p&c.thunderhead-第59部分

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　〃He　never　said　what　tribe　he　was　from。〃　
　〃I　think　Nankoweap。　That's　how　the　village　got　its　name。〃　
　〃Some　of　that　witchcraft　stuff　was　pretty　vile。　Do　you　believe　it？〃　
　〃I　believe　in　the　power　of　evil；〃　Nora　said　after　a　moment。　〃But　the　thought　of　wolfskin　runners；　witching　people　with　corpse　powder；　is　tough　to　swallow。　There　are　millions　of　dollars　worth　of　artifacts　at　Quivira。　It　seems　more　likely　that　we're　dealing　with　a　couple　of　people　playing　at　witchcraft　to　frighten　us　away。〃　
　〃Maybe　so；　but　it　seems　like　a　pretty　elaborate　plan。　Dressing　up　in　wolfskins；　cutting　up　horses　。　。　。〃　
　They　both　fell　silent；　and　the　cool　night　air　moved　over　them。　Nora　rubbed　her　arms　in　the　sudden　chill。　She　could　offer　no　explanation　for　what　had　happened　to　her　at　the　ranch　house；　the　matted　form　running　alongside　her　truck。　Or　the　same　dark　figure；　racing　away　from　her　kitchen　door。　Or　the　disappearance　of　Thurber。　
　〃Which　way　is　downwind？〃　Smithback　asked　suddenly。　
　Nora　looked　at　him。　
　〃I　want　to　know　where　to　put　my　boots；〃　he　explained。　In　the　dark；　Nora　thought　she　could　see　a　crooked　smile　on　the　journalist's　face。　
　〃Put　them　at　the　foot　of　your　bedroll　and　point　them　east；〃　she　said。　〃Maybe　they'll　keep　the　rattlers　away。〃　
　She　pulled　off　her　own　boots　with　a　sigh；　lay　down；　and　pulled　the　bag　up　around　her　dusty　clothes。　A　half…moon　had　begun　to　rise；　veiled　by　tatters　of　cloud。　A　few　yards　away；　she　could　hear　Smithback　grunting　as　he　flounced　around；　making　preparations　for　sleep。　In　the　calm　darkness；　the　thought　of　skinwalkers　and　witches　fell　away　under　the　weight　of　her　weariness。　
　〃It's　strange；〃　Smithback　said。　〃But　something　is　definitely　rotten　in　the　State　of　Denmark。〃　
　〃What；　your　shoes？〃　
　〃Very　funny。　Our　host；　I　mean。　He's　hiding　something。　But　I　don't　think　it　has　to　do　with　the　horses。〃　
　From　far　overhead　came　the　sound　of　a　jet。　Idly；　Nora　located　its　faint；　blinking　light；　crawling　across　the　velvety　blackness。　As　if　reading　her　mind；　Smithback　spoke：　〃There's　some　guy；〃　he　said；　〃sitting　up　in　that　plane；　guzzling　a　martini；　eating　smoked　almonds；　and　doing　the　New　York　Times　crossword　puzzle。〃　
　Nora　laughed　quietly。　〃Speaking　of　the　Times；　how　long　have　you　written　for　them？〃　
　〃About　two　years　now；　since　my　last　book　was　published。　I　took　a　leave　of　absence　to　e　on　this　trip。〃　
　Nora　sat　up　on　one　elbow。　〃Why　did　you　e？〃　
　〃What？〃　The　question　seemed　to　take　the　writer　by　surprise。　
　〃It's　a　simple　enough　question。　This　is　a　dangerous；　dirty；　unfortable　trip。　Why　did　you　leave　fortable　old　Manhattan？〃　
　〃And　maybe　miss　out　on　the　greatest　discovery　since　King　Tut's　tomb？〃　Smithback　turned　in　his　sleeping　bag。　〃Well；　I　guess　it's　more　than　that。　After　all；　I　knew　there　was　no　guarantee　we'd　find　anything。　If　you　get　right　down　to　it；　newspaper　work　can　be　boring。　Even　if　it's　the　New　York　Times　and　everyone　genuflects　when　you　enter　the　room。　But　you　know　what？　This　is　what　it's　all　about；　really；　discovering　lost　cities；　listening　to　tales　of　murder；　lying　under　the　stars　with　a　lovely…〃　He　cleared　his　voice。　〃Well；　you　know　what　I　mean。〃　
　〃No；　I　don't；〃　Nora　said；　surprised　at　the　sudden　excitement　that　flooded　through　her。　
　〃Lying　under　the　stars　with　someone　like　you；〃　he　finished。　〃Sounds　kind　of　lame；　doesn't　it？〃　
　〃As　e…ons　go；　yes　it　does。　But　thanks　just　the　same。〃　
　She　glanced　at　the　lanky　form　of　Smithback；　faintly　outlined　in　starlight；　his　eyes　glinting　as　he　looked　skyward。　〃So？〃　she　said　after　a　moment。　
　〃So　what？〃　
　〃Over　the　last　week；　you've　had　your　spine　realigned　by　hard　saddles；　you've　gone　without　water；　been　bitten　by　horses；　almost　fallen　off　cliffs；　avoided　rattlesnakes；　quicksand；　and　skinwalkers。　So　are　you　glad　you　came　along？〃　
　His　eyes　turned　toward　her；　luminous　in　the　starlight。　〃Yes；〃　he　said　simply。　
　Holding　his　gaze　in　her　own；　she　reached　toward　him　in　the　darkness。　Finding　his　hand；　she　squeezed　it　briefly。　
　〃I'm　glad；　too；〃　she　replied。　
　
　
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　BY　MIDNIGHT；　A　HALF…MOON　HAD　RISEN　IN　the　dark　sky；　and　the　gnarled　badlands　of　southern　Utah　were　bathed　in　pale　light。　At　the　foot　of　Lake　Powell；　Wahweap　Marina　dozed；　its　jetskis　and　houseboats　silent。　To　the　north　and　west；　the　labyrinthine　system　of　narrow　canyons　leading　ultimately　toward　the　Devil's　Backbone　were　still。　
　In　the　valley　of　Chilbah；　two　forms　moved　slowly　up　a　secret　notch。　It　was　less　a　trail　than　a　fissure　in　the　rock；　fiendishly　hidden；　now　worn　away　to　the　faintest　of　lines　after　centuries　of　erosion　and　disuse。　It　was　the　Priest's　Trail：　the　back　door　to　Quivira。　
　Emerging　out　of　the　inky　blackness　of　the　rocks；　the　figures　topped　out　on　the　sandstone　plateau　in　which　the　valley　of　Quivira　was　hidden。　Far　below；　in　the　long　valley　behind　them；　a　horse　nickered　and　stamped　in　agitation。　But　this　evening　they　had　left　the　horses　unharmed；　just　as　they　had　slipped　past　the　cowboy　who　guarded　them　without　running　a　knife　across　his　throat。　He　sat　there　still；　hand　on　his　gun；　the　ground　around　him　damp　with　tobacco　juice。　Let　him　sit；　his　time　would　e　soon　enough。　
　Now；　with　animal　stealth；　they　scuttled　along　the　wide　mesa　far　above　the　valley　floor。　Though　the　moon　laid　a　dappled　byway　across　the　sandstone；　the　figures　avoided　the　faint　light；　keeping　to　the　shadows。　The　heavy　animal　pelts　on　their　backs　draped　down　over　their　sides；　dragging　along　the　rough　rock　beneath　them。　The　figures　moved　on；　silent　as　ghosts。　
　After　an　eternity　of　movement　they　stopped；　as　if　possessed　of　a　single　mind。　Ahead；　a　well　of　darkness　loomed：　the　tiny　valley　of　Quivira。　Far　below；　at　the　base　of　the　canyon；　the　little　stream　shimmered　in　the　moonlight。　From　the　higher　ground　away　from　the　stream；　a　faint　glow　arose　from　the　dying　campfire；　and　the　even　fainter　smell　of　woodsmoke　reached　the　figures　peering　down　from　the　canyon　rim。　
　Their　eyes　moved　from　the　fire　to　the　dim　figures　that　lay　around　it。　
　Several　tents　ringed　the　camp；　pallid　in　the　dim　moonlight。　A　number　of　bedrolls　lay　near　the　campfire；　seemingly　flung　down　at　random。　With　the　tents　closed　and　darkened；　it　was　impossible　to　count　the　number　of　the　pany。　They　stared　long；　bodies　motionless。　Then　they　eased　forward　along　the　brow　of　rock。　
　With　consummate　stealth　they　moved　along　the　top　of　the　canyon；　pausing　now　and　then　to　look　down　toward　the　sleeping　expedition。　Occasional　sounds　drifted　up　from　below：　the　call　of　an　owl；　the　babble　of　water；　the　rustle　of　leaves　in　a　night　breeze。　Once；　a　belt　of　silver　conchas　clinked　around　the　midriff　of　one　of　the　figures；　otherwise；　they　made　no　noise　in　the　time　it　took　to　reach　the　top　of　the　rope　ladder。　
　Here　the　figures　paused；　examining　the　munications　equipment　with　intense　interest。　A　minute　passed；　then　two；　without　movement。　
　Then　one　of　the　figures　glided　to　the　edge　of　the　cliff　face　and　gazed　down　the　thin　ladder。　It　disappeared　back　beneath　the　brow　of　rimrock。　The　figure　looked　out；　into　the　valley。　He　was　almost　directly　above　the　camp　now；　and　the　glow　of　the　fire；　eight　hundred　feet　below；　seemed　strangely　close；　an　angry　nugget　of　red　in　the　darkness。　A　low；　guttural　sound　rose　out　from　deep　within　his　frame；　at　last　dying　away　into　a　groan　that　resolved　itself　into　a　faint；　monotonous　chant。　Then　he　turned　back　toward　the　equipment。　
　In　ten　minutes；　their　work　there　was　done。　
　Slinking　further　along　the　rimrock；　they　made　their　way　to　the　end　of　the　canyon。　The　ancient　secret　trail　wormed　down　through　a　cut　in　the　rimrock；　descending　toward　the　narrow　canyon　at　the　far　side　of　the　Quivira　valley。　The　trail　was　perfectly　concealed　against　the　rock；　and　terrifyingly　precipitous。　The　faint　sounds　of　the　waterfall　echoed　up　below　them；　the　water　thrashing　and　boiling　its　way　on　the　long　trip　down　to　the　Colorado　River。　
　In　time；　the　figures　reached　the　sandy　bottom。　They　moved　stealthily　out　of　the　curtain　of　mist；　past　the　rockfall；　then　along　the　base　of　the　canyon　wall；　keeping　in　the　deeper　darkness　of　moonshadow。　They　stopped　when　they　neared　the　first　member　of　the　expedition：　a　figure　beyond　the　edge　of　the　camp；　sleeping　beneath　the　stars；　pale　face　looking　deathlike　in　gray　half…light。　
　Reaching　into　the　matted　pelt　that　lay　across　his　back；　one　of　the　figures　pulled　out　a　small　pouch。　It　was　made　of　cured　human　skin；　and　in　the　glow　of　the　moon　it　gave　out　an　otherworldly；　translucent　sheen。　Loosening　the　leather　thong　around　it；　the　figure　reached　inside　and；　with　extreme　caution；　drew　out　a　disk　of　bone　and　an　ancient　tube　of　willow　wood；　polished　with　use　and　incised　with　a　long　reverse　spiral。　The　disk　flashed　dully　in　the　moonlight　as　he　turned　it　over　once；　then　again。　Then；　placing　one　end　of　the　tube　to　his　lips；　he　leaned　toward　the　face　of　the　sleeping　figure。　There　was　a　sudden　breath　of　wind；　and　a　brief　cloud　of　dust　flowered　in　the　moonlight。　Then；　with　the　tread　of　ghosts；　the　two　figures　retreated　back　toward　the　cliff　face；　disappearing　once　again　into　the　woven　shadows。　
　
　
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　COUGHING；　PETER　HOLROYD　WOKE　abruptly　out　of　dark　dreams。　Some　stray　breeze　had　chased　dirt　across　his　face。　Or　more　likely　it　was　dust　from　the　day's　work；　h