Indiana Jones and the Unicorn's Legacy

by Rob MacGregor

  "Either I'm blind or—"

  "It's dark," Mara snapped. "Why would Walcott think you're Indy?"

  "Who's Walcott? What's going on anyhow? If this is a joke, it's not a bit funny."

  "We're at Spruce Tree House in Mesa Verde."

  "Tree house. It looks more like a hole in the ground."

  "You're in a kiva."

  "What's that?"

  "I guess you're not an archaeologist."

  "You got that right. Now who are you and what are we doing in this hole?"

  "My name's Mara Rogers. And I don't know what you're doing here. I was expecting to find Indy, and ran into Walcott and his goons."

  Shannon shook his head in exasperation. "Your name doesn't ring a bell anymore than Walcott's. How about enlightening me? How do you know Indy, and why would you think he was here?"

  "I knew him in France when we were both students at the Sorbonne."

  "Oh, is that right? I lived in Paris at the same time. I don't remember him ever mentioning anyone named Mara, and he didn't say anything about planning to meet a woman here, either. I'm not sure I believe you."

  "You must be the old college roommate he mentioned in one of his letters. I left Paris a short time after we met. We've kept in touch by mail. But I'm surprised he didn't tell you we were going to meet here."

  "He never said a word about you. I didn't know he had pen pals, either. Why would he keep in touch with you?"

  "The usual reason, I suppose. We liked each other, and he was interested in my work."

  "Which is?"

  "I'm an art history professor at the University of New Mexico. I've also been drawing and cataloging Anasazi petroglyphs for the last couple of years."

  "You mean..."

  "Rock art."

  "Yeah, I've seen Kokopelli."

  "You've been to Sand Island," she said.

  "How'd you know?"

  "It's close to Bluff and it's got lots of Kokopellis."

  "Okay, now that we know each other, how about helping me get my hands loose?" Shannon asked.

  "Turn around." She went to work on the binding.

  "What are they going to do with us?"

  "I don't know."

  "What's behind it?" Shannon persisted.

  "You'd never guess, not in a million years."

  "Give me a hint. Maybe I can help work things out with this Walcott. Who is he, anyhow?"

  She stiffened, and edged away from him. Anger and fear radiated from her like heat.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Walcott put you up to this, didn't he? That's why I haven't seen him."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Maybe you're Indy's friend, maybe you're not," she said. "Either way, you can tell Walcott I don't know where it is. Period."

  7

  On the Ropes

  Shannon adjusted his legs as he leaned against the wall of the kiva. He'd been here several hours now, and in that time they'd heard twice from their captors. Once, someone had lowered a pot that contained a couple of boiled potatoes and bits of stringy meat. The other time the pot was removed, their chamber pot was emptied, and they were given a jug of water. He'd tried to talk with whoever was above, but to no avail. His captors still thought he was Indy, and Mara thought he was working for Walcott, whoever he was. And nobody was talking to him.

  Mara kept scraping her foot against the ground, and the sound was bothering him. "What are doing, digging your way to China?"

  She didn't answer.

  He tried another tack. "If Indy was here, would he know why this was happening to us?"

  She stopped scraping the ground. "No." After a moment, she added, "He might think he did, but he wouldn't."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's something that goes back to the time when I first met him."

  "How'd you meet him, anyhow?"

  She told him.

  "Now I know who you are. You're the one Indy was with when the crazy prof tried to kill him in the cave."

  "That's right. Walcott is the professor. He was going to kill Indy and me."

  "But I thought he was dead."

  "So did I."

  "What's he want, anyhow?"

  Mara didn't respond for several seconds. "A unicorn's hon. He's wanted it ever since I met him."

  The setting sun cast an eerie orange glow on the landscape as Indy and Smitty turned onto the road to the ruins. They'd been traveling nearly four hours and Indy felt like every bone in his body was bruised. Smitty pulled back on the reins, slowing the buckboard to a stop. He jumped spryly to the ground. "Think we better stop here."

  "How far are we from Spruce Tree House?" Indy rubbed his back as he climbed down.

  "About a half mile. We walk from here. My guess is that we're dealing with more than one bad guy. Maybe a gang of them."

  "Can you find the way from here? It's going to be dark before you know it."

  "That's the best time to approach them," Smitty said. "I can find the way. Don't you worry about that, Professor."

  "It sounds like you got this all figured out," Indy said.

  "I'm just your guide. You're going to have to do the tough part yourself."

  Indy had had the feeling all along that getting Shannon and Mara out wasn't going to be a picnic, and said as much.

  Smitty grabbed a thick coil of rope from the back of the buckboard and handed it to Indy. "Not only that, but just getting in there is going to take a bit of serious monkey business. The easiest way to get to Spruce Tree House is to go down from the opposite side of the gorge. But that's like coming in the front door. Too dangerous. Even at night. Unless you had an army with you."

  "What's the alternative?" Indy asked.

  "We drop down on 'em from above. Or at least you do. That's where the rope there is gonna come in handy."

  As they followed the trail through the growing darkness, Indy asked Smitty why he knew his way around Mesa Verde so well.

  Smitty glanced back over his shoulder. "You ever heard of Richard Wetherill?"

  "Of course. I'm an archaeologist, remember?" Wetherill's brother, Al, had been the first white man to see Mesa Verde. After the discovery in 1887, Richard dug out the cliff dwellings and went to the Chicago World's Fair of 1893 to display the artifacts.

  "Well, when I was a young fella, I worked with the Wetherills. Their ranch wasn't far from here. That was before I got into prospecting. During the winter months, when there wasn't much to do on the ranch, I joined them in exploring the ruins here. I got to know Mesa Verde real good."

  Indy was impressed. Mara had never mentioned that fact about her father. In fact, she'd barely mentioned him in her letters. "It must have been something, being the first ones to dig the ruins."

  "Richard tried his best to do it the right way, too. When he went into Grand Gulch, he took lots of photographs before he ever lifted a shovel. He labeled everything he found, and he made a plan of the ruins. But you archaeologists crucified him."

  Indy knew that many of his associates still considered Wetherill a vandal and a pillager because he lacked any archaeological training. In the early years, Wetherill didn't take any notes, sold relics to whoever would buy them, and destroyed sites beyond the point of further research. But Indy had always sensed some jealousy in those sentiments, because Wetherill had also made considerable contributions to Southwest archaeology.

  "Fifty years from now his work will be recognized," Indy said.

  Before Wetherill, no one had ever used stratigraphy, the means of dating artifacts according to the depth at which they were found. For twenty years, archaeologists scoffed at Wetherill's contention that an older culture, which he called the Basketmakers, had preceded the Cliff Dwellers at Mesa Verde, and called him a charlatan. In 1914, the Basketmaker culture was verified, but by then Wetherill was dead.

  Smitty stopped as they reached an open area that led to the lip of a cliff. Indy was ready to walk out to the edge, but Smitty grabbed his arm and pointed
across the opening. At first, Indy couldn't tell what he saw. Then he spotted the silhouette of a man seated on a rock. Indy glanced at Smitty and saw that the old-timer looked surprised.

  "Be damned if I'm gonna get myself killed," Smitty grumbled.

  Indy laid down the rope and motioned Smitty to stay where he was. He dropped to his hands and knees and slowly crawled forward, his .455 Webley holstered on his hip and his whip hooked to his belt. Fortunately, he'd left the revolver in his room before he and Shannon had gone to Sand Island. He moved silently forward; he was confident he could overtake the guard. The trick was doing it without alerting the others below. The guard unexpectedly stood up and looked around. Indy froze in a crouched position just fifteen feet from him. The man had huge, beefy arms and an inner tube of fat around his gut. He took several leisurely steps in Indy's direction, holding a rifle under his arm.

  Stop, Indy ordered silendy. Another couple of steps and the guard would spot him. I'm a rock, Indy said to himself. He doesn't see me.

  The man was about take another step when he turned and stared across the opening. He shifted the rifle into his hands and started toward the path. Swell. Smitty must have given himself away. Indy loosened his whip and stalked his prey. The guard, unaware of him, continued forward.

  Indy rose to his full height and, like a hawk about to dive on a rodent, focused on his moving target. He twirled the whip once around his head and let it fly. It snagged the guard in midstride, wrapping several times around his neck. He dropped his rifle and grabbed at his throat. Indy jerked hard and reeled him in as if he were landing an overgrown carp. The surprised man gagged and struggled to reach his rifle.

  When he realized he couldn't get it, he turned and rushed toward his assailant. Indy was caught by surprise, and the guard bowled him over and grabbed him by his throat. Now they were both choking. The man's hands were powerful and his thumbs pressed deep into Indy's windpipe. Indy was about to pass out when the thug groaned and toppled to the side.

  "You okay there?" Smitty stood over him brandishing the butt of his .45.

  Indy sat up, rubbing his throat. "Just fine, Smitty. But thanks for the help."

  Smitty pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and quickly gagged the man as Indy reclaimed his whip. "Thought I was gonna have to shoot him there for a moment."

  "Tell you the truth, I thought he was going to shoot you."

  "That would've spoiled my evening," Smitty muttered. "Okay, Professor, you—"

  "Hey, do me a favor and just call me Indy, okay?"

  "Indy. Right. You go on and take a look over the ledge. I'll tie him up pretty as a Christmas package."

  Indy nodded and moved to the lip of the cliff. He dropped to his hands and knees and peered over the side. A faint glow emanated from somewhere under the overhang. Fingers of smoke curled upward, swollen with the smell of cooking meat.

  Then he spotted something else—a pinpoint of orange light in the darkness. At first he thought it was a firefly, but the movement was too repetitive, back and forth with pauses on each end of the arc. A cigarette. He figured it was attached to another guard, even though he couldn't see him.

  Indy imagined the rest of the culprits sitting around the camp fire, dinner plates in hand. He'd drop in on them and catch them by surprise.

  "Hey," Smitty hissed. "Try this." He handed Indy the rope, which he had tied to the trunk of a nearby pinon. Indy tugged at it, then walked over to the tree. The pine seemed sturdy enough to hold his weight. He examined the knot. "You can trust my knots," Smitty said in a raspy whisper. "I used to rope steers."

  "Never hurts to double-check." Indy patted the old man on the back. "Even the experts goof up once in a while."

  "You better be ready for what's waitin' down there for ya. I'll take care of things up here."

  "Yeah," Indy said grimly.

  "We can always go back and get the sheriff."

  "It's a little late for that. Mara and Jack might not make it till morning."

  "Just checking on your nerve, Professor. I mean Indy." The truth was Shannon and Mara might already be dead, but Smitty didn't want to even think it, much less say it aloud.

  "Let's get on with it. You sure I got enough rope?"

  Smitty gauged the distance between the pinon and the edge of the cliff and nodded. "It's a little farther than I expected, but you've got a good eighty feet there to go down on. Don't worry about it."

  "Okay. When I'm down, you better pull up the rope. I don't want it to give me away."

  "Good thinking. I'll be watching for you."

  "Just don't fall asleep on me," Indy said.

  "Don't worry," Smitty answered. "I'm one of those somniacs."

  "Insomniac," Indy said as he headed to the edge of the cliff. "Give me an hour. If you haven't heard anything from me by then, go get the sheriff."

  "Will do."

  Smitty unraveled the coil of rope as Indy stared down, looking for the telltale sign of the guard. But now there was no cigarette to guide him. What if the guard was standing right under the cliff? Then Indy glimpsed the flash of a match as the man lit another cigarette. He'd only moved a few feet. Indy threaded the rope through the loop at the end, slipped it under his arms, and tightened it.

  "Here goes everything." He motioned to Smitty and sidled over the edge. At first it was just like walking down a steep, rocky hill with a safety belt. He stepped as lightly as possible, taking care not to loosen any rocks that would signal his approach. But after a few steps, the cliff fell off into a vertical drop. He touched his foot twice to the wall, then he was past the overhang and suspended in inky space.

  Smitty fed the rope in lengths of two feet to three feet, and with each release, the rope bit into Indy's chest. He was a marionette dangling in the murky shadows, waiting for the black curtain to rise and the show to begin.

  Down, down, down. The light from the camp fire drew his attention. It was coming from inside one of the buildings in the ancient pueblo. None of the structures under the overhang had roofs, so the light radiated through the open ceiling, producing a glow like a large, but weak, flickering flashlight.

  Great. They wouldn't see him. He shifted his focus to the guard. He could make out his shape now and saw that his back was turned. Another point in Indy's favor. He considered taking him captive and using him as a shield. He decided against it. He didn't know if these guys had any sense of loyalty to their companions. If they didn't, his threat to shoot the guard wouldn't produce any results. Besides, the guard might give him away before he was ready to reveal himself to the others.

  Then another thought occurred to him. What if Shannon and Mara weren't in the building with the others? Maybe they were being held in another part of the ruins. In that case, Indy might be able to get the information from the guard, then escape with his friends before the others were alerted. That sounded like a much easier alternative than fighting all of them. Besides, he didn't even know how many he was up against.

  Suddenly, the jerking motion stopped. He waited and swayed, his feet still seven or eight feet above the ground. He felt a slight jerk, but this time he didn't go down any further and he knew that Smitty was signaling that he was out of rope.

  There would've been plenty of rope if Smitty had found a tree closer to the edge. Now what was he going to do, just hang here until the guard found him? He jerked on the rope, but it had no effect. He couldn't even let Smitty know he wanted to be pulled up. Just swell.

  Indy lifted himself up several inches, then, hanging by one hand, he worked at loosening the noose. If he could slide out of the loop and hang by his hands, he'd only have a few feet to drop. A big if.

  He switched hands as the one holding his weight started to tremble, and the loop snapped tight again, constricting his chest, and knocking the wind out of his lungs. He waited until his arms were rested, then he started over again. This time he managed to make the loop nearly large enough to slip over his arms. He worked one arm under the noose, but his other arm co
uldn't hold him any longer and suddenly the rope tightened around his neck and left arm.

  He gagged at the pressure on his throat, kicked his legs, and pulled at the rope with his free hand. He couldn't get it over his head, and the rope pressed at his already sore windpipe. His fedora was knocked from his head and fell into the darkness. Finally, he groped at his belt and found his knife. He eased it between his throat and his trapped arm and sawed. He was almost through the rope when Smitty jerked hard and the blade nicked his forehead.

  Smitty! Please, don't pull. Not now.

  He sawed away again, desperate now, hurrying to finish. If Smitty started pulling him up, it was all over. He'd never make it; he'd either fall or choke. But that was exactly what Smitty started to do. As Smitty pulled him, the rope tightened even further. Indy gasped for air. Then the rope slipped from Smitty's hands; Indy fell a dozen feet. The remaining strands near his neck snapped. He dangled a moment by one hand, then dropped in a heap to the ground.

  He raised his head, rubbed his throat as he drew in a deep breath, and looked around for the guard, for the whole gang. No one had seen him. He crawled over to a stone wall, grabbing his hat on the way, then cautiously rose to his feet. He looked over to where he'd last seen the guard. Gone, the guy was gone. Maybe he'd seen Indy hanging from the cliff and had left to get the others. But that wasn't Indy's only concern. Now, unless Smitty tied the rope to a tree closer to the cliff, his escape route was cut off. Worry about that later, he thought.

  Indy edged away from the wall. A bright, plump gibbous moon was suspended above the trees. In its light he saw the guard strolling along the outskirts of the cliff dwelling. Indy breathed a little easier. But now it was time to act, and he did.

  8

  Shoot-out at Mesa Verde

  Walcott reeled down the trail as it descended into the canyon. Fortunately, there was a moon tonight and the path was easy to follow. He was in no condition to walk in daylight, much less in the darkness. When he was certain that Calderone had left town, he'd dropped into a tavern and bought everyone a round of drinks, then another. Before he knew it a couple of hours had slipped away. Now he had to get to Spruce Tree House as fast as possible, and make arrangements for Mara's escape.