“We’d better continue on foot,” said Espejo.

They got off their horses, and Espejo, instead of tying them up, hobbled both of them and put a bell around the neck of one, turning them loose to graze in the meadow. When he was done, he looked at her. “Well, you’re on your own now.”

Although he’d already said as much, Nora had only half believed him. “You’re really not coming?”

“This is where I stop. You just keep going down the canyon. It’s probably no more than a mile or two to Ojo Escondido.”

Nora shouldered her pack and set off down the ravine. Soon the granite walls had closed in tight, creating a gloomy, claustrophobic atmosphere. There was no stream in the bottom, only a dry bed of rocks with scattered brush, with some battered tree trunks washed down in flash floods. It was getting on toward afternoon, and Nora wondered if they were going to make it back to the horse trailer by dark. At least, she mused, it would be the night of the full moon.

The terrain got rougher still, and in a few places the canyon became so tight Nora could almost span the walls with her arms. And then, quite abruptly, the walls opened up into a spacious grassy hollow, perhaps a hundred yards across, shaded with massive cottonwood trees, their leaves backlit like stained glass in the slanting light. A small pool, crowded with willows and greenery, indicated a spring at the base of the cliffs. Beyond the spring, against the far wall of the canyon, stood a rough log cabin, a small outbuilding, a privy, and a sheep corral. There was no sign of life.

Nora stopped, heart in her throat. Was this it? It couldn’t be more hidden or remote, and it looked abandoned. It amazed her that a man as old as Nantan had lived long enough to build the cabin and outbuildings. She suddenly feared what she might find in the cabin. But there was no turning back now.

“Hello!” she called, her voice echoing and re-echoing from the soaring canyon walls.

Silence.

“Nantan Taza?”

Still no answer.

She approached the cabin cautiously. The door was ajar. She paused, then knocked.

No answer.

“Hello?”

Silence.

She pushed open the door with a creaking sound and stepped inside. It was dim, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. It was the simplest one-room cabin imaginable, built of logs chinked with mud, with a dirt floor, stone fireplace, rudimentary table, chair, some flat rocks for plates—and a rough wooden bunk in the far corner. It took a few moments for Nora to realize that a man was lying among the dirty animal skins. He was of almost unfathomable age, his hair long and white, in striking contrast to the dark brown face. Nora felt her heart pounding. Was he

dead or alive?

“Mr. Taza?”

The head slowly turned toward her, and a withered hand rose, making a faint gesture for her to come over. She approached in silence and stood over the bed, taking off her backpack and placing it on the floor.

The old man gazed at her. “Who … ?”

Nora tried to formulate her thoughts. The man looked so withered, so moribund, she was stunned he was still alive. “I’m Nora Kelly.”

“Why have you come?”

“I’m an archaeologist.” She hesitated. “James Gower’s body was found,” she blurted. “I excavated it.” She stopped.

The expression on his face changed in a way she couldn’t quite identify. “How did you find me?”

“Your friend Nick Espejo guided me. He’s still a few miles up the canyon. He didn’t want to break his promise to you. I’m alone.”

“Why have you come?” the old man repeated. His voice was little more than a slow whisper of wind.

“I was hoping,” she said, “that you might tell your story. And … ” She hesitated.

The cabin went silent.

Nora’s instincts told her the old man was waiting for something—but for what, exactly, she didn’t know. Her eyes strayed to the backpack, propped up next to her. And then, suddenly, she understood.

Corrie would be furious. Nora might even be charged with a crime. But now—as Nora struggled with a decision that, on some level, she’d known since the trek began that she would face—the importance of such things seemed to fade away under the old man’s gaze.

As she struggled with uncertainty, the old man closed his eyes. “I knew, someday, this would happen.”

At last—before she could change her mind—Nora unzipped her pack and took out the box. She unbuckled it, lifted out the medicine bundle, and held it out to him.

The old man’s eyes opened, then grew wide. He reached out with both hands, and she put the bundle in them. He held it for a moment, then reverently placed it on the bed beside him and tucked it close, almost like a child might grasp a teddy bear. His gaze moved from the bundle back to her. “I’ve been waiting for a messenger. All these years, I’ve been waiting. I never thought … it would be someone like you.”

“A messenger?”

“Yes. I’ve been punished with long life because I would not tell the story … But you’ve come, and now I know it is time.”

He raised his hand and pointed across the room. “Bring me that wooden chest.”

She rose and brought over a small wooden box, hand-adzed and pegged, with an ill-fitting cover.

“Open.”

She did so. There were two items in the box: an object wrapped in buckskin, and a parfleche-like envelope made of rawhide.