Free Ancient Enemy by Michael McBride Page A

now. The level of detail was astounding. It was, as far as I could tell, a perfect topographical map of this area, only created so long ago that the buffalo hide was brittle with age.
    The major dwellings were represented, too. I saw Cliff Palace and Balcony House and Spruce Tree House, only they appeared somehow smaller and less significant. The older pit-houses, from the days before the early Pueblo peoples began building their fortresses high up on the canyon walls, were more prominent and centered in the middle of the map. There were dozens of them, forming a half-circle around the Sun Temple, and scattered throughout the lowlands to the south, where the Anasazi had originally farmed the land before abandoning their agricultural lifestyle in favor of the cliff dwellings and a diet that ultimately led to the discovery of remains with all of the earmarks of cannibalism.
    One pit house in particular caught my eye. It was farther south than all of the others and outside of the boundaries of Mesa Verde National Monument. Wavy lines emanated from it like the rays of the sun. I knew that area well. There were no ruins anywhere near there, especially not of the pit house variety. That was Juniper Mesa and all that was up there was a vast stretch of piñon pines and junipers interspersed with a whole lot of weeds and white sand.
    “I’ve been up on Juniper Mesa and not once did I see anything resembling ruins. I’m telling you, this can’t possibly be—”
    My grandfather’s eyes darted to the shelf once more.
    Chips of paint fell from my legs when I stood and approached the shelf. I pointed first at the water jug. His eyes told me to keep going to the right. They held steady when I reached for the ration pouch. I brought it down and pulled out the manila ticket, which was essentially what the federal government gave us in exchange for hunting our bison to the brink of extinction. According to the handwritten date, it was from the second quarter of 1885 and issued to family number fourteen of band sixteen, which, at the time, had consisted of one man, one woman, two boys and a girl, for a grand total of thirty-five rations. This was what the head of the family carried to the railroad depot and presented for the government handout he despised in order to feed his family. It was the ultimate humiliation and just another dispiriting reminder of how a proud people had resorted to begging for scraps. In this case, only ten of the fourteen rations had been punched.
    I showed the ticket to Grandfather and again saw the frustration in his eyes, the lids of which had grown noticeably heavier. The beaded pouch elicited a more positive response. I shook it and then looked inside. There was something in there, something small. I dumped it out onto my palm and stared at it for a long moment before again seeking my grandfather’s eyes, only to find him fast asleep.

 
     
     
    FIFTEEN
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    I gave up on sleep and chased my exhaustion with spoonfuls of instant coffee I washed down with Mountain Dew. My hands shook, my heart jackhammered, and my head ached like something was trying to force its way out through the base of my skull, but I was somewhat alert and functional, which was about as much as I could hope for under the circumstances.
    I saddled up Yanaba and struck off under the blazing sun, which turned the snow to slush that would revert to ice when it set again. It was already uncomfortably high in the sky and climbing by the second. I was grateful I didn’t wear a watch or I’d be checking it every few seconds. As it was, I looked at the sun so often my vision was filled with red and pink blobs. By the time we reached Juniper Mesa it had to be close to lunchtime. At least that’s what my stomach told me, but all of that caffeine had hit it like a gallon of acid and it made all sorts of noises that could have been anything from hunger to outright revolt.
    The mesa itself was so long and flat that it was