Thunderhead

Aragon nodded, face still inscrutable.

“I’ve heard my father speak very highly of your work. Think we’ll find many human remains in the city?”

“Unknown,” came the reply. “The burial grounds for Chaco Canyon have never been found, despite a century of searching. On the other hand, Mummy Cave yielded hundreds of burials. Either way, I will be analyzing the faunal remains.”

“Excellent,” Goddard nodded.

Nora looked around, intending to complete the introductions and get underway as quickly as possible. To her surprise, Roscoe Swire had abruptly shuffled off and was busying himself with the horses.

“Roscoe Swire, right?” Sloane called out, following Nora’s eyes. “My father’s told me all about you, but I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

“No reason we should have,” came the gruff answer. “I’m just a cowboy trying to keep a bunch of greenhorns from breaking their necks out here in slickrock country.”

Sloane let out a husky laugh. “Well, I heard that you’ve never fallen off a horse.”

“Any cowboy tells you that is a liar,” said Swire. “My butt and the ground are tolerably well acquainted, thank you.”

Sloane’s eyes twinkled. “Actually, my father said he could tell you were a real cowboy, because when you showed up for the interview you had real horseshit on your boots.”

Swire finally grinned, fishing a gingersnap out of his shirt. “Well, now,” he said, “I’ll accept that compliment.”

Nora waved toward the writer. “And this is Bill Smithback.”

Smithback swept an exaggerated bow, cowlick jiggling frantically atop the brown mop of hair.

“The journalist,” said Sloane, and Nora thought she heard a brief note of disapproval in Sloane’s voice before the dazzling smile returned full-proof. “My father mentioned he’d be contacting you.” Before Smithback could reply, Sloane had turned toward Bonarotti. “And thank God you’re along, Luigi.”

The cook nodded in return, saying nothing.

“How about breakfast?” she asked.

He turned to the grill.

“I’m ravenous,” Sloane added, accepting a steaming plate.

“You’ve met Luigi before?” Nora asked, sitting down beside Sloane.

“Yes, last year, when I was climbing the Cassin Ridge on Denali. He was operating the base camp kitchen for our group. While everybody else on the mountain was eating gorp and logan bread, we dined on duck and venison. I told my father he had to get Luigi for this expedition. He’s very, very good.”

“I’m very, very expensive,” Bonarotti replied.

Sloane tucked into the omelette with gusto. The others had instinctively drawn round again, and Nora wasn’t surprised: the younger Goddard was not only beautiful but—sitting there in the wilderness in her leather jacket and faded jeans—she radiated charisma, ironic good humor, and the kind of easy self-confidence that came with money and good breeding. Nora felt a mixture of relief and envy. She wondered what kind of impact this new development would have on her position as leader. Best to get things established right away, she thought.

“So,” she began. “Care to explain the dramatic entrance?”

Sloane looked at her with her lazy smile. “Sorry about that,” she said, putting aside the empty plate and leaning back, coat thrown open to expose a checked cotton shirt. “I was delayed back at Princeton by a failing student. I’ve never failed anybody, and I didn’t want to start now. I worked with him until it became too late to mess with commercial airlines.”

“You had us worried back there at the marina.”

Sloane sat up. “You didn’t get my message?”

“No.”

“I left it with somebody named Briggs. Said he’d pass it along.”

“Must have slipped his mind,” said Nora.

Sloane’s grin widened. “It’s a busy place. Well, you did the right thing, leaving without me.”

Swire brought the horses back down the canyon from their grazing ground, and Nora went over to help with the saddling. To her surprise, Sloane followed behind and joined in, deftly saddling two horses to Swire’s three. They tied the horses to some brush as Swire started on the pack animals, throwing on the pads and sawbuck packsaddles, hooking on the panniers, carefully balancing the more awkward equipment, throwing a manty over each load and tying it down. As soon as each horse was packed they passed it to Sloane, who brought it upcanyon. Bonarotti was packing the last of the cooking gear, while Smithback was stretched out comfortably nearby, debating with the cook whether bearnaise or bordelaise was the more noble sauce for medallions of beef.

At last, Nora stood back from the final horse, breathing hard, and looked at her watch. It was just past eleven: still enough time for a decent ride, but short enough to help break in the greenhorns. She glanced at Swire. “Want to give them their first lesson?”

“Now’s as good a time as any,” he said, hitching up his pants and looking at the group. “Who here knows anything about riding?”

Black began to raise his hand.

“I do,” said Smithback instantly.

Swire ranged his eyes across Smithback, his mustache drooping skeptically. “That right?” he said, spitting a stream of tobacco.

“Well, I did, anyway,” the writer returned. “It’s like riding a bike; it’ll come back fast.”

Nora thought she saw Swire grin beneath his droopy mustache. “Now the first thing is the introductions.”

There was a puzzled moment while Swire gazed around the group. “These two horses are mine, the buckskin and the sorrel. Mestizo and Sweetgrass. Since Mr. Smithback here’s an experienced rider, I’m gonna give him Hurricane Deck to ride and Beetlebum to pack.”

There was a sudden guffaw from Black, with an uncomfortable silence from Smithback.

“Any special significance to the names?” Smithback asked with exaggerated nonchalance.

“Nothing in particular,” said Swire. “Just a few habits they have, is all. You got a problem with those two fine horses?”

“Oh, no, no way,” said Smithback a little weakly, eyeing the big shaggy gray horse and its strawberry roan companion.

“They’ve only killed a few greenhorns, and they were all New Yorkers. We don’t have any New Yorkers here, do we?”

“Certainly not,” Smithback said, pulling on the brim of his hat.

“Now for Dr. Black here, I’ve got Locoweed and Hoosegow. For Nora, I’ve got my best mare, Fiddlehead. Crow Bait will be your pack horse. Don’t let the name fool you: he may be an ugly, coon-footed, ewe-necked, mule-hipped cayuse, but he’ll pack two hundred pounds from here to the gates of hell, no problem.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t have to go that far,” Nora replied.

Swire parceled out the horses according to ability and temperament, and soon everyone was holding a pair of horses by the halters and reins. Nora lofted herself into the saddle, Goddard and Aragon following her example. Nora could see from Sloane’s lightly balanced seat that she was an expert horsewoman. The rest stood around, looking nervous.

Swire turned to the group. “Well,” he said, “what’s taking you? Git on up!”

There was some grunting and nervous hopping, but soon everyone was sitting in the saddle, some slouched, some ramrod straight. Aragon was moving his horse around, backing him up, turning him on the forehand, another clearly experienced rider.

“Just don’t make me unlearn any bad habits,” Smithback said, sitting on Hurricane Deck. “I like to steer with the saddlehorn.”

Swire ignored this. “Lesson number one. Hold the reins in your left hand, and the pack-horse lead rope in your right. It’s simple.”

“Yeah,” said Smithback, “like driving two cars at once.”