Nora nodded. “I understand.”

“Perhaps you could tell me why it’s important to identify the owner?”

“There’s an unusual story connected to it. It has to be kept strictly confidential.”

Eskaminzin said, “Understood.”

“Back in July of 1945, the bundle’s owner and a man named James Gower were camped in High Lonesome while looking for something in the Jornada. That’s the mystery—we don’t know what they were looking for. Early on the morning of July sixteenth, Gower was crossing the desert on his mule when he was caught in the atomic blast of the Trinity test. Are you familiar with the test?”

“I am acutely familiar with the Trinity test,” said Eskaminzin. “The bomb was set off on our ancestral lands, and it spread radioactive contamination over a large area. Please go on.”

“Gower made it back to High Lonesome, but he’d received a fatal dose of radiation and soon died. His partner buried him in the traditional Apache fashion, in a flexed position, and then fled, leaving behind this medicine bundle.”

“To do that, he must have been extremely afraid.”

“He saw the blast,” said Nora.

“He saw it?”

“Ground zero was in direct line of sight from where they were camped.”

“How terrible.”

“A few weeks ago, Gower’s body was found up in High Lonesome, where it had been since the day of the test. Since it’s on federal land it triggered an FBI investigation. I was asked to excavate the body, and later dig their old campsite. That’s where I found the medicine bundle.”

Eskaminzin remained silent for a long time, her face betraying nothing. Finally she said: “Please open the box.”

Nora unbuckled the container and took out the bundle. Eskaminzin took the shriveled buckskin in both hands, handling it gingerly. She carefully opened it and slid the items out one by one, lining them up on her desk. Once they were arrayed, she picked each one up and examined it, turning it around, then placing it down for the next one. When she put the last one down, she looked up at Nora.

“Nantan Taza.”

“I’m sorry?”

“This medicine bundle belonged to Nantan Taza.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you how I know, beyond saying that every medicine bundle is unique and contains items that tell of an individual’s clan and family. Nantan Taza was my grandfather’s brother. That may sound like an odd coincidence, but we’re a small tribe.”

Nora could hardly believe her luck. “What else can you tell me about Nantan Taza?”

Eskaminzin folded her hands. “What you’ve just told me, about his witnessing the atomic blast, explains a great deal. We long wondered why he was the way he was.”

“How so?”

“Everyone said that as a boy, Nantan was a dreamer, a happygo-lucky type, full of plans. But then something happened … and he became a strange, dark, and silent man.”

“And this thing that happened—it was around the time of the atomic test?”

“Yes. He never married, had no family. He earned a small living from a grazing allotment where he ran cattle, and he was a good hunter. He stood out from others not only by his solitary ways but also what some considered to be his visionary powers. Or so they say. Sometimes, people in great need would go to him to understand the future, or to ask for a vision or spiritual guidance. Even so, he was a forbidding person. Laughter and humor are a big part of Apache culture, but I never saw him so much as smile. Ever. He looked as if he’d stared the devil in the face. And from what you tell me, I guess he did.”

“What happened to him?”

“About ten years ago, he departed.”

“You mean he passed away?”

“No, I mean he left.”

“Left to go where?”

“We don’t know.”

“He just left? How old was he?”

“Eighty-five. Let me explain. For a long time, as I’ve implied, he was regarded with a certain amount of awe. But in his later years, younger people became skeptical of the idea that he had special powers. They saw him only as a grumpy, off-putting old man. Some made fun of him. Finally, people stopped consulting him. I think perhaps he felt he’d outlived his usefulness. So one day he filled a sack with his possessions, took his rifle and ammo, got on his horse, and rode off into the mountains.”

Nora paused a moment. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“In the days when we were a nomadic people, an old person would sometimes decide to go into self-exile rather than become an encumbrance. This was especially true when we were fighting the Mexicans and Americans and had to move like the wind. What he did was anachronistic, perhaps—but not unusual.”

“So he just went off and—then what? Did he die?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he simply decided to live apart. Our reservation covers almost five hundred thousand acres. There’s good hunting and plenty of water. He could have lived in some remote canyon and nobody would ever know.”

“He’d be in his midnineties now,” Nora said. “Alone in the wilderness for a decade … it’s hard to believe he might still be alive.”

Eskaminzin smiled indulgently. “We are the people of Geronimo, Cochise, and Victorio. We are survivors.”