. The 
rest stood around, looking nervous. 
Swire turned to the group. Well, he said, whats taking you? Git on up! 
There was some grunting and nervous hopping, but soon everyone was sitting in 
the saddle, some slouched, some ramrod straight. Aragon was moving his horse 
around, backing him up, turning him on the forehand, another clearly experienced 
rider. 
Just dont make me unlearn any bad habits, Smithback said, sitting on 
Hurricane Deck. I like to steer with the saddlehorn. 
Swire ignored this. Lesson number one. Hold the reins in your left hand, and 
the pack-horse lead rope in your right. Its simple. 
Yeah, said Smithback, like driving two cars at once. 
Holroyd, sitting awkwardly on his horse, let out a nervous bray of laughter, 
then fell silent abruptly, glancing at Nora. 
How are you doing, Peter? Nora asked him. 
I prefer motorcycles, he said, shifting uncomfortably. 
Swire walked over first to Holroyd, then Black, correcting their postures and 
grips. Dont let the lead rope get wedged under your horses tail, he said to 
Black, who was letting his rope droop dangerously. Or you might find your horse 
with a sudden bellyful of bedsprings. 
Yes, yes, of course, Black said, hastily drawing in the slack. 
Nora plans to ride point, Swire said. Thats up front, for you dudes. Ill 
ride drag. And Dr. Goddard over there, shell ride swing. He leaned over and 
looked at Sloane. Whered you learn to ride? 
Here and there, Sloane smiled. 
Well, I guess youve done a bit of here-ing and thereing. 
Remind me how to steer, Black said, clutching the reins. 
First, give your horse some slack. Now move your reins back and forth, like 
this. The horse gets his cue when he feels one rein or the other touch his 
neck. He looked around. Any questions? 
There were none. The air had grown sullen in the late morning heat, smelling of 
sego lilies and cedar. 
Well, then, lets jingle our spurs. 
Nora put heels to her horse and rode forward, Holroyd and the rest falling into 
place behind her. 
Youve taken a reading? she asked Holroyd. 
He nodded and smiled at her, patting the laptop computer that peeped, wildly out 
of place, from one of his weathered saddlebags. Nora took a final look at her 
map. Then she nudged her horse forward and they headed into the sandstone 
wilderness. 
 

17
 
THEY MOVED UP SERPENTINE CANYON SINGLE file, crossing and recrossing the little 
creek that flowed in its bottom. On both sides of the canyon, windblown sand had 
piled up against the stone cliffs in drifts, covered with a scattering of grass 
and desert flowers. Here and there they passed juniper trees, stunted and coiled 
into fantastic shapes. Elsewhere, blocks of sandstone had come loose from the 
canyon walls and spilled across its bottom, creating piles of rubble the horses 
had to pick through with care. Canyon wrens flitted about in the shadows, and 
swallows darted out from beneath overhanging lips of sandstone, their mud nests 
like warts on the underside of the rock. A few white clouds drifted past the 
canyon rims, a quarter mile above their heads. The group followed silently 
behind Nora, lost in this strange new world. 
Nora inhaled deeply. The gentle rocking motion of Fiddlehead felt familiar and 
comforting. She glanced at the animal. She was a twelve-year-old sorrel, clearly 
an experienced dude horse, wise and melancholy. As they proceeded, she proved 
herself sure-footed in the rocks, putting her nose down and picking her way with 
the utmost attention to self-preservation. While she was far from handsome, she 
was strong and sensible. Except for Hurricane Deck, Sloanes horse Compaero, 
and Swires own two mounts, the horses were similar to Noras: not very pretty, 
but solid ranch stock. She approved of Swires judgment; her experience growing 
up had given her a low opinion of expensive, overbred horses who looked great in 
the show ring but couldnt wait to kill themselves in the mountains. She 
remembered her father buying and selling horses with his usual flair and 
bluster, turning away pampered animals, saying We dont want any of those 
country-club horses around here, do we, Nora? 
She twisted in the saddle to look back at the other riders trailing behind her, 
pack horses in tow. While some of the riders, notably Black and Holroyd, looked 
lumpy and unbalanced, the rest looked competent, particularly Sloane Goddard, 
who moved up and down the line with ease, checking cinches and giving 
suggestions. 
And Smithback was a surprise. Hurricane Deck was clearly a spirited horse, and 
there were a few tense moments at first while Smithbacks oaths and imprecations 
filled the air. But Smithback knew enough to show the horse who was boss, and he 
was now riding confidently. He may be full of himself, she thought, but he looks 
pretty good on a horse. 
Whered you learn to ride? she called back. 
I spent a couple of years at a prep school in Arizona, the writer answered. I 
was a sickly, whining brat of a kid, and my parents thought it would make a man 
of me. I arrived late the first term, and all the horses were taken except this 
one big old guy named Turpin. Hed chewed on barbed wire at some point and torn 
his tongue, and it was always hanging out, this long pink disgusting thing. So 
nobody wanted him. But Turpin was the fastest horse at the school. Wed race 
down the dry creekbeds or bush-bend through the desert, and Turpin always won. 
He shook his head at the memory, chuckling. 
Suddenly, the smile on his face was replaced with a look of shock. What the 
hell? He spun around. Following his gaze, Nora saw Smithbacks pack horse, 
Beetlebum, dart back. A rope of saliva was dripping off Smithbacks leg. 
That damn horse just tried to bite me! Smithback roared, full of indignation. 
The pack horse looked back, his face a picture of surprised innocence. 
That old Beetlebum, said Swire, shaking his head affectionately. Hes sure 
got a sense of humor. 
Smithback wiped his leg. So I see. 
After another half hour of uneventful riding Nora brought the group to a halt. 
From an aluminum tube tied to her saddle, she removed the U.S.G.S. topo onto 
which Holroyd had superimposed the radar data. She examined it for a moment, 
then motioned him over. 
Time for a GPS reading, she said. She knew that six miles up Serpentine Canyon 
they had to branch off into a smaller canyon, marked HARD TWIST on the map. The 
trick would be identifying which of the endless parade of side canyons they were 
passing was Hard Twist. Down on the canyon bottom, every bend looked the same. 
Holroyd dug into his saddlebag and pulled out the GPS unit, a laptop into which 
he had downloaded all the navigation and waypoint data. While Nora waited, he 
booted the computer, then began to tap at the keyboard. After a few minutes he 
grimaced, then shook his head. 
I was afraid of that, he said. 
Nora frowned. Dont tell me it isnt powerful enough. 
Holroyd laughed crookedly. Powerful? It uses a twenty-four-channel GPS reader 
with an infrared remote. It can plot positions, geocode locations automatically, 
leave breadcrumb trails, everything. 
Then whats the problem? Broken already? 
Not broken, just unable to get a fix. It has to locate at least three 
geostationary satellites simultaneously to get a reading. With these high canyon 
walls, it cant even pick up one. See? 
He turned the laptop toward Nora, and she nudged her horse closer. A 
high-resolution overhead map of the Kaiparowits canyon system filled the screen. 
Atop lay smaller windows containing magnified charts of Lake Powell, real-time 
compasses, and data. In one window, she could see a series of messages: 
  NMEA MODE ENABLED
  ACQUIRING SATELLITES . . .
  SATELLITES ACQUIRED SO FAR: 0
  3-D FIX UNAVAILABLE
  LAT/LONG: N/A
  ELEVATION: N/A
  EPHEMERIS DATA UNAVAILABLE
  RELOCATE UNIT AND REINITIALIZE
See this? Holroyd pointed to a small window on the screen in which various red 
dots orbited in circular tracks. Those are the available satellites. Green 
means good reception, yellow means poor reception, and red means no reception. 
Theyre all red. 
Are we lost already? called Black from behind, a note somewhere between 
apprehension and satisfaction in his voice. Nora ignored him. 
If you want a reading, Holroyd said to Nora, youll have to go up top. 
Nora glanced at the soaring red walls, streaked with desert varnish, and looked 
back at Holroyd. You first. 
Holroyd grinned, powered-down the laptop, and returned it to his saddlebag. 
This is a great unit when it works. But I guess way out here, even technology 
has its limits. 
Want me to climb up and take the reading? Sloane asked, riding forward with an 
easy smile. 
Nora looked at her curiously. 
I brought some gear, Sloane said, lifting the top of a saddlebag and 
displaying a gear sling loaded with carabiners, friends, nuts, and pitons. She 
gave the rock walls a calculating look. I could make it in three pitches, maybe 
two. Doesnt look too bad, I could probably free climb my way up. 
Lets save that for when we really need it, Nora said. Id rather not take 
the time right now. Lets do things the old-fashioned way instead. Dead 
reckoning. 
Its your gig, Sloane said good-humoredly. 
Dead reckoning, Smithback murmured. Never did like the sound of that. 
We may not have satellites, Nora said. But weve got maps. Spreading 
Holroyds map across her saddlehorn, she stared at it closely, estimating their 
approximate speed and travel time. She marked a dot at their probable position, 
the date and time beside it. 
Done a lot of this before? Holroyd asked at her side. 
Nora nodded. All archaeologists have to be good at reading maps. Its hell 
finding some of the remoter ruins. And what makes it harder is this. She 
pointed to a note in the corner of the map that read WARNING: DATA NOT 
FIELD-CHECKED. Most of these maps are created from stereogrammatic images taken 
from the air. Sometimes what you see from a plane is a lot different from what 
you see on foot. As you can see, your radar imagewhich is absolutely 
accuratedoesnt always correspond to whats printed on the map. 
Reassuring, she heard Black mutter. 
Replacing the map, Nora nudged her horse forward and they continued up the 
canyon. The walls broadened and the stream diminished, in some places even 
disappearing for a while, leaving only a damp stretch of sand to mark its 
underground course. Each time they passed a narrow side canyon, Nora would stop 
and mark it on the map. Sloane rode up beside her, and for a while they rode 
together. 
Airplane pilot, Nora said, expert horsewoman, archaeologist, rock climberis 
there anything you dont do? 
Sloane shifted slightly in her seat. I dont do windows, she said with a 
laugh. Then her face became more serious. I guess the creditor the blamegoes 
to my father. Hes a man with exacting standards. 
Hes quite a remarkable man, Nora replied, hearing a slightly acerbic tone 
creeping into Sloanes voice. 
Sloane glanced back at her. Yes. 
They rounded another bend and the canyon suddenly widened. A cluster of 
cottonwoods grew against the reddish walls, late afternoon sunlight slanting 
through their leaves. Nora glanced at her watch: just after four. She noted with 
satisfaction a broad sandy bench where they could camp, high enough to be beyond 
the reach of any unexpected flash flood. And along the banks of the creek were 
abundant new grass for the horses. True to its name, Hard Twist canyon veered 
off to the left, making such a sharp turn that it gave the illusion of 
dead-ending in a wall of stone. It looked uglychoked with rocks, dry and hot. 
So far the trip had been an easy ride, but Nora knew that could not last. 
She turned her horse and waited while the others straggled up. Well camp 
here, she called out. 
The group gave a ragged cheer. Swire helped Black off his horse, and the 
scientist limped around a bit, shaking out his legs and complaining. Holroyd 
dismounted by himself, only to fall immediately to the ground. Nora helped him 
to a tree he could lean against until he got his legs back. 
I dont like the look of that canyon, Sloane said, coming over to Nora. What 
if I scout up a ways? 
Nora looked at the younger Goddard. Her dark pageboy had been tousled by the 
wind, but the disarray only enhanced her beauty, and the golden desert light 
made her amber eyes as pale as a cats. During the day Nora had noticed several 
of the company, particularly Black, clandestinely admiring Sloane, whose tight 
cotton shirt, unbuttoned at the top and slightly damp with perspiration, left 
little to the imagination. 
Nora nodded. Good idea. Ill take care of things here in the meantime. 
After assigning the camp chores, Nora helped Swire unpack and unsaddle the 
horses. They lined up the panniers, saddles, and gear on the sand, taking care 
to keep the high-tech equipment, in its waterproof drysacks, separate from the 
rest. Out of the corner of her eye, Nora noticed Bonarotti, armed with brush 
hook, digging trowel, buck knife, and his oversized pistol, marching off 
upcanyon on some mysterious errand, khakis still miraculously pressed and clean. 

As soon as the horses were unpacked, Swire remounted Mestizo. During the ride, 
he had talked and sung to the horses constantly, making up verses to fit the 
small events of the day, and he sang another as Nora watched him drive the 
sweaty remuda toward the creek: 
  O my poor young gelding 
  Do you see yonder mare? 
  Such a lovely young filly
  One cannot compare. 
  Too bad your equipment 
  Is in disrepair. 
Once in the grass, he hobbled several of the lead horses and tied cowbells 
around their necks, then unsaddled Mestizo and staked him on a thirty-foot rope. 
At last, he placed himself on top of a rock, rolled a smoke, pulled out a greasy 
little notebook, and watched the horses settle down to their evening graze. 
Nora turned back, surveying the camp with satisfaction. The heat of the day had 
abated, and a cool breeze rose up from the purling stream. Doves called back and 
forth across the canyon, and the faint smell of juniper smoke drifted past. 
Crickets trilled in the gathering twilight. Nora sat down on a tumbled rock, 
knowing that she should be using the last of the light to write in her journal, 
but savoring the moment instead. Black sat by the juniperwood fire, massaging 
his knees, while the others, the work of setting up camp done, were gathering 
around, waiting for a pot of coffee to boil. 
There was the sound of footsteps crunching on sand and Bonarotti came swinging 
back down the canyon, a sack thrown over his back. He dropped the sack on the 
cook tarp spread out by the fire. He slapped a grill on the fire, oiled a large 
skillet, tossed in some minced garlic from his cabinet, and followed this with 
rice in a separate pot of water. Out of the sack tumbled some hideous, 
unidentifiable roots and bulbs, bundles of herbs, and several ears of prickly 
pear cactus. As he worked, Sloane came back into camp from her reconnaissance, 
clearly tired but still smiling, and sidled over to watch the final 
preparations. Working the knives with terrifying swiftness, Bonarotti diced up 
the roots and threw them into the pot, along with the bulb and a bundle of 
plants. Then he singed the cactus ears on the grill, skinned and julienned them, 
and threw them into the sizzling garlic. He gave the concoction a final stir, 
combined it with the rice, and removed it from the fire. 
Risotto with prickly pear, sego lily, wild potato, bolitas, and romano cheese, 
he announced impassively. 
There was a silence. 
What are you waiting for? Sloane cried. Line up and mangia bene! 
They jumped up, grabbing plates from the kitchen tarp. The cook loaded down each 
plate, sprinkling chopped herbs on top. They settled back on logs by the fire. 
Is this safe to eat? Black asked, only half jokingly. 
Sloane laughed. It may be more dangerous for you, Doctor, if you do not eat 
it. And she rolled her eyes melodramatically toward Bonarottis revolver. 
Black gave a nervous laugh and tasted it. Then he took a second bite. Why, this 
is quite good, he said, filling his mouth. 
Angels and ministers of grace defend us, intoned Smithback. 
Damn tasty chuck, mumbled Swire. 
Nora took a bite, and found her mouth filled with the creamy taste of arborio 
rice mingled with the delicate flavors of mushroom, cheese, savory herbs, and 
some indefinable tangy flavor that could only be the prickly pear. 
Bonarotti accepted the praise with his usual lack of emotion. The canyon fell 
into silence while the serious business of eating began. 
* * *
Later, as the expedition made ready for bed, Nora walked off to check on the 
horses. She found Swire in his usual position, notebook open. 
How is everything? she asked. 
Mighty fine came the answer, and then she heard a rustle as Swire removed a 
gingersnap from his breast pocket and inserted it into his face. There was a 
crunching sound. Want one? 
Nora shook her head and sat down beside him. What kind of a notebook are you 
keeping? she asked. 
Swire flicked some crumbs off his mustache. Just some poems, is all. Cowboy 
doggerel. Its a sideline of mine. 
Really? May I see? 
Swire hesitated. Well, he said, theyre supposed to be spoken, not read. But 
here, help yourself. 
Nora thumbed through the battered journal, peering closely in the mixture of 
firelight and starlight. There were bits and snatches of poems, usually no more 
than ten or twelve lines, with titles like Workin up a Quit, Ford F-350, 
Durango Saturday Night. Then, toward the back of the journal, she found poems 
of a completely different nature: longer, more serious. There was even a poem 
that appeared to be in Latin. She turned back to one called Hurricane Deck. 
Is this about Smithbacks horse? 
Swire nodded. We go way back, that horse and me. 
  He came tearing down the draw one stormy winters night, 
  A brush-tailed mustang, full of piss and fight. 
  I saddled up a chaser and laid a rope around his neck, 
  Corralled him and christened him Hurricane Deck. 

  Hurricane Deck, Hurricane Deck, hard on the eye and the saddle, 
  You whomper-jawed, hay-bellied, cold-backed old spraddle, 
  Only a blind mare could love your snip-nosed face, 
  Oh, but I tell you, Hurricane Deck could race. 
  I trained him for heeling, took him on the road, 
  At Amarillo and Santa Fe we won a load, 
  He served me well, from Salinas to Solitude, 
  But Hurricanes been retired to loading up dudes. 
I need to work on the last stanza, said Swire. It dont sound right. Ends 
kind of sudden. 
Did you really catch him wild? Nora asked. 
Sure did. One summer when I was running a pack string at the T-Cross up in 
Dubois, Wyoming, I heard talk about this buckskin mustang that nobody could 
catch. He was an outlaw, never branded, always broke for the mountains when he 
saw riders. Then that night I saw him. Lightning spooked him, sent him right 
past the bunkhouse. I chased that son of a bitch for three days. 
Three days? 
I kept cutting him off from the mountains, circling him back around past the 
ranch. Each time I picked up a fresh mount. I wore out six horses afore I got a 
rope on him. Hes some horse. The son of a bitch can jump a barbwire fence and 
Ive seen him walk, just as nice as you please, across a cattle guard. 
Nora handed back the journal. I think these are excellent. 
Aw, horsehocky, Swire said, but he looked pleased. 
Whered you learn the Latin? 
From my father, came the answer. He was a minister, always after me to read 
this and study that. Got it into his head that if I knew Latin, I wouldnt raise 
so much hell. It was the Third Satire of Horace that finally made me light out 
of there. 
He fell silent, stroking his mustache, looking down toward the cook. Hes a 
damn fine beanmaster, but hes an odd son of a bitch, aint he? 
Nora followed his gaze to the tall, heavyset figure of Bonarotti. Postprandial 
ablutions completed, the cook was now preparing himself for bed. Nora watched 
as, with finicky care, Bonarotti inflated an air mattress, applied nocturnal 
facial creams, and readied what appeared to be a hairnet and a facial mask. 
Whats he doing now? Swire muttered, as Bonarotti began working his fingers 
into his ears. 
The croaking of the frogs disturbs his rest, Sloane Goddard said, emerging 
from the darkness and taking a seat beside them. She laughed her low, husky 
laugh, eyes reflecting the distant firelight. So he brought along earplugs. And 
hes got a little silk pillow that would turn my great aunt green with envy. 
Odd son of a bitch, Swire repeated. 
Maybe, Sloane said, turning toward the wrangler and eyeing him up and down, 
one eyebrow raised. But hes no wimp. Ive seen him on Denali in a blizzard 
with the temperature at sixty below. Nothing fazes him. Its as if he has no 
feelings at all. 
Nora watched the cook slip gingerly into his tent and snug down the zipper. Then 
she turned back to Sloane. So tell me about your recon. How is it upcanyon? 
Not so good. A lot of dense willow and salt cedar brush, with plenty of loose 
rock. 
How far did you go? 
A mile and a half, maybe. 
Can the horses make it? Swire asked. 
Yes. But were going to need brush hooks and axes. And there isnt much water. 
Sloane glanced down at the remnants of the group, lounging around the fire 
drinking coffee. Some of them are going to be unpleasantly surprised. 
How much water? 
A pothole here and there. Less as you go up. And thats not all. Sloane 
reached into a pocket and pulled out a map and a penlight. Ive been studying 
the topo. Your father found Quivira somewhere upcanyon, right? 
Nora frowned, unaware that Sloane had brought along maps of her own. Thats 
about right. 
And were here. Sloane moved the penlight. Look whats between us and 
Quivira. 
She moved the penlight to a spot on the map where the elevation lines came 
together in an angry black mass: a ridge, high, difficult, and dangerous. 
I know all about that ridge, Nora said, aware of how defensive she must sound. 
My father called it the Devils Backbone. But I dont see any reason to get 
everyone worried prematurely. 
Sloane snapped off the light and refolded the map. What makes you think our 
horses can make it? 
My father found a way to get his horses over that ridge. If he could do it, we 
can. 
Sloane looked back at her in the starlight; a long, penetrating look, the amused 
expression never leaving her face. Then she simply nodded. 
 

18
 
THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER A BREAKFAST ONLY a little less miraculous than its 
predecessor, Nora assembled the group beside the packed horses. 
Its going to be a tough day, she said. Were probably going to be doing a 
lot of walking. 
Walking sounds good to me, Holroyd said. Im sore in places I didnt know I 
had. There was an assenting murmur. 
Can I have a different pack horse? Smithback asked, leaning against a rock. 
Swire ejected a stream of tobacco juice. Got a problem? 
Yeah. A horse-sized problem. Beetlebum over there keeps trying to bite me. 
The horse tossed its head in a mighty nod, then nickered evilly. 
Likes the taste of ham, I guess, said Swire. 
Thats Mr. Prosciutto to you, pal. 
Hes just kidding around. If he really wanted to bite, youd know it. Like I 
said, hes got a sense of humor, just like you. Swire glanced at Nora. 
Despite herself, Nora found the writers discomfiture covertly satisfying. 
Roscoes right, Id rather not make any changes unless we have to. Lets give 
it another day. She climbed into the saddle, then gave the signal to mount up. 
Sloane and I will go first and pick out a trail. Roscoe will bring up the 
rear. 
They moved forward into the dry streambed, the horses pushing through the dense 
brush. Hard Twist Canyon was hot and close, with none of the charm of the 
previous days ride. One side of the canyon lay in deep purple shadow, while the 
other was etched in sunlight, a contrast almost painful to the eyes. Salt cedars 
and willows arched over their heads, creating a hot tunnel in which ugly, 
oversized horseflies droned. 
The brush grew thicker, and Nora and Sloane dismounted to hack a path. It was 
hot, miserable work. Making things worse, they found only a few stagnant 
potholes of water that did not keep up with the horses thirst. The riders 
seemed to bear up well enough, except for Blacks sarcastic protest when told 
they would have to ration water for a while. Nora wondered how Black would react 
when they reached the Devils Backbone, somewhere in the wasteland ahead of 
them. His personality was beginning to seem a high price to pay for his 
expertise. 
At last they came across a large muddy pool, hidden on the far side of a 
rockslide. The horses crowded forward. In the excitement, Holroyd dropped the 
lead rope of Charlie Taylor, his pack horse, who eagerly bounded forward into 
the muddy pool. 
Swire turned at the sound. Wait! he called, but it was too late. 
There was a sudden, terrifying pause as the horse realized it was bogging down 
in quicksand. Then, in an explosion of flexing muscle, the animal tried to back 
out, legs churning, spraying thick mud, whinnying in shrill fear. After a few 
moments it flopped back into the muck, sides shuddering in panic. 
Without hesitating, Swire jumped down into the muck beside the horse, drew his 
knife, and with two deft strokes cut through the diamond hitch. As Nora watched, 
two hundred pounds worth of provisions slid off the horses back into the mud. 
Swire grabbed the lead rope and pulled the horses head to the side, 
simultaneously quirting him on the rump. With a great sucking noise the horse 
struggled free. Swire labored out of the mud himself, dragging the pack behind 
him. Resheathing his knife, he collected the shaking animals lead rope and 
wordlessly handed it to Holroyd. 
Sorry, said the young man sheepishly, throwing a deeply embarrassed glance at 
Nora. 
Swire stuffed a plug of tobacco into his already full cheek. No problem. Coulda 
happened to anyone. 
Both Swire and the pack were liberally covered in vile-smelling muck. Maybe 
this is a good time to stop for lunch, Nora said. 
After a quick meal, with the horses watered and the canteens full of purified 
water, they set out again. The growing heat had baked the canyon into a kind of 
oppressive somnolence, and all was quiet save for the clatter of horses hooves 
and the occasional muttered imprecations from Smithback to his pack horse. 
Goddammit, Elmer, he finally cried, get your hairy lips off me! 
He likes you, Swire said. And his names Beetlebum. 
Soon as we get back to civilization, its going to be Elmer, Smithback said. 
Im going to personally escort this nag to the nearest glue factory. 
Now dont go hurtin his feelings, Swire drawled, punctuating the sentence 
with a spit of tobacco juice. 
Their route branched again into an unnamed canyon. Here, the walls were narrower 
and well scoured by flash floods, but there was less brush and the riding grew a 
little easier. At one broad bend, where the canyon temporarily widened, Nora 
reined in her horse and waited for Sloane to catch up. Looking around idly, she 
suddenly tensed, pointing toward a cutbank on the inside of the bend where flash 
floods had sliced through the old streambed. 
See that? she asked, indicating a long thin swale of stained soil beside what 
looked like a linear arrangement of stones. 
Charcoal, Sloane nodded as she rode up. 
They dismounted and examined the layer. Her breath coming fast with excitement, 
Nora picked up some tiny fragments of charcoal with a pair of tweezers and 
placed them in a test tube. Just like the Great North Road to Chaco, she 
murmured. 
Then she straightened up and looked at Sloane. I think weve finally found it. 
The road my father was following. 
Sloane smiled. Never doubted it. 
They moved on. Now, wherever the canyon took a sharp bend and the old floor was 
exposed as a bench high above the stream, they could see charcoal-stained ground 
and, infrequently, lines of stones. Time and again, Nora found herself picturing 
her father: riding along this same trail, seeing these same sights. It gave her 
a feeling of connection she hadnt felt since he died. 
Around three oclock they stopped to rest the horses, taking refuge under an 
overhang. 
Hey, look, Holroyd said, pointing to a large green plant growing out of the 
sand, covered with huge, funnel-shaped white flowers. Datura meteloides. Its 
roots are saturated with atropinethe same poison in belladonna. 
Dont let Bonarotti see it, Smithback said. 
Some Indian tribes eat the roots to induce visions, said Nora. 
Along with permanent brain damage, replied Holroyd. 
As they sat with their backs to the rock, eating handfuls of dried fruits and 
nuts, Sloane retrieved her binoculars and began scanning a series of alcoves in 
a blind canyon opposite them. 
After a minute she turned to Nora. I thought so. Theres a small cliff dwelling 
up there. First one Ive seen since we started out. 
Taking the binoculars, Nora peered at the small ruin, perched high on the cliff 
face. It was set into a shallow alcove, oriented to the south in the Anasazi 
way, ensuring shade in the summer and warmth in the winter. She could see a low 
retaining wall along the bottom of the alcove, with what looked like several 
rooms built in the rear and a circular granary to one side. 
Let me see, Holroyd said. He gazed at the ruin, motionless. Incredible, he 
breathed at last. 
Theres thousands of little ruins like that in the Utah canyon country, Nora 
said. 
How did they live? Holroyd asked, still peering up with the binoculars. 
They probably farmed the canyon bottomcorn, squash, and beans. They hunted and 
gathered plants. Id guess it housed a single extended family. 
I cant believe they raised kids up there, Holroyd said. You have to be 
pretty brave to live in a cliff face like that. 
Or nervous, said Nora. Theres a lot of controversy over why the Anasazi 
suddenly abandoned their pueblos on the flats and retreated into those 
inaccessible cliff dwellings. Some say it was for defense. 
Looks like a no-brainer to me, Smithback said, grabbing the binoculars from 
Holroyd. Whod live up there if they didnt have to? No elevators, and Pizza 
Hut sure as hell doesnt deliver. 
Nora looked at him. What makes it strange is that theres no overt evidence of 
warfare or invasion. All we really know is that the Anasazi suddenly retreated 
to these cliff sites, stayed there for a while, and then abandoned the Four 
Corners area entirely. Some archaeologists think it was caused by a total social 
breakdown. 
Sloane had been scanning the cliffs with a shaded hand. Now she took the 
binoculars from Smithback and examined the rock more carefully. I think I can 
see a way up, she said. If you climb that talus slope, theres a hand-and-toe 
trail pecked up the slickrock which goes all the way to the ledge. From there 
you can edge over. She lowered the binoculars and looked at Nora, amber eyes 
lit up with mild excitement. Do we have time to try it? 
Nora glanced at her watch. They were already hopelessly behind scheduleone more 
hour wouldnt matter, and they did have an obligation to survey as many ruins as 
they could. Besides, it might revive some flagging spirits. She gazed up at the 
little ruin, feeling her own curiosity aroused. There was always the chance her 
father had explored this ruin, maybe even left his scrawled initials on a 
rockface to record his presence. All right, she said, reaching for her camera. 
It doesnt look technical. 
Id like to go, too, said Holroyd excitedly. I did some rock climbing in 
college. 
Nora looked at the flushed, eager face. Why not? 
Im sure Mr. Swire would be happy to give the horses an extra rest. Nora 
looked at the group. Anybody else want to come? 
Black gave a short laugh. No thanks, he said. I value my life. 
Aragon glanced up from his notebook and shook his head. Bonarotti had gone off 
to gather mushrooms. Smithback pushed away from the rock wall and stretched 
luxuriously. Guess Id better tag along with you, Madame Chairman, he said. 
It wouldnt do to have you find an Anasazi Rosetta stone while I was loafing 
around down here. 
They crossed the stream, scrambled over boulders and up the talus slope, loose 
rocks clattering behind them. The sandstone ahead sloped upward at a 
forty-five-degree angle, notched with a series of eroded dimples set into the 
rock. 
Thats the hand-and-toe trail. Nora pointed. The Anasazi pounded them out 
with quartzite hammerstones. 
Ill go first, said Sloane. To Noras surprise she shot nimbly upward, limbs 
tawny in the sunlight, hands and feet finding the holds with the instinctive 
assurance of a veteran rock climber. Come on up! she said a minute later, 
kneeling on the ledge above their heads. Holroyd followed. Then Nora watched 
Smithback creep cautiously up the slickrock face, gangly limbs clutching at the 
narrow holds, his face covered with sweat. Something about him made her smile. 
She waited until he had safely completed the climb, then brought up the rear 
herself. 
In a few moments they were all sitting on the ledge, catching their breath. Nora 
looked at the camp spread out below their feet, the horses grazing along an 
apron of sand, the humans looking like splotches of color resting against the 
red cliffs. 
Sloane rose. Ready? 
Go for it, said Nora. 
They crept along the narrow ledge. It was about two feet wide, but the bottom 
was canted slightly and scattered with fragments of sandstone, which rattled off 
into space as they inched along. After a short distance the ledge broadened out, 
curved around a corner, and the ruin came into view. 
Nora made a quick visual inspection. The alcove was perhaps fifty feet long, ten 
feet high at its highest point, and about fifteen feet deep. A low masonry 
retaining wall had been built at the lip of the alcove and filled with rubble, 
leveling the surface. Behind were four small roomblocks of flat stones mortared 
with mud; one with a keyhole door, the rest with tiny windows. The builders had 
used the natural sandstone roof of the alcove as their ceiling. 
Nora turned to Holroyd and Smithback. I think Sloane and I should make an 
initial survey. You wouldnt mind waiting here for a few minutes? 
Only if you promise not to find anything, Smithback replied. 
Nora unbuckled the hood of her camera and walked gingerly along the facade, 
photographing the exterior of the dwelling. Although Sloanes expertise with the 
large 4x5 Graflex made her the expeditions official photographer, Nora liked to 
keep her own record of all the sites she studied. 
She stopped to peer more closely at the plastered wall. Here, she could see the 
actual handprints of the person who had smeared the adobe. Raising her camera 
again, she took a careful closeup, then another when she noticed a clear set of 
fingerprints. It was not unusual to find prints preserved in Anasazi plaster and 
corrugated pottery, but she always liked to document them when she could. They 
helped serve as a reminder that archaeology was the study, ultimately, of 
people, not artifactssomething she felt many of her colleagues seemed to 
forget. 
There was the usual littering of potsherds on the groundmostly Pueblo III Mesa 
Verde whiteware and some late Tusayan-style corrugated grayware. A.D. 1240, Nora 
thought without surprise. 
Sloane, who had been sketching a quick plan of the ruin, now removed a pair of 
tweezers and some Ziploc bags from her rucksack. Labeling the bags with a 
marker, she moved carefully forward, picking up a sampling of potsherds and some 
scattered corncobs with the tweezers. She placed them in the bags, then marked 
their positions in her sketchbook. She worked quickly and deftly, and Nora 
watched with growing surprise. Sloane seemed to know exactly what to do. In 
fact, she worked as if she had been on many professional surveys before. 
Reaching into her bag again, Sloane pulled out a small, battery-powered chrome 
instrument and moved to a viga that projected from one of the roomblocks. There 
was a small whining sound, and Nora realized she was taking a core from the 
roofbeam for tree-ring dating. By studying the growth pattern of the rings, a 
specialist in dendrochronology such as Black could tell the exact year the tree 
was cut. As the whining ended abruptly and silence returned, Nora felt a sudden 
annoyance at this mechanized disturbance of the siteor, perhaps, with the fact 
that Sloane had done it so blithely, without her permission. She instinctively 
moved forward. 
Looking over, Sloane read her face in an instant. This all right? she asked, 
raising her dark eyebrows inquiringly. 
Next time, lets discuss something like this first. 
Sorry, Sloane said, in a tone even more annoying for its apparent lack of 
sincerity. I just thought it might be useful 
It will be useful, Nora said, trying to moderate her voice. Thats not the 
point. 
Sloane glanced at her more closely, a cool, appraising glance that bordered on 
insolence. Then the lazy grin returned. I promise, she said. 
Nora turned and moved to the doorway. She realized her irritation was partly 
based on a vague, irrational threat she felt to her leadership. She hadnt 
realized Sloane was so experienced in fieldwork, spoiling Noras earlier 
assumption that she would be leading Goddards daughter through the basics. She 
immediately felt sorry for showing her feelings; she had to admit that the 
pencil-thin core probably contained the most useful piece of information they 
would take from the ancient ruin. 
She shined a penlight inside the first roomblock and found the interior 
relatively well preserved. The walls were plastered, still showing traces of 
painted decoration. She angled the beam toward the floor, covered with sand and 
dust that had blown in over the centuries. In one corner she could see the edge 
of a metatea grinding stoneprotruding from the dirt, beside a broken mano. 
Opening her flash, she took another sequence of pictures in the room and the one 
beyond, which was exceptionally dusty andvery unusuallyseemed at one time to 
have been painted with thick, heavy black paint. Or perhaps it was from cooking. 
Moving through a low doorway, she advanced into the third room. It, too, was 
empty, save for a hearth with several firedogs still propping up a comal, or 
polished cooking stone. The sandstone ceiling was blackened with crusted smoke, 
and she could still smell the faint odor of charcoal. A series of holes in the 
plaster wall might have been the anchor for a loom. 
Moving back through the rooms, Nora leaned out into the sudden warmth of the sun 
and beckoned the waiting Holroyd and Smithback. They followed her into the 
roomblock, stooping through the low doorways. 
This is incredible, Holroyd said in a reverential whisper. Ive never seen 
anything like it. I still cant believe people lived up here. 
Neither can I, said Smithback. No cable. 
Theres nothing like the feeling of one of these ancient ruins, Nora replied. 
Even an unremarkable one like this. 
Unremarkable to you, maybe, Holroyd said. 
Nora looked at him. Youve never been in an Anasazi ruin before? 
Holroyd shook his head as they stepped into the second room. Only Mesa Verde, 
as a kid. But Ive read all the books. Wetherill, Bandelier, you name it. As an 
adult, I never had the time or money to travel. 
Well call it Petes Ruin, then. 
Holroyd flushed deeply. Really? 
Sure, said Nora, with a grin. Were the Institute: we can name it anything we 
want. 
Holroyd looked at her a long moment, eyes gleaming. Then he took her hand and 
pressed it briefly between his. Nora smiled and gently withdrew her hand. Maybe 
that wasnt such a good idea, she thought. 
Sloane came from the back of the ruin, shouldering her rucksack. 
Find anything? Nora asked, taking a swig from her canteen and offering it 
around. She knew that most rock art was found behind cliff dwellings. 
Sloane nodded. A dozen or so pictographs. Including three reversed spirals. 
Nora looked up in surprise to meet the womans glance. 
Holroyd caught the look. What? he asked. 
Nora sighed. Its just that, in Anasazi iconography, the counterclockwise 
direction is usually associated with negative supernatural forces. Clockwise or 
sunwise was considered to be the direction of travel of the sun across the 
sky. Counterclockwise was therefore considered a perversion of nature, a 
reversal of the normal balance. 
A perversion of nature? Smithback asked with sudden interest. 
Yes. In some Indian cultures today, the reversed spiral is still associated 
with witchcraft and sorcery. 
And I found this, Sloane said, lifting one hand. In it she held a small, 
broken, human skull. 
Nora turned, uncomprehending at first, and Sloanes grin widened lazily. 
Where did you find that? Nora asked sharply. 
Sloanes smile did not falter. Back there, next to the granary. 
And you just picked it up? 
Why not? Sloane asked, her eyes narrowing. The slight movement reminded Nora 
of a cat when threatened. 
For one thing, Nora snapped, we dont disturb human remains unless its 
absolutely critical for our research. And youve touched it, which means we 
cant do bone collagen DNA on it. Worst of all, you didnt even photograph it in 
situ. 
All I did was pick it up, Sloane said, her voice suddenly low. 
I thought I made it clear we were to discuss these things first. 
There was a tense silence. Then Nora heard a scratching sound behind her and she 
glanced at Smithback. What the hell are you doing? she demanded. The 
journalist had his notebook out and was scribbling away. 
Taking notes, he said defensively, pulling the notebook toward his chest. 
Youre writing down our discussion? Nora cried. 
Hey, why not? Smithback said. I mean, the human dramas as much a part of 
this expedition as 
Holroyd advanced and snatched the notebook away. This was a private 
conversation, he said, ripping out the page and handing the notebook back. 
Thats censorship, Smithback protested. 
Suddenly Nora heard a low, throaty purr that swelled into a mellifluous laugh. 
She turned to see Sloane still holding up the skull, looking at the three of 
them, amusement glittering in her amber eyes. 
Nora took a breath and ignored the laugh. Dont lose your cool. Now that its 
been disturbed, she said in a quiet voice, well bring it back for Aragon to 
analyze. Being a ZST type, he may object, but the deeds been done. Sloane, I 
dont want you ever doing any invasive procedures without my express permission. 
Is that understood? 
Understood, said Sloane, looking suddenly contrite as she handed the skull to 
Nora. I wasnt thinking. The excitement of the moment, I guess. 
Nora slipped the skull into a sample bag and tucked it in her pack. It seemed to 
her there had been something challenging in the way Sloane had come forward 
holding the skull, and Nora momentarily wondered if it hadnt been a deliberate 
provocation. After all, it was clear that Sloane was well versed in the protocol 
of fieldwork. But then she told herself she was being paranoid. Nora remembered 
infelicitously seizing a gorgeous Folsom point she once uncovered at a dig, 
pulling it out of the stratum, and then seeing the horrified looks of everyone 
around her. 
Whats a ZST? the unrepentant Smithback asked. Some kind of birth control? 
Nora shook her head. It stands for Zero Site Trauma. The idea that an 
archaeological site should never be physically disturbed. People like Aragon 
believe any intrusion, no matter how careful or subtle, destroys it for future 
archaeologists who might come along with more sophisticated tools. They tend to 
work with artifacts that have already been excavated by others. 
ZST groupies consider traditional archaeologists to be artifact whores, digging 
for relics instead of reconstructing cultures, Sloane added. 
If Aragon feels that way, why did he come along? Holroyd asked. 
Hes not a total purist. I suppose that on a project as potentially important 
as this, hes willing to put his personal feelings aside to some extent. I think 
he feels that if anyone is going to touch Quivira, it should be him. Nora 
looked around. What do you make of these walls? she asked Sloane. Its not 
soot, its some kind of thick dried substance, like paint. But Ive never seen 
an Anasazi room painted black before. 
Beats me, Sloane replied. She removed a small glass tube and a dentists pick 
from her pack. Then she glanced with a quick smile at Nora. May I take a 
sample? she paused. Madame Chairman? 
Its not funny when Smithback calls me that, Nora thought. And its even less 
funny coming from you. But she nodded wordlessly, watching as Sloane expertly 
flaked a few pieces into the glass test tube and stoppered it. 
The sun was now low in the sky, painting long contrasting stripes along the 
ancient walls. Lets get back, Nora said. As they turned to walk out on the 
ledge, Nora glanced back at the reverse spirals on the wall behind the ruin. She 
shivered briefly in spite of the heat. 
 

19
 
THEY WERE FORCED TO MAKE A DRY CAMP that night. The horses were thirsty and off 
their feed, and by sundown the expedition had made serious inroads into their 
own supplies of water. Aragon received the skull with the wordless disapproval 
that Nora had expected. They turned in early, saddle sore and weary, and slept 
hard. 
Shortly after starting out the following morning, they arrived at a triple 
intersection of narrow canyons. Despite careful examination, Nora and Sloane 
could find no more traces of the ancient road here; it was either buried or had 
washed away. The GPS laptop was still not functioning, and Holroyds map was of 
little help: at this point of the journey, the underlying topographical 
elevations on the map were ludicrously off. The radar data became a confusing 
maze of color. 
Nor could Nora find any sign that her father had ever come this way. In the 
tradition of Frank Wetherill and the other early explorers, Nora knew her father 
sometimes marked his trail by scratching his initials and a date into the rock. 
Yet, to her mounting anxiety, she had yet to see any graffiti by him or anyone 
else, save the occasional petroglyphs of the long-vanished Anasazi. 
For the rest of the day, the group toiled up through a warren of fractured 
canyons, moving deeper into a surreal world that seemed more a landscape of 
dream than anything of the earth. The mute stone halls spoke of eons of fury: 
uplift and erosion, floods, earthquakes, and the endless scouring of the wind. 
At every turn, Nora realized her dead reckoning grew more difficult and prone to 
error. Each fall of the horses hooves took them farther from civilization, from 
the comfortable and the known, deeper into an alien landscape of mystery. Cliff 
dwellings became more numerous, tucked slyly into the canyon walls, remote and 
inaccessible. Nora had the irrational feeling, as she stopped for the tenth time 
to pore over the map, that they were intruding onto forbidden ground. 
By evening they were so exhausted that dinner was a cold, silent, impromptu 
affair. The lack of water had compelled Nora to institute severe rationing. 
Bonarotti, forced to cook with no water and dirty dishes, grew sullen. 
After dinner, the group gravitated apathetically toward the campfire. Swire 
joined them after giving the horses a final check. 
He sat down beside Nora and spat. Come morning, these horses wont have had 
decent water for thirty-six hours. Dont know how much longer they can last. 
Frankly, I couldnt give a damn about the horses, Black said from across the 
fire. Im wondering when were going to die of thirst. 
Swire turned to him, his face flickering in the light. Maybe you dont realize 
it, but if the horses die, we die. It aint any more complicated than that. 
Nora glanced in Blacks direction. In the firelight his face was haggard, a look 
of incipient panic in his eyes. 
Is everything all right, Aaron? she asked. 
You said we were going to reach Quivira tomorrow, he said huskily. 
That was only an estimate. Its taking longer than I anticipated. 
Bullshit. Black sniffed. Ive been watching you all afternoon, struggling 
with those maps and trying to get that useless GPS unit to work. I think were 
lost. 
No, Nora replied. I dont believe were lost. 
Black leaned back, his voice growing louder. Is that supposed to be 
encouraging? And wheres this road? We saw it yesterday. Maybe. But now its 
vanished. 
Nora had seen this kind of reaction to the wilderness before. It was never 
pleasant. All I can say is well get there, probably tomorrow, certainly by the 
next day. 
Probably! he repeated derisively, slapping his hands on his knees. Probably! 

In the flickering light, Nora looked around at the rest of the group. Everyone 
was filthy from the lack of water and badly scratched from heavy brush. Only 
Sloane, sifting sand thoughtfully through her fingers, and Aragon, wearing his 
usual distant expression, appeared unconcerned. Holroyd was staring into the 
campfire, for once without a book at his side. Smithbacks hair was wilder than 
ever, his bony knees covered with dirt. Earlier in the afternoon he had 
complained, eloquently and at great length, about how if God had meant man to 
ride a horse he would have put a Barcalounger on the animals back. Even the 
fact that the apathetic Beetlebum had stopped trying to bite him had been little 
comfort. 
It was a desperate-looking group, and it was hard to believe that the change had 
taken place in less than forty-eight hours of difficult travel. Jesus, Nora 
thought, if they look like that, what must I look like? 
I understand how concerned you all are, she said slowly. Im doing the best I 
can. If any of you have any constructive ideas, Id like to hear them. 
The answer is to keep going, said Aragon with a quiet vehemence. And to stop 
complaining. Twentieth-century humans are unused to any real physical challenge. 
The people who lived in these canyons dealt with this kind of thirst and heat 
every day, without complaint. He cast his dark, sardonic eyes around the group. 

Oh, now I feel better, said Black. And here I thought I was suffering from 
thirst. 
Aragon turned his dark eyes on Black. You are suffering more from an 
undifferentiated personality disorder than from thirst, Dr. Black. 
Black turned to look at him, speechless with rage. Then he stood up on trembling 
limbs and made his way silently toward his tent. 
Nora watched him walk away. What was happening here? What seemed so simple on 
paperthe Anasazi road, the descriptions in her fathers letterhad grown 
hopelessly complicated on the ground. It would only get worse: tomorrow 
afternoon, if her navigation was correct, they would hit the Devils Backbone, 
the massive hogback ridge that separated their canyon system from the even more 
remote and isolated system in which Quivira was hidden. On the map, it looked 
impassable. Yet her father had ridden over it. He must have. Why didnt he leave 
any signs behind? But as she asked the question, she realized the answer: he 
wanted to keep the location of Quivira a secret known only to himself. For the 
first time, she understood the vagueness in his letter had been deliberate. 
The group began to break up, leaving Smithback restlessly dozing and Aragon 
gazing thoughtfully into the fire. Nora felt movement nearby, then Sloane sat 
down beside her. 
This campsite isnt all bad, she said. Look what I just uncovered. 
Nora glanced down in the direction Sloane indicated. There, lying half-buried in 
sand, was a perfect arrowhead, pressure-flaked out of a snow-white agate flecked 
with pinpoints of red. 
Nora picked it up with great care, examining it closely in the light of the 
fire. Amazing, isnt it, how much they loved beauty? They always chose the 
loveliest materials for their stone tools. Thats Lobo Mesa agate, from an 
outcrop in New Mexico about three hundred miles southeast of here. Think of how 
far they were willing to trade to get the really nice stuff. 
She handed it to Sloane, who was looking at her curiously. Thats quite a nice 
piece of identification, she said with real admiration. She took the point and 
carefully laid it back in the dust. Maybe it should lie here, after all. 
Aragon smiled. It is always more fulfilling, he said, to leave something in 
its natural place than to lock it in a museum basement. All three fell silent, 
staring into the dying flames. 
Im glad you spoke up like that, Nora said at last to Aragon. 
Perhaps I should have done it long before. There was a pause. What do you 
plan to do about him? 
Black? Nora thought. Nothing, for the moment. 
Aragon nodded. Ive known him for a long while, and hes always been full of 
himself. With good reasontheres no better geochronologist in the country. But 
this is a side I hadnt seen before. I think its fear. Some people fall apart 
psychologically when removed from civilization, from telephones, hospitals, 
cars, electric power. 
I was thinking the same thing, Nora said. If thats the case, once weve made 
camp and set up communications with the outside world, hell calm down. 
I think so. But then again, he might not. 
There was another silence. 
So? Sloane prompted at last. 
So what? 
Are we lost? she asked gently. 
Nora sighed. I dont know. Guess well find out tomorrow. 
Aragon grunted. If this is indeed an Anasazi road, its unlike any other Ive 
encountered. Its as if the Anasazi wanted to eradicate any trace of its 
existence. He shook his head. I sense a darkness, a malignancy, about this 
road. 
Nora looked at him. Why do you say that? 
Silently, the Mexican reached into the pack and removed the test tube containing 
the flakes of black paint, cradling it in his palm. I performed a PBT with 
luminol on one of these samples, he said quietly. It came up positive. 
Ive never heard of that test, Nora said. 
Its a simple test used by forensic anthropologists. And police. It identifies 
the presence of human blood. He gazed at her, his dark eyes in shadow. That 
wasnt paint you saw. It was human blood. But not just blood: layers upon layers 
upon layers of crusted, dried blood. 
My God, Nora said. The passage from the Coronado report came back to her 
unbidden: Quivira in their language means The House of the Bloody Cliff. 
Perhaps bloody cliff was not merely symbolic, after all . . . 
Aragon removed a small padded bag and carefully pulled out the small skull they 
had discovered at Petes Ruin. He handed it to Nora. After I discovered that, I 
decided to take a closer look at the skull you found. I reassembled the pieces 
in my tent last night. It belongs to a young girl, maybe nine or ten years old. 
Definitely Anasazi: you can see how the back of the skull was flattened by a 
hard cradleboard when the child was a baby. He turned it over carefully in his 
hands. At first, I thought she had died an accidental death, perhaps hit by a 
falling stone. But when I looked more closely, I noticed these. He pointed to a 
series of grooves on the back of the skull, near the center. These were made 
with a flint knife. 
No, Sloane whispered. 
Oh, yes. This little girl was scalped. 
 

20
 
SKIP KELLY SAUNTERED DOWN A SHADED WALKWAY of the Institutes manicured campus, 
rubbing bleary eyes. It was a breathtaking summer morning, warm and dry and full 
of promise. The sun threw a silken illumination over building and lawn, and a 
warbler was sitting in a lilac bush, pouring out its heart in rapturous song. 
Shut the hell up, Skip growled. The bird complied. 
Ahead of him lay a long, low Pueblo Revival structure, clothed in the same 
subdued earth tones as the rest of the Institutes campus. A small wooden sign 
was set into the ground before it, ARTIFACTUAL ASSEMBLAGES spelled out in sans 
serif bronze letters. Skip opened the door and walked inside. 
The door closed behind him with a squeal of metal, and he winced. Christ, what a 
headache. His mouth was parched and tasted of mildew and old socks, and he dug a 
piece of chewing gum out of his pocket. Oh, man. Better switch to beer. It was 
the same thing he thought every morning. 
He looked around, grateful for the dim illumination. He was in a small 
antechamber, bare of furnishings save for two display cases and an 
uncomfortable-looking wooden bench. Doors led off in all directions, most of 
them unmarked. 
Another squeal of metal on frame, and one of the far doors opened. A woman 
stepped out and approached him. Skip looked at her without interest. 
Mid-thirties, tall, short dark hair, round oversized glasses, and a corduroy 
skirt. 
The woman extended her hand. You must be Skip Kelly. Im Sonya Rowling, senior 
lab technician. 
Nice outfit, he replied, shaking the proffered hand. Dressed up for the Brady 
Bunch reunion, he thought. Nora, Ill get you for this. 
If the woman heard the compliment, she gave no sign. We expected you an hour 
ago. 
Sorry about that, Skip mumbled in reply. Overslept. 
Follow me. The woman turned on her heel and walked back through the doorway. 
Skip followed her down a passage and around a corner into a large room. Unlike 
the antechamber, the space was filled with equipment: long metal tables, covered 
with tools, plastic trays, and printouts; desks piled high with books and 
three-ring binders. The walls were hidden by row upon row of metal drawers, all 
closed. In the corner nearest the door, a young man was standing in front of a 
keyboard, talking animatedly on the phone. 
As you can see, this is where the real work gets done, the woman said. She 
waved at a relatively empty desk. Have a seat and well get you started. 
Gingerly, Skip eased himself down beside Sonya Rowling. God, am I hung, he 
muttered. 
Rowling turned her owlish eyes toward his. I beg your pardon? 
Hung. Hung over, I mean, Skip added hastily. 
I see. Perhaps that explains your lateness. Im sure it wont happen again. 
Something in Rowlings gaze made Skip sit up a little straighter. 
Your sister says you have a natural talent for labwork. Thats what I intend to 
find out in the next couple of weeks. Well start you off slowly, see what you 
can do. Have you had much field experience? 
Nothing formal. 
Good. Then you wont have any bad habits to unlearn. When Skip raised his 
eyebrows, she explained. The public thinks fieldwork is the be-all and end-all 
of archaeology. But the truth is for every hour spent at the field, five are 
spent in the lab. And thats where most of the important discoveries are made. 
She reached over and pulled a long metal tray with a hinged top toward them. 
Lifting the lid, Rowling reached inside and carefully removed four oversized 
Baggies. Each had the words PONDEROSA DRAW scribbled hastily across the top in 
black marker. Skip could see that many more sealed Baggies lay in the dim 
recesses of the tray. 
Whats all this? Skip asked. 
Ponderosa Draw was a remarkable site in northeastern Arizona, Rowling replied. 
Note I say was, not is. For reasons we dont fully understand, potsherds of 
many different styles were found there, scattered in apparent confusion. Perhaps 
the place was some kind of trading center. In any case, the owner of the land 
was an amateur archaeologist with more enthusiasm than sense. Over three summers 
in the early twenties he dug the whole site and collected every last sherd he 
could find. Scoured the site clean, above and below the surface. She gestured 
at the bags. Only problem was, he tossed all his finds together in a single 
pile, paying no attention to location, strata, anything. The entire provenance 
of the site was lost. The sherds were eventually given to the Museum of Indian 
Antiquities, but were never examined. We inherited them when we acquired the 
museums collection three years ago. 
Skip stared at the bags, frowning. I thought I was going to work on Noras Rio 
Puerco stuff. 
Rowling pursed her lips. The Rio Puerco dig was a model of archaeological 
discipline. Material was carefully gathered and recorded with a minimum of 
on-site intrusion. We stand to learn a great deal from your sisters finds. 
Whereas this . . . She gestured at the bags, letting the sentence drop. 
I get the picture, Skip said, his scowl deepening. This site is broken 
already. Theres nothing I can do to make it worse. And youre going to make me 
cut my teeth on it. 
Rowlings pursed lips curved into what might have been the shadow of a smile. 
You catch on fast, Mr. Kelly. 
Skip stared at the bags for a long moment. So I guess these are just the tip of 
the iceberg. 
Another good guess. There are twenty-five more bags in storage. 
Shit. And what do I have to do, exactly? 
Its very straightforward. Since we know nothing at all about where these 
potsherds were found, or their position relative to each other, all we can do is 
sort them by style and type and do a statistical analysis on the results. 
Skip licked his lips. This was going to be worse than he ever imagined. Could I 
get a cup of coffee before we start? 
Nope. No food or drink allowed in the lab. Tomorrow, come early and help 
yourself to coffee in the staff lounge. And that reminds me. She pointed a 
thumb at the nearest wastebasket. 
What? 
Your gum. In there, please. 
Cant I just stick it under the desk? 
Rowling shook her head, unamused. Skip leaned over and spat out his gum. 
Rowling passed over a box of disposable gloves. Now put these on. She tugged 
on a pair herself, then placed one of the artifact bags between them and 
unsealed it carefully. Skip peered inside, curious despite himself. The sherds 
came in a variety of patterns and colors. Some were badly weathered, others 
still quite fresh. A few were corrugated and blackened with cooking smoke. Many 
were too small to clearly determine what kind of designs had been painted on 
them, but some were large enough to make out motifs: wavy lines, series of 
diamonds, parallel zig-zags. Skip remembered collecting similar sherds with his 
father. Back when he was a kid, it had been okay to do that. Not anymore. 
The lab technician removed a sherd from the bag. This is Cortez 
black-on-white. She laid it gingerly on the table and her fingers moved back 
into the bag and withdrew another sherd. And this is Kayenta black-on-white. 
Take a careful note of the differences. 
She put the sherds into two clear plastic containers, then drew another sherd 
from the bag. Whats this? 
Skip scrutinized it. It looks like the first one you drew out. Cortez. 
Correct. Rowling put the sherd into the first plastic bin, then drew out 
another sherd. And this one? 
Its the other. Kayenta. 
Very good. Rowling placed the sherd into the other bin, then drew out a fifth 
sample from the bag. And how about this? There was a slightly sardonic 
expression on Rowlings face, a faint challenge. It looked almost like the 
second sherd, but not quite. Skip opened his mouth to say Kayenta, then closed 
it again. He stared, reaching deep into his memory. 
Chuska Wide Banded? he asked. 
There was a sudden pause, and for a moment Rowlings face lost its assurance. 
How in the world? 
My father liked potsherds, said Skip, a little diffidently. 
Thats going to help us a lot, she said, her voice warming. Maybe Nora was 
right. Anyway, youll find all sorts of good things in here: Cibola ware, St. 
Johns Polychrome, Mogollon Brownware, McElmo. But see for yourself. She 
reached across the table and pulled over a laminated sheet. This shows you 
samples of the two dozen or so styles youre likely to find from the Ponderosa 
Draw site. Separate them by style, and put any questionable sherds to one side. 
Ill come back and check on your progress in an hour or so. 
Skip watched her leave, then sighed deeply and turned his attention to the 
overstuffed Baggie. At first, the work seemed both boring and confusing, and the 
heap of questionable sherds began to pile up. But then, almost imperceptibly, he 
grew more sure in his identification: it was instinctive, almost, the way the 
shape, condition, even composition of the sherds could speak as loudly as the 
design itself. Memories of long afternoons spent with his father, pacing over 
some ruin in the middle of nowhere, came back with a bittersweet tang. And then, 
back at the house, poring over monographs, sorting and gluing the sherds onto 
pieces of cardboard. He wondered what had become of all their painstaking 
collections. 
The lab was quiet except for the occasional keytaps of the young technician in 
the far corner. Skip started when he felt a hand on his shoulder. 
So? Rowling asked him. Hows it going? 
Has it been an hour? Skip asked. He sat up and looked at his watch. The 
headache was gone. 
Just about. She peered into the bins. Good heavens, youve worked your way 
through two bags already. 
Does that make me teachers pet? Skip asked, massaging his neck. In the 
distance, he heard a rap at the laboratory door. 
Let me look over your work first, see how many mistakes youve made, Rowling 
replied. 
Abruptly, a high, tremulous voice rang out on the far side of the room: Skip 
Kelly? Is there a Skip Kelly here? 
Skip glanced up. It was the young technician, looking very nervous. And easing 
past him, Skip could see the source of his nervousness: a large man in a blue 
uniform. The man walked partway toward Skip, the gun, baton, and handcuffs on 
his belt clinking slightly, then stopped. He hooked his hands in his belt with a 
slight smile. The room had fallen silent. 
Skip Kelly? he asked in a low, calm baritone. 
Yes, said Skip, going cold, his mind racing through a dozen possibilities, all 
of them unpleasant. That asshole neighbor must have complained. Or maybe its 
that woman with the dachshund. Christ, I only ran over its back leg, and 
Could I speak with you outside, please? 
In the solemn darkness of the anteroom, the man flipped open an ID wallet and 
aimed it in Skips direction. Im Lieutenant Detective Al Martinez, Santa Fe 
Police Department. 
Skip nodded. 
Youre a hard man to reach, Martinez said in a voice that managed to be both 
friendly and neutral at the same time. I wonder if I could have a bit of your 
time. 
My time? Skip managed to say. Why? 
Well get to that at the station, Mr. Kelly, if you dont mind. 
The station, Skip repeated. When? 
Lets see, said Martinez, glancing first at the floor, then at the ceiling, 
then back at Skip. Right about now would be nice. 
Skip swallowed. Then he nodded toward the open laboratory door. Im at work 
right now. Cant it wait until later? 
There was a brief pause. No, Mr. Kelly, the policeman replied. Come to think 
of it, I dont believe it can. 
 

21
 
SKIP FOLLOWED THE POLICEMAN OUT OF THE building to a waiting car. The detective 
was enormous, with a neck like a redwood stump; yet his movements were light, 
even gentle. Martinez stopped at the passenger side and, to Skips surprise, 
held the door open for him. As the car pulled away, Skip glanced in the rearview 
mirror. He could see a pair of white faces framed by the open door of the 
Artifactual Assemblages building, watching motionlessly, dwindling at last to 
invisibility. 
My first day on the job, Skip said. Great impression. 
They pulled through the gates of the compound and began to accelerate. Martinez 
slipped a stick of gum out of his breast pocket and offered it to Skip. 
No thanks. 
The detective folded the stick into his own mouth and began to chew, muscles in 
his jaw and neck working slowly. The irregular form of the La Fonda Hotel loomed 
on his right. Then they passed the plaza and the Palace of the Governors, 
Indians selling jewelry under the portal, the sunlight glinting off the polished 
silver and turquoise. 
Am I going to need a lawyer? Skip asked. 
Martinez chewed his gum diligently. I dont think so, he said, Course, 
youre welcome to one if you want. 
The car moved past the library and pulled around behind the old police building. 
Several Dumpsters sat in front, filled with broken pieces of drywall. 
Renovating, Martinez explained as they entered a lobby draped in plastic. The 
lieutenant stopped at a desk and took a folder offered by a uniformed woman. He 
led Skip along a hallway smelling of paint, down a flight of stairs. Opening a 
scratched door, he ushered Skip in. Beyond lay a bare room, devoid of furniture 
except for three wooden chairs, a desk, and a dark mirror. 
Skip had never been in such a place before, but hed seen enough television to 
instantly recognize its purpose. This looks like some kind of interrogation 
room, he said. 
It is. Martinez took a seat with a protest of wood. He laid the folder on the 
table and offered Skip a chair. Then he pointed to the ceiling. Skip glanced up 
to see a lens, pointed almost insolently at him. Were going to videotape you. 
Okay? 
Do I have a choice? 
Yes. If you say no, the interview will be over, and youll be free to go. 
Great, said Skip, starting to get up. 
Of course, then wed have to subpoena you, and youd spend money on that 
lawyer. Right now, youre not a suspect. So why dont you just relax and answer 
a few questions? If at any time you want a lawyer or want to terminate the 
interview, you can. How does that sound? 
Did you say suspect? Skip asked. 
Yes. Martinez looked at him with uninformative black eyes. Skip realized the 
man was waiting for an answer. 
Okay, he said, sighing mightily. Roll em. 
Martinez nodded to someone behind the one-way glass, then turned back to Skip. 
Please state your name, address, and birthdate. They rapidly went through the 
preliminaries. Then Martinez asked: 
Are you the owner of an abandoned ranch house beyond Fox Run, address Rural 
Route Sixteen, Box Twelve, Santa Fe, New Mexico? 
Yes. My sister and I own it together. 
And your sister is Nora Waterford Kelly? 
Thats right. 
And what are the whereabouts of your sister at the moment? 
Shes on an archaeological expedition to Utah. 
Martinez nodded. When did she leave? 
Three days ago. She wont be back for a couple of weeks, at least. Once again, 
Skip began to stand. Does this have to do with her? 
Martinez make a suppressing motion with one palm. Your parents are both 
deceased, correct? 
Skip nodded. 
And you are currently employed at the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute. 
I was until you showed up. 
Martinez smiled. And how long have you been employed by the Institute? 
I told you in the car. This was my first day. 
Martinez nodded again, more slowly this time. And prior to today, where were 
you employed? 
Ive been job hunting. 
I see. And when were you last employed? 
Never. Not since I graduated from college last year, anyway. 
Do you know a Teresa Gonzales? 
Skip licked his lips. Yeah. I know Teresa. She was our neighbor out at the 
ranch. 
When did you last see Teresa? 
God, I dont know. Ten months ago, maybe eleven. Shortly after I graduated. 
How about your sister? When did she last see Ms. Gonzales? 
Skip shifted in his chair. Lets see. A couple of days ago, I think. She helped 
Nora out at the ranch. 
You mean Nora, your sister? Martinez asked. Helped her how? 
Skip hesitated. She was attacked, he said slowly. 
Martinezs neck muscles stopped working for a moment. Care to tell me about 
it? 
Teresa used to call my sister when she heard noises at the old place. Vandals, 
kids, that kind of stuff. Lately theres been a lot of messing around over 
there; shes called my sister several times. Nora went over about a week ago. 
Said she was attacked. Teresa heard the racket, came over with a shotgun, scared 
them off. 
Did she say anything more? A description of the attackers? 
Nora said . . . Skip thought for a moment. Nora said it was two people. Two 
people, dressed up as animals. He decided not to mention the letter. Whatever 
was going on here didnt need any more complications. 
Why didnt she come to us? Martinez asked at last. 
Cant say for sure. Going to the police really isnt her style. She always 
wants to do everything for herself. I think she was concerned it might delay her 
expedition. 
Martinez seemed to ponder something. Mr. Kelly, he began again. Can you 
account for your whereabouts over the last forty-eight hours? 
Skip stopped short. Then he sat back, took a deep breath. Except for showing up 
at the Institute this morning, I was at my apartment all weekend. 
Martinez consulted a piece of paper. 2113 Calle de Sebastian, number two-B? 
Yes. 
And did you see anybody during that time? 
Skip swallowed. Larry, at Eldorado Liquors, saw me Saturday afternoon. My 
sister phoned me late Saturday night. 
Anybody else? 
Well, my neighbor called me three or four times. 
Your neighbor? 
Yeah. Reg Freiburg, in the apartment next door. Doesnt like loud music. 
Martinez sat back, running his fingers through his close-cropped black hair. He 
stayed silent for what seemed like a long time. At last he sat forward. Mr. 
Kelly, Teresa Gonzales was found dead last night at your ranch house. 
Suddenly, Skips body felt strangely heavy. Teresa? 
Martinez nodded. Every Sunday afternoon, she gets a delivery of feed for the 
farm animals. Last Sunday, she didnt answer the door. The man noticed the 
animals hadnt been fed, and that her dog was locked in the house. When she 
still didnt answer the next morning, he got worried and called us. 
Oh, my God. Skip shook his head. Teresa. I cant believe it. 
The lieutenant shifted in his chair, eyes on Skip. When we went out there, we 
found her bed unmade, clothes set out. The dog was terrified. It looked like 
something had gotten her up in the middle of the night. But there was no sign of 
her on the property, so we decided to visit the neighboring ranches. Your place 
was our first stop. He took a slow breath. We saw movement inside. Turned out 
to be dogs, fighting over something. He stopped, pursed his lips. 
But Skip barely heard this. He was thinking of Teresa, trying to remember the 
last time hed seen her. He and Nora had gone out to the house to pick up a few 
things to decorate her apartment. Teresa had been outside in her yard, seen 
them, and waved her enthusiastic wave. He could see her still, jogging down the 
path to their house, brown careless hair flapping and dancing in the breeze. 
Then his eyes fell upon the single folder lying in the center of the desk. 
GONZALES, T. was written along one side. The glossy edge of a black-and-white 
picture peeked from beneath one corner of the folder. Automatically, he reached 
out for it. 
I wouldnt, Martinez said. But he made no move to stop him. Skip lifted the 
edge, exposing the photograph; then froze in horror. 
Teresa was lying on her back, one leg across the other, left hand thrown up as 
if to catch an errant football. At least, Skip thought it was Teresa, because he 
recognized the room as their old kitchen: his mothers ancient stove stood in 
the top right-hand corner of the picture. 
Teresa herself was less recognizable. Her mouth was open, but the cheeks were 
missing. Through gaps in the ruined flesh, teeth fillings gleamed hollowly in 
the light of the cameras flash. Even in the black-and-white photograph, Skip 
saw that the skin was an unnatural mottled shade. Several parts of Teresa were 
missing: fingers, a breast, the meaty part of a thigh. Small black marks and 
ragged lines dotted her body: evidence of unhurried sampling by animals 
approaching satiation. Where Teresas throat had once been was now just 
emptiness, a ruined cage of bone and gristle, surrounded by ragged flesh. 
Congealed blood ran away in a horrific river toward a long hole in the scarred 
floorboards. Pattering away from the river of blood were countless small marks 
Skip realized were paw prints. 
Dogs, Martinez said, gently removing Skips hand and closing the folder. 
Skips mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Im sorry? he croaked. 
Stray dogs had been working on her body for a day or so. 
Was she killed by dogs? 
We thought so at first. Her throat had been torn out with a large bite and 
there were claw and bite marks over the body. But the coroners initial 
examination found definitive evidence that it was a homicide. 
Skip looked at him. What kind of evidence? 
Martinez rose with an easy affability that seemed incongruous with his words. 
An unusual kind of mutilation to the fingers and toes, among other things. 
Well know a lot more when the autopsy is completed this afternoon. Meantime, 
please do three things for me. Keep this to yourself. Dont go near the 
farmhouse. And most important of all: stay where we can find you. 
He ushered Skip out of the room and down the hall without another word. 
 

22
 
AT BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING, THE expedition was uncharacteristically silent. 
Nora felt a mood of doubt. All too clearly, Blacks comments from the night 
before had made their mark. 
They proceeded northwest, up a harsh, brutal canyon destitute of vegetation. 
Even at the early hour, heat was rising from the split rocks, making them look 
airy and insubstantial. The unwatered horses were irritable and difficult to 
control. 
As they continued, the canyon system grew increasingly complex, branching and 
rebranching into a twisted maze. It continued to be impossible to get a GPS 
reading from the canyon floor, and the cliffs were so sheer that Sloane could 
not have climbed to the top to take a reading without putting herself in danger. 
Nora found she was spending as much time consulting the map as traveling. 
Several times they were forced to backtrack out of a blind canyon; other times, 
the expedition had to wait while Nora and Sloane scouted ahead to find a route. 
Black was uncharacteristically silent, his face sick with a combination of fear 
and anger. 
Nora struggled with her own doubts. Had her father really gone this far? Had 
they taken a wrong turn somewhere? A few swales and scatterings of charcoal were 
visible here and there, but so faint and infrequent as to be background noise; 
they could easily be the result of wildfires. There was a new thought now she 
barely dared to consider: what if her father had been delirious when he wrote 
the letter? It seemed impossible for anyone to have successfully navigated this 
labyrinth. 
At other times, she thought about the broken skull and dried blood, and what it 
could possibly mean. In her mind, Petes Ruin had changed from an unremarkable 
set of roomblocks to a dark, unnerving little mystery. 
By midmorning, the canyon had ended in a sudden puzzle of hoodoo rocks. They 
squeezed through an opening and topped out in a broken valley, peppered with 
scrub junipers. As she went over the rise, Nora glanced to the right. She could 
see the Kaiparowits Plateau as a high, dark line against the horizon. 
Then she faced forward, and the vista she saw both horrified and elated her. 
On the far side of the valley, raked by the morning sun, rose what could only be 
the Devils Backbone: the hogback ridge she had been anticipating and dreading 
since they first set out. It was a giant, irregular fin of sandstone at least a 
thousand feet high and many miles long, pocked with vesicles and windblown 
holes, riven with vertical fractures and slots. The top was notched like a 
dinosaurs back. It was hideous in its beauty. 
Nora led the group over to the shade of a large rock, where they dismounted. She 
stepped aside with Swire. 
Lets see if we can scout a trail up it first, Nora said. It looks pretty 
tough. 
For a moment, Swire didnt answer. From here, I wouldnt exactly call it 
tough, he said. Id call it impossible. 
My father made it over with his two horses. 
So you said. Swire spat a thin stream of tobacco juice. Then again, this 
aint the only ridge around here. 
Its a fault-block cuesta, said Black, who had been listening. It outcrops 
for at least a hundred miles. Your fathers so-called ridge could be anywhere 
along there. 
This is the right one, Nora said a little more slowly, trying to keep the tone 
of doubt out of her voice. 
Swire shook his head and began to roll a smoke. Ill tell you one thing. I want 
to see the trail with my own eyes before I take any horses up it. 
Fair enough, Nora replied. Lets go find it. Sloane, keep an eye on things 
until we get back. 
Sure thing, came the contralto drawl. 
The two hiked north along the base of the ridge, looking for a notch or break in 
the smooth rock that might signal the beginnings of a trail. After half a mile, 
they came across some shallow caves. Nora noticed that several had ancient 
smudges of black smoke on their ceilings. 
Anasazi lived here, she said. 
Pretty miserable little caves. 
These were probably temporary dwellings, Nora replied. Perhaps they farmed 
these canyon bottoms. 
Mustve been farming cholla, Swire muttered laconically. 
As they continued northward, the dry creek split into several tributaries, 
separated by jumbled piles of stone and small outcrops. It was a weird 
landscape, unfinished, as if God had simply given up trying to impose order on 
the unruly rocks. 
Suddenly, Nora parted some salt cedars and stopped dead. Swire came up, 
breathing hard. 
Look at this, she breathed. 
A series of petroglyphs had been pecked through the desert varnish that streaked 
the cliff face, exposing lighter rock underneath. Nora knelt, examining the 
drawings more closely. They were complex and beautiful: a mountain lion; a 
curious pattern of dots with a small foot; a star inside the moon inside the 
sun; and a detailed image of Kokopelli, the humpbacked flute player, believed to 
be the god of fertility. As usual, Kokopelli sported an enormous erection. The 
panel ended with another complicated grid of dots overlain by a huge spiral, 
which Nora noted was also reversed, like the ones Sloane had seen at Petes 
Ruin. 
Swire grunted. Wish I had his problem, he said, nodding at Kokopelli. 
No you dont, Nora replied. One Pueblo Indian story claims it was fifty feet 
long. 
They pushed a little farther through the cedars and stumbled on a well-hidden 
ravine: a crevasse filled with loose rock that slanted diagonally across the 
sandstone monolith. It was steep and narrow, and it rose up the dizzying face 
and disappeared. The trail had a raised lip of rock along its outer edge that 
had the uncanny effect of causing most of it to disappear into the smooth 
sandstone from only several paces off. 
Ive never seen anything so well hidden, Nora said. This has to be our 
trail. 
Hope not. 
She started up the narrow crevasse, Swire behind her, scrambling over the rocks 
that filled its bottom. About halfway up it ended in a badly eroded path cut 
diagonally into the naked sandstone. It was less than three feet wide, one side 
a sheer face of rock, the other dropping off into terrifying blue space. As Nora 
stepped near the edge, some pebbles dislodged by her foot rolled down the rock 
and off the edge, sailing down; Nora listened but could not hear their eventual 
landing. She knelt. This is definitely an ancient trail, she said, as she 
examined eroded cut marks made by prehistoric quartzite tools. 
It sure wasnt built for horses, Swire said. 
The Anasazi didnt have horses. 
We do, came the curt reply. 
They moved carefully forward. In places, the cut path had peeled away from the 
sloping cliff face, forcing them to take a harrowing step across vacant space. 
At one of these places Nora glanced down and saw a tumble of rocks more than 
five hundred feet beneath her. She felt a surge of vertigo and hastily stepped 
across. 
The grade gradually lessened, and in twenty minutes they were at the top. A dead 
juniper, its branches scorched by lightning, marked the point where the trail 
topped the ridge. The ridge itself was narrow, perhaps twenty feet across, and 
in another moment Nora had walked to the far edge. 
She looked down the other side into a deep, lush riddle of canyons and washes 
that merged into an open valley. The trail, much gentler here, switchbacked down 
into the gloom below them. 
For a moment, she could not speak. Slowly, the sun was invading the hidden 
recesses as it rose toward noon, penetrating the deep holes, chasing the 
darkness from the purple rocks. 
Its so green, she finally said. All those cottonwoods, and grass for the 
horses. Look, theres a stream! At this, she felt the muscles in her throat 
constrict voluntarily. Shed almost forgotten her thirst in the excitement. 
Swire didnt reply. 
From their vantage point, Nora took in the lay of the landscape ahead. The 
Devils Backbone ran diagonally to the northeast, disappearing around the 
Kaiparowits Plateau. A vast complex of canyons started on the flanks of the 
Kaiparowits wilderness and spread out through the slickrock country, eventually 
coalescing into the valley that swept down in front of them. A peaceful stream 
flowed down its center, belying the great scarred plain to either side that told 
of innumerable flash floods. Scattered across the floodplain were boulders, some 
as large as houses, which had clearly been swept down from the higher reaches of 
the watershed. Beyond, the valley stepped up through several benchlands, 
eventually ending in sheer redrock cliffs, pinnacles, and towers. It looked to 
Nora as if the valley concentrated the entire watershed of the Kaiparowits 
Plateau in one hideous floodplain. 
At the far end of the green valley, at the point where it joined the sheer 
cliffs, the stream passed through a canebreak, then disappeared into a narrow 
canyon, riven through a sandstone plateau. Such narrow canyonsknown as slot 
canyonswere common among these southwestern wastes but practically unheard of 
elsewhere. They were thin alleys, sometimes only a few feet across, caused by 
the action of water against sandstone over countless years. Despite their 
narrowness, they were often several hundred feet deep, and could go on for miles 
before widening into more conventional canyons. 
Nora peered at the entrance to this one: a dark slit, slicing into the far end 
of the great plateau. It was perhaps ten feet wide at the entrance. That, Nora 
thought with a rising feeling of excitement, must be the slot canyon my father 
mentioned. She pulled out her binoculars and looked slowly around. She could 
make out many south-facing alcoves among the cliffs across the valley, ideal for 
Anasazi dwellings, but as she scanned them with the glasses she could see 
nothing. They were all empty. She examined the sheer cliffs leading up to the 
top of the plateau, but if there was a way over and into the hidden canyon 
beyond, it was well hidden. 
Dropping the binoculars, she turned and looked around the windswept top of the 
ridge. An overlook like this was a perfect place for her father to have carved 
his initials and a date: the calling card of remote travelers since time 
immemorial. Yet there was nothing. Still, from the top of the ridge it seemed 
likely that Holroyd would finally get his GPS reading. 
Swire had settled his back against the rock and was rolling a smoke. He placed 
it in his mouth, struck a match. 
I aint bringing my horses up that trail, he said. 
Nora looked at him quickly. But its the only way up. 
I know it, Swire said, drawing smoke into his lungs. 
So what are you suggesting? That we turn around? Give up? 
Swire nodded. Yep, he said. There was a brief pause. And it aint a 
suggestion. 
In an instant, Noras elation fell away. She took a deep breath. Roscoe, this 
isnt an impossible trail. Well unload and carry everything up by hand. Then 
well guide the horses, unroped, giving them their heads. It might take the rest 
of the day, but it can be done. 
Roscoe shook his head. Well kill horses on that trail, no matter what we do. 
Nora knelt beside him. Youve got to do this, Roscoe. Everything depends on it. 
The Institute will replace any horse that gets hurt. 
From the expression on his face, she saw she had said the wrong thing. You know 
enough about horses to know youre talking through your hat, he replied. I 
aint saying they cant do it. Im saying the risk is too high. A truculent 
note had crept into his voice. No man in his right mind would bring horses up 
that trail. And if you want my opinion, I dont think were on any damn trail, 
Anasazi or otherwise. Neither does anyone else. 
Nora looked at him. So you all think Im lost? 
Swire nodded, pulled on his cigarette. All except Holroyd. But that boy would 
follow you into a live volcano. 
Nora felt her face flush. Think what you want, she said, pointing toward the 
sandstone plateau. But that slot canyon out there is the one my father found. 
It has to be. And theres no other way in. That means he brought two horses up 
this trail. 
I doubt it. 
Nora rounded on him. When you signed on to this trip, you knew the danger. You 
cant back out now. It can be done, and were going to do it, with you or 
without you. 
Nope, he said again. 
Then youre a coward, Nora cried angrily. 
Swires eyes widened quickly, then narrowed. He stared at Nora for a long, 
silent moment. I aint likely to forget you said that, he said at last in a 
low, even tone. 
The breeze blew across the fin of rock, and a pair of ravens rode up the air 
currents, then dipped back down into space. Nora slumped against the rock, 
resting her forehead in her hands. She didnt know what to do in the face of 
Swires flat refusal. They couldnt go on without him, and the horses were 
technically his. She closed her eyes against a growing sense of failure, 
terrible and final. And then she realized something. 
If you want to turn around, she said quietly, glancing over at Swire, youd 
better get going. The last water I remember was a two-day ride back. 
Swires face showed a sudden, curious blankness. Then he swore softly, as he 
realized the water the horses so desperately needed was in the green valley that 
lay ahead, below their feet. 
He shook his head slowly, and spat. Finally, he eyed Nora. Looks like you get 
your wish, he said. And something in the way he looked at her made Nora shrink 
back. 
By the time they returned to camp, it was noon. A palpable air of anxiety hung 
over the group, and the thirsty horses, tied in the shade, were prancing and 
slinging their heads. 
You didnt happen to pass a Starbucks, did you? Smithback asked with forced 
joviality. I could really use an iced latte. 
Swire brushed his way past them and stalked off to where the horses were 
hobbled. 
Whats with him? Smithback asked. 
Weve got a tough stretch of trail ahead, Nora said. 
How tough? Black blurted out. Once again, Nora could see naked fear on his 
face. 
Very tough. She looked around at the dirty faces. The fact that several of 
them were looking to her for guidance and reassurance gave her another twinge of 
self-doubt. She took a deep breath. 
The good news is, theres water on the far side of the ridge. The bad news is 
that were going to have to carry the gear up by hand. Then Roscoe and I will 
bring the horses. 
Black groaned. 
Take no more than thirty pounds at a time, Nora went on. Dont try to rush 
things. Its a rough trail, even on foot. Were going to have to make a couple 
of trips each. 
Black looked like he was about to say something, then stopped. Sloane stood 
abruptly, walked over to the line of gear, and hefted a pannier onto her 
shoulder. Holroyd followed, walking a little unsteadily, then Aragon and 
Smithback. At last, Black raised himself from the rocks, passed a shaky hand 
over his eyes, and followed them. 
* * *
Almost three hours later, Nora stood at the top of the Devils Backbone with the 
others, breathing heavily and sharing the last of the water. The gear had been 
brought up over the course of three arduous trips, and was now neatly lined up 
to one side. Black was a wreck: sitting on a rock, soaked with sweat, his hands 
shaking; the rest were almost as exhausted. The sun had moved westward and was 
now shining directly into the long grove of cottonwoods far below them, turning 
the stream into a twisted thread of silver. The sight seemed inexpressibly lush 
and beautiful after the barren wastes behind them. Nora ached with thirst. 
She turned to look back down the hogback ridge up which they had come. The hard 
part, bringing the horses up, was still before her. My God, she thought. Sixteen 
of them . . . The ache in her limbs fell away, replaced by a small sickness that 
began to grow in the pit of her stomach. 
Let me help with the horses, Sloane said. 
Nora opened her mouth to answer, but Swire interrupted. No! he barked. The 
fewer there are of us on that ridge, the fewer are gonna get hurt. 
Leaving Sloane in charge, Nora hiked back down the trail. Swire, his face dark, 
brought the animals around, bare except for their halters. Only his own horse, 
which would lead, had a rope clipped to the halter. 
Were gonna drive them up the trail, single file, he said harshly. Ill guide 
Mestizo, you bring up the rear with Fiddlehead. Keep your head up. If a horse 
falls, get the hell out of the way. 
Nora nodded. 
Once we get to the upper trail, you cant stop. Not for anything. Give a horse 
time to think on that ridge, and hell panic and try to turn around. So keep 
them moving, no matter what. Got that? 
Loud and clear, she said. 
They started up the trail, careful to keep the horses well apart. At one point 
the animals hesitated, as if by general consensus; but with some prodding Swire 
got Mestizo moving again and the rest instinctively followed, noses down, 
picking their way among the rocks. The air was punctuated with the clatter of 
hooves, the occasional scrabble among the rocks as an animal missed its footing. 
As they began to gain altitude, the horses grew more fearful; they lathered up 
and started blowing hard, showing the whites of their eyes. 
Halfway up the ridge, the rubble-filled crevasse ended and the much more 
dangerous slickrock trail began. Nora craned her neck upward. The worst part of 
the journey stretched ahead, just a cut in the sloping sandstone, eroded by time 
into the merest whisper of a path. In the places where it had peeled away, the 
horses would have to step over blue space. She stared at the series of wicked 
switchbacks, trying to suppress the anxiety that welled up deep within her. 
Swire paused and looked back at her, his eyes cold. We can turn back now, his 
expression seemed to say. Beyond this point, we wont have that option. 
Nora gazed back at the bandy-legged wrangler, his shoulders barely higher than 
the horses withers. He looked as frightened as she felt. 
The moment passed. Without a word, Swire turned and began leading Mestizo 
forward. The animal took a few hesitant steps and balked. The wrangler coaxed a 
few more steps, then the horse balked again, whinnying in fear. His shoe skidded 
slightly, then bit once again into the sandstone. 
Speaking in low tones and flicking the end of his lasso well behind the horse, 
Swire got Mestizo moving again. The others followed, their trail experience and 
strong herd attachment keeping them going. They worked their way upward at a 
painful pace, the only sounds now the thump and scrape of iron-shod toes digging 
into canted slickrock, the occasional blow of fear. Swire began singing a low, 
mournful, soothing song, words indistinct, his voice quavering slightly. 
They arrived at the first switchback. Slowly, Swire guided Mestizo around the 
curve, then continued up the rockface and past a deep crack until he was 
directly above Noras head. Once, Sweetgrass skidded on the slickrock and 
scrabbled at the edge, and for a moment Nora thought she would go over. Then she 
recovered, eyes wide, flanks trembling. 
After agonizing minutes they arrived at the second switchback: a wickedly sharp 
turn over a narrow section of trail. Reaching the far side, Mestizo suddenly 
balked once again. The second horse, Beetlebum, stopped as well, then began to 
back up. Watching from below, Nora saw the animal place one hind foot over the 
edge of the trail and out into space. 
She froze. The horses hindquarters dropped and the foot kicked out twice, 
looking for a purchase that wasnt there. As she watched, the horses balance 
shifted inexorably backward; the animal dropped over the edge, rolled once, and 
then hurtled down toward her, letting out a strange, high-pitched scream. Nora 
watched, paralyzed. Time seemed to slow as the horse tumbled, limbs kicking in a 
terrifying ballet. She felt its shadow cross her face, and then it struck 
Fiddlehead, directly in front of her, with a massive smack. Fiddlehead vanished 
as both animals hurtled off the edge of the ridge into the void. There was a 
moment of horrible, listening silence, followed by double muffled thumps and the 
sharp crackle of falling rocks far below. The sounds seemed to echo forever in 
the dry valley, reverberating from ever more distant walls. 
Close up and keep moving! came the harsh, strained command from above. Forcing 
herself into action, Nora urged the new rearward horse forwardSmithbacks 
horse, Hurricane Deck. But he wouldnt move; a clonus of horror trembled along 
the animals flanks. Then, in a galvanic instant, he reared up, whirling around 
toward her. Nora instinctively grabbed his halter. With a frenzied clawing of 
steel on rock, Hurricane scrabbled at the edge of the trail, wide eyes staring 
at her. Realizing her mistake, she released the halter, but her timing was slow 
and already the falling horse had pulled her off balance. She had a brief 
glimpse of yawning blue space. Then she landed on her side, her legs rolling 
over the edge of the cliff, hands scrabbling to grip the smooth sandstone. She 
heard, as if from a great distance, Swire shouting, and then from below the 
soggy, bursting sound of a wet bag as Hurricane Deck hit bottom. 
She clawed at the rock, fingernails fighting for purchase as she dangled in the 
abyss. She could feel the updrafts of wind tickling her legs. In desperation, 
she clutched the stone tighter, her nails tearing and splitting as she continued 
to slide backward down the tipped surface of stone. Then her right hand brushed 
against a projecting rill; no more than a quarter inch high, but enough to get a 
handhold. She strained, feeling her strength draining away. Now or never, she 
thought, and she gave a great heave, swinging herself up sideways. It was just 
enough to get one foot back onto the trail. With a second heave she managed to 
roll her body up and over. She lay on her back, heart hammering a frantic 
cadence. Ahead and above came a whinny of fear, and the clatter of hooves on 
stone. 
Get the hell up! Keep moving! she heard faintly from above. She rose shakily 
to her feet and started forward, as if in a dream, driving the remnant of the 
remuda up the trail. 
She did not remember the rest of the journey. The next clear memory was of lying 
facedown, hugging the warm, dusty rock of the ridge summit; then a pair of hands 
were gently turning her over; and Aragons calm, steady face stared down into 
her own. Beside him were Smithback and Holroyd, gazing at her with intense 
concern. Holroyds face in particular was a mask of agonizing worry. 
Aragon helped Nora to a nearby rock. The horses Nora began. 
There was no other way, Aragon interrupted quietly, taking her hands. Youre 
hurt. 
Nora looked down. Her hands were covered with blood from her ruined fingernails. 
Aragon opened his medical kit. When you swung out over that cliff, he said, I 
thought you were done for. He dabbed at the fingertips, removing a few pieces 
of grit and fingernail with tweezers. He worked swiftly, expertly, smearing on 
topical antibiotic and placing butterfly bandages over the ends of her 
fingertips. Wear your gloves for a few days, he said. Youll be uncomfortable 
for a while, but the injuries are superficial. 
Nora glanced at the group. They were looking back at her, motionless, shocked to 
silence by what had happened. Wheres Roscoe? she managed to ask. 
Back down the trail, Sloane replied. 
Nora dropped her head into her hands. And then, as if in answer, three 
well-spaced gunshots sounded below, echoing crazily among the canyons before 
dying away into distant thunder. 
God, Nora groaned. Fiddlehead, her own horse. Beetlebum, Smithbacks nemesis. 
Hurricane Deck. Gone. She could still see the wide pleading eyes of Hurricane; 
the teeth, so strangely long and narrow, exposed in a final grin of terror. 
Ten minutes later Swire appeared, breathing heavily. He passed Nora and went 
toward the horses, redividing and repacking the loads in silence. Holroyd came 
over to her and gently took her hand. I got a decent reading, he whispered. 
Nora glanced up at him, hardly caring. 
Were right smack on the trail, he said, smiling. 
Nora could only shake her head. 
* * *
Compared to the nightmarish ascent, the trail down into the valley beyond the 
hogback ridge offered few difficulties. The horses, smelling water, charged 
ahead. Tired as they were, the group began to jog, and Nora found the events of 
the last hours temporarily receding in her devouring thirst. They splashed into 
the water upstream from the horses and Nora fell to her stomach, burying her 
face in the water. It was the most exquisite sensation she had ever felt, and 
she drank deeply, pausing only to gasp for air, until a sudden spasm of nausea 
contracted her stomach. She backed away, retiring to a spot beneath the rustling 
cottonwoods, breathing hard and feeling the sting of evaporation on her wet 
clothes. Gradually the waves of nausea passed. She saw Black bent double in the 
trees, vomiting up water, joined shortly by Holroyd. Smithback was kneeling in 
the stream, oblivious, bathing his head with cupped hands. Sloane staggered 
over, sopping wet, and knelt beside Nora. 
Swire needs our help with the horses, she said. 
They went downstream and helped Swire drag the horses out of the water, to 
prevent any possibility of fatal overdrinking. As they worked, Swire refused to 
meet Noras eyes. 
After a rest, the group remounted and continued downstream into the new world of 
the valley. The water ran over a cobbled bed, filling the air with tranquil 
noise. The sounds of life rose about them: trilling cicadas, humming 
dragonflies, even the occasional eructation of a frog. As Noras thirst abated, 
the sickening horror of the accident returned with fresh force. She was riding a 
new horse now, Arbuckles, and every jarring movement seemed a reproachful memory 
of Fiddlehead. She thought of Swires poem to Hurricane Deck, almost a love 
ballad to the horse. She wondered how she was ever going to work things out with 
him. 
They traveled down the valley, which narrowed as it approached the broad 
sandstone plateau, rising in front of them now less than a mile away. Nora 
glanced up at the cliffs as they passed, noting again the odd lack of ruins. 
This was an ideal valley for prehistoric settlement, and yet there was nothing. 
If, after all that had happened, this turned to be the wrong canyon systemshe 
shut the thought from her mind. 
The stream made another bend. The naked plateau loomed ever closer, the stream 
at last disappearing into the narrow slot canyon carved into its side. According 
to the radar map, the canyon should open, about a mile farther along, into the 
small valley thatshe hopedcontained Quivira. But the slot canyon itself that 
lay between them and the inner valley was clearly too narrow for horses. 
As they rode up to the massive sandstone wall, Nora noticed a large rock beside 
the stream with some markings on its flanks. As she dismounted and came nearer, 
she could see a small panel of petroglyphs, similar to those they had found at 
the base of the ridge: a series of dots and a small foot, along with another 
star and a sun. She couldnt help but notice that there was a large reversed 
spiral carved on top of the other images. 
The rest came up beside her. She noticed Aragon gazing at the glyphs, an intent 
expression on his face. 
What do you think? she asked. 
Ive seen other examples of dot patterns like these along the ancient 
approaches to Hopi, he said at last. I believe they give distance and 
direction information. 
Sure, Black scoffed. And the freeway interchanges and the location of the 
nearest Howard Johnsons, Ill bet. Everyone knows Anasazi petroglyphs are 
indecipherable. 
Aragon ignored this. The footlike glyph indicates walking, and the dots 
indicate distance. Based on other sites Ive seen, each dot represents a walking 
distance of about sixteen minutes, or three quarters of a mile. 
And the antelope? Nora asked. What does that symbolize? 
Aragon glanced at her. An antelope, he said. 
So this isnt a kind of writing? 
Aragon looked back at the rock. Not in the sense were used to. Its not 
phonetic, syllabic, or ideographic. My own view is that its an entirely 
different way of using symbols. But that doesnt mean its not writing. 
On the other side of the ridge, Nora said, I saw a star inside the moon, 
inside the sun. Id never seen anything like it before. 
Yes. The sun is the symbol for the supreme deity, the moon the symbol for the 
future, and the star a symbol of truth. I took the whole thing to be an 
indicator that an oracle, a kind of Anasazi Delphi, lay ahead. 
You mean Quivira? Nora asked. 
Aragon nodded. 
And what does this spiral mean? asked Holroyd. 
Aragon hesitated a moment. That spiral was added later. Its reversed, of 
course. His voice trailed off. In the context of the other things weve seen, 
Id call it a warning, or omen, laid on top of these earlier symbols. A notice 
to travelers not to proceed, an indication of evil. 
There was a sudden silence. 
Lions and tigers and bears, oh my, murmured Smithback. 
Obviously, theres still a lot we dont know, Aragon said, the slightest trace 
of defensiveness in his voice. Perhaps you, Mr. Smithback, with your no doubt 
profound knowledge of Anasazi witches and their modern-day descendants, the 
skinwalkers, can enlighten us further. 
The writer rolled his tongue around his cheek and raised his eyebrows, but said 
nothing. 
As they moved away, Holroyd gave a shout. He had walked around to the side of 
the rock nearest the entrance to the slot canyon. Now he pointed to a much 
fresher inscription, scraped into the rock with a penknife. As Nora stared at 
it, she felt her cheeks begin to burn. Still staring, she knelt beside the 
stone, fingers slowly tracing the narrow grooves that spelled out P.K. 1983. 
 

23
 
AS NORA TOUCHED HER FATHERS INITIALS on the rock, something inside her seemed 
to give way. A knot of tension, tightened over the harrowing days, loosened 
abruptly, and she leaned against the smooth surface of the rock, feeling an 
intense, overwhelming flood of relief. Her father had been here. They had been 
following his trail all along. She realized dimly that the group was crowding 
around, congratulating her. 
Slowly she rose to her feet. She gathered the expedition under a small grove of 
gambel oaks, near the point where the stream plunged into the slot canyon. 
Everyone seemed to be in high spirits except Swire, who silently moved off with 
the horses to a nearby patch of grass. Bonarotti was busy cleaning the dirty 
cookware in the stream 
Were almost there, she said. According to our maps, this is the slot canyon 
weve been searching for. We should find the hidden canyon of Quivira at the far 
end. 
Is it safe? Black asked. Looks pretty narrow to me. 
Ive kept my eyes on the canyon walls, Sloane said. There havent been any 
obvious trails that would lead up and over to the next valley. If were going 
on, this is the only way through. 
Its getting late, Nora said. The real question is, shall we unpack the 
horses and carry everything in now? Or shall we camp now and go in tomorrow? 
Black answered first. Id prefer not to carry any more equipment today, thank 
you, especially through that. He gestured past the canebrake toward the narrow 
slot, which looked more like a fissure in the rock than a canyon. 
Smithback sat back, fanning himself with a branch of oak leaves. As long as 
youre asking, Id just as soon sit here with my feet in the stream and see what 
victuals Signore Bonarotti brings out of his magic box. 
The rest seemed to agree. Then Nora turned toward Sloane. In the womans eyes, 
she immediately saw the same eagerness that was kindling within her. 
Sloane grinned her slow grin and nodded. Feel up to it? she asked. 
Nora looked at the entrance to the slot canyonbarely more than a dark seam in 
the rockand nodded. Then she turned once again toward the group. 
Sloane and I are going to reconnoiter, she said, glancing at her watch. We 
might not be able to get in and back before darkness, so it may turn out to be 
an overnight trip. Any objections? 
There were none. While the camp settled down to its routine, Nora loaded a 
sleeping bag and water pump into a backpack. Sloane did the same, adding a 
length of rope and some climbing equipment to hers. Bonarotti wordlessly pressed 
small, heavy packets of food into each of their hands. 
Shouldering their packs, they waved goodbye and hiked down the stream. Past the 
grove of oaks, the rivulet burbled across a pebbled bed and entered the 
canebrake outside the mouth of the slot canyon. Much of the cane had been torn 
and shredded into a dense tangle, and there were several battered tree trunks 
and boulders lying about. 
They pushed ahead into the cane, which rustled and crackled at their passage. 
Deerflies and no-see-ums danced and droned in the thick air. Nora led, waving 
them away with an impatient hand. 
Nora, she heard Sloane say softly behind her, look carefully to your right. 
Look, but dont move. 
Nora followed Sloanes glance toward a piece of cane perhaps eighteen inches 
away. A small gray rattlesnake was coiled tightly around it at about shoulder 
height. 
I hate to tell you, Nora, but you just elbowed this poor snake aside. It was 
meant to sound lighthearted, but Sloanes voice carried a small tremor. 
Nora stared in horrified fascination. She could see the cane still swaying 
slightly from her passage. Christ, she whispered, her throat dry and 
constricted. 
Probably the only reason he didnt strike was because it would have caused him 
to fall, added Sloane. Sistrurus toxidius, the pigmy gray rattler. Second most 
poisonous rattlesnake in North America. 
Nora continued to stare at the snake, almost perfectly camouflaged by its 
surroundings. I feel a little sick, she said. 
Let me walk first. 
In no mood to argue, Nora stood by while Sloane went on ahead, gingerly picking 
her way through the broken cane, pausing every few steps to scrutinize her path. 

She stopped suddenly. Theres another one, she pointed. The snake, disturbed, 
was swiftly gliding down a stalk ahead of them. It gave a sudden, chilling buzz 
before it disappeared into a tangle of brush. 
Too bad Bonarotti isnt here, said Sloane, moving ahead carefully. Hed 
probably make a cassoulet out of them. As she spoke, there was another buzz 
directly beneath her feet. She leapt backward with a shout, then gave the snake 
a wide berth. 
A few more harrowing moments brought them to the far side of the canebrake. Here 
the mouth of the canyon opened before them, two scooped and polished stone walls 
about ten feet apart, with a bottom of smooth sand barely covered by slowly 
moving water. 
Jesus, Nora said. Ive never seen so many rattlers in one place in my life. 
Probably washed down by a flood, said Sloane. Now theyre wet, cold, and 
pissed. 
They continued down the creek into the slot canyon, splashing in the shallow 
water. The narrow walls quickly pressed in around them, leaving Nora with the 
uncomfortable feeling that she was along the bottom of a long, slender 
container. Eons of floods had sculpted the walls of the canyon into glossy 
hollows, ribs, pockets, and tubes. There were only occasional glimpses of sky, 
and they proceeded in a reddish half-light that filtered down from far above. 
With the high narrow walls of the slot canyon crowding out the sun, the air at 
its base felt surprisingly chilly. In places where water had scooped out a 
larger hollow, they encountered pools of loose quicksand. The best way to get 
past them, Nora found, was to start crawling through on her hands and knees and, 
when the quicksand at last gave way, to lie on her stomach and breaststroke, 
keeping her legs rigid and unmoving behind her. The pack, oddly enough, buoyed 
her, acting as a kind of float on her back. 
Its going to be a wet night, Sloane said, emerging from one of the pools. 
As the canyon descended, the light grew dimmer. At one point, a huge cottonwood 
trunk, horribly scarred and mauled, had somehow become jammed in the canyon 
walls about twenty feet above their heads. Nearby, there was a narrow hollow in 
the rockface, above a small, stepped ledge. 
Mustve been some storm that put that tree up there, Sloane murmured, glancing 
upward at the trunk. Id sure hate to be caught in a flash flood in one of 
these canyons. 
Ive heard the first thing you feel is a rising wind, Nora replied. Then you 
hear a sound, echoing and distorted. Someone once told me it sounded almost like 
distant voices or applause. At that point, you get your butt out as fast as 
possible. If youre still in the canyon by the time you hear the roar of water, 
its too late. Youre dead meat. 
Sloane broke out into her low, sultry laugh. Thanks a lot, she said. Now 
youll have me climbing the walls every time I feel a breeze. 
As they walked on, the canyon narrowed still further and sloped downward in a 
series of pools, each filled with chocolate-colored water. Sometimes the water 
was only an inch deep, covering shivery quicksand; other times, it was over 
their heads. Each pool was connected to the next by a pitched slot so narrow 
they had to squeeze through it sideways, holding their packs. Above their heads, 
large boulders had jammed between the canyon walls, creating an eerie brown 
twilight. 
After half an hours struggle, they came to a pourover above an especially long, 
narrow pool. Beyond, Nora could make out a faint glow. Taking the lead, she 
eased down into the pool and swam across toward a small boulder, wedged between 
the walls about six feet above the ground. A thick curtain of weeds and roots 
trailed from it, through which came a sheen of sunlight. 
Nora crawled under the boulder and paused at the shaggy curtain, wringing the 
water from her wet hair. Its like the entrance to something magical, Sloane 
said as she approached. But what? 
Nora glanced at her for a moment. Then, placing her arms together, she pushed 
through the dense tangle. 
Although not strong, the light of the late afternoon sun beyond seemed dazzling 
after their journey through the cramped, twisting canyon. As her eyes adjusted, 
Nora could see a small valley open up below them. The stream tumbled down a 
defile and spread out into a sandy creek along the valley floor. There was a 
narrow floodplain, covered with pounded boulders, repeatedly raked by flash 
floods. Cottonwoods lined the banks of the floodplain, their massive trunks 
scarred and hung with old flood debris. The creek had cut down through a layer 
of rock in the center of the valley, creating benchlands on either side that 
were also dotted with cottonwoods, scrub oak, rabbitbrush, and wildflowers. 
The valley had an intimate feeling: it was only about four hundred yards long by 
two hundred yards wide, a jeweled pocket in the red sandstone. The mellow 
sunlight fell upon a riot of color: blooming Apache plumes, Indian paintbrush, 
scarlet gilia. Puffy cumulus clouds, tinged with the afternoon light, drifted 
across the narrow patch of sky above the clifftops. 
After the long dark crawl through the slot canyon, arriving at this beautiful 
valley was like stumbling upon a lost world. Everything about itits intimate 
size, its high surrounding walls, its incredible remoteness, the tremendous 
difficulties involved in attaining itfilled Nora with the sensation of 
discovering a hidden paradise. As she looked around, enraptured, a breeze began 
to come up. As the trees rustled, cotton fell from their catkins and drifted in 
the lazy air like brilliant motes of trapped light. 
After a moment Nora glanced over at Sloane. The woman had a look of intense, 
suppressed excitement on her face; the amber eyes seemed to blaze as they darted 
about, scanning first the canyon floor, then its walls. 
Light as a cat, Sloane moved silently down the shallow stream to the canyon 
floor. Nora lagged behind for a moment. Mingled with her awe of the beauty was a 
fresh certainty: this was the valley her father had discovered. And with this 
certainty came another thought, awful in its suddenness. Was the place terrible 
as well as beautiful? Would she find her fathers remains somewhere down there 
on the canyon floor, or hidden among the ledges above? 
But as quickly as it had come, the feeling dissipated. Somebody had found and 
mailed his letter. That in itself was a mystery, which gnawed at her constantly. 
But at least it meant that, wherever her fathers bones lay, they probably lay 
somewhere else, closer to civilization. Still, it was several moments before she 
followed Sloane to the flat sandy benchland, girded with rocks, well above the 
flash flood zone. A small grove of cottonwoods provided shade. 
Hows this for a campsite? Sloane asked, dropping her pack. 
Couldnt be more perfect, Nora replied. She unshouldered her own pack, pulled 
out her soggy sleeping bag, shook it out, and draped it over a bush. 
Then her eyes turned ineluctably back toward the towering cliffs that surrounded 
them on four sides. Pulling the waterproof binoculars from her pack, she began 
scanning the rock faces. The sandstone cliffs rose in steplike fashion from the 
canyon floor: sheer pitches, interrupted by benchlands of softer strata that had 
eroded back to form flat areas. Near the far end of the valley, a large rockfall 
had dropped a pitched tangle of house-sized boulders that lay in a precarious 
jumble against the cliff face. But the rockfall led up to nothing; and there was 
no sign in the valley of a trail, a ruin, anything. 
She shook off the sudden cold feeling in her gut, reminding herself that if the 
ruined city was obvious, it would have been found. Any caves or alcoves formed 
in those benches above could not be seen from below. It was precisely the kind 
of spot favored by the Anasazi. 
Her father, however, had seen a clear hand-and-toe trail. Her eyes again swept 
the lower rock faces, searching for the telltale signs of a trail. She saw 
nothing but smooth faces of red sandstone. 
Nora glanced around for Sloane. The woman had already abandoned her scrutiny of 
the walls and was walking along the base of the cliffs, peering intently at the 
ground. Looking for potsherds or flint chips, Nora thought approvingly: always a 
good way to locate a hidden ruin above. Every fifty feet, Sloane would stop and 
squint up the cliff faces at an oblique angle, looking for the telltale shallow 
notches that would signify a trail. 
Nora shoved her binoculars into her damp jeans and walked along the cutbanks and 
rock shelves above the stream, examining the soil profile for any cultural 
evidence. She knew they should be using the last of the light to build a fire 
and prepare dinner. But, like Sloane, she felt compelled to keep searching. 
It was the work of ten minutes to reach the opposite side of the valley. Here, 
the stream disappeared into another slot canyon, much narrower even than the one 
they had crawled through. Narrow stone benches crawled up the red walls on 
either side, and from the gorge below came the sound of falling water. 
Carefully, she crept up to its edge. Water fell from the valley in a long 
stream. A plume of mist rose from where it struck the rocks below, filling the 
end of the canyon with a watery veil she could barely see through. A small 
microclimate had developed, and the rocks were thickly covered with moss and 
ferns. She knew from the maps, though, that the stream ran on through a series 
of descending waterfalls and pools, each separated by twenty or thirty feet of 
overhanging rock. It would be impossible to descend without a highly technical 
climb, and in any case at its bottom the slot seemed too narrow to admit a human 
being. But there would be no point even in trying: as the maps indicated, the 
stream ran in this impassable fashion for sixteen miles, until it spilled off 
the North Rim of Marble Gorge and dropped a thousand feet to the Colorado River. 
Anyone caught in a flash flood and pushed into this canyon would emerge at the 
Colorado just so much ground beef. 
She moved on, pausing at the large rockfall. It was cool in the shadow of the 
cliffs, and she shivered slightly. The rockfall, with its dark holes and hidden 
spaces between the huge boulders, looked like a lair of ghosts. It appeared too 
unstable to climb. And, in any case, the cliff face behind it was sheer and 
unmarked by toeholds. 
She worked her way back up the other side of the creek and encountered Sloane, 
who had finished her own survey. The almond eyes had lost some of their 
brilliance. 
Any luck? Nora asked. 
Sloane shook her head. Im having trouble believing there was a city here. I 
havent found anything. 
For once, the trademark smile was missing, and she seemed agitated, almost 
angry. This city is as important to her as it is to me, Nora thought. 
The Anasazi never built a road to nowhere, Nora replied. Theres got to be 
something here. 
Perhaps, Sloane said slowly, peering again at the cliff faces surrounding 
them. But if I hadnt seen those radar images and the hogback ridge, Id have a 
hard time believing weve been following any sort of road at all the last two 
days. 
The sun had now dipped low enough to bring creeping shadows across the valley 
floor. Look, Sloane, Nora said. We havent even begun to examine this valley. 
Well spend tomorrow morning making a careful survey. And if we still dont find 
anything, well bring the proton magnetometer in and scan for structures beneath 
the sand. 
Sloane was still looking intently up at the cliffs, as if demanding they give up 
their secrets. Then she looked at Nora, and gave a slow smile. Maybe youre 
right, she said. Lets get a fire going and see if we can dry out these bags. 

After she had scooped out a shallow firepit and built a ring of stones, Nora sat 
by the fire and changed the damp bandages on her fingers. The sleeping bags 
began to steam slightly in the heat. 
What do you suppose Bonarotti put in those care packages? Sloane asked as she 
piled more logs on the fire. 
Lets find out. Nora retrieved a pot from her daypack, then grabbed the small 
packet Bonarotti had thrust into her hand. She unwrapped it curiously. Inside 
were two Ziploc bags, still dry, one containing what looked like tiny pasta and 
the other a mix of herbs. ADD TO BOILING WATER AND COOK SEVEN MINUTES was 
written on the first bag in black Magic Marker; REMOVE FROM HEAT, DRAIN, ADD 
THIS MIXTURE was written on the second. 
Ten minutes later, they pulled the simmering mixture from the fire, drained off 
the water, and added the second packet. Instantly, a wonderful aroma rose from 
the pot. 
Couscous with savory herbs, Sloane whispered. Isnt Bonarotti a prince? 
From the couscous, they moved on to Sloanes dishlentils with sun-dried 
vegetables in a curried beef broththen cleared away the dishes. Nora shook her 
bag out and laid it in the soft sand, close to the fire. Then, stripping off 
most of her wet clothes, she climbed in and lay back, breathing the clean air of 
the canyon, gazing at the dome of stars overhead. Despite the words of 
encouragement shed given Sloanedespite the remarkable mealNora couldnt 
entirely escape a private fear of her own. 
So whatll we find tomorrow, Nora? Sloanes husky voice, surprisingly close in 
the near darkness, echoed her own thoughts. 
Nora sat up on one shoulder and glanced over. Sloane was sitting cross-legged on 
her sleeping bag, combing her hair. Her jeans were drying on a nearby limb, and 
an oversized shirt spilled across her bare knees. The flickering light threw her 
wide cheekbones into sharp relief, giving her beautiful face a mysterious, 
exotic look. 
I dont know, Nora replied. What do you think well find? 
Quivira, came the reply, almost whispered. 
You didnt seem so sure an hour ago. 
Sloane shrugged. Oh, itll be here, she said. My father is never wrong. 
The womans face wore its trademark lazy smile, but something in her voice told 
Nora it wasnt entirely a joke. 
So tell me about your father, Sloane went on. 
Nora took a long breath. Well, the truth is, from the outside he was a 
traditional Irish screwup. He drank too much. He always had schemes and plans. 
He hated real work. But you know what? She looked up at Sloane. He was the 
best father anyone could have had. He loved us. He told us he loved us ten times 
a day. It was the first thing he said to us in the morning and the last thing at 
night. He was the kindest person I ever knew. He took us on almost all of his 
adventures. We went everywhere with him, looking for lost ruins, digging for 
treasure, scouring old battlegrounds with metal detectors. Nowadays, the 
archaeologist in me is horrified at what we used to do. We packed horses into 
the Superstition Mountains trying to find the Lost Dutchman Mine, we spent a 
summer in the Gila Wilderness looking for the Adams diggingsthat sort of thing. 
Im amazed we survived. My mother couldnt stand it, and she eventually took 
steps to divorce him. As a way to win her back, he went off to discover Quivira. 
And we never heard from him againuntil this old letter arrived. But hes the 
reason I became an archaeologist. 
You think he could still be alive? 
No, said Nora. Thats out of the question. He would never have abandoned us 
like that. 
She breathed the fragrant night air as silence settled into the canyon. You 
have a pretty remarkable father yourself, she went on at last. 
A thin trace of light suddenly lanced across the dark sky. Shooting star, 
Sloane said. She was silent for a moment. You said the same thing, back on the 
trail. I suppose its true. He is a remarkable father. And he expects me to be 
an even more remarkable daughter. 
How so? 
Sloane continued to stare at the sky. I guess you could say hes one of those 
fathers who holds his child to an almost impossible standard. I was always made 
to perform, to measure up. I was only allowed to bring home friends who could 
carry on an intellectual discussion at the dinner table. But nothing I did was 
ever good enough, and even now he doesnt trust me to succeed. 
She shook her head. I still remember when I was in seventh grade, my piano 
teacher made all us students attend a recital. Id worked up this really 
difficult Bach three-part invention, and I was very proud of myself. But the 
teacher had this other student, Ursula Rein, who was a true prodigy. Shes 
teaching at Juilliard now. Anyway, she played right before me, and did this 
Chopin waltz at about twice normal speed. Her face hardened. When my father 
heard that, he made me get up and leave with him. I was so angry, so 
embarrassed. Id practiced for so long, and I thought hed be proud of me. . . . 
Oh, he made up some excuse, said his stomach was bothering him or something. But 
I knew the real reason was he couldnt stand for me to come in second. She 
laughed. Im still amazed he wanted me on this expedition. 
Nora could hear the bitter undertone in the laugh. It doesnt seem to have hurt 
you, she replied. 
Because I dont let it hurt me, she said, looking at Nora with a defiant flip 
of her hair. 
Nora realized Sloane might have taken the comment the wrong way. No, thats not 
what I meant. I meant, youre 
And you know what? Sloane interrupted, as if she hadnt heard. I dont ever 
remember my father telling me he loved me. 
She looked away. Nora, unsure how to answer, decided to change the subject. 
Ive been curious. Youve got the money, looks, and talent to be anything. So 
why are you an archaeologist? 
Sloane turned back to her, the grin returning. Why? Are archaeologists supposed 
to be poor, ugly, and dumb? 
Of course not. 
Sloane gave a low laugh. Its the family business, isnt it? The Rothschilds 
are bankers, the Kennedys are politicians, the Goddards are archaeologists. Im 
his only child. He raised me to be an archaeologist and I wasnt strong enough 
to deny him. 
The father again, Nora thought. She looked into Sloanes face. Dont you like 
archaeology? 
I love it, came the reply, a brief note of passion sounding in the rich 
contralto. I never stop thinking about the precious things and the secrets that 
lie hidden beneath the soil. Theyre waiting to teach us something, if only 
were smart enough to find them. But Ill never be a good enough archaeologist 
to satisfy him. She paused a moment, then spoke more briskly. Its funny, 
Nora, but if I find Quivira, you know whos going to be remembered? You know 
whos going to go down in the history books like Wetherill and Earl Morris? Not 
me. Him. She punctuated this with a short, harsh laugh. Isnt that ironic? 
Nora could not find an answer to this. 
Sloane uncrossed her legs and lay down atop her sleeping bag. She sighed, teased 
her hair back with one finger. Seeing anyone? 
Nora paused to consider this abrupt change of subject. Not really, she 
replied. And you? Are you dating someone? 
Not anybody I wouldnt drop in a second if the right person came along. Sloane 
was silent for a moment, as if thinking about something. So what do you think 
of the men in this group of ours? You know, as men. 
Nora hesitated again, not feeling entirely comfortable talking like this about 
people she was leading. But the steamy warmth of the sleeping bag, and the 
brightness of the stars, somehow conspiratorial in their proximity, relaxed her 
defenses. I hadnt really thought about them as, you know, potential dating 
material. 
Sloane gave a low laugh. Well, I have. Id pegged you for Smithback. 
Nora sat up. Smithback? she cried. Hes insufferable. 
Hes in a position to do a lot for your career if this all works out. Funny, 
too, if you like your humor dry as a martini. Hes led a pretty interesting life 
these last couple of years. Did you ever read that book of his, about the New 
York museum murders? 
He gave me a copy. I havent really looked at it. 
Its a hell of a read. And the guys not bad looking, either, in a citified 
sort of way. 
Nora shook her head. Hes about as full of himself as they come. 
Maybe. But I think part of that is just facade. The guy can take it as well as 
dish it out. She paused. And something about that mouth tells me hes a great 
kisser. 
If you find out, let me know. Nora glanced at Sloane. Got your eyes on 
anybody? 
By way of answering, Sloane fanned herself absently. Black, she said at last. 
It took a moment for Nora to digest this. What? she asked. 
If I had to choose somebody, Id choose Black. 
Nora shook her head. I dont get it. 
Oh, I know he can be obnoxious. Hes terrified of being away from civilization. 
But you wait. When we find Quivira, hell come into his own. Its easy to forget 
out here in the middle of nowhere that hes one of the most prominent 
archaeologists in the country. With good reason. Talk about someone who could do 
a lot for a career. She laughed. And look at that big-boned frame of his. Ill 
bet hes hung like a fire hydrant. 
And with that she stood up, letting the shirt slide off her arms and fall away 
to the ground. Now look what youve done, she said. Im going down to the 
stream to cool off. 
Nora leaned back. As if at a distance, she heard Sloane down at the stream, 
splashing softly. In a few moments she returned, her sleek body glistening in 
the moonlight. She slid noiselessly into her sleeping bag. Sweet dreams, Nora 
Kelly, she murmured. 
Then she turned away, and within moments, Nora could hear her breathing, regular 
and serene. But Nora lay still, eyes open to the stars, for a long time. 
 

24
 
NORA AWOKE WITH A START. SHE HAD slept so deeply, so heavily, that for a moment 
she did not know where she was. She sat up in panic. Dawn light was just 
bloodying the rimrock above her head. A throbbing at the ends of her bandaged 
fingers quickly brought back the memories of the previous day: the terrible 
struggle on the hogback ridge; the discovery of the slot canyon and this hidden 
valley beyond; the lack of any signs of a ruin. She looked around. The sleeping 
bag beside her was empty. 
She rose, sore muscles protesting, and stirred the ashes of the fire. Cutting 
some dry grass and folding it into a packet, she shoved it in the coals. A 
thread of smoke came up, then the grass burst into flame. She quickly added 
sticks. Rummaging in her pack, she filled a tiny two-cup espresso pot with 
grounds and water, put it on the fire, then went down to the creek to wash. When 
she returned, the pot was hissing. She poured herself a cup just as Sloane 
walked up. The perpetual smile was gone. 
Have some coffee, Nora said. 
Sloane took the proffered cup and sat down beside her. They sipped in silence as 
the sun crept down the canyon walls. 
Theres nothing here, Nora, Sloane said at last. I just spent the last hour 
going over this place inch by inch. Your pal Holroyd can scan this ground with 
the magnetometer, but Ive never seen a ruin under the sand or in a cliff that 
didnt leave some trace on the surface. I havent found one potsherd or flint 
chip. 
Nora set down her coffee. I dont believe it. 
Sloane shrugged. Take a look for yourself. 
I will. 
Nora walked to the base of the cliffs and began making a clockwise circuit of 
the valley. She could see the welter of footprints where Sloane had scoured the 
ground for artifacts. Nora, instead, took out her binoculars and systematically 
searched the cliffs, setbacks, and rimrock above her. Every twenty steps she 
stopped and searched again. The morning invasion of light into the valley 
continued, each minute creating fresh angles and shadows on the rock. At each 
pause she forced her eyes across the same rock faces, from different angles, 
straining to recognize somethinga toehold, a shaped building block, a faded 
petroglyph, anything that indicated human occupation. After completing the 
circuit, she then crossed the valley from north to south and from east to west, 
heedlessly wading through the stream again and again, peering up at the walls, 
trying to get every possible view of the towering cliffs above. 
Ninety minutes later she came back into camp, wet and tired. She sat down beside 
Sloane, saying nothing. Sloane was also silent, her head bowed, staring into the 
sand, idly tracing a circle with a stick. 
She thought about her father, and all the terrible things her mother had said 
about him over the years. Was it possible that she could have been right all 
this time? Was he untrustworthy and unreliablejust a fantasist, after all? 
They remained beside the dying fire, wordlessly, for perhaps ten minutes, 
perhaps twenty, as the full weight of the colossal defeat settled upon them. 
What are we going to tell the others? Nora said at last. 
Sloane tossed her short hair back with a shake of her head. Well do it by the 
book, she said. We cant turn around now without going through the 
formalities. Like you said last night, well bring in the equipment, do an 
archaeological survey of the valley. And then well go home. You to your office. 
And me . . . She paused. To my father. 
Nora glanced over at Sloane. A haunted look came into her amber eyes as she 
spoke. The woman looked back at Nora. As she did so, her expression softened. 
But here I am, moping like a selfish schoolgirl, she said, the old smile 
returning. When youre the one who really needs consoling. I cant tell you how 
sorry I am, Nora. You know how much we all believed in your dream. 
Nora looked up at the dark encircling cliffs, the smooth sandstone faces that 
showed no trace of a trail. There had been no other ruins in the entire canyon 
system, and this was no exception. I just cant believe it, she said. I cant 
believe I dragged you all out here, wasted your fathers money, risked lives, 
killed horses, for nothing. 
Sloane took one of Noras hands and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Then she stood 
up. 
Come on, she said. The others are waiting for us. 
Nora stowed the cooking gear and sleeping bag into her pack, then shouldered it 
wearily. Her mouth felt painfully dry. The thought of the days to comegoing 
through the motions, working without hopewas almost too much to bear. She 
looked up yet again at the rock, picking out the same landmarks she had seen 
yesterday. The morning light was coming in at a different angle, raking along 
the lower cliffs. Her eyes instinctively scoured the rock face, but it remained 
clear and barren. She raised her eyes higher. 
And then she saw something: a single, shallow notch in the rock, forty feet 
above the ground. The light now lay at a perfect raking angle. It could be 
natural; in fact, it probably was natural. But she found herself digging into 
her pack anyway for her binoculars. She focused and looked again. There it was: 
a tiny depression, seemingly floating in space a foot or so below a narrow 
ledge. Magnified, it looked a little less natural. But where was the rest of the 
trail? 
Angling her binoculars down, she saw the answer: below the lone notch, a section 
of the cliff face had recently peeled off: the desert varnishthat layer of 
oxidation built up on sandstone over centurieswas a lighter, fresher color. At 
the base of the cliffs was the proofa small heap of broken rubble. Her heart 
began to pound. She turned and found Sloane staring at her curiously. 
She handed over the binoculars. Look at that. 
Sloane examined the indicated spot. Suddenly, her body tensed. 
Its a moqui step, she said breathlessly. The top of a trail. The rest must 
have fallen away. Jesus, look at that pile of rubble at the bottom. How could I 
be so stupid? There I was, so busy looking for sherds that I never thought . . 
. 
That little landslide must have happened since my father saw the trail, Nora 
said. But Sloane was already digging into her pack, pulling out a rope shot 
through with black fibers. 
What are you doing? she asked. 
No problem, came the response. Its a friction climb. 
Youre going up there? 
Damn right Im going up there. She worked frantically, pulling out her 
equipment, kicking off her hiking boots and tugging on climbing shoes. 
What about me? Nora asked. 
Sloane glanced up at her. You? 
Theres no way in hell youre going up there without me. 
Sloane stood up, began coiling the rope. Done any climbing? 
Some. Mostly one-pitch scrambles and boulder problems. 
What about your hands? 
Theyre fine, Nora insisted. Ill wear my gloves. 
Sloane hesitated for a moment. I didnt bring a lot of gear along, so youre 
going to have to belay me without a harness. 
No problem. 
Then lets do it, said Sloane, with a sudden radiant grin. 
In a moment they were at the base of the cliff. Sloane tied on with a figure 
eight, then helped Nora set up the ground stance and showed her how to use the 
belay device. Nora braced the rope around her body as Sloane dusted her hands, 
then turned to address the sheer face. Climbing, she called out in a clear 
voice. 
As Nora watched, Sloane moved up the rock with care and precision, instinctively 
finding tiny holds in the cliff face. As she climbed, her small loop of friends, 
cams, and carabiners dangled in the still air. Nora played out the rope 
sparingly. Fifteen feet up, Sloane paused to select a nut, insert it into a 
crack, and pull down sharply, testing for tightness. Satisfied, she attached a 
quickdraw to the wire and clipped the climbing rope into it. She continued up 
the face, placing a nut here, a friend there. At one point she called out 
Rock! and Nora dodged a shower of chips. Another minute and Sloane had reached 
the single toe hold, then gained the ledge above it. She set up the anchor and 
tied in, yelling Off belay! Then, leaning out onto her anchors, she called 
down to Nora, On belay! 
There was a brief silence. Then she cried out again. I can see a route! The 
sound echoed crazily around the valley. It goes up another two hundred feet and 
disappears over the edge of the first bench. Nora, the city must be recessed in 
an alcove just above! 
Im coming up! Nora shouted. 
Take it slow, came the voice from above. Follow my chalk marks for the best 
holds. Dont jam straight in, use the insides of your feet. The handholds are 
small. 
Got it, Nora said, freeing the rope from the belay device. Off belay! 
She began working her way up the cliff face, painfully aware that her climb had 
none of the grace or assurance of Sloanes. Within minutes, the muscles of her 
arms and calves were twitching spasmodically from the strain of clinging to the 
thin holds. Despite the gloves, the ends of her fingers were exquisitely 
painful. She was aware that Sloane was keeping the rope tighter than normal, but 
she was grateful for the added lift. 
As she approached the single ancient step, she felt her right foot lose its 
purchase on the rock. Her bandaged hands could not compensate, and she began to 
slip. Watch me! she cried. Immediately, the rope tightened. Lean away from 
the rock! she heard Sloane call. Ill haul you up! 
Taking short, choppy breaths, Nora half climbed and was half pulled the last few 
feet onto the ledge. She climbed shakily to her feet, massaging her fingers. 
From this vantage point she could see that the canyon wall sloped back at a 
terrifying angle. But at least it wasnt vertical, and as it continued the angle 
lessened. Sloane was right: though invisible from the ground, from up here the 
trail was unmistakable. 
You okay? Sloane asked. Nora nodded, and her companion began a second pitch up 
the rock, rope trailing from her harness. With the hand-and-toe trail still in 
place it was a simple pitch. After another fifty feet, she anchored herself and 
in a few minutes Nora was beside her, breathless from the exertion. The recessed 
benchland above them loomed closer, its hidden secrets now a single pitch away. 
Another ten minutes of climbing, and the trail leveled off considerably. Lets 
solo the rest, Sloane said, the excitement clear in her voice. 
Nora knew that, technically, they should keep to the safety of the ropes. But 
she was as eager to reach the bench as Sloane was. On an unspoken signal, they 
untied from the ropes and began moving quickly up the trail. It was the work of 
a minute to climb the last remaining stretch of rock. 
The bench was about fifteen feet wide, sloping gently, covered with grass and 
prickly pear cactus. They stood motionless, staring ahead. 
There was nothing: no city, no alcove, just the naked shelf of rock that ended 
in another cliff face twenty feet away, which rose vertically for at least five 
hundred feet. 
Oh, shit, Sloane groaned. Her shoulders slumped. 
In disbelief, Nora scanned the entire bench again. There was nothing. Her eyes 
began to sting, and she turned away. 
And then she glanced across the canyon for the first time. 
There, on the opposite cliff face, a huge alcove arched across the length of the 
canyon, poised halfway between ground and sky. The morning sun shone in at a 
perfect angle, shooting a wedge of pale light into the recesses below the huge 
arch. Tucked inside was a ruined city. Four great towers rose from the corners 
of the city, and between them lay a complicated arrangement of roomblocks and 
circular kivas, dotted with black windows and doorways. The morning sun gilded 
the walls and towers into a dream-city: insubstantial, airy, ready to evaporate 
into the desert air. 
It was the most perfect Anasazi city Nora had ever seen; more beautiful than 
Cliff Palace, as large as Pueblo Bonito. 
Sloane looked at Nora. And then she, too, slowly turned to look across the 
canyon. Her face went deathly pale. 
Nora closed her eyes, squeezed them shut, then opened them again. The city was 
still there. She gazed slowly across the vista, drinking it in. Wedged into the 
middle of the city, she could make out the circular outline of a Great Kiva: the 
largest she had ever seen, still roofed. An intact Great Kiva . . . nothing like 
it had ever been found. 
She could see how the alcove itself was set back from the bench, making it 
invisible from below. The great sandstone cliff above billowed out in a huge 
convex curve that leaned at least fifty feet beyond the bottom of the alcove. It 
was this fortuitous artifact of geology and erosion that allowed the city to be 
hidden, not only from above and below, but also from the opposite canyon rim. 
She had a fleeting, desperate thought: I hope my father saw this. 
Suddenly her knees grew weak and she dropped slowly to the ground. Seated, she 
continued to stare across the valley. There was a rustling sound, and Sloane 
knelt down beside her. 
Nora, came the voice, the slightest trace of irony leavening the reverence, I 
think weve found Quivira. 
 

25
 
SHOULD WE? SLOANE MURMURED TO NORA. 
There was a long pause. Noras eyes followed the benchland as it curved around 
the canyon. In places where the bench became a narrow ledge of slickrock, she 
could see that a shallow groove had actually been worn into the sandstone by 
countless prehistoric feet. One part of her registered all this quite 
dispassionately; another part was far away, still in shock, unable to comprehend 
the magnitude of the discovery. 
The dispassionate part told her that they should go back for the others, bring 
in the equipment, begin a formal survey. 
What the hell, she replied. Lets go. 
She rose shakily to her feet, Sloane following. A quick, dreamlike walk brought 
them around the far end of the canyon to the edge of the great alcove. Here Nora 
paused. They were now looking on the ruin from the far side, at an acute angle. 
The morning sun only penetrated the facade of the city; the rest faded back into 
darkness under the heavy brow of rock, a ghostly ruin melting into purple 
shadow. Quivira had a gracefulness, a sense of balance, that belied its massive 
stone construction. It was as if the city had been planned and built as a unit, 
rather than growing by accretion, as most other large Anasazi cliff dwellings 
had. There were still traces of gypsum whitewash on the outer walls, and the 
Great Kiva showed traces of what had once been a blue disk painted on its side. 
The four towers were paired, two on each side of the alcove, with the main city 
lying between and the circular Great Kiva at the very center. Each tower rose 
about fifty feet. The front two were freestanding; the rear two were actually 
mortared to the natural stone roof of the alcove. 
The ruin was in beautiful condition, but on closer view it was far from perfect. 
Nora could see several ugly fractures snaking up the sides of the four towers. 
In one place, the masonry had peeled off part of an upper story, revealing a 
dark interior. In the terraced city between the towers, several of the 
third-story rooms had collapsed. Others appeared to have burned. But overall the 
city was remarkably well preserved, its huge walls built of stone courses 
mortared with adobe. Wooden ladders stood against some of the walls. Hundreds of 
rooms were still intact and roofeda complicated arrangement of roomblocks and 
smaller circular kivas, dotted with black windows and doorways. The Great Kiva 
that dominated the center seemed almost untouched. It was a city made to last 
forever. 
Noras eyes wandered into the dark recesses of the alcove. Behind the towers, 
terraced roomblocks, and plazas lay a narrow passageway that ran between the 
back of the city and a long row of squat granaries. The passageway was low and 
dim. Behind the granaries appeared to lie a second, even more constricted 
alleywayno more than a sunken crawlspace, reallycloaked in darkness. This was 
unusual: in fact, Nora had never seen anything like it. In most Anasazi cities, 
the granaries were built directly into the back wall of the cave. 
Although the archaeologist in her registered these observations, Nora was aware 
that her hands were shaking and her heart was thudding at a breakneck pace. 
Is this real? she heard Sloane mutter hoarsely. 
As they slowly approached the city, a remarkable series of pictographs became 
visible on the cliff face beside them. They had been laid down in several 
layers, figures painted over figures, a palimpsest of Anasazi imagery in red, 
yellow, black, and white. There were handprints, spirals, shamanistic figures 
with huge shoulders and power lines radiating from their heads; antelope, deer, 
snakes, and a bear, along with geometric designs of unknown meaning. 
Look up, Sloane said. 
Nora followed her glance. There, twenty feet above their heads, were rows upon 
rows of negative handprints: paint sprayed over a hand held against the rock, a 
great crowd waving goodbye. Above that, on the domed roof itself, the Anasazi 
had painted a complicated pattern of crosses and dots of various sizes. 
Something about it was vaguely familiar. 
Then it hit her. My God, its an Anasazi planetarium. 
Yes. Thats the constellation Orion. And theres Cassiopeia, I think. Its just 
like the Planetarium at Canyon de Chelly, only more elaborate by far. 
Instinctively, Nora raised her camera. Then she dropped it again. There would be 
time, plenty of time, later. Now she just wanted to simply experience it. She 
took a step forward, then hesitated and glanced at her companion. 
I know what you mean, Sloane said. I feel the same way. Its as if we dont 
belong here. 
We dont, Nora heard herself say. 
Sloane looked at her a moment. Then she turned and began to move toward the 
ruin. Nora followed slowly. 
As they walked into the cool darkness, their shadows merged with the shadows of 
the stone. A group of swallows burst out of a cluster of mud nests above their 
heads, wheeling out into the sunlight, dipping and crying with displeasure at 
the intrusion. 
They walked toward a broad plaza area in front of the towers, their feet sinking 
into soft sand. Glancing down, Nora saw there was almost no cultural debris on 
the surface: many inches of fine, windblown dust had covered everything. 
At the front of the first tower, Nora stopped and laid her hand on the cool 
masonry. The tower had been built straight and sure, with a slight inward slope. 
There were no doors in its face; entry must have been gained from the back. A 
few notches far up its flank looked like arrow ports. Peering into one of the 
cracks in the bottom of the tower, she saw the masonry was at least ten feet 
thick. The towers were obviously for defense. 
Sloane walked around the towers front, Nora following in her wake. It was odd, 
she thought, how they were instinctively staying together. There was something 
unsettling about the place, something she couldnt immediately put into words. 
Perhaps it was the defensive nature of the site: the massive walls, the lack of 
ground-floor doors. There were even piles of round rocks stacked on some of the 
frontline roofs, clearly intended as weapons to be dropped on the heads of any 
invaders. Or maybe it was the absolute silence of the city, the powdery smell of 
the dust, the faint odor of corruption that unnerved her. 
She glanced at Sloane. The woman had recovered her composure and was scratching 
in her sketchbook. Her calm presence was reassuring. 
She turned back to the tower. On the back side, at the second-story level, she 
could now see a small keyhole doorway, partly collapsed. It was accessible from 
a flat roof, against which leaned a pole ladder, perfectly preserved. She moved 
to the ladder and carefully climbed to the roof. Closing her sketchbook, Sloane 
followed. A moment later, they ducked beneath the doorway and were staring up 
into the gloom of the tower. 
As she had expected, there was no staircase inside. Instead, running up the 
center, was a series of notched poles, resting on shelves. Stones projected from 
the inner walls, providing footholds. Nora had seen this type of arrangement 
before, at a ruin in New Mexico called Shaft House. In order to ascend the 
tower, one had to climb spraddle-legged, one foot using the notches in the 
poles, and the other foot using the stones fastened into the wall. It was a 
deliberately precarious and exposed method of climbing, keeping all four of the 
climbers limbs occupied. From above, defenders could knock off climbing 
invaders with rocks or arrows. At the very top of the tower, the last pole 
ladder went through a small hole into a tiny room beneath the roof: the last 
redoubt in case of attack. 
Nora looked at the huge cracks in the walls, and at the pole ladders, flimsy and 
brittle with dry rot. Even when first built, it would have been a terrifying 
climb; now, it was unthinkable. She nodded to Sloane, and they ducked back 
through the door and climbed down to the stepped-back facade of the city itself. 
Any exploration of the towers would have to wait. 
Walking away from the tower, Nora approached the foot of the nearest roomblock. 
Over the centuries, windblown sand had drifted up against the front of the 
houses. In places, the drifts were so high a person could climb to the flat 
roofs that led to the upper stories, and from there into the second-floor houses 
themselves. Beyond the roomblocks, she could see the circular form of the Great 
Kiva and the stylized blue disk incised into its facade, a white band at its 
top. 
Sloane drifted over silently, glancing first at Nora, then the sandpile. Again, 
Nora realized that protocol dictated they return for the others, establish a 
formal pattern of discovery. But she also realized that nobody, not even Richard 
Wetherill, had found an Anasazi city like this one. The urge to explore was too 
strong to resist. 
They scrambled up the sandpile to the first-story roofs. Ahead of them lay a row 
of darkened, keyhole doorways. As Nora glanced around, she saw, arrayed along 
the edge of the roof, partly buried in sand, eight gorgeous St. Johns 
Polychrome pots in perfect condition. Three of them still had their sandstone 
lids. 
The women paused at the nearest doorway, once again feeling the strange 
hesitation. Lets go inside, Sloane said at last. 
Nora ducked through the doorway. Gradually, as her eyes adjusted to the dim 
light, she could see the room was not empty. On the far side was a firepit with 
a stone comal. Beside it were two corrugated cooking pots, blackened with smoke. 
One had broken open, spilling tiny Anasazi corncobs across the floor. Packrats 
had built a nest in one corner, a junk heap of sticks and cactus husks thickly 
laid with dung. The acrid scent of their urine permeated the room. As Nora 
stepped forward, she saw, hanging on a peg near the door, a pair of sandals made 
from woven yucca fibers. 
Sloane switched on her flashlight and played its beam toward a dark doorway that 
beckoned on the far wall. Stepping through, Nora saw that the second room had a 
complicated painted design running like a border around the plastered walls. 
Its a snake, she said. A stylized rattlesnake. 
Unbelievable. Sloane ran the beam along the design. As if it was painted 
yesterday. The light came to rest in a niche on one wall. Look, Nora, theres 
something there. 
Nora stepped over. It was bundle of buckskin, about the size of a fist, tightly 
rolled and tied. 
Its a medicine bundle, she whispered. A mountain soil bundle, from the look 
of it. 
Sloane stared at her. Do you know of anyone finding an intact Anasazi medicine 
bundle? she asked. 
No, said Nora. I think this is the first. 
They stood in the room for a few moments, breathing in the ancient air. Then 
Nora found her eyes drawn to a third doorway. It was smaller than the others, 
and appeared to lead to a storage room. 
You first, Sloane said. 
Nora dropped to her hands and knees, crawled through the low doorway, and stood 
inside a stuffy space. Sloane followed. The yellow pool of light moved about, 
stabbing through a veil of dust raised by their entry. Gradually, objects and 
color emerged from the dimness, and Noras mind began to make sense of the 
chaos. 
Against the back wall, a row of extraordinary pots was arrayed: smooth, 
polished, painted with fantastical geometric designs. Sticking out of the mouth 
of one pot was a bundle of prayer sticks, carved, feathered, and painted, 
gleaming with color even in the dull light. Beside them was a long stone palette 
shaped like a huge leaf, on which had been placed a dozen fetishes of different 
animals fashioned from semiprecious stones, each with an arrowhead tied to its 
back with a string of sinew. Next sat a bowl filled with perfect, tiny bird 
points, all flaked out of the blackest obsidian. Nearby was a stone banco, on 
which a number of artifacts had been carefully arranged. As Noras eyes roamed 
the dimness with growing disbelief, she could see a rotten buckskin bag from 
which spilled a collection of mirage stones, some cradleboards, and several 
exquisite bags woven from apocynum fiber and filled with red ochre. 
The silence, here in the bowels of the ruined city, was absolute. Theres more 
in this one room, Nora thought, than the greatest museums have in their entire 
collections. 
She followed the beam of light as it revealed ever more remarkable objects. The 
skull of a grizzly bear, decorated with blue and red stripes of paint, bundles 
of sweetgrass stuffed into its eye sockets. The rattles of a rattlesnake tied to 
the end of a painted stick, human scalp attached. A large sheet of mica, cut 
into the outline of a hideously grinning skull, its teeth inlaid with blood-red 
carnelians. A quartz crystal carved in the shape of a corn beetle. A delicately 
woven basket, its outside feathered with hundreds of tiny, iridescent 
hummingbird breasts. 
Instinctively, she sought out Sloanes face in the dim light. Sloane looked 
back, amber eyes wild. The composure that had returned so quickly was gone 
again. 
This must have been the storage room for the family who occupied these 
roomblocks, Sloane finally said, voice trembling. Just one family. There could 
be dozens of other rooms like this in this city. Maybe hundreds. 
I believe it, Nora replied. But what I cant believe is the wealth. Even in 
Anasazi days, this would represent an inconceivable fortune. 
The dust raised by their entry drifted in layers through the cool, heavy air, 
scattering the yellow light. Nora took a deep breath, and then another, trying 
to clear her mind. 
Nora, Sloane murmured at last. Do you realize what weve found? 
Nora tore her eyes away from the clutter of dim objects. Im working on it, 
she said. 
Weve just made one of the greatest archaeological discoveries of all time. 
Nora swallowed, opened her mouth to reply. But no sound would come, and in the 
end she simply nodded. 
 

26
 
TWELVE HOURS LATER, THE CITY OF QUIVIRA lay in shadow, the late afternoon sun 
blazing its last on the valley cliffs opposite the ruin. Nora rested on the 
ancient retaining wall below what theyd come to call the Planetarium, feeling 
as drained as she had ever felt in her life. She could hear the excited voices 
of the rest of the expedition ringing out of the city, distorted and magnified 
by the vast pregnant hollow of rock in which Quivira stood. She glanced down at 
the rope ladder and pulley system, rigged by Sloane to provide quick access to 
the ruin. Far below, in the grove of cottonwood trees where they had made their 
camp, she could see the smoke of Bonarottis campfire and the gray rectangle 
that was his folding serving table. The cook had promised them medallions of 
wild javelina with coffee barbecue sauce andamazinglytwo bottles of Chteau 
Ptrus in celebration. It had been, she thought, the longestand greatestday of 
her life: that day of days, as Howard Carter had described it when he first 
entered King Tutankhamens tomb. And they had yet to enter the Great Kiva. That, 
she had decreed, would be delayed until they had made a rough survey and 
recovered some sense of their perspective. 
From time to time, during the course of the day, Nora had found herself 
searching among the sandy ruins for footprints, inscriptions, 
excavationsanything that would prove her father actually reached the city. But 
the rational part of her knew that the constant currents of wind and animal 
tracks would have long ago erased any marks of his passing. And it could well be 
that he, like Nora herself, had been so overwhelmed by the majesty of the city 
as to feel any modern inscription to be a sacrilege. 
The group emerged from the ruin, Sloane bringing up the rear. Swire and 
Smithback came toward Nora and the rope ladder. Swire simply slumped down, 
flushed beneath his leathery tan, but Smithback remained behind, talking 
animatedly. Unbelievable, he was saying, his voice loud and grating in the 
ruins stillness. Oh, God, what a find. This is going to make the discovery of 
King Tuts tomb look like a . . . He stopped, temporarily speechless. Nora felt 
inexplicably annoyed that his thoughts would coincide with her own. You know, I 
did some work in the New York Museum of Natural History, he began again, and 
their collection couldnt begin to hold a candle to this place. Theres more 
stuff here than in all the museums in the world, for chrissakes. When my agent 
hears about this, shes going to get such a 
Noras sudden glare silenced the writer. 
Sorry, Madame Chairman. Smithback settled back, looking only momentarily put 
out. He whipped out a small spiral-bound notebook from a back pocket and began 
jotting notes. 
Aragon, Holroyd, and Black joined them along the wall, followed by Sloane. This 
is the discovery of the century, Black boomed. What a cap to a career. 
Holroyd sat down by the retaining wall, slowly and unsteadily, like an old man. 
Nora could see his face was dirty and streaked, as if he had wept at the sight. 
How are you doing, Peter? she asked quietly. 
He looked at her with a weak smile. Ask me tomorrow. 
Nora turned to Aragon, glancing curiously at his face, wondering if the 
magnitude of the discovery would break his usual dour reserve. What she saw was 
a face covered with a sheen of sweat, and a pair of eyes that had grown as dark 
and glittery as the obsidian the city was full of. 
He looked back at Nora. And thenfor the first time since shed met him at the 
fire circlehe smiled, widely and genuinely, white teeth huge in the brown face. 
Its fantastic, he said as he took her hand and pressed it. Almost beyond 
belief. We all have a lot to thank you for. Perhaps myself more than the rest. 
There was a curious force in his low, vibrant voice. Over the years Id come to 
believe, as much as I believed anything, that the secrets of the Anasazi would 
never be ours. But this city holds the key. I know it. And I feel fortunate to 
be part of it. He removed his knapsack, placed it on the ground, and sat down 
next to her. 
Theres something I must tell you, he said. Perhaps now isnt the right time, 
but it will only become more difficult the longer we are here. 
She looked at him. Yes? 
You know my belief in Zero Site Trauma. Im not as zealous as some, but I still 
feel it would be a terrible crime to disturb this city, to remove its essence 
and squirrel it away in museum storage rooms. 
Black snorted. Dont tell me youre a sucker for that bullshit. Zero Site 
Trauma is a passing fad of political correctness. The real crime would be to 
leave this place unexplored. Think of all we can learn. 
Aragon looked at him steadily. We can learn everything we need to know without 
looting the city. 
Since when is a disciplined archaeological excavation called looting? Sloane 
asked mildly. 
Todays archaeology is tomorrows plundering, Aragon replied. Look what 
Schliemann did to the site of Troy a hundred years ago, in the name of science. 
He practically bulldozed the place, destroyed it for future generations. And 
that, for its day, was a disciplined excavation. 
Well, you can tiptoe around all you want, taking pictures and touching 
nothing, said Black, raising his voice. But I for one cant wait to tuck into 
that midden. He turned toward Smithback. To the uneducated mind, all these 
treasures are amazingbut nothing tells you what you want to know like a trash 
mound. Youd do well to remember that for your book. 
Nora looked from one member of the group to the other. Shed expected this 
discussion, although not quite so soon. Theres no way, she said slowly, that 
we can really begin to excavate this city, even if we wanted to. All we can hope 
to do in the next few weeks is to survey and inventory. 
Black began to protest, and she raised her hand. If we are to properly date and 
analyze the city, its necessary to be a little invasive. Thats Blacks job, 
and hell confine any site disturbance to test trenching in the trash mound. No 
part of the city itself will be excavated, and no artifacts will be shifted or 
removed, unless absolutely necessary, and with my express permission. 
Site disturbance, Black echoed sarcastically, but he sat back with a satisfied 
air. 
Well have to bring back a few type specimens for further analysis at the 
Institute, she went on. But we will only bring back inferior artifacts that 
are duplicated elsewhere in the city. Long-term, the Institute will have to 
decide what to do with the site. But I promise you, Enrique, that Ill recommend 
they leave Quivira untouched and intact. She glanced pointedly at Sloane, who 
had been listening intently. Do you agree? 
After a brief pause, Sloane nodded. 
Aragon glanced from one to the other. Under the circumstances, that will have 
to be acceptable. Then he smiled again, suddenly, and stood up. A hush fell on 
the group. 
Nora, he said, you have the congratulations of all of us. 
Nora felt a sudden flush of pleasure as she listened to the chorus of clapping 
punctuated by a long loud whistle from Black. Then Smithback too was on his 
feet, hoisting a canteen. 
And Id like to propose a toast to Padraic Kelly. If it werent for him, wed 
never be here. 
This sudden reference to her father, coming from a source as unexpected as 
Smithback, brought a sudden welling of emotion that closed Noras throat. Her 
father had never been far from her thoughts all day. But in the end, she had 
seen no trace of him, and she felt grateful for Smithbacks remembrance. 
Thank you, she said. Smithback took a drink and passed the canteen. 
The group fell silent. Light was draining fast from the valley, and it was time 
they made their way down the rope ladder to supper. And yet everyone seemed 
reluctant to leave the magical place. 
What I cant figure out is why the hell they left all that stuff behind, 
Smithback said. Its like walking away from Fort Knox. 
A lot of Anasazi sites show a similar abandonment, Nora replied. These people 
were on foot, they had no beasts of burden. It made more sense to leave your 
goods behind and make fresh ones when you arrived at your new home. When the 
Anasazi moved, they usually only carried their most sacred items and turquoise. 

But it looks like even the turquoise was left behind here. I mean, the place is 
full of it. 
True, Nora said after a moment. This was not a typical abandonment. Its like 
they left everything. Thats part of what makes this site unique. 
The sheer wealth of the city, and the many ceremonial artifacts, makes me think 
it must have been a religious center that overshadowed even Chaco, said Aragon. 
A city of priests. 
A city of priests? Black repeated skeptically. Why would a city of priests be 
located way out here, at the very edge of the Anasazi realm? What I found more 
interesting was the amazingly defensive nature of the place. Even the site 
itself, hidden so perfectly in this isolated canyonits damn near impregnable. 
Youd almost think these people were paranoid. 
Id be paranoid if I had the kind of wealth they had, Sloane murmured. 
If they were impregnable, then why did they abandon the city? Holroyd asked. 
They probably overfarmed the valley below, Black replied with a shrug. Simple 
soil exhaustion. The Anasazi didnt know the art of fertilization. 
Nora shook her head. Theres no way, given its size, that the farmland in the 
valley could support the city to begin with. There must be a hundred granaries 
back there. They had to have been importing tons of food from someplace else. 
But all this begs the question: why put such a huge city here in the first 
place? In the middle of nowhere, at the end of a circuitous road, at the end of 
a narrow slot canyon? During the rainy season, that canyon would have been 
impassable half the time. 
As I said, Aragon replied. A city of priests, at the end of a difficult 
ritual journey. Nothing else makes sense. 
Of course, Black said scornfully. When in doubt, blame it on religion. 
Besides, the Anasazi were egalitarian. They didnt believe in a social 
hierarchy. The idea of them having a priestly city, or a ruling class, is 
absurd. 
There was another silence. 
What really intrigues me, Smithback said, notebook once again in hand, is the 
idea of gold and silver. 
There he goes again, Nora thought. Like I told you on the barge, she said a 
little more loudly than she intended, the Anasazi had no precious metals. 
Just a minute, Smithback said, folding his notebook and shoving it into his 
pants. What about the Coronado reports Holroyd was reading aloud? All that talk 
of plates and jugs of gold. You mean that was just bullshit? 
Nora laughed. Not to put too fine a point on it, yes. The Indians were just 
telling the Spanish what they wanted to hear. The idea was to tell the Spanish 
that the gold was somewhere else, far away, to get rid of them as quickly as 
possible. 
Perhaps something was lost in translation, said Aragon, with a smile. 
Come on, Smithback said. Quivira wasnt made up by the Indians. So why should 
the gold be? 
Holroyd cleared his throat a little tentatively. According to that book I was 
reading, Coronado had gold samples with him. When he tested the Indians by 
showing them samples of gold, copper, silver, and tin, the Indians identified 
the precious metals from the base. They knew what they were. 
Smithback folded his arms. See? 
Nora rolled her eyes. One of the foundations of southwestern archaeology was 
that the Anasazi had no metals. It almost wasnt worth arguing the point. 
Black suddenly spoke up. All over the Southwest, he said, Anasazi graves have 
been found containing parrot and macaw feathers imported from the Aztec empires 
and their Toltec predecessors. Theyve also found New Mexico turquoise in Aztec 
burials. And we know that the Anasazi traded extensively with the Toltecs and 
Aztecsslaves, obsidian, agate, salt, and pottery. 
What are you getting at? Nora asked. 
Simply that with all this trade going on, its not entirely unreasonable to 
think the Anasazi obtained gold. 
Nora opened her mouth, then shut it again, surprised at hearing this from Black. 
Holroyd, Swire, and even Sloane were listening intently. 
If they did have gold, Nora began, trying to keep patient, then, in the tens 
of thousands of Anasazi sites excavated over the last hundred and fifty years, 
wed have found some. But not one excavation has ever turned up even the tiniest 
speck of gold. The bottom line is, if the Anasazi had gold, then where is it 
all? 
Maybe right here, said Smithback quietly. 
Nora stared at him. Then she began to laugh. Bill, put a cold compress on that 
fevered imagination of yours. I just saw a dozen rooms full of incredible stuff 
today, but not a single glimmer of gold. If we do find gold in Quivira, Ill eat 
that ridiculous hat of yours. Okay? Now lets get down and see what miracle Chef 
Bonarotti has prepared for dinner. 
 

27
 
NORA GAZED ANXIOUSLY UP AT THE FIGURE rapelling down the rock wall four hundred 
feet above her head, a brightly colored bug against the sandstone. Beside Nora, 
Black and Holroyd gaped upward, motionless. Nearby, Smithback stood, notebook at 
the ready, as if waiting for some disaster to happen. A sharp clang rang out as 
Sloane drove an angle into the deep red rock with her wall hammer. As Nora 
watched, Sloane affixed the next portion of the rope ladder to the cliff face, 
then slid easily another ten feet down the rockface to drive in the next piece 
of gear. 
In order for the weather receiver and communications gear to operate, it was 
necessary to place them atop the rim of the canyon, far above Quivira. Two hours 
earlier, Nora and Sloane had determined the best place to set up the gear, 
basing their estimates on a combination of the easiest climb and lowest 
clifftop. The site turned out to be just beyond the far end of the city, 
overlooking the valley floor by the entrance to the slot canyon through which 
they had entered. 
Easiest climb, perhaps, but still frightful. Noras eyes had traveled up the 
wall, stopping at the last pitch. It was obviously the most difficult, a 
beetling brow of rock that hung out into space. But Sloane had just smiled. 
Grade 1, 5.10, A-two, shed murmured, visually rating the difficulty of the 
climb. Look at that secure crack system, goes almost all the way to the top. No 
problem. And, in a spectacular feat of bravura climbing, she proved herself 
correct. An hour later, as they waited nervously below, slings and a haul bag 
tumbled down from above, indicating that Sloane had reached the top and was 
ready to hoist up the radio gear. 
And now Sloane was making her way back down to the bench that held Quivira, 
placing the ladder as she went. Another ten minutes, and she dropped nimbly into 
the group to a round of applause. 
That was fantastic, Nora said. 
Sloane shrugged and smiled, obviously pleased. Another ten feet and wed have 
run out of ladder. Is everybody ready? 
Holroyd looked up, swallowing. I guess so. 
I have important work to do, Black said. Can someone remind me again why I 
have to risk life and limb on this little climbing expedition? 
You wont risk anything, Sloane laughed in her deep contralto. Those 
placements of mine are bombproof. 
And its your misfortune, Nora said, that youve been on a lot of digs and 
know how to use the radio equipment. We need a backup for Holroyd. 
Yeah, but why me? Black asked. Why not Aragon? Hes got more field experience 
than all of us put together. 
Hes also got twenty years on the rest of us, Nora replied. Youre much 
better suited to a physical challenge like this. The buttering-up seemed to 
have its intended effect: Black pulled in his chest and looked sternly up the 
cliff. 
Lets get started, then. Sloane turned briefly toward Smithback. You coming? 

Smithback looked speculatively upward. Id better not, he said. Somebody has 
to stay behind to catch the ones that fall. 
Sloane raised one eyebrow, with a look that said shed thought as much. All 
right. Aaron, why dont you lead, and Ill follow. Peter, you come third, and 
Nora, please bring up the rear. 
Nora noticed that Sloane had staggered the inexperienced climbers with the more 
experienced ones. Why do I have to go first? Black asked. 
Believe me, its easier when nobodys ahead of you. Less chance of eating a 
boot that way. 
Black looked unconvinced, but grasped the base of the rope ladder and began 
hoisting himself up. 
Its just like climbing the ladder to Quivira, only longer, Sloane said. Keep 
your body hugged to the rock, and your feet apart. Take a rest at each bench. 
The longest pitch is the last one, maybe two hundred feet. 
But Black, scrabbling at the second step, suddenly lost his footing. Sloane 
moved with the swiftness of a cat as Black came lurching downward. She half 
caught, half tackled him, and they ended up sprawled in a soft drift of sand at 
the base of the cliff, Black atop Sloane. They lay still, and Nora came running 
over. She could see that Sloane was shaking and making a choking sound; but as 
she bent down in a panic she realized the woman was laughing hysterically. Black 
seemed frozen in either fear or surprise. His face was buried between Sloanes 
breasts. 
Death, where is thy sting? Smithback intoned. 
Sloane continued to gasp with laughter. Aaron, youre supposed to be climbing 
up, not down! She made no move to push Black away, and after a few moments the 
scientist sat up, hair askew. He backed away, looking from Sloane to the rope 
ladder and back to Sloane again. 
Sloane sat up, still giggling, and dusted herself off. Youre letting yourself 
get psyched out, she said. Its just a ladder. But if its falling youre 
afraid of, Ive got a wall harness you can use instead. She stood up and walked 
over to her equipment duffel. Its for emergencies, really, but you can use it 
to get familiar with the climb. She pulled out a small harness constructed of 
nylon webbing and fastened it around Black. You are just going to jumar your 
way up the rope. That way, you cant fall. 
Black, strangely quiet, simply looked at Sloane and nodded. This time, with the 
mental security of the harness and Sloanes encouragement, he got the hang of 
using the jumar and was soon moving confidently up the cliff. Sloane followed, 
then Holroyd reached hold of the lowest rung. 
Nora had noticed that, in the sudden scramble, Sloane hadnt bothered to check 
on the image specialists state of mind. You up to this, Peter? she asked. 
Holroyd looked at her and smiled bashfully. Hey, its just a ladder, like she 
said. Anyway, Im going to have to climb this thing once a day. Id better get 
used to it. 
He took a deep breath, then began to climb. Nora followed carefully. She tested 
one or two of Sloanes placements and found them to be as tight and secure as 
the woman had said. Shed learned from experience it was best not to look down 
on a long climb, and she kept her eyes on the three figures ranged up the face 
above her. There were long minutes of almost vertical climbing. They caught 
their breaths at each ledge. The final pitch ended with a brief, frightening 
moment of hanging backward as she worked around the protruding rimrock. For an 
instant, Nora was reminded of the Devils Backbone: the scrabbling at the 
slickrock, the frightened screaming of the horses as they hurtled to their 
deaths below her feet. Then she took another determined step upward, hoisted 
herself onto the top of the cliff, and collapsed, gasping, to her knees. Nearby 
sat Holroyd, sides heaving, head resting on crossed arms. Beside him was Black, 
trembling with exhaustion and stress. 
Sloane, alone, seemed unaffected by the climb. She began moving the small array 
of equipment a safe distance from the edge of the cliff: Holroyds satellite 
positioning unit, now sporting a long UHF whip antenna; the microwave horn; the 
solar panel and deep-cycle battery; rack-mounted receivers and transmitters. 
Beside them, winking in the morning light, the satellite dish was still enmeshed 
in nylon netting from the trip up the cliff face. Nearby was the 
weather-receiving unit. 
Holroyd struggled to his feet and moved toward the equipment, followed 
reluctantly by Black. Let me get this stuff set up and calibrated, Holroyd 
said. It shouldnt take long. 
Nora glanced at her watch with satisfaction. It was quarter to eleven, fifteen 
minutes before the appointed hour for their daily transmission to the Institute. 
As Holroyd initialized the radio unit and aligned the dish, Nora looked around 
at the surrounding vista. It was breathtaking: a landscape of red, yellow, and 
sepia clifftops, unfolding for countless miles under brilliant sunlight, covered 
with sparse pion-juniper scrub. Far to the southwest, she could make out the 
sinuous gorge through which ran the Colorado River. To the east stood the 
brooding rim of the Devils Backbone, running off and behind the Kaiparowits 
Plateau. The purple prow of the Kaiparowits thrust above the land, like a great 
stone battleship ploughing through the wilderness, its flanks stripped to the 
bone by erosion, riven by steep canyons and ravines. The landscape ran on 
endlessly in all directions, an uninhabited wilderness of stone covering many 
thousands of square miles. 
To improve reception, Holroyd climbed into one of the stunted juniper trees 
nearby and screwed the twenty-four-hour weather receiver into the highest part 
of the trunk. He then wrapped the units wire antenna around a long branch. As 
he adjusted the receivers gain, Nora could hear the monotonous voice of the 
forecaster reading out the days report for Page, Arizona. 
Black, having watched Holroyd set up the equipment, was now standing well away 
from the rim, looking pleased with himself, the smugness somewhat diluted by the 
harness that still clung to his haunches. Sloane, meanwhile, stood perilously 
close to the edge. Its amazing, Nora, she called out. But looking down from 
here, youd never know there was an alcove, let alone a ruin. Its uncanny. 
Nora joined her at the edge. The ruin, set far back, was no longer visible, and 
the brow of rock below their summit shut out any hint that a cave lay 
underneath. Seven hundred feet below, the valley lay nestled between walls of 
stone like a green gem in a red setting. The stream ran down the center of the 
valley, and Nora could see more clearly the tortuous boulder-strewn path of the 
frequent floodwaters, a hundred yards wide, that ripped through the center of 
the valley. She could see the camp, blue and yellow tents scattered among the 
cottonwoods well above the floodplain, and a wisp of smoke curling up from 
Bonarottis fire. It was a good, safe camp. 
As eleven oclock neared, Holroyd shut off the weather receiver and returned to 
the radio unit. Nora heard a bark of static, the whistle of frequency overload. 
Got it, Holroyd said, tugging on a pair of headphones. Lets see whos out 
there. He began murmuring into the microphone, almost toylike in its diminutive 
size. Then he straightened up abruptly. You wont believe it, but Ive got Dr. 
Goddard himself, he said. Let me patch this through to the speaker. 
Abruptly, Sloane moved away from the edge and busied herself coiling rope. Nora 
watched her a moment, then turned her glance to the microphone, feeling the 
excitement of the discovery kindling once again inside her. She wondered how the 
elder Goddard would react to the news of their success. 
Dr. Kelly? came the distant voice, crackling and small. Nora? Is that you? 
Dr. Goddard, said Nora. Were here. We made it. 
Thank God. There was another crackle of static. Ive been here at eleven 
every morning. Another day, and we would have sent out a rescue party. 
The canyon walls were too high, we couldnt transmit en route. And it took us a 
few more days than we anticipated. 
Thats just what I told Blakewood. There was a brief silence. Whats the 
news? Goddards excitement and apprehension was palpable even through the wash 
of static. 
Nora paused. She hadnt quite prepared herself for what to say. We found the 
city, Dr. Goddard. 
There was a sound that might have been a gasp or an electronic artifact. You 
found Quivira? Is that what I just heard? 
Nora paused, wondering just where to begin. Yes. Its a large city, six hundred 
rooms at least. 
Damn this static. I didnt catch that. How many rooms? 
Six hundred. 
There was a faint sound of wheezing or coughing, Nora couldnt tell which. Good 
lord. What kind of condition is the ruin? 
Its in beautiful condition. 
Is it intact? Unlooted? 
Yes. Nothings been touched. 
Wonderful, wonderful. 
Noras excitement grew stronger. Dr. Goddard, thats not the most important 
thing. 
Yes? 
The city is unlike any other. Its absolutely filled with priceless, priceless 
artifacts. The Quivirans took nothing with them. There are hundreds of rooms 
filled with extraordinary artifacts, most of them perfectly preserved. 
The voice took on a new tone. What do you mean, extraordinary artifacts? Pots? 

That and much more. The city was amazingly wealthy, unlike any other Anasazi 
site. Textiles, carvings, turquoise jewelry, painted buffalo hides, stone idols, 
fetishes, prayer sticks, palettes. There are even some very early Kachina Cult 
masks. All in a remarkable state of preservation. 
Nora fell silent. She could hear another brief cough. Nora, what can I say? To 
hear all this . . . Is my daughter there? 
Yes. Nora handed the microphone to Sloane. 
Sloane? came the voice from Santa Fe. 
Yes, Father. 
Is all this really true? 
Yes, Father, it is, and its no exaggeration. Its the greatest archaeological 
discovery since Simpson found Chaco Canyon. 
Thats a pretty tall statement, Sloane. 
Sloane did not answer. 
What are the plans for the survey? 
Weve decided that everything should be left in situ, undisturbed, except for 
test trenching in the trash mound. Theres enough here for a years worth of 
surveying and cataloguing, without moving anything. Day after tomorrow we plan 
to enter the Great Kiva. 
Sloane, listen to me: be very, very careful. The entire academic world is going 
to be judging your every move after the fact, second-guessing you, picking apart 
everything you did. What you do in the next days will later be analyzed to death 
by the self-appointed experts. And because of the magnitude of the discovery, 
there will be jealousy and ill will. Many of your colleagues will not wish you 
well. They will all think they could have done it better. Do you understand what 
Im saying? 
Yes, said Sloane, returning the mike. Nora thought she detected a momentary 
edge of irritation, even anger, in the womans voice. 
So what you do has to be perfect. That goes for everyone else. Nora, too. 
We understand, said Nora. 
The greatest discovery since Chaco, Goddard echoed. Again, there was a long 
period of static, punctuated by electronic pops and hisses. 
Are you there? Nora finally asked. 
Very much so, came Goddards voice, with a little laugh, although I have to 
admit an urge to pinch myself to make sure. Nora, I cant emphasize how much you 
are to be commended. And that goes for your father. 
Thank you, Dr. Goddard. And thanks for your faith in me. 
Good lady. Well expect your transmission tomorrow morning, at the same time. 
Perhaps then you can provide some more concrete details about the city. 
Yes. Goodbye, Dr. Goddard. 
She handed the mike back to Holroyd, who powered-down the transmitter and began 
securing a lightweight tarp over the electronics. Nora turned to find Sloane 
gathering her climbing gear, a dark look on her face. 
Everything all right? Nora asked. 
Sloane slung a coiled rope over her shoulder. Im fine. Its just that he never 
trusts me to do anything right. Even from eight hundred miles away, he thinks he 
can do it better. 
She began to walk away, but Nora put a restraining hand on her arm. Dont be 
too hard on him. That caution was as much to me as it was to you. He trusts you, 
Sloane. And so do I. 
Sloane looked at her for a moment. Then the darkness passed and she broke into 
her lazy smile. 
Thanks, Nora, she said. 
 

28
 
SKIP STOPPED AT THE TOP OF THE RISE, THE SUDDEN dust cloud rolling over the car 
and drifting off into the hot afternoon sky. It was a parched June day, the kind 
that only occurred before the onset of the summer rains. A single cumulus cloud 
struggled pathetically over the Jemez Mountains. 
For a moment he decided the best thing would be to simply turn around and go 
back into town. Hed sat up in bed the night before with a sudden inspiration. 
Thurber was still missing, and Skip still felt responsible, in some formless 
way, for the disappearance. So, to make up, hed take Teresas dog, Teddy Bear, 
under his wing. After all, Teresa had been killed in their home. And who better 
to take care of her dog than her old neighbor and friend, Nora? 
But what seemed like such a good idea last night didnt seem so great now. 
Martinez had made it clear that the investigation was still active and that he 
wasnt to go to the house. Well, he wasnt going to the house: he was going to 
Teresas place. Still, Skip knew he could get in a lot of trouble just for being 
here. 
He put the old car into gear, eased off the brakes, and coasted down the hill. 
He drove past their old ranch house and up the rise to Teresas place. The long, 
low structure was dark and silent, the livestock all taken away. This was 
stupid, Skip thought. Whoever took the animals probably took Teddy Bear, as 
well. Still, hed come all this way. 
Leaving the car running and the door open, he got out, walked around to the 
front, and called out. There was no answering bark. 
He walked up to the front of the house. The old screen door, taped in countless 
places with black electrical tape, was shut tight. His hand raised automatically 
to knock, then he stopped himself. 
Teddy Bear! he called out, turning. 
Silence. 
He found himself looking down in the direction of Las Cabrillas. Maybe the dog 
had wandered down toward their old house. He started forward for the old path, 
then stopped. His hand slid down to his belt and rested briefly on the handle of 
his fathers old .357. It was big and clumsy, it fired like a cannon, but it 
stopped whatever it hit. Hed only fired it once, damn near fracturing his 
wrists and making his ears ring for two days. Reassured, he continued down the 
dirt path, then circled around to the back of the ranch house. Yo, Teddy, you 
old mutt! he called in a softer voice. 
He stepped up onto the portal, through the doorless frame and into the house. 
The kitchen was a whirlwind of ruin, the floor torn apart, holes like ragged eye 
sockets staring at him from every wall. At the far end of the room, he could see 
a yellow band of crime-scene tape barring entry into the living room. Several 
small lines of small, purplish-black pawprints ran from the living room to the 
kitchen door. Avoiding the prints, he stepped gingerly forward. 
The smell assailed him first, followed almost instantly by the roar of flies. He 
took an instinctive step backward, gagging. Then, with a deep breath, he moved 
cautiously up to the tape and peered into the living room. 
A huge pool of blood had congealed in the center of the room, punctuated here 
and there by the blacker holes of missing floorboards. Involuntarily, Skip 
gasped with revulsion. Jesus, I didnt know a human body held that much blood. 
It seemed to spread in twisted, eccentric rivulets almost to the far walls. At 
its periphery, countless little pawprints could be seen. He could make out 
blowfly maggots wriggling in the places where the blood had pooled deeper. 
Skip swayed slightly, and he reached for the doorframe to steady himself. The 
flies, disturbed, rose in an angry curtain. A camera tripod stood folded in one 
corner, SANTA FE P.D. stenciled in white along one leg. 
Oh, no, no, Skip murmured. Teresa, Im so sorry. 
He stared hard at the room for a minute, then two. Then he turned and walked on 
wooden legs back through the kitchen. 
Outside, the air seemed almost cool after the dark oppressive heat of the house. 
Skip stood on the portal, breathing slowly, looking around. He cupped his hands. 
Teddy Bear! he called out one last time. 
He knew he should leave. Some cop, maybe even Martinez, could come by at any 
time. But he remained another minute, looking out over the backyard of his 
childhood. Although what had happened to Teresa remained a mystery, the house 
itself felt somehow tired and empty to him. It was almost as if whatever evil 
might have lurked here had dissipated. Or, perhaps, gone elsewhere. 
Teddy Bear had clearly been taken away with the livestock. With a sigh, he 
stepped down into the dirt and walked back up the hill toward his car. It was an 
old 71 Plymouth Fury, his mothers, faded olive green and pocked with rust; yet 
it was one of his most treasured possessions. The front grille, with its heavy 
chrome fangs, listed slightly to the left, giving it a shambling, menacing 
appearance. There were just enough dents here and there around the body to let 
other drivers know that one more wouldnt make any difference. 
There, sitting in the drivers seat, was Teddy Bear. His monstrous tongue hung 
out in the heat and was dripping saliva all over the seat, but he looked fine. 
Teddy Bear, you old rascal! cried Skip. 
The dog whined, slobbering over his hand. 
Move over, for chrissakes. Im the one with a drivers license. He shoved the 
hundred-pound dog into the passenger seat and got behind the wheel. 
Placing the gun in the glove compartment, Skip put the car in gear and 
maneuvered back onto the dirt road. He realized that he felt better than he had 
all day; somehow, despite the grimness and tragedy of the scene, it was a relief 
to put this particular pilgrimage behind him. Mentally, he began sorting out his 
evening. First hed have to load up on dog food; it would bust his slim budget, 
but what the hell. Then hed swing by the Noodle Emporium for some curried 
Singapore mei fun, and study the book on Anasazi pottery styles that Sonya 
Rowling had given him two days before. It was a fascinating text, and hed found 
himself staying up late, underlining passages, scribbling notes in the margin. 
Hed even forgotten to crack open the new bottle of mescal that stood on his 
living room table. 
The car rattled over the cattle guard and Skip lurched onto the main road, 
pointing the Fury toward town and gunning the engine, eager to put the ranch 
house far behind. The dog hung his head out the window, the low whining now 
replaced by an eager snuffling and slobbering. Strings of saliva curled away 
into the breeze. 
Skip descended the hill toward Fox Run, fitting pot pieces together in his mind, 
as the desert dirt road fell away and macadam and manicured golf links took its 
place. Some half a mile ahead, at the base of the long downhill, the road curved 
sharply before passing the clubhouse. As a boy, Skip had ridden his fathers 
dirt bike right through where the clubhouse now stood. That was ten years ago, 
he mused. There hadnt been a house within three miles. Now it was home to 
seventy-two holes of golf and six hundred condominiums. 
The big car had picked up speed and the curve was coming up fast. Mentally 
returning to his potsherds, Skip put his foot on the brake. 
And felt it sink, without resistance, to the metal floorboards. 
Instantly he sat forward, adrenaline burning through his limbs. He pressed the 
pedal again, then stamped on it. Nothing. He looked ahead through wide eyes. 
Just a quarter mile ahead now, the road veered to the left, avoiding a huge 
ledge of basalt that thrust out of the desert. With horrible clarity, Skip could 
see a metal plaque screwed into the ledge. 
  FOX RUN COUNTRY CLUB
  CAUTION: GOLFERS CROSSING 
He glanced at the speedometer: sixty-two. Hed never make the turn; hed wipe 
out, turn over. He could throw it into reverse, or even park, but that might 
pitch the car out of control and wrap him around the ledge. 
In desperation, he jammed on the emergency brake. There was a sudden lunge and a 
high squealing sound, and the smell of burning steel filled the car. The dog 
sprawled forward, yelping in surprise. Dimly, he was aware of a party of 
white-haired golfers on a nearby green, swiveling their necks and staring, 
open-mouthed, as he flew by. Somebody jumped out of a golf cart and began to 
sprint toward the clubhouse. 
The wheel bucked in Skips hands and he realized he was losing control. The 
basalt ledge yawned ahead, no more than a few seconds away. He turned the car 
sharply to the left. It twisted beneath him, turning wide, then swinging around 
in one complete revolution, then another. Skip was shouting now but he couldnt 
hear himself over the squealing of the tires. In a dense pall of burning rubber, 
the car sheered off the road, still spinning, the tires catching first gravel, 
then grass. There was a tremendous lurch and the car came to a violent stop. A 
thick wash of cream-colored sand settled on the dashboard and hood. 
Skip sat motionless, fingers glued to the dead wheel. The squeal of tires was 
replaced by the tick of cooling metal. Dimly, he was aware that he had landed in 
a bunker, canted sharply to one side. Black, foul-smelling, slobbering lips and 
tongue hovered before his eyes as Teddy Bear frantically licked at his face. 
The sounds of pattering feet, quick worried conversation, then a rap on the 
windshield. Sonny? came the concerned voice. Hey, son, you okay? 
If Skip heard, he gave no sign. Instead, he removed his trembling hands from the 
wheel, grasped the two ends of the seat belt, and slowly fastened them around 
his waist. 
 

29
 
THE REST OF THE FIRST FULL DAY OF WORK AT Quivira went exceptionally well. The 
core members of the expedition set to their tasks with a professionalism that 
both impressed and heartened Nora. Black, in particular, had settled down and 
was quickly confirming his reputation as a top-notch field-worker. With 
remarkable speed, Holroyd had assembled a wireless paging network, designed 
around a central transmitter, to allow the members of the group to communicate 
with each other from anywhere within the site. The fascination and allure of 
Quivira worked a special magic on professional and amateur alike. Around the 
campfire that evening, again and again, conversation would spontaneously cease; 
and, as if with a single mind, all eyes would be irresistibly drawn up the dark 
walls of the canyon, in the direction of the invisible hollow where the city was 
concealed. 
As the following morning drew to a close, early summer heat had settled in the 
canyon below; but halfway up the cliff face, beneath the shadow of the rock, the 
city itself remained cool. Holroyd had ascended the ladder, checked in with the 
Institute, and descended without incident, returning to his task of scanning the 
roomblocks with the proton magnetometer. Once that was done, he would use a 
handheld remote for the GPS system to survey the major points of the site. 
Nora sat on the retaining wall at the front of the city, near the rope ladder 
leading down to the valley floor. Bonarotti had sent up their sack lunches using 
the pulley system, and Nora opened hers with anticipation. Inside was a wedge of 
Port du Salut cheese, four generous slices of prosciutto di Parma, and a 
marvelously thick and dense hunk of bread that Bonarotti had baked in his Dutch 
oven that morning after breakfast. She ate with little ceremony, washing the 
meal down with a swig from her canteen, and then rose to her feet. As leader, 
she was putting together the data for a field specimen catalogue, and it was 
time to check on the progress of the others. 
She walked beneath the shadows of the ancient adobe walls to the far end of the 
ruins front plaza. Here, near the foot of the Planetarium, Black and Smithback 
were working in the citys great midden heap: a dusty, oversized mound of dirt, 
broken animal bones, charcoal, and potsherds. As she approached, she could see 
Smithbacks head pop up from a cut at the far end, face dirty, cowlick bobbing 
with displeasure. She smiled despite herself at the sight. Though shed never 
give him the pleasure of knowing it, shed begun dipping in to the book he had 
given her. And, she had to admit, it was a fascinating, frightening story, 
despite the near-miraculous way Smithback had of taking part in almost every 
important or heroic event he described. 
Blacks voice came echoing off the cave wall. Bill, havent you finished grid 
F-one yet? 
Why dont you F one yourself, Smithback muttered in return. 
Black came around the mound in high spirits, carrying a trowel in one hand and a 
whiskbroom in the other. Nora, he said, with a smile, this will interest you. 
I dont believe theres been a clearer cultural sequence since Kidder excavated 
the mound at Pecos. And thats just from the control pit we dug yesterday; now 
were completing the first baulks of the test trench. 
The man says we. Smithback leaned on his shovel, and held out a trembling 
hand to Nora. For the love of Jaysus, can ye not spare a wee drop for a poor 
dying sinner? 
Nora handed him her canteen, and he drank deeply. That man is a sadist, he 
said, wiping his mouth. Id have been better off building the pyramids. I want 
a transfer. 
When you signed on, you knew you were going to be a digger, Nora said, 
retrieving the canteen. What better way to get your hands dirty, literally and 
figuratively? Besides, Ill bet it isnt the first time youve done some 
muckraking. 
Et tu, Brute? Smithback sighed. 
Come and see what weve done, said Black, guiding Nora to a small, precise cut 
in the side of the mound. 
This is the control pit? Nora asked. 
Yes, Black nodded. Beautiful soil profile, dont you think? 
Perfection, Nora replied. Shed never seen such neat work or such potentially 
rich results. She could see where the two men had cut through the midden, 
exposing dozens of thin layers of brown, gray, and black soil, revealing how the 
trash mound had grown over time. The stratified layers had each been labeled 
with tiny, numbered flags, and even smaller flags marked spots where artifacts 
had been removed. On the ground beside the cut were dozens of Baggies and glass 
tubes, carefully aligned, each with its own artifact, seed, bone, or lump of 
charcoal. Nearby, Nora could see that Black had set up a portable water 
flotation lab and stereozoom microscope for separating pollen, small seeds, and 
human hair from the detritus. Next to it was a small paper chromatography setup 
for analyzing solubles. It was a highly professional job, executed with 
remarkable assurance and speed. 
Its a textbook sequence, said Black. At the top is Pueblo III, where we see 
corrugated and some red ware. Under that is Pueblo II. The sequence begins 
abruptly at about A.D. 950. 
The same time the Anasazi started building Chaco Canyon, Nora said. 
Correct. Below this layerhe pointed to a layer of light brown dirtis 
sterile soil. 
Meaning the city was built all at once, Nora said. 
Exactly. And take a look at this. Black opened a Ziploc bag and gently slid 
three potsherds onto a nearby piece of felt. They glinted dully in the noon sun. 

Nora drew in her breath sharply. Black-on-yellow micaceous, she murmured. How 
beautiful. 
Black raised an eyebrow. The rarest of the rare. So youve seen the type 
before? 
Once, on my Rio Puerco dig. It was very weathered, of course; nobodys ever 
found an intact pot. It was a testament to the richness of the site that Black 
had found three such sherds in just one days digging. 
Id never actually seen a piece before, Black said. Its amazing stuff. Has 
anybody ever dated it? 
No. Only two dozen sherds have ever been found, and theyve all been too 
isolated. Maybe youll find enough here for the job. 
Maybe, Black replied, returning the fragments to the plastic bag with 
rubber-tipped tweezers. Now look at this. He squatted beside the soil profile 
and pointed his trowel tip at a series of alternating dark and light bands. Each 
was littered with distinct layers of broken pottery. There was definitely a 
seasonal occupation of the site. For most of the year, there were not many 
people in residence, Id guess fifty or less. And then there was a large influx 
every summer; obviously a seasonal pilgrimage, but on a far vaster scale than at 
Chaco. You can tell by the volume of broken pots and hearth ashes. 
A seasonal pilgrimage, Nora thought. Sounds like Aragons ritual journey to a 
city of priests. She decided not to antagonize Black by saying this aloud. How 
can you tell it was summertime? she asked instead. 
Pollen counts, Black sniffed. But theres more. As I said, weve only started 
the test trench. But already its clear that the trash mound was segregated. 
Nora stared at him curiously. Segregated? 
Yes. In the back part of the mound there are fragments of beautiful painted 
pottery and the bones of animals used for food. Turkeys, deer, elk, bear. There 
are a lot of beads, whole arrowheads, even chipped pots. But in the front we 
find only the crudest, ugliest corrugated pottery. And the food we found in the 
front of the mound was clearly different. 
What kinds of foods? 
Mostly rats, said Black. Squirrels, snakes, a coyote or two. The flotation 
lab has brought up a lot of crushed insect carapaces and parts as well. 
Cockroaches, grasshoppers, crickets. I did a brief microscopic examination, and 
most of them seem to have been lightly toasted. 
They were eating insects? Nora asked incredulously. 
Without a doubt. 
I prefer my bugs al dente, said Smithback, with an unpleasant smacking of his 
lips. 
Nora looked at Black. Whats your interpretation of this? 
Well, theres never been anything like it in Anasazi sites. But in other sites, 
this kind of thing points directly to slavery. The masters and slaves ate 
different things and dumped their trash in different places. 
Aaron, there isnt a shred of evidence that the Anasazi had slaves. 
Black looked back at her. There is now. Either slavery, or were looking at a 
deeply stratified society: a priestly class that lived in high luxury, and an 
underclass living in abject poverty, with no middle class in between. 
Nora glanced around the city, quiet in the noonday sun. The discovery seemed to 
violate all that they knew about the Anasazi. Lets keep an open mind until all 
the evidence is in, she said at last. 
Naturally. Were also collecting carbonized seeds for C-fourteen dating and 
human hair for DNA analysis. 
Seeds, Nora repeated. By the way, did you know that most of those granaries 
in the rear of the city are still bulging with corn and beans? 
Black straightened up. No I didnt. 
Sloane told me earlier this morning. That suggests the site was abandoned in 
the fall, at harvest time. And that it was abandoned very quickly. 
Sloane, Black repeated casually. She came by here a little earlier. Where is 
she now, anyway? 
Nora, whod been looking away, looked back. Somewhere in the central 
roomblocks, I think. Shes beginning the preliminary survey, with the help of 
Peter and his magnetometer. Ill be checking in with her later. But now Im off 
to see what Aragon is up to. 
Black seemed to be thinking about something. Then he turned and laid a hand on 
Smithbacks shoulder. Care to finish up F-one, my muckraking friend? 
Slavery still exists, Smithback muttered. 
She raised her radio to her lips. Enrique, this is Nora. Do you read? 
Loud and clear, came the answer after a moment of silence. 
Where are you? 
In the crawlspace behind the granaries. 
What are you doing back there? 
There was a short silence. Better see for yourself. Come in from the west 
side. 
Nora walked around the back of the midden heap and past the first great tower. 
Typical cautious Aragon, she thought; why couldnt the man simply come out and 
say what was up? 
Just beyond the tower she picked up the small passageway that ran behind the 
granaries toward the back of the cave. It was dark and cool here behind the 
ruin, and the air smelled of sandstone and smoke. The passageway doglegged 
through a gap in the granaries, and there she came to a sunken passageAragons 
Crawlspaceat the very rear of the city. Once again, the Crawlspace was a 
feature unique to Quivira. As Nora moved forward, the ceiling of the passageway 
became so low that she had to drop to her hands and knees. There was a long 
moment of close, oppressive darkness, then ahead she could see the glow from 
Aragons lantern. 
She rose to her feet inside a cramped space. Before her sat Aragon. Nora drew in 
her breath: beyond him lay a sea of human bones, their knobby surfaces thrown 
into sharp relief by the light. To her surprise, Aragon was holding a bone in 
one hand, examining it with jewelers loup and coordinated calipers. Beside him 
lay the tools for excavating human remains from surrounding matrix, barely 
necessary here: bamboo splints, wooden dowels, horsehair brushes. The place was 
silent save for the hiss of the lantern. 
Aragon looked up as she approached, his face an unreadable mask. 
What is all this? Nora asked. Some kind of catacomb? 
Aragon did not reply for some time. Then he carefully placed the bone back on 
the heap beside him. I dont know, he said in a flat tone. Its the largest 
ossuary Ive ever encountered. Ive heard of such things in Old World megalithic 
sites, but never in North America. And never, ever, on this kind of scale. 
Nora glanced from him to the bones. There were many complete skeletons lying on 
the top of the pile, but beneath them appeared to be a thick scattering of 
disarticulated bones, most of them broken, including countless crushed skulls. 
Punched into the stone walls at the back of the cave were dozens of holes, a few 
rotten timbers still jutting out of them. 
Ive never seen anything like this either, Nora said in a low voice. 
Its like no burial practice, or cultural behavior, Ive seen before, Aragon 
said. There are so many skeletons, so loosely thrown about, even a horizontal 
section is unnecessary. He gestured at the closest skeletons. Its clearly a 
multiple interment of sorts: a series of primary burials, overlaying a vast 
number of secondary burials. These skeletons on top, the complete ones, werent 
even buried in the archaeological sense of the word. The bodies seem to have 
been dragged in here and hastily thrown on top of a deep layer of preexisting 
bones. 
Are there any signs of violence on the bones? 
Not on the whole skeletons on top. 
And the bones underneath? 
There was a short pause. Im still analyzing them, Aragon replied. 
Nora looked around, feeling an unpleasant gnawing in the pit of her stomach. She 
was far from squeamish, but the charnel-house nature of the place made her 
uncomfortable. What could it mean? she asked. 
Aragon glanced up at her. A large number of simultaneous burials usually means 
a single cause, he said. Famine, disease, war . . . He paused. Or 
sacrifice. 
At that moment her radio crackled. Nora, this is Sloane. Are you there? 
Nora pulled her radio from her side. Im with Aragon. What is it? 
Theres something you need to see. Both of you. Through the microphone, the 
quiver of suppressed excitement in Sloanes voice was clear. Meet me at the 
central plaza. 
A few minutes later, Sloane was leading them through a complicated series of 
second-story roomblocks at the far end of the ruin. We were doing a routine 
survey, she was saying, and then Peter found a large cavity in one of the 
floors with the proton magnetometer. They stepped beneath a doorway and entered 
a large room, only dimly lit by the portable lantern. Unlike most of the other 
rooms she had seen at the ruin, this one was strangely empty. Holroyd stood in a 
far corner, tinkering with the magnetometer: a flat box rolling on sliding 
wheels, the long handle projecting from its side ending in an LCD screen. 
But Nora wasnt looking at Holroyd. She was gazing into the center of the room, 
where a section of floor had been removed, exposing a slab-lined cyst. The 
enormous flat stone that had covered it lay tipped up carefully against one 
wall. 
Who opened this grave? she heard Aragon ask sharply. 
Nora stepped forward, anger at this breach of authority flooding through her. 
Then she looked down and stopped short. 
Within the cyst was a double burial. But it was no ordinary Anasazi burial, 
graced perhaps with a few pots and a turquoise pendant. The two completely 
disarticulated skeletons lay in the center of the grave, the broken bones of 
each arranged in a circular pattern in its own large painted bowl, surmounted by 
their broken skulls. Over each bowl had been draped cotton mantles, which had 
rotted down to the warp. Enough shreds remained, however, to see that they had 
once been extraordinarily fine, a pattern of grinning skulls and grimacing 
faces. The scalps of both individuals had been laid in the grave on top of their 
skulls. One had long white hair, beautifully braided and decorated with incised 
turquoise ornaments. The other had brown hair, also braided, with two huge 
dishes of polished abalone fixed to the ends of each braid. In both skulls, the 
front teeth had been drilled and inlaid with red carnelian. 
Nora stared in astonishment. The bodies were surrounded by an unheard-of wealth 
of grave goods: pots filled with salt, turquoise, quartz crystals, fetishes, and 
ground pigments. There were also two small bowls, carved of quartz, filled to 
the brim with some kind of fine reddish powdermore red ochre, perhaps. Noras 
eyes moved over the cyst, picking out bundles of arrows, buffalo robes, soft 
buckskins, mummified parrots and macaws, elaborate prayer sticks. The entire 
burial was covered with a thick layer of yellow dust. 
I examined that dust under the stereozoom, said Sloane. Its pollen, from at 
least fifteen different species of flowers. 
Nora stared at her in disbelief. Why pollen? 
The entire cyst was once filled with hundreds of pounds of flowers. 
Nora shook her head in disbelief. The Anasazi never buried their dead like 
that. And Ive never seen inlaid teeth like that before. 
Suddenly, Aragon knelt by the grave. At first, Nora had the odd notion he was 
going to pray. But then he bent down, shining a flashlight over the bones, 
scrutinizing them from a very close distance. As he probed the two pots of bones 
with his light, Nora noticed that many of the bones had been broken, and some 
showed signs of charring at their ends. Then Nora heard a sharp intake of 
breath, and Aragon quickly straightened up. His expression had suddenly changed. 

I would like permission to temporarily remove several bones for examination, 
he said, his voice coldly formal. 
More than anything else, this request, coming from Aragon, capped Noras 
mystification. After we photograph and document everything, of course, she 
heard herself say. 
Naturally. And Id like to take a sample of that reddish powder. 
He departed wordlessly, but Nora continued to stand at the edge of the cyst, 
staring down into the dark hole in the floor. Sloane began setting up the 4x5 
camera at the edge of the gravesite, while Holroyd powered down the 
magnetometer. Then he came over to Nora. 
Incredible, isnt it? he murmured in her ear. 
But Nora paid no attention to this, or to the excited undercurrent of Sloanes 
voice in the background. She was thinking of Aragon, and the sudden look that 
had come over his face. She felt it too: there was something odd, even wrong, 
about the burial. In some ways, she thought, it wasnt like a burial at all. 
True, some Pueblo IV cultures cremated their dead, and others dug up and 
reburied their dead in pots. But this: the bones broken and burned; the thick 
flower dust; the grave goods ranged so carefully. 
I wonder what Black will make of this burial, came Sloanes voice, intruding 
on her reverie. 
I dont think this is a burial at all, Nora thought to herself. I think its an 
offering. 
* * *
As they stepped out onto the first-floor roof, its farthest edges tipped in 
noontime sun, Nora gently laid a hand on Sloanes arm. 
I thought we had an agreement, she said. 
Sloane turned to look at her. What are you talking about? 
You shouldnt have opened that grave without consulting me first. That was a 
major violation of the ground rules for this dig. 
The amber color of Sloanes eyes seemed to deepen as she listened to Nora. And 
you dont think opening the burial was a good idea? she replied, her voice 
suddenly low, an almost feline susurrus. 
No, I dont. We have a whole city to survey and catalog, and burials are 
particularly sensitive. But like I told you at Petes Ruin, thats not the 
point. This isnt how a professional archaeologist should work, simply digging 
up what interests her. 
Youre saying Im not a professional? Sloane asked. 
Nora took a deep breath. Youre not as experienced as I thought you were. 
I had to open that cyst, said Sloane abruptly. 
Why? asked Nora, failing to keep the sarcasm from her voice. Were you looking 
for something? 
Sloane started to answer, then stopped short. She moved closer, so close that 
Nora could feel the heat and anger radiating from her. You, Nora Kelly, are a 
control freak. Youre just like my father. Youve been breathing down my neck, 
hoping for mistakes, ever since I first flew in. I did nothing wrong in opening 
that burial. The magnetometer showed a cavity and all I did was lift the stone. 
I touched nothing. It was no more invasive than walking through a doorway. 
Nora struggled to maintain her composure. If you cant abide by the rules, she 
said as evenly as she could, Ill place you under Aragon, where you can learn 
respect for the integrity of an archaeological site. And obedience to the 
expedition director. 
Director? Sloane sneered. By all rights, I should be the expedition director. 
Dont forget whos paying for all this. 
I havent forgotten, Nora said, voice steady despite the heat of her anger. 
Just one more example of your father not trusting you, isnt it? 
For a moment, Sloane stood before her speechlessly, limbs taut, face dark under 
the deep tan. Then, wordlessly, she pivoted on her heel. Nora watched her 
descend the ladder and walk deliberately away, erect and proud, her dark hair 
burned violet by the sun. 
 

30
 
THE GROUP ASSEMBLED IN THE EARLY MORNING silence at the base of the rope ladder 
leading to the city. Even Swire and Bonarotti were on hand. The swallows, now 
acclimated to the human intrusion, no longer raised their usual clamor of 
indignation. An unusually subdued Bill Smithback was fumbling with a cassette 
recorder. Beside him stood Aragon, face gray and thoughtful. Despite his 
preoccupation with the bone-filled crawlspace, he had left his work to join 
them. This, more than anything, underscored the importance of what they were 
about to undertake. 
A rough preliminary survey of the city had been completed, and Holroyd had 
downloaded the location coordinates and field elevations established by his GPS 
equipment into a geographic information systems database. It was time to enter 
the Great Kiva, the central religious structure of the city. For much of the 
previous night, Nora had lain awake, wondering about what they might find. In 
the end, her imagination had failed her. The Great Kiva was equivalent to the 
cathedral of a medieval city: the center of its religious activity, the 
repository of the most sacred items, the locus of social life. 
Black was resting on a rock, drumming his fingers with ill-disguised 
anticipation. And chatting with him, oversized plant in his hand, was Peter 
Holroyd, loyal and uncomplicated. The only person missing was Sloane, whom Nora 
had scarcely seen since the previous days confrontation. 
As if sensing her glance, Holroyd looked her way. Then he stood and approached 
her, shaking the plant he was holding. Have a look at this, Nora, he said. 
She took the plant: an oversized, bushy explosion of green stalks, with a 
tapered root at one end and a creamy flower at the other. 
What is it? she asked. 
Oh, about five to ten in a Federal prison. Holroyd laughed. 
She threw him an uncomprehending gaze. 
Its datura, he explained. That roots loaded with a highly potent 
hallucinogen. 
Hallucinogen? 
The alkaloid is concentrated in the upper sections of the root, Aragon 
interjected. Among Yaqui shamans, fortitude is measured by just how far up the 
root you can ingest. He glanced at Holroyd. But certainly youve noticed 
thats not the only illegal plant in this valley. 
Holroyd nodded. Not only datura, but psilocybin, mescal cactus . . . the place 
is a veritable smorgasbord of psychedelics. 
The curious thing, Aragon said, is that those three plants you mentionwhich 
seem to run riot hereare sometimes taken by shamans and medicine men. In 
combination, they can induce a wild frenzy. Its like an overdose of PCP: you 
could get shot at close range and never feel it. 
Those priests knew what they were doing, settling here, Smithback cackled. 
The flowers pretty, at least, Nora said. 
Looks like a morning glory, doesnt it? Holroyd asked. Thats another funny 
thing. Theres an enzyme in the datura root that the body cant metabolize. 
Instead, it gets exuded in the sweat. And Ive heard thats exactly what people 
who take it smell like. Morning glories. 
Unconsciously, Nora leaned forward, bringing the flower to her nose. It was 
large and white, almost sexual in its ripeness. She inhaled the delicate scent 
deeply. 
Then she froze, fingers turning cold. In a moment, her mind was back in the 
upstairs hallway of her parents abandoned ranch house, hearing the crunch of 
glass underfoot, smelling the scent of crushed flowers on the still night air... 

She heard a clatter, and turned to see Sloane approaching, burdened by a 
portable acetylene lantern, a chalk information board, and the 4x5 camera. 
Sloane caught her eye. Immediately, the woman put down the equipment and came 
over. She slid a graceful arm around Noras waist. 
Sorry, she whispered in Noras ear. You were right. As usual. 
Nora nodded, pulling herself back to the present. Lets not talk about it. 
Sloane drew away slightly. I guess its obvious. I have a problem with 
authority. Something else I have to thank my father for. It wont happen again. 

Thank you, Nora said, dropping the plant. And I shouldnt have made that 
crack about your father. It was unkind. 
Then she turned to the group, doing her best to push thoughts of Holroyds plant 
out of her mind. Okay, heres the protocol. Sloane and I will enter the kiva 
first, to make an initial analysis and do the photography. The rest of you will 
follow. Agreed? 
Black frowned, but there was nodding and murmuring from the rest of the group. 
Good. Then lets get started. 
One at a time, they ascended the rope ladder. Moving through the central plaza, 
they climbed a nearby sandpile and walked across the first setback of roofs. 
Mounting an Anasazi ladder placed against the second storystill in perfect 
condition, lashed with sinewthey topped out on the second story setback. The 
entrance to the Great Kiva lay at the back, its vast circular bulk in purple 
shadow. Another ladder had been placed against its wall, and in a moment Nora 
and Sloane stood on the roof. It was covered with a thick layer of adobe and 
felt immensely solid beneath Noras feet. As with all kivas, it was entered from 
a hole in the roof. Protruding from the opening were the two ends of a ladder, 
leading down into the interior. As she stared at the ladder, Nora felt her mouth 
go dry. 
She moved slowly toward it, stopping just before the opening. Lets light the 
lantern, she said. 
There was the hiss of gas, and with a pop of ignition the lantern sprang to 
life. As they knelt by the opening, Sloane directed the brilliant white light 
down into the gloom. 
The ladder descended about fifteen feet, ending in an anchor groove cut into the 
sandstone floor. Sloane angled the beam around, but from their vantage point 
nothing but bare floor was visible: the kiva was sixty feet in diameter, and the 
walls were beyond reach. 
You can go first, Nora said. 
Sloane looked at her. Me? 
Nora smiled. 
Quickly, Sloane climbed down the first five rungs, then held up her hand for the 
lamp. Climbing down a few more rungs, she stopped to direct the light around the 
walls. Nora could not see what Sloane was looking at, but she could see the 
expression on the young womans face. The kiva, she knew then, was not empty. 
Sloane rapidly descended to the bottom, and after a last deep breath Nora 
followed. A moment later she stepped off the ladder, her eyes following the 
lamps broad illumination. 
The circular wall of the kiva was covered with a brilliantly colored mural. The 
images were highly stylized, and Nora had to examine them for a moment before 
she realized what they represented. Ranged around the top were four huge 
thunderbirds, their outstretched wings almost covering the entire upper part of 
the kiva wall. Jagged lightning shot from the birds eyes and beaks. Below, 
clouds drifted across a field of brilliant turquoise, dropping dotted curtains 
of white rain. Running through the clouds was a rainbow god, his long body 
encircling almost the entire circumference of the kiva, his head and hands 
outstretched and meeting at the north. Toward the bottom of the mural was the 
landscape of the earth itself. Nora noticed the four sacred mountains, placed at 
each of the cardinal directions. It was the cosmography that still ran through 
most present-day southwestern Native American religions: the black mountain in 
the north, the yellow mountain in the west, the white mountain in the east, and 
the blue mountain in the south. The mural was executed in the finest detail, and 
the colors, so long buried in darkness, seemed as fresh as if they had been 
painted the day before. 
Nora dropped her eyes. Below the mural, ranging around the circumference of the 
kiva, was a stone banco. On the banco lay a huge number of gleaming objects, 
appearing and disappearing as the lantern beam moved slowly over them. As she 
stared, Nora realized, with a kind of remote surprise, that they were all 
skulls. There were dozens, if not hundreds of them: human, bear, buffalo, wolf, 
deer, mountain lion, jaguareach completely covered with an inlay of polished 
turquoise. But it was the eyes that struck Nora most of all. In each eye socket 
lay a carved globe of rose quartz crystal, inlaid with carnelian, that 
refracted, magnified, and threw back the beam of the lamp, causing the eyes to 
gleam hideously pink in the murk. It was a grinning crowd of the dead, a host of 
lidless ghouls, ranged around them, their eyes glowing maniacally, as if caught 
in the headlights of a car. 
Aside from the skulls, Nora saw, the room was completely bare. There was the 
usual sipapu, the hole to the underworld, in the exact center of the kiva, and 
two firepits on either side. To the east, she noticed the standard spirit 
opening, a narrow keyhole channel running up and out of the kiva. But the mural 
and the skulls were, like almost everything else in Quivira, unique. 
Nora glanced at Sloane, who had already turned away from the sights and was 
arranging the cameras three flash units. 
Im going to invite the others in, said Nora. Theres very little they can 
disturb in here if they stay away from the walls. 
Sloane nodded curtly. As she busied herself with the exposure meter, Nora 
thought she saw a kind of disappointment on the womans face. Then the first 
bank of flashes went off, illuminating the entire grinning company for a ghastly 
moment. 
The others filed down the ladder in silent astonishment and gathered at the 
bottom. Nora found herself drawn to a curious design of two large circles at the 
northern end of the mural. One circle enclosed an incised disk of blue and 
white, showing miniature clouds and rain, done in the usual Anasazi geometric 
style: a miniature version of the huge circle painted on the kivas exterior. 
The second circle was painted yellow and white, and it enclosed an incised disk 
of the sun, surrounded by rays of light. As the beam of the lantern moved across 
it, the image glittered like a disk of gold. As Nora examined it closely, she 
could see that the effect had been created using crushed flakes of mica mixed 
with the pigment. 
Sloane had repositioned the camera, and she now gestured for Nora to move out of 
the way of her shot. As Sloane bent over the ground glass screen of her camera, 
Nora heard a sharp intake of breath. Sloane abruptly straightened up, walked 
over to the small image of the sun, and began examining it intently. 
What is it? Nora asked. 
Sloane turned away and her face broke into a broad lazy smile. Nothing in 
particular. Curious design. I hadnt noticed it before. She went back to the 
camera, finished photographing the design, and moved on. 
This is obviously a moiety, said Black, approaching. He pointed at the two 
circles, his large, craggy face backlit by the lamp. 
A moiety? 
Yes. Many Anasazi societiesas well as other societieswere organized into 
moieties. They were divided into halves. Summer and winter societies, male and 
female, earth and sky. He pointed to the two circles. This blue disk matches 
the one outside this kiva. That would imply that this city was divided into rain 
and sun societies. The first circle represents the Rain Kiva, and the second the 
Sun Kiva. 
Interesting, said Nora, surprised. 
Of course. We must be standing in the Rain Kiva itself. 
There was another blinding leap of light as Sloane took a third exposure. 
So? said Smithback, who had been listening. Go ahead and drop the other 
shoe. 
What do you mean? Black replied. 
If this is the Rain Kiva, then wheres the Sun Kiva? 
There was a silence, interrupted only by the soft sound of another flash. 
Finally Black cleared his throat. Thats actually a very good question. 
It must be at some other site, if it exists at all, Nora said. Theres only 
one Great Kiva here at Quivira. 
No doubt youre right, Aragon murmured. Still, the longer I am here, I, too, 
have this feeling of something . . . something that, for whatever reason, were 
not seeing. 
Nora turned to him. I dont understand. 
The older man returned the glance, his eyes looking hollow and dark in the 
lantern light. Dont you get the sense that theres a piece of the puzzle still 
missing? All the riches, all the bones, all this massive construction . . . 
there has to be some reason for it all. He shook his head. I thought the 
answer would be in this kiva. But now, I am not so sure. I dislike making value 
judgments, but I feel there was an overarching purpose to all this. A sinister 
purpose. 
But Black was still considering Smithbacks question. You know, Bill, he said, 
your question raises another one. 
And whats that? Smithback asked. 
Black smiled, and Nora saw something in his face, a kind of glittering intensity 
that she had not seen before. Turquoise was the stone the Anasazi used in the 
rain ceremony. This was true at Chaco Canyon, and it is obviously true here. 
There must be hundreds of pounds of turquoise in this room. Thats quite a lot 
for a culture in which even a single bead had great value. 
Smithback nodded. Nora looked from one to the other, wondering where Black was 
headed. 
So I ask you: if turquoise was the material used in the rain ceremony, what 
material was used in the sun ceremony? He pointed to the image of the Sun Kiva, 
its mica disk glittering in the reflected light. Both Bonarotti and Swire had 
come over, and were listening intently. What does this look like to you? 
Smithback gave a low whistle. Gold? he ventured. 
Black merely smiled. 
Come on, Nora said impatiently, lets not start on that business again. This 
is the only Great Kiva in the city. And the thought of a Sun Kiva, or any kiva, 
being filled with gold is ridiculous. Im surprised to hear this kind of wild 
speculation from you, of all people. 
Is it wild speculation? Black asked. First, he said, ticking the points off 
on his fingers, we have legends of gold among the Indians. Then we have 
Coronados and Fray Marcoss reports of gold, among others. And now we have this 
pictograph, which is a pretty remarkable imitation of gold. As Enrique will 
confirm, the dental modifications to these skulls are pure Aztec, and we know 
they had tons of gold. So Im beginning to wonder if there isnt some reality 
behind the legends. 
Find me this Sun Kiva full of Aztec gold, said Nora wearily. Then Ill revise 
my opinion. But until then, stifle the treasure talk, okay? 
Black grinned. Is that a challenge? 
Its more like a plea for sanity. 
There was a laugh behind her, husky and sotto voce. Nora glanced over to see 
Sloane, looking from her to Black and back again, her amber eyes twinkling with 
some private amusement of her own. 
 

31
 
NORA SLEPT POORLY AND AWOKE EARLY, the memory of ugly dreams receding quickly 
into forgetfulness. The gibbous moon was setting and the valley was heavy with 
moonshadows, the night just yielding to color. She sat up, immediately wide 
awake, and heard the distant plash of water in the creek. She glanced around. 
Swire was already up and gone on his wearisome daily slog through the slot 
canyon to check on the horses. The rest of the camp slumbered in the predawn 
darkness. For the second night in a row, the light had remained on in Aragons 
tent; now, in the early dawn, it was dark and silent. 
She dressed quickly in the shivery cold. Shoving her flashlight into her back 
pocket, she walked over to the kitchen area, unbanked the coals, and tossed some 
twigs on to start the fire. Reaching for the blue-flecked enamel coffeepot that 
always stood at the ready, she filled it with water and placed it on the grill. 
As she did so, she saw a form emerge from the darkness of a distant grove of 
cottonwoods: Sloane. Nora momentarily wondered why she had not slept in her 
tent. Probably likes to sleep under the stars, like me, she thought. 
Sleep well? Sloane asked, tossing her bedroll into her tent and taking a seat 
beside Nora. 
Not especially, Nora said, gazing into the fire. You? 
I did all right. Sloane followed her gaze to the fire. I can see why the 
ancients worshiped fire, she went on smoothly. Its mesmerizing, never the 
same. And it sure beats watching TV. No ads. She grinned at Nora. She seemed in 
high spirits, a stark contrast to Noras own subdued mood. 
Nora smiled a little wanly, and unzipped her jacket to let in the heat of the 
fire. The coffeepot began to stir and shake on the grill as the water boiled. 
Heaving herself to her feet, Nora removed it from the fire, threw in a fistful 
of grounds, and stirred the pot with her knife. 
Bonarotti would die if he saw you making that cowboy coffee, Sloane said. 
Hed brain you with his espresso pot. 
Waiting for him to get up and make coffee in the morning is like waiting for 
Godot, Nora said. While they were on the trail, the cook had always been the 
first one up. But now that they were encamped at Quivira and working a more 
routine schedule, Bonarotti had steadfastly refused to leave his tent in the 
morning until the sun could be seen striking the clifftops. 
She put the pot back on the fire for a moment and stirred the grounds down. Then 
she poured them each a cup. Steam came off the surface of the coffee, filling 
her nose with the strong bitter scent. She inhaled it gratefully. 
Bet I can guess what youre thinking about, Sloane said. 
Probably, Nora replied. They sipped their coffee a while in silence. 
Its just so unexpected, Nora found herself saying, as if theyd been 
conversing all the while. We find this place, this enchanted and marvelous 
place. Filled with more artifacts, more information, than we could ever hope 
for. Suddenly it seems as if well get all the answers, after all. She shook 
her head. But all we get is riddles, strange unsettling riddles. That kiva 
filled with skulls is a perfect example. Why skulls? What does it mean? What 
could the ceremony have possibly been? 
Sloane put down her coffee and looked searchingly at Nora. But dont you see, 
she said in a low voice, we are getting the answers. Its just that they arent 
the ones we expected. Scientific discovery is always like that. 
I hope youre right, Nora replied. Ive discovered things before. And they 
never felt like this. Something in my gut just doesnt feel right. And it hasnt 
felt right since I first laid eyes on Aragons Crawlspace, littered with those 
countless bones, thrown about like so much trash. 
She fell silent as dark shapes bundled out of the dark. Smithback and Holroyd 
came over and joined them at the fire. Black soon appeared out of the twilight 
and hunkered down beside them. The dark branches of the cottonwoods were just 
beginning to separate themselves from the night. 
Its as cold as Lenins balls around here in the mornings, Smithback said. 
And on top of that, my valet neglected to polish my boots, although I 
specifically left them outside my door. 
Its so hard to find good help these days, said Black, in a whiny imitation of 
Smithbacks voice, and poured himself a cup. He held it to his nose. What a 
barbarous way to make coffee, he said, setting the cup down. And when are we 
going to eat? Why cant that Italian fellow get himself out of bed a little 
earlier? What kind of camp cook is this who wont get up until the crack of 
noon? 
Hes the only cook I know who can make pommes Anna as well as the best chefs of 
Paris, but with a twentieth of the equipment, said Smithback. Anyway, forget 
breakfast. Only savages and children eat breakfast. 
They sat around the fire, all but Sloane grumpy in the predawn air, nursing 
their coffee and speaking little. Nora wondered if the discoveries in the city 
and the Great Kiva were casting a pall over them, as well. Gradually the rising 
sun poured more color into the landscape, transforming it from gray to rich 
reds, yellows, purples, and greens. 
Smithback saw Noras eyes traveling around the cliffs, and he said, Paint by 
the numbers, right? 
What a poetic thought, said Nora. 
Hey, poetic thinking is my business. Smithback chuckled and fished some 
grounds out of his coffee with a spoon, flicking them into the bushes behind 
him. 
Nora heard the whisper of footfalls on sand and looked up to see Aragon, bundled 
against the chill. He sat down and wordlessly poured himself a cup of coffee. He 
drank it off with extreme rapidity and refilled the cup, hands unsteady. 
Burning the midnight oil again, Enrique? Nora asked. 
It was as if Aragon hadnt heard. He continued drinking his coffee and staring 
into the fire. At last, he turned his dark eyes to Nora. Yes, I was up quite 
late. I hope I did not disturb anyone. 
No, not at all, Nora replied quickly. 
Still working on those bones of yours, I suppose? asked Black. 
Aragon took a final swig of his coffee and refilled the cup a third time. Yes. 

So much for ZST. Find anything? 
There was a long pause. Yes, Aragon repeated. 
There was something in his tone that silenced the company. 
Share with us, brother, intoned the oblivious Smithback. 
Aragon set his cup down and began slowly, deliberately, almost as if he had 
prepared his words ahead of time. As I told Nora when I first discovered it, 
the placement of the bones in the Crawlspace is exceedingly odd. There was a 
pause while he carefully removed from his coat a small plastic container. He 
placed it on the ground and gently unbuckled the lid. Inside were three 
fragmentary bones and a portion of a cranium. 
Lying sprawled on top are perhaps fifty or sixty articulated skeletons, he 
continued. Some still have the remains of clothing, rich jewelry, and personal 
adornment. They were well-fed, healthy individuals, most in the prime of their 
lives. They all seemed to have died at the same time, yet there is no sign of 
violence on the bones. 
So whats the explanation? Nora asked. 
It seems to me that whatever happened, it happened so suddenly that there 
wasnt time to give the bodies a proper burial, Aragon replied. My analysis 
turned up no clear disease process, but many diseases leave no osteological 
traces. Apparently, the bodies were simply dragged, intact, into the back and 
thrown on top of a huge existing pile of bones. His expression changed. Those 
bones underneath tell a very different story. They are the broken, 
disarticulated remains of hundreds, even thousands, of individuals, accumulated 
over years. Unlike the skeletons on top, these bones come from individuals who 
clearly died of violence. Extreme violence. 
He passed his dark eyes around the group. Nora felt her unease grow. 
The bones from the bottom layer display several unusual characteristics, 
Aragon said, wiping his face with a soiled bandanna. He pointed with a pair of 
rubber-tipped forceps at a broken bone in the tray. The first is that many of 
the long bones have been broken, perimortem, in a special way, like this bone 
here. 
Perimortem? asked Smithback. 
Yes. Broken not before death, and not long afterward, but about the time of 
death. 
What do you mean, broken in a special way? Black asked. 
Its the same way the Anasazi broke deer and elk bones. In order to extract the 
marrow. He pointed. And here, in the cancellous tissue of the humerus, they 
actually reamed out the center of the bone to get at the marrow inside. 
Wait, said Smithback. Hold on. You mean to extract the marrow for? 
Let me finish. Second, there are small marks on the bone. I have examined these 
marks under the microscope and they are consistent with the marks made by stone 
tools when a carcass is dismembered. Butchered and defleshed, if you will. 
Third, I found dozens of fractured skulls among the litter of bones, mostly of 
children. There were cut marks on the calvaria that are made only by scalping: 
just like the skull we found at Petes Ruin. Furthermore, the childrens skulls 
in particular showed anvil abrasions. When I reexamined the Petes Ruin skull, 
I found anvil abrasions on it, as well. I also found that many of the skulls had 
been drilled, and a circular piece of bone removed. 
What are anvil abrasions? Nora asked. 
A very specific kind of parallel scratch mark, made when the head is laid on a 
flat rock and another rock is brought down on it to break open the brainpan. You 
normally see it on animal skulls whose brains have been extracted for food. 
From the corner of her eye, Nora saw that Smithback was furiously taking notes. 
Theres more, Aragon said. Many of the bones show this. He picked up a 
smaller bone with the forceps and turned it to the light. Take a look at the 
broken ends with this loup. 
Nora examined it under magnification. I cant see anything unusual, except 
maybe for this faint sheen on the broken ends, as if they used the bone for 
scraping hides. 
Not scraping hides. That sheen has been called pot polish. 
Pot polish? Nora whispered, the coil of fear growing tighter within her. 
It only occurs to bones that have been boiled and stirred in a rough ceramic 
pot for a long time, turned around and around. And then he added, 
unnecessarily: Its how you make soup. 
Aragon reached again for the coffee pot and found it empty. 
Are you saying they were cooking and eating people? Holroyd asked. 
Of course thats what hes saying, Black snapped. But Ive found no evidence 
of human bones in the trash mound. Though it was filled with animal bones that 
had clearly been consumed for food. 
Aragon did not respond. 
Nora looked away from him, turning her gaze out over the canyon. The sun was 
rising above the rimrock, gilding the clifftops while leaving the valley below 
in Magritte-like shadow. But the beautiful canyon now filled her with 
apprehension. 
Theres something else I should mention, Aragon said in a low voice. 
Nora looked back. More? 
Aragon nodded to Sloane. I dont believe the tomb you found was a burial at 
all. 
It seemed like an offering, Nora heard herself say. 
Yes, said Aragon. But even more than that, it was a sacrifice. From the marks 
on the skeletons, it seems the two individuals had been 
dismemberedbutcheredand the cuts boiled or roasted. The cooked meats were 
probably arranged in those two bowls you found. There were bits of a brown, 
dusty substance lying with the bones: no doubt those were the mummified pieces 
of meat that had retracted and fallen off the bone. 
How revolting, Smithback said, writing eagerly. 
The individuals were also scalped, and their brains extracted and made into a 
kind ofhow does one say it?a compote, a mousse, spiced with chiles. I found 
the . . . the substance placed inside each of the skulls. 
As if on a macabre cue, the cook emerged from his tent, fastidiously zipped up 
the flap, then approached the fire. 
Black shifted restlessly. Enrique, youre the last person I would have 
suspected of jumping to sensational conclusions. There are dozens of ways bones 
could be scratched and polished other than cannibalism. 
It is you who use the term cannibalism, Aragon said. Ill keep my 
conclusions to myself for the moment. I am merely reporting what Ive seen. 
Everything youve said has hinted at that conclusion, Black bellowed. This is 
irresponsible. The Anasazi were a peaceful, agrarian people. Theres never been 
any evidence of cannibalism. 
Thats not true, Sloane said in a low voice, leaning suddenly forward. 
Several archaeologists have theorized about cannibalistic practices among 
ancient Native Americans. And not only among the Anasazi. For example, how do 
you explain Awatovi? 
Awatovi? Black repeated. The Hopi village destroyed in 1700? 
Sloane nodded. After the villagers of Awatovi were converted to Christianity by 
the Spanish, the surrounding Indian towns massacred them. Their bones were found 
thirty years ago, and they bear the same kind of marks Aragon found here. 
They may have been facing a period of starvation, said Nora. There are plenty 
of examples of starvation cannibalism in our own culture. And anyway, this is 
far from Awatovi, and these people are not related to the Hopi. If this was 
cannibalism, it was ritualized cannibalism on a grand scale. Institutionalized, 
almost. A lot like She stopped and glanced at Aragon. 
A lot like the Aztecs, he said, finishing the sentence. Dr. Black, you said 
Anasazi cannibalism is impossible. But not Aztec cannibalism. Cannibalism not 
for food, but as a tool of social control and terror. 
Whats your point? Black said. This is America, not Mexico. Were digging an 
Anasazi site. 
An Anasazi site with a ruling class? An Anasazi site protected by a god with a 
name like Xochitl? An Anasazi site that features royal burial chambers, filled 
with flowers? An Anasazi site that may or may not display signs of ritual 
cannibalism? Aragon shook his head. I also did a number of forensic tests on 
skulls from both the upper and lower set of bones in the Crawlspace. Differences 
in cranial features, variations in incisor shoveling, point to the two groups of 
skeletons as being from entirely different populations. Anasazi slaves beneath, 
Aztec rulers above. All the evidence Ive found at Quivira demonstrates one 
thing: a group of Aztecs, or rather their Toltec predecessors, invaded the 
Anasazi civilization around A.D. 950 and established themselves here as a 
priestly nobility. Perhaps they were even responsible for the great building 
projects at Chaco and elsewhere. 
Ive never heard anything so ridiculous, Black said. Theres never been any 
sign of Aztec influence on the Anasazi, let alone enslavement. It goes against a 
hundred years of scholarship. 
Wait, Nora said. Lets not be too hasty to dismiss it. Nobodys ever found a 
city like this before. And that theory would explain a lot of things. The citys 
strange location, for one thing. The annual pilgrimages you discovered. 
And the concentration of wealth, Sloane added, in a low, thoughtful voice. 
Maybe trade with the Aztecs has been the wrong word all along. These were 
foreign invaders, establishing an oligarchy, maintaining power through religious 
ritual and sacrificial cannibalism. 
As Smithback began to ask a question, Nora heard a distant shout. In unison, the 
group turned toward the sound. Roscoe Swire was running down the canyon, bashing 
and stomping crazily through the brush as he approached camp. 
He came to a frantic stop before them, still dripping wet from the slot canyon, 
breathing raggedly. Nora stared at him in horror. Bloody water dripped from his 
hair, and his shirt was stained pink. 
What is it? she asked sharply. 
Our horses, Swire said, gasping for air. Theyve been gutted. 
 

32
 
NORA RAISED HER HANDS TO SILENCE THE immediate explosion of talk. Roscoe, she 
said, I want you to tell us exactly what happened. 
Swire sat down near the fire, still heaving from his scramble through the slot 
canyon, oblivious to a nasty gash on his arm that was bleeding freely. I got up 
around three this morning, just as usual. Reached the horses about four. The 
cavvy had drifted over to the northern end of the valleylooking for grass, I 
figuredbut when I reached them, I found they were all lathered up. He stopped 
a moment. I thought maybe a mountain lion had been after them. A couple were 
missing. Then I saw them . . . what was left of them, anyway. Hoosegow and Crow 
Bait, gutted like . . . His face darkened. When I catch the sons-a-bitches 
that did this, Ill 
What makes you think humans did it? Aragon asked. 
Swire shook his head. It was done all scientific. They slit open the bellies, 
pulled out the guts, and He faltered. 
And? 
Sort of made them into a display. 
What? Nora asked sharply. 
They unwound the guts and laid them out in a spiral. There were sticks with 
feathers, shoved into the eyes. He paused. Other stuff, too. 
Any tracks? 
No footprints that I could see. Mustve all been done from the backs of 
horses. 
At the mention of the spirals, the feathers shoved into the eyes, Nora had gone 
cold. Come on, she heard Smithback say. Nobody could do all that from the 
back of a horse. 
There aint no other explanation, Swire snapped. I told you, I saw no 
footprints. But . . . He paused again. Yesterday evening, when I was about to 
leave the horses for the night, I thought I saw a rider atop the hogback ridge. 
Man on a horse, just standing there, looking down at me. 
Why didnt you mention this before? Nora asked. 
I thought it was my imagination, a trick of the setting sun. Cant say I 
expected to see another horse atop that goddamned ridge. Whod be way the hell 
out here? 
Who indeed? Nora thought, desperation rising within her. Over the past several 
days, shed grown certain she had left the strange apparitions from the ranch 
house far behind. Now that certainty was fading. Perhaps theyd been followed, 
after all. But who could have had the skill, or the desperate resolve, to track 
them across such a harsh and barren landscape? 
Thats dry sandy country, Swire was saying, the dark uncertain look replaced 
with a new resolve. They cant hide a track in it forever. I just came in here 
to tell you Im going after them. He stood up abruptly and went into his tent. 
In the ensuing silence, Nora could hear the rattle of metal, the sound of 
bullets being pushed into chambers. A moment later he reemerged, rifle slung 
behind his back, revolver buckled around his waist. 
Wait a minute, Roscoe, Nora said. 
Dont try to stop me, Swire said. 
You cant just rush off, she replied sharply. Lets talk about this. 
Talking to you only causes trouble. 
Bonarotti walked wordlessly to his cabinet and began loading a small sack with 
food. 
Roscoe, Sloane said, Noras absolutely right. You cant just head off like 
You shut your mouth. Im not going to have a bunch of goddamn women telling me 
what to do with my own horses. 
Well, how about a goddamn man, then, said Black. This is foolhardy. You could 
get hurt, or worse. 
Im done with discussion, Swire said, accepting the small sack from Bonarotti, 
tying it into his slicker, and throwing it over his shoulder. 
As Nora watched him, her fear and shock at this new development suddenly turned 
to anger: anger at whatever was bent on disturbing a dig that had begun so 
successfully; anger at Swire for behaving so truculently. Swire, stand down! 
she bellowed. 
There was a breathless hush in the little valley. Swire, momentarily taken 
aback, turned to face her. 
Now look, Nora went on, aware that her heart was hammering in her rib cage and 
that her tone was uneven, we have to think this through. You cant just run off 
without a plan and go kill someone. 
Ive got a plan, came the answer. And theres nothing to think about. Im 
gonna find the bastard that 
Agreed, Nora said, cutting off Swires words. But youre not the person to do 
it. 
What? Swires expression turned to one of scornful disbelief. And just who 
else is going to do it for me? 
I am. 
Swire opened his mouth to speak. 
Think for a minute, Nora went on quickly. He, or they, or whatever, killed 
two horses. Not for food, not for sport, but to send a message. Doesnt that 
tell you something? What about the rest of the horses? What do you think is 
going to happen to them while you set out on your lynching party? Those are your 
animals. Youre the only person who knows enough to keep them safe until all 
this is resolved. 
Swire pursed his lips and smoothed a finger over his mustache. Someone else can 
watch the horses while Im gone. 
Like who? 
Swire didnt answer for a moment. You dont know the first thing about 
tracking, he said. 
As a matter of fact, I do. Anyone who grew up on a ranch knows something about 
tracking. Ive looked for plenty of lost cows in my day. I may not be in your 
league, but you said it yourself: out here in sandy country, theres no great 
trick to it. She leaned toward him. The fact is, if somebody has to go, Im 
the only choice. Aaron, Sloane, and Enriques work is essential here. Youre 
vital to the horses. Luigis our only cook. Peter isnt an experienced enough 
rider. And besides, hes necessary for communications. 
Swire looked at her appraisingly, but remained silent. 
Black turned to Nora. This is insane. You, alone? You cant go, youre the 
expedition director. 
Thats why I cant ask anybody else to do this. Nora looked around. Ill only 
be gone a day, overnight at the most. Meanwhile, you, Sloane, and Aragon can 
make decisions by majority consent. Ill find out who did this, and why. 
I think we should simply call the police, Black said. We have a radio. 
Aragon burst out in a sudden, uncharacteristic laugh. Call the police? What 
police? 
Why not? Were still in America, arent we? 
Are we? Aragon murmured. 
There was a brief pause. Then Smithback spoke up, surprisingly quiet and firm. 
Its pretty obvious that she cant go alone. Im the only person who can be 
spared from the dig. Ill go with her. 
No, Nora said automatically. 
Why not? The trash mound can spare me for a day. Aaron over here hasnt been 
getting nearly enough exercise lately. Im not a bad horseman and, if necessary, 
Im not a bad shot, either. 
Theres something else to think about, Aragon said. You said these killings 
were meant to send a message. Have you thought about the other possibility? 
Nora looked at him. And whats that? 
That the killings were done to lure people away from camp, where they could be 
dealt with individually? Perhaps this man on the ridge showed himself to Swire 
deliberately. 
Nora licked her lips. 
Another reason for me to go, Smithback said. 
Now hold on, came the cold voice of Swire. Arent we forgetting about the 
Devils Backbone? Three of my horses are already dead, thanks to that goddamn 
ridge. 
Nora turned to him. Ive been thinking about that, she said. You said you saw 
a rider atop the ridge the other day. And obviously, people got into the outer 
valley on horseback last night. Theres no other way in save over the ridge. 
Ill bet they used unshod horses. 
Unshod? Smithback asked. 
Nora nodded. A horse without shoes would have surer footing on a narrow trail 
like the Devils Backbone. Iron on stone is like a skater on ice. But the 
keratin of a horses hoof would grip the stone. 
Swire was still staring at her. Im not letting my horses get their hooves all 
chewed up out in that bad country. 
Wed tack the shoes back on once we get to the bottom of the ridge. Youve got 
farriers tools, dont you? 
Swire nodded slowly. 
All Im going to do, she continued, is try to find out who did this, and why. 
We can let the law take care of it when we get back to civilization. 
Thats just what Im afraid of, said Swire. 
Do you want to spend the rest of your life in prison for murder? Nora asked. 
Because thats exactly what will happen if you go out there and shoot 
somebody. 
Swire did not reply. Wordlessly, the cook turned on his heel and entered his 
tent. A moment later, he emerged with his weapon, a box of bullets, and a 
leather holster. He handed them to Nora. Strapping the holster around her waist, 
Nora opened the heavy gun, spun the cylinder, and closed it again. Ripping the 
top off the box of bullets, she poured its contents into one hand and rapidly 
shoved them into the bullet loops. Then she dropped the empty box into the fire 
and turned toward Swire. 
Well take care of it, she said evenly. 
 

33
 
SKIP PAUSED AT THE METAL DOOR TO ELMOS Auto Shoppe, pausing a moment to build 
up a full head of righteous indignation. The metal, quonset-hut garage lay 
baking in the heat at the long sad end of Cerrillos Road, an ugly strip of 
fast-food restaurants, used automobile dealerships, and malls south of town. 
Beyond Elmos stretched nothing but bulldozed flat prairie, decorated with 
billboards, FOR LEASE and WILL BUILD TO SUIT signsthe expanding edge of Santa 
Fes uncontrolled growth. 
Skip set the expression on his face and pushed through the door, pulling Teddy 
Bear behind him on a short, thick leather leash. In the farthest bay, perched 
high atop the hydraulic lift, sat his Fury, tires drooping mournfully. It was a 
great deal sandier than it had been the day before. 
Beneath it stood the proprietor of Elmos Auto Shoppe, a tall, gangly man in 
faded dungarees and torn T-shirt. The shirt was liberally stained with oil, and 
it sported an oversized Rolling Stones tongue, jutting salaciously from dewlap 
lips. The shirt formed an appropriate reflection of Elmos own pendulous lips 
and doleful expression. 
Whyd you have to bring that with you? Elmo whined, nodding at the dog. Im 
allergic to dog hair. 
Skip opened his mouth to deliver his speech and Elmo raised his clipboard in 
protest. Broken rocker assembly, he began quickly, licking a long, 
grease-sodden finger and folding the pages on his clipboard back as he spoke. 
Emergency brake trashed. Hub bent. Youre looking at, oh, five, six hundred at 
least. Plus the tow from the third fairway. 
Like hell I am! Skip dragged Teddy Bear forward and paced angrily in the 
shadow of his car, forgetting his carefully crafted speech. I had this in here 
for an oil change and tuneup just three weeks ago. Why the hell didnt you tell 
me the brakes were going? 
Elmo turned his lachrymose face toward Skip. His droopy eyes always looked on 
the verge of weeping. I checked that invoice already. There was nothing wrong 
with the brakes. 
Thats bullshit. Skip glanced at the mechanic in disbelief. He so rarely 
bothered to pay for car servicing that now, having shelled out fifty-seven 
dollars just a few weeks before, his righteous indignation knew no bounds. I 
tell you, I had zero brakes left. Zero. I might as well have tried to use a 
kickstand. I could have been killed. And now you want me to pay for the 
privilege? Yeah, right. 
The brake system was dry as a bone, said Elmo, doggedly, looking at the floor. 

See? Skip slapped a balled fist against his palm. That proves it. You should 
have seen that leak when the car was here before. Im not going to pay for 
But there aint no leak. 
Skip halted in mid-rant. Huh? 
Elmo shrugged, his eyes rolling toward Skip. We pressure-tested the brake 
system. Theres no leak, no sprung seal, nothing. 
Skip stared at Elmo. That doesnt make sense. 
Elmo shrugged again. Besides, there would have been signs of a leak. Look at 
that. He grabbed a basket lamp and pointed it up at the Fury. 
Its the underside of a car. Its sandy and greasy. So what? 
But none of thats brake fluid. No drips, no spray marks. Nothing to show any 
leak at all. Where do you park it regularly? 
In my driveway, of course 
You see a big stain on the ground lately? 
Nothing I noticed. 
Elmo looked down again, nodding sagely, his big ears wagging. 
Skip started to retort, then stopped, mouth open. What are you saying? he said 
at last. 
I aint saying nothing. Your brakes were drained clean. Elmos rubbery lips 
twisted into what might have been a smile, and he licked at them with a red 
tongue. Got any enemies? 
Skip scoffed. Thats crazy. No, I . . . He paused a moment thinking. You 
mean, somebody couldve drained them? Deliberately? 
Elmo nodded again, and inserted a finger into one ear, giving it a few hard 
twists. Only problem is the brake fluid cap was rusted shut, sos how it got 
drained is kind of problematical. 
But Skip was still thinking. No, he repeated at last in a softer voice. The 
brakes were working fine one minute, gone the next. He glanced at his watch, 
irritation once again welling up within him. Im late for work. Ive got this 
boss who rips the balls off people who are late. And on top of everything else, 
you give me this He gestured at Elmos loaner car, an ancient Volkswagen 
Beetle with a crumpled rear fender and doors of mismatched colors. Id rather 
drive my own, even without brakes. 
Elmo worked his shoulders through their perpetual shrug. Itll be ready by five 
P.M. Friday. 
And rework that bill while youre reworking the car, Skip replied. Theres no 
way Im paying six hundred for somebody elses negligence. With effort, he 
stuffed Teddy Bear into the Beetle, then lowered himself gingerly into the 
drivers seat and cranked the engine. 
He eased into first and chugged noisily out into traffic, pointing the cars 
snout down the strip that eventually would bring him back to town, the 
Institute, and the waiting Sonya Rowling. He could feel a headache coming on, 
faint for the moment but getting stronger. It seemed to encircle his temples, 
like a headband. Despite his bluster, he felt profoundly disturbed, and his 
heart raced as he worked his way up through the gears. For a minute, he thought 
of heading back out to Teresas, checking the ground where hed parked the car 
for a puddle of fluid. But even as the thought came to him, he knew he never 
wanted to see the place again. 
Then, on impulse, he pulled the car onto the shoulder and slipped the gearshift 
into neutral. Something about this didnt seem right, at all. And it wasnt just 
the bizarre circumstances, either; the moment Elmo had mentioned enemies, a 
sudden chill had enveloped Skip. 
He sat on the shoulder, thinking. Vaguely, very vaguely, he remembered his 
father, sitting at the dinner table, drinking coffee and telling him a story. 
For some reason, Skip couldnt remember the story. But he remembered his mother 
frowning, telling Skips dad to talk about something else. 
Something else . . . there was something else that had happened recently, 
something that dovetailed with all this in a strange and awful way. 
Suddenly, Skip put the Volkswagen into gear and, with a quick glance over his 
shoulder, urged the car back into traffic. But instead of heading toward the 
Institute, he peeled off at the next corner and began threading his way through 
a maze of seedy side streets, urging the old car forward, cursing it, his 
fingers drumming impatiently on the wheel. 
Pulling up at last in front of his apartment, he half ran, half leaped up the 
flight of stairs, dragging Teddy Bear behind him, fumbling with his keychain and 
unlocking both locks as quickly as he could. 
Inside, the apartment smelled of unwashed socks and ancient half-eaten meals. 
Jerking the chain of an overhead light, Skip made a beeline to the 
cinderblock-and-plywood bookshelf that leaned precariously against a far wall. 
Kneeling in front of the lowest row, his finger traced across the old spines of 
the books that had been his fathers, the faded titles etched faintly in lines 
of dust. 
Then his finger stopped on a thin, battered gray book. Skinwalkers, Witches, 
and Curanderas: Witchcraft and Sorcery Practices of the Southwest, Skip softly 
breathed the title aloud. 
The urgent rush that had propelled him back to the apartment was now replaced by 
hesitation and uncertainty. There was terrible and hideous knowledge in this 
book, he recalled. More than anything, Skip did not want to have that knowledge 
confirm the fear that was now growing inside him. 
He knelt there, by the old books, for what seemed a long time. Then at last he 
gripped the volume in both hands, carried it to the orange couch, opened it 
carefully, and began to read. 
 

34
 
AS THEY EMERGED FROM THE GLOOM OF the slot canyon into the cottonwood valley, 
Nora could tell at a glance something was wrong. Rather than being scattered 
indolently across the sparse grass, the horses were bunched together by the 
stream, snorting and tossing their heads. She quickly scanned the valley floor, 
the stone ramparts, the ragged form of the Devils Backbone. There was nobody. 
Swire snugged the revolver into his belt and led the way to the horses. You 
take Compaero, he said to Smithback, reaching for a saddle. Hes too dumb to 
be scared. 
Nora found her own saddle from among the pile, located Arbuckles, and threw it 
over his back. Then she held the horses still while Swire knelt to remove the 
shoes. He worked in silence, using a chisel to get underneath the clinched end 
of each nail and bending it straight, taking great pains not to clip or crack 
the nailhole. Once all the nails were straight, he pried the shoe from the hoof 
with a clinch cutter. Nora found herself impressed by his skill: shoeing and 
unshoeing a horse in the field without an anvil was neither a common nor 
desirable practice. 
At last he stood up, wordlessly handing Nora fresh nails along with the shoes, 
hammer, and clincher. Sure you can do this? he asked. Nora nodded, and the 
wrangler gestured for Smithback to mount. 
There was a lot of wind in the valley last night, Swire said, cinching the 
saddle tight and handing the reins to Smithback. Maybe thats why there aint 
no tracks down here in all this loose sand. Might have better luck on top, or 
down the far side. 
Nora secured the saddlebags, tested the saddles fit, then swung up. 
Smithbacks going to need a gun, she said. 
After a moment, the wrangler silently handed over his pistol, along with a 
handful of bullets. 
Id rather have the rifle, the writer said. 
Swire shook his head. If anybody comes over that ridge, I want to have a good 
bead on him, he replied. 
Just make sure it isnt us, Smithback said as he mounted Compaero. 
Nora looked around for a final time, then turned to Swire. Thanks for the 
horses. She nosed Arbuckles away from the group. 
Just a minute. Nora turned back to see Swire looking at her evenly. 
Good luck, he said at last. 
They rode away from the stream, angling across the uneven land toward the heavy 
bulk of the ridge ahead, in shadow despite the bright morning sun. Over the thin 
murmur of the stream and the call of the canyon wrens, Nora could now hear a 
different sound: a low, steady drone, like the hum of a magneto. Then they 
topped a small rise and two low forms came into view: the remains of Hoosegow 
and Crow Bait. A black cloud of flies hung over them. 
Jesus, Smithback muttered. 
Arbuckles began to prance and whinny beneath her, and Nora veered left, giving 
the carcasses a wide berth on the upwind side. Even so, as they passed she 
caught a brief glimpse of coiled ropes of entrails, bluish-gray and steaming in 
the sun, webbed in black traceries of flies. Beyond the scene of the massacre, 
she stopped. 
What are you doing? Smithback asked. 
Im going to take a minute to look more closely. 
Mind if I stay here? Smithback asked in a strained voice. 
Dismounting and giving her reins to Smithback, Nora walked back over the rise. 
The flies, disturbed by her approach, rose in a roaring, angry mass. The high 
winds had scoured the ground, but here and there she could make out old horse 
tracks and some fresher coyote prints. Except for the marks of Swires boots, 
there were no human footprints. As Swire had said, the entrails had been 
arranged in a spiral pattern. Brightly colored macaw feathers, shockingly out of 
place in the arid landscape, protruded from the eye sockets. The carcasses had 
been stabbed with some painted and feathered twigs. 
As she was about to turn away, she noticed something else. A circular patch of 
skin had been cut from the foreheads of both horses. Examining these more 
closely, Nora saw that similar patches had been removed symmetrically from a 
spot on either side of the horses chests, and from two more spots on either 
side of their lower bellies. Why there? What could this possibly mean? 
She shook her head and retreated from the killing ground. 
Who could do such a thing? Smithback asked as she remounted. 
Who indeed? It was the question Nora had been asking herself for the last hour. 
The answer that seemed most likely was too frightening to contemplate. 
Within twenty minutes they had reached the base of the ridge. In another twenty, 
following the gentle trail up, they crested the top of the Devils Backbone. 
Nora brought the horses to a stop and dismounted again, gazing slowly over the 
vista ahead. The great divide looked out over thousands of miles of slickrock 
canyons. To the north, she could see the distant blue hump of Barney Top, and to 
the northeast, the silent sentinel of the Kaiparowits. 
And, directly ahead, were the narrow vicious switchbacks that led down the face 
of the hogback ridge. Somewhere at the bottom lay Fiddlehead, Hurricane Deck, 
and Beetlebum. 
Tell me were not really going down that again, Smithback said. 
Nora remained silent. She dismounted and took a few steps from the horses, 
scouring the patches of sand that lay among the rocks. There were no signs of a 
horse; but then, the wind at the top of the ridge would have swept them away. 
She looked back down the way they had come. Though shed kept a careful lookout 
as they climbed, she had seen nothing but old hoofprints. She shivered; she knew 
very well there was no other way into the valley. And yet, somehow, the 
mysterious horse killers had left no sign of their passing. 
Tearing her eyes away, she looked back around to the steep trail ahead of them, 
leading down the front of the Devils Backbone. It seemed to simply disappear 
over the edge into sheer space. She knew it was always more dangerous to descend 
than to ascend. The terrifying memory of how shed scrabbled at the cliff face, 
feet kicking in dead space, returned with redoubled force. She rubbed her 
fingertips, now free of bandages but still tingling with the memory. 
Im going to hike down a ways on foot, Nora murmured. You wait here. 
Anything to stay off that trail, Smithback said. I cant imagine a worse way 
down a cliff than that. Except falling, of course. And at least thats faster. 
Nora began to pick her way down the steep trail. The first part, all slickrock, 
not surprisingly showed no signs of the mysterious rider. But when she reached 
the rock strewn part of the trail, she stopped: there, in a small patch of sand, 
was a fresh hoofprint. And it was from an unshod horse. 
Are we going down? Smithback asked with a distinct lack of enthusiasm as she 
returned to the top of the ridge. 
Yes, she replied. Swire wasnt seeing things. Somebody did come up here on 
horseback. 
She took a deep breath, then another. And then she began carefully down the 
ridge, leading Arbuckles. The horse balked at the lip of the trail, and after 
some firm coaxing Nora got him to take one step, and then another. Smithback 
followed, leading Compaero. Nora could hear the horse snorting, the scrape of 
bare hoof on stone. She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the trail ahead, breathing 
regularly, trying to keep them from straying over the edge into the infinite 
space below. Once, instinctively, she looked over: there was the dry valley 
below, the strange rock formations like tiny piles of pebbles, the stunted 
junipers mere black dots. Arbuckless legs were shaking, but he kept his head 
down, nose to the ground, and they inched their way down. Having been up the 
trail before, Nora was now aware of the most difficult spots, and worked to 
guide her horse past them when it was most necessary. 
Just before the second switchback, Nora heard Arbuckless hooves skid, and in a 
panic she dropped the lead rope, but after a brief scrabble the horse stopped, 
shaking. Clearly, the unshod hooves had better purchase on the trail. As she 
bent down to pick up the rope, two crows, riding air currents up the face of the 
cliff, hovered past them. They were so close, Nora could see their beady eyes 
swiveling around to look at them. One let fly a loud croak of displeasure as he 
passed by. 
After twenty more heart-stopping minutes, Nora found herself at the bottom of 
the trail. Turning, she saw Smithback make the last pitch to the bottom. She was 
so relieved she almost felt like hugging him. 
Then the wind shifted, and a terrible stench reached her nostrils: the three 
dead horses, lying perhaps fifty yards away, draped over some broken boulders. 
Whoever had come this way would no doubt have inspected those horses. 
Giving Arbuckless reins to Smithback, she walked in the direction of the dead 
horses, fighting rising feelings of horror and guilt. The animals lay widely 
scattered, their bellies burst open, their guts thrown across the rocks. And 
there, too, were the tracks she was seeking: the tracks of the unshod horse. To 
her surprise, she saw the tracks had not come up from the south, as their 
expedition had, but led instead from the north: in the direction of the tiny 
Indian village of Nankoweap, many days ride away. 
The trail goes north, she said to Smithback, indicating for him to dismount. 
Im impressed, the writer replied as he slipped to the ground. And what else 
can you tell about the trail? Was it a stallion or a mare? Was it a pinto or a 
palomino? 
Nora pulled the horseshoes from a saddlebag and knelt beside Arbuckles. I can 
tell it was probably an Indians horse. 
How in the hell can you tell that? 
Because Indians tend to ride unshod horses. Anglos, on the other hand, shoe 
their horses from the moment they start them under saddle. She fitted the shoes 
to Arbuckless hooves, tapped the nails through, then carefully clinched them 
down. Swires horses, their hooves soft from years of wearing horseshoes, could 
not be left shoeless a moment longer than necessary. 
Smithback pulled out the gun Swire had given him, checked it, then replaced it 
in his jacket. And was there somebody on that horse? 
Im not that good a tracker. But I sure dont think Roscoes the type to be 
seeing things. 
Nora fitted the shoes onto Smithbacks horse. Then, leading Arbuckles by the 
guide rope, she began following the single track, which showed two sets of 
prints: one going, the other coming. Although the wind had scoured small 
sections away, the trail was clearly visible as it wound north through the 
scattered clumps of Mormon tea bushes. For a while, it ran along the base of the 
hogback ridge, and then it veered away, into a series of parallel defiles hemmed 
in by low ridges of a black volcanic rock. 
Whered you learn to track, anyway? Smithback asked. I didnt know the Lone 
Ranger was still on the lecture circuit. 
Nora shot him an irritated glance. Is this for your book? 
Smithback looked back in comical surprise, his long face drooping. No. Well, 
yes, I suppose. Everything is fair game. But mostly Im just curious. 
Nora sighed. You Easterners think tracking is some kind of art, or maybe some 
instinctive ethnic skill. But unless youre tracking across rock, buffalo grass, 
or lava, its not all that difficult. Just follow the footprints in the sand. 
She continued northward, Smithbacks voice vexing her concentration. I cant 
get over how remote this land is, he was saying. When I first got here, I 
couldnt believe how ugly and barren it all was, not at all like the Verde 
Valley where I went to school. But theres something almost comforting in its 
spareness, if you think about it. Something clean in the emptiness. Sort of like 
a Japanese tea room in that way. Ive been studying the tea ceremony a lot this 
last year, ever since 
Say, do you think you could hobble that lip? Nora interrupted in exasperation. 
You could talk Jesus out of going to heaven. 
There was a long moment of blissful silence. Then Smithback spoke again. Nora, 
he asked quietly, what is it, exactly, you dont like about me? 
Nora stopped at this, turning toward him in surprise. The writer wore a serious 
expression, one of the few she remembered seeing on his face. He stood, 
silently, in the shadow of Compaero. The cowboy clothes, which had seemed so 
ridiculous a week before, had now become a real working outfit, creased and 
dusty, well suited to his long frame. The pasty complexion was gone, replaced by 
a ruddy tan that matched his brown hair. She realized, with a small shock, that 
this was the first time she had heard him call her by name instead of the odious 
Madame Chairman. And although she couldnt analyze itand didnt have the 
time, even if she felt inclined to do soa part of her was pleased to think 
Smithback was concerned about how she felt about him. 
Nora opened her mouth to reply: You mean, other than the fact that youre a 
brash, smug guy with an ego the size of Texas? But she stopped and turned away, 
realizing this wasnt fair to Smithback. For all his eccentric ways, she had 
grown fond of the journalist. Now that she knew him better, she realized his ego 
was tempered by a certain self-deprecation that was charming in its own way. I 
didnt mean to snap at you just now, she said. And I dont dislike you. You 
almost screwed up everything, thats all. 
I did what? 
Nora decided not to answer. It was too hot, and she was too tired, for this kind 
of discussion. 
They moved on slowly as the sun climbed toward noon. Though the trail was 
relatively easy to follow, tracking by eye was still exhausting work. The 
hoofprints took them through a weird country of broken rocks, knobs, and humps 
of sandstone. The prints appeared to be following a faint and very old trail. On 
horseback now, Nora kept them moving as quickly as she could without losing the 
track. The midday sun beat down relentlessly, burning off the glaring white 
sand, flattening and draining all the color from the landscape. There was no 
sign of water anywhere. And then, unexpectedly, they passed through a lush 
valley, full of grass-covered sand and prickly pear, sprawling in gorgeous 
bloom. 
This is like a garden of Eden, Smithback said as they made their way through 
the brief, verdant patch. Whats it doing here in the middle of the desert? 
Probably the result of a heavy rainfall, Nora replied. Rain out here isnt 
like it is back in the east. Its very localized. You can get a huge downpour in 
one place, and a mile away see ground still parched and dry. 
They made their way out of the lush valley and back into the stony desert. What 
about lunch? Smithback asked. 
What about it? 
Well, its almost two. I like to dine fashionably late, but my stomach has its 
limits. 
Its really that late? Nora looked at her watch in disbelief, then stretched 
in the saddle. We must have covered fifteen miles from the base of the ridge. 
She paused a moment, considering. Pretty soon well be crossing into Indian 
land. The Nankoweap reservation begins somewhere up ahead. 
So what does that mean? Any chance of a Coke machine? 
No, the village is still a two-day ride from here, and it doesnt have 
electricity in any case. What I mean is, well be subject to their laws. Any 
Indians we meet arent likely to look too kindly on a couple of outsiders 
blundering in, accusing them of being horse killers. We have to be careful how 
we do this. 
Smithback considered this a moment. On second thought, maybe Im not so 
hungry. 
The faint trail seemed to go on forever, winding through a senseless tangle of 
arroyos, hidden valleys, shadowy ravines, and dunefields. Vaguely, Nora guessed 
that by now they had crossed into Indian country, but there was no fence and, of 
course, no sign. This was the kind of land that the white men had given to the 
Indians all over the West, she knew; utterly remote and useless for just about 
anything. 
So exactly how did I screw things up? Smithback asked suddenly. 
Nora twisted to look at him. Huh? 
At the bottom of the ridge, you said that I almost screwed things up for you. 
Ive been thinking about that, and I dont see what Ive done that you werent 
already doing yourself. 
Nora urged Arbuckles forward. Im afraid that anything I say, youll just use 
in your book. 
I wont, honest. 
Nora moved forward without speaking. 
Really, Nora, I mean it. I just want to know whats going on with you. 
Again, Nora felt a strange sense of pleasure from his interest. What do you 
know about how I discovered Quivira? she asked, returning her eyes to the 
trail. 
I know how Holroyd helped you pinpoint the location. It was Dr. Goddard who 
told me your father was the one who originally discovered it. Id been meaning 
to ask you more about that, only . . . Smithbacks voice fell away. 
Only you knew Id snap your head off, Nora thought with a twinge of guilt. 
About two weeks ago, she began, I was attacked in my familys old ranch house 
by a couple of men. At least, I think they were men, dressed up as animals. They 
demanded I give them a letter. My neighbor chased them away with her shotgun. At 
the time, I didnt know what they were talking about. But then I came upon this 
letter my father had written to my mother, years and years ago. Somebody mailed 
it, just recently. Who, or why, I dont know, and I cant get that out of my 
head. Anyway, in the letter, my father said that hed discovered Quivira. He 
gave directionsvague, but with Peters help, enough to get us here. I think 
those stalkers also wanted to learn the location of Quivira. So they could loot 
it, strip it of its treasures. 
She paused and licked her lips, painfully dry in the sun. So I tried to keep 
the expedition a secret. Everything was coming together just right. And then you 
showed up at the marina, notebook in one hand and megaphone in the other. 
Oh. Even without turning around, she could hear the sheepish note in the 
writers voice. Sorry. I knew the purpose of the expedition was secret, but I 
didnt realize the expedition itself was. He paused. I didnt give anything 
away, you know. 
Nora sighed. Maybe not. But you certainly created quite a stir. But lets 
forget it, okay? I overreacted. I was a little tense myselffor obvious 
reasons. 
They rode quietly for a while. So what do you think of my story? Nora asked at 
last. 
I think Im sorry I said I wouldnt print it. Do you suppose these guys are 
really still after you? 
Why do you think I insisted on taking this little field trip myself? Im pretty 
sure that the people who killed our horses, and the ones who attacked me, might 
be the same. If so, that means theyve learned where Quivira is. 
Abruptly, the trail left the weird tangle of stone and topped out on a narrow, 
fingerlike mesa. Breathtaking views surrounded them on all sides, canyons 
layered against canyons, disappearing into the purple depths. The snowcapped 
peaks of the Henry Mountains were now visible to the east, blue and 
inexpressibly lonely in the vast distance. At the far side of the mesa stood 
some rocks, hiding the landscape beyond from view. 
I didnt realize we were gaining so much altitude, said Smithback, stopping 
his horse and gazing around. 
Just then Nora caught a faint whiff of cedar smoke. She signaled Smithback to 
dismount quietly. 
Smell that? she whispered. Were not far from a campfire. Lets leave our 
horses here and go ahead on foot. 
Tying their mounts to sagebrush, they began walking through the sand. Wouldnt 
it be nice if there were a bathtub full of ice and cervezas on the other side? 
Smithback said under his breath as they approached the jumble of rocks. Nora 
dropped to her knees and peered through a gap in the rocks. Smithback did the 
same, creeping up beside her. 
At the naked end of the mesa, under a dead, corkscrewed juniper, was a small 
fire, smoking faintly. What appeared to be a jackrabbit, skinned and spitted, 
was propped between two forked sticks nearby. An old army bedroll lay unrolled 
in the lee of the rock, beside several buckskin bundles. To the left of the 
little camp the mesa sloped downward, and Nora could see a horse, picketed on a 
fifty-foot rope, grazing grass. 
The view from the point of the mesa was spectacular. The land dropped away in a 
great sweep of erosion, down into a wrinkled and violent landscape, dry, 
lifeless, webbed with alkali washes, dissolving into a badlands peppered with 
great rock megaliths, casting long shadows. Beyond lay the heavily forested 
Aquarius Plateau, a black irregular line on the horizon. A grasshopper scratched 
forlornly in the late afternoon heat. 
Nora slowly exhaled. It was a barren place, and she knew she ought to feel a 
little silly, crawling up the ridge, peering melodramatically through the rocks 
on hands and knees. Then she thought about the matted, hairy figures in the 
deserted farmhouse, and about the coils of horse entrails, flyblown and steaming 
in the sun. 
The unshod tracks they had been following led around the rocks and straight into 
the camp. 
Looks like nobodys home, whispered Nora. Her voice sounded loud and thin in 
her ears, and she could feel her skin prickle with fear. 
Yeah, but they couldnt be far. Look at that rabbit. What do we do now? 
I think we mount up and ride in, nice and easy. And then wait until they or 
whoever returns. 
Oh, sure. And get shot right out of the saddle. 
Nora turned to him. Got a better idea? 
Yeah. How about if we head back and see what Bonarottis got cooking for 
supper? 
Nora shook her head impatiently. Then Ill go in there alone, on foot. Theyre 
not likely to kill a lone woman. 
Smithback considered this. I wouldnt recommend that. If these are the same 
guys who attacked you, being a woman didnt stop them before. 
So what do we do? 
Smithback thought for a while. Maybe we should hide ourselves, and just wait 
near here for them to return. We could surprise them. 
Nora looked at the writer. Where? 
Back up in those rocks, behind us. We can look down and over the end of the 
mesa. Well see them as they come in. 
They returned to their horses, moved them well off the trail, and brushed out 
their tracks. Then they climbed up behind the camp and waited in a small nook 
between two large boulders. As they settled in, Nora heard an ominous, rattling 
buzz. About fifty yards away, in the shadow of a rock, a rattlesnake had reared 
up in an S-coil, its anvil-shaped head swaying slightly. 
Now you can show me your brilliant marksmanship, said Smithback. 
No, said Nora instantly. 
Why not? 
That guns going to make a pretty loud doorbell. Do you really want to alert 
whoevers out there? 
Smithback suddenly stiffened. I think its too late for that, he said. 
There, on one of the flanking ridges behind them, Nora saw a lone man 
silhouetted against the sky, his face in shadow. A gun was hanging off his right 
hip. How long he had been waiting there, watching them, Nora could not say. 
A dog appeared over the ridge behind the man. As it saw them, it broke into a 
flurry of outraged barking. The man spoke a brief command and it slunk behind 
his legs. 
Oh, God, Smithback said. Here we are, hiding in the rocks. This isnt going 
to look too good. 
Nora waited in indecision. The weight of her own gun felt heavy on her hips. If 
this was one of the men who had attacked her, killed the horses . . . 
The man stood motionless as the late afternoon deepened. 
You got us into this, Smithback said. What do we do now? 
I dont know. Say hello? 
Theres brilliance for you. Smithback raised a tentative hand. After a moment, 
the man on the ridge made a similar gesture. 
Then he stepped down from the ridge and began walking toward them, a curious 
walk on stiff, long legs, the dog trotting behind him. 
And then, in a instant of terrifying speed, Nora saw him stop short, draw his 
gun, and fire. 
 

35
 
INSTINCTIVELY, NORAS HAND DROPPED TO HER own weapon as the rattlers head blew 
apart in a spray of blood and venom. She glanced from the snake to Smithback. 
The writers face was ashen, his gun drawn. 
The man walked toward them with slow deliberate steps. Jumpy, aint you, he 
said, holstering his gun. These damned rattlers. I know they keep the mice 
down, but when I go out to piss at night, I dont want to step on any 
mousehunting coontail. 
He was an extraordinary-looking man. His hair was long and white, and plaited in 
two long braids in the traditional Native American fashion. A bandanna was tied 
around his head and formed into a bun to one side. His pants, indescribably old 
but very clean, were at least eight inches too short. Beneath, dusty, sticklike 
legs plunged sockless into a pair of red high-top sneakers, brand-new and laced 
up tight. His shirt was beautifully made out of tanned buckskin, decorated with 
strips of fine beadwork, and a turquoise necklace circled his neck. But it was 
the face above the necklace that most arrested Nora. There was a gravity and 
dignity to the face; a gravity that seemed at variance with the glittering, 
amused liveliness of his black eyes. 
You look a long way from home, the man said in a thin, reedy voice, with the 
peculiar kind of clipped yet melodious tone common to many native speakers in 
the Southwest. Did you find what you needed in my camp? 
Nora looked into the mercurial eyes. We didnt disturb your camp, she said. 
Were searching for the person that murdered our horses. 
The man gazed back steadily, the eyes narrowing slightly. The good humor seemed 
to vanish. For a moment, Nora wondered if he would raise his gun again, and she 
felt her right hand flex involuntarily. 
Then the tension seemed to ease, and the man took a step forward. Its a hard 
thing to lose horses, he said. Ive got some cool water down there in camp, 
and some roasted jackrabbit and chiles. Why dont you come along? He paused. 
Wed be happy to, said Nora. They followed him down the rockpile and into 
camp. He gestured for them to find a seat on the nearby rocks, then he squatted 
by the fire and turned the jackrabbit. He poked a stick into the ashes and 
pulled out several tinfoil-wrapped chiles, piling them at the edge of the fire 
to keep warm. I heard you folks coming, so I decided to head on up there and 
check you out from above. Dont get a lot of visitors out here, you know. Pays 
to be careful. 
Were we that obvious? Smithback asked. 
The man looked at him with cool brown eyes. 
Really, said Smithback. That obvious, huh? 
The man pulled a canteen out of the sand in the shadow of a rock and passed it 
to Nora. She accepted the water silently, realizing how thirsty she was. The man 
stirred the ashes of the fire, freshened it with a few pieces of juniper, then 
turned the jackrabbit again. 
So youre the folks down in Chilbah Valley, he said, sitting down across from 
them. 
Chilbah? Smithback asked. 
The man nodded. The valley over the big ridge back there. I saw you the other 
day, from the top. He turned to Nora. And I guess you saw me. And now youre 
here, because someone killed your horses and you thought it might be me. 
We only found one set of tracks, Nora said carefully. And they led right 
here. 
Instead of answering, the man rose, tested the rabbit with the point of his 
knife, then sat back down on his heels. My name is John Beiyoodzin, he said. 
Nora paused a moment to consider this reply. Sorry we didnt introduce 
ourselves, she replied. Im Nora Kelly, and this is Bill Smithback. Im an 
archaeologist and Bill is a journalist. Were here on an archaeological survey. 

Beiyoodzin nodded. Do I look like a horse murderer to you? he asked suddenly. 
Nora hesitated. I guess I dont know what a horse murderer should look like. 
The man digested this. Then the glittering eyes softened, a smile appeared on 
his face, and he shook his head. Jackrabbits done, he said, standing and 
flipping the spit up with an expert hand. He leaned it on a flat rock and 
expertly carved off two haunches. He placed each on a flat thin piece of 
sandstone and handed them to Nora and Smithback. Then he unwrapped the chiles, 
carefully saving the tinfoil. He quickly slipped off the roasted skin of each 
chile and handed them over. Were a little short on amenities, he said, 
skewering his own piece of rabbit with a knife. 
The chile was almost indescribably hot, and Noras eyes watered as she ate, but 
she felt famished. Beside her, Smithback was attacking his own meal avidly. 
Beiyoodzin watched them a moment, nodding his approval. They completed the 
little meal in silence. 
Beiyoodzin passed the canteen around and afterward there was an awkward pause. 
Nice view, said Smithback. Whats the rent on this joint? 
Beiyoodzin laughed, tilting his head back. The rent is in the getting here. 
Forty miles on horseback over waterless country from my village. Then he looked 
around, the wind stirring his hair. At night, you can look out over a thousand 
square miles and not see a single light. 
The sun was beginning to set, and the strange, complicated bowl of landscape was 
turning into a pointillist surface of gold, purple, and yellow. Nora glanced in 
Beiyoodzins direction. Though he had never actually denied it, somehow she felt 
certain he was not the one they were searching for. 
Can you help us find out who killed our horses? she asked him. 
Beiyoodzin glanced at her intently. I dont know, he said at last. What kind 
of survey you doing? 
Nora hesitated, uncertain if this was a change of subject or the beginning of 
some revelation. Even if he hadnt killed the horses himself, perhaps he knew 
who had. She took a deep breath, confused and tired. Its kind of 
confidential, she said. Would it be all right if I didnt tell you right now? 

Its in Chilbah Valley? 
Not exactly, said Nora. 
My village, he said, gesturing northward, is that way. Nankoweap. It means 
Flowers beside the Water Pools in our language. I come out here every summer 
to camp for a week or two. The grass is good, plenty of firewood, and theres a 
good spring down below. 
You dont get lonely? Smithback asked. 
No, he said simply. 
Why? 
Beiyoodzin seemed a little taken aback by his directness. He gave Smithback a 
curiously penetrating look. I come here, he said slowly, to become a human 
being again. 
What about the rest of the year? Smithback asked. 
Im sorry, Nora jumped in. Hes a journalist. He always asks too many 
questions. She knew that in most Native American cultures it was rude to show 
curiosity and ask direct questions. 
Beiyoodzin, however, merely laughed again. Its all right. Im just surprised 
he doesnt have a tape recorder or a camera. Most white people carry them. 
Anyway, I herd sheep most of the time, and I do ceremonies. Healing ceremonies. 

Youre a medicine man? Smithback asked, unchecked. 
Traditional healer. 
What kind of ceremonies? Smithback asked. 
I do the Four Mountain ceremony. 
Really? Smithback asked with obvious interest. Whats it for? 
Its a three-night ceremony. Chanting, sweats, and herbal remedies. It cures 
sadness, depression, and hopelessness. 
And does it work? 
Beiyoodzin looked at the journalist. Sure it works. He seemed to grow evasive 
in the wake of Smithbacks continued interest. Of course, he went on, there 
are always those even our ceremonies cant reach. Thats also why I come out 
here. Because of the failures. 
Some kind of vision quest? Smithback asked. 
Beiyoodzin waved his hand. If you call coming out here, praying, and even 
fasting for a while, a vision quest, then I suppose thats what it is. I dont 
do it for visions, but for spiritual healing. To remind myself that we dont 
need much to be happy. Thats all. 
He shifted, looking around. But you folks need a place to lay your bedrolls. 
Plenty of room out here, said Nora. 
Good, said Beiyoodzin. He leaned back and threw his wizened hands behind his 
head, resting his back on the rock. They watched as the sun sank below the 
horizon and darkness came rolling over the landscape. The sky glowed with 
residual color, a deep strange purple that faded to night. Beiyoodzin rolled a 
cigarette, lit it, and began puffing furiously, holding it awkwardly between 
thumb and index finger, as if it were the first time he had smoked. 
Im sorry to bring this up again, Nora said, but if you know anything about 
who might have killed our horses, Id like to hear it. Its possible our 
activities might have offended someone. 
Your activities. The man blew a cloud of smoke into the still twilight. You 
still havent told me about those. 
Nora thought for a moment. It seemed that information was the price of his 
assistance. Of course, there was no guarantee he could help them. And yet it was 
critical they find out who was behind the killings. What Im about to say is 
confidential, she said slowly. Can I count on your discretion? 
You mean, am I going to tell anyone? Not if you dont want me to. He flicked 
the cigarette butt into the fire and began rolling another. I have many 
addictions, he said, nodding at the cigarette. Thats another reason I come 
out here. 
Nora looked at him. Were excavating an Anasazi cliff dwelling. 
It was as if Beiyoodzins movements were suddenly, completely arrested, his hand 
freezing in the act of twisting the cigarette ends. Then he was in motion again. 
The pause was brief but striking. He lit the cigarette and sat back again, 
saying nothing. 
Its a very important city, Nora continued. It contains priceless, unique 
artifacts. It would be a huge tragedy if it were looted. Were afraid that these 
people might want to drive us away so they can plunder the site. 
Plunder the site, he repeated. And you will remove these artifacts? Take them 
to a museum? 
No, said Nora. For now, were going to leave everything as is. 
Beiyoodzin continued to smoke the cigarette, but his movements had become 
studied and deliberate, and his eyes were opaque. We never go into Chilbah 
Valley, he said slowly. 
Why not? 
Beiyoodzin held the cigarette in front of his face, the smoke trickling between 
his fingers. He looked at Nora through veiled eyes. How were the horses 
killed? he asked. 
They were sliced open, she replied. Their guts pulled out and arranged in 
spirals. Sticks tipped with feathers were shoved into their eyes. And pieces of 
skin had been cut off. 
The effect of this on Beiyoodzin was even more pronounced. He became agitated, 
quickly dropping the cigarette into the fire and smoothing a hand across his 
forehead. Skin cut off ? Where? 
In two places on the breast and lower belly, and on the forehead. 
The old man said nothing, but Nora could see his hand was shaking, and it 
frightened her. 
You shouldnt be in there, he said in a low, urgent voice. You should get out 
immediately. 
Why? Nora asked. 
Its very dangerous. He hesitated a moment. There are stories among the 
Nankoweap about that valley, and that other valley . . . the valley beyond. You 
might laugh at me, because most white people dont believe in such things. But 
what happened to your horses is a kind of witchcraft. Its a terrible evil. What 
youre doing, digging in that city, is going to kill you if you dont get out, 
right now. Especially now that . . . theyve found you. 
They? Smithback asked. Whos they? 
Beiyoodzins voice dropped. The spotted-clay witches. The skinwalkers. The 
wolfskin runners. 
In the darkness, Noras blood went cold. 
Beside her, Smithback stirred. Im sorry, he spoke up. You said witches? 
There was a faint tone in his voice that the Indian picked up. He gazed at the 
writer, his face indistinct in the growing darkness. Do you believe in evil? 
Of course. 
No normal Nankoweap person would kill a horse: to us, horses are sacred. I 
dont know what you call your evil people, but we call ours skinwalkers, 
wolfskin runners. They have many names, and many forms. They are completely 
outside our society, but they take what is good in our religion and turn it 
upside down. Whatever you may think, Nankoweap wolfskin runners exist. And they 
are drawn to Chilbah. Because the city was a place of sorcery, cruelty, 
witchcraft, sickness, and death. 
But Nora barely heard this. Wolfskin runners. Her mind fled back to the 
shadow-knitted ranch house: the dark matted form that had towered over her, the 
furred thing that had kept pace with her truck along the rutted dirt road. 
I dont doubt what you say, Smithback replied. Over the last couple of years, 
Ive seen some pretty strange things myself. But where do these skinwalkers come 
from? 
Beiyoodzin fell silent, arms propped on his knees, dark hands clasped. He rolled 
another cigarette, then turned his gaze toward the ground and fell motionless. 
The silence grew as the minutes passed. Nora could hear the faint cropping 
sounds of the horse grazing in the draw. Then, eyes still fixed on the ground, 
cigarette held loosely between two fingers, Beiyoodzin spoke again. 
To become a witch, you have to kill someone you love. Someone close, brother or 
sister, mother or father. You kill them, to get the power. Then, when that 
person is buried, you secretly dig the body up. He lit the cigarette. Then you 
turn the life force of that person to evil. 
How? Smithback whispered. 
When life is created, Wind, liehei, the life force, enters the body. Where the 
Wind enters the body, it leaves a little eddy, like a ripple in water. It leaves 
these marks on the tips of the fingers, toes, the back of the head. The witch 
cuts these off the corpse. They dry them, grind them up, make a kind of powder. 
And they drill out the skull behind and make a disk, for throwing spells. If it 
is a murdered sister, the witch has sex with the dead body. He uses the fluids 
to make another powder. Its called Alchibin lehh tsal. Incest corpse powder. 
Good God, Smithback groaned. 
You go to a remote spot at night. You strip off your clothes. You cover your 
body with spots of white clay, and wear the jewelry buried with the dead, the 
silver and turquoise. You place wolfskins or coyoteskins on either side of you. 
Then you say certain lines of the Night Wind Chant backwards. One of those skins 
will leap off the ground and stick to you. And then you have the power. 
What is this power? Nora asked. 
Beiyoodzin lit the cigarette. The repeated hoot of an owl echoed mournfully 
through the endless canyons. 
Our people believe you get the power to move at night, like the wind, but 
without sound. You can become invisible. You learn powerful spells, spells to 
witch people from a distance. And with the corpse powder, you can kill. Oh, can 
you kill. 
Kill? Smithback asked. Witch people? How, exactly? 
If a skinwalker can get something from their victims bodyspit, hair, a sweaty 
piece of clothingthey place it in the mouth of a corpse. With that, they can 
cast a spell on the person. Or on his horse, his sheep, his house, his 
belongings. They can break his tools, make his machines refuse to operate. They 
can make his wife fall sick, kill his dogs or children. 
He lapsed into silence. The owl hooted again, closer now. 
Witch people from a distance, Smithback repeated. Move at night, without 
sound. He grunted, shook his head. 
Beiyoodzin glanced at the writer briefly, his eyes luminous in the gathering 
darkness, then looked away again. 
Let me tell you a story, Beiyoodzin said, after a moments hesitation. 
Something that happened to me many years ago, when I was a boy. Its a story I 
havent told for a long, long time. 
A hot red ember flashed out of the dark, and Beiyoodzins face was briefly lit 
crimson as he drew on the cigarette. 
It was summer, he went on. I was helping my grandfather bring some sheep up 
to Escalante. It was a two-day trip, so we brought the horse and wagon. We 
stopped for the night at a place called Shadow Rock. Built a brush corral for 
the sheep, turned the horse out to graze, went to sleep. Around midnight, I woke 
up suddenly. It was pitch black: no moon, no stars. There was no noise. 
Something was wrong. I called out to my grandfather. Nothing. So I sat up, 
tossed twigs into the coals. As they flared up I caught a glimpse of him. 
Beiyoodzin took a long, careful drag on the cigarette. He was lying on his 
back, eyes gone. His fingertips were missing. His mouth had been sewed shut. 
Something had been done to the back of his head. The red firebrand of the 
cigarette tip wavered in the dark. I stood up and threw the rest of the brush 
onto the fire. In the light I could see our horse maybe twenty feet away. He was 
lying on the ground, guts mounded beside him. The sheep in the pen were all 
dead. All thisall thiswithout even the sound of a mouse. 
The pinpoint of red vanished as Beiyoodzin ground out the cigarette. As the 
fire died back, I saw something else, he continued. A pair of eyes, red in the 
flames. Eyes in the darkness, but nothing else. They never blinked, they never 
moved. But somehow, I felt them coming closer. Then I heard a low, puffing 
sound. Dust hit my face, and my eyes stung. I fell back, too scared even to cry 
out. 
I dont remember how I made my way home. They put me to bed with a high fever. 
At last, they put me in a wagon and took me to the hospital in Cedar City. The 
doctors there said it was typhoid, but my family knew better. One by one, they 
left my bedside. Except for my grandmother, I didnt see any of my relatives for 
a couple of days. But by the time they returned to the hospital, the worst of 
the sickness had passed. To the surprise of the doctors. 
There was a brief silence. I later learned where my relatives had been. Theyd 
returned to Shadow Rock, where wed camped. They took the villages best tracker 
with them. A set of huge wolfprints led away from the site. They followed the 
tracks to a remote camp east of Nankoweap. Inside was . . . well, I guess you 
would have to call him a man. It was noon, and he was sleeping. My relatives 
took no chances. They shot him while he slept. He paused. It took a great many 
bullets. 
How did they know? Smithback asked. 
Beside the man was a witchcraft medicine kit. There were certain roots, plants, 
and insects: taboo items, forbidden items, used only by skinwalkers. They found 
corpse powder. And up in the chimney, they found certain . . . pieces of meat, 
drying. 
But I dont understand how . . .  ? Smithbacks question trailed off into the 
darkness. 
Who was it? Nora asked. 
Beiyoodzin did not answer directly. But after a moment, he turned. Even in the 
dark, Nora could feel the intensity of his gaze. 
You said your horses were cut in five places, on the forehead and two places on 
each side of breast and belly, he said. Do you know what those five places 
have in common? 
No, Smithback said. 
Yes, Nora whispered, her mouth dry with sudden fear. Those are the five 
places where the fur of a horse forms a whorl. 
The light had completely vanished from the sky, and a huge dome of stars was 
cast over their heads. Somewhere in the distance, out on the plain, a coyote 
began yipping and wailing, and was answered by another. 
I shouldnt have told you any of this, Beiyoodzin said. No good can come to 
me. But maybe now you know why you must leave this place at once. 
Nora took a deep breath. Mr. Beiyoodzin, thank you for your help. Id be lying 
if I told you I wasnt frightened by what youve said. It scares me to death. 
But Im running the excavation of a ruin that my father gave up his life to 
find. I owe it to him to see it through. 
This seemed to astonish Beiyoodzin. Your father died out here? he asked. 
Yes, but we never found his body. Something about the way he spoke put her on 
guard. Do you know something about it? 
I know nothing. Then the man was abruptly on his feet. His agitation seemed to 
have increased. But Im sorry to hear about it. Please think over what Ive 
said. 
Were not likely to forget it, said Nora. 
Good. Now I think Ill turn in. Ive got to get up early. So Ill say goodbye 
to you right now. You can turn your horses out to graze in the draw. Theres 
plenty of grass down by the stream. Tomorrow, help yourself to breakfast if you 
like. I wont be around. 
That wont be necessary Nora began. But the old man was already shaking their 
hands. He turned away and began to busy himself with the bedroll. 
I think weve been given the brushoff, murmured Smithback. They went back to 
their horses, unsaddled them, and made a small camp of their own on the far side 
of the pile of rocks. 
* * *
What a character, Smithback muttered a little later as he unrolled his bag. 
The horses had been watered and were now nickering and muttering contentedly, 
hobbled nearby. First he spooks us with all that talk about skinwalkers. Then 
he suddenly announces its bedtime. 
Yes, Nora replied. Just when the talk got around to my father. She shook out 
her own bedroll. 
He never said what tribe he was from. 
I think Nankoweap. Thats how the village got its name. 
Some of that witchcraft stuff was pretty vile. Do you believe it? 
I believe in the power of evil, Nora said after a moment. But the thought of 
wolfskin runners, witching people with corpse powder, is tough to swallow. There 
are millions of dollars worth of artifacts at Quivira. It seems more likely that 
were dealing with a couple of people playing at witchcraft to frighten us 
away. 
Maybe so, but it seems like a pretty elaborate plan. Dressing up in wolfskins, 
cutting up horses . . . 
They both fell silent, and the cool night air moved over them. Nora rubbed her 
arms in the sudden chill. She could offer no explanation for what had happened 
to her at the ranch house, the matted form running alongside her truck. Or the 
same dark figure, racing away from her kitchen door. Or the disappearance of 
Thurber. 
Which way is downwind? Smithback asked suddenly. 
Nora looked at him. 
I want to know where to put my boots, he explained. In the dark, Nora thought 
she could see a crooked smile on the journalists face. 
Put them at the foot of your bedroll and point them east, she said. Maybe 
theyll keep the rattlers away. 
She pulled off her own boots with a sigh, lay down, and pulled the bag up around 
her dusty clothes. A half-moon had begun to rise, veiled by tatters of cloud. A 
few yards away, she could hear Smithback grunting as he flounced around, making 
preparations for sleep. In the calm darkness, the thought of skinwalkers and 
witches fell away under the weight of her weariness. 
Its strange, Smithback said. But something is definitely rotten in the State 
of Denmark. 
What, your shoes? 
Very funny. Our host, I mean. Hes hiding something. But I dont think it has 
to do with the horses. 
From far overhead came the sound of a jet. Idly, Nora located its faint, 
blinking light, crawling across the velvety blackness. As if reading her mind, 
Smithback spoke: Theres some guy, he said, sitting up in that plane, 
guzzling a martini, eating smoked almonds, and doing the New York Times 
crossword puzzle. 
Nora laughed quietly. Speaking of the Times, how long have you written for 
them? 
About two years now, since my last book was published. I took a leave of 
absence to come on this trip. 
Nora sat up on one elbow. Why did you come? 
What? The question seemed to take the writer by surprise. 
Its a simple enough question. This is a dangerous, dirty, uncomfortable trip. 
Why did you leave comfortable old Manhattan? 
And maybe miss out on the greatest discovery since King Tuts tomb? Smithback 
turned in his sleeping bag. Well, I guess its more than that. After all, I 
knew there was no guarantee wed find anything. If you get right down to it, 
newspaper work can be boring. Even if its the New York Times and everyone 
genuflects when you enter the room. But you know what? This is what its all 
about, really; discovering lost cities, listening to tales of murder, lying 
under the stars with a lovely He cleared his voice. Well, you know what I 
mean. 
No, I dont, Nora said, surprised at the sudden excitement that flooded 
through her. 
Lying under the stars with someone like you, he finished. Sounds kind of 
lame, doesnt it? 
As come-ons go, yes it does. But thanks just the same. 
She glanced at the lanky form of Smithback, faintly outlined in starlight, his 
eyes glinting as he looked skyward. So? she said after a moment. 
So what? 
Over the last week, youve had your spine realigned by hard saddles, youve 
gone without water, been bitten by horses, almost fallen off cliffs, avoided 
rattlesnakes, quicksand, and skinwalkers. So are you glad you came along? 
His eyes turned toward her, luminous in the starlight. Yes, he said simply. 
Holding his gaze in her own, she reached toward him in the darkness. Finding his 
hand, she squeezed it briefly. 
Im glad, too, she replied. 
 

36
 
BY MIDNIGHT, A HALF-MOON HAD RISEN IN the dark sky, and the gnarled badlands of 
southern Utah were bathed in pale light. At the foot of Lake Powell, Wahweap 
Marina dozed, its jetskis and houseboats silent. To the north and west, the 
labyrinthine system of narrow canyons leading ultimately toward the Devils 
Backbone were still. 
In the valley of Chilbah, two forms moved slowly up a secret notch. It was less 
a trail than a fissure in the rock, fiendishly hidden, now worn away to the 
faintest of lines after centuries of erosion and disuse. It was the Priests 
Trail: the back door to Quivira. 
Emerging out of the inky blackness of the rocks, the figures topped out on the 
sandstone plateau in which the valley of Quivira was hidden. Far below, in the 
long valley behind them, a horse nickered and stamped in agitation. But this 
evening they had left the horses unharmed, just as they had slipped past the 
cowboy who guarded them without running a knife across his throat. He sat there 
still, hand on his gun, the ground around him damp with tobacco juice. Let him 
sit; his time would come soon enough. 
Now, with animal stealth, they scuttled along the wide mesa far above the valley 
floor. Though the moon laid a dappled byway across the sandstone, the figures 
avoided the faint light, keeping to the shadows. The heavy animal pelts on their 
backs draped down over their sides, dragging along the rough rock beneath them. 
The figures moved on, silent as ghosts. 
After an eternity of movement they stopped, as if possessed of a single mind. 
Ahead, a well of darkness loomed: the tiny valley of Quivira. Far below, at the 
base of the canyon, the little stream shimmered in the moonlight. From the 
higher ground away from the stream, a faint glow arose from the dying campfire, 
and the even fainter smell of woodsmoke reached the figures peering down from 
the canyon rim. 
Their eyes moved from the fire to the dim figures that lay around it. 
Several tents ringed the camp, pallid in the dim moonlight. A number of bedrolls 
lay near the campfire, seemingly flung down at random. With the tents closed and 
darkened, it was impossible to count the number of the company. They stared 
long, bodies motionless. Then they eased forward along the brow of rock. 
With consummate stealth they moved along the top of the canyon, pausing now and 
then to look down toward the sleeping expedition. Occasional sounds drifted up 
from below: the call of an owl, the babble of water, the rustle of leaves in a 
night breeze. Once, a belt of silver conchas clinked around the midriff of one 
of the figures; otherwise, they made no noise in the time it took to reach the 
top of the rope ladder. 
Here the figures paused, examining the communications equipment with intense 
interest. A minute passed, then two, without movement. 
Then one of the figures glided to the edge of the cliff face and gazed down the 
thin ladder. It disappeared back beneath the brow of rimrock. The figure looked 
out, into the valley. He was almost directly above the camp now, and the glow of 
the fire, eight hundred feet below, seemed strangely close, an angry nugget of 
red in the darkness. A low, guttural sound rose out from deep within his frame, 
at last dying away into a groan that resolved itself into a faint, monotonous 
chant. Then he turned back toward the equipment. 
In ten minutes, their work there was done. 
Slinking further along the rimrock, they made their way to the end of the 
canyon. The ancient secret trail wormed down through a cut in the rimrock, 
descending toward the narrow canyon at the far side of the Quivira valley. The 
trail was perfectly concealed against the rock, and terrifyingly precipitous. 
The faint sounds of the waterfall echoed up below them, the water thrashing and 
boiling its way on the long trip down to the Colorado River. 
In time, the figures reached the sandy bottom. They moved stealthily out of the 
curtain of mist, past the rockfall, then along the base of the canyon wall, 
keeping in the deeper darkness of moonshadow. They stopped when they neared the 
first member of the expedition: a figure beyond the edge of the camp, sleeping 
beneath the stars, pale face looking deathlike in gray half-light. 
Reaching into the matted pelt that lay across his back, one of the figures 
pulled out a small pouch. It was made of cured human skin, and in the glow of 
the moon it gave out an otherworldly, translucent sheen. Loosening the leather 
thong around it, the figure reached inside and, with extreme caution, drew out a 
disk of bone and an ancient tube of willow wood, polished with use and incised 
with a long reverse spiral. The disk flashed dully in the moonlight as he turned 
it over once, then again. Then, placing one end of the tube to his lips, he 
leaned toward the face of the sleeping figure. There was a sudden breath of 
wind, and a brief cloud of dust flowered in the moonlight. Then, with the tread 
of ghosts, the two figures retreated back toward the cliff face, disappearing 
once again into the woven shadows. 
 

37
 
COUGHING, PETER HOLROYD WOKE abruptly out of dark dreams. Some stray breeze had 
chased dirt across his face. Or more likely it was dust from the days work, he 
thought blearily, still weeping out of his pores. He wiped his face and sat up. 
It had not been the dust alone that awakened him. Earlier, there had been a 
sound: a strange cry, borne faintly on the wind, as if the earth itself were 
groaning. He might have thought hed dreamed the noise, except that nothing 
remotely like it had ever existed in his imagination. He was aware that his 
heart was racing. 
Gripping the edges of his bedroll, he looked around. The half-moon threw zebra 
stripes of silvery-blue light across the camp. He glanced from tent to tent, and 
at the still black lumps of bedrolls. Everything was still. 
His eyes stopped at a spot on a small rise, perhaps twenty yards from the 
campfire. Usually Nora would be at that spot, sleeping. Tonight she was 
gonegone with Smithback. Many times during the desert nights Holroyd had found 
himself looking in her direction. Wondering what it would be like to creep over 
and talk to her, tell her how much all this meant to him. How much she meant to 
him. And, always, the last thing he wondered was why he just never had the guts 
to do it. 
Holroyd lay back with a sigh. Even if Nora had been around, though, tonight he 
had no desire to do anything but rest. He was bone-tired; more tired than he 
remembered ever being in his life. In Noras absence, Sloane had directed him to 
clear away a tidal wave of sand and dust that had risen up against the back wall 
of the ruin, not far from Aragons Crawlspace. He hadnt understood why he 
needed to dig that particular spot; there were many sites in the front of the 
ruin that had yet to be studied. But Sloane had brushed off his questions with a 
quick explanation about how important pictographs were often found at such sites 
at the rear of Anasazi cities. He was surprised at how quickly and completely, 
after Nora left, Sloane assumed command. But Aragon had been working by himself 
in a remote corner of the city, his face dark and severe; apparently, hed made 
yet another disturbing discovery, and he was too preoccupied to pay attention to 
anything else. As for Black, he seemed to yield up all critical sense in 
Sloanes presence, automatically agreeing with whatever she said. And so, from 
morning until dark, Holroyd had wielded a shovel and a rake. And now it seemed 
to him that, even after a months worth of baths, hed never get all the dust 
out of his hair, nose, and mouth. 
He stared up at the night sky. There was a funny taste in his mouth, and his jaw 
ached. The beginning of a headache was forming around his temples. He didnt 
know what hed expected to do on the expedition, but his vague romantic notions 
of opening rich tombs and deciphering inscriptions seemed a far cry from the 
endless grunt work hed been doing. All around lay fantastic ruins of a 
mysterious civilization, while they were immersed in gridding this and surveying 
that. And moving piles of empty sand. He was sick of digging, he decided. And he 
didnt like working for Sloane. She was too aware of her perfection and the 
influence she cast on others, too willing to use her charm to get what she 
wanted. Ever since the confrontation with Nora at Petes Ruin, hed felt on his 
guard when she was around. 
He sighed, closing his eyes against the pressure in his head. It wasnt like him 
to be this grouchy. Normally, he only got grumpy when he was coming down with 
something. Sloane was all right, really; she was just outspoken, used to getting 
her way, not his type. And it didnt matter if he was digging sand or breaking 
rocks. The important thing was he was herehere at Quivira, at this miraculous, 
mythical place. Nothing else mattered. 
Suddenly, he stiffened, eyes opening wide. That sound again. 
Pushing the blanket to one side, he rose to his knees as quietly as he could. 
Whatever hed heard, it had stopped. No, there it was again: a murmur, a low 
groan. 
But this sound was different from the sound that had awakened him. It was 
softer, somehow; softer and nearer. 
In the pale light, he hunted around for a stick, a penknife, anything that could 
be used as a weapon. His hand closed around a heavy flashlight. He hefted it, 
thought of switching it on, then decided against it. He rose to his feet, 
staggering a moment before gaining his balance. Then, silently, he moved in the 
direction of the noise. All had grown quiet again, but the sound seemed to have 
come from beyond the stand of cottonwoods near the stream. 
Cautiously picking his way around boxes and shrouded packs, Holroyd moved away 
from the camp toward the stream. A cloud had passed over the moon, darkening the 
landscape to an impenetrable murk. He felt hot, uncomfortable, disoriented in 
the close darkness. The headache had grown worse when he stood up, and it almost 
seemed as if a film lay in front of his eyes. In a detached way, he made out 
what looked like a patch of highly poisonous druids mantle a few feet away. 
Instead of taking a closer look, he regarded it with uncharacteristic 
disinterest. He should be resting in his blanket, not wandering around on a 
fools errand. 
As he was about to turn back, he heard another sound: a moan, the soft slap of 
skin against skin. 
Then the moon was out again. Stealthily, he moved forward, looking carefully to 
both sides. The sounds were clearer now, more regular. He tightened his grip on 
the flashlight, grasped the trunk of a cottonwood, and peered through the 
curtain of moonlit leaves. 
The first thing he saw was a tangle of clothes on the ground beyond. For a 
moment, Holroyd thought somebody had been attacked, and their body dragged off. 
Then his eyes moved farther. 
On the soft sand beyond the cottonwoods lay Black. His shirt was bunched up 
around his armpits, his bare legs were splayed, knees bent toward the sky. His 
eyes were squeezed shut. A small groan escaped him. Above, Sloane was straddling 
Blacks hips, her fingers spread wide against his chest, the sweat on her naked 
back glowing in the moonlight. Holroyd leaned forward with an involuntary 
movement, staring in shock and fascination. His face flushed, whether in 
embarrassment or shame at his own navet, he could not say. Black grunted in 
combined effort and pleasure as he sheathed himself within her, thigh muscles 
straining. Sloane leaned over him, her dark hair falling over her face, her 
breasts swaying heavily with each thrust. Holroyds eyes traveled slowly up her 
body. She was staring at Blacks face intently, with a look more of rapt 
attention than of pleasure. There was something almost predatory in that look. 
For a moment, he was reminded of a cat, playing with a mouse. 
But that image dissolved as Sloane thrust downward to meet Black, again and 
again and again, riding him with relentless, merciless precision. 
 

38
 
WITH A TUG ON THE GUIDE ROPE, NORA brought Arbuckles to a halt. She stood beside 
the horse and looked down from the crest of the Devils Backbone, into the 
valley the old Indian had called Chilbah. She felt drained, sickened, by the 
climb back to the top, and Arbuckles was shaking and lathered with stress. But 
they had made it: his hooves, once again freed of iron, had gripped the gritty 
sandstone. 
The wind was blowing hard across the fin of rock and several ragged afternoon 
thunderheads were coalescing over the distant mountains to the north, but the 
valley itself remained a vast bowl of sunlight. 
Smithback came to a stop beside her, white, silent. So this is Chilbah, 
sinkhole of evil, he said after a moment. His tone was meant to be light, but 
his voice still held a quiver of stress from the terrifying ascent of the 
hogback ridge. 
Nora did not reply immediately. Instead, she knelt to reshoe the horses, letting 
a full sense of control return to her limbs. Then she stood, dusted herself off, 
and reached into a saddlebag for her binoculars. She scanned the bottomlands 
with them, looking for Swire and the horses. The cottonwoods and swales of grass 
were a welcome sight after the long, hot ride back from the sheep camp. It was 
now half past one. She located Swire alongside the creek, sitting on a rock, 
watching the remuda graze. As she stared, she could see him looking up toward 
them. 
People are evil, she said at last, lowering the binoculars. Landscapes are 
not. 
Maybe so, said Smithback. But right from the beginning, Ive felt there was 
something strange about the place. Something that gave me the willies. 
Nora glanced at the writer. And Ive always thought it was just me, she 
replied. 
They mounted their horses and moved forward, making the descent into the valley 
in silence. Nosing their horses directly toward the grassy banks of the creek, 
they remained in their saddles while the animals waded in to drink, the water 
burbling around their legs. From the corner of her eye, Nora could see Swire 
trotting up the creekbed toward them, riding bareback, without bridle or reins. 
He pulled to a stop on the far side of the creek, looking from Nora to Smithback 
and back. So you brought back both horses, he said, looking at Nora with 
ill-disguised relief. What about the sons of bitches who killed my horsesyou 
catch them? 
No, said Nora. The person you saw at the top of the ridge was an old Indian 
man camping upcountry. 
A look of skepticism crossed Swires face. An old Indian man? What the hell was 
he doing on top of the ridge? 
He wanted to see who was in the valley, Nora replied. He said nobody from his 
village ever goes into this valley. 
Swire sat silent a moment, his mouth working a lump of tobacco. So you followed 
the wrong tracks, he said at last. 
We followed the only tracks up there. The tracks of the man you saw. 
In reply, Swire expertly shot a string of tobacco juice from his lips, forming a 
little brown crater in the nearby sand. 
Roscoe, Nora went on, careful to keep her tone even, if youd met this man, 
youd realize hes no horse killer. 
Swires mouth continued working. There was a long, strained silence as the two 
stared at each other. Then Swire spat a second time. Shit, he said. I aint 
saying youre right. But if you are, it means the bastards that killed my horses 
are still around. Then, without another word, he spun his horse with invisible 
knee pressure and trotted back down the creek. 
Nora watched his receding back. Then she glanced over at the writer. Smithback 
merely shrugged in return. 
As they set off across the valley toward the dark slot canyon, Nora looked up. 
The northern sky had grown lumpy with thunderheads. She frowned; normally, the 
summer rains werent due for another couple of weeks. But with a sky like this, 
the rains could be upon them as early as that very afternoon. 
She urged her horse into a trot toward the slot canyon. Better get through 
before the system moves in, she thought. Soon, they reached the opening. They 
unsaddled their horses, wrapped and stowed the saddles, then turned the animals 
loose to find the rest of the herd. 
It was the work of a long, wet, weary hour to toil through the slot canyon, the 
gear dead weight on their backs. At last, Nora parted the hanging weeds and 
began walking down toward the camp. Smithback fell in step beside her, breathing 
hard and shaking mud and quicksand from his legs. 
Suddenly, Nora stopped short. Something was wrong. The camp was deserted, the 
fire untended and smoking. Instinctively, she looked up the cliff face toward 
Quivira. Although the city itself was hidden, she could hear the faint sounds of 
loud, hurried conversation. 
Despite her weariness, she shrugged the pack from her back, jogged toward the 
base of the rope ladder, and climbed to the city. As she clambered onto the 
bench, she saw Sloane and Black near the citys central plaza, talking 
animatedly. On the far side of the plaza sat Bonarotti, legs crossed, watching 
them. 
Sloane saw her approaching and broke away from Black. Nora, she said. Weve 
been vandalized. 
Exhausted, Nora sank onto the retaining wall. Tell me about it, she said. 
It must have happened during the night, Sloane went on, taking a seat beside 
her. At breakfast, Peter said he wanted to go up and check his equipment before 
getting to work. I was going to tell him to take the day off, actuallyhe didnt 
look that well. But he insisted. Said hed heard something during the night. 
Anyway, next thing I know he was calling down from the top of the cliff. So I 
went up after him. She paused. Our communications equipment, Nora . . . its 
all been smashed to pieces. 
Nora looked over at her. Sloane was uncharacteristically unkempt; her eyes were 
red, her dark hair tousled. 
Everything? Nora asked. 
Sloane nodded. The transmitter, the paging networkeverything but the weather 
receiver. Guess they didnt think to look up in that tree. 
Did anybody else see or hear anything? 
Black glanced at Sloane, then turned back to Nora. Nothing, he said. 
Ive kept a sharp eye out all day, Sloane said. I havent seen anybody, or 
anything. 
What about Swire? 
He went out to the horses before we learned about it. I havent had a chance to 
ask him. 
Nora sighed deeply. I want to talk to Peter about this. Where is he now? 
I dont know, Sloane said. He went down the ladder from the summit before I 
did. I figured hed gone back to his tent to lie down. He was pretty upset and . 
. . well, frankly, he wasnt making much sense. He was sobbing. I guess that 
equipment really meant a lot to him. 
Nora stood up and walked to the rope ladder. Bill! she shouted down into the 
valley. 
Maam? the writers voice floated up. 
Check the tents. See if you can find Holroyd. 
She waited, scanning the tops of the canyon walls. Nobody home, Smithback 
called up a few minutes later. 
Nora returned to the retaining wall, shivering now. She realized she was still 
wet from the trip through the canyon. Then he must be in the ruin somewhere, 
she said. 
Thats possible, Sloane replied. He said something yesterday about 
calibrating the magnetometer. Guess we lost track of him in all the confusion. 
What about the horse killers? Black interrupted. 
Nora hesitated a moment. She decided there was no point in alarming everybody 
with Beiyoodzin and his story of witches. There was only one set of prints on 
the ridge, and they led to the camp of an old Indian. He clearly wasnt the 
killer. Since our equipment was smashed last night, that probably means the 
horse killers are still around here somewhere. 
Black licked his lips. Thats great, he said. Now were going to have to post 
a guard. 
Nora looked at her watch. Lets find Peter. Were going to need his help 
setting up some kind of emergency transmitter. 
Ill check the roomblock where he stashed the magnetometer. Sloane walked 
away, Black following in her wake. Bonarotti came over to Nora and drew out a 
cigarette. Nora opened her mouth to remind him that smoking wasnt allowed in 
the ruin, but decided she couldnt summon up the energy. 
There was a scuffling noise, then Smithbacks shaggy head appeared at the top of 
the rope ladder. Whats up? he said, coming over to the retaining wall. 
Somebody snuck into the valley last night, Nora replied. Our communications 
gear was smashed. She was interrupted by an urgent shout from within the city. 
Sloane had emerged from one of the roomblocks on the far side of the plaza, 
waving an arm. 
Its Peter! her voice echoed across the ghostly city. Somethings wrong! Hes 
sick! 
Immediately Nora was on her feet. Find Aragon, she said to Bonarotti. Have 
him bring his emergency medical kit. Then she was running across the plaza, 
Smithback at her side. 
They ducked inside a second-story roomblock complex near the site of the burial 
cyst. As Noras eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she could see Sloane on 
her knees beside Holroyds prone form. Black was standing well back, a look of 
horror on his face. Beside Holroyd lay the magnetometer, its case open, 
components scattered across the floor. 
Nora gasped and knelt down. Holroyds mouth was wide open, his jaw locked solid. 
His tongue, black and swollen, protruded from puffy, glaucous lips. His eyes 
were bulging, and a foul graveyard stench washed up from each shallow breath. A 
slight, thready gasp escaped his lungs. 
There was movement in the doorway, then Aragon was beside her. Hold my light, 
please, he said calmly, laying two canvas duffels on the floor, opening one of 
them, and removing a light. Dr. Goddard, could you please bring the fluorescent 
lantern? And the rest of you, please step outside. 
Nora trained the light on Holroyd, his eyes glassy, pupils narrowed to 
pinpoints. Peter, Enriques here to help you, she murmured, taking his hand in 
hers. Everythings going to be fine. 
Aragon pressed his hands beneath Holroyds jaw, probed his chest and abdomen, 
then pulled a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff from the duffel and began to 
check his vital signs. As the doctor opened Holroyds shirt and pressed the 
stethoscope to his chest, Nora saw to her horror a scattering of dark lesions 
across the pale skin. 
What is it? Nora said. 
Aragon just shook his head and shouted for Black. I want the rest of you to get 
a tarp, ropes, poles, anything we can use for a stretcherand tell Bonarotti to 
get some water boiling. 
Aragon peered intently back into Holroyds face, then examined the mans 
fingertips. Hes cyanotic, he murmured, fishing in one of the duffels and 
pulling out a slender oxygen tank and a pair of nasal cannula. Ill set the 
flow at two liters, he said, handing the tank to Nora and fixing the cannula 
into Holroyds nostrils. 
There was the sound of feet, then Sloane returned with the lantern. Suddenly, 
the room was bathed in chill greenish light. Aragon pulled the stethoscope from 
his ears and looked up. 
Weve got to get him down into camp, he said. This man needs to go to a 
hospital immediately. 
Sloane shook her head. The communications gear is completely trashed. The only 
thing still functioning is the weather receiver. 
Can we cobble something together? Nora asked. 
Only Peter could answer that question, Sloane replied. 
What about the cell phone? Aragon asked. How far to the nearest area of 
coverage? 
Up around Escalante, said Sloane. Or back at Wahweap Marina. 
Then get Swire on a horse, give him the phone, and tell him to get going. Tell 
him to call for a helicopter. 
There was silence. Theres no place to land a helicopter, Nora said slowly. 
The canyons are too narrow, the updrafts on the clifftops too precarious. I 
looked into that very thoroughly when I was planning the expedition. 
Aragon looked at Peter, then looked back at Nora. Are you absolutely certain? 
The closest settlement is three days ride from here. We cant take him out on 
horseback? 
Aragon gazed at Peter again, then shook his head. It would kill him. 
Smithback and Black appeared in the doorway, carrying between them a crude 
stretcher of tarps lashed to two wooden poles. Moving quickly, they set 
Holroyds rigid body on the stretcher, restraining him with ropes. Then, 
carefully, they hoisted him from the ground and carried him out into the central 
plaza. 
Aragon followed them with his kit, despair on his face. As they came out from 
beneath the shadow of the overhanging rock and approached the rope ladder, Nora 
felt a cold drop on her arm, then another. It was beginning to rain. 
Suddenly Holroyd gave a strangled cough. His eyes bulged wider still, ringed red 
with panic, searching aimlessly. His lips trembled, as if he was trying to force 
speech from a paralyzed jaw. His limbs seemed to stretch, stiffening even 
further. The ropes restraining him creaked and sighed. 
Instantly, Aragon ordered them to ease the stretcher to the ground. He knelt at 
Holroyds chest, fumbling in his duffels at the same time. Instruments went 
clattering to one side as he pulled out an endotrachial tube, attached to a 
black rubber bag. 
Holroyds jaws worked. I let you down, Nora, came a strangled whisper. 
Immediately, Nora took his hand once again. Peter, thats not true. If it 
werent for you, none of us would have found Quivira. Youre the whole reason 
were here. 
Peter began to struggle with more words, but Nora gently touched his lips. Save 
your strength, she whispered. 
Im going to have to tube him, Aragon said, gently laying Holroyds head back 
and snaking the clear plastic down into his lungs. He pressed the ambu bag into 
Noras hands. Squeeze this every five seconds, he said, dropping his ear to 
Holroyds chest. He listened, motionless, for a long moment. Another tremor 
passed through Holroyds body, and his eyes rolled up. Aragon straightened up 
and, with violent heaves, began emergency heart massage. 
As if in a dream, Nora sat beside Holroyd, filling his lungs, willing him to 
breathe, as the rain picked up, trickling down her face and arms. There were no 
sounds except for the patter of the rain, the cracking thumps of Aragons fists, 
the sigh of the ambu bag. 
Then, it was over. Aragon sat back, agonized face drenched with rain and sweat. 
He looked briefly up at the sky, unseeing, and let his face sink into his hands. 
Holroyd was dead. 
 

39
 
AN HOUR LATER, THE ENTIRE EXPEDITION had gathered around the campfire in 
silence. Swire joined them, wet from the slot canyon. The rain had ended, but 
the afternoon sky was smeared with metal-colored clouds. The air carried the 
mingled scents of ozone and humidity. 
Nora glanced at each haggard face in turn. Their expressions betrayed the same 
emotions she felt: numbness, shock, disbelief. Her own feelings were augmented 
by an overpowering sense of guilt. Shed approached Holroyd. Shed convinced him 
to come along. And, in some unconscious way, she realized she had manipulated 
his feelings for her to further her own goal of finding the city. Her eyes 
strayed toward the sealed tent that now held his body. Oh, Peter, she thought. 
Please forgive me. 
Only Bonarotti continued with business as usual, thumping a hard salami down on 
his serving table and setting loaves of fresh bread beside it. Seeing that 
nobody was inclined to partake, the cook flung one leg over the other, leaned 
back, and lit a cigarette. 
Nora licked her lips. Enrique, she began, careful to keep her voice even, 
what can you tell us? 
Aragon looked up, his black eyes unreadable. Not nearly as much as I would 
like. I didnt expect to be performing any postmortems out here, and my 
diagnostic tools are limited. Ive cultured him upblood, sputum, urineand Ive 
stained and sectioned some tissue. I took some exudate from the skin lesions. 
But so far the results are inconclusive. 
What could have killed him so fast? Sloane asked. 
Aragon turned his dark eyes to her. Thats what makes diagnosis so difficult. 
In his last minutes, there were signs of cyanosis and acute dyspnea. That would 
indicate pneumonia, but pneumonia would not present that quickly. Then there was 
the acute paralysis . . . He fell silent for a moment. Without access to a 
laboratory, I cant do a tap or a gastric wash, let alone an autopsy. 
What I want to know, Black said, was whether this is infectious. Whether 
others might have been exposed. 
Aragon sighed and stared at the ground. Its hard to say. But so far, the 
evidence doesnt point in that direction. Perhaps the crude bloodwork Ive done, 
or the antibody tests, will tell us more. Ive got test cultures growing in 
petri dishes on the off chance it is some infectious agent. I really hate to 
speculate . . . His voice trailed off. 
Enrique, I think we need to hear your speculations, Nora said quietly. 
Very well. If you asked me for my initial impressionit happened so fast, I 
would say it looked more like acute poisoning than disease. 
Nora looked at Aragon in sudden horror. 
Poisoning? Black cried, visibly recoiling. Who could have wanted to poison 
Peter? 
It may not be one of us, said Sloane. It may have been whoever killed our 
horses and wrecked our communications gear. 
As I said, its speculation only. Aragon spread his hands. He looked at 
Bonarotti. Did Holroyd eat anything that the others didnt? 
Bonarotti shook his head. 
And the water? 
It comes from the creek, Bonarotti replied. I run it through a filter. Weve 
all been drinking it. 
Aragon rubbed his face. I wont have test results for several hours. I suppose 
we have to assume it might be infectious. As a precaution, we should get the 
body out of camp as soon as possible. 
Silence fell in the canyon. There was a roll of distant thunder from over the 
Kaiparowits Plateau. 
What are we going to do? Black asked. 
Nora looked at him. Isnt it obvious? We have to leave here as quickly as 
possible. 
No! Sloane burst out. 
Nora turned to her in surprise. 
We cant leave Quivira, just like that. Its too important a site. Whoever 
destroyed our communications gear knows that. Its obvious theyre trying to 
drive us out so they can loot the city. Wed be playing into their hands. 
Thats true, said Black. 
A man has just died, Nora interrupted. Possibly of an infectious disease, 
possibly even by murder. Either way, we have no choice. Weve lost all contact 
with the outside world. The lives of the expedition members are my first 
responsibility. 
This is the greatest find in modern archaeology, Sloane said, her husky voice 
now low and urgent. Theres not one of us here who wasnt willing to risk his 
life to make this discovery. And now that somebody has died, are we going to 
just roll things up and leave? That would cheapen Peters sacrifice. 
Black, who paled a bit during this speech, still managed to nod his support. 
For you, and me, and the rest of the scientific team, that may be true, Nora 
said. But Peter was a civilian. 
He knew the risks, Sloane said. You did explain them, didnt you? She looked 
directly at Nora as she spoke. Though she said nothing more, the unspoken 
comment couldnt have been clearer. 
I know Peters presence here was partly my doing, Nora replied, fighting to 
keep her tone even. Thats something Ill have to live with. But it doesnt 
change anything. The fact is, we still have Roscoe, Luigi, and Bill Smithback 
with us. Now that we know the dangers, we have no right to jeopardize their 
safety any further. 
Hear, hear, Smithback murmured. 
I think they should make their own decisions, Sloane said, her eyes dark in 
the stormy light. Theyre not just paid sherpas. They have their own investment 
in this expedition. 
Nora looked from Sloane to Black, and then at the rest of the expedition. They 
were all looking back at her silently. She realized, with a kind of dull 
surprise, that she was facing a critical challenge to her leadership. A small 
voice within her murmured that it wasnt fair: not now, when she should be 
grieving for Peter Holroyd. She struggled to think rationally. It was possible 
that she could, as expedition leader, simply order everyone to leave. But there 
seemed to be a new dynamic among the group now, in the wake of Holroyds death; 
an unpredictable urgency of feeling. This was no democracy, nor should it be: 
yet she felt she would have to roll the dice and play it as one. 
Whatever we do, we do as a group, she said. Well take a vote on it. 
She turned her eyes toward Smithback. 
Im with Nora, he said quietly. The risk is too great. 
Nora looked next at Aragon. The doctor returned her gaze briefly, then turned 
toward Sloane. There is no question in my mind, he said. We have to leave. 
Nora glanced at Black. He was sweating. Im with Sloane, he said in a strained 
voice. 
Nora turned to Swire. Roscoe? 
The wrangler glanced up at the sky. As far as Im concerned, he said gruffly, 
we should never have entered this goddamned valley in the first place, ruin or 
no ruin. And now the rains are here, and that slot canyons our only exit. Its 
time we got our butts out. 
Nora glanced at Bonarotti. The Italian waved his hand vacantly, sending 
cigarette smoke spiraling through the air. Whatever, he said. I will go along 
with whatever. 
Nora returned her gaze to Sloane. I count four against two, with one 
abstention. Theres nothing more to discuss. Then she softened her tone. Look, 
we wont just leave willy-nilly. Well take the rest of the day to finish up the 
most pressing work, shut down the dig, and take a series of documentary 
photographs. Well pack a small selection of representative artifacts. Then 
well leave first thing tomorrow. 
The rest of the day? Black said. To close this site properly will take a hell 
of a lot longer than that. 
Im sorry. Well do the best we can. Well only pack up the essential gear for 
the trip outthe rest well cache, to save time. 
Nobody spoke. Her face an unreadable mask of emotions, Sloane continued to stare 
at Nora. 
Lets get going, Nora said, turning away wearily. Weve got a lot to do 
before sunset. 
 

40
 
SMITHBACK KNELT BY THE TENT AND GINGERLY lifted the flap, gazing inside with a 
mixture of pity and revulsion. Aragon had wrapped Peter Holroyds body in two 
layers of plastic and then sealed it inside the expeditions largest drysack, a 
yellow bag with black stripes. Despite the carefully sealed coverings, the tent 
reeked of betadine, alcohol, and something worse. Smithback leaned away, 
breathing through his mouth. Im not sure I can do this, he said. 
Lets just get it over with, Swire replied, picking up a pole and ducking into 
the tent. 
No book advance is worth this, Smithback thought. Reaching into his pocket for 
his red bandanna, he tied it carefully over his mouth. Then he tugged a pair of 
work gloves over the rubber gloves Aragon had given him, picked up a coil of 
rope, and followed Swire into the tent. 
Wordlessly, Swire laid the pole alongside the bagged corpse. Then, as quickly as 
possible, the two men lashed it to the pole, winding the rope around and around 
until it was secure. Swire tied off the ends with half-hitches. Then, grasping 
each end, they hefted the body out of the tent. 
Holroyd had a slight frame, and Smithback raised one end of the pole onto his 
shoulder with relative ease. Ill bet he weighs one fifty, one sixty, max, he 
thought. That means eighty pounds for each of us. Strange how, at times of 
severe stress, the mind tended to dwell on the most trivial, the most quotidian 
details. Smithback felt a pang of sympathy for the friendly, unassuming young 
man. Just three nights before, under Smithbacks journalistic probing by the 
campfire, Holroyd had opened up at last and talked, at unexpected length, about 
his deep and abiding love for motorcycles. As hed talked, the shyness had left 
him, and his limbs had filled with animation. Now those limbs were still. All 
too still, in fact; Smithback did not like the stiff, unyielding way Holroyds 
bagged feet jostled up against his shoulder as they proceeded toward the slot 
canyon. 
He thought back to the discussion about what to do with the body. It had to be 
placed somewhere secure, away from camp, elements, and predators, until it could 
be retrieved at a later time. They couldnt bury it in the ground, Nora had 
said; coyotes would dig it up. They talked about hanging it in a tree, but most 
of the trees were inaccessible, their lower branches stripped away in flash 
floods. Anyway, Aragon said it was important to get the body as far from camp as 
possible. Then Nora remembered the small rock shelter about a quarter of the way 
through the slot canyon, above the high-water mark and accessible via a stepped 
ledge. It was a perfect place to store the body. The place was impossible to 
miss: the shelter was twenty feet off the canyon bottom, just above the trunk of 
a massive cottonwood that had been wedged between the walls by some earlier 
flood. The threat of rain had passedBlack had checked the weather report from 
the canyon rimand the slot canyon would be safe for the time being. . . . 
Smithback brought himself back to the present. There was a reason his mind was 
wandering. He knew himself well enough to understand what was happening: he was 
thinking about something, anything, to keep his mind off the job at hand. Deep 
down, for some reason he didnt fully understand, Smithback realized he was 
profoundly frightened. Hed been in more than his share of life-threatening 
situations before: struggling against a killer in a vast museum; and later, 
caught fighting for his life in a warren of tunnels far beneath New York City. 
And yet here, in the pleasant afternoon light, he felt as threatened as he ever 
had in his life. There was something about the diffuse, vague nature of the evil 
in this valley that unsettled him most of all. 
Once again, Holroyds rigid foot pressed sharply into Smithbacks shoulder. 
Ahead, Swire had stopped and was glancing upward toward the mouth of the slot 
canyon. Smithback followed his gaze into the narrow, scarred opening. Clearing 
skies, Black had said; Smithback hoped to hell the weather report was right. 
Once in the slot, they were able to float the wrapped body, buoyed by the 
drysack, across the stretches of slack water. At the base of each pourover, 
however, Holroyds corpse had to be half pushed, half dragged up to the next 
pool. After twenty minutes of pushing, wading, swimming, and dragging, the two 
men stopped to catch their breath. Farther up the winding passage, Smithback 
could make out the massive cottonwood trunk that marked the location of the rock 
shelter. He moved a few feet away from the drysack, untied the bandanna from his 
mouth, shook it out, and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. 
So you think that Indian you saw had nothing to do with killing my horses, 
Swire said. They were the first words hed spoken since they left Holroyds 
tent. 
Absolutely not, Smithback replied. Especially since the people who killed 
your horses must have been the ones who wrecked our communications gear. And we 
were with the shepherd when that happened. 
Swire nodded. Thats what Ive been thinking. 
Smithback saw that Swire was still staring at him. The brown eyes had long ago 
lost the humorous squint Smithback remembered from the first days of their ride. 
In Swires sunken cheeks, bony face, and tight jaw, Smithback could see a great 
sorrow. Holroyd was a good kid, he said simply. 
Smithback nodded. 
Swire spoke in a low voice. Its one thing to get in trouble back therehe 
jerked his head in the hypothetical direction of civilizationbut its a whole 
other deal to run into trouble out here. 
Smithback looked from Swire to Holroyds body, then back to Swire. Thats why 
Noras doing the right thing, he said. Getting us out as quickly as possible. 

Swire spat a line of tobacco across a nearby rock. Shes a brave woman, Ill 
give her that, he said. Volunteering to track those horse killers on her own . 
. . that took guts. But guts alone aint enough. Ive seen even the smallest 
problem end up killing people in a place like this. And you know what? Our 
problems aint small. 
Smithback didnt answer. His thoughts were still on Nora: her quick tongue, 
appraising eyes, resourceful pluckher courage and determination. And he 
realized, with a sense of astonishment, that he was scared, not so much for 
himself but for her. 
Swire appraised him, eyes glittering. Then he stood up and grabbed the lead end 
of the pole. Smithback rose, snugged the bandanna once again around his mouth, 
and scrambled toward the corpse. They climbed the rest of the way to the rock 
shelter in silence. 
 

41
 
AARON BLACK STOOD IN THE DAPPLED shadows of the westernmost tower, surveying his 
test trenches and portable lab setups with a practiced eye. The soil profiles 
were perfect, naturally: a textbook model of the latest in stratigraphic 
analysis. And the labs were, as always, a picture of economy, efficiency, and 
accuracy. 
As he stared, the satisfaction he usually felt when admiring his work was 
eclipsed by a stab of disappointment. Muttering under his breath, he drew a 
large tarp over the test trench and staked it down, pinning the sides with 
rocks. It was a wholly unsatisfactory way to preserve his accomplishments, but 
at least it was better than backfilling. Here he was, about to run away from the 
site that, by all rights, should be the crowning glory of his career. God knows 
what they would find when they returned. If they returned at all. 
He shook his head in disgust and pulled a tarp over the second trench. Still, he 
wasnt entirely sorry to be leaving. His usual assistant, Smithback, was off 
burying Holroyd, and as Black worked he managed to feel deeply thankful that 
particular task had not fallen to him. It didnt really matter whether poison or 
disease had killed the technician. Either one was dangerous. A part of Black 
hungered for civilizationtelephones, fine restaurants, hot showers, and toilets 
that flusheda world hundreds of miles away from Quivira. Of course, hed never 
admit this to Sloane, who had moved off in stony silence to take the final 
photographic records of the site. 
As his thoughts turned to Sloane, he felt a hot flush begin to spread out from 
his vitals. Memories of the night before gave way to hopes and fantasies for the 
night to come. Black had never had much luck with women, and Sloane was a woman, 
all right; a woman who . . . 
Tearing himself from these thoughts with difficulty, he turned to the flotation 
lab. Unhooking the jug of distilled water from the apparatus, he dumped the 
water pan over the edge of the cliff. Then, with a sigh, he began unscrewing the 
equipment, draining the hoses, and packing everything into two metal suitcases 
filled with custom-cut foam. It was a job he had done many times before, and 
despite everything he prided himself on his tidiness. Snapping the suitcases 
closed, he set them aside and began breaking down the paper chromatography 
setup. 
He paused in the act of stacking the unused papers into plastic folders. By 
rights, they would have all been used over the coming weeks, forming the 
foundation for half a year of analysis back in his comfortable lab. He stared at 
them, all the brilliant articles he planned to write for the most prestigious 
scientific journals going up in smoke inside his head. 
Suddenly, a gust of wind caught a pack of the chromatography papers, blowing 
them toward the back of the cave. He watched as they scattered and disappeared 
into the darkness. 
Black swore out loud. The papers were ruinedcontaminatedbut he couldnt just 
leave them. Hed publicly humiliated more than one archaeologist for leaving 
trash in a ruin. 
He finished packing the chromatography setup and buckled the case shut. Then he 
stood up and walked toward the back of the cave, eyes to the ground. The papers 
had scattered along the very back of the midden heap; he could see some still 
blowing about in the random eddies of wind. Muttering again, he walked past the 
first granary along the rear wall of the ruin, trapping the papers with his foot 
as he went, picking them up and shoving them into a pocket. Soon he had counted 
eleven. The papers came twelve in a pack, he knew; where the hell was the last 
one? 
Ahead of him lay the narrow opening to the Crawlspace, and he moved toward it, 
bending low under the rock roof. It was too dark to see, and he fumbled in his 
pocket for a penlight. Its feeble gleam struggled to pierce the darkness, 
illuminating dust, scattered bones, andabout ten yards awaythe last paper, 
caught on a piece of broken skull. 
To hell with Aragon and his ZST, Black thought sourly, getting down on his hands 
and knees and childishly shoving the bones out of his way. Another eddy of wind 
stirred up the dust inside the Crawlspace, and he sneezed explosively. Kicking 
the bones aside, he grabbed the final paper and stuffed it in his pocket. As he 
turned to go, he saw a large pack rat shamble into the beam of his flashlight, 
disturbed by the clatter of bones. It turned to face him, yellow teeth bared. 
Black shied back, sneezed again, and waved his hand. The animal backed up with a 
chattering protest and a flick of its tail, but it did not flee. 
Yah! Black cried, picking up a longbone and aiming it at the rat. With a 
sudden movement, the rat vanished into a small pile of rock, lying against the 
back wall of the Crawlspace. 
Curious, he moved forward. On closer inspection, he could see that the rocks had 
not fallen from the ceiling of the Crawlspace, as he had assumed; they were of a 
different material than the sandstone cave. In the bottom of the pile of rocks 
the pack rat had made his opening, lined with twigs and cactus husks. 
Black crawled closer, wrinkling his nose at the strong smell of guano and rat 
urine. As he played his light into the rathole, he saw that it led to a black 
space beyond: a large black space. 
He examined the rocks again. It looked to his expert eyes that they were not a 
natural event. Rather, they had been piled there deliberately. A great deal of 
care had been taken to conceal this opening: Aragon must have passed it at least 
two dozen times without noticing anything, and Aragon had sharp eyes, even for 
an archaeologist. But his own eyes, Black mused, were better. 
He sat in the darkness, feeling his heartbeat quicken. Something had been 
deliberately hidden behind the rock pile; painstakingly, cunningly hidden. A 
burial, most likely, or even a catacomb. Perhaps of great archaeological value. 
He glanced up and down the Crawlspace. He was alone, Aragon busy elsewhere on 
Holroyds postmortem analysis. He shone his light into the hole once more, 
probing farther. 
This time, something glinted back at him. 
Black withdrew the light, sat up, and remained motionless for a moment. And then 
he did something he had never done before. He picked up a stray bone and began 
working loose the small rocks around the rathole. Carefully at first, then with 
greater and greater urgency, he scrabbled with the rocks, pulling them out. 
Soon, a small opening in the back of the cave became visible. Thoughts of 
discomfort, disease, and poison evaporated from his mind, replaced by a new 
thought: a consuming desire to see what lay on the far side. 
Dust began to cake on his sweaty skin; he tied a bandanna over his mouth and 
nose and continued. The bone fell apart and he continued working with his hands. 
In five minutes, he had cleared an opening large enough to admit his bulk. 
Breathing deeply, he wiped his hands on the seat of his pants and plucked the 
bandanna from his mouth. Then he put his hands on either side of the opening and 
pulled himself through. 
In a moment he was on the far side. He scrambled to his feet, panting hard. The 
air was thick, hot, and surprisingly humid. He looked around, his penlight 
stabbing through skeins of dust. 
Almost immediately he saw the glint againthe unmistakable glint of goldand for 
a moment his heart stopped. He was in a large black cavern. There, rising in 
front of him, dominating the cavern, was another Great Kiva. Incised and painted 
on its side was a huge disk that winked gold in his light. The Great Kiva had 
once had a door in the side, also blocked with loose stones and half buried in 
sand. Behind it stood an exquisite Anasazi pueblo, small but perfect, its 
two-storied roomblocks and ladders sealed in the cave and untouched for more 
than seven centuries. 
He scrambled to his feet and approached the kiva, touching the gold disk with a 
trembling hand. The effect of gold had been created with a deep yellow 
pigmentBlack guessed it was yellow ochre of ironmixed with crushed flakes of 
mica. The whole thing had then been polished, creating a shimmering surface that 
looked remarkably like gold. It was the same method used to make the image in 
the Rain Kiva, only this disk was ten feet in diameter. 
He knew then that he had found the Sun Kiva. 
 

42
 
THE DIRTY SKY OF THE AFTERNOON HAD lifted, and the air above the canyon of 
Quivira was suffused with the last golden light of sunset. Already, the gloom of 
night was gathering in the bottom of the canyon, in strange juxtaposition to the 
brilliant narrow strip of sky above. The brief rain had released the scents of 
the desert: wet sand, the sweet smell of cottonwoods, mingled with the fragrant 
cedarwood from Bonarottis fire. 
Nora, struggling to close one of the drysacks, noticed none of the beauty, 
smelled none of the scents. To her, still numbed by the events of the day, the 
valley was anything but benign. A few minutes before, Swire and Smithback had 
returned from their grisly errand, and they now rested by the fire, exhausted, 
faces blank. 
With an effort, she heaved the drysack alongside the growing pile of equipment, 
then grabbed an empty duffel and began to fill it. Much of the evening would be 
spent packing the gear, caching some of it, getting the rest ready for the long, 
wet trip out the slot canyon to the horses. Once they had packed and gotten away 
from the valley and its divisive influences, she felt sure, they would be able 
to function as a team once again; at least, long enough to bring the details of 
their remarkable find back to the Institute. 
A harsh, ragged shout from the direction of the rope ladder intruded on her 
thoughts. She looked up to see the tall figure of Aaron Black come striding 
through the gloaming, his face gray with dirt, his clothing streaked, hair wild. 
For a terrifying moment, she was certain he had caught whatever it was that 
killed Holroyd. But this fear was quickly dispelled by the look of triumph on 
his face. 
Wheres Sloane? he boomed, looking around animatedly. He cupped his hands 
around his mouth. Sloane! The valley reverberated with his shouts. 
Are you all right? Nora asked. 
As Black turned toward her, Nora could see sweat springing from the mud caked to 
his brow, running in dun-colored rivulets down his face. I found it, he said. 
Found what? 
The Sun Kiva. 
Nora straightened up, releasing her hold on the duffel and letting it fall back 
into the sand. You found what? 
There was a blocked opening behind the city. Nobody noticed it before. But I 
did. I found it. Blacks chest was heaving, and he could barely get out the 
words. Behind the Crawlspace is a narrow passageway that leads into another 
cavern behind the city. And, Nora, theres a whole secret city hidden back 
there. Right in front is a Great Kiva, a sealed kiva. Its like nothing weve 
seen before. 
Let me get this straight, Nora said slowly. You broke through a wall? 
Black nodded, his smile broadening. 
Nora felt sudden anger course through her. I specifically forbade any 
disturbance like that. My God, Aaron, all youve done is open up a new area to 
be looted. Have you forgotten were about to leave? 
But we cant leave now. Not after this discovery. 
We absolutely are leaving. First thing in the morning. 
Black stood rooted in place, anger and disbelief growing in his face. You 
havent heard what I said. I found the Sun Kiva. We cant leave now. The gold 
will be stolen. 
Nora looked more intently at his face. Gold? she repeated. 
Christ, Nora, what else do you think is in there? Corn? The evidence is 
overwhelming. I just found the Anasazi Fort Knox. 
As Nora stared at him, in growing consternation and disbelief, she saw Sloane 
come up through the twilight, oversized camera under one arm. 
Sloane! Black called out. I found it! He rushed over and embraced her. 
Smiling, she disentangled herself, and looked from him to Nora with a quizzical 
expression. Whats this? she asked, carefully setting down the camera. 
Black found a sealed cave behind the city, Nora replied. He says the Sun Kiva 
is inside it. 
Sloane looked at Black quickly, smile vanishing as comprehension dawned. 
Its there, Sloane, he said. A Great Kiva, sixty feet in diameter, with a sun 
disk painted on its side. 
A powerful play of emotions ran quickly across Sloanes face. What kind of 
disk? 
A great sun in yellow pigment, mixed with mica and polished. It looks just like 
gold. I thought it was gold when I first saw it. 
Sloane suddenly became very pale, then flushed deeply. Paint mixed with mica? 
Yes. Crushed biotite mica, which has a golden cast to it. A brilliant imitation 
of the real thing. Which is exactly the kind of symbolic representation youd 
find on the outside if they were storing 
Take me to it, Sloane said urgently. Black grabbed her hand and they turned 
away. 
Hold on! Nora barked. 
The two turned to look at her, and with dismay Nora read the passion in their 
faces. Just a minute, she continued. Aaron, youre acting like a pothunter, 
not a scientist. You should never have broken into the back of the cave. Im 
sorry, but we cant have any more disturbance. 
Sloane looked at her, saying nothing, but Blacks face grew dark. And Im 
sorry, he said loudly, but were going up there. 
Nora looked into Blacks eyes, saw there was no point in arguing with him, and 
turned to Sloane instead. For good or ill, everything that happens here is 
going into the final report, she went on urgently. Sloane, consider how your 
father will react if he hears we busted willy-nilly into that kiva. If Black is 
right, this could be the most important discovery yet. Even more reason why we 
have to proceed carefully. 
At the mention of her father, the sudden hunger seemed to leave Sloanes face. 
She tensed, struggling to regain her composure. 
Nora, come up with us, she said with a quick smile. All well do is look. 
What harm is there in that? 
Absolutely, said Black. Ive touched nothing. Nothing has happened here that 
cant go into a public report. 
Nora looked at each of them in turn. Smithback, Swire, and Bonarotti had come 
over and were listening intently. Only Aragon was missing. She glanced at her 
watch: almost seven oclock. She thought about what Black had said: a hidden 
city, the Sun Kiva. What was it Aragon had said in the Rain Kiva? Theres a 
piece of the puzzle still missing. I thought it would be in this kiva. But now, 
I am not so sure. If Aragon were here, no doubt hed disapprove. But she knew 
Blacks find could mean the key to everything. The fact that it might be looted 
and destroyed after they were gone filled her with a helpless anger. Because of 
that, they had an obligation to document the inner cave, at least in 
photographs. Besides, if she were to keep the group together, she felt she had 
no choice but to bend just a little. The harm had been done; Blacks 
transgression would be dealt with later, and not by her. 
All right, she said. Well make a short visit. Only long enough to take 
photographs and decide how best to reseal the cave. No more violations of any 
sort. Am I understood? She turned to Sloane. Bring the four-by-five camera. 
And Aaron, you get the fluorescent lamp. 
* * *
Ten minutes later, a small group stood huddled together in the confines of the 
inner cave. Nora gazed in awe, overwhelmed despite herself by the richness of 
the site, by the perfect little gem of an Anasazi pueblo hidden behind the 
mysterious kiva. The greenish glare of the lamp threw magic-lantern patterns on 
the irregular walls. It was a small pueblo, no more than thirty rooms; no doubt 
some kind of sanctum sanctorum for the priests. For that reason alone, it would 
be exceedingly interesting to study. 
The Sun Kiva itself was unadorned except for the great polished disk, glinting 
in the harsh light. Thick ribbed dust lay in drifts against its base and along 
its walls. The kiva had been carefully plastered with adobe, and she saw that 
the only opening in its side had been blocked with rocks. 
Look at that stonework, said Black. Its the most fortified kiva Ive ever 
seen. 
A pole ladder was leaning against one side of the kiva. That was leaning 
against the roomblocks, Black said eagerly, following Noras glance. I brought 
it over and climbed onto the roof. Theres no roof opening. Its been totally 
sealed shut. His voice dropped a notch. As if its hiding something. 
Sloane broke away from the group and walked up to the sun disk. She stroked it 
lightly, almost reverently, with her fingers. Then she glanced back at Nora, 
briskly unpacked her camera kit, and began setting up the first shot. 
The group stood silently while Sloane moved about the cavern, shooting the kiva 
and its associated roomblocks from a variety of angles. Soon she rejoined them, 
folded up her tripod, and put the camera body back in its case. 
Even the loquacious Smithback had remained silent and, most 
uncharacteristically, taken no notes. There was a palpable tension in the air; a 
tension quite different, Nora realized, than any she had felt at the site 
before. 
Done? she asked. Sloane nodded. 
Before we leave tomorrow morning, Nora went on, careful to keep her voice 
neutral, well reblock the hole as best we can. Theres not much to bring a 
looter back behind the granaries. If we hide it well, theyll miss it. 
Before we leave? Black repeated. 
Nora looked at him and nodded. 
By God, not until we open this kiva, said Black. 
Nora looked at his face, then at Sloane. And then at Swire, and Bonarotti, and 
Smithback. Were leaving tomorrow, she said quietly. And nobodys opening 
this kiva. 
If we dont do it now, Sloane said, her voice loud, nothing will be left when 
we return. 
There was a tense silence, broken by Bonarotti. I would also like to see this 
kiva full of gold, he said. 
Nora waited, taking measured breaths, thinking about what she was going to say 
and how she was going to say it. 
Sloane, she began quietly. Aaron. This expedition is facing a crisis. One 
person has died. There are people out there who killed our horses, and who may 
try to kill us. To open and document this kiva properly would take days. We 
dont have days. She paused. Im the leader of this expedition. Its my choice 
to make. And were leaving tomorrow. 
A tense silence gathered in the cave. 
I dont accept your so-called choice, Sloane said in a low tone. Here we are, 
on the verge of the greatest discovery, and what is your answer? Go home. Youre 
just like my father. You have to control everything. Well, this is my career, 
too. This is my discovery as much as it is yours. If we leave now, this kiva 
will be looted. And youll have thrown away perhaps the greatest discovery in 
American archaeology. Nora saw that she was shaking in anger. Ive been a 
threat to you from the beginning. But thats your problem, not mine. And Im not 
going to let you do this to my career. 
Nora looked hard at Sloane. You mention your father, she said slowly. Let me 
tell you what he said to us, right before we left for Quivira: You are 
representing the Institute. And what the Institute represents is the very 
highest standard of archaeological research and ethical conduct. Sloane, what 
we do here, what we say here, will be studied, debated, second-guessed by 
countless people. She softened her tone. I know how you feel. I want to open 
this kiva as much as you do. And we will be back to do this the right way. I 
promise youll get all the credit you deserve. But until that time, I absolutely 
forbid the opening of this kiva. 
If we leave here now, there will be nothing left when we return, Sloane said, 
her eyes locked on Nora. And then well be the ones doing the second-guessing. 
Go on and run, if you want. Just leave me a horse and some supplies. 
Is that your final word? Nora asked quietly. 
Sloane merely stared in return. 
Then you leave me no choice but to relieve you of your position on the 
archaeological team. 
Sloanes eyes widened. Then her gaze swivelled to Black. 
Im not sure you can do that, Black said, a little weakly. 
Youre damn right she can do it, Smithback suddenly spoke up. Last time I 
checked, Nora was leader of this expedition. You heard what she said. We leave 
the kiva alone. 
Nora, Black said, a pleading note entering his voice, I dont think you 
appreciate the magnitude of this discovery. Just on the other side of that adobe 
wall is a kings ransom in Aztec gold. I just dont think we can leave it for . 
. . 
His voice trailed off. Ignoring Black, Nora continued to look hard at Sloane. 
But Sloane had turned away, her eyes fixed on the large painted disk on the 
kivas side, glowing brilliantly in the fluorescent light. Then she gave Nora 
one last, hateful look and walked to the low passageway. In a moment she was 
gone. Black stood his ground a little longer, staring from the kiva to Nora and 
back again. Then, swallowing heavily, he tore himself away and wordlessly made 
his way out into the Crawlspace. 
 

43
 
SKIP KELLY MADE HIS CAREFUL WAY DOWN THE far reaches of Tano Road North, doing 
his best to keep the VW from bottoming out on the dirt road. It was terrible 
road, all washboard and ruts: the kind of road that was a much-coveted asset in 
many of Santa Fes priciest neighborhoods. Every quarter mile or so, he passed 
another enormous set of wrought-iron gates, flanked by adobe pillars, beyond 
which a narrow dirt road wound off through pion trees: portals to unseen 
estates. Occasionally, he caught glimpses of buildingsa caretakers cottage, an 
immaculate set of barns, an enormous house rising from a distant ridgelinebut 
most of the great estates along Tano Road were so well hidden that one hardly 
knew they existed. 
The road narrowed, the pions crowding in on either side. Skip slowed even 
further, eased his foot onto the clutch, elbowed Teddy Bears huge muzzle out of 
his face, and once again checked the number scribbled onto a folded sheet of 
paper, dim in the evening light. Not far now. 
He came over the brow of a hill and saw the road peter out a quarter mile ahead, 
ending in a thicket of chamisa. To the left, a great rock of granite rose out of 
the earth. Its face had been polished flat, and ESG had been engraved on it in 
simple, sans-serif letters. Beyond the rock was an old ranch gate. It looked 
much more battered than the shiny monstrosities he had just driven past. As he 
eased the car closer, however, he saw that the shabbiness of the gate belied its 
immensely strong construction. Beside it was a small keypad and an intercom. 
Leaving the engine running, he got out of the car, pushed the single red button 
beneath the intercoms speaker, and waited. A minute passed, then two. Just as 
he was preparing to get back into the car, the speaker crackled into life. 
Yes? came a voice. Who is it? 
With mild surprise, Skip realized that the voice wasnt that of a housekeeper, 
chauffeur, or butler. It was the authoritative voice of the owner, Ernest 
Goddard himself. 
He leaned toward the intercom. Its Skip Kelly, he said. 
The speaker was silent. 
Im Nora Kellys brother. 
There was a brief movement in the vegetation beside the gate, and Skip turned to 
see a cleverly hidden camera swivel toward him. Then it panned away, toward the 
Volkswagen. Skip winced inwardly. 
What is it, Skip? the voice said. It did not sound particularly friendly. 
Skip swallowed. I need to talk to you, sir. Its very important. 
Why now? Youre working at the Institute, are you not? Cant it wait until 
Monday? 
What Skip didnt say was that he had spent the entire day locked in a debate 
with himself over whether or not to make this trip. Aloud, he said, No, it 
cant. At least, I dont think it can. 
He waited, painfully conscious of the camera regarding him, wondering what the 
old man would say next. But the intercom remained silent. Instead, there was the 
heavy clank of a lock being released, and the old gate began to swing open. 
Skip returned to the car, put it in gear, and eased past the fence. The winding 
driveway threaded its way along a low ridge. After a quarter of a mile, it 
dipped down, made a sharp turn, then rose again. There, on the next crest, Skip 
saw a magnificent estate spread along the ridgeline, its adobe facade brocaded a 
rich evening crimson beneath the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Despite himself, he 
stopped the car for a moment, staring through the windshield in admiration. Then 
he drove slowly up the remainder of the driveway, parking the Beetle between a 
battered Chevy truck and a Mercedes Gelaendewagen. 
He got out of the car and closed the door behind him. Stay, he told Teddy 
Bear. It was an unnecessary command: even though the windows were rolled all the 
way down, the dog would never have been able to squeeze his bulk through them. 
The entrance to the house was a huge set of eighteenth-century zaguan doors. 
Pulled from some hacienda in Mexico, Ill bet, Skip thought as he approached. 
Clutching a book under one arm, he searched for a doorbell, found nothing, and 
knocked. 
Almost immediately the door opened, revealing a long hallway, grandly appointed 
but dimly lit. Beyond it he could see a garden with a stone fountain. In front 
of him stood Ernest Goddard himself, wearing a suit whose muted colors seemed to 
match the hallway beyond almost exactly. The long white hair and closely trimmed 
beard framed a pair of lively but rather displeased blue eyes. He turned without 
a word and Skip followed his gaunt frame as it retreated down the hall, hearing 
the click of his own heels on the marble. 
Passing several doors, Goddard at last ushered Skip into a large, two-story 
library, its tall rows of books clad in dark mahogany shelves. A spiral 
staircase of ornate iron led to a second-story catwalk, and to more books, row 
upon row. Goddard closed and locked a small door on the far side of the room, 
then pointed Skip toward an old leather chair beside the limestone fireplace. 
Taking a seat opposite, Goddard crossed his legs, coughed lightly, and looked 
enquiringly at Skip. 
Now that he was here, Skip realized he had no idea exactly how to begin. He 
fidgeted with unaccustomed nervousness. Then, remembering the book beneath his 
arm, he brought it forward. Have you heard of this book? he asked. 
Heard of it? murmured Goddard, a trace of irritation in his voice. Who 
hasnt? Its a classic anthropological study. 
Skip paused. Sitting here, in the quiet confines of the library, what he thought 
he had discovered began to seem faintly ridiculous. He realized the best thing 
would be to simply relate what had happened. 
A few weeks ago, he said, my sister was attacked at our old farmhouse out 
past Buckman Road. 
Oh? said Goddard, leaning forward. 
She was assaulted by two people. Two people wearing wolfskins, and nothing much 
else. It was dark, and she didnt get a very good look at them, but she said 
they were covered with white spots. They wore old Indian jewelry. 
Skinwalkers, Goddard said. Or, at least, some people playing as skinwalkers. 

Yes, said Skip, relieved to hear no note of scorn in Goddards voice. They 
also broke into Noras apartment and stole her hairbrush to get samples of her 
hair. 
Hair. Goddard nodded. That would fit the skinwalker pattern. They need bodily 
material from an enemy in order to accomplish their witching. 
Thats just what this book says, Skip replied. Briefly, he recounted how it 
had been his own hair in the brush, and how he had been the one who almost died 
when his brakes failed so mysteriously. 
Goddard listened silently. What do you suppose they wanted? he asked when Skip 
had finished. 
Skip licked his lips. They were looking for the letter Nora found. The one 
written by my father. 
Goddard suddenly tensed, his entire body registering surprise. Why didnt Nora 
tell me of this? The voice that had previously expressed mild interest was now 
razor-sharp with irritation. 
She didnt want to derail the expedition. She figured she needed the letter to 
find the valley, and that if she got out of town fast and quietly, whoever or 
whatever it was would be left behind. 
Goddard sighed. 
But thats not all. A few days ago, our neighbor, Teresa Gonzales, was murdered 
in the ranch house. Maybe you heard about it. 
I recall reading something about that. 
And did you read that the body was mutilated? 
Goddard shook his head. 
Skip slapped Witches, Skinwalkers, and Curanderas with the back of his hand. 
Mutilated in just the way described in this study. Fingers and toes sliced off, 
the whorl of hair on the back of the head scalped off. A disk of skull cut out 
underneath. According to this book, thats where the life force enters the 
body. He paused. Noras dog disappeared while she was in California. After 
reading this book, I searched the woods behind her townhouse. I found Thurbers 
body. His paws had been cut off. Front and back. 
Goddards blue eyes flashed. The police must have questioned you about the 
murder. Did you tell them any of this? 
No, Skip said, hesitating. Not exactly. Well, how do you think theyd react 
to a story about Indian witches? He put the book aside. But thats what they 
were. They wanted that letter. And they were willing to kill for it. 
Goddards look had suddenly gone far away. Yes, he murmured. I understand why 
youve come. Theyre interested in the ruins of Quivira. 
They vanished just about the time the expedition left, maybe a day or two 
later. Anyway, I havent seen or heard any sign of them since. And Ive been 
keeping a close eye on Noras apartment. Im worried they may have followed the 
expedition. 
Goddards drawn face went gray. Yesterday we lost radio contact. 
A feeling of dread suddenly gripped Skips heart. This had been the one thing he 
didnt want to hear. Could it be equipment trouble? 
I dont think so. The system had redundant backups. And according to your 
sister, that imaging technician, Holroyd, could have rigged a transmitter out of 
tin cans and string. 
The older man rose and walked to a small window set among the bookshelves, 
gazing out toward the mountains, hands in his pockets. A quietness began to 
gather in the library, punctuated by the steady ticking of an old grandfather 
clock. 
Dr. Goddard, Skip blurted suddenly, unable to contain himself any longer. 
Please. Noras the only family Ive got left. 
For a moment, Goddard seemed not to have heard. Then he turned, and in his face 
Skip could see a sudden, iron resolve. 
Yes, he said, striding to a telephone on a nearby desk. And the only family 
Ive got left is out there with her. 
 

44
 
THAT NIGHT, A SOFT BUT STEADY RAIN drummed on the tents of the Quivira 
expedition, but when morning came the sky was a clear, clean, washed blue, 
without a cloud in sight. After a long and restless night during which shed 
split the guard duty with Smithback, Nora was grateful to step out into the cool 
morning world. The birds filled the trees with their calls, and the leaves 
dripped with water that caught and fractured the bright rays of the rising sun. 
As she emerged from her tent, her boots sunk into soft wet sand. The creek had 
risen, she could see, but only slightlythese first rains had been soft enough 
to soak into the sand without running off. But now the ground was saturated. 
They had to get out of the canyon before another hard rain, if they didnt want 
to be trapped by rising water . . . or, God forbid, something worse. 
She glanced toward the row of packed equipment, arranged the night before for 
transport out of the canyon. They were only taking the minimum they needed to 
get back to Wahweap Marinafood, tents, essential equipment, documentary 
records. The rest was being cached in an empty room in the city. 
Uncharacteristically, Bonarotti was up early, tending the fire, the espresso pot 
just signaling its completion with a brief roar. He looked up as Nora came over, 
rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Caff? he asked. Nora nodded her thanks as 
he handed her a steaming cup. 
Is there really gold in that kiva? Bonarotti asked in a quiet voice. 
She eased herself down on the log and drank. Then she shook her head. No, there 
isnt. The Anasazi didnt have any gold. 
How can you be so sure? 
Nora sighed. Trust me. In a century and a half of excavations, not one grain of 
gold has been found. 
But what about Black? What he said? 
Nora shook her head again. If I dont get them out of there today, she thought, 
Im never going to get them out. All I can tell you is, Blacks wrong. 
The cook refilled her cup, then turned back to his fire, silent and 
dissatisfied. As she sipped her coffee, the rest of the camp began to stir. As 
they approached, one at a time, it was clear to Nora that the tension of the 
previous day had not gone away. If anything, it had increased. Black took a seat 
by the fire and hunched over his coffee, his face dark and inflamed. Smithback 
gave Nora a tired smile, squeezed her shoulder, then retreated to a rock to 
scratch quietly in his notebook. Aragon looked distant and absorbed. Sloane was 
the last to appear. When she did, she refused to meet Noras eyes. A resolute 
silence gripped the camp. Nobody looked like they had slept. 
Nora realized she had to establish a momentum, keep things moving toward 
departure, not allow anyone time to brood. She finished her cup, swallowed, 
cleared her throat. This is how its going to work, she said. Enrique, please 
secure the medical gear well need. Luigi will pack up the last of the food. 
Aaron, I want you to climb to the top of the rim and get a weather report. 
But the sky is blue, protested Black, with a distasteful look at the dangling 
ladder. 
Right here, its blue, said Nora. But the rainy season has started, and this 
valley drains off the Kaiparowits. If its raining there, we could get a flash 
flood just as sure as if it were raining directly on top of us. Nobody goes 
through the slot canyon until we get the weather report. 
She looked at Sloane, but the woman hardly registered that she had heard. 
If its clear, Nora continued, well make the final preparations to leave. 
Aaron, after you get the weather report, I want you to seal the entrance to the 
Sun Kiva. You broke into ityou leave it just as you found it. Sloane, you and 
Smithback will take the last of the drysacks up to the caching spot. As soon as 
Aaron gets the weather report, Ill take a load out through the canyon, then 
make sure the site is secure. 
She looked around. Is everyone clear on their duties? I want us out of here in 
two hours. 
Everyone nodded but Sloane, who sat with a dark, unresponsive look on her face. 
Nora wondered what would happen if, at the last minute, she refused to go. Nora 
felt sure that Black wouldnt stay behinddeep down, he was too much of a 
cowardbut Sloane was another matter. Well cross that bridge when we come to 
it, Nora thought. 
Just as she was rising, a flash of color caught her eye: Swire, emerging from 
the mouth of the slot canyon and coming down the valley. Something about the way 
he was moving toward them filled her with dread. Not more horses, please. 
Swire sprinted across the creek and into camp. Someone got Holroyds body, he 
said, fighting to catch his breath. 
Someone? Aragon asked sharply. Are you sure it wasnt animals? 
Unless an animal can scalp a man, cut off his toes and fingers, and drill out a 
piece of his skull. Hes lying up there in the creek, not far from where we put 
him. 
The group looked at one another in horror. Nora glanced at Smithback and could 
tell from his expression that he, too, remembered what Beiyoodzin had said. 
Peter . . . Noras voice faltered. She swallowed. Did you go on to check the 
horses? she heard herself ask. 
Horses are fine, said Swire. 
Are they ready to take us out? 
Yes, he said. 
Then we have no more time to waste, Nora continued, standing up and placing 
her cup on the serving table. Ill take that load out through the slot canyon, 
and pick up Peters body on the way. Were just going to have to pack it out on 
one of the horses. Ill need someone to give me a hand. 
Ill help, said Smithback quickly. 
Nora nodded her thanks. 
I will go, too, said Aragon. I would like to examine the corpse. 
Nora glanced at him. There are things here that you need to do The sentence 
went unfinished as she saw the significant look on his face. She turned away. 
Very well. We could use a third hand with the body. And listen, all of you: 
stay in pairs. I dont want anyone going anywhere alone. Sloane, youd better go 
with Aaron. 
Nobody moved, and she glanced around at the faces. The tension that had drawn 
her nerves tight as a bowstringthe fear and revulsion she felt at the thought 
of Peters body, broken and violated in deathsuddenly coalesced into 
exasperation. 
Damn it! she cried out. What the hell are you waiting for? Lets move! 
 

45
 
SILENTLY, AARON BLACK FOLLOWED SLOANE toward the rope ladder. Their private 
discussion the night before had resolved nothing. At the last minute, Sloane 
would refuse to leave; Black felt certain she would. But when he questioned her, 
she had been impatient and evasive. Though he would never admit it to her, 
Blacks own intense desire to stay had been slightly tempered by fear: fear of 
what killed Holroyd, and, worse, of what had attacked their horses and 
equipment; and now, added to that, fear of what had mutilated Holroyds body. 
Reaching the base of the ladder, Sloane pulled up onto the first rung and began 
to climb. Black, irritated when she did not wait to see him safely into the 
harness, pulled the reinforced loops into place around his waist and crotch, 
tested the ropes, and started up. He hated this climb; harness or no harness, it 
terrified him to be swaying five hundred feet up on a cliff, hanging on to 
nothing but a flimsy nylon rope. 
But as he mounted the ladder, slowly, one painful rung at a time, the terror 
began to abate. A phrase began running through his mind; a phrase that had never 
been far from him since he first discovered the Sun Kiva, stuck in his head like 
a singsong melody. As he climbed, he recited the entire passage, first silently, 
then under his breath. And then, widening the hole a little, I inserted the 
candle and peered in. As my eyes grew accustomed to the light, details of the 
room emerged slowly from the mist, strange animals, statues, and goldeverywhere 
the glint of gold. 
Everywhere the glint of gold. It was that final phrase, more than anything else, 
that kept repeating itself in his mind like a mantra. 
He thought back to his childhood; to when he was twelve years old and had first 
read Howard Carters account of discovering the tomb of Tutankhamen. He 
remembered that moment as well as he remembered the passage itself: it was the 
very moment when he decided to become an archaeologist. Of course, college and 
graduate school quickly dispelled any notion that he would find another tomb 
like King Tuts. And he had found rich professional rewards in the mere 
dirtvery rich rewards indeed. He had never felt the slightest dissatisfaction 
with his career. 
Until now. He climbed hand over hand, moving up the ladder, stopping 
occasionally to check his harness. Now, dirt seemed a poor substitute for gold. 
He thought about all the gold that Cortz had melted down into bars and sent 
back to Spain; all the splendid works of art turned into bullion, lost to the 
world. Its twin treasure sat in that kiva. 
The fever he had felt as a twelve-year-old, first reading that account, now 
burned in him again. But again he was torn: there was danger here, he knew. And 
yet, leaving the valley without seeing the inside of the Sun Kiva seemed almost 
unimaginable to him. 
Sloane, talk to me, he called. Are you going to leave the kiva behind, just 
like that? 
Sloane didnt answer. 
He heaved up the ladder, sweating and grunting. Above, he saw Sloane preparing 
to make the final climb around the terrifying brow of rock below the summit. 
Here, the sandstone was still streaked with moisture from the rain, and it 
glowed a blood-drenched crimson. 
Sloane, say something, please, he gasped. 
Theres nothing to say, came the clipped response. 
Black shook his head. How could your father have made a mistake like putting 
her in charge? If it were you, wed be making history right now. 
Sloanes only response was to disappear around the brow of rock. Taking a deep 
breath, Black followed her up the last pitch. Two minutes later, he struggled up 
over the rim and threw himself into the sand, exhausted, angry, utterly 
despondent. He sucked the air deep into his lungs, trying to catch his breath. 
The air was a lot cooler up here, and a stiff breeze was blowing, smelling of 
pine and juniper. He sat up, pulling off the annoying harness. All this way, 
he said. All this work. Just to be cheated out of the greatest discovery at the 
last minute. 
But Sloane didnt answer. He was aware of her presence standing to one side, 
silent and unmoving. Everywhere the glint of gold. . . . Remotely, he was 
curious why Sloane was just standing there, making no move to get started. With 
a muttered curse, he stood up and glanced at her. 
Sloanes expression was so unfamiliar, so unexpectedly dramatic, that he simply 
stared. Her face had lost all its color. She remained where she was, unmoving, 
staring out over the trees, her lips slightly drawn back from her teeth. In a 
strange trick of the light he saw her amber eyes deepen to mahogany, as if a 
sudden shadow had been cast upon them. At last, unlocking his eyes from her 
face, he slowly turned to follow her gaze. 
A dark mass rose above and far beyond the ridge, so enormous and fearsome it 
took Black a moment to comprehend its true nature. Above the lofty prow of the 
Kaiparowits Plateau rose a thunderhead the likes of which he had never seen. It 
looked, he thought distantly, more like an atomic explosion than a storm. Its 
moiled foot ran at least thirty miles along the spine of the plateau, turning 
the ridge into a zone of dead black; from this base rose the body of the storm, 
surging and billowing upward to perhaps forty thousand feet. It flattened itself 
against the tropopause and sheared off into an anvil-shaped head at least fifty 
miles across. A heavy, tenebrous curtain of rain dropped from its base, as 
opaque as steel, obscuring all but the very point of the distant plateau in a 
veil of water. There was a monstrous play of lightning inside the great 
thunderhead, vast flickerings and dartings, ominously silent in the distance. As 
he watched, mesmerized and terrified at once, the thunderhead continued to 
spread, its dirty tentacles creeping across the blue sky. Even the air on the 
canyon rim seemed to grow charged with electricity, the scent of violence 
drifting through the pions as if from a faraway battleground. 
Black remained motionless, transfixed by the awful sight, as Sloane moved 
slowly, like a sleepwalker, toward the stunted tree that held the weather 
receiver. There was a snap of a switch, then a low wash of static. As the unit 
locked onto the preset wavelength, the static gave way to the monotonous, nasal 
voice of a weather announcer in Page, Arizona, giving a litany of details, 
statistics, and numbers. Then Black heard, with superhuman clarity, the 
forecast: Clear skies and warmer temperatures for the rest of the day, with 
less than five percent chance of precipitation. 
Black swivelled his eyes from the thunderhead to the sky directly above them: 
bright, flawless blue. He looked down into the valley of Quivira, peaceful and 
quiet, the camp awash in morning sunlight. The dichotomy was so extreme that, 
for a moment, he could not comprehend it. 
He stared back at Sloane. Her lips, still withdrawn from her teeth, looked 
somehow feral. Her whole being was tense with an internal epiphany. Black 
waited, suddenly breathless, as she snapped off the instrument. 
What? Black began to ask, but the look on Sloanes face silenced him. 
You heard Noras orders. Lets get this disassembled and down into camp. 
Sloanes voice was brisk, businesslike, neutral. She swung up into the stunted 
juniper and in a moment had unwound the antenna, taken down the receiver, and 
packed it in a net bag. She glanced at Black. 
Lets go, she said. 
Without another word, she swung the bag over her shoulder and walked to the 
ladder. In a moment, she had disappeared down into blue space. 
Confused, Black slowly buckled on his harness, took hold of the rope ladder, and 
began to follow her down. 
* * *
Ten minutes later, he stepped off the rope ladder. His distraction was so 
complete that he only knew he had reached the bottom when his foot sank into the 
wet sand. He stood there, irresolutely, and again turned his eyes upward. 
Overhead, the sky was an immaculate azure from rim to rim. There was no hint of 
the cataclysm taking place twenty miles away, at the head of their watershed. He 
removed the harness and walked back toward camp, his steps stiff and wooden. 
Despite the burden of the receiver, Sloane had scuttled down the cliff face like 
a spider, and she was in camp already, dropping the equipment beside the last 
pile of drysacks. 
Noras urgent voice brought Black out of his reverie. Whats the report? he 
heard her ask Sloane. 
Sloane didnt answer. 
Sloane, we have no time. Will you please give me the weather report? The 
exasperation in Noras voice was unmistakable. 
Clear skies and warmer temperatures for the rest of the day, Sloane said, in a 
monotone. Less than a five percent chance of precipitation. 
Black watched as the strained look on Noras face was replaced by a flood of 
relief. The suspicion and concern vanished from her eyes. Thats great, she 
said with a smile. Thanks, you two. Id like everybody to help take the last of 
the drysacks up to the caching site. Then, Aaron, you can go ahead and seal up 
the entrance to the hidden cavern. Roscoe, perhaps you should go with him. Keep 
a close eye on each other. Well be back to help you take the last load out in 
ninety minutes or so. 
A strange, utterly foreign sensation began to creep up Blacks spine. With a 
growing sense of unreality, he came up beside Sloane and watched as Nora gave a 
shout and a wave to Smithback. They were quickly joined by Aragon. Then the 
three walked toward the rows of supplies, shouldered their drysacks, and started 
for the mouth of the slot canyon. 
After a moment, Black tore himself away and turned toward Sloane. What are you 
doing? he asked, his voice cracking. 
Sloane met his gaze. What am I doing? Im not doing anything, Aaron. 
But we saw Black began, then faltered. 
What did we see? Sloane hissed suddenly, rounding on him. All I did was get 
the weather report and give it to Nora. Just as she demanded. If you saw 
something, say so now. If not, then shut your mouth about it forever. 
Black stared into her eyes: her whole frame was trembling, her lips white with 
emotion. He glanced upcanyon, in time to see the group of three cross the 
stream, toil briefly up the scree slope, and disappear into the dark, terrible 
slit of rock. 
Then he looked back at Sloane. As she read his eyes, the tension in her frame 
ebbed away. And then, slowly, she nodded. 
 

46
 
JOHN BEIYOODZIN HALTED HIS HORSE AT THE top of the hogback ridge and looked down 
into the valley of Chilbah. The horse had taken the trail well, but he was still 
trembling, damp with perspiration. Beiyoodzin waited, murmuring soothing words, 
giving him time to recover. The late morning sun was glinting off the peaceful 
thread of water winding through the valley bottom, a ribbon of quicksilver amid 
the lush greenery. On the high benchlands above, the wind stirred the 
cottonwoods and copses of oaks. He could smell sage and ozone in the air. There 
was a sudden stirring of wind that pressed at his back, as if urging him over 
the side. Beiyoodzin restrained an impulse to look; he knew all too well what 
loomed up behind him. 
The buckskin shook out his mane, and Beiyoodzin patted him soothingly on the 
neck. He closed his eyes a moment, calming himself, trying to reconcile his mind 
to the confrontation that lay ahead. 
But calm would not come. He felt a sudden surge of anger at himself: he should 
have told the woman everything when he had the chance. She had been honest with 
him. And she deserved to know. It had been foolish to tell her only half of the 
story. Worse, it had been unkind and selfish to lie. And now, as a result of his 
weakness, he found himself on a journey that he would have given almost anything 
to avoid. He could hardly bring himself to contemplate the terrible nature of 
the evil he had to confront. And yet he had no choice but to prepare himself for 
conflict; perhaps, even, for death. 
Beiyoodzin finally saw the situation clearly, and he was not happy with the role 
he had played. Sixteen years before, a small imbalance, a minor uglinessni 
zshinitsohad been injected into the small world of his people. They had ignored 
it. And as a result the small imbalance had become, as they should have known it 
would, a great evil. As a healer, he should have guided them to doing what was 
right. It was precisely because of this old imbalance, this absence of truth, 
that these people were now down in Chilbah, digging. He shuddered. And it was 
because of this imbalance that the eskizzi, the wolfskin runners, had become 
active again. And now it had fallen to him to correct the imbalance. 
At last, he reluctantly turned around and gazed toward the storm, amazed to see 
it still growing and swelling, like some vast malignant beast. Here, as if he 
needed it, was a physical manifestation of the imbalance. It was releasing ever 
thicker, blacker, denser columns of rain down onto the Kaiparowits Plateau. It 
was a tremendous rain, a five-hundred-year rain. Beiyoodzin had never seen its 
equal. 
His gaze moved over the distant guttered landscape between the thunderhead and 
the valley, trying to pick out the flash of moving water; but the canyons were 
too deep. In his minds eye he could see the torrential rains falling hard on 
the slickrock of the Kaiparowits, the drops coalescing into rivulets, the 
rivulets into streams, the streams into torrentsthe torrents into something 
that no word could adequately describe. 
He untied a small bundle from one of his saddle stringsa drilled piece of 
turquoise and a mirage stone tied up in horsehair around a small buckskin bag, 
attached to an eagle feather. He opened the bag, pinched out some cornmeal and 
pollen, and sprinkled it about, saving the last for his horses poll. He brushed 
first himself, then his horses face, with the eagle feather. The horse was 
prancing now in growing agitation, eyes rolling toward the thunderhead. The 
leather strings of the saddle slapped restlessly in the growing wind. 
Beiyoodzin chanted softly in his language. Then he repacked his medicine kit, 
dusted the pollen from his fingers. The landscape was now divided sharply 
between brilliant sunlight and a spreading black stain. A chill, electrically 
charged wind eddied around him. He would not, of course, attempt to ride into 
the second valley, the valley of Quivira, through the slot canyon. The flood 
would be coming through within minutes. That meant he would have to take the 
secret Priests Trail over the top: the long, difficult rimrock trail that his 
grandfather had told him of in broken whispers but that he himself had never 
seen. He thought back, trying to recall his grandfathers directions precisely. 
It would be necessary to do so, because of the cleverness with which the trail 
was hidden: it had been designed to be an optical illusion, its cliff edge cut 
higher than the edge along the rockface, rendering it practically invisible from 
more than a few feet away. The trail, he had been told, started up the cliffs 
some distance from the slot canyon, crossed the wide slickrock plateau, and then 
descended into the canyon at the far end of the valley of Quivira. It might be 
very difficult for an old man. Maybe, after all these years, it would be 
impossible. But he had no choice; the imbalance had to be corrected, the natural 
symmetry had to be restored. 
He started quickly down into the valley. 
 

47
 
NORA PARTED THE CURTAIN OF WEEDS AND glanced upward. The slot canyon snaked 
ahead of her, the sunshine striated and shadowy in the reddish half-light, the 
hollows and polished ribs of stone stretching ahead like the throat of some 
great beast. She eased into the water and breaststroked across the first pool, 
Smithback following, Aragon bringing up the rear. The water felt cool after the 
dead, oppressive heat of the valley, and she tried to empty her mind to it, 
concentrating on the pure physical sensation, refusing for the moment to think 
of the long trip that lay before them. 
They traveled in silence for a while, going from pool to pool, wading along the 
shallows, the quiet sounds of their passage whispering off the confined spaces 
of canyon. Nora hefted the drysack from one shoulder to the other. Despite 
everything, she felt less troubled than she had over the last three days. It had 
been her great fear that Black and Sloane would descend the ladder with reports 
of bad weather brewing. It would have been credible, given the recent rains. And 
she would have had to decide whether they were telling the truth or giving a 
phony report in order to remain at Quivira. But the report of good 
weatherthough grudgingly givenproved they were resigned to leaving the city. 
Now all that remained was the grueling multiple portages out through the slot 
canyon to the horses. 
No, that was not quite all; her mind had never been far from Holroyds remains, 
waiting for them a quarter mile up the slot canyon. And with those remains came 
the message that the skinwalkers were close; perhaps watching them right now, 
waiting to make their next move. 
She glanced back toward Aragon: the man had made it clear he wanted to speak to 
her about something. Aragon looked up, read the question in her eyes, and merely 
shook his head. When we reach the body, was his only reply. 
Nora swam across another pool, climbed up a pourover, and squeezed sideways 
through a narrower section. Then the steep walls widened a little around her. In 
the distance ahead, she could make out the massive cottonwood trunk, suspended 
like a gigantic spar, wedged across the walls of the canyon. Just above it, in 
deep shadow, was the narrow ledge that led to the space where Holroyds body had 
been laid. 
Noras eyes fell from the ledge, to the jumble of rocks below, to the narrow 
pool that stretched the eight or ten feet across the canyons bottom. Her gaze 
came to rest at a smear of yellow, floating at the near end. It was Holroyds 
body bag. Gingerly, she came forward. Now she could see a long, ragged gash in 
one side of the bag. And there was Holroyds body, lying on its back half out of 
the water. He looked strangely plump. 
She stopped dead. Oh, God, came Smithbacks voice by her shoulder. Then: Are 
we exposing ourselves to some kind of disease, wading about in this water? 
Aragon heaved himself up behind them. No, he said, I dont believe we are. 
But there was no consolation in his face as he spoke these words. 
Nora remained still, and Smithback, too, hesitated behind her. Aragon gently 
pushed past them toward the body. Nora watched as the doctor pulled it onto a 
narrow stone shelf beside the pool. Reluctantly, she forced herself forward. 
Then she stopped again with a sudden gasp. 
Holroyds decomposing body was swollen inside its clothes, a grotesque parody of 
obesity. His skin, protruding from his shirt sleeves, was a strange, milky 
bluish-white. The fingers were now just pink-edged stubs, having been cut away 
at the first joints. His boots lay on the rocks, slashed and torn, and his feet, 
that same pale white against the chocolate rock, were missing their toes. Nora 
gazed in mingled disgust, horror, and outrage. Even worse was the back of the 
head: a large circular whorl of hair been scalped off, and the disk of skull 
directly beneath drilled out. Brain matter bulged from the hole. 
Working swiftly, Aragon donned a pair of plastic gloves, removed a scalpel from 
his kit, positioned it just below the last rib, and with a short movement opened 
the body. Reaching inside with a long narrow set of forceps, he twisted his hand 
sharply, then retracted it. On the end of the scalpel was a small bit of pink 
flesh that looked to Nora like lung tissue. Aragon dropped it inside a test tube 
already half filled with a clear liquid. Adding two drops from a separate vial, 
he stoppered the tube and swirled it around in his hands. Nora watched as the 
color of the solution turned a light blue. 
Aragon nodded to himself, carefully placed the tube inside a styrofoam case, and 
repacked his instruments. Then, still kneeling, he turned toward Nora. One 
gloved hand lay, almost protectively, over the corpses chest. 
Do you know what killed him? Nora asked. 
Without more precise tools, I cant be a hundred percent sure, Aragon replied 
slowly. But one answer does seem to fit. All the crude tests Ive been able to 
run verify it. 
There was a moment of silence. Smithback took a seat on a rock a cautious 
distance from the body. 
Aragon glanced at the writer, then back to Nora. Before I go into that, I need 
to tell you some things Ive discovered about the ruin. 
About the ruin? Smithback asked. What does that have to do with his death? 
Everything. I believe the abandonment of Quiviraindeed, perhaps even the 
reason for its very existenceis intimately connected with Holroyds death. He 
wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. No doubt youve noticed the cracks 
in the towers, the collapsed third-story rooms of the city. 
Nora nodded. 
And you must have noticed the great rockfall at the far end of the canyon. 
While you were off searching for the horse killers, I talked with Black about 
this. He told me that the damage to the city was done by a mild earthquake that 
struck around the same time the city was abandoned. The dates are statistically 
equal, he said. The landslide, according to Black, also occurred at the same 
time, no doubt triggered by the earthquake. 
So you think an earthquake killed all those people? Nora asked. 
No, no. It was just a temblor. But that rockfall, and the collapse of some 
buildings, was enough to raise a large cloud of dust in the valley. 
Very interesting, Smithback said. But what does a seven-century-old dustcloud 
have to do with Holroyds death? 
Aragon gave a wan smile. A great deal, as it turns out. Because the dust within 
Quivira is riddled with Coccidioides immitis. Its a microscopic fungal spore 
that lives in soil. Its usually associated with very dry, often remote desert 
areas, so people dont come into contact with it much. Which is a very good 
thing. Its the cause of a deadly disease known as coccidioidomycosis. Or, as 
you might know it, valley fever. 
Nora frowned. Valley fever? 
Wait a minute, Smithback interjected. Wasnt that the disease that killed a 
bunch of people in California? 
Aragon nodded. Valley fever, or San Joaquin fever, named after a town in 
California. There was an earthquake in the desert near San Joaquin many years 
ago. That quake triggered a small landslide that raised a cloud of dust, which 
rolled over the town. Hundreds became ill and twenty died, infected with 
coccidioidomycosis. Scientists came to call this type of deadly dustcloud a 
tectonic fungal cloud. He frowned. Only the fungus here in Quivira is a far 
more virulent strain. In concentrated form, it kills in hours or days, not 
weeks. You see, to get sick you must inhale the sporeseither through dust, or 
through . . . other means. Mere exposure to a sick person is not enough. 
He wiped his face again. At first, Holroyds symptoms were baffling to me. They 
did not seem to be from any infectious agent I knew of. Certainly he died too 
quickly for any of the more likely suspects. And then I remembered that 
rust-colored powder from the royal burial. 
He looked at Nora. I told you about my discoveries with the bones. But do you 
recall those two pots, full of reddish dust? You thought they might be a kind of 
red ochre. I never told you that the dust turned out to be dried, ground-up 
human flesh and bone. 
Why didnt you tell us? Nora cried. 
Lets just say you were preoccupied with other things. And I wanted to 
understand it myself before I dangled yet another mystery in front of you. In 
any case, while puzzling over Holroyds death, I remembered that reddish dust. 
And then I realized exactly what it was. It is a substance known to certain 
southwestern Indian tribes as corpse powder. 
Nora glanced at Smithback and saw her own horror reflected in his eyes. 
Its used by witches to kill their intended victims, Aragon continued. Corpse 
powder is still known among some Indian groups today. 
I know, Nora whispered. She could almost see Beiyoodzins drawn face in the 
starlight, telling them of the wolfskin runners. 
When I examined this powder under the microscope, I found it absolutely packed 
with Coccidioides immitis. It is, quite literally, corpse powder that really 
kills. 
And you think Holroyd was murdered with it? 
Given the huge dose he must have received to die so quickly, I would say yes. 
Although his illness was surely made worse by constant exposure to dust. He did 
quite a lot of digging in the rear of the ruin in the days before his death. The 
fact is, weve all been exposed to it. 
I did my share of digging, Smithback said, his voice a little shaky. How much 
longer before we get sick, too? 
I dont know. A lot depends on the health of our immune systems, and on the 
degree of exposure. I believe the fungus is much more concentrated in the rear 
of the city. But regardless, its vital that we get out of here and get 
treatment as soon as possible. 
So theres a cure? Smithback asked. 
Yes. Ketoconazole, or in advanced cases where the fungus has invaded the 
central nervous system, amphotericin B injected directly into the cerebrospinal 
fluid. The ironic thing is, ampho is a common antibiotic. I almost brought some 
along. 
How sure are you about this? asked Nora. 
As sure I can be without more equipment. Id need a better microscope to be 
absolutely sure, because in tissue the spherules are only about fifty microns in 
diameter. But nothing else explains the onset of symptoms: the cyanosis, 
dyspnea, the mucopurulent sputum . . . the sudden death. And the simple test I 
just performed on Peters lung tissue confirmed the presence of coccidioidin 
antibodies. He sighed. Its only in the last day or so that I began putting 
this together. Late yesterday evening, I spent some time in the ruin, and found 
other examples of corpse powder stored in pots, as well as various odd types of 
tools. From this, and from all the trashed bones in the Crawlspace, it became 
quite clear that the inhabitants of Quivira were actually manufacturing corpse 
powder. As a result, the whole city is contaminated with it. The entire subsoil 
of the ruin is full of the spores, its density increasing toward the back. That 
puts the greatest concentration in the Crawlspace, and especially in the cavern 
of the Sun Kiva that Black discovered. 
He paused. I told you my theory that this city was not really Anasazi after 
all. It was Aztecan in origin. These people brought human sacrifice and 
witchcraft to the Anasazi. Its my belief that they are the marauders, the 
conquerors, who caused the collapse of Anasazi civilization and the abandonment 
of the Colorado Plateau. They are the mysterious enemies of the Anasazi that 
archaeologists have sought all these years. These enemies did not kill and exert 
control through open warfare, which is why weve never found the evidence of 
violence. Their means of conquest and control were more subtle. Witchcraft and 
the use of corpse powder. Which leaves little or no trace. 
His voice fell. When I first analyzed that burial cyst Sloane uncovered, I felt 
it to be a result of cannibalism. The marks on the bones seemed to point to 
that. In fact, Blacks protests to the contrary, it was the obvious deduction to 
make: Anasazi cannibalism is currently a hot, if controversial, theory. But I no 
longer think cannibalism is at the bottom of all this. I now believe those marks 
on the bones tell an even more terrible tale. 
He looked at Nora with haunted eyes. I believe the priests of the city were 
infecting prisoners or slaves with the disease, waiting for them to die, and 
then processing their bodies to make corpse powder. The trash from that terrible 
operation lies in the back of the cave. With the powder, these conquerors could 
maintain their rule through ritual and terror. But in the end, the fungus turned 
on them. The mild earthquake that damaged the towers and caused the landslide 
must have raised a tectonic fungal cloud in the valley here, just like in San 
Joaquin. Except that here, in the confined space of the canyon, the dustcloud 
had no place to go. It filled the alcove, enshrouded the city of Quivira. All 
those skeletons, thrown atop the broken bodies in the back of the cave, were its 
priestly Aztec victims. 
Aragon stopped speaking and looked away from Nora. His face, she thought, had 
never looked so drawn, so exhausted. 
Now, its time for me to tell you something, Nora replied slowly. Modern-day 
witches may be the ones trying to drive us out of the valley. She briefly told 
Aragon about the attack in the ranch house and the more recent conversation with 
Beiyoodzin. They followed us out here, she concluded. And now that theyve 
found the site, theyre trying to drive us away so they can loot it for 
themselves. 
Aragon thought for a moment, then shook his head. No, he said. No, I dont 
think theyre here to loot the city. 
What are you talking about? Smithback interjected. Why else would they be 
trying to drive us away? 
Oh, I dont dispute theyre trying to drive us away. But its not to loot the 
city. He glanced once again at Nora. Youve been assuming all along that these 
skinwalkers were trying to find the city. What if they were actually trying to 
protect it? 
I dont Smithback began. 
Just a minute, Nora broke in. She was thinking quickly. 
How else could they have traced us here so quickly? Aragon asked. And, if 
indeed they killed Holroyd with corpse powder, where else could they have gotten 
it, except from this place? 
So they werent after the letter to learn Quiviras location, Nora murmured. 
They wanted to destroy the letter. To keep us from coming here. 
Nothing else makes sense to me, Aragon replied. Once, I believed that Quivira 
was a city of priests. Now, I believe it was a city of witches. 
They sat a moment longer, three figures ranged around the still form of Holroyd. 
Then a sudden breeze, chill with moisture, stirred the hair on Noras forehead. 
Wed better get going, she said, rising. Lets get Peters body out of the 
canyon. 
Silently, they began rewrapping the body in the ripped drysack. 
 

48
 
AS JOHN BEIYOODZIN URGED HIS HORSE down the trail into the valley of Chilbah, 
his heart quickly sank. From the first switchback, he could make out the 
expeditions horses; the remuda was watering at the stream. The tiny creek 
meandered down the center of a great flood-plain, torn and guttered, scattered 
with boulders and tree trunks. He glanced upward anxiously, but the thunderhead 
was now out of sight, hidden behind the fin of rock. 
He knew only too well that this valley was a bottleneck for the vast watershed 
of the Kaiparowits. The flood, coming down the miles off the Kaiparowits 
Plateau, would gradually coalesce as the canyons came together in the upper 
reaches of the Chilbah Valley. It was all uninhabited, from the Kaiparowits to 
the Colorado Riverexcept for the archaeologists in the valley beyond, which lay 
directly in the path of the water. 
He looked to his right, where the valley broke up into a series of canyons and 
dry washes. The water coming off the Kaiparowits Plateau would enter the Chilbah 
Valley through these circuitous, twisting canyons. It would then race through 
the lower valley in one overwhelming mass. It would be colossal, covering the 
entire floodplain and probably tearing into the banks. If the horses werent 
moved well out of the plain and up into the high benchlands on either side of 
the valley, they would be swept away. Many of his peoples horses had died in 
flash floods. It was a terrible thing. And if there were people on the 
floodplain of the valley beyondor, even worse, in the slot canyon that 
connected the two valleys . . . 
He urged his horse into a plunging lope down the rubbled trail. He just might 
have time to reach the horses and scare them up to higher ground. 
Within five minutes he had reached the bottom, his horse heaving and slick. He 
let the animal drink at the creek, all the while listening up the valley with a 
keen ear for the sound he knew only too well: the peculiar vibration that 
signaled a flash flood. 
Out of sight of the thunderhead, the horse was calmer, and he drank deeply. When 
he had slaked his thirst, Beiyoodzin steered the animal across the floodplain, 
then urged him up the steep banks. Once up in the rocky benchlands well away 
from the stream, he kicked the buckskin into a lope, then a hand gallop. As long 
as they stayed on the high ground, they would be safe. 
As he galloped, winding among huge boulders and outcrops of rock, Beiyoodzins 
thoughts returned to the people in the second, smaller valley beyond. He 
wondered if they would hear the flood coming. He knew there was some benchland 
on either side of the creek, and he hoped the people had known enough to pitch 
their camp up there. The woman, Nora, had seemed to know a little about the ways 
of the desert. They could survive if they were smartand if they heeded the 
warnings. 
Suddenly, he reined his horse to a violent stop. As the flurry of sand subsided 
around them, Beiyoodzin remained still, listening intently. 
It was coming. So far, it was only a vibration in the ground, an unsettling 
tingle in his bones. But it was unmistakable. 
He clicked his tongue and urged the horse forward. At a dead run, the buckskin 
flashed across the sandy ground, leaping rocks and bushes, dodging cottonwoods, 
racing toward the grazing horses. Now, he could hear the ugly sound rising up in 
the valley, even over the noise of his own galloping horse. It was a sound 
without direction, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, climbing quickly 
in pitch from the subsonic to a shriek. Along with it came a wind that started 
as a gentle breeze and quickly gained strength, shivering the leaves of the 
cottonwoods. 
Again in his minds eye he saw a world out of balance. Sixteen years ago, it had 
seemed a small, harmless thing indeed. Ignore it, everyone had said. If these 
were to be the consequence of that action, they were terrible consequences 
indeed. 
He reached the edge of the benchland. Below, in the floodplain, he could see the 
expeditions horses. They had stopped grazing now and were standing alert, their 
ears pricked up, staring upstream. But it was already too late to save them. To 
ride down into the floodplain now would be suicide. He shouted and waved his 
hat; but his voice did not carry above the growing roar, and the herds 
attention was elsewhere. 
The ground trembled. As the noise continued to intensify, Beiyoodzin became 
unable to separate the terrified whinnies of his own horse from the scream of 
the coming water. He looked upstream, into the maw of an even stronger wind that 
thrashed at the salt cedars and pressed the willows almost horizontal to the 
ground. 
Then he saw it come around the bend: a vertical wall twenty feet high, moving 
with the speed of a freight train, driving the howling wind before it. 
But it was not a wall of water. Instead, Beiyoodzin beheld a seething rampart of 
tree trunks, roots, boulders, and boiling dirt; a huge churning mass, pushed 
ahead by the flood at eighty miles an hour. He struggled to control his horse. 
The horses below wheeled in hopeless fright and ran. As Beiyoodzin watchedin a 
mixture of amazement, horror, and fearful reverencethe monstrous wall bore down 
on them relentlessly. In rapid succession the animals were struck and blown 
apart, turned inside out like the abrupt blossoming of a rose, the ropy 
eruptions of scarlet, chunks of meat, and shattered legs disappearing into the 
roiling mass of logs and boulders. 
Piled behind the murderous wall of debris came the great engine of its momentum: 
a tidal wave of chocolate-colored water two hundred yards wide, boiling from 
benchland to benchland in a flow that for the moment was greater than the 
Colorado River itself. It blasted a path through the valley, leaping into 
haystacks of water and standing waves ten feet high. The flood ripped at the 
edges of the plain like a chainsaw, tearing out hundred-ton chunks of earth and 
sucking away cottonwood trees. At the same time, Beiyoodzin felt a wave of 
intense humidity pass over him. The air grew suddenly pregnant with the rich 
scent of wet earth and lacerated vegetation. Despite his distance, he 
instinctively backed up his horse as the walls of the benchland began caving in 
before him. 
From still higher ground, he stared down at the humped and gnarled backside of 
the tidal wave as it thundered down the valley toward the dark slot canyon in 
the far rock face. As the flood struck the opening of the slot, he felt the 
brutal crash ripple beneath his feet. An enormous shockwave shuddered backward 
through the torrent, momentarily stopping the forward motion of the flood, 
atomizing the water. A vast curtain of brown spume erupted along the rock face, 
rising several hundred feet up the cliffs with terrifying speed before gradually 
falling back. 
Now the torrent settled into a new pattern. The floodwaters continued to pile up 
against the slot canyon, forcing their way in, creating an instant lake: a huge, 
angry maelstrom of water boiling at the canyons mouth. Man-sized splinters of 
wood were thrown from the water as the swirling trees were torn apart by the 
violent pressure. 
Another huge piece of benchland caved in before him. Shaking, Beiyoodzin turned 
his horse from the appalling scene and headed in the direction of the old 
Priests Trail: the back door into the valley of Quivira. It had been too late 
to save the horses. And now he wondered if anyoneincluding himselfwould get 
out of Chilbah Valley alive. 
 

49
 
WITH THE HELP OF ARAGON AND SMITHBACK, Nora tied off the ripped covering around 
Holroyds body bag and lashed it to the pole. Then she stood back, wiping her 
brow with the back of her hand. Although she knew it had to be done, she was 
reluctant to begin the awkward, arduous, depressing task of lugging Holroyds 
body, along with several drysacks full of gear, out to where the packhorses 
waited. 
She looked up, scanning the canyon ahead. On the far side of the pool and well 
above her head was the massive cottonwood trunk. Beyond was a steep climb to the 
next pool; it was going to be hell, she knew, to get across it. The rising wind 
blew a strand of hair across her face, which she unconsciously tucked back 
behind her ear. She took a deep breath, knelt, and grasped one end of the pole. 
Then she froze. There was another breath of wind on her cheek, stronger this 
time. Along with it came the sudden, strangely pleasant scent of crushed 
vegetation. 
Fear sent blood surging in her ears. The wind was accelerating with an almost 
machinelike precision, very different from a natural, intermittent breeze. Even 
as she paused it became stronger. 
Flash flood, she said. 
Yeah? The sky overhead was calm and blue; Smithbacks tone was curious, not 
worried. How can you tell? 
But Nora didnt hear him. Her mind was calculating furiously. They were at least 
a quarter mile into the slot canyon. There was no way to get out in time. Their 
only chance was to climb, to get above the level of the flood. 
Quickly, she pointed up toward the cavity in the rock where Holroyds corpse had 
been stored. Drop the body, she said urgently, drop everything. Lets go! 
Smithback began to protest. We cant just 
Move! Aragon said urgently, releasing the other end of the pole. The body slid 
into the pool, turning lazily. Nora began thrashing through the water 
downstream, toward the spot where the ledge angled upward to the small cave. 
Where are you going? Smithback called, disbelief strong in his voice. 
Shouldnt we be heading the other way? 
No time! she cried. Come on, hurry! Hurry! 
Beneath the driving wind, Nora could now hear a faint noise: a low-frequency 
sound, deep and menacing. The calm pools of water in the stream broke into a 
dancing chop. The hastily abandoned drysacks began to bob and roll wildly. 
She floundered across the pool, breath coming in sobs. The wind grew, and grew, 
and then there was a painful pop in her ears: a drastic change in air pressure. 
She looked back at Smithback and Aragon, wet and bedraggled, and tried to scream 
at them to hurry. Her voice was drowned by a vast, distorted roar that washed 
through the slot canyon, popping her ears a second time. 
In its wake came an intense silence. The wind had suddenly dropped. 
She hesitated, confused, her ears straining to catch every nuance of sound. From 
what seemed to be a vast distance, she could make out clatterings and 
crunchings, strangely distinct despite their remoteness. She whirled toward the 
ledge again, realizing she was hearing the sound of boulders and logs jamming 
into the stone slot, ricocheting off the narrow canyon walls on their way toward 
them. As she ran, a fresh wind rose to a screaming pitch, tearing shreds of 
water from the surface of the stream. The flood, she knew, would first turn the 
slot canyon into a wind tunnel. 
She thrashed forward. The sound in the canyon grew to a terrible howl, and the 
ever-rising hurricane of wind tore at their backs. Were not going to make it, 
Nora thought. She glanced back and saw that Aragon had fallen behind. She held 
out her hands to him, urging him on, screaming words that had no sound over the 
blast. 
Suddenly a boulder came down the canyon from behind them, bounding between the 
rock walls with thunderous booms, roaring over their heads with horrifying 
speed. Another, even larger, followed in its wake, propelled ahead of the water 
by a stochastic amplification of momentum. It hit the jammed cottonwood trunk 
with a shattering force and continued downcanyon, leaving behind the smell of 
smoke and crushed stone. 
Gasping and coughing, Nora reached the ledge and grasped it with both hands, 
pulling herself out of the water. She scrambled up the rock, trying to maintain 
her purchase on the slippery ledge. The air had grown full of pulverized water, 
which lashed at them mercilessly. She hugged the rockface in an effort to keep 
the wind from plucking her off. 
An advance guard of water blasted through the canyon just below them, and the 
light above dimmed. Events were happening so quicklythe day had grown so 
suddenly, completely violentfor a moment it seemed to Nora that she was locked 
in some terrible dream. She could barely make out Aragons form below her, 
struggling up the ledge. 
A second tongue of twisting water came racing past below them, almost sucking 
Aragon from the canyon wall. Pausing in his climb, Smithback reached back, 
grabbed Aragons shirt, and hauled him upward. As Nora watched from above, 
powerless to help, another surge grabbed at Aragons leg. Over the cry of the 
flood, she thought she heard the man scream: a strange, hollow, despairing 
sound. 
Smithback lunged for a better hold as Aragon was dragged from the ledge, 
dangling into space. A passing rock smacked into Aragon, spinning him around; 
there was a soundless parting of fabric and Smithback fell back against the 
cliff, a tattered remnant of Aragons collar in his hand. A furious gust of wind 
buoyed Aragon above the dancing rocks, whirling him downstream. Caught by 
another packet of water, his body was slammed into the canyon wall and dragged 
across it like cheese across a grater. In his wake, gobbets of red lay scraped 
across dark rock, vanishing quickly, like Aragon himself, into the boiling 
spume. 
Choking back a sob, Nora turned and grabbed the next handhold, hoisted herself 
up, then reached for the next. Higher, she thought. Higher. Behind her, 
Smithback was coming up fast. She scrambled, slid back, regained her footing, 
then fell again, the wind tearing her from the rock. As she slid away, 
Smithbacks arm wrapped itself around her, and she felt herself pulled up the 
narrow ledge, closer and closer to the cavity in the rock. 
And then, at last, the main body of the flood came: a huge shadow, looming far 
above them, a wedge of darkness shutting out the last of the light; a foaming 
spasm of air, water, mud, rock, and brutalized wood, pushing before it a wind of 
tornadolike intensity. Nora felt Smithback lose his grip briefly, then regain 
it. As he jammed her into the cavity, forcing himself in after her, there was a 
sudden fusillade of sound as countless small rocks scoured the walls of the 
canyon. She felt Smithback go rigid, heard the wet hollow thumps as the rocks 
glanced off his back. 
Then the beast descended, wrapping them inside an endless, black, suffocating 
roar. The noise went on, and on, and on, the roar and vibration so loud that 
Nora felt she was losing her sanity. Rolled into a protective ball, she squeezed 
her arms tighter around herself and prayed for the shaking to stop. Jets of 
water forced their way into the cavity around her, battering her shoulders, 
pulling at her limbs as if trying to suck her out of the refuge. 
In a remote corner of her mind, it seemed strange that it was taking so long to 
die. She tried to breathe, but the oxygen seemed to have been sucked out of the 
air. She felt the iron grip of Smithbacks arms relax with a horrifying twitch. 
She tried to breathe again, hiccupped, choked, tried to screamand then the 
world folded in on itself and she lost consciousness. 
 

50
 
BLACK SAT ON THE RETAINING WALL, BREATHING heavily. The four expedition members 
remaining in camp had all taken several trips up into Quivira, lugging the 
unnecessary gear into the empty caching room they had chosen in a remote part of 
the city. Therewith any luckit would remain hidden, dry and free from animals 
until they returned. 
Until they returned.... Black found himself sweating profusely. He licked his 
lips, staring at the blue sky above the canyon rim. Maybe nothing would happen. 
Maybe it would happen someplace else. 
One at a time, Sloane, Swire, and Bonarotti emerged from the darkness of the 
city and joined Black at the retaining wall. Bonarotti removed a canteen and 
wordlessly passed it around. Automatically, Black took a drink, tasting nothing. 
His eyes roved over what remained of the camp: the tents, already broken down 
and ready to be carried out; the neat row of drysacks beside them; the small 
pile of equipment that still had to be lugged up to the cache site . . . 
It was then that he heard something. Or perhaps he felt it, he wasnt exactly 
sure: a strange movement of the air, almost a vibration. His heart began to 
race, and he looked toward Sloane. She was staring out into the valley. Aware of 
his gaze, she glanced toward him for a moment, then rose to her feet. 
Did you hear something? she asked nobody in particular. Handing the canteen 
back to Bonarotti, she moved toward the edge of the cliff, followed by Swire. A 
moment later, Black came up behind. 
The valley below still looked pastoral: somnolent in the heat, drenched in late 
morning sunlight. But the vibration, like a deep motor coming to life, seemed to 
fill the air. The leaves of the cottonwoods began to dance. 
Bonarotti came up beside him. What is it? he asked, looking around curiously. 
Black didnt answer. Two emotions were warring inside him: terror and a 
breathless, almost nauseating excitement. There was now a rising wind coming 
from the mouth of the slot canyon: he could make out the saltbushes at its 
fringe, gyrating as if possessed. Then the canyon emitted a long, distorted, 
booming screech that grew louder, then still louder. It must be in the canyon 
now, thought Black. There was a buzzing sound, but he wasnt sure if it was 
coming from the valley or inside his head. 
He glanced at the company ranged beside him. They were all staring toward the 
mouth of the slot canyon. On Swires face, puzzlement gave way first to dawning 
understanding, then horror. 
Flash flood, said the wrangler. My God, theyre in the canyon . . . He broke 
for the ladder. 
Black held his breath. He thought he knew what was coming; he felt that he was 
prepared for anything. And yet he was totally unprepared for the spectacle that 
followed. 
With a basso profundo groan, the slot canyon belched forth a mass of boulders 
and splintered tree trunkshundreds of themwhich burst from the narrow crevice 
and came spinning down to earth. Then, with the swelling roar of a beast opening 
its maw, the slot vomited forth a liquid masschocolate-brown water, mingled 
with ropes of viscous red. It coalesced into a rippling wall that fell in 
thunder against the scree slope, sending up secondary spouts and smoking plumes. 
It tore down the floodplain, smoking along the banks, ripping away chunks of the 
slope and even peeling off pieces of the canyon wall in the extremity of its 
violence. For a moment Black thought, with horror, that it would actually 
surmount the steep banks on either side of the plain and take away their camp. 
But instead it worried, chewed, and ate away at the stone edges of the 
benchland, its fury contained but made all the more violent. Near the bank of 
cottonwoods, he could make out Swire, shielding his face with his arms, beaten 
back toward camp by the fury of the blast. 
Black stood at the edge of the cliff, buffeted by the wind, motionless in shock 
and horror. Beside him, Bonarotti was yelling something, but Black did not hear 
it. He was staring at the water. He could never have imagined water capable of 
such fury. He watched as it swept down the center of the valley, tearing at the 
banks, engulfing entire trees, instantly turning the lovely, sun-dappled 
landscape into a watery vision of hell. A thousand rainbows sprung up from the 
spume, glistening in the appalling sunlight. 
Then he saw a flash of yellow amid the churning chocolate: Holroyds body bag. 
And then, moments later, something else, caught in a standing wave: a human 
torso, one arm still attached, wearing the shredded remnants of a tan shirt. As 
Black stared in mingled shock and disgust, the gruesome object erupted off the 
top of the wave and spun around once, the limp arm flapping in a travesty of a 
gesture of help. Then it bobbed over in a haze of chocolates and grays and was 
swallowed in the flood. 
Almost unconsciously, he took a step backward, then another and another, until 
he felt his heel bump against the rock of the retaining wall. He half sat, half 
collapsed onto it, then turned his back to the valley, unwilling to see any 
more. 
He wondered what it was he had done. Was he a murderer, after all? But no: not 
even a lie had been told. The weather report had been clear and unequivocal. The 
storm was twenty miles away; the water could have gone anywhere. 
The roar of the flood continued behind him, but Black tried not to hear it. 
Instead, he raised his eyes to the cool depths of the city that lay spread 
before him: dark even in the bright morning sun, serene, utterly indifferent to 
the calamity that was taking place in the valley beyond. Looking at the city, he 
began to feel a little bit better. He breathed slowly, letting the tightness in 
his chest ease. His thoughts began trending once again toward the Sun Kiva and 
the treasure it containedand especially of the immortality that it represented. 
Schliemann. Carter. Black. 
He started guiltily, then glanced over toward Sloane. She was still standing at 
the edge of the cliff, staring down into the valley. Her look was veiled, but on 
her face he read a play of emotions that she could not hide completely: 
amazement, horror, andin the glint of the eye and the faintest curl of the 
liptriumph. 
 

51
 
RICKY BRIGGS LISTENED TO THE DISTANT sound with irritation. That rhythmic swat 
meant only one thing: a helicopter, heading this way by the sound of it. He 
shook his head. Helicopters were supposed to keep out of the marinas airspace, 
although they rarely did. There were often choppers doing flybys of the lake, or 
en route to the Colorado River or the Grand Canyon. They annoyed the boaters. 
And when the boaters got annoyed, they complained to Ricky Briggs. He heaved a 
sigh and went back to his paperwork. 
After a moment, he looked up again. The helicopter sounded different from usual: 
lower, throatier somehow. And the sound of the engine seemed strangely 
staggered, as if there were more than one. Over the drone, he could hear a 
diesel pulling up beside the building, the chatter of onlookers. Idly, he leaned 
forward to glance out the window. What he saw caused him to jump from his seat. 
Two massive helicopters were beating up from the west, coming in low. They 
sported amphibious hulls, and Coast Guard logos were emblazoned on their sides. 
They slowed into a hover just beyond the marinas no-wake zone, huge airfoils 
beating the sky. A large pontoon boat dangled from one of them. Below, the water 
was being whipped into a frenzy of whitecaps. Houseboats were rolling heavily, 
and pink-skinned bathers were gathering curiously along the concrete apron. 
Briggs grabbed his cellular and ran outside onto the shimmering tarmac, punching 
up the number for the Page air-control tower as he lumbered along. 
Out in the baking heat, an additional surprise awaited him: a huge horse trailer 
parked at the ramp, same as before, SANTA FE ARCHAEOLOGICAL INSTITUTE stenciled 
on one side. As he watched, two National Guard trucks pulled in behind it. Ranks 
of guardsmen scrambled out of the rears, traffic barriers in hand. A murmur came 
up from the crowd as the pontoon boat was dropped from the helicopter with an 
enormous splash. 
His phone chirruped, and a voice sounded through the tiny speaker. Page, it 
said. 
This is Wahweap! Briggs screamed into the telephone. What the hell is going 
on at our marina? 
Calm yourself, Mr. Briggs, came the unruffled voice of the air-traffic 
supervisor. Theres a big search-and-rescue being organized. Just learned about 
it a few minutes ago. 
One group of guardsmen was laying down the traffic barriers, while another group 
had gone down to the ramp to clear a trail, shooing boats away from the marina. 
What does that have to do with me? Briggs shouted. 
Its in the back country, west of Kaiparowits. 
Jesus. What a place to be lost. Who is it? 
Dont know. Nobodys saying anything. 
Must be those dumb-ass archaeologists, Briggs thought. Only a crazy person would 
go into that back country. Another approaching engine added to the din, and he 
turned to see a semi backing a large, sleek-looking motorboat toward the water. 
Twin-diesel housings jutted from its stern like machine gun turrets. 
Why the helicopters? Briggs complained into the phone. Theres such a maze of 
canyons back there youd never find anything. Besides, you couldnt land 
anywhere even if you did find something. 
I understand theyre just ferrying equipment to the far end of the lake. I told 
you, this is big. 
The boat had been set in the water with remarkable speed, and with a roar the 
semi pulled away, leaving the ramp awash. The boat rumbled to life, turned, and 
nudged the dock, waiting just long enough for two men to board: one, a young man 
wearing a Jos Cuervo T-shirt, the other a thin, gray-haired man in khakis. A 
monstrous-looking brown dog leaped in behind them. Immediately, the boat took 
off, roaring through the no-wake zone at full speed, leaving a hundred jetskis 
bobbing madly in its wake. The huge helicopters dug their noses in the air and 
turned to follow. 
Briggs watched with disbelief as the horse trailer came sliding down the ramp 
toward the waiting pontoon boat. 
This cant be happening, he murmured. 
Oh, its happening, came the laconic reply. Im sure theyll be calling you, 
too. Gotta go. 
Briggs punched at the phone furiously, but even as he did so it began to ring: a 
shrill, insistent chirp over the grinding of gears and the calls of the 
onlookers. 
 

52
 
BLACK SANK DOWN BESIDE THE DEAD FIRE, exhausted and soaked through. The belated 
rain beat its regular cadence upon his shoulders; not as furiously as it had an 
hour before, but steadily, with large, fat drops. He paid it no heed. 
Although the initial surge of the flood had abated, the water continued to roar 
down the center of the valley, its brown moiling surface like the muscled back 
of some monstrous beast. Distantly, he watched its wide course, around and over 
stranded trees, arrowing for the mouth of the smaller slot canyon at the far end 
of the valley. There, in the confined space, the violence of the water returned, 
and huge spumes of froth and spray leaped up toward the cloud-heavy sky. 
For almost two hours they had hovered at the waters edge. Sloane had made a 
valiant rescue effort: roving the banks, spanning the flood with rescue ropes, 
scanning the water ceaselessly for survivors. Black had never seen such a heroic 
attempt. Or such a believable piece of acting, for that matter. He passed a hand 
over his eyes as he sat hunched forward. Perhaps it wasnt an act; right now, he 
was too tired to care. 
Eventually, all except Sloane had gravitated away from the waters edge to the 
camp. The remaining drysacks, scattered by the wind, had been organized; the 
tents repitched and restaked; the riot of twigs and branches cleared away. 
Nobody had spoken, but all had lent a hand. It was as if they had to do 
something, anything, constructive; anything was easier to endure than standing 
uselessly, staring at the rushing water. 
Black sat back, took a deep breath, and looked around. Beside him, in neat rows, 
lay the gear that had been intended for the trip home: still packed and ready to 
be hauled out, a silent mockery of the portage out the slot canyon that had 
never happened. Nothing else remained to be done. 
Bonarotti, taking his cue from Black, came over and silently began to unpack his 
kitchen gear. This, more than anything else, seemed to be a mute statement that 
hope had been lost. Pulling out a small ring burner and a propane shield, he put 
on a pot of espresso, protecting it from the rain with his body. Soon Swire came 
over, looking shocked and subdued. Sloane followed after a few minutes, walking 
silently up from the rushing waters. Bonarotti pressed a cup of coffee into each 
of their hands, and Black drank his gratefully, gulping it down, feeling the 
warmth of the coffee trickle into his aching limbs. 
Sloane accepted her cup from Bonarotti, turning her amber eyes toward him. Then 
she looked at Swire, and thenmore significantlyat Black, before returning her 
gaze to the cook. At last, she broke the silence. 
I think we have to accept the fact that nobody survived the flood. Her voice 
was low and a little unsteady. There just wasnt time for them to make it 
through the slot canyon. 
She paused. Black listened to the rush of the water, the patter of rain. 
So what do we do now? Bonarotti asked. 
Sloane sighed. Our communications gear is destroyed, so we cant radio for 
assistance. Even if a rescue mission is mounted, it would take them at least a 
week to reach the outer valley, maybe more. And our only way out has been 
blocked by water. Well have to wait until it goes down. If the rains continue, 
that could mean a long time. 
Black glanced around at the others. Bonarotti was looking at Sloane, hands 
protectively cradling his mug of coffee. Swire was staring blankly, still dazed 
by what had happened. 
Weve done everything we can, Sloane went on. Fortunately, most of our gear 
survived the flood. Thats the good news. 
Her voice dropped. The bad newsthe terrible newsis that weve lost four 
teammates, including our expedition leader. And about that, theres nothing we 
can do. Its a tragedy I think none of us yet can fully comprehend. 
She paused. Our first duty is to mourn their loss. We will have time, in the 
days and weeks ahead, to remember them in our thoughts. But lets take a minute 
now to remember them in our prayers. 
She lowered her head. A silence fell, broken only by the sound of water. Black 
swallowed. Despite the dampness around him, his throat was painfully dry. 
After a few minutes, Sloane looked up again. Our second duty is to remember who 
we are, and why we came here. We came here to discover a lost city, to survey it 
and document it. Luigi, a few minutes ago, you asked what we should do now. 
Theres only one answer to that. As long as were trapped in here, we must carry 
on. 
She paused to take a sip of coffee. We cannot allow ourselves to become 
demoralized, to sit around doing nothing, waiting for a rescue that may or may 
not come. We need to keep ourselves occupied in productive work. She spoke 
slowly and deliberately, taking time to look around at the small group with each 
new sentence. And the most productive work of all is still to come: documenting 
the Sun Kiva. 
At this, the faraway look left Swires face. He glanced at Sloane in surprise. 
What happened today was a tragedy, Sloane continued, more quickly now. But 
its within our power to keep it from becoming something even worse: a tragic 
waste. The Sun Kiva is the most miraculous find of a miraculous expedition. Its 
the most certain way to ensure that Nora, Peter, Enrique, and Bill are 
remembered not for their deaths but for their discoveries. She paused. Its 
what Nora would have wanted done. 
Is that right? Swire spoke up suddenly. The surprise and confusion had left 
his face, replaced with something uglier. What Nora would have wanted, you say? 
Tell me, was this before or after she fired you from the expedition? 
Sloane turned to him. Do you have an objection, Roscoe? she asked. Her tone 
was mild, but her eyes glittered. 
I have a question, Swire replied. A question about that weather report of 
yours. 
Black felt his gut seize up in sudden fear. But Sloane simply returned the 
cowboys gaze with a cool one of her own. What about it? she asked. 
That flash flood came down twenty minutes after you reported clear weather. 
Sloane waited, staring at Swire, deliberately letting the uncomfortable tension 
build. You of all people know how localized, how unpredictable, the weather is 
out here, she said at last, more coldly now. 
Black could see the faltering certainty in Swires face. 
Theres no way of knowing just where the water came from, Sloane continued. 
The storm could have come from anywhere. 
Swire seemed to digest this for a moment. Then he said, in a lower tone: You 
can see a whole lot of anywhere from the top of that canyon. 
Sloane leaned toward him. Are you calling me a liar, Roscoe? 
There was something so subtly menacing in her silky tone that Black saw Swire 
draw back. I aint calling you nothing. But last I heard, Nora said we wasnt 
to open up that kiva. 
Last I heard, you were the horse wrangler, Sloane said icily. This is a 
decision that does not concern you. 
Swire looked at her, his jaw working. Then he stood up abruptly, drawing away 
from the group. 
You say Nora will be remembered if we open this kiva, he spat out. But that 
aint true. Its you thatll be remembered. And you damn well know it. 
And with that, he walked out of camp and disappeared among the cottonwoods. 
 

53
 
BLACK PULLED HIMSELF UP THE LAST RUNG of the rope ladder with a grunt and 
stepped onto the rocky floor of Quivira, slinging the small bag of equipment 
beside him. Sloane had gone ahead, and was waiting at the citys retaining wall, 
but on impulse Black turned around once again to survey the valley. It was hard 
to believe that, barely four hours before, he had stood at this same spot and 
witnessed the flash flood. Now, afternoon light, fresh and innocent, glowed off 
the walls of the canyon. The air was cool, and perfumed with moisture from the 
rain. Birds were chirping. The camp had been cleaned up and supplies moved to 
high ground. The only signs of the catastrophe were the torrent of rushing water 
that divided the small valley like a brown scar, and the appalling wreckage of 
trees and earthen bank that lay along and within it. 
He turned away and approached Sloane, who had arrayed her gear along the 
retaining wall and was giving it a final inspection. He noticed that she had 
snugged the camps spare pistol into her belt. 
Whats that for? he asked, pointing at the weapon. 
Remember what happened to Holroyd? Sloane replied, eyes on the gear. Or the 
gutted horses? I dont want any nasty surprises while were documenting that 
kiva. 
Black paused a moment, thinking. What about Swire? he asked. 
What about him? 
Black looked at her. He didnt seem too enthusiastic about all this. 
Sloane shrugged. Hes a hired hand. He has nothing to say that anybody would 
want to hear. Once our find becomes known, itll be front-page news across the 
country for a week, and in the Southwest for a month. She took his hand, gave 
it a squeeze, smiled. Hell fall into line. 
Bonarotti came into view at the top of the ladder, the oversized .44 hanging 
from his side, digging tools slung over his shoulder. Sloane withdrew her hand 
and turned to retrieve her gear. 
Lets go, she said. 
With Bonarotti beside him, Black followed Sloane across the central plaza toward 
the rear of the dead city. He could feel his heart beating fast in his chest. 
Do you really think theres gold in that kiva? Bonarotti asked. 
Black turned to see the cook looking over at him. For the first time that he 
could recall, Black saw animation, even strong emotion, in the mans face. 
Yes, I do, he replied. I cant think of any other conclusion. All the 
evidence points to it. 
What will we do with it? 
The gold? Black asked. The Institute will decide, of course. 
Bonarotti fell silent, and for a moment, Black scrutinized the mans face. It 
occurred to him that he really had no idea what motivated a man like Bonarotti. 
It also occurred to him that, in all his constant dreaming about the kiva, he 
had never once thought about what might happen to the gold after the kiva was 
opened. Perhaps it would be put on display at the Institute. Perhaps it would 
tour the museum circuit, as King Tuts treasure had. In point of fact, it didnt 
really matter; it was the find itselfthe initial moment of discoverythat would 
make him a household name. 
They made their way through the Crawlspace to the narrow passageway, then ducked 
into the inner sanctum. Sloane set up two portable lamps beside the kiva, aiming 
them at the rock-filled entrance. Then she stood back to prepare the camera 
while Black and Bonarotti laid out the tools. As if from a distance, Black 
noticed that his movements were slow, careful, almost reverent. 
And then, in unison, the two men turned toward Sloane. She fixed the oversized 
camera to a tripod, then returned their glances. 
I dont need to emphasize the importance of what were about to do, she said. 
This kiva is the archaeological find of several lifetimes, and were going to 
treat it as such. Well proceed by the book, documenting every step. Luigi, you 
dig the sand and dust away from the doorway. Do it very carefully. Aaron, you 
can remove the rubble and stabilize the doorway. But first, let me take a couple 
of exposures. 
She ducked behind the camera, and the dark cavern was illuminated by a quick 
series of flashes. Then she stepped away and nodded. 
As Bonarotti picked up a shovel, Black turned his attention to the rock pile 
that covered the kivas entrance. The rocks had been jammed into place without 
mortar, and were clearly without archaeological significance; he could remove 
them by hand, without having to resort to time-consuming excavation techniques. 
But they were heavy, and the muscles of his arms soon began to grow tired. 
Although the rock pile itself was curiously free of the dust that had settled so 
thickly over the rest of the kivas surface, Black still found breathing 
difficult: Bonarottis shoveling quickly raised a choking cloud around the 
kivas entrance. 
Sloane maintained a supervisory position well back from the kiva, taking an 
occasional photograph, jotting notes in a journal, recording measurements. Every 
now and then she would caution Bonarotti against growing too eager. Once she 
even barked at Black when a stray rock fell against the kiva wall. Almost 
imperceptibly, she had taken over the role of leader. As he worked, Black 
realized that perhaps he should be annoyed by this; he had more experience and 
seniority by far. But he was now too caught up in the excitement to care. He had 
been the one to first speculate on the kivas existence. He had been the one to 
find it. And his many future publications on the gold of the Anasazi would make 
that abundantly clear. Besides, he and Sloane were a team now, and
His thoughts were cut short by a racking cough. He stepped back from the doorway 
for a moment, wiping his face with his sleeve. The dust had risen to a miasmic 
thickness, and in the center of it all was Bonarotti, toiling with his shovel. 
Slanted columns of dust hung in the beams of artificial light. It was a scene 
worthy of Breughel. Black looked over at Sloane, perched some distance away on a 
rock, scribbling her observations. She looked up at him and flashed a brief, wry 
smile. 
Taking a few more deep breaths, he waded back in. The upper tier of rocks had 
been removed, and he began to work on the course below them. 
Suddenly he stopped. Behind the rocks, he could now make out a patch of reddish 
brown. 
Sloane! he called. Take a look. 
In a moment, she was beside him. She waved away the dust and took several 
closeups with a handheld camera. 
Theres a mud seal behind these rocks, she said. Eagerness elevated her 
contralto voice to an artificially high pitch. Clear the rocks away, please. Be 
careful not to damage the seal in the process. 
Now that Black had cleared the top of the doorway, the going was easier. Within 
minutes, the seal was fully exposed: a large square of clay stamped against what 
seemed to be a layer of plaster. A reversed spiral had been molded into the 
seal. 
Once again, Sloane came forward to investigate. 
This is odd, she said. This seal looks fresh. Take a look. 
Black examined the seal more carefully. It was definitely freshtoo fresh, he 
thought, to be seven hundred years old. The mortared door, filled with rocks, 
had worried him from the start: the door just looked too invasive to be part of 
the original sealed structure. And it was odd that the omnipresent dust had not 
settled on the rocks massed in front of the door. For a moment, calamitous 
despair threatened to settle on his shoulders. 
Its impossible that anyone was here before us, Sloane murmured. 
Then she looked at Black. This sealed doorway has been extremely well 
protected. There are several feet of stones sheltering it from the elements. 
Right? 
Right. Black felt the despair vanish instantly, the excitement returning. 
That could explain why the seals look so fresh. 
Sloane took some more photographs, then stepped back. Lets keep going. 
His breath coming in short, excited gasps, Black redoubled his efforts at 
clearing the wall of rocks. 
 

54
 
FAR ABOVE THE FLOOD-RAVAGED CANYON OF Quivira, the domes and hollows of the wide 
slickrock plateau were warmed by the late afternoon sun. Gnarled juniper trees 
dotted the strange landscape, and Mormon tea bushes, wild buckwheat, and a 
sprinkling of purple verbena grew in sandy patches. Small, steep gullies 
intersected the landscape, winding through the red sandstone, the deeper 
potholes along their rock beds still shimmering with rainwater. Here and there, 
hoodoo rocks stood above the land, capped with a darker stratum of stone, like 
foul dwarfs crouching among the trees. To the east, another, smaller rainstorm 
was advancing. But here, a thousand feet above the Quiviran plateau, the sky was 
still pleasantly flecked with shredded bits of cloud, turning from white to 
yellow in the aging light. 
In a hidden gully along the plateau, two pelted, masked figures moved in 
stealthy silence. Their progress was halting, furtive, as if they were unused or 
unwilling to move about in daylight. One stopped briefly, crouched, drank from a 
pothole. Then they moved on again, angling toward a patch of deep shade beside a 
fin of rock. Here, they stopped squatting on their haunches. 
Reaching into the folds of his fur pelt, one of the skinwalkers removed a 
buckskin bag. Silver conchas clinked with the movement. The figure produced a 
human calvarium, filled with dry, shriveled pellets, like gray buttons. The 
second skinwalker produced another skull bowl and a long, shriveled root in 
roughly the shape of a twisted human being, laying it on the sand beside the 
first skull. Both began to chant in low, quavering tones. An obsidian knife 
flashed as the tips were cut off the dry root. 
They worked swiftly and silently. A hand, decorated with white clay strips, 
caressed the wrinkled pellets. Then the skinwalker cupped one, two, and finally 
three of the pellets in his palm, pushing them through the mouthhole of his mask 
in rapid succession. There was a loud swallowing sound. The second figure 
repeated the action. The chanting grew faster. 
A tiny twig fire was built, and wisps of smoke curled around the sheltering 
rock. The root was cut lengthwise into thin strips, smoked briefly in the fire, 
and set aside. Feathers were placed in the fire, slowly curling, crackling, and 
melting. Next, several live iridescent beetles were placed atop the embers, to 
jitter, die, and parch. They were removed, placed in the second skull bowl, 
crushed into flakes, and mixed with water from a leather bag. 
The bowl was raised toward the north, the chanting even faster now, and the 
figures drank in turn. The strips of root were placed back on the fire, where 
they curled and turned black, sending up an ugly stream of yellow smoke. The 
figures bowed their heads over the fire, breathing heavily, rasping in the 
smoke. The chanting had now become a frenzied ditty, a low, fast quavering sound 
like the buzzing of cicadas. 
The new storm advanced from the east, drawing a shadow across the landscape. 
Reaching once again into his matted pelt, the first skinwalker threw handfuls of 
creamy datura flowers into the fire. They quickly shriveled, releasing billows 
of smoke into the darkening air. The figures bent over the smoke, inhaling 
greedily. The air of the plateau was suddenly perfumed with the intensely 
beautiful scent of morning glories. The pelted backs began to quiver, and the 
silver conchas clinked violently. 
A hand rose once again, sprinkling black pollen in the four cardinal directions: 
north, south, east, and finally west. The skull bowl was now empty, all its 
shriveled contents ingested. One of the figures raised its head to the sky, a 
heavy stream of mucus running from beneath the buckskin mask, two palsied hands 
raised. The chanting, angry now, rose in volume and urgency. 
And then, quite suddenly, silence fell. The last wisps of smoke drifted across 
the face of stone. And with terrible swiftness the figures were gone, racing 
like black shadows across the landscape, disappearing down the end of the 
Priests Trail into the gloom of the valley of Quivira. 
 

55
 
ROSCOE SWIRE SAT ATOP A BROKEN BOULDER, turning a worn headstall around in his 
hands, poetry notebook lying forgotten on the rock beside him. He was profoundly 
agitated. Not far away, near the edge of the rushing water, stood a large 
cottonwood, listing and swaying as the pressure of the passing water tore at its 
roots. Long, thin loops of flotsam dangled from several of the lower branches. 
Swire knew those loops for what they were: the gray, ropy guts of a horse. One 
of his horses. And because of their well-developed herd attachment, he knew that 
if one were killed, all must have been killed. 
The valley had grown dark, but the sky above was still painfully bright. The 
place seemed suspended between night and day, caught in that mysterious stasis 
that occurred only in the deepest canyons of Utah. 
Swire glanced toward his notebook, toward the eulogy to Hurricane Deck hed been 
trying, unsuccessfully, to write. He thought of Hurricane Deck: his three-day 
chase, the spirit of that magnificent horse. Arbuckles: dim, friendly, capable. 
He thought of all the horses he had lost on this trip, each one with its own 
personality, and of all the little things that had made up his life with them. 
The quirks, the peculiar habits, the trails they had ridden . . . it was almost 
more than he could bear. 
And then his thoughts turned to Nora. More than once, she had made him very 
angry. But he had been forced to admire her bravery, the occasional recklessness 
of her determination. It was a terrible way to die. She would have heard her own 
death coming, would have known exactly what it meant. 
He glanced around the valley, a vista of deepening purples, greens, and golds 
beneath a bright turquoise sky. It was a beautiful place. And yet it was 
malevolent in its beauty. 
His eyes swivelled up in the direction of the hidden city. To think those three 
were up there now, opening the kiva as if nothing had happened. They would get 
the glory. And Nora would get a memorial plaque, nailed onto some wall at the 
Institute. He spat disgustedly, sighed, and turned to collect his notebook. 
Then he stopped and looked around again at the darkened canyon. Except for the 
rumbling of water and the occasional birdsong, everything was quiet. 
But instinct told him he was being watched. 
Slowly, he reached over for the notebook. Turning a few pages, he sat back with 
an air of indifference, pretending to read the scribbled lines. 
The feeling did not go away. 
Swires sixth sense had been honed over many hard years of wrangling horses in 
wild, sometimes hostile country. He had learned to trust his life with it. 
His right hand dropped to the holster and rested easily there, confirming the 
presence of the gun. Then the hand rose again, this time to thoughtfully stroke 
his mustache. The roar of the water echoed and re-echoed off the canyon walls, 
magnified and distorted. The edge of another storm cloud was moving into the 
sky, staining the turquoise an ugly shade of gray. 
He casually slipped the notebook into his pocket. Then, just as casually, he 
slipped the trigger thong out of its catch. 
He waited. Nothing. 
He rose to his feet, using an extended stretch as an excuse to take another look 
around. Again, nothing. Yet his instincts were rarely wrong. Perhaps it was his 
imagination. To say hed had a tough afternoon would be putting it mildly. 
Still, he felt a presence. More than that: he felt stalked. 
Swire wondered what could be after him. There had been no wolves or mountain 
lions in the valley before, and none sure as hell had come in today. Perhaps it 
was human. But who? Nora and the others who had entered the slot canyon were 
dead. And the rest of them were busy with the kiva. Besides, none of them would 
want to
With a flash, he realized who it must be. He was confused, in shock from the 
days events, or he would have realized it before. They were the ones who had 
killed his horses. The bastards who had gutted his animals. 
And now they were coming for him. 
A surge of anger pushed away his rising apprehension. He couldnt roll back 
time; he couldnt save his horses, or prevent Nora from entering the canyon. But 
he could sure as hell do something about this. 
The rock was not a good place to be. Lightly, he hopped off and strolled out 
into the open, glancing around, looking for a place from which to defend 
himself. On the surface the valley looked unchanged; but here, in the open, he 
could feel the presence more strongly. 
His eyes moved toward a small grove of gambel oaks near the far end of the 
valley. Twelve hours before, the trees had been fifty feet from the water. Now, 
they were at its edge. 
He nodded slowly to himself. From there, the water would be advantageously at 
his back. And the oaks would hide him from view. They wouldnt know where he was 
among the trees. But he would have a view out across the benchland. It would 
give him time for several clear shots. 
He began strolling down toward the river, his shoulder blades crawling with the 
sense of hidden eyes. When he was halfway to the grove, he stopped, spat out his 
tobacco, and hiked up his pants, in the process loosening the gun in its 
holster. It was only a .22 magnum long barrel, but it had the advantage of high 
accuracy in repeated shots. A good gun for the kind of work he had in mind. 
He paused in the gathering gloom. This would be his last chance for a good look 
at the valley before entering the trees, and he wanted to sense which direction 
his stalkers might come from. By daylight, there were few hiding places in the 
valley. But as night neared, the number grew: stands of cottonwoods and chamisa, 
areas in dark shadow. And yet, he saw no unusual movement, nothing out of place. 

Once again, he questioned his instincts. They were still screaming: Run, hide! A 
few raindrops began to fall, splattering heavily in the sand. His heart beat 
faster as his apprehension grew. He was not a man to walk away from a fight. But 
it was hard, not knowing who you were fighting, or from where they would come, 
or if in the end they were just your imagination, after all. He tried to remind 
himself that these were the bastards that had killed his horses. But as his 
thoughts returned to the horses, he saw them again in his minds eye: ritually 
sliced, feathers protruding from the glazed dead eyes, the grayish-blue guts 
wound in spirals. What kind of monsters could do that . . . 
He started forward again, quickening his pace toward the copse. Once he almost 
turned around, heart beating fast, but he checked himself in time: he must not 
show that he knew they were there. 
A few more steps brought him into the stand of the oaks. Moving quickly to the 
far side, he crouched, then swivelled around, putting his back to the water. It 
was dark beneath the hanging limbs, and water dripped onto his head and back. 
The sound of the flood seemed magnified in the close space: it bore down on him 
confusingly, coming in from all sides. He shook his head to clear it, taking a 
step backward as he did so. He was at the very edge of the flood now, and the 
water gurgled through the tree trunks, curling and tugging around his boots. He 
moved back yet again, slowly, his boots making a light plashing noise. 
With a dull, hollow thud of fear, he realized it had been a mistake to retreat 
to this grove. Darkness was descending so swiftly on the canyon that he could 
make out little beyond the dense thicket of trees. He waited, shivering 
slightly, feeling the coldness of the water creep into his boots. His eyes 
widened as he tried to separate the shapes of the trees from each other, to 
distinguish them in the damp, dark gloom. 
Now he slipped his gun out of the holster, waiting. He took another step back 
into the swirling water. It surged a little higher, and a distant, detached part 
of him noted that the flood was coming up again. His anger was no longer a 
comfort; now all he felt was cold, naked fear. It was too dark to see anything. 
If only he could hear, he might be able to act: but the sound of the water was 
like a heavy cloak, depriving him of his most valuable sense. All he had left, 
in fact, was smell. And even that wasnt working properly: by some trick of his 
overcharged brain, he felt surrounded by the beautiful, delicate scent of 
morning glories. 
Just then, to his left, he saw a terrible movement of shadow: a violent 
wrenching of black upon black. Too late, he realized the things had been in the 
grove all the time, watching and waiting, while he came to them. He raised the 
gun with a cry, but the shot went wild and the weapon tumbled into the flood. As 
the muzzle flare died away, Swire sawor thought he sawthe blade of a knife, 
impossibly black and cold, slicing down through the night. 
 

56
 
IN THE DEPTHS OF THE HIDDEN CAVERN, BLACK carefully edged a penknife beneath the 
uppermost clay seal, his arms shaking with exhaustion and excitement. He turned 
one hand, trying to apply an even pressure to the seal, but his aching fingers 
twitched and the seal popped free, along with a piece of the plastered door. 
Easy, Sloane said from her position behind the large camera, some distance 
away. 
Black craned his neck toward the small hole, but it was too small and uneven to 
make out anything within. From the valley outside the city, there was a faint, 
muffled crump of distant thunder. 
Black coughed into his hand, then again, more violently, finding flecks of mud 
in the phlegm. He shook it away in disgust and returned to the stone facade. 
Bonarotti, who had now dug away the piles of sloping dust around the kiva door, 
joined him in the work. 
In another half hour, a second seal came into view. Enough courses of stone had 
now been removed to expose over three feet of plastered door. Sloane came 
forward to take a series of photographs. Then she stepped back out of the pall 
of hanging dust, scribbling in her notebook. Black slid his knife beneath the 
second seal, pried it carefully away from the underlying plaster, and set it 
aside. All that now stood between him and the crowning validation of his theory 
was a thin, featureless wall of plaster and mortar. He reached down for a pick, 
hefted it in his bruised hands, then swung it toward the wall. 
A piece of plaster fell away. Black swung the pick again, then again, enlarging 
the hole considerably: a dark, ragged rectangle in the glare of the lights. 
Excitedly, he dropped the pick. 
Instantly, Sloane returned to his side. Taking a flashlight from her pocket, she 
thrust it deep into the hole, pressing her face against the plaster. Black saw 
her body tense. She remained still for a minute, perhaps more. Then she 
withdrew, silently, her face alive with excitement. Black grabbed the light from 
her unresisting hand and crowded forward. 
The feeble yellow gleam of the small flashlight could barely penetrate the murk 
within. But as he played it about, Black felt his own heart swell. Everywhere 
the glint of gold. . . . The yellow glimmer filled the kiva, winking and 
flashing everywhere, on the floor, on the stone banco that ran around the 
perimeter: the rich mellow shine of a thousand curvilinear golden surfaces. 
Violently, Black withdrew his hand. Break it down! he cried. Its stuffed 
with gold! 
By the book, Aaron, Sloane said sharply, but the exhilaration in her voice 
belied caution. 
He seized the pick and resumed working along the top of the doorway. Grabbing a 
second pick, Bonarotti stood beside him, driving it furiously into the adobe in 
time with Blacks own blows. Soon, the hole grew to more than two feet square. 
Black stopped to jam his entire head into the opening, wedging his shoulders 
hard, trying to force his body through, swinging Sloanes flashlight back and 
forth. But their picks had roused so much dust within the kiva that all he could 
see were faint golden glimmers. 
The flashlight beam failed and he pulled himself back out, throwing it down in 
disgust. More! he gasped. 
Outside the city, another muffled crump of thunder punctuated the obbligato 
whisper of rain. But Black heard nothing except the sound of his pick on 
plaster, and the ragged hiss of his breath in the close air. Reality faded into 
a dream. A strange sensation filled his head, and he realized he could no longer 
feel his arms as they wielded the pick. 
The dreamlike sense grew stronger, almost frighteningly strong, and he staggered 
back from the kiva, trying to clear his head. As he did so, he felt an 
overwhelming tiredness. He glanced first at Bonarotti, who was still swinging 
his pick in a regular, metronomic cadence; then at Sloane, waiting behind, her 
body still tensed with expectation. 
There was a sudden crumpling of plaster, and Black swivelled his head toward the 
kiva. A large chunk of adobe had come free, breaking into earth-colored chunks 
on the rocks below. And now Black saw that the hole was definitely large enough 
to admit a person. 
He picked up one of Sloanes lanterns and moved forward. Get out of my way, he 
said, peremptorily shoving Bonarotti aside. 
The cook staggered back, dropped the pick, then turned to face Black, his eyes 
narrowing. But Black ignored him, desperately trying to angle the lantern beam 
into the dusty hole. 
Step aside, came Sloanes voice from behind him. I said, step aside, both of 
you. 
Bonarotti hesitated a moment. Then he took a pace back. Black followed, 
surprised by the sudden cold edge to Sloanes voice. 
Sloane came forward, taking another series of shots. Then she looped the camera 
around her neck, turned to Black, and took the lantern from his hands. 
Help me in, she said. 
Black placed his hands on her hips, pushing upward as she scrambled over the 
rocks and into the hole. He could see her light striping wildly across the 
kivas ceiling. Then, suddenly, it receded to a mellow glow. He followed 
quickly, scrabbling up the rocks, wriggling through the rough hole and sliding 
down the inner side, face-first, sprawling in an ungainly muddle, spitting out 
mouthfuls of dust. A distant part of him thought that this was not exactly how 
Howard Carter would have gone about it. 
Sloane had dropped the lantern, and it lay on its side in the dust. Trembling 
with excitement, Black rose to his feet, grabbed the curved metal of the 
lanterns handle, and hoisted it upward. His arm ached with the motion, and 
electric pains went through his lungs each time he drew in breath. But he barely 
noticed: this was the moment of ultimate discovery; the defining moment of his 
entire life. 
Bonarotti had climbed in beside him, but Black paid him no mind. Everywhere, 
from all sides, the gleam of gold sprang out of the murk. Almost snorting with 
excitement, he bent forward and seized the closest objecta dish, filled with 
some kind of powder. 
Instantly, he knew something was wrong. The dish in his hand was light, the 
material warm to the touch: not like gold, at all. Tossing the powder from the 
bowl, he brought it closer to his face. 
Then he straightened up, flinging the object away with a sob. 
What the hell are you doing? Sloane cried. 
But Black did not hear her. He looked around the Sun Kiva with a sudden, wild 
desperation: grabbing things, dropping them again. It was all wrong. He 
staggered, fell, then rose with an effort. The bottomless disappointment, after 
such feverish hopes, was more than he could comprehend. Mechanically, he glanced 
at his companions. Bonarotti stood motionless beneath the ragged hole, a 
thunderstruck look on his dust-caked face. 
Then Black slowly turned his eyes toward Sloane. In his pain and unutterable 
dismay, he could not quite comprehend that her face, instead of despair, 
reflected shining, complete vindication. 
 

57
 
IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO KNOW HOW MUCH TIME had passed beforeat long, long 
lastNora felt a cool gush of air stir the damp hair on her forehead. Slowly, 
the memory of where she was and what had happened returned. Her head throbbed 
mercilessly as she gulped at the fresh air. 
There was a dead weight pushing against her back. She struggled, and the weight 
moved slightly, allowing a dim light to filter into the cavity. The roar in the 
canyon had now abated to a deep-throated, thunderous vibration that rattled her 
gut. Or perhaps it was just her water-clogged ears that were muffling the sound. 

Uncramping her legs and turning painfully around inside the cavity, she saw that 
the dead weight against her back was Smithback. Now he was lying on his side, 
motionless. His shirt lay across his chest in torn ribbons. The light was very 
dim inside the cavity, but as she peered more closely she noticed, with horror, 
that his back was as lacerated as if it had been brutally lashed. The leading 
surge of the flood had passed over them while they were jammed in the rock 
shelter; Smithback had shielded herand taken the brunt of the waters 
forcewith his own back. 
Nora gently laid her head on his chest, placing a trembling hand on his face as 
she listened. The heartbeat was faint, but at least it was there. Hardly knowing 
what she was doing, she kissed his hands, his face. His eyelids struggled open, 
the eyes beneath glassy and dull. After a moment, the eyes focused. His mouth 
moved soundlessly, his face screwing up into a rictus of pain. 
Over his shoulder, beyond the lip of their little crawlspace, she could see the 
flood about five feet below them, now a smooth sheet of water, surging, falling, 
and surging again. It had fallen since the first intense rush. And yet Nora was 
surprised to see that the water seemed to be rising again, not falling. Rivulets 
were trickling down the sides of the canyon and dripping outside the mouth of 
the cavity, and she realized that it must be raining hard again in the upper 
watershed. It was not just their little space that was dark: it was growing dark 
outside, as well. She must have been unconscious for hours. 
Can you sit up? she asked. At the effort to speak, a pain stabbed through her 
temples. 
Smithback struggled, wincing and breathing hard. The movement brought small 
streams of fresh blood trickling down across his stomach and onto his thighs. As 
Nora helped him into a sitting position, she got a better look at the damage 
that had been done to his back. 
You saved my life, said Nora, squeezing his hand. 
Its not saved yet, he gasped, shivering. 
Carefully, she peered out from their shelter, scanning the rock face above for 
some hint of handholds. It was polished smooth; there was no way to climb 
farther up. She looked back down, thinking. They had to get out of the 
crawlspace, that was certain. They could not spend a night in there. If the 
temperature continued to drop, Smithback might become hypothermic. And if the 
water rose fartheror if another flood surge came throughthey could not hope to 
survive. But there was no way out. 
No way, except to launch themselves into the current and hope for the best. 
The current just beneath their shelter was fast but smooth, a laminar flow that 
moved straight down the polished walls of the narrow canyon. She watched pieces 
of debris flashing by, all trending toward the center. If they could make it out 
into the middle of the current, they might be able to ride it through the slot 
and into the valley without being battered against the canyon walls along the 
way. 
Smithback watched her, the lines around his mouth tightening as he followed her 
train of thought. 
She returned the look. Can you swim? she asked. 
Smithback shrugged. 
Im going to bind us together, she said. 
No, he protested. Ill only drag you down. 
You saved my life. Now youre stuck with me. Carefully, she peeled off the 
tattered remnant of his shirt, ripped off the sleeves, and twisted them into a 
short tether. Leaving as much slack as possible, she tied one end to her left 
wrist, and the other end to Smithbacks right. 
This is a crazy Smithback began. 
Save your breath for the ride. Now look, were only going to get one chance at 
this. Its getting dark, we cant wait any longer. The most important thing is 
to stick as much to the middle as possible. That wont be easy, because the 
canyon is so narrow. So when you find yourself getting too close to one of the 
walls, lightly kick away from it. The most dangerous moment will be when the 
flood drops us into the valley. Once were there, wed better head for the shore 
damn quick. If we get swept through into the far canyon, were done for. 
Smithback nodded. 
Ready? 
Smithback nodded again, eyes narrow, lips white. 
They waited for a surge to subside. Then Nora looked at Smithback, their eyes 
locking as she took tight hold of his hand. There was a moments hesitation. And 
then, together, they slid out into the flood. 
Noras first impression was of the water itself: mind-numbingly cold. The second 
was of the current: it was shockingly strong, infinitely stronger than it had 
appeared from the rock cavity. As they tore along, she realized there was no 
chance of controlling their descent: all she could do was struggle to keep from 
colliding with the murderous walls, blurring past sometimes a foot, sometimes 
mere inches away. The surface of the water boiled and churned, full of tiny 
particles of wood and plant material dancing hysterically around them. Deeper, a 
chaos of gravel and sand churning in the turbulence battered her legs. Smithback 
struggled beside her, crying out once when the gnarled root of a tree collided 
with his shoulder. 
A harrowing minute passed. And then Nora saw light ahead; a vertical notch of 
gray amid the rushing darkness. The canyon wall came dangerously close, and she 
pushed it away with a desperate kick. Suddenly they were soaring out of the 
canyon, riding a huge hump of water that sailed over the scree slope and 
collapsed into a boiling pool. There was an angry roar and Nora felt herself 
tumbled under the waves. Jerking on the improvised cord, she frantically 
propelled them upward, breaking the surface. Looking around and spitting water, 
she was horrified to see they had already traveled halfway through the valley. 
Only a few seconds ride ahead of them lay the narrow crevice at the far end of 
the valley, the flood boiling and sucking into it with a furious confusion of 
sound. Then they were briefly caught in a swirl that propelled them into the 
slacker water near shore. 
As she thrashed, Nora felt a blow to her midriff, followed by a painful 
scraping. She reached down into the water, grasping for a hold, while they swung 
about in the current. She realized it was the top of a stiff juniper bush. She 
clawed her way across its top, groping downward for a thicker branch, feeling 
the current tugging at them, trying to tear them away. 
Were hung up on a treetop, she said. Smithback nodded his understanding. 
Steadying herself, Nora glanced toward shore. It was only fifty feet away, but 
it might as well have been fifty miles for all the ability they had to swim 
across the current. 
She looked downstream. There was another treetop, this one sticking out of the 
flood, lashed and shivered by the water. If they let go, they could grab that 
one. As long as the roots didnt give way under the tug of the water, there was 
a third tree, a little farther downstreamand from that they could reach the 
slacker water near shore. 
Ready? she asked. 
Stop asking me that. I hate the water. 
She launched into the current, grasped the next tree, then the next, dragging 
Smithback along, his head barely above water. Suddenly her feet touched bottom, 
wonderfully solid after the flood. Slowly, she pulled herself up on the muddy 
bank toward the copse of cottonwoods, Smithback staggering behind her. They sat 
down heavily amid a whirlwind of splintered branches, Smithback collapsing in 
pain. Nora undid the twisted rag that bound them, then rolled onto her back, 
sides heaving, coughing up water. 
There was a ragged flash of lightning, followed by the sharp crackle of thunder. 
She looked up to see that a second, smaller storm had covered the canyon with a 
counterpane of darkness. Her thoughts turned to the weather report. Clear skies, 
it had said. How could the report have been so wrong? 
The rain grew heavier. Nora turned her face away from it, looking up the ruined 
bank toward camp. There was something strange about the camp that she couldnt 
quite put her finger on. Then she understood: it had been carefully set up 
again, the struck tents repitched, the equipment carefully tarped against the 
rain. 
Makes sense, I suppose, she thought. No one was going anywhere for a long time; 
at least, not out the slot canyon. 
And yet the camp was deserted. 
Had the rest of the expedition sought sanctuary in Quivira itself? But if so, 
why would they still be there, now that the worst of the flood had passed? 
She sat up and looked at Smithback, who was lying on his stomach, water and 
blood trickling together into the sand. He was hurt. But at least he was alive. 
Not like Aragon. She had better get him to the warmth and safety of a tent. 
Can you walk? she asked. 
He swallowed hard and nodded. She helped him to his feet; he staggered a little, 
took a few steps, then staggered against her again. 
Just a little farther, she murmured. 
She half dragged, half carried him to the high ground of the deserted camp. 
Hauling him into the medical tent, she rummaged through the supplies, picking 
out a painkiller, antibiotic ointment, and gauze bandages. Then she paused to 
poke her head out of the tent and look around. Once again, she was struck by how 
deserted the place was. Had they all been swept away? No, of course not: someone 
had to have repitched the tents. And Sloane and Swire, certainly, would have 
known right away what was up. They would have made sure everyone got to high 
ground in time. 
She opened her mouth, preparing to call out. But then she shut it again. Some 
vague instinct she did not understand told her to remain silent. 
She withdrew into the tent and looked at Smithback. How are you doing? she 
asked quietly. 
Bloody great, he said, wincing. So to speak. 
Looking down at the wet hair plastered over his forehead, Nora felt a sudden 
welling of affection. Can you stand moving again? she asked. 
He looked at her. Why? 
She shook her head. Because I think we should get out of here. 
She saw the question in his brown eyes. 
Theres something strange going on, she continued. And, whatever it is, Id 
rather learn more about it from a distance. She handed him a couple of 
painkillers, passed him a canteen, then began dressing the horrible lacerations 
on his back. He stiffened, but did not complain. 
How come youre not protesting? she asked. 
Dont know, came the slurred response. Guess Im numb from the water. 
He was shivering now, his forehead clammy. Hes going into shock, she thought. 
The rain outside was increasing steadily, and the wind had picked up, buffeting 
the sides of the tent. She realized, with a dull finality, that there was no way 
she could move him, at least not now. 
Keep that sleeping bag bundled close, she said, stroking his cheek. Im going 
to see if I cant get some hot liquid into you. Gently tucking the sleeping bag 
around him, she moved toward the opening of the tent. 
Nora, came the voice from beneath the sleeping bag, slow and dreamlike. 
She turned. Yes? 
Smithback looked at her. Nora, he said again. You know, after all thats 
happened between us . . . well, Id really like to tell you how I feel. 
She stared at him. Then, gliding closer, she took his hand in hers. Yes? 
His lips parted in a feeble grin. I really feel like shit, came the dry 
whisper. 
Nora shook her head, laughing despite herself. Youre incorrigible. 
She bent closer and kissed him. Then she kissed him again, a gentle, lingering 
kiss. 
Please, sir, I want some more, Smithback murmured. 
She smiled at him for a moment. Then, drawing back, she crawled out of the tent, 
securing its front flap. Hunching her shoulders against the rain, she moved 
across the camp, heading for the supply cache. 
 

58
 
SLOANE GODDARD STOOD IN THE MURK OF THE kiva, gazing at the rows of gleaming 
pots. For a long time, she saw nothing else. It was as if the outer world of 
time and space had retreated to a vast distance, leaving nothing but this small 
space behind. As she stared, she forgot everythingHolroyds death, the flash 
flood, Nora and the others, the creeping presence of the horse killers. 
Only a few small sherds of black-on-yellow micaceous pottery had ever been 
found. To see them whole was a revelation. They were transcendentally beautiful, 
by far the most exquisite pottery she had ever seen. Each piece had been 
perfectly shaped and formed, and polished with smooth stones to a sensuous 
luster. The clay they had been made from fired to an intense yellow, but the 
color had been immeasurably enhanced by the addition of crushed mica to the 
clay. The resulting pottery shimmered with an internal light, and as Sloane 
stared at themat the heaps of bowls and jugs, hunchbacked figurines, skulls, 
pots, and effigiesshe felt they were more beautiful than gold. They had a 
warmth, a vitality, the precious metal lacked. Each piece had been decorated 
with geometric and zoomorphic designs of superlative artistry and skill: the 
entire pictographical history of the Anasazi people, laid out before her. 
It was all here, as she had been certain it would be: the mother lode of 
micaceous pottery. It had been her fathers pet project: over the course of 
thirty years, he had mapped each rare sherd, traced hypothetical trade routes, 
searched for the source. Because the number of discovered fragments was so 
small, he had theorized that this pottery was the single most prized possession 
of the Anasazi people, and that it was stored in a central, most likely 
religious, place. Eventually, after mapping the distribution points of all known 
sherds, he had come to believe its location would be somewhere back in the 
labyrinthine canyons. Briefly, he had entertained dreams of finding the source 
himself. But he had grown old and sick. Then, when word of Nora and her fathers 
letter reached him, hope had sprung anew. Instantly, he realized that Quivira, 
if it existed, might be the source of the fabulous pottery. It was speculative, 
of coursemuch too speculative for a man of his position to publish, or even 
broadcast. But it was enough to launch an expedition, with his daughter on the 
team. 
Sloane knew she was supposed to have discussed the matter privately, with Nora, 
if they ever found the city. But, of course, there was no way she would have 
cued Nora into the great discovery that lay ahead. Nora already had more than 
her share of the glory. How many times, on the trail to Quivira, had the thought 
wormed its way bitterly into Sloanes heart: there she was, taking orders from a 
second-tier, untenured academic, when by rights she should be the one in 
command. In the end it would be Nora, and by extension Sloanes father, who 
would get all the credit: just another example of her fathers thoughtlessness, 
his lack of faith in her. 
Well, things would be different now. If Nora hadnt been so selfish, so 
stubbornly dictatorial, it wouldnt have had to end this way. But as fate would 
have it, the discovery would be hers. She was now the leader of the expedition. 
Hers would be the name forever linked with the discovery of the fabulous 
pottery. Everyone elseBlack, Nora, her father especiallywould be subordinate. 
Slowly, she came back to the present. From the corner of her eye, she saw 
Bonarotti, cloaked in silent disappointment, shambling on stiff legs toward the 
hole he had helped cut. In another moment, he had climbed onto the banco and 
vanished out into the cavern. 
Her eyes swivelled away, over the almost unbelievable abundance of pottery, to a 
large hole in the floor she had not noticed before. It seemed, inexplicably, to 
have been freshly dug. But that made no sense: who else but themselves could 
have been inside this kiva in the last seven hundred years? And who would 
single-mindedly dig out a few pounds of dust, while ignoring one of the richest 
troves in all North American history? 
But her jubilation was too intense to ponder this for long. Excitedly, she 
turned toward Black: poor Aaron Black, who had let his own boyish lust for 
golden treasure blind the mature archaeologist within. She had not tried to 
correct him, of course: no need to dampen his enthusiasm, when his support had 
been so important. Besides, once the initial disappointment and embarrassment 
was past, he would surely realize how infinitely more important the real find 
was. 
What she saw of Black, in the murk of the kiva, shocked her. He looks terrible, 
she thought. The mans flesh seemed to have shrunk on his frame. Two red, wet 
eyes stared hollowly out of a face caked in pale dust that was turning to mud on 
his sweating skin. In those eyes, she saw a brief, terrifying vision of Peter 
Holroyd, paralyzed with fear and illness, in the chamber near the royal burial. 
Blacks mouth had gone slack, and as he stepped toward her he seemed to stagger. 
He took another step, reached into a bowl, and took out a necklace of micaceous 
beads, shimmering golden in the torchlight. 
Pottery, he said woodenly. 
Yes, Aaronpottery, Sloane replied. Isnt it fabulous? The black-on-yellow 
micaceous that has eluded archaeologists for a hundred years. 
He looked down at the necklace, blinking, unseeing. Then, slowly, he lifted it, 
placing it around her neck with trembling hands. 
Gold, he croaked. I wanted to give you gold. 
It took Sloane a moment to comprehend. She watched him try to step forward, 
teetering in place. 
Aaron, she said urgently. Dont you see? This is worth more than gold. Much 
more. These pots tell 
She broke off abruptly. Blacks face was screwed up, his hands pressed to his 
temples. Sloane took an involuntary step back. As she watched, his legs began to 
tremble and he sank against the inner kiva wall, sliding down until he was 
resting on the stone banco. 
Aaron, youre sick, she said, a sense of panic displacing her feelings of 
triumph. This cant be happening, she thought. Not now. 
Black did not respond. He tried to steady himself with outstretched arms, 
scattering several pots in the process. 
Sloane stepped forward with sudden resolution, grasping one of his hands. 
Aaron, listen. Im going down to the medical tent. Ill be back as soon as I 
can. 
She climbed quickly up through the ragged hole and out of the kiva. Then, 
shaking the dust from her legs, she half walked, half ran, out of the cave, 
through the Crawlspace and into the silent city. 
 

59
 
KNEELING BESIDE SMITHBACK, NORA stuffed a flashlight retrieved from the drysacks 
into her pocket and helped the journalist swallow a small cup of steaming 
bouillon. Just outside the tent, the portable propane stove ticked and sputtered 
as it cooled. Taking the empty cup from his hands, she helped him back onto the 
sleeping bag, stretched a woolen blanket over him, and made sure he was 
comfortable. She had replaced his soaked shirt and pants with dry ones, and his 
shock seemed to be passing. But with rain still drumming on the tent, moving him 
remained pointless. What he needed most, she felt, was some sleep. She glanced 
at the field wristwatch that had been strapped around the head tentpole. It was 
after nine oclock. And yet, inexplicably, nobody had returned to camp. 
Her mind turned back to the flash flood. The storm that produced it must have 
been enormous, awe-inspiring. It seemed inexplicable that anyone standing atop 
the plateau could have missed it . . . 
She rose quickly. Smithback looked up at her with a weak smile. 
Thanks, he said. 
You get some sleep, she replied. Im going up to the ruin. 
He nodded, but his eyes were already closing. Grasping the flashlight, she 
slipped out of the tent into the darkness. Switching it on, she followed the 
cylinder of light toward the base of the rope ladder. Her bruised body ached, 
and she was as tired as she ever remembered feeling. A part of her half 
anticipated, half dreaded, what she might find in the ruined city. But Smithback 
had been cared for, and leaving the valley was now impossible. As expedition 
leader, she had no choice but to enter Quivira, to learn for herself exactly 
what was going on. 
The raindrops flashed through the yellow beam like fitful streaks of light. As 
she approached the rock face, she saw a dark figure climb down the ladder and 
leap lightly to the sand. The silhouette, the graceful movement, was 
unmistakable. 
Is that you, Roscoe? Sloanes voice called out. 
No, Nora replied. Its me. 
The figure froze. Nora stepped forward and looked into Sloanes face, 
illuminated in the glare of the flashlight. She saw, not relief, but shock and 
confusion. 
You, breathed Sloane.
Nora heard consternation, even anger, in her tone. Just what is going on? she 
asked, trying to keep her voice under control. 
How did you Sloane began. 
I asked you a question. Whats going on? Instinctively, Nora took a step back. 
Then, for the first time, she noticed the necklace that lay around Sloanes 
neck: large beads, obviously prehistoric, glittering yellowmicaceous yellowin 
the glow of the light. 
As Nora stared at the necklace, what had begun as a smoldering fear burst 
suddenly into fierce conviction. 
You did it, didnt you, she whispered. You broke into the kiva. 
I Sloane faltered. 
You deliberately entered that kiva, Nora said. Do you have any idea what the 
Institute will say? What your father will say? 
But Sloane remained silent. She seemed stunned, as if still unable to 
comprehend, or accept, Noras presence. She looks as if shes seen a ghost, Nora 
thought. 
And then, in an instant, she realized that was precisely it. 
You didnt expect to see me alive, did you? she asked. Her voice was steady, 
but she could feel herself trembling from head to foot. 
But still, Sloane stood rooted to the spot. 
The weather report, Nora said. You gave me a false weather report. 
At this, Sloane suddenly shook her head vigorously. No she began. 
Twenty minutes after you came down from the rim, that flash flood hit, Nora 
broke in. The entire Kaiparowits drains through this canyon. There was a 
gigantic thunderhead over the plateau, there had to be. And you saw it. 
The weather report out of Page is a matter of public record. You can check it 
when we get back . . . 
But as she listened, an image came unbidden to Noras mind: Aragon, the flood 
shredding him to pieces as it pulled him along the pitiless walls of the slot 
canyon. 
She shook her head. No, she said. I dont think Ill do that. I think Ill 
check the satellite images instead. And I know what Ill find: a monstrous 
storm, centered directly over the Kaiparowits Plateau. 
At this, Sloanes face went dead white. Beads of rain were collecting on her 
wide cheekbones. Nora, listen. Its possible I never looked in that direction. 
Youve got to believe me. 
Wheres Black? Nora asked suddenly. 
Sloane stopped, surprised by the question. Up in the city, she said. 
What do you think hell say when I confront him? He was up on top of that ridge 
with you. 
Sloanes eyebrows contracted. Hes not well, and 
And Aragon is dead, Nora interrupted, speaking in a barely controlled fury. 
Sloane, you were going to break into that kiva, no matter what the cost. And 
that cost was murder. 
The ugly word hung in the heavy air. 
Youre going to prison, Sloane, Nora said. And youll never work in this 
field again. Im going to make sure of that personally. 
As Nora stared at Sloane, she saw the shock, the confusion, in her eyes start to 
turn to something else. 
You cant do that, Nora, Sloane replied. You cant. Her voice was suddenly 
low, urgent. 
Watch me. 
There was a flash of jagged lightning, followed almost instantly by a great peal 
of thunder. In that instant, Nora glanced downward, shielding her eyes. As she 
did, she saw the dull glint of the gunmetal tucked into Sloanes belt. Looking 
up quickly again, she saw Sloane watching her. The woman seemed to straighten 
up, draw a sudden breath. Her jaw set. In a face full of lingering surprise, 
Nora thought she saw a resolution begin to form. 
No, she murmured. 
Sloane looked back at her, unblinking. 
No, Nora repeated, more loudly, backing up into the darkness. 
Slowly, tentatively, Sloanes hand dropped toward the gun. 
In a sudden, desperate movement, Nora snapped off her light and wheeled away, 
sprinting into the close, concealing darkness. 
The camp lay a hundred yards offno protection there. Sloane stood between her 
and the city. And the flood had cut her off from the other side of the valley. 
In the direction she was headed, that left only one option. 
Her mind worked furiously as she ran. Sloane, she realized, was not the kind of 
person who could bear to lose. If she had refused to even leave Quivira without 
opening the kiva, was it possible she would allow Nora to take her back to 
civilizationin shame and humiliationto face life in ruin? Why did I provoke 
her like that? Nora raged at herself. How could I have been so stupid? She 
herself had demonstrated to Sloane exactly how stark her choice was. Nora, 
effectively, had signed her own death warrant. 
She dashed as quickly as she dared along the rocky base of the cliff, making for 
the landslide at the far end. Fitful tongues of lightning guided her way. 
Scrambling up the talus of broken boulders, she searched for a hiding place, not 
daring to use her flashlight for fear of betraying her position. Halfway up the 
slope she found a suitable hole: narrow, but still large enough to fit a human 
body. She wedged herself as far inside as she could and crouched in the 
darkness, gasping for breath, trying to sort things out, raging with frustration 
and despair. 
She glanced around her hiding place. She had managed to crawl fairly deeply into 
the landslide. Still, it was only a temporary option: it would only be a matter 
of time before Sloane searched her out. And Sloane had the spare gun. 
Her thoughts returned to Smithback, lying asleep in the medical tent, and her 
hands clenched in anger. He was a sitting duck. But no: there was no reason for 
Sloane to enter the tent and find him. Even if she did, there was a chance she 
would not kill him. Nora had to cling to that hopeat least, until she found 
some way to stop Sloane. 
There had to be a way. Bonarotti and Swire were out there, somewhere. Unless 
they were part of the conspiracy, too . . . she shook her head, refusing to let 
herself follow that line of speculation. 
Perhaps she could find a way to sneak back into the camp, steal away with 
Smithback. But that would mean hours of cautious waiting, and one way or another 
Sloane would certainly act before then. Nora knew she couldnt climb up to the 
rim and escapenot with Smithback behind, injured, in the valley. As she 
crouched in the darkness and turned over her options, it dawned on her, with a 
desperate kind of finality, that in fact there were no options at all. 
 

60
 
BEIYOODZIN MADE HIS WAY ACROSS THE slickrock plateau, far above the valley of 
Quivira. The heart of a second, smaller storm was passing overhead now, and it 
was very dark. Beneath his feet, the irregular rock was slick with rainwater, 
and Beiyoodzin walked with great care. His old feet ached, and he missed the 
presence of his horse, tethered back in the valley of Chilbah. The Priests 
Trail was impassable for all but the two-legged. 
The trail markings were irregular and vaguea small, ancient cairn of rocks here 
and thereand the way was difficult to make out in the darkness. Beiyoodzin 
needed all his skill simply to follow it. His eyes were not as strong as they 
had once been. And he was all too aware that the single most difficult stretch 
lay ahead: in the tortuous, dangerous descent along the ridge of the narrow slot 
canyon at the far end of the valley. 
He wrapped the sopping cloak tighter and moved on. Though his grandfather had 
hinted of it, Beiyoodzin had never believed that the Priests Trail could be so 
demanding, or so long. After arrowing up the secret cut in Chilbah Valley, it 
followed a long, complex route across the high plateau, wriggling for miles 
through the stunted junipers, in and out of dry washes and steep little ravines. 
He urged his tired body to move faster. It was late, he knew; perhaps too late. 
There was no telling what might have happened, or what might be happening, in 
the valley of Quivira. 
Suddenly, he stopped short. There was a smell in the air: a lingering smell of 
woodsmoke, damp ash, and something else that brought his heart into his mouth. 
He looked around, eyes wide to the darkness, letting the occasional tongues of 
lightning guide his way. There it wasin the shadow of a large rock, as he knew 
it would bethe remains of a small twig fire. 
He looked around quickly, carefully, making sure he was alone; making sure the 
creatures who had made this fire were long gone. Then he crouched, sifting the 
ash with his fingers. He pulled the remains of root strips, burned and brittle, 
from the small pile, rubbing them appraisingly between his fingers. Then, brow 
furrowing, he began to sift more quickly, fingertips impatiently brushing the 
ash aside. One hand closed on something, and he drew in his breath sharply: the 
petal of a flower, limp and withered. He brought it to his nose. The scent 
confirmed his worst fears: beneath the heavy smell of woodsmoke, he could still 
make out the lingering odor of morning glories. 
He stood up, brushing his fingers on his wet trousers in agitation. Once, as a 
child in the village of Nankoweap, he had seen a terrible thing: a very old man, 
a bad man, partake of the forbidden datura flower. The man had flown into a rage 
under the influence of the drug, lashing out violently at all in his path with 
several times his normal strength. It had taken half a dozen young men of the 
village to subdue him. 
But this was worse. Much worse. Those he was tracking had taken datura in the 
ancient way, the evil way, mixing it with psilocybin mushrooms, buttons of the 
mescal cactus, forbidden insects. The unholy spirit would take possession of 
them, bring great strength to their limbs and a murderous frenzy to their minds; 
make them oblivious to their own pain, or the pain of others. 
Kneeling, he said a brief, fervent prayer in the darkness. Then he rose again 
and continued down the trail with redoubled speed. 
 

61
 
BONAROTTI SAT LISTLESSLY ON THE SMOOTH rocky ground of the Planetarium, his back 
against the unyielding wall, elbows resting on upraised knees. He stared out 
into the darkness, beyond the curving shelf that hid the great city. The valley 
was dark, lit infrequently by livid forks of lightning. A thin curtain of water 
fell across the entire length of the overhanging lip of rock, cloaking the 
entrance to Quivira. There was no longer any reason to leave the comfort of the 
dry city. In fact, there was no reason to do anything, except wait out the next 
several days with as much comfort and as little inconvenience as possible. 
He knew that he should feel vastly more disappointment than he did. 
Initiallyduring the first minutes of his realization that the secret kiva held, 
not gold, but merely countless ancient potsthe feeling of dismay and shock had, 
in fact, been overwhelming. And yet now, here on the outskirts of the city, all 
he felt was a vast ache in his bones. The gold would not have been his, anyway. 
He wondered why he had worked so hard, gotten so uncharacteristically caught up 
in the excitement of the moment. Now his only reward were limbs that felt 
unnaturally heavy. The butt of the big revolver dug into his right side. Minutes 
before, he thought he had heard the quick patter of feet running across the 
central plaza, followed by an angry buzz of conversation in the valley below. 
But he had not been certain, over the annoyingly steady burble of rain. His ears 
felt clogged and painful; perhaps he had imagined the sounds. And he felt little 
interest in exploring further. 
With great effort, he dug into his breast pocket for a cigarette, then sounded 
his trousers for a match. He knew that smoking was forbidden in the ruin, but at 
the moment he could not have cared less; besides, he somehow felt that Sloane 
would be more tolerant of such things than Nora Kelly had been. Smoking was 
about the only comfort he had left in this godforsaken place. That, and the 
secret cache of grappa he had secreted deep among his cookware. 
But the cigarette proved no comfort. It tasted terrible, in fact: like cardboard 
and old socks. He took it out and peered at it closely, using the fiery tip for 
illumination. Then he inserted it once again between his lips. Each fresh 
inhalation of smoke brought stabbing pains to his lungs. With a cough, he 
pinched it out with his fingers and dropped it into his pocket. 
Something told Bonarotti that the fault did not lie with the cigarette. He 
thought briefly about Holroyd, and how he had looked, in those agonizing minutes 
before he died. The thought sent a galvanic twitch to his limbs, and he rose 
instinctively to his feet. But the sudden motion drained the blood from his 
head; his body grew hot, and a strange low roaring sounded in his ears. He put 
an arm to the cliff face to steady himself. 
He took one deep breath, then another. Then he tried putting one foot in front 
of the other, gingerly. The world seemed to reel around him, and he steadied 
himself against the wall again. He had only been seated for fifteen minutes; 
maybe half an hour, at most. What could be happening to him? He licked his lips, 
staring out into the center of the city. There was a painful pressure in his 
head, and the hinges of his jaws throbbed with a mounting ache. The rain seemed 
to be easing up, and yet its steady, monotonous drone was becoming increasingly 
irritating to his ears. He began moving toward the central plaza, lurchingly, 
without purpose. Lifting his feet seemed an act of supreme difficulty. 
In the darkened plaza, he stopped. Despite its openness, he felt the three-story 
roomblocks crowding in on all sides, their blank windows like skeletal eyes, 
staring stonily at him. 
I feel sick, he said matter-of-factly, to nobody in particular. 
The sound of the drumming rain was torture. Now, his only wish was to escape it: 
to find someplace dark and still, where he could curl up, and cover his ears 
with his hands. He turned slowly, mechanically, waiting for another slash of 
lightning to reveal the city. A blaze of yellow briefly illuminated the doorway 
of the nearest series of roomblocks, and he shambled toward it to the 
accompanying sound of thunder. 
He paused in the entryway, a brief sense of alarm piercing the haze of sickness 
and discomfort. He felt that, if he did not lie down immediately, he would 
collapse to the floor. And yet the blackness of the room before him was so 
complete, so intense, that it seemed to be crawling, somehow, before his vision. 
It was a repellent, almost nauseating phenomenon Bonarotti had never seen or 
imagined. Or perhaps it was the sudden smell that nauseated him: the ripe, 
sickly sweet scent of flowers. He swayed where he stood, hesitating. 
Then a fresh wave of lightheadedness overwhelmed him, and he plodded forward, 
disappearing into the gloom of the doorway. 
 

62
 
SQUINTING AGAINST THE LIVID FORKS OF LIGHTNING, Sloane watched Nora vanish into 
the storm. She had to be heading for the rockslide: there was no place else to 
hide in the direction she was headed. As she stared after Nora, Sloane could 
feel the cold unyielding weight of the gun butt, pressing against her palm. But 
she did not draw the weapon, and she made no move to pursue. 
She stood, hesitating. The initial shock of seeing Nora come walking up, alive, 
out of the gloom was wearing off, leaving turmoil in its place. Nora had called 
her a murderer. A murderer. Somehow, in her mind, Sloane could not think of 
herself as that. Playing back the accusation, remembering the look on Noras 
face, Sloane felt a deep anger begin to smolder. Nora had asked for the weather 
report, and she had given it, word for word. If Nora hadnt been so headstrong, 
so stubborn, so insistent on leaving . . . 
Sloane took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She had to think things 
through, act with care and deliberation. She knew Nora was not an immediate 
physical threat: Sloane herself had the spare gun. On the other hand, Nora might 
stumble across Swire, or Bonarotti, out there in the night. 
She drew the back of her hand across her forehead, scattering raindrops. Where 
were Swire and Bonarotti, anyway? They werent in the city, and they werent in 
the camp. Surely, they wouldnt be standing around somewhere, in the darkness 
and pouring rain. Not even Swire was that muleheaded. It made no sense. 
Her mind wandered back to the magnificent discovery they had just made. A 
discovery even more astonishing than Quivira itself. A discovery that Nora had 
tried to prevent. At this thought, Sloanes anger increased. Things had been 
going better than she could ever have hoped. Everything that she had ever wanted 
was up in that kiva, waiting for her to claim its discovery as her own. All the 
hard work was done. Bonarotti, even Swire, could be brought around. Sloane 
realized, almost with surprise, that things had gone too far to turn back: 
particularly with Aragon and Smithback dead. The only thing that stood in her 
way was Nora Kelly. 
There was a faint cough in the darkness. Sloane pivoted, instinctively yanking 
the pistol from her belt. It had come from the direction of the medical tent. 
She moved toward the tent, pulling her flashlight from a pocket and cupping its 
end to shield the glow. Then she stopped at the entrance, hesitating. It had to 
be Swire, or perhaps Bonarotti: there was nobody else left. Had they overheard 
Nora? Something close to panic washed over her, and she ducked inside, gun 
drawn. 
To her immense surprise, there lay Smithback, sleeping. For a moment, she simply 
stared. Then understanding flooded through her. Nora had only mentioned Aragons 
death. Somehow, both she and Smithback had survived. 
Sloane slid to her knees, letting the flashlight fall away, resting her back 
against the sopping wall of the tent. It wasnt fair. Things had been working 
out so perfectly. Perhaps she could have found a way to deal with Nora. But now 
Smithback, too . . . 
The writers eyes were fluttering open. Oh, he said, raising his head with a 
wince. Hi. And ouch. 
But Sloane was not looking at him. 
I thought I heard shouting just now, Smithback said. Or was I just dreaming? 

Sloane waved him silent with her gun hand. 
Smithback looked at her, blinking. Then his eyes widened. Whats with the gun? 

Will you shut up? Im trying to think. 
Wheres Nora? asked Smithback, suspicion suddenly clouding his face. 
At last, Sloane looked back at him. And as she did so, a plan began to take 
shape in her mind. 
I think shes hiding in the rockfall at the end of the canyon, she replied 
after a moment. 
Smithback tried to ease himself up on one elbow, then slumped. Hiding? Why? 
What happened? 
Sloane took a deep breath. Yes, she thought quickly: its the only way. 
Why is Nora hiding? Smithback asked again, more sharply, concern crowding his 
voice. 
Sloane looked at him. She had to be strong now. 
Because Im going to kill her, she replied as calmly as she could. 
Smithback gasped painfully as he again tried to rise. Im not following you, 
he said, sinking back again. Guess Im still delirious. I thought you said that 
you were going to kill Nora. 
I did. 
Smithback closed his eyes and groaned. 
Noras left me no choice. As she spoke, Sloane tried to detach herself from 
the situation, to rid herself of emotion. Everything, her whole life, depended 
on pulling this off. 
Smithback looked at her. Is this some kind of sick joke? 
Its no joke. Im just going to wait here for her to return. Sloane shook her 
head. Im truly sorry, Bill. But youre the bait. Shed never leave the valley 
without you. 
Smithback made a mighty effort to rise, then collapsed again, grimacing. Sloane 
checked the cylinder, then closed the gun and snapped the cylinder lock back in 
place. The weapon had no safety, and she cocked the hammer as a precaution. 
Why? Smithback asked. 
Incisive question there, Bill, Sloane said sarcastically, anger returning 
despite her best efforts. You must be a journalist. 
Smithback stared at her. Youre not sane. 
That kind of talk just makes what I have to do easier. 
The writer licked his lips. Why? he asked again. 
Suddenly, Sloane rounded on him. Why? she asked, the anger rising. Because of 
your precious Nora, thats why. Nora, who every day reminds me more and more of 
my own, dear father. Nora, who wants to control everything down to the last 
iota, and keep all the glory for herself. Nora, who wanted to just walk away 
from the Sun Kiva. Which, by the way, contains an incredibly important find, a 
treasure that none of you had the faintest conception of. 
So you did find gold, Smithback murmured. 
Gold! she snorted derisively. Im talking about pottery. 
Pottery? 
I see youre no smarter than the rest, she replied, picking up the disbelief 
in Smithbacks voice. Listen. Fifteen years ago, the Metropolitan Museum paid a 
million dollars for the Euphronios Krater. Thats just one beat-up old Grecian 
wine jug. Last month, a little broken bowl from the Mimbres valley sold at 
Sothebys for almost a hundred grand. The pots in the Sun Kiva are not only 
infinitely more beautiful, theyre the only intact examples of their kind. But 
that doesnt matter to Nora. She told me that, when we get back to civilization, 
shes going to accuse me of murder, see that Im ruined. 
She shook her head bitterly. So tell me, Bill. Youre a shrewd judge of 
humanity. I have a choice to make now. I can return to Santa Fe as the 
discoverer of the greatest archaeological find of the century. Or I can return 
to face disgrace, and maybe even a lifetime behind bars. What am I supposed to 
do? 
Smithback remained silent. 
Exactly, Sloane replied. Its not much of a choice, is it? When Nora returns 
for you, shes dead. 
Smithback suddenly rose on one arm. Nora! he croaked, as loudly as he could. 
Stay away! Sloane is waiting here for you with a 
With a quick movement, Sloane whipped the gun across the side of his head. The 
writer flopped sideways, groaned, then lay still. 
Sloane stared down at him for a moment. Then she glanced around the medical 
tent. Finding a small battery lamp among the equipment, she snapped it on and 
placed it in the far corner. Picking up her flashlight and switching it off, she 
quietly unzipped the tent and slipped outside into the dark. 
The tent was pitched near a low, thick clump of chamisa. Slowly, quietly, Sloane 
crawled into the chamisa, then turned around and lay on her stomach, facing the 
tent. The lamp within it gave out a subdued glow, cozy and inviting. She was 
completely concealed within the dark vegetation, and yet she had an unobstructed 
view of the tent. Anyone approaching it would automatically be silhouetted by 
the dim light. When Nora returned for Smithbackas Sloane knew she wouldher 
silhouette would make a perfect target. 
Her thoughts drifted briefly to Black, sick and alone, waiting for her back at 
the kiva. She tried to ready herself for what was to come. Once this business 
was done, she could quickly drag Nora down to the river. In seconds, the current 
would sweep her into the narrow meat-grinder of a canyon at the far end of the 
valley. And when Noras body reached the Colorado Rivereventuallythere 
wouldnt be enough left for a postmortem. It would be the same as if Nora had 
been washed out by the flash flood in the first placeas, by all rights, she 
should have been. No one would know. And then, of course, shed have to do the 
same to Smithback. Sloane closed her eyes a moment, unwilling to think about 
that. But there was no longer any choice: she had to finish what the flood had 
failed to do. 
Resting both elbows on the ground, Sloane eased the pistol forward, balancing it 
with both hands. Then she settled down to wait. 
 

63
 
AARON BLACK LAY IN THE KIVA, CONFUSED and horribly frightened. The fitful glow 
of the dying lamp still faintly illuminated the close, dusty space. But Blacks 
eyes were shut fast against the darkness, against the overwhelming evidence of 
his failure. It seemed that hours had passed since Sloane had left, but perhaps 
it was only minutes: it was impossible for him to tell. 
He forced his gluey eyes open. Something terrible was happening; perhaps it had 
been coming on for a while, and now that the fevered digging had given way to 
crushing disappointment, it was upon him at last. Perhaps the air was bad. He 
needed to get out, breathe some fresh air. He mustered the energy to rise, 
staggered, and with astonishment felt his legs buckle. 
He fell back, arms flailing weakly. A pot rolled crazily around him and came to 
rest against his thigh, leaving a snakes trail in the dusty floor. He must have 
tripped. He tried to rise and saw one leg jerk sideways in a spastic motion, 
muscles refusing to obey. The lantern, canted sideways, threw out a pale corona, 
suffused by dust. 
From time to time, growing up, Black had been tortured by a recurring nightmare: 
he found himself paralyzed, unable to move. Now, he felt that he was living that 
nightmare. His limbs seemed to have grown frozen, unwilling or unable to respond 
to his commands. 
I cant move! he cried. And then, with a sudden terror, he realized he hadnt 
been able to articulate the words. Air had come out of his mouth, yesan ugly 
splutter, and he felt saliva dribbling down his chinbut no words came. He tried 
again and heard once more the ugly choking rush of air, felt the refusal of his 
tongue and lips to form words. The terror increased. In a spasm of panic, he 
struggled unsuccessfully to rise. Weird shapes and writhing figures began 
crowding the darkness beyond his eyes; he turned to look away, but his neck 
refused to move. Closing his eyes now only caused the shapes to spring to 
greater definition. 
Sloane! he tried to call, staring up into the cloudy dimness, afraid even to 
blink. But not even the splutter of air came now. And then the lantern flickered 
again, and went black. 
He tried to scream, but nothing happened. Sloane was supposed to be bringing 
medicine. Where was she? In the close darkness, the hallucinations were all 
around him, babbling, whispering: twisted creatures; grinning skulls, teeth 
inlaid with bloody carnelians; the clinking of skeletons moving restlessly 
around the kiva; the flickering of fires and the smell of roasting human meat; 
the screams; the victims gargling their own blood. 
It was too terrible. He could not close his eyes, and they burned with an 
internal pressure. His mouth was locked open in a scream that never came. At 
least he still recognized the shapes around him as hallucinations. That meant he 
wasnt too far gone to tell reality from unreality . . . but how unspeakably 
dreadful it was to not feel anything; not to know any longer where his limbs 
were lying, whether or not he had fouled himself; to lose some profound internal 
sense of where his body was. The panic of paralysis, that dream-fear out of his 
worst nightmares, washed over him yet again. 
He couldnt understand what had gone wrong. Was Nora really dead? Was he himself 
also dying, in the horrible darkness of this kiva? Had Sloane and Bonarotti 
really been inside the kiva with him? Perhaps they were going to Aragon for 
help. But noAragon was dead, like Nora. 
Aragon, Smithback, Nora . . . and he had been as guilty of their deaths as if he 
had pulled the trigger. He hadnt spoken up, down there in the valley. Hed let 
his own desire for immortal fame, for that ultimate discovery, get the better of 
him. He groaned inwardly: clearly, nobody would come to help, after all. He was 
alone in the darkness. 
Then he saw another light, very faint, almost indivisible from the darkness. It 
was accompanied by a rustling sound. His heart surged with fresh hope. Sloane 
was returning at last. 
The light grew stronger. And then he saw it, through the film of his sickness: 
fire, strangely disembodied, moving through the darkness of the kiva, dropping 
sparks as it went. And carrying this burning brand was a hideous apparition: a 
single figure, half-man, half-animal. 
Black fell into renewed despair. Not a rescue. Just another hallucination. He 
wept inwardly; he wailed in his mind; but his eyes remained dry, his body flexed 
and immobile. 
Now the apparition was coming toward him. He smelled juniper smoke, mixed with 
the ripe, sweet scent of morning glories; he saw in the flickering light the 
glittering black of an obsidian blade. 
Distantly, he wondered where such an image, where such an unexpected scent, 
could have come from. Some grotesque recess of his mind, no doubt; some dreadful 
ceremony that perhaps hed read about in graduate school, long forgotten and 
now, in the extremity of his delirium, resurrected to haunt him. 
The figure bent closer, and he saw its blood-stiffened buckskin mask, eyes fiery 
behind the ragged slits. Surprisingly real. The coldness of the blade on his 
throat was astonishingly real, as well. Only a person who was as gravely ill as 
he was, he knew, could hallucinate something so . . . 
And then he felt the unyielding knife blade trace a hard cold line across his 
neck; felt the abrupt wheeze of his own air, the gush of hot blood filling his 
windpipe; and he realized, with transcendent astonishment, that it was not a 
hallucination, after all. 
 

64
 
SLOANE WAITED, EVERY MUSCLE TENSED, LISTENING with rapt concentration. There was 
a break in the storm, and the rain had slowed to an occasional patter. Cupping 
her watch to shield the glow, she briefly illuminated it: almost ten thirty. The 
sky had broken into patches of light as tattered clouds swept past a gibbous 
moon. Still, it was mostly darkdark enough for a person to think she could 
creep into camp unobserved. 
She shifted, rubbing her elbows. Once again, she found herself wondering what 
had happened to Swire and Bonarotti. No one had appeared at the mouth of the 
city. And they obviously werent in camp. Perhaps theyd never left Quivira in 
the first place, and were even now back in the kiva, watching over Black. In any 
case, it was best they were not around. Nora couldnt hide forever. Soon, she 
would be coming for Smithback. 
Sloane returned her gaze to the tent and its thin, small glow, like a canvas 
lampshade in the center of the dark landscape. The camp remained still. 
Concentrating on dismissing all irrelevant noise, she waited, ready to 
distinguish the sound of Noras approach from the distant rush of the swollen 
creek. Ten minutes went by, then fifteen. The moon fell once more behind ragged 
clouds. The rain came on again, accompanied by distant thunder. It was more 
difficult than she could have imagined, waiting here like this, gun in hand. She 
felt an undercurrent of rage: partly at Nora, but partly at her father. If he 
had trusted her, put her in charge of the expedition, none of this would have 
happened. She suppressed the sweep of dread that came over her as she 
contemplated what was about to happenwhat she was being forced to do. 
She forced her thoughts back toward the limitless wonders that awaited in the 
secret city. She reminded herself once again there was no other way. Even if she 
managed to beat Noras accusations somehow, they would ruin her forever. And in 
his heart, her father would know . . . 
It came at last: the crackle of a twig. The soft chuff of a foot, placed 
carefully in wet sand. And then another; at least, she thought she heard 
another, against the distant call of the river and the soft patter of rain. 
Someone was sneaking up to the tent; someone exercising exceptional care. 
Sloane hesitated momentarily; she didnt know Nora had such capacity for 
stealth. But nobody else, she knew, would be approaching the tent so cautiously. 

She took a breath, opening her mouth as if to speak. For a moment, she 
considered calling out to Nora: to give her one more chance, to forget Aragon, 
the weather report, everything. But then she remembered the look on Noras 
facethe word murderer, uttered between clenched teethand she remained silent. 
With a slight pressure of her thumbs and middle fingers, she raised the muzzle 
of the .38, relaxing her hands to absorb the recoil. She was a decent shot; at 
this range, there was no chance of missing. It would be quick, and probably 
painless. Within two minutes, both Nora and Smithback would be in the river, 
moving inexorably toward the narrow slot at its far end. If there was ever any 
question, she could always tell the others she had been shooting at a snake. 
She waited, barrel leveled steadily. The steps were so quiet, and spaced so far 
apart, Sloane could not tell if they were approaching or receding. And then at 
last a shadow interposed itself between her and the tent. 
Sloane breathed out slowly through her nostrils. The shadow was too tall to be 
bandy-legged Swire, and too short to be Aaron or Bonarotti. It could only be 
Nora. The shadow deepened slightly as it glided around the side of the tent, 
hovering outside the door. 
Carefully, Sloane aimed the gun, centering on the shadow. This was it, then. She 
suspended her breathing, timed the shot to the interval between heartbeats, and 
squeezed the trigger. 
The short-barreled weapon jerked back violently in her hands as the shot 
reverberated down the canyon. There was a gasp; the sound of spasmodic kicking; 
a brief, retreating scrabble. When her eyes cleared, the silhouette had 
disappeared from the dim light of the tent and all was silent. 
She crept out of the chamisa and rose to her feet. It was done. She realized she 
was shaking violently but made no attempt to control it. Snapping on her light, 
keeping the gun drawn, she came forward. She hesitated at the side of the tent, 
momentarily unwilling to see the destruction her gun had wrought. Then, with a 
deep breath, she stepped forward. 
Instead of Noras body lying before the tent, broken and bleeding, there was 
nothing. 
Sloanes hands went slack in consternation, and she fought to maintain her grip 
on the gun. She looked down at the sand before her, horrified. How could she 
possibly have missed? It was practically a point-blank shot. Could the gun have 
misfired? She swivelled her light around, looking for something, anything, that 
could explain. 
And then, in the sand at the far edge of the tent, the cone of light caught 
something. It was a thick gout of blood. And, beside it, a partial bloody 
footprint in the damp earth. 
Sloane peered more closely. The print did not belong to Noraor, it seemed, to 
any other human being. It looked, in fact, like a clawed forepaw. 
She drew back and glanced around, swinging her flashlight as she did so. There, 
caught in the beam behind her, was Nora, sprinting across the valley toward her 
and the camp. As the moon peered briefly through the rainclouds, Nora caught 
sight of Sloane, and stopped short; then veered away quickly, angling now toward 
the rope ladder that led up to the city. The shot had flushed her from the rock 
pile, but in the worst possible way. 
Sloane raised the gun in her direction, then lowered it again. Nora had not 
approached the tent, after all. So what had she shot? 
As she slowly circled the camp with her light, something resolved itself against 
the farthest row of tents. Sloane staggered in disbelief. 
The cold light had fallen across a terrifying apparition. It stood, humped and 
ragged, staring silently back at her. Red eyes bored like dots of fire through 
holes cut into a buckskin mask. Wild painted designs of white along the legs and 
arms were spattered crimson with blood. Its pelt steamed in the humid air. 
Instinctively, Sloane took a step backward, panic and disbelief struggling 
within her. This was what she had shot. She could see the great wound in its 
midriff, the blood shining black in the moonlight. And yet it remained standing. 
More than that: as its chest heaved slowly, she could see that it was very much 
alive. 
Though the revelation took only a split second, to Sloane it seemed as if time 
had come to a standstill. She could hear her heart beating a frantic cadence in 
her ribs. 
And then, with terrifying, deliberate malevolence, the creature took a step 
toward her. 
Instantly, panic took over. Dropping the flashlight, Sloane wheeled and ran. For 
a moment, the kiva, the flood, everything was forgotten in her desire to escape 
this monstrous vision. This was the thing that massacred the horses, desecrated 
Holroyds body . . . then she thought of Swire and Bonarotti, and suddenly her 
legs were churning even faster, the night air tearing in and out of her lungs. 
Now she could barely make out Nora, climbing toward the city. Desperately, 
Sloane veered to follow, keeping her eyes locked on the ladder, running with 
reckless abandon, trying with all the power of her will to ignore the awful, 
low, flapping sounds of the pelted thing as it came racing up the darkness 
behind her. 
 

65
 
NORA HEAVED HERSELF OVER THE RIM, scrambled to her feet, and sprinted away from 
the edge of the cliff. Vaulting over the retaining wall, she dashed across the 
central plaza into the deeper darkness beneath the shadow of the roomblocks. 
She came to a stop, leaning against a wall, sobbing, sides heaving. As if from a 
great distance, she heard the steady beating of rain. She paid it no heed. A 
single, fleeting image was burned into her mind: Sloane, standing outside the 
door to Smithbacks tent after the sound of that terrible shot. She had found 
Bill, and killed him. For a moment, the pain and despair were so overwhelming 
that Nora considered simply walking out into the plaza and letting Sloane gun 
her down. 
A peal of thunder boomed, echoing again and again beneath the vast dome. Just 
being in the city made her feel sick. Her gaze traveled first to the far wall of 
the plaza, then back toward the roomblocks and the granaries. There, black upon 
black, yawned the maw of the Crawlspace. She flitted toward the rear of the 
plaza, careful not to raise any dust. Perhaps she could lure Sloane inside the 
Crawlspace, then ambush her, take the gun . . . 
She pulled up short, breathing hard. This was stupid; she was panicking, making 
bad decisions. Not only was the Crawlspace a potentially deadly bottleneck, it 
was loaded with fungal dust. 
There was a fresh slash of lightning, and she turned back to see Sloane scramble 
over the top of the rope ladder, pistol in hand. 
Nora! she heard Sloane call out wildly. Nora, for Gods sake, wait! 
Nora wheeled, diving away from the plaza, back toward the curved rear wall of 
the city. 
Another tongue of lightning ripped the distant landscape, briefly illuminating 
the ancient city in indigo chiaroscuro. A second later, there was a crack of 
thunder, followed almost immediately by a second sound, shockingly loud in the 
close confines: the sound of gunfire. 
Keeping to the darkest shadows, moving as swiftly as she dared, Nora crept along 
the stone wall toward the old midden heap. Careful not to trip over Blacks 
tarps, she moved along the edge of the city, approaching the dark bulk of the 
first tower. 
The sound of running footsteps rang out against stone. Nora shrank quickly 
behind the pole ladder propped against the tower, trying to make herself as 
inconspicuous as possible. In the darkness, it was impossible to tell where the 
footsteps had come from. She needed time to think, to determine a plan of 
action. Now that Sloane was in the city, perhaps there was a way for her to 
sneak back to the ladder, descend into the valley, get Smithback, and . . . 
Footsteps again, much louder now; gasping breath; and then, coming around from 
the front side of the tower, was Sloane. 
Nora glanced around in fresh desperation: the midden heap, the back alley 
leading to the Crawlspace, the benchland trail that led out to the narrow 
circuit above the valley. Every one was a dead end. There was nowhere left to 
run. Slowly, she turned back toward Sloane, steeling herself for the inevitable: 
the roar of the gun, the sudden lance of pain. 
But Sloane was crouched at the base of the tower, peering cautiously around its 
front edge. Her left hand was clenched against her heaving chest; her gun hand 
was pointed, not at Nora, but out into the darkness of the plaza. 
Nora, listen, Sloane gasped over her shoulder. Theres something after us. 
Something? Nora echoed. 
Something horrible. 
Nora stared at Sloane. What kind of a trick is this? she wondered. 
Sloane remained crouched, gun pointed out into the plaza. She glanced back at 
Nora for a moment, and even in the darkness Nora could see fear, disbelief, 
nascent panic in the almond eyes. 
For Gods sake, watch behind us! Sloane begged, returning her own gaze to the 
plaza. 
Nora looked quickly back down the direction from which shed run. Her mouth had 
gone dry. 
Listen, Nora, please, she heard Sloane whisper, struggling to get her 
breathing under control. Swire and Bonarotti have disappeared. I think were 
the only ones left. And now, its after us. 
Whats after us? Nora asked. But even as she phrased the question, she 
realized she already knew the answer. 
If we separate, were dead, Sloane said. The only chance we have is to stick 
together. 
Nora stared out into the darkness, past the midden heap, toward the granaries 
and the hidden maw of the Crawlspace. She struggled to keep the panic from 
clamping down and freezing her limbs. The woman at her back, she knew, had 
brought tragedy to the expedition; caused Aragons death; murdered Smithback in 
cold blood. But right now, she could not afford to think about that. Now, she 
could think only of the dreadful apparition that, at any moment, could come 
scuttling toward her out of the black. 
The city was full of recesses in which they could hide. But hiding in the dark 
was not the answer. It would be just a matter of time until the skinwalker 
tracked them down. What they needed was some defensible place where they could 
hold out for at least a while. Daybreak might afford a fresh set of options. . . 
. 
In that instant, she realized that there was nowhere to go. Nowhere, except up. 
The tower, she said. 
Sloane turned quickly to her. The question in her eyes disappeared as she 
followed Noras gaze toward the structure that reared above them. 
Grasping the pole ladder, Nora scrambled up to the small second-story rooftop. 
Sloane followed, kicking the ladder away behind her. They dashed through the low 
crumbling doorway and into the enfolding darkness of the great tower. 
Nora paused within, digging out her flashlight and shining it into the rectangle 
of darkness above them. The sight was terrifying: a series of rickety pole 
ladders, balanced on ledges of projecting stone, rising into the darkness. To 
climb, she would have to place one foot on a series of projecting stones that 
ascended the inside wall, and the other foot on the notches of the poles. There 
were three series of ladders, one above the other, separated by the narrow stone 
shelves that ran around the inner walls of the tower. It had been deliberately 
designed to be the most precarious climb possible. 
On the other hand, if they could just reach the redoubt at the top, they might 
be able to hold the skinwalker off. The Anasazi had built this tower for a 
single purpose: defense. Sloane had a gun. And they might even find a cache of 
stones at the top that could be lobbed down into the tower. 
Go on! Sloane whispered urgently. 
Nora checked her flashlight. Its beam was growing feeble. But she had no choice: 
they could not make the climb in total darkness. Sliding the lit flashlight into 
her shirt pocket, she reached for the first pole, testing its sturdiness. Taking 
a deep breath, she placed a foot in the first notch. Her other foot went on the 
first small stump of rock, projecting from the tower wall across from the notch. 
She hoisted herself up, spreadeagled over open space. She climbed as fast as she 
dared, trying not to think of the swaying of the pole under her weight, creaking 
with dry rot and shedding powdered wood. Sloane followed behind, her frantic 
climbing shaking the brittle structure still further. 
Reaching the first platform, Nora stopped to catch her breath. As she crouched, 
gasping, she heard a faint clatter from outside the tower: the sound of a pole 
ladder being thrust up against adobe walls. 
Instantly, Nora leaped for the second pole, Sloane following. She scrambled 
upward, vaulting up the swaying pole, listening to the crackling and splitting 
of wood beneath her feet. This ladder felt much less secure than the first. As 
she neared the top, she felt its supports beginning to give way. She threw 
herself onto the second shelf, gasping and crying. 
Just then, she heard the patter of footsteps below. A dark form momentarily 
blotted out the dim rectangle of light at the entrance to the tower. Beside her, 
Sloane cursed under her breath. 
For an instant, Nora found herself unable to move, as the terror of the 
encounter in the abandoned ranch house returned to her in full force. Then she 
was shocked back to the present by the deafening blast of a pistol shot. The 
echoes died crazily within the confines of the tower. Heart in her mouth, Nora 
angled the flashlight downward. The figure was swarming up the first ladder, 
swift and sure. Sloane raised her weapon again. 
Save your bullets for the top! Nora cried. She urged Sloane onto the third and 
final ladder, its ancient geometry faint in the beam of her light. 
What the hell are you doing? Sloane whispered. 
But Nora simply pushed her up the ladder without a word. It was time to take a 
desperate chance. 
Taking a firm hold on the stone shelf, she drew her leg back and kicked at the 
bracing of the second pole as hard as she could. She felt it shudder with the 
impact. She kicked at it a second time, then a third. Below, she could hear a 
desperate scrabbling as the figure rode the shaking structure. Summoning all her 
strength, Nora kicked at the pole once again. With a shriek of rending wood, the 
pole lurched outward about six inches, whipsawing itself into a notch of rock. 
Nora heard a muffled roar from below. Chancing another look down, she saw the 
skinwalker lose its grip and begin to fall away toward the base of the tower. 
Then, catlike, it lashed out, grasping a set of supports. It clung there for a 
moment, swinging in and out of the dying beam of Noras light. Then, with 
careful deliberation, it began climbing toward her again. Nora kicked out once 
more, trying to knock the pole away completely, but it was now jammed fast. 
She leaped for the third pole and climbed, arms and legs protesting, toward the 
third shelf and the hole leading to the redoubt at the top of the tower. Moments 
later she was onto the ledge. From the small room beyond, Sloane reached out a 
hand to help her in. 
Crouching beneath the low ceiling, Nora swept her flashlight around the room. It 
was tiny, perhaps four by six feet. Above her head, a small ragged hole led up 
onto the roof of the tower. A disarticulated skeleton lay in a heap against one 
wall. Her heart sank as she saw there were no stones, no weaponsnothing they 
could use to defend themselves except a few useless bones. 
But they still had the gun. 
Shielding the flashlight, Nora leaned back out into the cool dark shaft of the 
tower. Two bobbing red eyes reflected the feeble beam: it was on the second 
ladder again, and coming inexorably closer. 
She shrank back into the redoubt and looked at Sloane. A pale face stared back 
at her, drawn with fear and tension. Beneath it, the necklace of micaceous beads 
gave off a faint golden sheen. Nora cupped her hand over the light. A part of 
her could not fully comprehend what was happening: stuck here, with the woman 
who had caused the death of her friends, while a creature out of nightmare was 
climbing toward them. She shook her head, trying to clear it. 
How many bullets? she whispered, shining the veiled light toward Sloane. 
Mutely, Sloane held up three fingers. 
Listen, Nora went on, Theres no time left. Ill turn off the light, and 
well wait here in the opening. When its close, Ill aim the beam, and you 
fire. Okay? 
Sloane suppressed a cough, nodded urgently. 
Well only have time for one shot, maybe two. Make them count. 
She snapped off her light, and together they moved toward the opening of the 
redoubt. As Nora inched out cautiously, she became acutely aware of every sense: 
the cool air rolling up from the darkness of the tower, the hard metal of the 
flashlight in her hand, the smell of dust and decay from the redoubt. 
And the sound of scrabbling claws on wood, growing closer, ever closer. 
Get ready, she whispered. 
She waited a moment, then another, then she snapped on the light. 
And there it was below her, terrifyingly close. With an involuntary cry, she 
took in the petrifying image: musky wolfskin; feral eyes; tortured, howling 
mask. 
Now! she cried, even as the roar of the gun drowned out her voice. 
In the faint beam, she saw the skinwalker jerk to one side, pelt flying wildly 
about him. 
Again! she shouted, fighting to keep the dwindling pinpoint of light on the 
twisting figure. There was another blast, superimposed by a muffled howl from 
below. As the light guttered out Nora saw the figure crumple in on itself and 
fall away, swallowed by the well of darkness. 
She dropped the useless flashlight into the gulf and listened. But there was 
nothing: no groan, no rasping intake of breath. The faint glowing rectangle of 
doorway far below them betrayed no movement, no twisted shadow. 
Come on! Sloane said, pulling her back into the redoubt and urging her toward 
the hole in the ceiling. Grasping the adobe framework, Nora pulled herself up 
onto the roof. She backed away from the opening as Sloane came up behind, 
gasping and coughing. 
Here, far above the ruins of Quivira, it was cool, with a faint breeze. The dome 
of the alcove was only a few feet above her head, a rough, fractured surface. 
Nora stood motionless, exhausted. There was no parapet on the tower; the roof 
ended in open space. Beyond it, the city lay stretched out below her feet. The 
moon was struggling to show itself behind an expanse of fast-scudding 
rainclouds, and there was the whisper of rain. The pale illumination, waxing and 
waning, gave the roomblocks, towers, and plazas a fleeting spectral glow. Moist 
air brushed her cheek, stirred her hair. She heard a faint flutter of wings, a 
low wind in the valley. Somewhere out in that valley lay Smithbacks body. 
She turned quickly toward Sloane. The woman was kneeling at the opening in the 
roof, gun drawn, staring intently downward. Nora came over, and together they 
waited in tense silence. But no sound or movement came from the darkness below. 
At last, Sloane stood and backed away. Its over, she said. 
Nora nodded absently, still staring into the dark cavity, her thoughts clouded, 
her mind troubled. 
For what seemed several minutes, they stood motionless, overwhelmed by the 
furious emotion of the chase. Then, at last, Sloane snugged the gun into her 
belt. 
So what now, Nora? she asked huskily. 
Nora looked up at her, slowly, uncomprehending. 
I just saved your life, Sloane went on slowly. Isnt that going to count for 
something? 
Nora could not bring herself to speak. 
Its true, Sloane said. I saw that storm. So did Black. But I didnt lie 
about the weather report. You gave me no choice. There was a sudden flash of 
anger in the almond eyes. You were willing to abandon everything, keep the 
glory to yourself A sudden racking cough cut short the sentence. Nora could 
see Sloane fighting to keep her voice calm. 
Im not proud of what I did, she went on. But it had to be done. People have 
died for far lesser causes than this. The true wrong was yours: walking away, 
ready to deprive the world of the most glorious pottery ever made by man. 
Pottery, Nora repeated. 
Yes. The Sun Kiva was fullis fullof black-on-yellow micaceous pottery. Its 
the mother lode, Nora. You didnt know it. You didnt even suspect it. But I 
knew. 
I knew there was no gold in that kiva. 
Of course there wasnt. Neither one of us ever really believed that. But all 
those ancient reports werent totally fabricatednot really. It was a 
translational blip. 
Sloane leaned forward. You know the value of black-on-yellow micaceous. No 
intact examples have ever been found. Thats because theyre all here, Nora. 
They were the true treasure of Anasazi. And theyre more than just pots. Ive 
seen them. The designs are uniquethey tell, in pictographic form, the entire 
history of the Anasazi. Thats why they were made and hoarded here, and nowhere 
else: knowledge is power. They hold the answers to all the great mysteries of 
southwestern archaeology. 
For a moment, Nora froze at these words. The horror and danger were forgotten as 
she thought of the magnitude of such a discovery. If this is true, she thought, 
then it makes all of our other discoveries seem like . . . 
And then Sloane coughed, drawing the back of her hand across her mouth. The 
climb seemed to have drained all the energy from her: she seemed pale, her 
breathing rapid. Instantly, Nora returned to the present. The sickness is coming 
on her, she thought. 
Sloane, the entire back of the cityespecially the Sun Kivais full of fungal 
dust, she said. 
Sloane frowned, as if doubting she had heard correctly. Dust? 
Yes. Thats what killed Holroyd. The skinwalkers are using it for corpse 
powder. 
Sloane shook her head impatiently. What are you doingtrying to distract me 
with bullshit? Dont change the subject. Im talking about the greatest 
discovery of the century. 
Sloane fell silent for a moment. Then she began again. You know, we could keep 
the mistaken weather report between ourselves. We could forget about what 
happened to Aragon, forget the storm. This find is bigger than all that. She 
looked away. You cant possibly understand what it means to mewhat it would 
have meant to meto be the sole discoverer. To have my name go down in history 
beside Carter and Wetherill. If it werent for me, we would have left this 
place, the pottery undiscovered, ripe for looting by 
Sloane, Nora said, the skinwalkers werent after the pottery. They wanted to 
keep us away from it. 
But Sloane put her hand up for silence. Listen to me, Nora. Together, we could 
give this great gift to the world. She drew a ragged breath. If Im willing to 
share this with you, then surely you can forget whats happened here today. 
Nora looked at Sloane, her tawny face dappled in the moonlight. Sloane she 
began, then stopped. You dont get it, do you? I cant do that. Its not about 
archaeology anymore. 
Sloane stared at her, wordlessly, for a moment. Then she placed her hand on the 
butt of her gun. Its like I told you, Nora. You leave me no choice. 
You always have a choice. 
Sloane drew the gun quickly, pointing it at her. Right, she said. Endless 
fame, or a lifetime in disgrace? Thats not a choice. 
There was a brief silence as the two women stood, facing each other. Sloane 
coughed once again; a sharp sound. 
I didnt want things to end up like this, she said, more calmly. But youve 
made it clear its either you or me. And Im the one holding the gun. 
Nora said nothing. 
So turn around, Nora. Walk to the edge of the roof. 
Sloanes voice had grown very quiet. Nora stared at her. In the pale light, the 
amber eyes were hard and dry. 
Her gazed still locked on Sloane, Nora took a step backward. 
Theres only one bullet left in the chamber. But thats all Ill need, if it 
comes down to that. So turn around, Nora. Please. 
Slowly, Nora turned around to face the night. 
Open space stretched out before her, a vast river of darkness. Across the narrow 
valley, Nora could make out the dark violet of the far wall of cliffs. She knew 
she should feel fear, regret, despair. And yet the only emotion she was aware of 
was a cold rage: rage at Sloane, for her pathetic, misplaced ambition. One 
bullet . . . she wondered, if she threw herself to one side, whether she stood a 
chance in hell of dodging that bullet. She tensed, readying herself for sudden 
movement. 
Sloane shifted behind her. Step off the roof, she said. 
But still Nora stood, eyes and ears open to the night. The storm had passed. She 
could hear the frogs calling from below, the hum and drone of insects going 
about their nocturnal business. In the intense stillness, she could even hear 
the blood as it rushed through her veins. 
Id rather not shoot you, she heard Sloane say. But if I have to, I will. 
Damn you, Nora whispered. Damn you for wrecking the expedition. And god damn 
you for killing Bill Smithback. 
Smithback? The tone in Sloanes voice was one of such surprise that, despite 
herself, Nora turned toward it. As she did, she saw a form suddenly emerge from 
the hole in the roof: a dark, matted shape, wolf pelt twisting around naked 
painted skin. Pale light glistened off a crimson patch of fur that stained the 
figures midriff. 
Sloane pivoted as the thing rushed at her with a great howl of vengeance. There 
was a flash of moonlight on the gun, the arc of a knife, and both figures went 
down, rolling frantically in the loose dirt of the tower roof. Nora dropped to 
her knees and crawled crablike away from the edge, eyes riveted to the struggle. 
In the moonlight, she could see the figure, burying the black knife again and 
again into Sloanes chest and stomach. Sloane cried out, twisting and thrashing 
her body. With a supreme effort, she tried to pull herself away. She half rose, 
gun hand swiveling around desperately, only to be pulled down again. There was a 
terrible thrashing, another anguished cry from Sloane. The blade flashed down 
and the gun fired at last, blowing the knife into hundreds of glittering slivers 
of obsidian. With a howl, the dark shape flung itself upon her. There was a 
final thrash, a puff of dust: and then both figures were gone. 
Nora rushed quickly to the edge, peering down in horror as the bodies, locked 
together, landed in the sand at the bottom of the tower, flew apart, then rolled 
off the edge of the city. Before the moon buried itself once again behind the 
clouds, it winked briefly off Sloanes pistol as it spun lazily, end over end, 
into the unfathomable night. 
Trembling, Nora pulled herself back, sprawled across the floor, breathing hard. 
They had not killed the skinwalker, after all. It had hidden itself somewhere 
within the blackness of the tower, waiting for the right moment in which to 
strike. Then, it had attacked Sloane with a single-mindedness so furious Nora 
could barely comprehend it. And now, that skinwalker was dead. And so was 
Sloane. 
But it was not the chase up the tower, or even the encounter on the roof, that 
filled her with absolute terror. In the desperate struggle, one crucial fact had 
slipped her mind. Two figures in wolfskins had assaulted her in the ranch house, 
on that clear Santa Fe night, barely three weeks before. And that meant only one 
thing. 
There was another skinwalker, loose somewhere, in the valley of Quivira. 
 

66
 
HER BREATH COMING IN GASPS, NORA moved toward the hole in the tower roof. She 
lowered herself, as quietly as she could, into the small redoubt below. On hands 
and knees, she crawled toward the lip of the chamber, then looked slowly over 
the edge. It was pitch black in the tower; she sensed, rather than felt, the 
vast emptiness below her. She heard nothing save for the rush of water in the 
valley beyondthe maddening, unceasing babble that disguised other, stealthier, 
sounds. 
Her arms trembled, the thought of descending, sightless, through the complex 
labyrinth of ancient wood was terrifying. Yet even more terrifying was the 
thought of remaining here, inside the tower, waiting for something to come for 
her. Now that she had no weaponnow that there was no possible way to defend 
herselfthe tower had become a deathtrap from which she had to escape. 
She struggled to regulate her breathing. Extending one foot over the ledge, she 
swept it gingerly from side to side until she found the first notch of the 
topmost ladder. Moving carefully forward, she eased her weight onto the old 
framework, keeping one hand on the shelf until she knew she had a firm foothold. 
Then, with extreme caution, she began to descend, one notch at a time. She could 
feel a chill wind rising up from below, caressing her legs. The wind rose, and 
the tower creaked and ticked in response. Pebbles came clattering past her, 
their echoing fall reminding her of the abyss below. 
At last her foot reached the firmness of the second shelf. She paused for a 
second, trying once again to steady the wild rise and fall of her chest. But she 
could not remain here: poised between roof and floor, she was even more 
vulnerable. Groping in the darkness, fingers extended, she reached for the top 
of the detached second ladder. Once again, she began the descent, limbs balanced 
between the creaking wooden pole and the stone protrusions. 
Just as she was about to reach for the next shelf, she froze. There had been a 
sound, she thought: the soft hollow sound of a footfall. She waited, listening, 
in the darkness. But there was nothing more, and with relief she slid down onto 
the safety of the shelf. 
One more ladder. Steadying herself, she reached for it, tested it. Then, as 
carefully as before, she descended first one notch, then another, and then 
another. 
Suddenly, she felt the pole give with a dry crack. The entire wooden structure 
seemed to shudder around her. Immediately, she pushed herself away from the pole 
and dropped the last ten feet, hitting the stone floor with a mighty impact. 
Needles of pain lanced through her knees and ankles as she scrambled to her feet 
and stumbled through the low doorway onto the adjacent rooftop. She glanced 
around, shaking with exertion and fear. But there was nothing: the city seemed 
perfectly silent and deserted. 
She had to get to the valley. At least there, she might have a chance. Perhaps 
Sloane had been wrong. Perhaps Swire and Bonarotti were still alive. If she 
could hide until daylight, shed have a better chance of finding them. There was 
safety in numbers. She might even be able to locate Sloanes gun, lying 
somewhere in the darkness of the valley floor. And there was always the hope, 
remote as it was, that Smithbacks gunshot wound was not fatal . . . 
Nora brushed her hand across her face with a sob. She could not allow herself to 
think about that; not now. 
Keeping as low as possible, she crept across the roof and peered down the ladder 
that leaned against it. The way below seemed clear. Swinging herself over the 
edge, she descended as quickly as she dared, then paused to look around. 
Nothing. 
She paused once again. The city seemed silent and asleep. The moon, alternately 
emerging from and disappearing behind the racing clouds, painted uncertain 
fingers of light across the roomblocks. And yet her instincts told her that 
something was wrong. 
Cautiously, keeping against the wall of the tower, she moved around toward the 
front of the city and peeked around the corner. One at a time, objects came into 
view, lit by the fitful glow of the moon: the retaining wall, the central plaza, 
the ghostly outline of roomblocks. 
Once again, a sense of imminent danger washed over her. And this time she 
realized what it was: borne on the fitful midnight wind came the faint scent of 
morning glories. 
Almost without knowing what she was doing, she fell back, away from the tower 
and into the darkness along the edge of the city. She found herself running with 
a reckless speed, heedless of obstacles. There was no plan in her mind. She felt 
simply an animal panic to get away: to race for the deepest, most secret place 
she could find. 
Dark alleys, low mounds of rubble, angular adobe structures flashed by in the 
faint moonlight as she ran. Suddenly, she caught herself short. To the right 
were the squat, low forms of the granaries. And directly before her, its low maw 
a rectangle of deeper darkness, was the entrance to the Crawlspace. Inside, she 
knew, the blackness would be complete. There might be a hiding place in there, 
perhaps inside the roomblocks of the secret city itself. 
She began to move forward, then stopped. Pursuer or no, she would not allow 
herself to enter the Crawlspace, and its lethal payload of dust, ever again. 
Instead, she turned and dashed into the alley alongside the granaries. Halfway 
down the alleys gentle curve, she stopped at a notched pole ladder, leaning 
against the rearward set of roomblocks. Grasping at the dry wood, she climbed as 
quietly as she could to the second-floor setback. Stepping onto the roof, she 
pulled the ladder up behind her. At least that would slow the skinwalker down, 
buy her a few more seconds of time. 
She shook her head, forcing the panic away, trying to keep her thoughts clear. 
The clouds moved once again over the moon. Only the river spoke. Quivira was 
silent, watching, under a shroud of darkness. 
She moved across the rearward set of roofs, past a long row of keyhole doorways. 
Bats flitted from the recesses of the city, flicking through the shadows on 
their way to the valley. Except for a few central roomblocks that ran from the 
front of the city to the back, most of the buildings were cul-de-sacs. She 
thought of hiding inside one of the roomblocks, then quickly dismissed the idea; 
out here, in the city proper, it would only be a matter of time until she was 
hunted down. Better to keep moving, to wait for an opportunity to descend into 
the valley. 
She crept along the row of open doorways, then paused at the corner of the 
roomblock, listening. 
A sudden footfall invaded the darkness. Nora looked around wildly; with the 
sound of the river echoing through the vault, it was almost impossible to tell 
where the sound had come from. Had the skinwalker followed her around to the 
granaries, and was it even now slipping up behind? Or was it lying in wait 
somewhere in the plaza, biding its time until she crept toward the rope ladder? 
There was another noise, not as faint as the last. It seemedshe thoughtto have 
come from below. Dropping to her stomach, Nora crawled to the side of the roof, 
and cautiously peered over the edge into the pool of darkness. Empty. 
She rose to her feet, the smell of flowers stronger now: overripe, sickly sweet. 
Her heart was hammering violently in her chest. She backed away from the 
parapet, and as she did so she heard the rattling sound of the pole ladder being 
placed against its flanks. Quickly, she ducked into the nearest set of 
roomblocks. 
She pressed herself against the wall, gasping for breath. Whatever she did, 
wherever she went, she was at a disadvantage. The skinwalker was faster than she 
was, and far stronger. It was at home in the dark. She realized that it would 
never allow her to escape from the valley. 
There was only one possibility. She had to even the playing field, to minimize 
the threat. And that meant finding a weapon. 
Inside, the room was still and cool. Nora glanced quickly around. A pile of war 
god masks stood in one corner, crimson mouths twisted and leering in the faint 
moonlight. The air smelled of pack rats and mold. She crept through the next 
doorway into another room, darker than the first, feeling along the walls, 
letting her memory of the place guide her steps. 
Cautiously, she felt her way into the third room. A shaft of pale light came 
through a crack in the roof, and there they were: a stack of fire-hardened 
wooden spears, ending in razor-sharp obsidian tips. She hefted a few, selected 
the two lightest, and moved out of the room into a narrow passageway. 
She felt her way along the wall, moving toward the next room in the block. Her 
memory of the location of the spears had been more or less correct; she also 
recalled that this system of rooms had an entrance at the front as well as the 
back. But there were many hundreds of rooms in Quivira, and she could not be 
certain. 
Locating the doorframe, she ducked into the next room. Here, gray light filtered 
from the far doorway. With a small glimmer of relief, Nora realized she must be 
close to the front of the structure. She moved into the darkest corner and 
waited, listening. 
By now, the skinwalker would have followed her into the roomblocks. Nora rested 
the spear on her shoulder. It felt puny, insubstantial, in her sweaty fist. 
Perhaps it was the height of folly for her to think she could do anything to 
save herself. But the only other option was to do nothing, to wait in terror for 
the inevitable end. And she knew thathowever quick and strong the skinwalkers 
werethey were also mortal. 
She tensed at the faint sound of a footfall in the room beyond. The sound of the 
river was muffled here, inside the roomblocks, and she strained to listen. There 
was another faint noise. The reek of flowers grew overpowering. Struggling to 
keep her wits about her, Nora raised the spear. A shadow, black upon black, 
seemed to fill the doorway. With an involuntary shout, she heaved the spear with 
all the strength she could muster. Immediately, she jumped away, running through 
the far door into the last room of the block. There had been no sound, no cry; 
but she thought she had heard the deep, flat sound of the spear sinking into 
flesh. 
She stumbled forward, out the doorway and onto the flat roof along the front of 
the structure. Not daring to pause for a breath, she glanced about for a way 
down. 
There was a sudden scrabbling sound behind her, then a heavy weight fell across 
her back, forcing her violently to the ground. Crying out in pain and surprise, 
she tried to struggle away. A heavy pelt of fur, dank with sweat and the ghastly 
stench of rotting flowers, fell across her face. She looked up to see the masked 
head rear back over her, spear bobbing from one shoulder. An arm raised up, 
obsidian knife flashing. 
With a tremendous effort she pulled herself to one side. There was a searing 
pain in her calf as the knife struck a glancing blow. Without pausing, she 
tumbled headfirst off the roof of the roomblock. Landing in a pile of sand, she 
scrambled to her feet and ran into the protective shadow of the first-floor 
blocks. She was aware that she whimpered as she moved. Her leg throbbed, and she 
could feel the wet gush of blood running down around her ankle. 
From behind came a heavy thump, as of a large body leaping to the ground. She 
ducked into the doorway of the nearest room, then half ran, half limped through 
a series of galleries to a small, dark chamber. Clouds had temporarily veiled 
the moon, but she knew that beyond this chamber lay the central plaza. She knelt 
in the close darkness, thinking furiously. A rancid smell of blood filled her 
nostrils: she must have been cut far deeper than she thought. 
A brief running patter brought her to her feet. Any minute, and the moon would 
reappear from behind the clouds. It would be the work of thirty seconds to 
follow the trail of blood directly to her. And then, the thick smell of blood 
would be replaced by the wonderful, terrible, scent of flowers. 
As if on cue, a ghostly aura crept across the walls of the room as moonlight 
slanted once again into the city. Nora tensed herself for what would be her 
final run across the plaza to the retaining wall. Deep down, she was well aware 
that she could never make it in time. But she could not bear to sit in this 
room, cornered like a rat, awaiting a brief, brutal end. 
She took a deep breath, then another. Then she swivelled to face the doorway 
leading out of the room. 
And froze. 
In the far corner, illuminated by the sepulchral moonlight, lay Luigi Bonarotti. 
His glazed eyes were wide open in a sightless stare. In the dim light, he seemed 
bathed in an even deeper shadow of blood. Nora took in the outrageous, 
horrifying details: fingers cut off, unbooted feet torn away, head partially 
scalped. She fell to her knees and covered her mouth, gagging. 
As if from a great distance, she heard the skinwalker moving in the alley behind 
the roomblocks. 
She sat up quickly, her gaze returning to Bonarotti. There, still holstered 
around his waist, was the monstrous gun. 
She leaped for it, fumbled with the catch, and pulled it from the holster. A .44 
magnum Super Blackhawk, deadly as hell. She wiped the bloody grip on her jeans, 
then scurried back against the wall as another footstep sounded, closer. 
With terrible speed, the skinwalker appeared in the doorway, thick pelt 
fluttering. The white spots along its midriff glowed blue in the moonlight, and 
red angry eyes stared at her from behind the slits in the buckskin mask. 
For an instant, it eyed Nora silently. Then, with a low growl, it sprang 
forward. 
In the confines of the small adobe room, the blast of the .44 was deafening. She 
closed her eyes against the blinding flash, letting her elbows and wrists absorb 
the mighty kick. There was a frenzied howl. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fired a 
second time at the sound. Ears ringing, she scrambled in the direction of the 
doorway, then tripped and fell sprawling out into the central plaza. Quickly, 
she rolled onto her back and pointed the gun toward the doorway. The skinwalker 
was framed within it, crouching, arms gripping its midriff. She could hear fluid 
pattering to the ground as terrible wounds in its chest and stomach overloaded 
the thick pelt with blood. It straightened, saw her, and leaped with a snarl of 
rage and hatred. She fired a third time directly into the mask and the force of 
the massive bullet stopped the figure in mid-air, jerking the head back, 
whirling the body sharply to one side. Raising herself to one knee, Nora fired 
again, then again, the mask disintegrating into wet shreds. The smell of blood 
and cordite filled the air. The skinwalker thrashed heavily in the dust, 
whirling and jerking in a frenzied dance, bone and matter glowing in the 
moonlight, small jets of arterial blood rising in an erratic cadence, a low 
furious cry gurgling in its throat. But still Nora pulled the trigger, again and 
again and again, the hammer falling on empty chambers with a click that could 
not be heard above her own cries. 
And then, after a long time, came silence. Painfully, Nora raised herself to her 
feet. She took two steps toward the retaining wall, faltered, stepped forward 
again. Then she sank back to the ground, laying the gun aside. It was over. 
There, at the stone doorstep of the ruined city, she wept silently. 
 

67
 
AFTER SEVERAL MINUTES, NORA ONCE again rose unsteadily to her feet. The valley 
of Quivira lay bathed in a faint silver light. Dark jewels winked and played 
across the dappled surface of the quickly flowing river. Behind her, the bulk of 
the ancient city watched in stony silence. 
Hesitantly, like a sleepwalker, she made her way to the front of the ruin. She 
went a few paces, then stopped. There, a few feet away from the retaining wall, 
was Sloanes body, lying broken and crumpled in the sand. Nora took a step 
closer. The amber eyes were black and sightless, overlaid with a dull sheen of 
moonlight. The sand around her was soaked in blood. Nora shuddered, then glanced 
away, looking automatically for the body of the skinwalker. 
It was nowhere to be seen. 
A sharp current of fear brought her fully alert once more. She looked around 
more carefully. There, in the sand half a dozen feet from Sloane, was a large, 
distorted hollow: a thrashed-out depression, smeared and sprinkled with blood. A 
silver concho lay in the sand beside it. But there was no skinwalker body. She 
took an instinctive step back, hand rising to her mouth, eyes searching the dark 
city. But there was nothing. 
She ran to the rope ladder and climbed painfully down, still in shock. Reaching 
the bottom, she looked around, waiting. There was the medical tent, its 
beckoning orange glow now extinguished. Nora felt a sob rising in her throat. 
Looking in the tent would be the most painful thing she could imagine. Still, 
she had to know for herself if Smithback was dead. 
She sprinted through the moonlight toward the camp, angling toward the medical 
tent, her torn calf protesting at every step. It was worse than she could have 
ever feared: the inside of the tent had been torn to ribbons, equipment and 
supplies strewn about, the sleeping bag shredded. There were spatters of blood 
everywhere. But there was no body. 
Sobbing more loudly now, Nora backed away, staggering in the shimmering 
moonlight. Damn you! she cried, turning slowly in the darkness. God damn 
you! 
And then she felt a thin, but incredibly strong, arm slide its way over her 
shoulders and clamp down across her mouth and neck. For a moment, she struggled 
frantically. Then she went limp, unable to struggle further. 
Hush, whispered the quiet, gentle voice into her ear. 
The grip loosened and Nora turned, her eyes widening in wonder. It was John 
Beiyoodzin. 
You! she gasped. 
In the moonlight, the old mans braids seemed to be painted with quicksilver. He 
touched a finger to his lips. I have your friend hidden at the far end of the 
valley. 
My friend? Nora said, not understanding. 
Your journalist friend. Smithback. 
Bill Smithback? Hes alive? 
Beiyoodzin nodded. 
Relief and unexpected joy flooded through her, and she gripped Beiyoodzins 
hands with newfound strength. Look, theres somebody else still missing. Roscoe 
Swire, our wrangler 
Something in Beiyoodzins expression stopped her from continuing. The man who 
watched your horses, he said. He is dead. 
Dead? Oh no, no, not Roscoe . . . She turned her head away. 
I found his body by the river. The skinwalkers got him. Now we must go. 
He freed himself and began to turn away, gesturing for her to follow. But she 
put a restraining hand on his arm. 
I killed one of them up in the city, she said. But theres another one. Hes 
wounded, but I think hes still alive. 
Beiyoodzin nodded. I know, he said simply. That is why we must leave at 
once. 
But how? 
I know a secret trail. The one the skinwalkers themselves use to get in and out 
of the valley. It is extremely difficult. But we must get you and your friend 
away from this place. 
Beiyoodzin began moving rapidly and noiselessly through the dappled shadows, out 
of camp and back toward the overhanging cliff face. Using the darkness of the 
rock wall for cover, they made their way past the rockfall to the far end of the 
canyon, where the swollen river tumbled into the narrower slot canyon, 
disappearing in a violent waterfall. The sound of water was much louder here, 
and the entire mouth of the canyon was covered in the usual pall of mist. 
Without pausing, Beiyoodzin stepped through the curtain of spray and 
disappeared. Hesitating just a moment, Nora followed. 
She found herself on a small, sloping ledge of rock. The trail, chiseled into 
the rock, started directly behind the curtain of spray and went down, a few feet 
above the roaring cataract. Here in the narrow canyon, the reflected moonlight 
was dim, and Nora moved across the slippery, moss-covered rock with care. A 
false step, she knew, would send her over the edge: into the rushing waters, the 
narrow labyrinth of stone, and certain death. 
After a few moments, the trail flattened out onto a ledge. Billows of cold mist 
rose from the tumbling water, encircling her like a cloak. Here, the constant 
presence of moisture had created a bizarre microclimate of mosses, hanging 
flowers, and dense greenery. Moving to one side, Beiyoodzin parted a veil of 
lush ferns, and in the gloom beyond Nora could just make out Smithback, sitting, 
arms clasped around himself, waiting. 
Bill! she cried, as he rose in astonishment, joy sweeping over his face. 
Oh my God, he said. Nora. I thought you were dead. Embracing her weakly, he 
kissed her, then kissed her again. 
How are you? she asked, touching the ugly welt on the side of his forehead. 
I ought to thank Sloane. That sleep did me wonders. But his weak voice, and 
the ragged cough that followed, belied his words. Where is she? Where are the 
others? 
We must keep moving, Beiyoodzin said urgently. 
He pointed ahead, and Nora followed his gesture. She could make out the dim 
narrow trail leading upward along the canyon face, zigzagging through the clefts 
and pinnacles of rock, squirreling up crevasses. In the pale light of the moon, 
it looked terrifying: an insubstantial, spectral path, intended for ghosts, not 
humans. 
Ill go first, whispered Beiyoodzin to Nora. Then Bill. And then you. 
He looked at her for a moment, searchingly. Then he turned and began to climb, 
keeping his weight toward the wall of the canyon, moving up the slope with 
surprising nimbleness for one so old. Smithback grasped a handhold, and, 
trembling, pulled himself up behind. Nora followed. 
They made their way slowly and painfully up the precipitous trail, careful to 
avoid the slippery moss and algae that clung to the ledges underfoot. The roar 
of the waterfall echoed up from below, a heavy vibration that churned the air. 
Nora could see that Smithback was barely able to pull himself up; each step 
required all his strength. 
Terrifying minutes later, they were out of the microclimate. The slot canyon was 
narrowing, and the resulting loss of moonlight made progress even more 
difficult. Some distance ahead, at the limit of vision, Nora could see the trail 
make a sharp switchback and disappear around a corner. At the bend, a small 
parapet of rock led out over the roaring cataract below. 
How are you doing? she asked Smithback. 
He didnt answer at first. Then he gasped, coughed, and gave a thumbs up. 
Suddenly, Beiyoodzin stopped short, raising a warning hand over his shoulder. 
What is it? Nora asked as she stopped, renewed fear sending her heart 
hammering. 
Then she, too, caught the sweet scent of morning glories on the freshening 
breeze. Wordlessly, she looked at Beiyoodzin. 
What is it? Smithback said. 
Hes following us up the trail, Beiyoodzin said. The years suddenly seemed to 
show on his drawn face. Without another word, he resumed his climb. 
They followed him as quickly as they could up the precipitous cliff face. Nora 
bit her lip against the pain of her wounded leg. Faster, Beiyoodzin urged. 
He cant go any Nora began. Then she stopped short. 
Ahead of them, at the sharp bend in the trail, a shape had appeared: a clot of 
black against the dimly shining rockface. The heavy pelt steamed, and the fringe 
of fur along its bottom edge was caked in blood. It took a shambling step toward 
them, then stopped. Sick with fear and horror, Nora could hear the rasping 
breath being sucked in through the blood-soaked mask. Through the dimness, she 
thought she could make out red pinpricks of eyes, glowing with anger, pain, and 
malice. 
Unexpectedly, Beiyoodzin moved forward. Reaching the outcropping of rock before 
the switchback, he stepped out onto it carefully. The skinwalker watched him, 
motionless. Digging into his clothing, Beiyoodzin drew out his medicine bag, 
tugged it open, and reached inside. Never taking his eyes from the skinwalker, 
he sprinkled a small, almost invisible, line of pollen and cornmeal onto the 
narrow ledge between them, chanting softly. 
As Nora watched in silent dread, the skinwalker took a step forward, toward the 
line of pollen. Beiyoodzin spoke a word: Kishlinchi. 
The skinwalker stopped, listening. Beiyoodzin shook his head in sorrow. Please, 
no more, he said. Let it end here. 
Still the skinwalker waited. Now, Beiyoodzin held an eagle feather outstretched 
before him. You think evil has made you strong. But instead it has made you 
weak. Weak and ugly. Evil is the very absence of strength. I am asking you to be 
strong now, and end all this. This is the only way to save your life, because 
evil always burns itself up in the end. 
With a growl of anger, the skinwalker unsheathed an obsidian knife. It took a 
step forward, breaking the line of pollen, and raised the knife, standing within 
striking distance of Beiyoodzins heart. 
If you will not come back with me, then I beg you to stay here, in this place, 
Beiyoodzin said quickly, his voice cracking. If evil is your choice, then stay 
with evil. Take the city, if you must. He nodded in Noras direction. Take 
these outsiders, if nothing else will satisfy your blood lust. But leave the 
people, leave the village, alone. 
What are you saying? Smithback cried in outraged surprise. But neither the 
skinwalker nor Beiyoodzin seemed to hear. Now, the old man reached deeper into 
his clothes and pulled out another buckskin bag: much older, worn almost to a 
paper thinness, its edges trimmed in silver and turquoise. Nora stared from 
Beiyoodzin to the medicine bag and back again, feelings of anger, fear, and 
betrayal mixing within her. Stealthily, she placed a hand on Smithbacks elbow, 
urging him to move slowly back down the trail, away from the confrontation. 
You know what this is, Beiyoodzin said. This bag holds the Mirage Stone of 
the Fathers. The most treasured artifact of the Nankoweap People. Once, you 
treasured it, too. I offer it to you as earnest of my promise. Stay here, 
trouble our village no more. 
Slowly, reverently, he opened the bag, then held it forward, his outstretched 
hands trembling, whether from fear or age Nora could not tell. 
The skinwalker hesitated. 
Take it, Beiyoodzin whispered. The matted figure moved forward and reached for 
it, leaning outward. 
Suddenly, with lightning speed, Beiyoodzin thrust the open bag toward the 
skinwalker. 
A heavy cloud of dust erupted from within, flying up into the figures mask, 
spraying in long gray lines across the bloody pelt. The skinwalker roared in 
surprise and outrage, twisting around, tugging violently at the mask, growing 
more and more off balance. With the agility of a cat, Beiyoodzin leaped from the 
outcropping of rock back onto the trail. The skinwalker kicked frantically, 
teetering a moment at the edge of the precipice. Then it went over with a howl 
of fury. Nora watched the plunge into the violet, moon-drenched shadows: matted 
pelt flapping crazily, limbs scrabbling at the air, mask pulling free as the 
blood-curdling cry meshed with the roar of the flood beneath. And then, 
suddenly, it was gone. 
There was a moment of stasis. Beiyoodzin looked at Nora and Smithback, and 
nodded grimly. 
Painfully, Nora helped Smithback up the trail toward Beiyoodzin. He stood at the 
switchback, looking down into the abyss. 
Im sorry to have scared you like that, he said quietly, but sometimes, the 
only defense left us is to play the coyote, the trickster. 
Still looking downward, he reached out and took Noras hand in his. The old 
mans grasp was as cool, light, and dry as a leaf. 
And so much death, he murmured. So much death. But at least the evil has 
burned itself out. 
Then he looked up at her, and Nora saw kindness and compassion, as well as an 
infinite sadness, in his eyes. 
For a moment, there was silence between them. Then Beiyoodzin spoke. 
When you are ready, he said, in a small, clear voice, let me take you to your 
father. 
 
Epilogue 
Moving at a steady, easy pace, the four riders made their way up the canyon 
known as Raingod Gulch. John Beiyoodzin, atop a magnificent buckskin, led the 
way. Nora Kelly followed, riding abreast of her brother, Skip. The massive form 
of Teddy Bear padded alongside, his back almost grazing the bellies of the 
horses as he weaved in and out beneath them. Bill Smithback brought up the rear, 
his unruly hair imprisoned beneath a suede cowboy hat. The exhausting course of 
antibiotic treatment he and Nora had undergone ended two weeks before, but 
beneath the hat brim the writers skin was still struggling to regain a healthy 
color. 
The late August sky was sprinkled with light cumulus clouds, drifting over a 
field of brilliant turquoise. Wrens flitted about, filling the sweet little 
canyon with their bell-like cries. A merry stream, shaded by fragrant 
cottonwoods, ran sparkling across a bed of soft sand. At almost every bend in 
the canyon were small alcoves, Anasazi dwellings tucked inside them: none more 
than two or three rooms, but lovely in their humble perfection. 
Nora let her horse keep its own pace, concentrating on nothing but the sun 
beating down on her denimed legs, on the murmur of water nearby, on the swaying 
of her mount. Every now and then, she smiled to herself as she heard Smithback 
behind her, leveling curses at his balky mount, who stopped frequently to nibble 
a patch of clover or bite off the top of a thistle, completely ignoring the dire 
threats and imprecations of his rider. The man just had no talent with horses. 
She realized how lucky she was to have him here; how lucky she was to be here 
herself. Briefly, her thoughts returned to their struggle out of the wilderness 
a month earlier: Smithback weak, Nora herself growing steadily weaker as the 
fungal infection took hold. If Skip and Ernest Goddard had not met them halfway 
down the trail with fresh horsesand if there had not been a powerboat waiting 
at the trailhead, or helicopters idling at Pagethey would probably have died. 
And yet, for a time, Nora almost thought it would have been easier to die than 
to tell Goddard the news: how their incredible discovery had turned into such a 
terrible personal tragedy for him. 
Here, thirty-odd miles northwest of the ruin of Quivira, the countryside seemed 
built on a smaller scale: friendly, verdant, well-watered. John Beiyoodzin had 
paused in his long storyhe had paused frequently during the ride, giving his 
narrative time to sink in. 
As they rode on through the sunlit silence, Nora allowed her thoughts to move 
gradually from Goddard to her own father, and of what she had so far been able 
to piece together of his own last trip up this canyon. He had taken very little 
from Quivira. In fact, far from being a pothunter, he had carefully refilled 
what excavations he had made in a way that would have pleased even Aragon. But 
in doing so, he had exposed himself to a concentration of the fungal dust, and 
grown sick. Riding north in hopes of finding help, his sickness had worsened to 
the point where he could hardly sit his horse. Nora wondered how he would have 
felt. Would he have been terrified? Resigned? As a child, she remembered hearing 
him say that he wanted to die in the saddle. And he had done just that. Or 
almost: eventually becoming too sick to ride, he had dismounted. Then he turned 
his horses free and waited to die. 
It was my cousin who found the body, Beiyoodzin said, resuming his story. It 
was lying in a cave at the top of a small rise. Seemed to have been there about 
six months. The coyotes couldnt reach it, so it hadnt been disturbed. 
How did your cousin find it? Skip asked. 
Looking for a lost sheep. He saw some color in the rock-shelter, climbed up to 
take a look. Beiyoodzin paused to clear his throat. Next to the body was the 
notebookthe one Nora has now. Sticking out of the front shirt pocket was a 
letter, stamped and addressed. And beside him was a satchel holding the skull of 
a mountain lion, inlaid in turquoise. So my cousin went back to Nankoweap, and 
he was a talker, and soon the entire village knew of the dead white man in the 
canyon to the south. And because of the turquoise skull, they also knew this 
white man had found the city we had kept secret for so many years. 
His voice trailed away for a moment before returning, softer, more thoughtful. 
This was not a city of our ancestors. Those few who had been theremy 
grandfather was onesaid it was a city of death, of oppression and slavery, of 
witchcraft and evil. There are stories in our past of a people who came out of 
the south, who enslaved the Anasazi, and forced them to build these great cities 
and roads. But they were destroyed by the very god who gave them power. Most who 
went to the city came back with ghost sickness and soon died. That was many, 
many years ago. None of my people have returned to the city since. Until 
recently. 
Beiyoodzin deftly rolled a cigarette with one hand. The discovery of the body 
caused a problem for the tribe, because the secret of the city lay with the body 
of the man. To reveal the presence of the body would be to betray the secret of 
the city. 
Why didnt you just destroy the letter and notebook? Nora asked. 
He lit the cigarette, inhaled. We believe that it is extremely dangerous to 
handle the effects of the dead. It is a sure way to get ghost sickness. And we 
all knew what the white man had died from. So, for sixteen years, the body lay 
there. Unburied. It just seemed that the simplest thing to do was to do 
nothing. 
Beiyoodzin stopped his horse abruptly and turned toward Nora. That was wrong. 
Because we all knew that the body in the cave had a family. That somebody loved 
him, wondered where he had gone and whether he was still alive. It was cruel to 
do nothing. Still, doing nothing seemed the easiest, safest course of action. 
But doing nothing caused a small imbalance. And this imbalance grew, and grew, 
until it ended in you coming here and all these terrible killings. 
Nora reined in her own horse beside Beiyoodzins. Who mailed the letter? she 
asked quietly. It was the question she had been burning to ask for many, many 
weeks. 
There were three brothers. They lived in a trailer outside our village with 
their alcoholic father. The mother had run off with someone years before. These 
were smart boys, though, and they all got scholarships and went down to Arizona 
for college. They were hurt by this contact with the outside world, but hurt in 
very different ways. Two of the boys dropped out and came back early. They were 
disgusted with the world they had found, and yet changed by it. They had grown 
restless, angry, eager for the kind of wealth and power that you cant come by 
in a village such as ours. They no longer fit in with the rest of my people. 
They began turning from the natural way of things, searching out forbidden 
knowledge, learning forbidden practices. They found an old man, an evil mana 
cousin of the man who murdered my grandfather. He helped them, revealed to them 
the blackest of all the arts. The village began to shun them, and they in turn 
rejected us. In time, they turned to the greatest taboo of allthe ancient 
ruinsand eagerly picked up what dark hints of its history still remained among 
our village. 
The third brother graduated and came back home. Like the other two, there were 
no jobs here for him, and no hope of finding one. Unlike his other brothers, he 
had converted to the Anglo religion. He despised our beliefs and our fear of 
ghost sickness. He thought we were superstitious and ignorant. He knew of the 
body in the cave, and he felt that to leave it there was a sin. So he searched 
out the body, carefully arranged the mans possessions, covered the body with 
sand, planted a cross. And he mailed the letter at a trading post. 
Beiyoodzin shrugged. Of course, some of this is just my guess. Im not sure why 
he sent the letter. He couldnt have known if it would ever reach its 
destination, sixteen years after it had been written. Maybe it was to atone for 
a wrong he perceived. Or maybe he was angry at what he thought were our 
superstitions. Perhaps he did the right thing, I dont know. But what he did 
caused a terrible break with the other two brothers. There was drinking, there 
was an argument. They accused him of betraying the secret of the city to the 
outside world. And the two brothers killed the third. 
Beiyoodzin fell into another silence. He turned his horses head and they 
resumed their slow journey up the canyon, the horses splashing across the stream 
at each bend. At one turn they surprised a mule deer, which ceased drinking and 
raced away from them along the bed of the stream, sending up crystal cascades of 
water that glittered and fell back through the sun-drenched air. 
Those two brothers rejected anything to do with the Anglo world outside. But 
they also rejected the good ways of the people. They saw the evil city as their 
own destiny. Based on the whispered stories of our people, they eventually found 
the greatest secret of allthe hidden kivaand entered it. They would have 
broken inside only oncenot for its treasures, of course, but for its lode of 
corpse powder. It would be their own weapon of fear and vengeance. Afterwards, 
they would have carefully resealed the kiva, in the proper manner. He shook his 
head. They wanted to protect its secretsthe secrets of the entire cityat all 
costs. In all but name, they had already been transformed into eskizziwitches. 
And with the killing of their brother, the transformation was complete. In our 
belief, the final requirement in becoming a skinwalker is to murder someone you 
love. 
Do you think they actually had supernatural powers? Skip asked. 
Beiyoodzin smiled. I hear the doubt in your voice. It is true that the 
forbidden roots they chewed gave them great strength and great speed, the 
ability to absorb pain and bullets without feeling. And I know the white people 
think witchcraft is a superstition. He looked at Skip. But I have seen witches 
in Anglo society, too. They wear suits instead of wolfskins. And they carry 
briefcases instead of corpse powder. As a boy, they came and took me to boarding 
school, where I was beaten for speaking my own language. Later, I saw them come 
among our people with mining contracts and oil leases. 
As they rounded another bend, the canyon gave way to a small grove of 
cottonwoods. Beiyoodzin halted, and motioned for them all to dismount. Turned 
loose, the horses wandered off to graze the rich carpet of grass along the 
stream. Teddy Bear leaped onto a large rock and stretched out, looking for all 
the world like a lion, keeping guard over his pride. Skip walked over to Nora 
and placed his arm around her shoulders. 
How are you doing? he asked, giving her a squeeze. 
Im okay, she said. You? 
Skip looked around, took a deep breath. A little nervous. But actually, pretty 
good. To be honest, I dont remember feeling better. 
Ill thank you to take your paws off my date, said Smithback, ambling over and 
joining them. Together, they watched as Beiyoodzin untied his medicine kit from 
the saddle strings, examined it briefly, then nodded toward a gentle path that 
led up the side of the hill to a small rounded shoulder of rock. Above, Nora 
could see the rockshelter where their fathers skeleton lay. 
What a beautiful place, Skip murmured. 
Beiyoodzin led the way up the path and over the last little hump of slickrock. 
Nora paused at the top, suddenly reluctant to look inside. Instead, she turned 
and let her gaze fall over the canyon. The rains had brought up a carpet of 
flowersIndian paintbrush, sego lilies, datura, scarlet gilia, desert lupines. 
After much discussion, the two children of Padraic Kelly had decided to leave 
the body where it lay. It was in the redrock country he loved so well, 
overlooking one of the most beautiful and isolated canyons of the Escalante. No 
other gravesite could provide more dignity, or more peace. 
She felt Skips arm around her shoulder again, and she turned at last to face 
the shelter. 
In the dim light of the interior, she could make out her fathers saddle and 
saddlebags carefully lined up along the back wall of the rockshelter, the 
leather cracked and faded with age. Beside them was the turquoise skull, 
beautiful yet vaguely sinister, even here, far from the evil pall of the Rain 
Kiva. Beneath a thin layer of sand lay her fathers bones. In places the wind 
had blown the sand away, revealing bits of rotten cloth, the dull ivory of bone, 
the curve of the cranium; she could see that he had died looking down into the 
valley below. 
Nora stared for a long time. Nobody spoke. Then, slowly, she reached into her 
pocket. Her fingers closed over a small notebook: her fathers journal, taken 
from the body by the witch she had shot and restored to her by Beiyoodzin. She 
opened it and removed a faded envelope she had placed between the pages: the 
letter that had started it all. 
The letter had been addressed to her mother, written just before he had entered 
the city. But the last entry in Padraic Kellys journal had been addressed to 
his children, written after his discovery of the city, in this very rockshelter 
while he lay dying. And now, in the presence of both her father and Skip, Nora 
began to read his last words. 
She stepped forward, stopping at the foot of the grave. The cross was still 
there, two twisted pieces of cedar lashed with a rawhide thong. She felt 
Smithbacks hand come forward to grasp her own, and she returned the pressure 
gratefully. After the horror of the last days at Quivira, and even in his own 
sickness and pain, the writer had been a kind, quiet, and steady presence. He 
had accompanied her to Peter Holroyds memorial in Los Angeles, where she had 
left his own battered copy of Endurance beside the stone marker that stood in 
the stead of a grave: his body had never been found. Smithback had returned with 
her for a memorial service for Enrique Aragon on Lake Powell, when they boated 
out to the site where, beneath a thousand feet of water, Aragons beloved Music 
Temple lay. 
In time, she knew, they would return to Quivira. A handpicked team from the 
Institute, armed with respirators and environmental suits, would make careful 
video documentaries of the site. Sloanes discoverythe micaceous pottery of 
transcendent beauty and valuewould be carefully studied and documented back at 
the Institute, under the direction of Goddard himself. And perhaps, in time, 
Smithback would even write an account of the expeditionor, at least, the part 
of the expedition that would not bring unendurable pain to Goddard. 
She sighed deeply. Quivira would wait for her. There was no chance of its 
location ever being divulged, or becoming public knowledgethe poisonous dust 
would make sure of that. Almost all those who knew of its locationwith the 
exception of the Nankoweapwere now dead. Those who lived, she knew, would keep 
its secret. 
Nora watched as Beiyoodzin leaned over the skeleton, untied the little buckskin 
bag, and bowed his head. Pinching out some yellow cornmeal and pollen, he 
sprinkled it on the body and began a soft, rhythmical chant, beautiful in its 
simple monotony. The others bowed their heads. 
When the chant was done, Beiyoodzin looked at Nora. His eyes were shining, his 
creased face smiling. I thank you, he said, for letting me put this to rest. 
I thank you for myself, and for my people. 
It was Skips turn. He took the letter from Nora, turning it over and over in 
his hands. Then he knelt down, gently smoothed the sand away, and placed it into 
the pocket of his fathers shirt. He remained kneeling for a moment. Then he 
slowly stood up and returned to Noras side. 
Nora took a deep breath, steadied her hands. Then she turned to the final entry 
in her fathers journal and began to read. 
  To my dearest and most wonderful children, Nora and Skip, 

  By the time you read this, I will be gone. I have been stricken with a 
  disease, which I fear I contracted in the city I discovered: the city of 
  Quivira. Although I cannot be sure this will ever reach you, I must believe in 
  my heart that it will. Because I want to speak to you through this journal one 
  last time. 
  If it is within your power, let the great ruins of Quivira lie undisturbed and 
  unknown. It is a place of evil; I know that now, even from my own brief 
  exploration. It may well be the cause of my death, though I do not understand 
  why. Perhaps some knowledge is better left alone, to die and return to the 
  earth, just as we do. 
  I have just one request to make each of you. Skip, please dont drink. It runs 
  in the family, and, I promise you, you wont be able to handle it. I could 
  not. And, Nora, please forgive your mother. I know that in my absence, she may 
  blame me for what has happened. When you are grown, forgiveness will be 
  difficult for you. But remember that, in a way, she was right to blame me. 
  Andin her own wayshe has always loved you deeply. 
  This is a beautiful place to die, children. The night sky is filled with 
  stars; the stream splashes below; a coyote is sounding in a distant canyon. I 
  came here for riches, but the sight of Quivira changed my mind. In fact, I 
  left no mark of my passage there. And I have taken one thing only from it, and 
  that was meant for you, Nora, as proof your father really found the fabled 
  city. For it was there that I learned, for the first time, that I had left my 
  real, my true successesthe two of youfar behind in Santa Fe. 
  I know I have not been a great father, or even a good father, and for that I 
  am truly sorry. There is so much I could have done as a father that I didnt. 
  So let my last act as a father be to tell you this: I love you both. And I 
  will love you always, forever and ever, from eternity to eternity. My love for 
  you burns brighter than all the thousands of stars that carpet the sky above 
  my head. I may die, but my love for you never will. 

  Dad 
Nora fell silent and closed her eyes. For a moment, the entire canyon seemed to 
drop into reverential silence. Then she looked up, shut the notebook, and 
carefully placed it on the ground beside her father. She turned and gave 
Smithback a tearful smile. 
Then the four of them made their way down the faint path, to the waiting horses 
and home. 
 
Authors Note 
The archaeology of this story is speculative in places. However, it is grounded 
in fact. The history of the Anasazi, the mystery of the Chaco collapse and the 
abandonment of the Colorado Plateau, the long-sought evidence of a Mesoamerican 
connection, the use of radar to locate prehistoric roadsas well as the 
cannibalistic and witchcraft practices described hereinare based on actual 
research findings. In addition, one of the authors, Douglas Preston, has 
traveled and lived among southwestern Indian peoples, as recounted in his 
nonfiction work Talking to the Ground. 
The authors made use of information from a number of other publications, the 
most important of which include: Clyde Kluckhohn, Navaho Witchcraft; Blackburn 
and Williamson, Cowboys and Cave Dwellers; Basketmaker Archaeology in Utahs 
Grand Gulch; Crown and Judge, eds., Chaco and Hohokam: Prehistoric Regional 
Sytems in the American Southwest; Kathryn Gabriel, Roads to Center Place: A 
Cultural Atlas of Chaco Canyon and the Anasazi; James McNeley, Holy Wind in 
Navajo Philosophy; David Roberts, In Search of the Old Ones; George Pepper, 
Pueblo Bonito; Hester, Shafer, and Feder, Field Methods in Archaeology; Lynne 
Sebastian, The Chaco Anasazi; Levy, Neutra, and Parker, Hand Trembling, Frenzy 
Witchcraft, and Moth Madness; Mauch Messenger, ed., The Ethics of Collecting 
Cultural Property; Chris Kincaid, ed., Chaco Roads Project, Phase I: A 
Reappraisal of Prehistoric Roads in the San Juan Basin; Tim D. White, 
Prehistoric Cannibalism at Mancos; Christy Turner, Man Corn: Cannibalism and 
Violence in the Prehistoric American Southwest; and Farouk El-Baz, Space Age 
Archaeology, Scientific American, August 1997. 
It should be noted that the Nankoweap tribe is wholly fictitious, as is the 
Santa Fe Archaeological Institute. The witchcraft practices and beliefs 
described herein are not intended to negatively depict or portray the beliefs of 
any existing culture. All the characters, events, and most of the places 
portrayed in this novel are also entirely fictitious products of the authors 
imaginations. 
 
 