The Pot Thief Who Studied Billy the Kid (3 page)

“I don’t care how I look. I feel terrific.”

Susannah and I meet at
Dos Hermanas Tortille
ria
almost every
weekday
at five for margaritas. I own a
shop in Albuquerque’s Old Town where I sell traditional Native American pottery and my own copies of ancient designs. As you already know, I get some of my merchandise by illegal excavation.

My
d
ays
in the shop or at my
potter’s
wheel are usually so boring that I mostly listen w
hile Susannah talks. She
has interesting things to report from her work as a waitress at
La Placita
, her night courses at the University of New Mexico
and
her star-crossed love life.

But on this cool
August ev
ening, I was
recounting
my harrowing night on the ledge and
the even
more harrowing experience th
at followed
.

“You went down a rope hand over hand like a gymnast? That doesn’t sound like something you could do.”

“I don’t know if I could do it because it’s not something I
would
even try. I did use a rope, but all I had to do was hang on while the w
i
nch lowered me down.”

“What was her name?”

“It wasn’t that kind of a w
i
nch. It’s the wind-up—
”

“That was a joke, Hubie. I know what a w
i
nch is. I grew up on a ranch, remember? But how could you operate the w
i
nch while you were hanging on to a rope?”

“Just push the button on the remote control.”

“Tristan?”

I nodded. Tristan is my nephew and a whiz with all things digital and technical.
He’s a full-time computer science major at the university
and close to gaining a degree
.

Susannah is in her late twenties and in no danger of graduating because she’s part-time and has changed majors so often. It’s art history at the moment
.

I
told
her
almost
everything that happened that night
including finding a hand where I was hoping for a pot. I left out
the part about acciden
tally poking
it with the
rebar
.

She shuddered
.
“That’s awful. Has
it
ever happened to you before?”

I shook my head.
“I dig in ruins and around place
s
where the
ancient ones
might have gone for water. The
y
wouldn’t bury their dead in their houses or their watering holes, so I’ve never found human remains before
and never expect to again
.”

“Then how do you explain
finding a grave in a ruin?
”

“It wasn’t a grave. Like I said, no one bur
ies
their dead in their house.”

“John Gacy buried twenty six people
in the crawl
space of his
.”

Now it was my turn to shudder. “There were no serial killers among the Anasazi.”

“So how do you explain it?”

I shrugged.
“The only theory I’ve come up with is that the person died around the time the place was being abandoned. We know they
relocated
periodically
, but we’re not sure why. Maybe they needed more space, or their water supply dried
up
or
a
tsiwi
advised them to move. Maybe
the person I found
went back to get something and died of a heart attack or
stroke
.”

“
Tsiwi
?”

“It’s one of many words for medicine men. It means ‘those of the sweeping eyes’.
But I suspect the people of that cliff dwelling wouldn’t know that word. Their language
probably died with them
.
”

Her face lit up.
“Maybe he wasn’t one of them.
Maybe he was a treasure hunter like you and died while searching for the same pots you were searching for.”

Susannah has a vivid imagination and loves mysteries.

“No way. He was
two
feet under
the
ground. If he was a modern human who wandered into the ruin and died, he would be right on the surface.”

“Why wouldn’t one of the origi
na
l cliff dwellers also be
right
on the surface
if he died of natural causes
?”

“Because a lot of dirt and debris can be deposited in a thousand years. This guy was far enough under that he had to be an original inhabitant.”

She had a skeptical look. “How can you be sure?”

“I
was in the graduate program in
archaeology at
UNM.
”

“Yeah, but they kicked you out before you got a degree.”

“That’s their problem.”

She was right. I made my first significant find back in the eighties as a student on a summer dig. I knew the faculty leaders were digging in the wrong place as soon as I saw them drive the stakes and stretch the styperetch tring.

They were jealous when I unearthed three rare pots
from a spot I selected on my own.
Even though treasure hunting was legal back then, t
hey expelled me because I refused to give them the pots. I sold them instead and used the money to
make a down payment on
the building where I have my shop. I even had enough left over to bu
y
the Bronco, but I guessed that part of the investment was no
w
history.

When I finally got to the part about the coyote, she said,
“Wait. A coyote actually let you remove a trap from his leg?”

“I’m not sure ‘let’ is the right word. He did let me
get close to him
. He’d lost a lot of blood and was probably weak and disoriented.
And maybe he appreciated the
chorizo
I gave him.
I made sooth
ing noises as I approached
.
”

She was giving me another skeptical look. “What sort of soothing noises?”

“Nice doggy, nice doggy.”

“Coyotes are not dogs, Hubert.”

“I know that. But ‘nice coyote, nice coyote’ didn’t spring to mind, so I just went with what did.
When I was
near
enough, I shoved a gunny sack over his head and
pulled it taut.
Then I jabbed the rebar between the teeth of the trap and pried it open.
H
e
yelped and squirmed in the sack, b
ut when I took
it
off,
he didn’t bolt. I wish I hadn’t had to use the gunny s+0" the guack, but I didn’t want to get bitten.”

“And what was Geronimo doing while you were playing coyote whisperer?”

“He was raising his head towards the moon and pursing his lips. But no sound was forthcoming.”

“Face it, Hubie. Your dog is weird,”

“That’s because he’s half anteater.”

She rolled her eyes. “Right. So
then what?”

“I gave each of us a ration of
chorizo
and we went to sleep.”

“And
how did you get back to civilization?”

“
After we had breakfast—”

“More
chorizo
?”

“Right.
I explained that Geronimo would lead the way
since he knew the path
, I would follow and
Wile
y
would bring up the rear.”

“Wiley?”

“Yeah. You know,
Wile
E.
Coyote. Like in the Roadrunner cartoons.”

“You named the coyote?”

“Why not? He looked a lot more like a dog than Geronimo.”

“Sheesh. So then what?”

“I shoved Geronimo down the path and
took a step after him. I looked back and told
Wile
y
to follow, but when he put weight on his injured foot, he flopped back down
. I went back and sat down
a few feet away from him.
He didn’t seem to mind. Sspam to mio I opened the first aid kit and sprayed the wounded area with Bactin
e
.
”

“So after you pla
yed vet, you went down the path?
”

“No. I figured he needed time to let the anesthetic work.
I gathe
red some wood and started a
fire.
”

“
And the
three of you sat around the campfire singing
K
umbaya
.”

I ignored her sarcasm.
“
Nope.
Wile
y
fell asleep,
Geronimo didn’t know the words
and I didn’t feel like doing
a
solo.
So I just sat there trying not to think about the path. As it turns out, that was the easiest part of the day.”

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