They ate in oddly companionable silence. The first tension 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 had to be experienced to trap Travis so neatly. The Apache longed for a closer look at the other’s weapon. It was not a conventional revolver. Wearing it ready for use said that they expected attack—from whom?
The longer Travis studied the three men he sensed a distinction between Ashe and Ross on one hand and Grant, the com operator on the other. Ashe and Ross were alike in more than their heavy tans, their silent walk, their keen watchfulness. As Travis watched them go through the natural business of eating and policing camp, the surer he was that they had not come to this place to explore cliff ruins. They had to be 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 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 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’ll store him at headquarters as long as you want,” Ross offered, as if Travis had ceased to be a person and was merely 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, we’ll leave it at that for the present.”
The last thing Travis wanted to do was leave. His curiosity was thoroughly aroused. 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. These mountain ruins are filled with such things.”
“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. He rubbed its seamed flesh with the other, as if soothing a wound that 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 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. Travis recognized their distinctive shape by the pattern of their 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 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 the 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. He frowned as he drew the weapon. The Apache, putting down the Folsom point with care, took the weapon and examined it closely. Though it looked much like a revolver, Travis noted enough differences to set it totally apart. He sighted it at a tree trunk and found that when held correctly for firing, the grip was not altogether comfortable. The hand for which it had been fashioned was not quite like his own.
Another difference grew 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, staring at them with astonished eyes. From both of them he had gained a common impression of age—a wide expanse of time separating him from the makers of those two very dissimilar weapons. For the Folsom point that feeling was correct. But how could the gun give him the same answer? He had come to rely on that peculiar unnamed sense of his. Its apparent failure now was disconcerting.
“How old is the gun?” asked Ashe.
“It can’t be—” Travis protested. “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.”
“Such a gift is not too uncommon,” Ashe commented absently. “I’ve seen it in operation before.”
“But a gun can’t be that old!” Travis still objected. Ross’s left eyebrow raised in a sardonic arc as he gave a half-smile.
“That’s all you know about it, brother,” he observed. “New recruit?” That was addressed to Ashe. The latter was frowning, but at Ross’s inquiry he smiled with a warmth that for a second or two made Travis uncomfortable. It so patently advertised that those two were a long-established team, shutting him outside.
“Don’t rush things, boy.” Ashe stood up and went over to the com unit. “Any news from the front?”
“Cackle-cackle, yacketty-yak,” snorted the operator. “Soon as I tune out one band interference, we hit another. Someday maybe they’ll make these gadgets so they’ll operate without overloading a guy’s eardrums. No, nothing for us yet.”
Travis wanted to ask questions, a lot of them. But he was also sure that most would receive evasive answers. He tried to fit the gun into the rest of his jigsaw of surmises, hints, and guesses, and found it wouldn’t. But he forgot that when Ashe sat down once more and began to talk archaeologist’s shop. At first Travis only listened, but soon he was being drawn more and more into answering, into giving opinions and once or twice daring to contradict the other. Apache lore, cliff ruins, Folsom man—Ashe’s conversation ranged widely. It was only after Travis had been led to talking freely with the pent-up eagerness of one who has been denied expression for too long, that he understood the other man must have been testing his knowledge.