Tag Against Time by Helen Hughes Vick

knocked out the narrow T-shaped door, enlarging it by three feet. Now, bright morning light streamed through the gap. Tag carefully sifted through the loose, gritty dirt in the back of the house.
    â€œHere is another piece of obsidian, a big one.” Tag brushed the dirt off the black rock. “It has chip marks on it, too.”
    Major Powell took the fist-sized rock and studied it. “Smaller pieces have been chipped away from it, probably for arrowheads. It is strange that we have found so many little chips of obsidian in this ruin and now this larger piece.”
    Tag emptied the dirt from the trowel he held. “Maybe a stone knapper lived here.”
    â€œInteresting thought, but I doubt that a knapper would work
inside
a house since it is such cramped quarters.” Majoi Powell slipped the obsidian into a wooden box with the other flakes of obsidian found in the same pile of dirt.
    Tag pictured Arrow Maker in his mind; the friendly eyes, the steady hands, the long yellow cape covering the hump on his back, and the uneven legs that made walking difficult. Of course Arrow Maker stayed close to his home: it was easier for him. He remembered Arrow Maker always having a deer antler in his dark hands, chipping away at hunks of obsidian in the process of making arrowheads, knives, or spearheads.
    â€œMaybe he took his work home at night,” Tag suggested. He handed another obsidian chip to Major Powell. “He sat by the fire pit for light to work by.”
    â€œYou think this was the fire pit?”
    Tag met Major Powell’s keen eyes. His hands suddenly felt sweaty. “Well, with the soot on the ceiling right above here, it seems logical.”
    â€œYou are right.” Major Powell smiled and went back to his digging. “You are very observant.” He uncovered another good-sized rock. After dusting it off, he held it out to Tag. “What do you make of this?”
    The eight- to ten-inch square rock was vesicular basalt. Tag ran his finger along the smooth groove running longitudinally through the center of the stone. “A shaft abrader.” The words popped out of Tag’s mouth before he thought. He clamped his mouth shut and stared down at the stone.
    â€œHmm, a shaft abrader
you think
,” Major Powell peered at him. “Well, are you going to tell me how it was used?” He stroked his beard with his index finger and waited for Tag to answer.
    Tag swallowed and squirmed around on his knees. “I . . . I . . .”
    â€œCome boy. You are obviously very knowledgeable about Indian artifacts. Don’t be shy. I want to hear your theory on how the
shaft abrader
was used.”
    â€œIt’s just a guess, but maybe the shaft of an arrow was put in the groove and rubbed back and forth to smooth and clean the shaft.” Tag peered up at Major Powell. The man’s eyes shot straight through him. “I’m probably totally wrong.”
    â€œBut you aren’t. Where did you learn so much about archaeology, boy?”
    â€œMajor Powell, have you found anything interesting?” Sean crawled through the doorway.
    Major Powell stared at Tag. “Why yes, I think I have.”
    Tag jumped up. “Here Sean, you can take my place. I’ve got to go, haven’t gone for hours.”
    â€œAfter you finish, son, go see if Mr. Stevenson or Mr. Riordan need anything from the wagon.” Sean put his hand on Tag’s shoulder. “I’ll be here if you need help.”
    The rest of the morning Tag kept away from Major Powell. He found being with James Stevenson less intimidating. Stevenson reminded Tag of his own father, with his intense interest, precise observations, and willingness to share his knowledge with others. Tag fought to keep his firsthand information about the ancient ones to himself, as the group speculated on the life-style of hundreds of years ago.
    â€œAfter seeing the huge pueblo villages north of