“I thought your main interest was pre-Mayan, Dr. Ashe.” Travis squatted on his heels, brought out a smoldering twig from the fire to light his smoke, and was inwardly satisfied to note that he had at last startled the archaeologist with that observation.
“You know me!” He made a challenge of the words.
Travis shook his head. “I know Doctor Prentiss Morgan.”
“So that’s it! You’re one of his bright boys!”
“No.” That was short, a bitten-off warning not to probe. And the other man must have been sensitive enough to understand at once, for he asked no other question.
“Chow ready, Ashe?” asked the man with the com. Behind him the youngster Ashe had called “Ross” came to the fire, reached out for the frying pan. Travis stared at his hand. The flesh was seamed with scars and once before the Apache had seen healed wounds like those— from a deep and painful burn. He looked away hurriedly as the other apportioned food onto plates, and he got his own lunch from his saddlebags.
They ate in silence, an oddly companionable silence. The tension of the first minutes of their meeting eased from the range rider. His interest in these men, his desire to know more about them and what they were doing here, dampened his annoyance at the way he had been captured. That young Ross was a slick tracker. He must have had experience at such games to trap Travis so neatly. The Apache longed for a closer look at the other’s weapon. He was certain it was not a conventional revolver. And die very fact that Ross wore it ready for use argued that he was on guard against expected attack.
There was a difference between Ashe and Ross, and the man operating the com, which became plainer the longer Travis studied the three covertly. Ashe and Ross might be of a different breed from the third man. Their alikeness went deeper than just their heavy tans, their silent walk, their watchfulness and complete awareness of their surroundings. The more Travis watched them absorbed as they were in the very natural business of eating and then policing camp, the more sure he was that they had not come to this place to explore cliff ruins, that they were engaged in some more serious and perhaps deadly action.
He asked no questions, content to let the others now make the first move. It was the com unit which broke the peace of the small camp. A warning cackle brought its tender on the run. He snapped on earphones and then relayed a message.
“Procedure has to be stepped up. They’ll start bringing the stuff in tonight!”
2
“WELL?” Ross’s glance swept over Travis, settled on Ashe.
“Anybody know you were coming here?” the older man asked the range rider.
“I came out to check all the springs. If I don’t return to the ranch within a reasonable time, they’ll hunt me up, yes.” Travis saw no reason to enlarge upon that with two other bits of information. One, that Whelan would not be unduly alarmed if he did not return within twenty-four hours, and the other that he was supposed to be in the brakes to the south.
“You say that you know Prentiss Morgan—how well?” “I was in one of his classes at the U—for a while.” “Your name?” “Fox. Travis Fox.”
The com operator cut in, again consulting his map. “The Double A belongs to a Fox—“
“My brother. But I work for him, that’s all.”
“Grant”—Ashe turned now to the com man—“mark this top priority and send it to Kelgarries. Ask him to check Fox-all the way.”
“We can ship him out when the first load comes in, chief. They will store him at headquarters as long as you want,” Ross offered, as if Travis had ceased to be a person and was now only an annoying problem.
Ashe shook his head. “Look here, Fox, we don’t want to make it hard for you. It’s pure bad luck that you trailed in here today. Frankly, we can’t afford to attract any attention to our activities at present. But if you’ll give me your word not to try and go over the hill, well leave it at that for the present.” The last thing Travis wanted to do was leave. His curiosity was thoroughly aroused, and he had no intention of going unless they removed him bodily. And that, he promised himself silently, would take a lot of doing. “It’s a deal.”
But Ashe was already on another track. “You say you did some digging over there. What did you uncover?”
“The usual stuff—pottery, a few arrowheads. The site is probably pre-Columbian. These mountains are filled with such ruins.”
“What did you expect, chief?” Ross asked.
“Well, there was a slim chance,” the other returned ambiguously. “This climate preserves. We’ve found baskets, fabrics, fragile things lasting—“
“I’ll take the bones and baskets—in place of some other things.” Ross held his scarred hand against his chest and rubbed its seamed flesh with the other, as if soothing a wound which still ached. “Better get out the lights if the boys are going to drop in tonight.”
The pinto continued to graze in the center of the meadow while Ross and Ashe paced out two lines and spaced small plastic canisters at intervals. Travis, -watching, guessed they were marking a landing site. But it was twice the size needed by a ‘copter such as the one now standing beyond. Then Ashe settled with his back against a tree, reading the leaves of a bulging notebook, while Ross brought out a roll of felt and opened it.
What he uncovered was a set of five stone points, beautifully fashioned, too long to be arrowheads. And Travis recognized their distinctive shape, the pattern of those flaked edges! Far better workmanship than the later productions of his own people, yet much older. He had held their like in his hands, admired the artistry of the forgotten weapon maker who had patiently chipped them into being. Folsom points! They were intended to head the throwing spears of men who went up so equipped against mammoth, giant bison, cave bear, and Alaskan lion.
“Folsom man here?” He saw Ross glance toward him, Ashe’s attention lift from the notebook.
Ross picked up the last point in that row, held it out to Travis. He took it carefully. The head was perfect, fine. He turned it over between his fingers and then paused—not sure of what he knew, or why.
“Fake.”
Yet was it? He had handled Folsom points and some, in spite of their great age, had been as perfectly preserved as this one. Only—this did not feel right. He could give no better reason for his judgment than that.
“What makes you think so?” Ashe wanted to know. “That one was certified by Stefferds.” Ross took up the second point from the line. But Travis, instead of being confounded by that certification from the authority on prehistoric American remains, remained sure of his own appraisal. “Not the right feel to it.”
Ashe nodded to Ross, who picked up a third stone head, offering it in exchange for the one Travis still held. The new point was, to all examination by eye, a copy of the first. Yet, as he ran a forefinger along the fine serrations of the flaked edge, Travis knew that this was the real thing, and he said so.
“Well, well.” Ross studied his store of points. “Something new had been added,” he informed the empty space before him.
“It’s been done before,” Ashe said. “Give him your gun.” For a moment it seemed as if Ross might refuse, and he frowned as he drew the weapon. The Apache, putting down the Folsom point with care, took the weapon and examined it closely. Though its general shape was that of a revolver, there were enough differences to make it totally new to Travis. He sighted it at a tree trunk and found that when it was held correctly for firing, the grip was not altogether comfortable, as if the hand for which it had been fashioned was not quite like his own.
There was another difference growing in his mind the longer he held the weapon. He did not like that odd sensation.
Travis laid the gun down beside the flint point, regarding them both with wide and astonished eyes. From them he had gained a common impression of age—a wade expanse of time separating him from the makers of those two very dissimilar weapons. For the Folsom point that feeling was correct. But why did the gun give him that same answer? He had come to rely on that queer unnamed sense of his—its apparent failure now was disconcerting. “How old is the gun?” asked Ashe.
“It can’t be—“ Travis protested against the verdict of his sense. “I won’t believe that it is as old—or older—than the spearhead!”
“Brother”—Ross regarded him with an odd expression— “you can call ’em!” He reholstered the gun. “So now we have a time guesser, chief.”