The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear
Authors: W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear
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joking?”
Sylvia crossed her heart. “I swear.” She had a curious expression on her lean face, half excitement, half fear. She’d tucked her brown hair up beneath a broad-brimmed straw hat. Dirt streaked her sweaty cheeks.
Before Dusty could climb out of his unit, he saw Dale trotting across the site, his battered fedora pulled down to shield his face from the fierce glare of the summer sun. He might be seventy-two years old, but he could keep up with the kids. Maybe not when it came to shoveling out a kiva, but he made sure the records were being kept, along with the pit logs, artifact bags, and other minutia of an expanding dig. The hot air left his thick gray hair dry and dust-coated. He wore jeans and a faded red cowboy shirt.
Dusty carefully braced his hands on the pit wall and lifted himself out. Drenched blond hair framed his tanned face and glued itself to his cheeks. Every part of him spilled sand: his green T-shirt, khaki shorts, and hiking boots. Grains even trickled from behind his left ear. He brushed at them as he headed toward Dale.
Chaco Canyon at this time of year could be brutal. Either the sun roasted you, or the thunderstorms filled your excavation units until they resembled small square lakes.
He passed eight other excavation units, dug in a line between his and Sylvia’s pits.
Michall, occupied with cleaning up around what appeared to be a twelve-year-old girl, didn’t even seem to notice when Dusty passed.
Steve Sanders, however, stood up and wiped sweat from his rich black skin. He’d been patiently brushing sand from a black-and-white pot rim. “Another woman?” Steve asked.
“I’ll let you know,” Dusty said.
Plastic bags filled with artifacts—mostly lithic debitage, the chips left over from stone tool making—and a large number of Mesa Verde black-on-white potsherds—nestled on the edge of Steve’s pit. The sherds probably dated the site to the Big House Period, from A.D. 1250 to 1300, when migrants from the Mesa Verde region of southern Colorado had reoccupied the canyon, but Dusty didn’t consider that definitive yet. A great deal about this site left him puzzled.
He veered wide around the bags and stepped carefully over taut strings until he reached Sylvia’s unit. Dusty knelt beside Dale. Fifty centimeters below, Sylvia bent over a partly exposed human skull. The frontal bone, and the superior borders of the orbits, the eye sockets, were visible in the sand.
Dale shoved his fedora back on his head. “Good God, that makes eight so far.”
“Another female,” Dusty added. “At least that’s my guess from the brow ridge and the bossing of the frontal bone. The others have ranged in age from ten to forty-five. I wager this one will, too.”
Dale’s thick gray brows lowered. “Where is that Indian monitor we asked for?”
“I talked to Maggie yesterday. She promises the monitor is coming. Probably after our next break.”
Dale frowned at the skull. “Well, she’d better hurry. Do you want to lay bets on the condition of this one?”
Dusty brushed sweaty blond hair from his forehead. “No, I think I’d lose.”
Dusty eased over the side of the pit, careful not to disturb any of the artifacts Sylvia had pedestaled, meaning she had cleaned away the dirt, but left them in place on a short pedestal of sand while she continued digging. Dusty said, “Sylvia, hand me your trowel.”
She delivered it with a flourish. “All yours, boss man.”
He crouched to the left of the skull and began removing thin layers of sand—definitely a woman’s delicate brow ridge, not that he knew much about this physical anthropology stuff, but that’s what it looked like to him. Elevated concepts of human anatomy, and evolution, didn’t much interest him.
He reached for one of the brushes near Sylvia’s feet and gently swept the dirt away.
When the first fractures appeared, Dale whispered, “They’re all alike. What on earth happened here?”
Dusty kept brushing,
Sylvia crossed her heart. “I swear.” She had a curious expression on her lean face, half excitement, half fear. She’d tucked her brown hair up beneath a broad-brimmed straw hat. Dirt streaked her sweaty cheeks.
Before Dusty could climb out of his unit, he saw Dale trotting across the site, his battered fedora pulled down to shield his face from the fierce glare of the summer sun. He might be seventy-two years old, but he could keep up with the kids. Maybe not when it came to shoveling out a kiva, but he made sure the records were being kept, along with the pit logs, artifact bags, and other minutia of an expanding dig. The hot air left his thick gray hair dry and dust-coated. He wore jeans and a faded red cowboy shirt.
Dusty carefully braced his hands on the pit wall and lifted himself out. Drenched blond hair framed his tanned face and glued itself to his cheeks. Every part of him spilled sand: his green T-shirt, khaki shorts, and hiking boots. Grains even trickled from behind his left ear. He brushed at them as he headed toward Dale.
Chaco Canyon at this time of year could be brutal. Either the sun roasted you, or the thunderstorms filled your excavation units until they resembled small square lakes.
He passed eight other excavation units, dug in a line between his and Sylvia’s pits.
Michall, occupied with cleaning up around what appeared to be a twelve-year-old girl, didn’t even seem to notice when Dusty passed.
Steve Sanders, however, stood up and wiped sweat from his rich black skin. He’d been patiently brushing sand from a black-and-white pot rim. “Another woman?” Steve asked.
“I’ll let you know,” Dusty said.
Plastic bags filled with artifacts—mostly lithic debitage, the chips left over from stone tool making—and a large number of Mesa Verde black-on-white potsherds—nestled on the edge of Steve’s pit. The sherds probably dated the site to the Big House Period, from A.D. 1250 to 1300, when migrants from the Mesa Verde region of southern Colorado had reoccupied the canyon, but Dusty didn’t consider that definitive yet. A great deal about this site left him puzzled.
He veered wide around the bags and stepped carefully over taut strings until he reached Sylvia’s unit. Dusty knelt beside Dale. Fifty centimeters below, Sylvia bent over a partly exposed human skull. The frontal bone, and the superior borders of the orbits, the eye sockets, were visible in the sand.
Dale shoved his fedora back on his head. “Good God, that makes eight so far.”
“Another female,” Dusty added. “At least that’s my guess from the brow ridge and the bossing of the frontal bone. The others have ranged in age from ten to forty-five. I wager this one will, too.”
Dale’s thick gray brows lowered. “Where is that Indian monitor we asked for?”
“I talked to Maggie yesterday. She promises the monitor is coming. Probably after our next break.”
Dale frowned at the skull. “Well, she’d better hurry. Do you want to lay bets on the condition of this one?”
Dusty brushed sweaty blond hair from his forehead. “No, I think I’d lose.”
Dusty eased over the side of the pit, careful not to disturb any of the artifacts Sylvia had pedestaled, meaning she had cleaned away the dirt, but left them in place on a short pedestal of sand while she continued digging. Dusty said, “Sylvia, hand me your trowel.”
She delivered it with a flourish. “All yours, boss man.”
He crouched to the left of the skull and began removing thin layers of sand—definitely a woman’s delicate brow ridge, not that he knew much about this physical anthropology stuff, but that’s what it looked like to him. Elevated concepts of human anatomy, and evolution, didn’t much interest him.
He reached for one of the brushes near Sylvia’s feet and gently swept the dirt away.
When the first fractures appeared, Dale whispered, “They’re all alike. What on earth happened here?”
Dusty kept brushing,
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