was a case of mistaken identity. Either that, or some drunk shooting off a stray bullet that happened to come in my general direction.”
“Boy,” Matt said, shaking his head, “I don’t know what this country is coming to these days.”
After Matt left, Miranda said, “Why didn’t you tell me that someone took a shot at you last night?”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
Her eyes flashed with anger. “If someone took a shot at me, don’t you think that I’d tell you?”
“That would be altogether different,” Longarm said. “And besides, maybe it was just a stray bullet.”
“You don’t believe that and neither do I,” Miranda told him. “Someone has recognized you, and maybe they’ve even heard that you’ve been asking questions about Mesa Verde and the Anasazi artifacts.”
“All right,” Longarm said, “I think that is the most likely explanation for what happened last night, but it is by no means the only one. For example, that bullet might have come from someone who holds a grudge against me for something I’ve done to them in the past.”
“I see. You probably have made plenty of enemies over the years, haven’t you.”
“Yes, I have. Miranda, let’s go to the local museum and see what we can find out from Mr. Laird.”
“All right.”
They got their directions on the street, and the museum was easy to find. They sat under a cottonwood tree for a half hour until a man in a gray, pin-striped suit and a black bowler appeared and began to unlock the front door. Longarm judged Laird to be in his early sixties and fairly well-to-do by the look of his clothes.
“Mr. Laird?”
The man turned. “Yes?”
“My name is Custis and this is my wife Miranda. We are quite interested in Anasazi history and looking forward to visiting your museum this morning.”
“Well,” Laird said with an affable smile, “it’s not all that much of a collection, but I am adding to it steadily. The charge is fifty cents each, and I’ll be available to answer any and all questions pertaining to the cliff dwellers who lived at Mesa Verde.”
“Thank you,” Longarm said, ushering Miranda inside to see displays of pottery and stone relics, including ax heads and metates used for grinding corn. There were also many photographs and drawings of the cliff dwellings, as well as placards that explained the Anasazi story.
“This is wonderful!” Miranda exclaimed as she moved about, reading and studying the artifacts.
Longarm also found the displays fascinating. He put off questioning Laird until he had studied everything, and then he went to the back of the room, where the museum curator was using a very fine dental pick and some paintbrushes to clean the orifices in an old Indian skull.
“That looks like painstaking work,” Longarm said.
Laird glanced up at him. “Yes, it is, but well worth the effort.
“I wonder what killed that man whose skull you are holding.”
“Well,” Laird said, “it could be most anything. I’m not a professional archaeologist, but I can tell you a few things about this individual. He was probably a man, because the bone is thicker than that of a female skull. And judging from the teeth, he was quite old. The teeth are badly worn, and you can even see that several had abscessed away jawbone. Most of the cliff-dwelling peoples ate corn that they harvested on the mesa-top. It was their primary food, and after it was ground up on the metate, there were so many rock particles in their food that their teeth were ground away at what we think was a relatively young age.”
“I see.” Longarm leaned over and studied the skull. “And when a man gets bad teeth, he can’t eat very well.”
“That’s right, and that would have been the beginning of the end for a cliff dweller. Stop eating and you lose weight and strength, both of which would have been very necessary for a long and difficult winter survival.”
“Where do you get all of these artifacts?” Longarm asked with a smile.
“Oh, here and there. The Wetherill family excavated a great deal of them and either gave them to friends or sold them off for practically nothing until they realized how valuable they were to serious collectors such as myself. The Wetherills are gone now, and many of the people that bought or had these artifacts given to them have either gotten bored with them or have, for one reason or another, decided to sell because they would rather have cash than Anasazi artifacts.”
“I see. Where did you get this particular skull?”
For the first time, Longarm saw a hint of irritation cross Laird’s face, and it came out in his voice when he said, “I bought it from a local.”
“Would you be willing to sell a few things to my wife and myself?”
“Perhaps,” Laird said. “Some things, but not others.”
“What about that skull?”
“You’d want to buy this?”
“Maybe.”
“How odd,” Laird said. “I sell pottery and even spearheads and other artifacts, but very few are interested in buying a complete skull.”
“I would be,” Longarm said. “What is it worth?”
“This skull is in excellent condition, and it will be quite valuable when I have cleaned it up properly. I’d say that
