Douglas Preston - Thunderhead

“A lot like the Aztecs,” he said, finishing the sentence. “Dr. Black, you said Anasazi cannibalism is impossible. But not Aztec cannibalism. Cannibalism not for food, but as a tool of social control and terror.”

“What’s your point?” Black said. “This is America, not Mexico. We’re digging an Anasazi site.”

“An Anasazi site with a ruling class? An Anasazi site protected by a god with a name like Xochitl? An Anasazi site that features royal burial chambers, filled with flowers? An Anasazi site that may or may not display signs of ritual cannibalism?” Aragon shook his head. “I also did a number of forensic tests on skulls from both the upper and lower set of bones in the Crawlspace. Differences in cranial features, variations in incisor shoveling, point to the two groups of skeletons as being from entirely different populations. Anasazi slaves beneath, Aztec rulers above. All the evidence I’ve found at Quivira demonstrates one thing: a group of Aztecs, or rather their Toltec predecessors, invaded the Anasazi civilization around A.D. 950 and established themselves here as a priestly nobility. Perhaps they were even responsible for the great building projects at Chaco and elsewhere.”

“I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous,” Black said. “There’s never been any sign of Aztec influence on the Anasazi, let alone enslavement. It goes against a hundred years of scholarship.”

“Wait,” Nora said. “Let’s not be too hasty to dismiss it. Nobody’s ever found a city like this before. And that theory would explain a lot of things. The city’s strange location, for one thing. The annual pilgrimages you discovered.”

“And the concentration of wealth,” Sloane added, in a low, thoughtful voice. “Maybe trade with the Aztecs has been the wrong word all along. These were foreign invaders, establishing an oligarchy, maintaining power through religious ritual and sacrificial cannibalism.”

As Smithback began to ask a question, Nora heard a distant shout. In unison, the group turned toward the sound. Roscoe Swire was running down the canyon, bashing and stomping crazily through the brush as he approached camp.

He came to a frantic stop before them, still dripping wet from the slot canyon, breathing raggedly. Nora stared at him in horror. Bloody water dripped from his hair, and his shirt was stained pink.

“What is it?” she asked sharply.

“Our horses,” Swire said, gasping for air. “They’ve been gutted.”

32

NORA RAISED HER HANDS TO SILENCE THE immediate explosion of talk. “Roscoe,” she said, “I want you to tell us exactly what happened.”

Swire sat down near the fire, still heaving from his scramble through the slot canyon, oblivious to a nasty gash on his arm that was bleeding freely. “I got up around three this morning, just as usual. Reached the horses about four. The cavvy had drifted over to the northern end of the valley—looking for grass, I figured—but when I reached them, I found they were all lathered up.” He stopped a moment. “I thought maybe a mountain lion had been after them. A couple were missing. Then I saw them . . . what was left of them, anyway. Hoosegow and Crow Bait, gutted like . . .” His face darkened. “When I catch the sons-a-bitches that did this, I’ll—”

“What makes you think humans did it?” Aragon asked.

Swire shook his head. “It was done all scientific. They slit open the bellies, pulled out the guts, and—” He faltered.

“And?”

“Sort of made them into a display.”

“What?” Nora asked sharply.

“They unwound the guts and laid them out in a spiral. There were sticks with feathers, shoved into the eyes.” He paused. “Other stuff, too.”

“Any tracks?”

“No footprints that I could see. Must’ve all been done from the backs of horses.”

At the mention of the spirals, the feathers shoved into the eyes, Nora had gone cold. “Come on,” she heard Smithback say. “Nobody could do all that from the back of a horse.”

“There ain’t no other explanation,” Swire snapped. “I told you, I saw no footprints. But . . .” He paused again. “Yesterday evening, when I was about to leave the horses for the night, I thought I saw a rider atop the hogback ridge. Man on a horse, just standing there, looking down at me.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Nora asked.

“I thought it was my imagination, a trick of the setting sun. Can’t say I expected to see another horse atop that goddamned ridge. Who’d be way the hell out here?”

Who indeed? Nora thought, desperation rising within her. Over the past several days, she’d grown certain she had left the strange apparitions from the ranch house far behind. Now that certainty was fading. Perhaps they’d been followed, after all. But who could have had the skill, or the desperate resolve, to track them across such a harsh and barren landscape?

“That’s dry sandy country,” Swire was saying, the dark uncertain look replaced with a new resolve. “They can’t hide a track in it forever. I just came in here to tell you I’m going after them.” He stood up abruptly and went into his tent.

In the ensuing silence, Nora could hear the rattle of metal, the sound of bullets being pushed into chambers. A moment later he reemerged, rifle slung behind his back, revolver buckled around his waist.

“Wait a minute, Roscoe,” Nora said.

“Don’t try to stop me,” Swire said.

“You can’t just rush off,” she replied sharply. “Let’s talk about this.”

“Talking to you only causes trouble.”

Bonarotti walked wordlessly to his cabinet and began loading a small sack with food.

“Roscoe,” Sloane said, “Nora’s absolutely right. You can’t just head off like—”

“You shut your mouth. I’m not going to have a bunch of goddamn women telling me what to do with my own horses.”

“Well, how about a goddamn man, then,” said Black. “This is foolhardy. You could get hurt, or worse.”

“I’m done with discussion,” Swire said, accepting the small sack from Bonarotti, tying it into his slicker, and throwing it over his shoulder.

As Nora watched him, her fear and shock at this new development suddenly turned to anger: anger at whatever was bent on disturbing a dig that had begun so successfully; anger at Swire for behaving so truculently. “Swire, stand down! ” she bellowed.

There was a breathless hush in the little valley. Swire, momentarily taken aback, turned to face her.

“Now look,” Nora went on, aware that her heart was hammering in her rib cage and that her tone was uneven, “we have to think this through. You can’t just run off without a plan and go kill someone.”

“I’ve got a plan,” came the answer. “And there’s nothing to think about. I’m gonna find the bastard that—”

“Agreed,” Nora said, cutting off Swire’s words. “But you’re not the person to do it.”

“What?” Swire’s expression turned to one of scornful disbelief. “And just who else is going to do it for me?”

“I am.”

Swire opened his mouth to speak.

“Think for a minute,” Nora went on quickly. “He, or they, or whatever, killed two horses. Not for food, not for sport, but to send a message. Doesn’t that tell you something? What about the rest of the horses? What do you think is going to happen to them while you set out on your lynching party? Those are your animals. You’re the only person who knows enough to keep them safe until all this is resolved.”

Swire pursed his lips and smoothed a finger over his mustache. “Someone else can watch the horses while I’m gone.”

“Like who?”