The Canyon of Bones by Richard S. Wheeler Page A

ran through a broad meadow, hemmed by distant bluffs. Even as the Absarokas
pulled up on the south bank to water and rest their ponies, they were hailed by a lone traveler heading west, a white man in a gray slouch hat, leading two pack mules.
    The Absarokas greeted him with curiosity and asked Skye to translate. Graves Mercer and his teamsters headed toward the stranger even as the Crows flocked around him. The meeting was all smiles and the stranger doffed his slouch hat time and again, his salute to these people.
    The man actually was middle-aged with a trimmed gray beard, spectacles, watery blue eyes, brown canvas clothing, and laced boots.
    â€œThis is a surprise,” he said. “Nutmeg here. Samuel Storrs Nutmeg at your service.”
    The man halted his pack mules and acknowledged the collecting crowd. The man’s way of clipped and precise speaking awakened curiosity in Skye. Was he a Yank?
    â€œI’m Mister Skye,” he said. “My wives Mary and Victoria. This is Graves Duplessis Mercer and his assistants, Floyd Corporal and Silas Winding. And I shall introduce you to our headmen directly.”
    â€œMister Skye, are you? I’ve been advised that you’re the man to hire if one needs a guide. I made some inquiries.”
    â€œI seem to have acquired a reputation, deserved or not,” Skye said. “And you, sir?”
    â€œA Connecticut Yankee. New Haven, actually. I’m a professor,” said Nutmeg. He turned to the explorer. “And you, Mister Mercer. I know your work.”
    â€œAnd I know yours, Professor. Yale College is it?”
    â€œIndeed it is. What a stroke! A pair of wanderers out in the American desert.”
    Skye peered about, looking for evidence of a desert and
finding none. The meadow was mostly sun-cured tan grasses waving in the breezes.
    â€œWhat brings you to this remote place?” Mercer asked the stranger.
    â€œScience,” the man replied. “I am doing a bit of exploration. Maybe you’ve read a paper or two of mine. Mostly academic journals, my own little sallies against orthodoxy. Took two years off, and spending my last dollar too. I’m heading for the geyser country. You know what’s up there? Obsidian. The stuff has been traded all over the continent. There are regular work yards there, where it was flaked into arrowheads and spear points. It seems to be a prized item among the tribes. I’ve traced it to the Ohio River valley.”
    â€œNatural science! Why, that’s why I’m here.”
    â€œI don’t care to pigeonhole myself,” Nutmeg said. “I’m the proverbial square peg. A bit of anthropology, a bit of paleontology, a bit of geology, a bit of zoology, and a dose of botany.”
    â€œYou have no guide?”
    Nutmeg smiled. “Maps and a compass. Two good mules. A field glass. Some interviews a few weeks ago with the mountain men in St. Louis. Some notes and sketches of landmarks. I can’t afford a guide, Mister Mercer, not on my salary. So I ramble along quite on my own.”
    â€œQuite so. A brave man, sir. I congratulate you.”
    Skye intervened. “I’d like you to meet our headmen, Mister Nutmeg. They’re waiting here, wishing to greet you.”
    â€œVery good,” Nutmeg said.
    Skye, translating, introduced the traveler to Chief Robber and the headmen as well as dozens of Absarokas, who welcomed him. Some of them wanted to know what this lone traveler did and Skye responded that he was a collector
of plants and animals and stones. Very like the other one, Mercer.
    And in turn, he translated for Nutmeg. “The Absarokas are heading east, downriver, into buffalo country. It’ll soon be time for the fall hunt and the buffalo usually are thickest east of here. You are welcome to join them.”
    â€œAh, a pity. I was hoping they might join me for a trip to the geysers but we seem to be heading in opposite