“It’s gone, bro.”
“Damnit to hell! I paid a fortune for that hat,” Malcom swore. “I’ve got to try to find it.”
“I told you the $100 hat was fine, buddy. You had to have the fancy one.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’d be going after the $100 one, too. I’m not made of money,” Malcom answered. “How do we get down from here?”
Brody sighed. The greenhorn was going to get himself killed. “Follow me.” He led Malcom well away from the torrent of wind, and started a careful descent.
Any kid growing up in the Four Corners area had scrambled up and down red rock cliffs. Called slickrock locally, it isn’t truly slick. Sandstone has enough texture to provide grip for the right kind of shoes. Cowboy boots aren’t the right kind. But subtle grooves formed by erosion, along with narrow cracks and ledges, can provide a route for the experienced climber, which Brody was. He thought about having Malcom take off his boots. Even thought about taking off his own. Macho pride stopped him. It was going to be a hairy climb down, though.
Tense moments followed as Brody picked his way to the bottom of the canyon. He was fearful that at any moment, Malcom would lose his grip and come tumbling down on top of him, sweeping both to their deaths on the rocks below. Forty-five minutes later, they reached the bottom.
An entirely different ecosystem existed at the bottom of the canyon. In spring, snowmelt from miles away would feed the stream, which must have also been fed by an up-canyon spring to still have water in it at this time of year. Sand stretched for yards on either side of a lazy dribble. Trees, mostly cottonwood, clung to the sides of the canyon, and scrub juniper took advantage of any sand-filled crack in the rock. The two men walked up the canyon to see if they could spot the place where the strange wind flowed over the top. Malcom kept his eyes on the ground, while Brody searched the trees where Malcom’s precious Stetson might have been caught.
Both were surprised to find the debris riding the wind above their heads and being drawn farther up the canyon. Even weirder, there was a similar current of sand and other detritus flowing down from the opposite side of the canyon to join the flow on their side.
“What do you make of that?” Malcom asked, scratching his head.
“It’s impossible,” Brody answered. “That would mean the wind is blowing from the opposite direction on that side. It doesn’t make sense.”
As if they’d thought of it simultaneously, both men turned and began moving up the middle of the canyon, stepping into and over the little stream to follow the wind. A mile later, they rounded a bend and found the wind’s destination. It made even less sense. Every particle of sand, bit of dried sagebrush or tumbleweed, and fleck of juniper bark was flowing into a good-sized cliff dwelling village carved into the rock a couple hundred feet up the cliff side opposite their mesa.
“Whoa, look at that!” Malcom said. “Did you know that was there?”
“No,” Brody replied in wonder. “I bet no one does. That must be almost the size of Mesa Verde or the Chaco Canyon ruins. If anyone knew it was there, there’d be a road blasted into this canyon and hundreds of cars would be honking at us right about now.”
“You mean we may be the first to see it?” Malcom asked.
“Since the Ancient Ones who lived here left it,” Brody answered. “I wonder if they…”
“They what?”
“No one knows where the Ancient Ones went, or why they left so suddenly. They just up and abandoned Mesa Verde, and there are a lot of theories but no answers. Maybe this pueblo has answers. I have a buddy who works for the Park Service at Mesa Verde. He’s an archaeologist. I should call him and ask about this one.”
“Wait. This could be something to make us some money. Didn’t all those old Indians have gold and silver? What if it’s still here? I mean, if no one knows about it. And besides, I bet my hat’s in there. I’ve at least got to go see if I can find it.”
“Don’t believe all you hear about gold and silver. Silver, maybe. More likely copper and maybe some turquoise. I don’t know if the Anasazi traded with outsiders or not. Let’s go ahead and look for your hat and then get those strays back to the ranch. When we get back, I’ll call my buddy.”
“As long as you don’t tell him exactly where it is,” Malcom answered. Brody could see the gleam of gold fever in his eyes.
“Okay. Come on, let’s go find your hat.”
The climb to the cliff dwelling was easier than the descent to the bottom of the canyon had been. A hand-and-toe ladder had been carved into the vertical stretches of sandstone, and worn paths angled up in a switch-back fashion where possible. The hard part was staying on the cliff-face while being buffeted by the stinging sand particles borne on the wind. However, they reached the village in short order and began exploring.
In the center of the pueblo, they found the kiva — the underground circular vault used by Puebloans for spiritual ceremonies and political meetings. It was easy enough to spot, as the wind led straight to it and poured in through an area of the roof that had fallen — in a sort of tornado-like spiral dust devil.
Brody felt a supernatural chill and shivered despite the ninety-degree heat being only slightly lower here in the canyon than on the mesa. “Dude, I’m not sure we should go in there. It’s sacred.”
Malcom turned an astonished gaze on him. “Sacred! I didn’t know you were religious.”
“I’m not. But there are things about my people and our ancestors that you don’t know. It kind of creeps me out to enter a kiva uninvited.”
“Who the hell’s going to invite you? In case you haven’t noticed, this place has been deserted for a very long time,” Malcom huffed. “I’m going in.”
Brody took a breath in and shook his head, gripping the side of the cliff for balance. “Suit yourself, but I’m not going anywhere near that kiva.”
Brody watched as Malcom circled the kiva until he found the ladder leading down into the cylindrical structure. It was made of stones piled together without mortar, but carved into the bedrock so that the above-ground enclosure was only half the total height. It was roofed with saplings laid in a flattish conical manner, with a ladder leading down into it through an opening in the roof. As they had noticed, part of the roof was missing toward the open side of the pueblo, where the wind was pouring in. The normal entrance was on the opposite side.
Brody approached more reluctantly, only rushing to the ladder when he heard a shout from within. He scrambled to the top and looked down into the gloom, but couldn’t see Malcom. The wind in the kiva was circling like a tiny tornado.
“Malcom! Are you okay? What’s happening?”
There was no answer.
“Malcom! Are you hurt?”
Just then, a flash of white startled Brody into ducking away from the kiva entrance. To his horror, he realized it was Malcom’s face, frozen in a rictus of fear.
“Malcom!” Brody shot back up the ladder so quickly he nearly fell into the kiva. As he watched, tracking Malcom’s body as it circled lower and lower, he feared Malcom was dead.
But how?
And then, his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, dread stole over him as he saw Malcom’s body sucked into the largest sipapu he’d ever seen, in the floor of the kiva. From inside, a wail of dread and terror rang out and echoed up the sipapu then tumbled into the circling wind in the kiva.
What the hell? Could Malcom still be alive?
Brody scrambled back down the ladder and ran to the edge of the pueblo. Climbing back up the cliff side as fast as he could, he could think of nothing but riding back to the bunkhouse at full gallop and gathering others to go and rescue Malcom. A superstitious dread overcame him halfway up.