The Canyon of Bones by Richard S. Wheeler Page B

directions.”
    â€œYou’re going to the headwaters of the Yellowstone? Where that geyser is that you can set a clock by?” Mercer asked, an edge to his questions.
    â€œWhy yes, it’s now or never before the snow flies.”
    â€œMy man here tells me it’s not passable. Rushing rivers and all that.”
    â€œFor a man with pack mules it is. I understand I’ll have no problem if I do it on foot.”
    â€œMy guide wouldn’t take me there,” Mercer said.
    Skye kept silent. Mercer’s statement was not complete or true, but Mercer neither finished nor corrected it.
    â€œAll I have to do is follow this splendid river right into the bosom of the geysers, and catch fat trout all the way,” Nutmeg said. “Simple enough, eh? Easy way in and out. Why, I’m told once I’m up there I’ll see steam rising from geysers everywhere I look. Imagine it. Steam hissing and spitting out of a hole in the rocks. The earth belching a column of hot water and thundering like a volcano. I’m going to take some temperatures, and test the waters for minerals. A little sulphur, I suppose. Who knows what else? I’ve a kit, you know, a regular laboratory. It’s time someone did some work on the geysers.”
    â€œAll alone. Don’t you prefer company?”
    Nutmeg paused, eyed Mercer, and slowly shook his head.
“I’m a bit of a loner, Mister Mercer. I take my time, go where my curiosity leads me.”
    â€œWell, those geysers aren’t the only things in the whole area worth writing about.”
    Nutmeg smiled. “I should think there would be wonders everywhere. But who am I to say? This gentleman, Skye here, is the best man to steer you. That’s what I learned in St. Louis.”
    Mercer responded with one of those toothy smiles.
    The Absarokas were restless, impatient to move, unable to understand all of this palaver. After much consultation they headed downriver. Victoria watched her people go, her face a mask. The Indians forded the Yellowstone at a broad gravelly shallows, the horses splashing through hock-deep water, and continued down the north bank until at last they rounded a bend and vanished. Now there was only silence, bright sun, crows and magpies, and a sparkling river.
    â€œMister Skye, I’ve changed my mind,” said Mercer. “I think I’ll just tag along with Professor Nutmeg. He can teach me lots of things. We’ll wagon most of the way. Look at this flat. The river’s running through a wide valley, no trouble at all to take a wagon upstream.”
    Skye stared sharply. Professor Nutmeg had offered no such invitation. “I thought you wanted a look at the fossil bones, Mister Mercer.”
    â€œBones? What bones? What are you talking about, man?” Mercer seemed much put out.
    â€œFossil bones, Mister Skye?” asked Nutmeg.
    â€œMy wife’s people know of some, north of here in the Missouri breaks and a few other places. Mister Mercer wished to be taken there.”
    Mercer dismissed it all. “Oh, I expect they’ll be just a few
trilobites, ammonites, little stuff caught in a limestone bluff.”
    â€œDamn big bones,” said Victoria. “Giants from the old days. My people are afraid of them. Their spirits live there, don’t like no trouble.”
    â€œMadam, I don’t believe it is possible to find large bones in fossil form. The geologic pressures are too great,” Mercer said.
    Nutmeg was absorbing all of this with acute interest. “That would be interesting, looking at fossil bones, Mister Skye. I daresay, some recent discoveries have excited the whole world of natural science. Bones of ancient creatures twenty feet high, giant lizards, so they seem. Obviously extinct.”
    â€œNothing around here, Professor. Wrong strata. Too recent,” Mercer said. “A look at the fossils is just a side trip. We’re really having a hard look at some of