Near Herzog Dam, Route 5 passes through a cut. He went down to four thousand feet for a better look. The snowfields had been abandoned to winter, and nothing moved in all that landscape save a lone pickup, approaching from the east. It was possible the cut disguised an ancient harbor, and he flew overhead several times without coming to a firm conclusion. Unfortunately, if this was it, he doubted there would be much left to look at. He photographed it and flew on.
He found another potential landfall south of Walhalla, off Route 32.
And another candidate in Canada.
Three possibilities in all.
The site at Walhalla was closest to the Lasker farm. That one first, he thought, turning east.
He called April from the plane. “No big thing,” he said. “But it’s a possibility.”
“Sure.” She didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic. “Anything’s better than what we’re doing now. Who owns the land?”
“I can find out, if you want me to pursue it.”
“Yes,” she said. “Go ahead. Get us permission to look around.”
Tom met him at Fort Moxie International. He was equally unimpressed, but he shrugged and took the same tack. “We can ride over now, if you want,” he said.
They drove west on Route 11, past the farm, and out to the edge of the Pembina Escarpment, where they turned south on Route 32. The hills and ridges on the west side of the road formed a solid chain, with clumps of forest scattered across their summits and piles of rock at ground level. Walhalla nestled in this section, a prosperous prairie town of frame houses, lumberyards, and feed stores.
Ten minutes south of town, the trees parted, and they were looking into a horseshoe canyon.
“Johnson’s Ridge,” said Lasker.
The canyon walls were rocky and almost sheer on the south and west. The northern slope rose more gradually toward the summit. It was heavily wooded, as was the valley floor. Two men were stopped just off the road, cutting firewood, stacking it in the back of a pickup.
The canyon was two hundred yards wide at its mouth and maybe twice as deep. It narrowed by about a third toward the rear wall. An access road left the highway, plunged into the trees, and climbed the northern ridge in a series of hairpin turns.
Lasker pulled over and stopped. The sun was sinking toward the top of the western promontory, which was lower by fifty to a hundred feet than the summits on either side. “Where was the water level?” he asked.
“Depends on which period you’re talking about. It was never high enough that the southern side could have served conveniently as a harbor. But for a long time you could have taken a boat up there”—he indicated the rear wall—“tied up at your dock or whatever, and stepped out onto dry land.”
Lasker squinted through the sunlight. A squadron of birds, too far away for him to see clearly, cruised over the summit. “Could be,” he said. “I think it belongs to the Indians,” he added.
Arky Redfern’s law offices were located in a professional building on the outskirts of Cavalier, the county seat. He was flanked by an orthodontist and a financial advisor. The building was flat gray slate with maybe twenty parking places, about half of which were filled when Lasker pulled in and found an open slot next to the handicapped space.
Inside, a brisk young woman looked up from a computer terminal. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said. “Can I help you?”
She took their names and picked up a phone. Fifteen minutes later they were ushered into an interior office dominated by a mahogany desk, leather furniture, and an array of glass-door bookcases. The walls to either side were crowded with plaques and certificates; the one behind the desk was conspicuously reserved for a hunting bow and a spread of five arrows.
Arky Redfern was a lean young man in a gray tweed jacket. He was of about average height, with dark, distant eyes, copper skin, and thick brown hair. Just out of law school, Max thought. Redfern came through an inner door, greeted Lasker with easy familiarity, asking about his family, and shook Max’s hand.
“Now,” he said as they settled down to business, “what exactly is it you gentlemen want to do on Johnson’s Ridge?”
As they’d agreed, Lasker took the lead. “We’d like to have permission to conduct a ground-radar search. To look for artifacts.”
The lawyer cocked his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “Really? Why? What would you expect to find?”
Lasker said, “It’s a general survey. We want to see if there’s anything up there. And we’d agree not to remove anything.”
Redfern took a pair of spectacles from his jacket pocket and fitted them carefully over his eyes. “Why don’t you tell me straight out what you’re looking for? Is there another yacht up there, Tom?”
Lasker looked at Max. “We’re looking at places all over the area, Mr. Redfern,” Max said. “You can never tell where you might find something.”
Lasker mouthed, “Trust him,” and Max sighed. Trust a lawyer? It flew in the face of his most cherished principles.
Redfern was apparently not satisfied with Max’s answer. He seemed to be still waiting for a response.
“We think,” said Max, “there might be some objects left over from the Paleolithic.”
The lawyer’s eyes narrowed, and he turned toward Lasker. “This is connected with the boat, Tom? Right?”
“Yes,” said Lasker. “There’s an outside possibility, and that’s all it is, that something might be buried on top of Johnson’s Ridge. It’s a long shot.”
Redfern nodded. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what you know about the yacht?” he said.
“It’s been in the newspapers,” said Max.
“Nothing’s been in the newspapers. Old boat dug up on a farm. It’s in very good condition, suggesting that it hadn’t been in the ground more than a week. And it lights up at night.” He stared across at the two men. “You want access to Johnson’s Ridge? Tell me what’s going on.”
“Can we get a guarantee of confidentiality?” asked Lasker.
“I would like to be free to confer with the chairman if need be. But I can assure you that otherwise what you tell me will go no farther.”
“Who’s the chairman?” asked Max.
“The head of the local Sioux,” said Lasker. “Name’s James Walker.”
“The head of the Sioux is a chairman?”
“Movie Indians have chiefs,” said Redfern. “Now tell me about the boat.”
Max nodded. “It might be a lot older than it looks.” A tractor-trailer went by and shook the building. Max described April’s findings, watching Redfern while he talked, expecting at every moment to be dismissed as a crank.
Instead he was heard without comment or visible reaction. When he’d finished, Redfern sat silently for a few moments. “You’re suggesting,” he said, “someone sailed a yacht on Lake Agassiz?”
When people put it like that, it always sounded dumb. “We’re not sure,” Max said. “It’s possible.”
“Okay.” Redfern opened a drawer, and took out a piece of memo paper. “How much are you willing to pay for the privilege?”
Lasker pushed back in his chair. “Since we won’t be doing any damage to the land, Arky, we’d hoped you’d just let us look around.”
Redfern nodded. “Of course. And I hope you understand, Tom, that if it were up to me, I’d say yes without hesitation. But the tribal council has its rules, and I have no alternative except to abide by them.” He looked at his visitors.
“I guess we’d be prepared to invest a hundred,” said Max.
Redfern nodded yes, not yes to the offer, but yes to some hidden impression of his own. “How exactly do you intend to conduct the search?”
“We’ll be using a ground-radar unit,” said Max.
Redfern wrote on his sheet of paper. His brow wrinkled, he made additional notes. Then he looked up. “It’s hard for me to see how I can accept less than a thousand.”