Tag Against Time by Helen Hughes Vick Page A

here, I suspect these people left to go live there. As the old saying goes, they thought that the grass was greener there,” said Michael Riordan. He sat down outside one of the ruins and leaned against the front wall. Tag handed him a canteen and listened.
    â€œI don’t think so, Michael,” Stevenson said, wiping his forehead. He pointed to the sturdy mud-and-rock wall of the ruin. “There was too much time and energy expended building all these cliff homes for the people to just pick upand move to another location so close. Tree rings in the area suggest a major draught hundreds of years ago. My guess is that the draught forced these people out.”
    Visions of Small Cub laying on his mat, dying of dehydration from vomiting and diarrhea, flashed through Tag’s mind.
A death swifter than lightning forced them to leave
. He bit his tongue and blinked his tear-blurred eyes.
    â€œThe larger storage pots we found here last year are gone,” Stevenson stated with disgust in his voice. The sun hung directly overhead now. He stood in front of Great Owl’s house with Sean and Michael. Flute Maiden’s pottery, which Tag had saved from Kern and Horace, lay at Stevenson’s feet in a wooden box.
    Tag leaned against the front wall of Morning Flower’s adjoining home. He stared at his friend’s pottery waiting to be hauled up to the wagon. His throat tightened.
    â€œYou are right, James.” Sean dusted the loose dirt off his pants legs. “As more people move into the area, more come and take whatever suits their fancy.”
    Stevenson put his hands on his hips. “Disgusting! These artifacts survived hundreds of years before the white man came. Now they are being destroyed in a matter of months.”
    â€œThe question is what can be done to protect this area?” Major Powell asked, crawling out of Great Owl’s doorway. He stood next to Sean.
    Tag blurted out, “Laws need to be passed to protect antiquities.” Everyone’s eyes fell on him.
    Major Powell looked at Stevenson and then at Tag. He stroked his beard in thought. “You might be right, son.”
    â€œI agree that
something
needs to done, but it will be pretty hard to enforce any such laws around here. Even cattle-thievinglaws are near to impossible to uphold.” Michael Riordan pointed to the pottery near his feet. “Not many people are willing or have the time to protect old pots.”
    â€œIt has got to start sometime or there will be nothing left for future generations!” Tag took a step toward the men, his heart racing. “It’s not just here, either. All over the Southwest there are thousand of ruins, big and small, being destroyed. The ancient ones’ belongings and other artifacts are being stolen by the hundreds of thousands and along with them all the clues to the ancient ones’ lives.” Tag choked back the rest of what he wanted to say, realizing that he had already said too much.
    â€œLaws,” repeated Powell, gazing at Tag. “Laws.”
    Sean knelt down to the box of ceramic pots, bowls, and mugs. “James, are you planning on taking all of these back with you?”
    â€œYes, they are all excellent pieces.” Stevenson squatted beside Sean. “Tag is correct about clues to the past. Why there is a wealth of information in this box alone.” He held up Flute Maiden’s large stew bowl. “This bowl is perfect for exhibiting at the Smithsonian.”
    Even though Stevenson was an archaeologist, Tag didn’t want him to take any of his friend’s things away, even to study. Flute Maiden’s ceramic ware didn’t belong back in Washington. The pieces belonged here where they were created, used, and loved.
    Tears clouded Tag’s eyes. He slipped into Morning Flower’s doorway. He fought for control as his eyes focused in the dim light.
    â€œGreat Owl, what can I do?” Tag whispered. “What can I