LC 02 - Questionable Remains by Beverly Connor

connected to modern-day tribes?"
    "We are connected. Who else are we related to?"
    "You know what I mean. There are many tribes and many
sites. Will you think about it?"
    "Fair enough. It is also fair that I tell you that I won't
change my mind on this." He started his truck, waiting for
her to get in her Rover before he drove onto the road.
    Lindsay walked to her Land Rover and climbed in. She
had certainly made a lot of enemies in the past few months
simply by doing her job. Maybe she was arrogant and
manipulative. Maybe she should rethink her philosophy.
Maybe bones didn't speak to her. Maybe she was wrong.
She turned the key and followed John to Caleb's.
    Caleb's was a combination grocery, garage, and gas station. Lindsay bought gas, filled her ice chest, and picked up
a few snacks for the road. John took her tire to the mechanic on duty for her.
    "Caleb has a spare tire that'll fit your Rover," John told
Lindsay as she loaded up her supplies. "He's putting it on the wheel now. You need to get another one when you can,
but this will do for now."

    "Thanks," she said. "I appreciate your help."
    John looked into her eyes for a moment, then at her
Atlanta Braves baseball cap. He took it off her head and
threw it into the trash. Lindsay stood openmouthed while
John went to his truck and came back with a West Builders
cap and put it on her head. He went back to his truck,
climbed in, and drove off.

    Esteban Calderon had fled the massacre, stopping only to pick up
the men who guarded the provisions and the last two of the valuable pigs they had begun with. He had pushed his men hard, wan ting to get far from the area, afraid that Piaquay might somehow
send a plea for help to an ally village, that Indian reinforcements
might attack and defeat his men in their weakened condition.
Finally, Diego, an old family friend, had forced Calderon to stop
and rest.
    "The men can go no farther, estan cansados," Diego implored.
"They need to heal their wounds. You are getting a fever, Don
Calderon. We'll be safe here in these mountains. I have found a
shelter. There is water nearby. We can camp there and be safe."
    The rock shelter was like a small cave, ten feet by twenty feet,
with a stream nearby. Diego cleared a place toward the cooler rear
of the shelter for Calderon to rest while the men, wounded, hungry, and irritable, made camp. At least the mountains were cooler, but the thick green flora everywhere and the damp humus smell
were suffocating. The cries of the birds were strange and eerie to
their ears. Indians signaled to each other by mimicking the birdcalls, so the Spaniards were never sure whether the cries were from
birds or from their enemy. Diego made the decision to kill one of
their remaining pigs. Good food would calm their nerves and make
them cheerful or, at least, not mutinous.

    Calderon experienced more searing pain than lie had ever
known. He sat under the shelter of rocks on a bed of leaves and
blankets, wheezing the thick air of the deep forest, tasting the foul
taste of the weeping, infected wound in his mouth. He had lost
nearly all his upper back teeth, some at the time of the injury, others one by one, pushed out by the inflammation. The only merciful thing about his injury was that the arrow had miraculously
grazed only the top of his tongue, rather than severing it. The
aroma of a pig cooking met his nostrils and brought with it a new
wave of pain as his mouth responded to the memory of succulent
meat. He groaned.
    Diego brought a fresh warmed cloth to lay over his face.
Diego's old hands were deft and gentle. The warmth soothed
Calderon enough that he could concentrate on his hatred.
Sacrilego pagano, he thought. These savages knew nothing of
the value of gold and silver. They only knew to pound it into
ornaments. Salvajes, estupidos. Valuing their gold trinkets
more than their own families. He showed them. He wasn't finished showing them.
    Diego brought him a drink,