Free The Pot Thief Who Studied Billy the Kid by J. Michael Orenduff

them as members of the tribe . ”
    “Why did you want me to x-ray them?”
    “I wanted to see if they were from the original set or from one of the newer sets of copies .”
    Her brow furrowed. “Something like carbon dating? The originals were older so they would x-rayed differently?”
    “ I don’t kno w if an x-ray can determine age , but it can detect metal. The originals had gold discs embedded in their bases.”
    “Wow. And were those originals?”
    “They were.”
    “So you broke them and retrieved the gold?”
    “No way. In the first place, I’d never break a genuine ancient pot. The original potter would never forgive me.”
    She smiled again. I was getting hooked on her smiles. “You believe in spirits?”
    ”I feel a kinship with the ancient potters. Sometimes I even feel their presence. M aybe it’s just in my mind , but it seems real .”
    “And in the second place?”
    “Huh?”
    “You said in the first place you’d never break a pot.”
    “Oh, right. In the second place, the pots were worth more than the gold.”
    “I’d like to see them again . Or have you sold them?”
    “I gave them back to the Ma.”

“The {typce="PalaMa?”
    “That’s what the people of San Roque call themselves.”
    “ You gave the m back because they were sacred?”
    I nodded.
    “Can I ask you a personal question?”
    I smiled at her. “Yes, I think I can make love even with a cast on.”
    The way she laughed told me m y little joke hadn’t offended her.
    “You’r e witty, Hubie.”
    “Shoot. I was trying for sexy.”
    Her demure look told me the re was no prospect of us making love that evening.
    Which was fine with me. Call me old-fashioned, but I like to get to know a woman before I jump in bed with her. Of course I couldn’t have jumped in bed given my cast. And I have been known to break my get-to-know-them rule. Once, gloriously, with Stella.
    That was the second time I’d thought of her that day, and she and Sharice are nothing alike. But when a man has sex on his mind, h e’s mentally impaired, so it’s a wonder I managed even to prepare the food.
    “What I wanted to ask is how can you give pot s back to the Ma because they are sacred and yet dig up and sell other pots?”
    I hesitated because it’s a complicated issue.
    “Am I out of line?” She asked.
    “Not at all. It’s just that it’ s a long boring philosophical answer.”
    “ ’
L ong boring philo sophical’ is a triple oxymoron, Hubie. ”
    Beautiful, intelligent and funny. Good teeth, too. I think I was falling in love.
    “There was no doubt the pots you x-rayed belonged to the Ma. But when I dig up an ancient pot from a site abandon ed a thousand years ago, there are no modern day people who can claim ownership. I already told you how I feel about the ancient potters. I think they want their work to be appreciated. ”
    “Some people s ay those pots belong to today’s First Nations even if they can’t be traced to a specific tribe.”
    “First Nations, eh?”
    She giggled. Her giggle was just as intoxicating as her laugh. “O kay, I’m Canadian. We call the m First Nations. You yanks call them Native Americans. ”
    “ And all the ones I know call themselves Indians. But t hat sort of makes my point about labels and ethnicity. You’re Canadian, but your parents were from Jamaica. Your distant ancestor s were from Africa. So do you have a tie to the artwork of Africa, Jamaica or Canada?”
    “I’ ve never thought about it .”
    “My answer would be all three. And all other artwork everywhere. Artifacts are human before they a re Native American, Chinese, European or whatever .”
    I resisted the temptation to d {mpto Lrag out one of my S c huze’ Anthropological Premises. The evening was progressing too well to be spoiled.
    The conversation returned to small talk over dessert which was New Mexican green chile caramel truffles from Cocopotamus, an artisanal chocolate maker here in Albuquerque.
    Between her second