The Summoning God: Book II of the Anasazi Mysteries by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear Page B

some ears. The same with the term “Anasazi,” though Dusty hadn’t heard any of those selfsame politically correct people disparaging the use of “Anglo” when it came to people like him—no matter how offensive it might have been to his Scottish, Irish, and French ancestors.
    “Good morning,” Peter Wirth called and thrust his thumbs into the back pockets of his twill slacks. The wind didn’t even move his white hair, but it tugged at the corners of his tweed jacket.
    “Hello. Thanks for meeting us out here.” Dusty extended his hand. Wirth shook, and Dusty added, “This is my assistant, Sylvia Rhone.”
    Sylvia stepped forward and shook, but she eyed Wirth suspiciously. “Hey, great site.”
    “Glad you like it,” Wirth replied. “We want you to get this excavated immediately.”
    “Immediately?” Sylvia pushed up the sleeves of her green sweatshirt. She had an amused look on her face. “You mean, like, next year?”
    Wirth’s face went stony. He looked at Sylvia as though she must be joking. He said, “I mean like now.”
    “Uh, yeah, well,” Dusty said, and folded his arms as if in defense. “We will certainly get started immediately, but please keep in mind that archaeology isn’t exactly an ‘immediate’ sort of science.”
    Wirth’s bushy white brows plunged down over his blunt nose. “What does that mean?”
    A flock of rosy finches swooped over their heads, chirping and twittering as they soared into a cottonwood tree down by the river.
    “It means—” Sylvia said with an evil tone.
    Dusty broke in, “It means that archaeology takes time, Mr. Wirth. We—”
    “I mean, wow,” Sylvia added, missing Dusty’s cue to keep quiet, “if we had one hundred people and about ten years, we might be able to dig half this site—”
    Wirth’s eyes narrowed, and Dusty said, “Please, let me explain, sir. This looks like a Chacoan great house, Mr. Wirth. I suspect you have a two-story pueblo with around two hundred rooms in it. I don’t think you understand how expensive archaeology can be.”
    Wirth’s mouth smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Let me point out the property boundaries so you don’t get lost. My wife and I bought a twelve-hundred-acre parcel that runs from the pinyon-juniper uplands over there, to the irrigated riverfront where you see those cottonwoods and willows. This ruin is the property’s crown jewel and our best hope for a payoff on our investment.”
    “Yes, sir, I understand that, but—”
    Wirth interrupted, “Well, let’s just start with one portion, something we can show to demonstrate the property’s grand past. Maybe a kiva. There should be a kiva here, right?”
    Dusty pointed, and his black-and-gray plaid sleeve waffled in the breeze. “You see that big round depression in the middle of the rubble mound?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s it.”
    “Great.” Wirth nodded. “Start there.” He slapped Dusty on the shoulder and strode to the driver’s side of his Mercedes. Over the roof, he called, “I have to get back to New York. Let me know what you find.”
    Dusty smiled and waved. “Will do.”
    They watched him drive away in a cloud of dust.
    “Wow,” Sylvia said in admiration. Brown hair blew around her face in the wind. “I bet he can handle anything—Heimlich maneuvers, CPR, pulling the switch at the local prison.”
    “Well,” Dusty sighed. “At least it’s pretty country.”
    To his left, the northwest, the land undulated, rising and falling in tan-and-green swells. To the south, an eroded mesa etched a line against the crystal blue October sky.
    Sylvia propped her hands on her hips. “How much money do we have? A lot, I gather.”
    “I don’t think he’d approve a request to do remote sensing from the space shuttle.”
    “Bummer. But we can run all the C-14 dates and palynology samples we want to?”
    “I think so.”
    Dusty started toward the pueblo, his boots grating in the sand as he climbed the slope. “Let’s face