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    Ashley Hayes Mysteries: Book 1, 2 & 3
    Ashley Hayes Mysteries: Book 1, 2 & 3
    Ashley Hayes Mysteries: Book 1, 2 & 3
    Ebook857 pages16 hours

    Ashley Hayes Mysteries: Book 1, 2 & 3

    By Dan Baldwin

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    About this ebook

    Desecration 1
    The life of a college professor of anthropology in a northwest Louisiana college was a breeze for Dr. Ashley “Ash” Hayes. Her most troublesome challenge is an emotional battle fought among those who want to study Native American artifacts, those who want to protect them, and those who want to desecrate ancient burial sites to steal them.
    That life is brutally interrupted when police detective “Bummer” LaSalle drags her into the investigation of a sadistic serial killer because he needs someone who can “think Indian.”
    When the sun goes down and the world goes dark can Ash, armed only with her two hands and keen mind, survive the inevitable assault of a mad man?

    Heresy 2
    Dr. Ashley "Ash" Hayes is driven to prove that America was explored by Europeans well before Columbus - a quest that is heresy to the members of her northwest Louisiana academic community. Her quest is interrupted by the disappearance of a friend who has headed into the hills and swamps in search of Native American treasure. She drops everything to help find her friend and is aided by the missing man's brother, a tall and handsome transplanted Apache. The search is complicated by a series of grisly murders which are connected to the brother's disappearance. They find the brother, the killer and someone far more deadly. They also find romance, the treasure and a profound mystery. But will Ash survive to tell the story?

    Vengeance 3
    Dr. Ashley “Ash” Hayes, professor of archaeology at a prestigious Louisiana college, is in danger of losing her job because of her controversial and outspoken beliefs about the history of man in North America. Unexpected and barely-welcome help comes from a moral enemy, a former state senator who years earlier was forced to resign due to Ashley uncovering his illegal dealing in Native American artifacts. He wants to make amends by using his still-considerable influence if she will use her skills to help him locate a fortune in lost Confederate arms. For the same reasons, Deputy Sheriff Tate Dawson enlists her aid in tracking a crazed serial killer who is seeking another historical treasure – the lost fortune of gunman Cullen Montgomery Baker. As matters deteriorate, Ashley’s career rests on her locating a bizarre letter penned by President Abraham Lincoln which is being sought by an old and mysterious organization known as The Brothers of the Law. The questors, the mysteries and the killer intersect in a violent confrontation at a lakeside mansion. Will Ashley lose her job or will she lose more than that – her life?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDan Baldwin
    Release dateJul 12, 2017
    ISBN9781370894482
    Ashley Hayes Mysteries: Book 1, 2 & 3
    Author

    Dan Baldwin

    Dan Baldwin is the author of westerns, mysteries, thrillers, short story collections and books on the paranormal. He is the winner of numerous local, regional, and national awards for writing and directing film and video projects. He earned an Honorable Mention from the Society of Southwestern Authors writing competition for his short story Flat Busted and  a Finalist designation from the National Indie Excellence Awards for Trapp Canyon and Caldera III – A Man of Blood. Baldwin received a Finalist designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards for Sparky and the King. Bock’s Canyon earned the Winner designation in the 2017 Best Book Awards. Baldwin’s paranormal works are The Practical Pendulum – A Swinging Guide, Find Me as told to Dan Baldwin, They Are Not Yet Lost and How Find Me Lost Me – A Betrayal of Trust Told by the Psychic Who Didn’t See It Coming. They Are Not Yet Lost earned the Winner designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Competition. How Find Me Lost Me won the Winner designation in the Best Book Awards 2017 competition and the Finalist designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Competition.

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      Book preview

      Ashley Hayes Mysteries - Dan Baldwin

      Acknowledgements

      Harvey Stanbrough, my editor, who continues to help turn a scribbler into a writer.

      My friends at the Society of Southwestern Authors for their open hearts, honest criticism, and continuing support.

      Chris O’Byrne for helping get me from here to there at the last minute.

      Chapter One

      Dem bones, dem bones, dem... dry bones? Naw, that’s not it. The man with the red-line eyes wiped a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth. Foot bone connected to the leg bone. Leg bone connected to the knee bone. No. There were more bones, lots of bones, lots and lots of bones. He scratched his left wrist as if trying to dig out the answer from his flesh.

      Dry bones? Bone dry? Bonehead? Boner? The words banged around the inside of his skull like a handful of pebbles rattling in the skin of an old, dried up gourd. They shattered and splintered into sharp, ragged pieces that punched tiny holes into his brain, holes that itched like the mosquito bites folks get back in the deep swamps. He desperately wanted to claw the inside of his head. He was a scrawny, dried out stinkweed of a man with a sad face that could easily morph itself into the warm glow of sincerity when bumming a smoke, a ride or a hump out in the parking lot. That same face could just as easily twist into an ugly, profane snarl spitting out the devil’s own curses upon hearing the inevitable No, Sorry, or Get the hell out of my face!

      His name was Clovis Bassett and he was searching for the string. The thing was wound up somewhere inside him, deep beneath the dirty skin. The skin. He never thought of his body as his own. It was always the head, the foot, the gut, the string. By his fiftieth year, he’d pretty much figured out that the string was located somewhere down deep in his left arm, maybe hidden deep within the bones. Dem bones. He would find it soon. He had to. And then he’d give it a pull, just a slow and gentle tug. The pain would be exquisite, a foreshadowing of the agonizing bliss to follow. He could almost see it happening. First the skin would rip open, neatly, like the shelling of a purple hull pea. Pull the string up the spine of the pea and pop. The rich insides would be exposed: muscle, tissue, and blood. The blood. He wondered which would be more satisfying: watching the exposed tissues pumping, flexing and bleeding, or the actual slow, lip-biting rip through the leathery, spotted, old skin?

      First, he had to find and mark it so he’d never lose it again, so when the time was finally right he could give it that one final tug. How? Bone black. That’s it! Bone black. That’s how the ancient, wise ones did it. Burn some bones to charcoal. Burn ‘em to filthy ashes. White to black. Add a little grease and you had the first Magic Marker. Then find that damn string and let X mark the spot. It would not escape him again. He pulled his thin fingers from the sides of his head and looked up. Where am I? How did I get here?

      He had stumbled into the Tall Pines Restaurant and Lounge at Murfreesboro, south-central Arkansas. It was a big, warm, wide-open place where a waitress’s friendly Hi and country music was as much a part of the atmosphere as the bacon grease floating on the haze of cigarette smoke that passed for air. Huge beams, left rough-cut for effect, supported a high, vaulted ceiling. The equally rough and unpainted plank walls were dented at precisely the same level by generations of overweight pulpwood haulers who couldn’t sit without leaning back in their metal chairs.

      The number of customers had dropped considerably between breakfast and lunch and Bassett tried to ignore the only other diners, two portly survivors of the local timber industry. Their laughter sent a shock of anger through his system and he fired a dangerous scowl back across the room. It was an automatic movement that achieved an instant reaction. The two old men began studying their plates. Something in the thin stranger’s eyes raised the hairs on the back of their necks. The effect was like hearing the are-you-sure-you-want-to-step-here buzz of a rattlesnake down in the tall grass.

      Who does that sumbitch think he is?

      Let it be.

      Sumbitch.

      They went back to their morning coffee and continued trading off-color jokes with Jan, the regular day waitress. She was in her fifties, thin, and retaining just enough veneer of her former glory as a high school beauty queen. She was friendly and had an ageless smile that could make some of the good deacons wonder if, and at the same time invite their plump, patient and big-haired wives in on the joke. The food at Tall Pines was good and there were always large portions splayed on its thick, well-worn white plates, but it was Jan and her smile who kept the regulars coming back.

      Bassett ignored the men and rubbed his arm.

      One of the retired men shook off the hostility he felt for the dirty man across the room by changing the subject. With great and exaggerated dignity, as Jan watched, he dragged his last half-biscuit slowly and elegantly across the plate, a small craft easing through a sea of butter and syrup, grease and gravy. If the surup’ tears it in half, that means they got Mama cookin’ back there in the kitchen, he said. He looked his companion of many years directly in the eye. With the conviction of a newly converted Christian making his first witness to his fellow sinners, he said, Real or store-bought, it’s the only way to tell.

      Across the table, his good friend wiped his mouth and blew his nose on a napkin, rolled the paper into a tight ball and tossed it into the leftover grits and goo on his plate. Some folks might just take a bite out of it and chew. The comment was dutifully ignored.

      The lonely biscuit ended its journey unscathed and intact. The pilot, shaking his head in remorse, held it above his plate. I’ve patched flat tires with these things.

      Jan slapped him gently on his shoulder and left the table in amused protest. She glanced around the room looking for tip material. The pickins’ are lean, downright skinny.

      Bassett didn’t notice her until she was standing over him. He quickly clamped his right hand around his left wrist, as if protecting some personal treasure or hiding some dark shame. The inside of his head began to itch even more fiercely.

      She flashed her best smile. Refill, Hon?

      Like an old cat, he shook his head from side to side and began trembling. Tiny sweat beads popped out on his dirty forehead as he tried to make out what she was saying. A soft, terrible fluttering inside his head kept slapping her words around, scattering them in directions he could not follow. It sounded as if he were inside a muffled bass drum surrounded by a hundred more, all lightly pounding different rhythms. No," he grunted, barely hearing his own answer. He grabbed his cup with a shaky hand and took a sip of the cold coffee, a dismissal.

      The old men were standing beside the cash register. One of them shouted, Jan, breakfast on the house today?

      She glanced at Bassett. I’ll be right back. She left to take their money.

      The men enjoyed a final, just-barely dirty joke.

      Jan pretended to be offended and spiked the light green ticket on a spindle.

      The men left with a wave, a grin and enough dirty thoughts to get them through the morning. Jan grabbed the coffee pot and returned to her hostile customer. You okay, Hon? You need an aspirin or something? She refilled his cup automatically.

      He was still trembling, still rubbing his left arm near the wrist. No. It’s that picture on the wall.

      Jan forced a smile. Strange bird. But they often got a lot of backwoods boys dropping into the restaurant. Too many cousins marrying cousins back there in the lonely hollows. Some of them were hard to look at.

      Bassett’s face twitched and his eyes blinked erratically. He made a weak gesture toward the walls. They were decorated with prints of old circus posters, Native American arrowheads mounted in gray shadow boxes, and artwork by local talent clearly destined for careers in fast food, homemaking, and gas station management. Each frame and box had a small, circular price tag licked and affixed to a bottom corner, each little spot yellowed and curled with ancient humidity. Bassett tried again, pointed to a paint-by-the-numbers version of a famous bit of western art. It featured a lone Indian on horseback, his spear dropping to the dust as he entered the sunset, his back bent by defeat and despair.

      It’s called ‘End of the Trail,’ I think, Jan said. Priced right. She flashed the smile, but her customer wasn’t buying.

      Naw, he mumbled.

      How about some breakfast or a Honey Bun?

      I ain’t feeling too good, Lady. It was a threat and an invitation to leave him alone. He gripped his cup with shaking hands, spilling coffee on the red and white plastic table cloth.

      She held her smile, but with obvious effort. Don’t worry about that, I change ‘em after breakfast anyway. Bassett grunted something unintelligible and Jan glanced around. They were alone in the dining room and the kitchen help was way the hell out of sight. She gripped the coffee pot tightly, her subconscious mind reacting to something her conscious mind did not yet recognize.

      Bassett nodded upwards. That picture up there bothers me. I’m a’ Indian.

      She brightened and loosened her grip. Really?

      Caddo... Caddo Indian.

      Well, we’re probably cousins or somethin’, Jan said. I’m Indian on my daddy’s side. Apache, I think.

      Bassett knocked over his cup. It fell to the concrete floor and shattered. Jan immediately pulled a handful of paper napkins from the rusted metal container. She squatted down with a polite grunt and stemmed the small, dark tide. Happens all the time, Hon. I’ll clean it up and get you another.

      The thin, ugly little man watched her walk back behind the counter where she picked up a whisk broom and a dust pan. His eyes followed her every step. Apache! Enemy of my people! Hate touched him, a tide of overwhelming, thought-numbing emotion. It was at that moment of purest evil that his boney fingers found the string. There, right in the middle of his left wrist. The wrist. He gave it a quick, tentative tug. The string ripped a thin, neat line about a quarter of an inch up his arm. The pain was brief and searing, but he could see no blood.

      Jan returned to the damnedest sight she’d encountered in years: a grown man shedding tears in public over a spilled cup of coffee. For some reason he was pinching his wrist. What next? It’s okay, Hon. She placed a hand on his shoulder and every silent alarm carried by every woman in the history of the world went into scream mode. The message from her subconscious mind finally showed up in her conscious mind: Run! The warning was far too late.

      Clovis Bassett moved so swiftly that Jan never knew what killed her: the blade of a pocket knife rammed under her rib cage directly into her heart. Her eyes grew wide in shock and terror. Bassett rammed the knife in and out a few times and then shoved her head back with such force that the crack of her neck sounded like the snap of brittle fire wood on a cold Arkansas morning. As she fell away, he pulled the blade from her body. He shouted and screamed in victory and vengeance, but heard nothing except the fluttering drums inside his head.

      The scream brought an old black woman, the cook, from the kitchen. She was as large as a professional mezzo-soprano and her scream was just as loud. Her shrieking joined the killer’s in a duet of terror. Her hands slapped uselessly at the counter in true, Deep South Christian horror as Bassett turned Jan over, grabbed her short blond hair, and pulled her head from the floor, the bloody knife still in his other hand. Horror turned to hysteria and the black woman started shoving plates, cups, silverware, anything, everything off the counter. She crashed and pushed her way down its entire length. It ended near the front door. Merciful Father! Merciful Father! Merciful Father! The last item she shoved to the floor was a rack of tourist brochures advertising the nearby Caddo Experience Village and Museum: Enjoy Your Stay In Murfreesboro. Ya’ll Come Back!

      The old men were still in the parking lot, finishing a cigarette and a good natured lie when the screaming started. They rushed inside, freezing in place like deer caught in a night hunter’s spotlight.

      The cook, her big arms and hands scratched and cut, stopped screaming and, in what must have been a moment of super-human effort, pointed to Bassett. She frantically whispered, Devil!

      The killer stood over Jan’s body, the knife in one bloody hand, her scalp in the other. The horrified gasps from the old men caught his attention and the distraction cost him the string. He watched in horror as it slipped away like a snake crawling down a hole. Clovis Bassett looked to the rafters and howled like a maddened animal.

      The two old men were experienced hunters, used to killing, gutting, and skinning. They’d spent decades covered in the blood of deer, wild boar, bear and mountain lion, but they backed away like terrified children.

      The cook, now in full panic, would have to run the length of the long counter to escape back through the kitchen or turn around and head for the front door. The killer could move a lot faster. The old men grabbed her fat arms and dragged her over the counter. She kicked her equally fat legs kicked and scrambled until she was on the other side. They staggered into the parking lot, the men still dragging the shocked woman. They sped, bug-eyed, the short distance downtown to the sheriff’s office.

      Sweet Jesus!

      Merciful Father!

      Sumbitch!

      That was all the time the killer needed to make his escape, fading into the nearby forest. Later, during the investigation, no one recognized him from the meager, shock-torn descriptions provided by the three frightened witnesses and no one even came close to capturing him. The authorities eventually assumed he was some brain-rotted alky on a binge or maybe a tweaker with amphetamine psychosis. They were good guesses, but, like most guesses, they were wrong.

      Jan was buried in a closed-casket ceremony. An expensive casket and burial plot was donated by a local women’s club that met regularly at the restaurant. She was tenderly carried home by six solemn deacons, forever consigned to wonder if.

      Immediately, one of the old men who had witnessed the incident became something of a local celebrity, often earning a free cup of coffee and a Honey Bun by relating the gruesome tale for customers of the Tall Pines. Kids ate it up. His friend never returned. A week or so after the incident, he blew a tire on his old pickup as he passed the restaurant. He drove on for half a mile beyond the smooth, flat parking lot to change the tire someplace else—anyplace else.

      Nearly every night the old boy woke up with a fear-drenched shout, sweating like a field hand chopping cotton down in the river bottoms. He would suddenly pop up in bed shouting the one Indian word he knew, the word he learned from the night terror that was Clovis Bassett: Caddaja!

      He looked it up once down at the library in Texarkana, but the knowledge did not bring understanding, nor did it bring peace. The word kept coming at him, shrieking and ripping through the sanctuary of his sleep. The old black woman had been right. In the ancient, nearly-forgotten language of the Caddo Indians, Caddaja means devil.

      Chapter Two

      Paul Edgewood faked a grin. I guess you’re a real homemaker after all, Ash.

      Ashley Maud Hayes knew the value of humor in a crisis. That didn’t mean she had to laugh, appreciate, or respond to it, especially if the barbs came from an overeager, oversexed archaeology professor. She paused from her labors just long enough for a quick, sideways glance. How’s the ankle? The answer was ugly and obvious. He was already turning pale. Keep him alert and talking. Keep him alive, she thought.

      Paul’s voice was shaky. It’s still swelling. I think it’s where my ego went. They were from down in Louisiana, working in conjunction with Arkansas State University to locate ancient Caddo Indian settlements outlying the major villages and trade centers. They would locate the sites according to GPS coordinates and evaluate them for possible excavation. The work was challenging, but rarely dangerous unless someone got careless. Paul had broken the most basic survival rule: don’t be stupid.

      He had been the first to see the archaeological potential of a little ridge they’d come upon. It was a high, flat area near a narrow bend in the northern end of the Little Missouri River back in the Ouachita Mountains. It was a beautiful spot. He had rushed up the hill, loudly claiming it for king and country and college and Ash and especially me when a large timber rattler exercised a prior claim. The nearest help was at least eight miles back along a rugged, winding mountain trail.

      Damn, Ashley whispered. She’d used her snakebite kit to get rid of as much of the poison as she could. Now they could only wait.

      Paul reclined against a pine tree and examined the bandage around his ankle. Good work, Doctor Hayes, but I suggest the patient would improve with a more friendly bedside manner.

      Ashley ignored him and continued to pile a neat group of large, flat rocks into a square stack about two feet high, leaving a small U-shaped crevice in the top center. She pulled a long, wide and extremely sharp hunting knife from a beaded leather sheath and began cutting down a small pine tree about four inches in diameter and about twenty feet long. She stripped the limbs off one side about halfway down and cradled the large end of the trunk into the crevice, trim side down. It looked like half a Christmas tree fallen from a primitive stand. Paul shook his head in confusion.

      What the hell are you doing, Ash?

      This is your cozy little nest for the evening and I am your friendly neighborhood Welcome Wagon lady.

      I’d prefer something in a split-level ranch... you know, a cozy little spread for two.

      She collected the cut branches and piled them near the base of the structure. Well, it’s small, my friend, but at least it has absolutely none of the comforts of home. She paused briefly and looked around. I wonder how many times had this act been played out at this spot?

      The rarely-used backpacking trail had brought them to an ideal research site deep into the forested ridges and lonely valleys. Although Paul had gained and lost the high ground first, Ashley was first to notice the bits and pieces of worked flint. Tiny flakes of stone covered the ground like scattered snow, clear signs of ancient tool making. The site had been a hunting camp for thousands of years. It was near a reliable water source and open to the east to catch the early, welcome, warming rays of the sun. Game and edible plants would have provided reliable food sources for millennia.

      Ancient people had lived there. How many died here? She shook off the negative thought and took a second to stretch. A dark looked crossed her face.

      Paul’s fake grin disappeared and serious worry crossed his face. What is it?

      Storm’s coming.

      High winds whistled through the rocks and crags above the tree line. Days earlier the wind had begun rolling up from the Gulf of Mexico, gathering strength over the flatlands of Louisiana until it split and splintered and gained power on the sharp rocks of Arkansas’ mountains. She took a deep breath and caught the scent of rain. Gonna be a big one. Nature had turned the fifty-percent chance of rain predicted by the local weathermen into a one hundred percent, imminent and unpleasant reality. The growing storm was forcing hard decisions.

      Paul needed more care than was available from her small first aid kit. Cell phones were nothing more than dead weight back in the mountains. Food, shelter and another professor were several miles away where the old trail crossed a backwoods road, but there would be no vehicle at that camp for another two days. She could cover the distance easily, but not carrying Paul’s weight. She could build a travois, but she still wouldn’t be able to drag him over the narrow trails or through the deep creeks on the way back. Neither would she leave an injured man exposed to what was swiftly and violently coming around the mountain.

      Paul stared at the contraption she was creating. "I’m sleeping under that thing?"

      Thank you. She continued building the lean-to that would keep him alive through the night and provide shade during the heat of the following day.

      But I’ll get soaked!

      You knew there was a chance of rain when we left.

      Right, but we’re supposed to be back at camp in tents with cots and food, candlelight and wine. Faint thunder from the south boomed on the other side of the nearest mountain. He held out his palm as if catching a drop of rain, a touch of worry in his pale eyes.

      You may not stay very dry in there, but you will be warm and comfortable, she said. I promise. Lying to the desperate is easy.

      Yeah.

      Paul, this little adventure was your idea, remember? ‘Learn about ancient man by living like ancient man. Experience his needs, his fears, his quest for knowledge.’ Hell, I do that at least one weekend a month.

      I take the fifth, he said. "Wish I had a fifth."

      That’s the last thing you need for a snakebite.

      Thunder rumbled a bit closer and the gentle breeze picked up, spiraling a deep green Sweetgum leaf to the earth near Paul’s feet. She noticed that his leg was still swelling. Her first aid efforts would save the leg and his life, but certainly not the contents of his stomach. He was in for a rough night. She went back to work, breaking sticks into three-foot lengths, weaving them into the pine branches of the Christmas tree until the shelter took on the appearance of a long, low, narrow A-frame.

      Paul admired her handiwork almost as much as he admired her attractive shape. She was a large and very lovely woman with an exceptionally sexy figure. She inhabited the fantasy life of most of her male students and a large segment of the faculty. She worked out regularly, jogged, and knew a bit of karate and judo, all essential elements, she said, for the female archaeologist who prefers to work on her own. Paul jogged too, but generally finished his workout with pizza and beer and was a hefty twenty-five pounds overweight. At forty-two, he was ten years her senior and, until he’d made the acquaintance of the rattlesnake, he’d hiked all day with pleasantly naughty dreams in mind. Showing off for Ashley had cost him that fantasy.

      She paused long enough to check his condition. He was clearheaded, but she could also see that he was damn scared. Ashley saw something else: professor lust. That was good. If he could stay focused on something other than his own pain and fear, he would be all right. His real enemy for the next day or so would be panic, fear that could cause him to break the cardinal rule and do something stupid again.

      She started piling loose brush, twigs, and limbs into and over her construction project, working with an increased fury when a single, large drop of water splatted to the earth.

      Paul shuddered and his teeth were just beginning to chatter. Is that a single or a double room?

      You’ll snuggle by yourself all night and you’ll probably be as sick as a dog. She silently cursed her honesty. She winked and smiled. You dog. Keep him positive.

      The task of keeping up his spirits was getting more difficult by the moment. Another round of thunder boomed, and dark clouds moved in. They descended slowly, majestically, inevitably. The rain would pour all night.

      You’ll be here, safe and warm, while I’m fighting bears in the rain, she said.

      Kind’a takes the edge off snuggling, doesn’t it? Grinning, he patted the earth beside him. His hands were trembling.

      Ashley scraped up a large armload of leaves and pine straw. Loosen that tourniquet and tighten up your mouth.

      He obeyed with an even bigger and forced smile as she stuffed the material into the pine limbs. She repeated the process until she’d built an igloo of limbs and leaves. She placed as much tree bark as she could over the top and weighted the whole thing down with small rocks.

      Paul’s voice was weak as he cleared his throat. What next?

      Ashley stretched. Tonight your fondest dreams will come true. You will sleep as did your ancient man.

      With his ancient woman?

      I give up. She stuffed the pine limbs and remaining leaves into the wooden igloo, covering the rough, rocky earth with a thick, soft, natural carpet. She had slept on rougher beds in cheap motels when on archaeological digs back in the hinterlands.

      I love it when you bend over, he said. He was trying too hard.

      She backed out and dusted off her hands. I have to go, Paul.

      He nodded. The poison was beginning to work on his stomach and his swollen leg brought a constant burning pain. He turned to his side, not wanting her to see what was about to happen between himself, his lunch and the sacred Mother Earth. Sorry, he mumbled.

      Ashley looked away. When he was through, she pointed to the entrance of the structure. I dug you a small fire pit up front and just inside where the rain can’t get to it. Break up those dry sticks I put in there and feed it slowly. You’ll have enough to last the night. Keep it small, just enough to give you a little light, a little warmth and to keep out the critters. She winked at the last couple of words in case he was taking her too seriously. She helped ease him inside.

      He winced several times, but he didn’t cry out. I’ll make it, he said.

      That you will, Paul. Listen, when the rain starts, you’ll get a little wet, but by the time those few drops work themselves through all that cover, they’ll be warm drops. Believe me, that and the fire will make a real difference.

      He forced a smile, coughed twice, choked and forced himself to fight off another round of nausea.

      If you toss anymore cookies, cover them with leaves, she said.

      There ain’t enough leaves in the whole forest, he said. Fear and loneliness quavered in his voice.

      You have water, a knife, fire and someone going out for pizza, so just stay in the hut until I get back, all right?

      He nodded weakly.

      Don’t get heroic on me and try to walk out on your own.

      There’s only one hero here. He coughed. Permission to throw up, Ma’am?

      Any time after I leave. Try to drink as much water as you can. Don’t panic and stay put. She patted him on his right cheek. See you in the morning, Caveman. Ashley stood up, grabbed her walking stick and headed back up the trail with a resigned and confident step.

      ’Bye, Paul whispered. He watched her, concentrating on her shapely bottom, until she disappeared behind the crest of the hill. We’ll be writing papers together. Sharing a bed? A life? We’re right for each other in so many— His fantasy world wrenched away as the real world gushed from his stomach. He covered the mess with leaves as instructed, then struck a match and put it to the tinder she’d left. It caught immediately and he began building a teepee of twigs over the flame. He rolled his eye upward. Thank God. He looked down the empty trail. And thank God for Ashley Hayes. A mighty blast of thunder rattled the hill. Things were getting very dark. He built up the fire.

      On the other side of the hill, Ashley strode toward a gravel forestry road some eight miles to the east. A couple of houses and, more importantly, a couple of telephones were within half a mile of the trailhead. That was Paul’s best hope. She moved steadily. The only sound was the light crunch-crunch of her feet on the trail and the jingle of the small bells wrapped around her walking stick. The bells were an emergency defense against wild bears who supposedly were frightened by the sound of metal against metal. Although the bears in southern Arkansas were quite small, timid, and few in number, under the right conditions they could be dangerous. Whether or not the theory behind the bells was sound, the jingle provided a small measure of comfort.

      Golden waves of sunlight crawled up the bright green mountains before her and was quickly dimmed by the massive clouds claiming the sister mountains behind her. She removed a green plastic poncho from a small kit attached to her belt and snapped it around her head and body. She never once jumped at the loud explosions of thunder, nor did she slow her pace as the rain caught up with her. It came softly at first and then in heavy wave after wave of hard, cold wind-driven water.

      Damn, she whispered, stepping into the first of many cold puddles of fresh rainwater. Her boots were water-proof high-tops and almost indestructible, but many of the puddles and streams she was about to encounter would reach to her knees and in no time her feet would be soaked. Just damn!

      Ashley was very good at her job, and her considerable skills in survival camping and ancient tool-making often dictated extra duty for her employer, a prestigious college back in Louisiana. Every time the powers-that-be found some new archaeology instructor deserving of punishment, they encouraged a survival hike under the guise of studying ancient man in his natural environment. In her experience, those teachers—whether men or women—displayed an uncanny ability for stepping on rattlesnakes, spraining ankles, sitting down in poison ivy, and making passes. The bottom line always seemed to be the same: Ashley Maud Hayes hiking out alone and pissed off.

      She thought back to Paul and the rattler. Mean, aggressive, poisonous little sons of bitches, she mumbled. And I don’t much care for the snakes either. Ashley kept up her pace into the darkening trail. The bears, if they were there at all, ran from the continuing assault of curses, surely as grating and as frightening as any metal-on-metal scraping.

      Chapter Three

      A few weeks later Ashley walked a more challenging path through a hot meeting room and an equally hot and on-going controversy, a disturbing a series of meetings known as the Caddo Conference.

      Each year professional and amateur archaeologists, history buffs, the curious, and the greedy showed up to exchange ideas, theories, phone numbers and the occasional professional and/or personal insult. A small, surprisingly dedicated section of the population was just plain fascinated by the Caddo Confederacy of Tribes, Native Americans who had traded throughout much of North and South America, allied themselves with the Comanche to fight the Apache on their own ground, organized a complex religion, raised crops, built large cities, developed politics, and created some of the finest pottery and stone implements in aboriginal North America.

      For all of that, they were little-known group and even less understood. By the time white men entered their territory, they had been nearly wiped out by diseases brought by earlier explorers and traders. The conference was all about digging into the fertile dirt of their history, primarily in northwest Louisiana, southwest Arkansas, northeast Texas and southeast Oklahoma. Conference organizers even thought to invite tribal representatives from Oklahoma and they usually showed up.

      During her seven years of attendance, Ashley had participated frequently, but generally preferred to stay close to the exhibits, arts and crafts demonstrations, and seminars. She avoided what passed for intellectual conflict. Too often those discussions dissolved into petty battles over physical and intellectual turf. Most of it was well-intentioned and a lot of people actually learned a thing or two, but as she slipped into the rear of the main conference room for the final open discussion, it was clear that at the moment very little learning was going on. She let out a quiet breath. Here we go again.

      People, please! Paul Edgewood limped around the speaker’s podium. He was still pale and weak, but he hadn’t lost his playful spirit or his wandering eye. He winked at Ashley. She had purposefully dressed down, wearing little make up, loose jeans and a work shirt, and had tied her hair in a ponytail. The conference was a serious event, but most of the participants were men. Ashley had fought her way out of many a clumsy pass.

      Paul was trying to rein-in a question-and-answer session that had rapidly become a shout-and-accuse brawl. During the morning break someone had offered to sell a participant a genuine skull, guaranteed to be Caddo and from a burial mound in east Texas. The asking price was only a hundred dollars. Unfortunately for the foolish seller, he’d approached Buckley Haines, former president and board member for life of the Vivian, Louisiana Archaeology/Paleontology Club. Haines, fifty-six years old and a serious amateur, exploded and brought the issue to a head at the first opportunity.

      Ashley had stepped into a room full of blasting caps.

      Haines was holding a violent court. "This is outrageous! Outrageous!" No one had the guts to bring up the fact that the old boy had quite a collection of skulls himself, along with the other pots, points and artifacts gathered from Indian sites and burials throughout the region. As he and others of similar mind saw it, their own sometimes-questionable activities were different. Haines had legitimately earned a number of citations from various schools for the methodical way in which he dug, recorded and published. He always carried the latest award, beautifully matted and framed, in his well-worn briefcase, ready for immediate presentation at the slightest excuse. He even printed business cards with his club’s logo and the words Regional Archaeologist under his name. It was a meaningless title for a non-existent position, but he bragged about it to everyone he met. His vanity diminished the impact of his legitimate achievements.

      Ashley once told an associate, The main trouble with Buckley Haines is the indisputable fact that he believes his own BS. She had heard all the arguments many times before, but the issue was coming to a political head in Louisiana and it was becoming important to see exactly who was on what side. All the players in the current debate were familiar, and serious discussion and any attempts at compromise had long since been tossed out the window.

      Haines was, or at least appeared to be, livid. "I can’t believe we’re allowing such…trade at a conference of this magnitude!"

      Paul’s voice could barely be heard over the babble. We’re allowing no such thing, Buckley.

      Haines ignored him. These amateurs are peeing in our porridge.

      One of the few women in the room shouted, What I do on my own land is my business, Buckley! Her voice carried just a bit too much righteous indignation.

      He fired back. Not when you desecrate history! We learn nothing from your scavenging!

      The woman, wearing jeans, a faded work shirt and a freebee baseball-style cap with a Redman Chewing Tobacco logo on the front, stood up, fire blazing in her dark eyes.. My little collection of arrowheads ain’t nothing compared to your warehouse, Buckley! That was an accusation. Haines kept his enormous collection in a metal building behind his home. He called it the Haines Caddo Historical Museum. "Hell, I’m no pot hunter, but every time it rains something washes out of my drainage ditch. If there’s a buyer, then I’m a seller. It’s my land, my pot, my profit and none of your damn business!"

      Tell ‘em, Sue Ellen! someone in the crowd yelled.

      The woman sat down with a snort. Someone near Ashley whispered, She’s got kin buried on that land. I wonder what she’d say if somebody dug up old Aunt Bea for her gold fillings?

      Ashley shook her head. What’s the big deal, really? Her job required that she and her colleagues excavate burials, and it was a commonly accepted and totally ethical part of a noble profession. Hell, abandoned white cemeteries are excavated too. Ash had even helped solve a historical mystery down in Evangeline Parish during one such excavation. She had aced her doctorate and cemented her reputation by digging up the Mohriss family plot. A powerful south Louisiana legend asserted a valiant death for the Mohriss brothers, brave men fighting till the last with Bowie and Crockett at the Alamo. No whites protested and no complaints were registered until she found the remains of the missing brothers. Her research proved their deaths resulted from a social disease many years after the Mexican wave crashed over the old adobe walls in San Antonio de Bexar. She was proud of that achievement. Still, she wasn’t very welcome down Evangeline way, especially with the once-proud descendants of the Mohriss boys. When all the shouting started back then, the noise was more about skeletons in the closet than those in the ground.

      Ashley approached a woman about her age, an associate from another college. Why do I waste my time with this?

      The woman smiled and shrugged.

      Ashley could find no common ground, no truce in the war they were observing. Can there ever be a compromise among people who want to learn from the past, those who are destroying it, and those who just want to leave it alone?

      A young member called for a motion to condemn pot hunting, which was followed by a roughly equal chorus of groans and brief phrases of approval.

      Paul rapped his gavel for attention and called for discussion. As sick as he was, he paled even more when Ash stood up. Several people stood up, but she was fastest and first. Protocol, and a fear of her wrath afterwards if he didn’t recognize her, won the day. Ashley Hayes is recognized. He knew her feelings well, but he hadn’t the slightest idea of what she might say. That brought back a familiar, unpleasant churn to his stomach.

      Ashley crossed her arms. "Hell, people, condemn it? We can’t even define it! Besides, this group has officially condemned pot hunting for at least the last seven years."

      We gotta’ do something! a young member shouted.

      Ashley fought back a harsh comment. Yeah, even if ‘it’ doesn’t do a damn thing. Why don’t we hear from our guests of honor?

      A low growl of resentment circled the room, a rumble just barely above the level of civility.

      Paul dropped his gavel and, without waiting to be recognized, Chief John Marcos of the Caddo Nation pulled himself from his chair. He was a man of principle, a quiet force moving forward, fueled by a sincere belief in his cause and a clear, precise understanding of right and wrong. His title was honorary, but he was a natural leader. He also was a man who knew a losing proposition when it gave him a rabbit punch in the solar plexus. He would lose this battle—that was a foregone conclusion—but he would go down fighting. He nodded, acknowledging Ash, then began. We have come here many times, for many years and we thank you for your invitation. We have shared what we know of our people and our old ways. In you, we saw brothers who would help us in the ongoing struggle to preserve what is left of a great nation. Today, behind me I hear the words of those who would desecrate the burial places of our grandfathers. They sell the Caddo heritage to tourists.

      Buckley Haines nodded sagely and strapped on his most self-righteous, benevolent smile, a lipless combination of squinted eye and upturned nose that many a good Baptist deacon would pay top dollar to possess. His smile quickly faded as the chief’s bony finger pointed his direction.

      And in front of me are the men who should know better, but who perform the same atrocious acts. The chief locked his gaze on Haines. Where do you display the burial spear of my great-grandfather? What have you learned from the teeth of my great-grandmother? Name the child you removed from his sacred burial place so you can put his toys on your shelves. I ask you, are the answers worth desecration of our elders?

      People on both sides of the issue looked around the room as if seeking escape.

      Haines waved his hand. Now, John I—

      Paul rapped his gavel. Chief Marcos has the floor.

      Marcos cleared his throat. We believed you people to be our friends, that you could find a way to help stop this plunder. The crowd was becoming restless and Marcos recognized his moment. He held up the front page of the Caddo Citizen, a weekly newspaper out of Vivian, a small town north of Shreveport. A large photo in the bottom right showed Haines and several friends proudly holding up a large and perfectly formed Caddo pot. The men were dirty, obviously from digging into the burial mound in the background. The headline read, Heap Big Find.

      Haines said, Oh, Christ,

      A voice came from the back of the room. Let it go, old man. Of course, the speaker remained hidden in the crowd.

      Marcos did not let it go. Sadly, we were wrong. You are not our friends. You understand nothing, and we are leaving.

      The Caddo were great guerrilla warriors, masters of hit-and-run. Ashley smiled, appreciating the display of ancient tactics. The old man had gotten in as many licks as he could and it was time to retreat. As if on cue, the other members of the Caddo Tribe stood up quietly and, with more dignity than found in most government capitols, strode out of the Caddo Conference behind their chief.

      Paul was lost. He raised his arm in a feeble, futile attempt to call back the dishonored guests of honor. Chief Marcos, please!

      Ashley’s quick scan of the audience told her that most of them were greatly relieved. Someone even muttered, Good riddance. Far too many people in the room felt the greatest obstacle to Native American studies was the Native Americans themselves. What had just happened was just plain indecent. She moved quickly and caught up with the old chief in the hallway, extending a business card like a peace offering.

      He took it and held it close to his eyes. I am old, Miss Hayes, but my bones are not yet ready for your collection.

      Anger and some pain briefly flashed across her face, but she regained control just as quickly. Her emotions belonged to no one else unless she delivered them wrapped in a pretty bow or with a sharp jab in the eye.

      Marcos saw the flash and immediately softened his hard features. I am sorry, Miss Hayes. I am old and frustrated and ill. He placed a hand on her shoulder and maneuvered her toward the elevators at the end of the hall. My words were not very polite, and worse, they were bad politics. What can I do for you? His smile was genuine.

      She didn’t have time to answer. One of the smaller conference room doors opened and a television news crew spilled out. A glance inside showed they had been taping a demonstration of the art of flint knapping. A man, dressed as a frontier woodsman, quietly prodded a thin wedge of flint with a well-worn deer antler, knocking off tiny flakes to form a perfect replica of an ancient spear point. The camera crew rushed by and was down the hall seeking more images for the evening news. They were on a quest for the grail of ratings. They needed good video.

      Marcos sighed. That’s what people call news these days. We are fighting an epidemic of grave robbing and they’re taking pictures of a white man faking Indian spears. Maybe we should scalp somebody. His smile broadened. We could use the coverage.

      Ashley desperately wanted to say something light, but the sad dignity in the old man’s smile kept her usually quick wit in check. Isn’t compromise possible, Mr. Marcos?

      What would happen if Indian people began digging up white cemeteries?

      The elevator arrived and an exhausted John Marcos stepped inside.

      I’m not the enemy, Mr. Marcos. Surely we can find common ground. She regretted the words before they were out of her mouth. Ground, to be precise, was the main subject of the debate.

      Perhaps when I’m over my cold, Miss Hayes.

      You can’t stop the digging, but you might—

      Please, Miss Hayes, this is not a time for compromise.

      The rest of the representatives stepped in and formed a barrier, separating their leader from the rest of the world.

      Ashley could come up with nothing else to say as the door closed between them. Damn! She really couldn’t blame the old man for not wanting to discuss the painful subject further, but she had to reach him and the others. If they shut down excavations they would shut down one of the most productive areas of archaeology. Maybe she could find the compromise. Perhaps Marcos would listen another day. With his help, maybe she could capture and hold that middle ground. There’s got to be a way. She turned from the door. Maybe hell will freeze over, too.

      Buckley Haines appeared at the far end of the hall. He had probably been spying on her for some time. He moved toward her.

      Without an easy escape, she waited.

      Haines said, You talk any sense into the old bastard?

      You lack respect, Buckley. He’s the chief of the Caddo Nation.

      Honorary title. Meaningless.

      I see you’re wearing your Regional Archaeologist cap.

      Haines ignored the comment. "The way I see it, Miss Hayes, life is a simple matter of right or wrong.

      And you’re Mr. Right?

      I am in the right and you know it. And I need not remind you that your entire career is based on you knowing it. He frantically tapped his toe and kept looking around the hallway, his gaze never pausing on her for more than a second or two. We don’t need some type of Indian protest here. The TV people are all over the place. That old fool could cause us a hell of a lot of grief.

      Looks like the shouting’s all over to me.

      Are you kidding? The ‘reservation rep’ his glorious self is coming.

      Yeah, I know.

      Ever know Kent Nolan to miss a chance at a sound bite? The Indian’s best friend is jumping on our back again. Do you know what he’s up to now?

      He’s—

      He’s a white state congressman drafting legislation to protect Indian burials from all excavations—no college, university, school, amateur or professional group, and not even the Native Americans, should they ever develop the itch.

      Buckley, he’s fighting an uphill battle. We have other—

      "That SOB, pardon my Cajun, is making a lot of headway. A lot of headlines, too."

      And a lot of enemies, right?

      I’m thinking of running against him.

      Buckley—

      Nolan is creating havoc within the archaeological community. He knows it. He relishes it. He wants to shut us down.

      We’re on different sides of this fence, but I have to admire the man’s passion and his commitment.

      Bah!

      In a way, he reminds me of John Marcos and— Her eyes widened slightly.

      Haines frowned. Ashley? Are you all right?

      "That’s it! Buckley, I could kiss you!" Instead she stepped away, gave him a gentle pat on the butt, and walked off with a new-found spring in her step. I have work to do.

      Chapter Four

      "Maud Hayes? Dr. Maud Hayes, please report to the information desk. Dr. Ashley Maud

      Hayes." The voice cheerfully buzzing through the hotel’s loud speaker belonged to Paul Edgewood. Ashley gritted her teeth and uttered a quiet, angry growl. Hearing her middle name broadcast to the world clicked the light bulb off and drove all thoughts of bringing people together out of her mind. She marched to the lobby, visualizing Paul’s silly grin all the way—that and what she intended to do with it. The grin was waiting several steps behind the desk, a wall that kept her a safe distance from his face.

      She sputtered, "What the hell do you mean— She lowered her voice. I never use that name!"

      Paul continued grinning, but he backed up against the wall as Ashley leaned toward him. She gripped the counter, but he noticed a pen and a paperweight nearby, dangerous weapons in trained hands.

      She lowered her voice even more. You son of a bitch!

      The perky desk attendant in the crisp brown uniform dropped her head and began making furious notes about nothing in particular.

      Paul made a slight gesture with his right hand, a little twitch of his thumb. He stuck the tip of his tongue into his right cheek and just barely jerked his head in the same direction. She followed the directions and noticed a man wearing a loud sports jacket standing a few feet away.

      He was giving her a polite once-over. He nodded and smiled and Ashley returned the once-over. The man was in his mid-fifties, overweight and dressed as if just he’d just stepped off the sound stage of some low-rent television show. He was rumpled, but the effect was due more to attitude than to wardrobe. More than out of place, he seemed out of time. His innocent face carried a slightly puzzled look and his pleasant smile seemed honest. She could read nothing in his gray eyes.

      Mau—I mean Ashley Hayes, meet Detective Herbert Eugene LaSalle, finest of Shreveport’s finest. Paul was really enjoying the show and in spite of his weakened condition, Ashley really wanted to belt him. Paul was too cute and too clever for his own good.

      She turned, gave the policeman the briefest acknowledgment and, with snake-strike swiftness, brought her full attention back to the smirking colleague behind the desk. Just remember, payback’s a bitch, Paul.

      Paul’s grin turned to a weak, fluttering flatline, but before he could begin a defense the detective stepped closer and handed Ashley a business card.

      Friends call me Bummer. A large open hand flew out between them, an action that exposed a large pistol strapped to his belt, a short-barrel .357 in a leather holster. She couldn’t tell if the display was mild intimidation or just a normal move from someone who wore his weapon as just another accessory, like a tie or a belt.

      She took his hand, squeezed hard and looked him right in the eye. Don’t play the intimidation game with me.

      The cop grinned. Paul and I are drinking buddies down at Beau ‘n Hymie’s. Ever been there?

      What Centenary College teacher, student, struggling writer or drop-out hasn’t? I don’t remember seeing you there.

      It’s in the nature of my business, Miss Hayes. My best first impression is no impression at all.

      You must be very good at your job.

      Could I have a few moments of your time, Miss Hayes?

      Certainly, Detective.

      He pointed to the adjacent coffee shop. The drinks are on me.

      Delighted. She glanced back at Paul, raised a fist and whispered, Dead meat.

      Paul tried to fade into the wood paneling. He paled. Ashley didn’t have a mean bone in her body, but she was playful and, worse, she was devious. Some serious personal embarrassment was headed his way.

      Just above a whisper, the detective said, We boys in blue prefer not to hear that kind of threat unless we’re wired for sound.

      Ashley smiled. He doesn’t command a very impressive appearance, but his hearing is phenomenal. Be on your guard, Girl.

      He grabbed at his lapel with his left hand and placed his right hand to his ear. Testing, testing. Do you copy? He pretended to wait for a response. I guess you’re safe for now. They broke the copy machine.

      The joke was awful, but the way the portly cop played it made her laugh. She tried to control it, failed and produced an embarrassing snort.

      Bless you, he said.

      That’s the first laugh I’ve had today. I owe you. I’ll buy.

      He took her arm with an obvious and overly-gallant style. It’s clear you’ve never had coffee with a cop. See, crime doesn’t pay, but then again, neither do we.

      That’s a very old joke, she said.

      So am I, Miss Hayes.

      They were seated, coffee was served and Bummer LaSalle got down to business. Paul said I should talk to you because you’re the big she-bear when it comes to Indians.

      She-bear?

      You know, top cat, bull of the woods, head beagle. Expert.

      I come highly over-rated, Detective LaSalle.

      Call me Bummer. Everybody does, Miss Hayes.

      Ash.

      What can you tell me about Indians? Caddo Indians?

      "Okay, but when you say ‘Indians,’ you’re covering an awful lot of ground. People

      have been living around here for more than 12,000 years, Bummer. She made herself say the man’s nickname early on. Otherwise, she would never get it out. She had a tremendous amount of respect for the police, but she was uncomfortable in not knowing what exactly was going on. I focus on the last couple of thousands of years, primarily on the Caddo people. I’m the she-bear of a very small territory."

      He tore into several pink and blue packets and dumped a large amount of sugar substitute into his coffee. That’s what brought me here, that word Caddo. He took his pen and scrawled something on a napkin.

      I know this is a long shot, but I was having coffee here this morning and I noticed all the signs for your conference. He turned the napkin around and pushed it across the table. There’s a real similarity between Caddo and this word here. Does this mean anything to you?"

      She recognized it upside down even as he was writing it and she was a bit startled at seeing it. The question was why a policeman who wore loud clothes and made God-awful jokes knew it. Caddaja, she said. It’s definitely Caddo. Basically, it means devil.

      The devil you say!

      She grinned. Now how did I know you were going to say that?

      The devil made me do it. He grinned back at her, but there was an absolute focus behind the twinkle in his eyes. Was there an Indian devil? He took the napkin and wrote devil beneath Caddaja.

      "A devil... an evil spirit. It doesn’t mean ‘the devil,’ as in Satan, but he was a mean one. I have a selection of notes and papers on the subject. I could pull you some copies."

      Thanks, Dr. Hayes. Could you get those for me ASAP?

      Of course, and again, call me Ash. It’s short for Ashley. He’s hiding something, but what?

      If you have a few more minutes.... He looked at her.

      Sure, Bummer.

      How many people—I mean of the people here today—how many of them would know that word?

      Well, there’s me.

      Yeah, we’re already on to you. He grinned again.

      Just about anyone attending the conference who’s done any reading at all. John Marcos and the Caddo leaders would know it, of course. All in all, I’d say at least a hundred or so.

      His grin changed to an obviously disappointed smile. Tell me about Caddo Indians. I don’t mean tomahawks and tepees, but something about the people. He pulled a small, spiral-bound note pad from his pocket. The comedian was gone, replaced by the cop on the beat.

      Ashley found it a bit like dealing with a split personality. She enjoyed the challenge. First off, they didn’t live in tepees, but in thatched huts.

      I sit corrected. Hostile? Friendly? Could you trust them?

      They were friendly early on and pretty helpful to the first white men. A note of pride entered her voice. Hey, when the good ol’ US of A bought Louisiana, one of the chiefs even raised an American flag over the village. Bummer noticed another slight inflection he had heard often: pride of ownership.

      Peaceful folk, then? His voice betrayed a high level of skepticism.

      She nodded. Unless provoked. They were considered brave and fierce warriors, but they fought without real organization or tactics, one-on-one, like most tribes. The women were cruel fighters.

      Tell me about it.

      Beg pardon?

      Busted marriage, sorry. Please go on. This is very helpful.

      Ashley took in an exaggerated breath of air. Let’s start at the beginning. Legend says the first Caddo people emerged from beneath the earth, climbing through a hole in a hill overlooking the Red River up in Arkansas. They called it the medicine mount. Look on a topo—

      "Topo?

      A topological map. Toe-poe.

      Like the little mouse on the old Ed Sullivan Show.

      She frowned and shook her head slightly. I don’t—

      God, I’m old. I get it. Go on.

      "They call the place Boyd Hill. It’s right up the road, not too far from Lewisville. I have wasted many a day up there crawling around looking for a cave, a bluff shelter or hole in the ground matching the legend. All I ever got was a real sense of frustration, ripped jeans and a badly bruised butt when I slipped down one of the steeper slopes. The only medicine on that mount came from my first aid kit.

      Wherever they came from, once they settled down the Caddo built a great civilization. Too bad nobody these days knows about it. By the time people who began recording history came along, the Caddo civilization was in decline and was generally overrun and ignored. The Comanche, the Apache and the plains tribes grabbed all the headlines. She paused. Bummer, can you tell me what this is all about?

      Yes, I can, but would you mind answering a few more questions first? Women were just as likely to kill as men? Right?

      She nodded. Not that much different from us civilized folk, eh? The Spanish attacked a village once and a soldier climbed on one of the huts to get a better shot. He fell through the roof and was nearly ripped apart by the women inside. They showed him no mercy. She shrugged. And who could blame them?

      Bummer said, New world, hell. Welcome to the real world.

      You know, women and their homes.

      I know. I discovered the real world once. He shook slightly as if

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