of them, they had originated the traveling-salesman jokes. Still, these people were not his concern; it was their ancestors he must identify, and if his theory was correct, they were very special people indeed. He found himself looking at Mary Clare’s upturned face, and for a moment he forgot where he was. Perhaps they could go for a walk later. With an effort of will, he returned his attention to the lecture.
“Since I was asked to help the Cullowhees, I have been doing some studying of the archaeology of this region, and I have a theory about your origins. Mind you! It’s just a theory at this stage.” The excitement in his voice belied his warning. “Now, as some of you may know, the Cherokees were not the original inhabitants of the Southern mountains.” From the startled faces of his listeners, Lerche could see that they had not known-but they wanted to hear more. “The Cherokees were a branch of the Iroquois tribe who invaded this area around four hundred years ago. There were other tribes here before them. The Algonkians and the Croatans were along the coastline, and a Siouan tribe occupied the Piedmont. We know something about these tribes from the writings of European settlers. But the people of the Southern highlands were never seen by the colonists. By the time Europeans got to this part of the country, these first people had vanished and this land was the Cherokee nation.”
The room was unusually quiet. He had them now.
“Now, nobody knows anything about those first Indians. Not their name, their language-nothing. The only traces of them are some bits of pottery made of limestone and crushed quartz. Anthropologists have divided up the Southeast into different regions according to the tribes which occupied them. This area is Zone Six, and these people are known simply as the Zone Six people because nobody knows what else to call them. They are a complete mystery.” He paused for effect. “I think you might be what’s left of them.”
Elizabeth thought that the cheering and applause might have gone on for half an hour, but for the quelling effect of a late arrival. Like the bad fairy at the christening, she later described it. She had been wondering how to waylay Comfrey Stecoah after the meeting to ask about Amelanchier, when the sudden silence brought her back to the present. All heads were turned to the doorway, where a wiry little man in gray work clothes stood scowling at them. Although he was not particularly large or powerful looking, the man’s malevolence chilled the room.
“I reckon anybody can address this prayer meeting,” he remarked to no one in particular. He looked around as if waiting for a challenge, but received none. “Don’t nobody bother to give me the minutes of the meeting, because I know what’s going on. The people of this valley stand to make good money by cooperating with the mining company-and there’s going to be jobs, too! But prosperity wouldn’t suit certain people.” He looked meaningfully at Comfrey. “Guess some people think poor folks is easier to boss around. And they’re willing to do some mighty ugly things to get their way.” He pointed at Lerche, who looked confused and embarrassed. “Now I don’t know what kind of Indian curse will befall those who do not respect the graves of our ancestors, and I don’t know what the penalty for grave robbing is in this state, but I aim to find out. And in the meantime, I advise you outlanders to remember the Moonshine Massacre. We don’t take kindly to meddlers up here, no sir.”
As he turned to leave, he walked past the table where the slide projector was set up for use later in the lecture. Before anyone could stop him, he had stumbled-or lunged-into the table, sending the machine crashing to the floor. With that he was gone.
Elizabeth saw that the stout woman who planted love vines was seated in the row behind her. “Shouldn’t somebody call the sheriff?” Elizabeth whispered.
The woman shrugged. “He’s in Laurel Cove. All we got up here is a deputy.”
“Well, couldn’t you call him?”
The woman permitted herself a grim smile. “Honey, you was just a-looking at him.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Dear Bill,
They can’t arrest archaeologists for graverobbing, can they? Could you check your law books and get back to me on this?
Ditchdigger’s hands may be the least of my problems on this dig. Night before last some guy named Bevel Harkness crashed Dr. Lerche’s lecture (and his slide projector) and threatened us for interfering in this land business. Mr. Stecoah told Dr. Lerche that this Harkness guy owns property next to the land the mining company wants, and he thinks he can sell out to them and make a fortune. You should see him. He’d make your skin crawl. To top it all off, he’s the deputy sheriff for this part of the county! I thought the deputy would be Mr. Stecoah, if anybody; but it turns out that he’s only been back from the service a couple of years (career Army), and Harkness’ term doesn’t run out for another year. They’re in some sort of power struggle for tribal leadership, I guess. The Stecoahs are respected because of Amelanchier (I was right about Comfrey; he’s her son!), and the Harknesses’ claim to fame is the Moonshine Massacre. (I’m coming to that.)
We’re settled into an old wooden church near the gravesite, and there are six of us staying here: me; Milo (who is so businesslike you wouldn’t recognize him); Dr. Lerche and his other grad student, Mary Clare (there may be something between them; I’m not sure yet-I
I haven’t had time to see Amelanchier yet, but Mr. Stecoah said it would be all right to visit her after work sometime. Maybe I’ll go this afternoon, since it isn’t my turn to do supper today.
We haven’t made any discoveries yet, unless you count the sore muscles we didn’t know we had. The first few days of an excavation consist of shoveling off topsoil and sifting it through a screen to check for bones, arrowheads, etc. When we get to the graves, my job will be to measure the skulls. Dr. Lerche taught me how on a lab specimen he brought, but he says it’s tricky and he’ll double-check my work. I haven’t seen much of him or Milo. They’ve hooked up a microcomputer in a motel room in Laurel Cove, and they’ve spent most of their days tinkering with it while I’m out in the hot graveyard listening to Victor pontificate and Mary Clare run on about how wonderful Dr. Lerche is. I’m looking forward to the skulls. At least they won’t talk all the time.
Martyred in the Name of Science,
Elizabeth
THE MOONSHINE MASSACRE (Collected from Jake Adair)
The Cullowhee Indians of Sarvice Valley had never been a particularly law-abiding group, and they were known for moonshining. Because of the prejudice against Indians in those days, the deputy sheriff in charge of Sarvice Valley was never a Cullowhee, but always a local resident appointed by the county sheriff. This practice changed after the Moonshine Massacre of 1953.
The deputy sheriff at that time was a Korean War veteran, just back from overseas. One afternoon he was driving down one of the dirt roads in Sarvice Valley and he passed a weathered old mountain graveyard. Two miles down the road, the deputy realized why the image of that graveyard was still stuck in his mind: it hadn’t been there before he went off to war. When he went back to investigate, he found that none of the names on those old stones were familiar to him either. Suddenly he noticed convection currents coming from a fencepost beside the cemetery. A few minutes’ examination revealed the secret of the old graveyard: it was an elaborate cover for a moonshine operation. One enterprising Cullowhee had gone north with his truck (probably on a moonshine run) and had seen an old cemetery being broken up for a building project. He’d bought a truckload of old tombstones and set them up on a hillside in Sarvice Valley on top of an underground distillery. The vent pipe was disguised as a fencepost. Unfortunately, the deputy did not live long enough to report his discovery. The moonshiner saw him sneaking around the graveyard and shot him in the back.
When the deputy did not report back to the sheriff’s department, searchers were sent out to look for him, and they didn’t come back either. The moonshiner had decided that the best way to have a convincing cemetery was to provide a body for each tombstone. He buried the deputy under one of the headstones and was looking forward to furnishing the rest of the graves with likely passersby. This exercise in verisimilitude was finally halted by the
