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“I can almost feel their spirits,” Miranda whispered, kneeling and brushing the floor with her fingertips. “And just look at these dirt floors. They are as hard-packed as if they were composed of granite.”

Longarm ran his fingers down one of the old pine door frames worn smooth by the touch of countless hands over countless centuries. He inhaled deeply, feeling the aura of a long-lost people whose daily life he could not begin to imagine. Had they lived in these small, dim dungeons only during the coldest months of winter, and then lived outdoors the remainder of the year? Had each of these rooms had fires for warmth, and if so, where would the smoke escape and why weren’t there soot marks on the ceilings? Were these cold dirt floors once covered with animal skins, and did laughter resound through these stone catacombs as children played, women worked, and men went out to hunt? Probably.

Longarm marveled at the engineering and industry of these people. He did not expect to find artifacts because they would all have been picked clean by the discoverers and the first tourists. Yet he could not help but feel that, if he had but a few hours to spare, he could probe just a little here and there and be assured of making his own discoveries. Perhaps a burial site or a prized Anasazi weapon hidden in some crevice. Or a perfect piece of pottery such as he had seen at Laird’s museum tucked secretly away into some yet undiscovered niche or cranny in the stone walls.

Miranda shuddered. “I don’t understand why these people didn’t build window holes for sunlight,” she said.

“My guess would be that windows would have allowed more cold winter air and wind to get inside.”

“You’re probably right, but I need sunlight.”

“There’s a doorway in the next compartment,” Longarm told her. “We can climb out there.”

They exited into what Longarm guessed was once a second-story courtyard where women probably ground corn and prepared most of their meals. The enclosure was rectangular and about forty by sixty feet, sided by the crumbling remains of what had been third-story rooms. In one corner of the courtyard lay the ashes of a recent campfire, which Longarm judged to be a sad and irreverent reminder of his own far more acquisitive culture. The shards of broken whiskey bottles and the rusting tin cans made his lips curl with contempt.

“Plunderers,” he said, pointing to a large and offensive hole in the courtyard that someone had recently dug in hope of finding valuable artifacts.

“It’s a travesty,” Miranda said, “that anyone and everyone can just come up here and begin digging and tearing up these ancient ruins.”

“You’re right. When I return to Denver, I’m going to see what can be done to get Mesa Verde federal protection. These sites ought to be preserved for future generations.”

“I wonder if whoever dug this area up found anything especially valuable.”

“I hope not,” Longarm said, moving off to examine what he knew was called a kiva, an underground ceremonial chamber.

The kiva was impressive despite the fact that its roof had collapsed and the chamber was filled with rubble. Longarm could see the remains of what had once been a ladder. It was now rotted and broken, but still recognizable. A few minutes later, he climbed up to the pinnacle of a ruined tower, where he had a good view in all directions. Through the trees, he could see more ruins, and that made him realize that this mesa-top had probably served as the home for hundreds, perhaps even thousands of Anasazi.

Why, an archaeologist could spend his entire career up here discovering and excavating these ancient ruins, most of which must be hidden in these pinyon pine forests and buried just under the surface.

They spent more than an hour poking around in the ruins, and could easily have spent days. Miranda was especially excited when she found two very distinct petroglyphs where an ancient storyteller had once etched images of hunters and their quarry onto the surface of rocks.

“We’d better push on,” Longarm suggested. “I’ve a feeling that there are dozens of sites like this to be explored. However, I really would like to see a cliff dwelling before it gets too dark.”

“All right,” Miranda said. “I wonder where our mysterious archaeologists are camped.”

“I don’t know,” Longarm said. “From what I’ve learned, there are several mesas up here, all divided by deep, tree-choked canyons. It’s in those canyons that we will find the cliff dwellings. I’d guess that’s also where we’re most likely to find the Harvard archaeologists.”

“It’s too bad that we didn’t have time to get that telegram from Billy Vail that would tell us if they are legitimate.”

“I’m sure Billy’s telegram will be waiting for us when we return to Cortez. In the meantime, I think we’ll be able to figure out if Barker and Lucking are pretenders or not.”

They rode, seeing, and even passing close by, many crumbling ruins. Despite Miranda’s protestations that they linger to explore the mesa-top for a while, Longarm insisted that they keep moving until they came upon the cliff dwellings.

“They’ll be time enough to poke around up here once we find Cliff Palace and some of the other cliff dwellings,” he assured her.

“There had better be,” Miranda fussed, “or I’m going to be pretty upset-“

“Well, I can’t help that,” Longarm said with asperity. “You know that I’m up here on official business.”

“I know,” Miranda replied. “But-“

“There!” Longarm said, pointing. “I’ll bet anything that’s the canyon where we’ll see many of the cliff dwellings.”

It was a deep canyon, perhaps a quarter mile across and filled with oaks, brush, and pines. Longarm could see a riverbed snaking along the bottom. It was dry now, but probably filled with water every spring after the snows melted. The sand-, copper-, and crimson-colored walls of this wild and majestic canyon were almost vertical.

“There is a trail over here,” Miranda said. “It follows the rim south.”

“Then let’s keep our eyes peeled,” Longarm told her. “We ought to reach the camp pretty soon.”

A short time later, they intersected another trail, this one worn deeply by the hooves of pack animals, which Longarm figured were regularly supplying the archaeologists.

“I have a feeling that their base camp isn’t far now,” he told Miranda.

Sure enough, they came upon a spartan camp less than a half mile farther down the trail. There was a large tent, a crude table, two chairs, and a pile of wooden boxes and crates, but no scientists.

“Invited or not, we’ll spend the night here,” Longarm decided. “I expect that the Harvard people will return about sundown. In the meantime, I’ll check out their camp.”

“Are you just going to enter their tent and begin to snoop around?”

“Of course,” Longarm told her. “Why don’t you station yourself over there where that footpath leads to the edge of the cliff. I expect that’s the head of the trail that leads down to Cliff Palace or some other cliff dwelling that these men are excavating.”

“Do you think that-“

“Miranda,” he said, “please just do as I ask. I’d like to be warned before they just pop into view while I’m rifling their belongings searching for incriminating evidence.”

“All right,” Miranda said. “But what do I do if they suddenly appear?”

“Holler out a greeting and block their progress just long enough for me to get back out in the open,” Longarm instructed her. “That shouldn’t be so difficult.”

“Easy for you to say.”