The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear Page B
Authors: W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear
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greasewood.
It looked new, which meant it didn’t belong to a dirt archaeologist. They generally made do with older, ragged out four-by-fours that left greasy puddles wherever they parked. The Dodge’s hot metallic red also excluded Park Service personnel.
The big truck rolled to a stop, the chrome wheels catching the sunlight. Dust boiled up from the huge knobby all-terrain tires. The dark, tinted windows obscured any hint as to who the occupant might be.
Dusty stepped around as the door opened, and he could almost imagine the cool air-conditioned air puffing out and dissipating in the heat.
For as flashy as the truck might be, the old man who clambered stiffly out stood in stark contrast. He wore a battered, thirties-style fedora over a mat of steel-gray hair. His bushy eyebrows puffed out from his brow, and the thick mustache might have been tightly packed bristles. Seventy-plus years of sun and wind had turned his age-lined face into something resembling leather. About average in height, he hadn’t gone either to a pot belly or bones, as the elderly were wont to do. In fact, the term elderly just didn’t apply—especially not if you gazed into those sharp brown eyes. He’d stuffed his brown pants into the tops of old hiking boots, and wore a blue plaid western-cut shirt, the snap-down kind with fake pearl buttons.
Dale Emerson Robertson, the grand old man of southwestern archaeology, stroked his gray mustache as he looked Dusty up and down. Robertson had lived as a giant among peers, as a boy working with Neil Judd, A. V. Kidder, and Harold and Mary Colton. He had carved out his own niche along with Lister, Haury, and John McGregor. Unlike so many of his colleagues, Dale had jumped into the “New Archaeology” of the sixties, and made the most of “Cultural Resources Management” in the seventies and eighties. For the nineties, he had taken to remote sensing, the electron microscope, and other advances in technology.
“William! Good to see you.” Dale glanced sidelong toward the site. “All’s well, I hope?”
“Hello, Dale.” Dusty rubbed the hot hood, feeling the fresh wax. The dust had settled on it in mottled patterns. “What’s this? A new truck?”
“The scout was getting a little old. Have you tried to find parts for an International recently? It’s easier to find Folsom points in England.” He glanced at the archaeologists working in the sun, their lower halves hidden by the brush. “Find anything interesting?”
“Not yet, but we’ve named the site. ‘10K3,’ for ten thousand and three. We recovered some potsherds. Nothing diagnostic. We’ll get a better handle on it in the lab. Meanwhile, I’ve got master scientist Thompson digging his second sterile pit. I can’t believe a kid with a four-point-oh grade point average can be such a klutz when it comes to fieldwork. He’s crumbled the pit wall twice. His idea of level makes the Himalayas look flat. In all my years of digging, I’ve never seen anyone who couldn’t get the hang of a line level, but young Thompson is baffled by it.”
Dale grinned. “So, the site’s that dry, eh?”
Dusty grinned back. “It’s only the second day. It’s there, I feel it.”
“You and your gut. Not exactly science.”
“My gut proved right in New York two years ago. I demonstrated that the achrondoplastic dwarf was Iroquoian, didn’t I? And really miffed that Seneca witch—”
“I wish you wouldn’t refer to Dr. Cole that way. She’s a rather special lady.”
“Of course, she is. She was just born fifty years too late for the Nazi party.”
Dusty and Maureen Cole had reacted like vinegar and baking soda. As the excavation near Buffalo, New York, progressed, his intense dislike of her had transformed into out-and-out contempt.
As though reading his mind, Dale exhaled wearily. “I always thought you’d outgrow this irrational fear of women, that you’d find someone who would cause you to reevaluate your opinions. Not every
It looked new, which meant it didn’t belong to a dirt archaeologist. They generally made do with older, ragged out four-by-fours that left greasy puddles wherever they parked. The Dodge’s hot metallic red also excluded Park Service personnel.
The big truck rolled to a stop, the chrome wheels catching the sunlight. Dust boiled up from the huge knobby all-terrain tires. The dark, tinted windows obscured any hint as to who the occupant might be.
Dusty stepped around as the door opened, and he could almost imagine the cool air-conditioned air puffing out and dissipating in the heat.
For as flashy as the truck might be, the old man who clambered stiffly out stood in stark contrast. He wore a battered, thirties-style fedora over a mat of steel-gray hair. His bushy eyebrows puffed out from his brow, and the thick mustache might have been tightly packed bristles. Seventy-plus years of sun and wind had turned his age-lined face into something resembling leather. About average in height, he hadn’t gone either to a pot belly or bones, as the elderly were wont to do. In fact, the term elderly just didn’t apply—especially not if you gazed into those sharp brown eyes. He’d stuffed his brown pants into the tops of old hiking boots, and wore a blue plaid western-cut shirt, the snap-down kind with fake pearl buttons.
Dale Emerson Robertson, the grand old man of southwestern archaeology, stroked his gray mustache as he looked Dusty up and down. Robertson had lived as a giant among peers, as a boy working with Neil Judd, A. V. Kidder, and Harold and Mary Colton. He had carved out his own niche along with Lister, Haury, and John McGregor. Unlike so many of his colleagues, Dale had jumped into the “New Archaeology” of the sixties, and made the most of “Cultural Resources Management” in the seventies and eighties. For the nineties, he had taken to remote sensing, the electron microscope, and other advances in technology.
“William! Good to see you.” Dale glanced sidelong toward the site. “All’s well, I hope?”
“Hello, Dale.” Dusty rubbed the hot hood, feeling the fresh wax. The dust had settled on it in mottled patterns. “What’s this? A new truck?”
“The scout was getting a little old. Have you tried to find parts for an International recently? It’s easier to find Folsom points in England.” He glanced at the archaeologists working in the sun, their lower halves hidden by the brush. “Find anything interesting?”
“Not yet, but we’ve named the site. ‘10K3,’ for ten thousand and three. We recovered some potsherds. Nothing diagnostic. We’ll get a better handle on it in the lab. Meanwhile, I’ve got master scientist Thompson digging his second sterile pit. I can’t believe a kid with a four-point-oh grade point average can be such a klutz when it comes to fieldwork. He’s crumbled the pit wall twice. His idea of level makes the Himalayas look flat. In all my years of digging, I’ve never seen anyone who couldn’t get the hang of a line level, but young Thompson is baffled by it.”
Dale grinned. “So, the site’s that dry, eh?”
Dusty grinned back. “It’s only the second day. It’s there, I feel it.”
“You and your gut. Not exactly science.”
“My gut proved right in New York two years ago. I demonstrated that the achrondoplastic dwarf was Iroquoian, didn’t I? And really miffed that Seneca witch—”
“I wish you wouldn’t refer to Dr. Cole that way. She’s a rather special lady.”
“Of course, she is. She was just born fifty years too late for the Nazi party.”
Dusty and Maureen Cole had reacted like vinegar and baking soda. As the excavation near Buffalo, New York, progressed, his intense dislike of her had transformed into out-and-out contempt.
As though reading his mind, Dale exhaled wearily. “I always thought you’d outgrow this irrational fear of women, that you’d find someone who would cause you to reevaluate your opinions. Not every
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