Time Traders tw-1

by Andre Norton

  “Apache.” It was a statement, rather than a question. And it raised Travis’ estimation of the stranger. There were few men nowadays who would or could distinguish Apache from Hopi, Navajo, or Ute in one brief glance.

  “Rancher?” That was a question this time and Travis gave it a truthful answer. He sensed that using evasive tactics with this particular White-eye would only lead to his own disadvantage.

  “Rider for the Double A.”

  The man by the com unit had unrolled a map. He ran a forefinger along a wavy mark and nodded, not at Travis, but to the interrogator.

  “Nearest range to the east. But he can’t be hunting strays this far into the desert.”

  “Good water.” The other nodded at the pool. “The Old Ones used it.”

  Obliquely that was another inquiry. And Travis found himself replying to it.

  “The Old Ones knew. Not those only.” With his chin he pointed to the ruins in the great shallow cave. “But the People in turn. Never dry, even in bad years.”

  “And this is a bad year.” The stranger rubbed his hand along his jaw, his blue eyes still holding Travis’. “A complication we didn’t foresee. So Double A runs a herd in here in dry years, son?”

  Against his will, Travis found himself replying with the exact truth. “Not yet. Few of the riders know of it now. Not many care to listen to the stories of the old men.” He was still puzzling over the teasing memory of seeing this man’s lean face before. That black border about it—a frame! A picture frame! And the picture had hung over Dr. Morgan’s desk at the university.

  “But you do . . .” There came another of those measuring stares like the one which had stripped away his rancher’s clothing to display the Apache underneath. Now those eyes were trying to sort out the thoughts in his head, thoughts of Dr. Morgan’s study. This man’s picture had hung there, but with a stepped pyramid behind him.

  “It is so.” Absently he used another speech pattern as he tried to remember more.

  “The problem is, buster”—the man by the com unit stood up, spoke lazily—“just what are we going to do with you now? How about it, Ashe? Does he go in cold storage—maybe up there?” He jerked a thumb at the ruins.

  Ashe! Dr. Gordon Ashe! He’d put a name to the stranger at last. And with the name came a reason for the man’s presence there. Ashe was an archaeologist. Only Travis did not have to look at the com unit or at the camp to guess that this was no expedition to hunt ancient relics. He had had firsthand knowledge of those. What were Dr. Ashe and his companions really doing in the Canyon of the Old Ones?

  “You can put your hands down, son,” Dr. Ashe said. “And you can make it easy for yourself if you agree to stay here peaceably for a time.”

  “For how long?” countered Travis.

  “That depends,” Ashe hedged.

  “I left my horse up there. He needs water.”

  “Bring the horse down, Ross.”

  Travis turned his head. The young man holstered his strange-looking weapon and climbed upslope, to reappear shortly leading the pinto. Travis unsaddled his mount and turned the animal loose. He returned to find Ashe awaiting him.

  “So not many people know of this place?”

  Travis shrugged. “One other man on the Double A—he is very old. His grandfather was born here, long ago when the Apaches were fighting the army. Nobody else is interested any more.”

  “Then there was never any digging done in the ruins?”

  “A little—once.”

  “By whom?”

  Travis pushed back his hat. “Me.” His answer was short and hostile.

  “Oh?” Ashe produced a package of cigarettes, offered them. Travis took one without thinking.

  “You came here for a dig?” he counter-questioned.

  “In a manner of speaking.” But when Ashe glanced at the cliff house, Travis thought it was as if he saw something far more interesting behind or beyond those crumbling blocks of sun-dried brick.

  “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 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 called “Ross” came to the fire, reached out for the frying pan. Travis stared at his hand. The flesh was seamed with scars. 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 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 ano
ther 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.

  “Sounds rugged, the way they lived then,” Ross observed at the conclusion of Travis’ story of the use of their present camp site by Apache holdouts in the old days.

  “That, from you, is good,” Grant laughed. He snapped on his earphones once more as the com came to life. With one hand he steadied a pad on his knee and copied the message.

  Travis studied the shadows on the cliffs. It was close to sundown now, and he was growing impatient. This was like being in a theater waiting for the curtain to go up—or lying in wait for trouble to come pounding around some bend.

  Ashe took the scribbled page from Grant, checked it against more scribbles in his notebook. Ross was chewing on a long stem of grass, outwardly relaxed and almost sleepy. Yet Travis suspected that if he were to make a wrong move, Ross would come alert in an instant.

  “You know this country must have been popping once,” Ross commented lazily. “That looks like a regular apartment house over there—with maybe a hundred, two hundred people living in it. How did they live, anyway? This is a small valley.”

  “There’s another valley to the northwest with irrigation ditches still marked,” Travis replied. “And they hunted—turkey, deer, antelope, even buffalo—if they were lucky.”

  “Now if a man had some way to look back into history he could learn a lot—”

  “You mean by using Vis-Tex?” Travis asked with careful casualness, and had the satisfaction of seeing the other’s calm crack. Then he laughed, with an edge on his humor. “We Indians don’t wear blankets or feathers in our hair any more, and some of us read and watch TV, and actually go to school. But the Vis-Tex I saw in action wasn’t too successful.” He decided on a guess. “Planning to test a new model here?”

  “In a way—yes.”

  Travis had not expected a serious answer like that. And it had come from Ashe, plainly to the surprise of Ross. But his assent opened startling possibilities.

  The Vis-Tex process for photographing the past from radiation echoes had been under development for more than twenty years. The process had been perfected to the stage where objects would appear on films exposed a week after they had disappeared from a given point. And Travis had been present on one occasion when an experim
ental Vis-Tex had been demonstrated by Dr. Morgan. But if they did have a new model which could produce a real reach back into history—! He drew a deep breath and stared at the cave-enclosed ruins before him. What would it mean to see the past again! Then he grinned.

  “A lot of history will have to be rewritten in a hurry if you have one that works.”

  “Not history as we know it.” Ashe drew out cigarettes and passed them. “Son, you’re a part of this now, whether or no. We can’t afford to let you go, the situation is too critical. So—you’ll be offered a chance to enlist.”

  “In what?” countered Travis warily.

  “In Project Folsom One.” Ashe lit his cigarette. “Headquarters checked you out all along the line. I’m inclined to think that providence had a hand in your turning up here today. It all fits.”

  “Too well?” There was a frown line between Ross’s brows.

  “No,” Ashe replied. “He’s just what he said he is. Our man reported from the Double A and from Morgan. He can’t be a plant.”

  What kind of a plant? wondered Travis. Apparently he was being drafted, but he demanded to know why and for what. He thought he wasn’t hearing correctly when Ashe answered.

  “We’re here to see the Folsom hunters’ world.”

  “That’s a tall order, Doctor Ashe. You’ve got a super Vis-Tex if you can take a peek ten thousand years back.”

  “Even farther back than that,” Ashe corrected him. “We aren’t sure yet.”

  “Why the hush-hush? A look at some roaming primitive tribe should bring out the newsmen—”

  “We’re more interested in other things than primitive tribesmen.”

  “Such as where that gun came from,” agreed Ross. He was again rubbing his scarred hand. His eyes held the same bleakness Travis had noted in their first meeting on the rim of the canyon. It was the look of a fighter preparing for battle.