Found Objects

By Zane Dacus

Follow Martin Davis as this unusually gifted young boy fights his way through the continuing challenges that confront him. Martin has special gifts that he is gradually learning as he uses them to overcome substantial obstacles in his own life and that of his family and friends. Martin also learns of mysteries related to his family heritage which presents obstacles and opportunities in equal measure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887939810

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Found Objects

Zane Dacus

Copyright © 2023 Zane Dacus

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 979-8-88793-979-7 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88793-981-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Walk Sacred

Chapter 2

Found Objects

Chapter 3

Church

Chapter 4

Town

Chapter 5

Father

Chapter 6

Kindhearted Woman

Chapter 7

Katie

Chapter 8

A Dog's Life

Chapter 9

Rusty Trap

Chapter 10

Run, Sinner, Run

Chapter 11

When It Rains, It Pours

Chapter 12

Friday Night Fish Fry

Chapter 13

Dig Deep

Chapter 14

Fatso, Texas

Chapter 15

Roundup

Chapter 16

White Trash

Chapter 17

Fireworks

Chapter 18

The Harvest

Chapter 19

Gathering Storm

Chapter 20

One Riot, One Ranger

Chapter 21

Chores

Chapter 22

Helpful Lies

Chapter 23

Bazaar Comfort

About the Author

Chapter 1

Walk Sacred

The truck moved at a high rate of speed considering the rough track it traversed, kicking up two rooster tails of dust from the heavily lugged wheels. Various digging tools and equipment boxes were tossed and slid in the truck bed with a clatter in sympathy with every twist and lurch of the truck. The driver's hand steadied the basinet on the seat next to her as it shifted with the vehicle's movement. She occasionally glanced at the baby within or absentmindedly adjusted the blankets around his face as he slept. The only break in her swift passage was the necessary pause to open and close the gate that offered access to the pasture. Shifting gears, she gunned the engine as the truck lurched onto the one-lane blacktop county road and made its way west.

The trail of dust left in her wake led back to a campsite surrounded by a large, well-organized excavation. A muscular, dark-haired man sat at a field desk alternately transcribing notes into a leather-bound journal from various notebooks, stopping frequently to examine a plan of the excavation site or one of the various artifacts that lay scattered on and around the desk. He worked intently, occasionally smiling and talking to himself.

We found it, we actually found it. Only the old one believed me. He looked up at the heavens briefly, offering a prayer, his smile briefly fading as a hint of sadness entered his eyes. He murmured, I just hope it will be worth it.

He sighed, shook his head, and returned to his work. After a few moments, he lit a lantern and positioned it to provide light for his work surface as the sunlight faded. The muffled roar of an engine attracted his attention, and he stood and shaded his eyes to gaze in the direction of the sound. A look of concern crossed his face, and he hastily began organizing materials, scribbling instructions and furiously placing the notes in and among the various materials around the table before he packed them into wooden crates, tacking the lids closed. After this whirlwind of preparation, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stood behind the field desk to meet a caravan of vehicles slowly approaching the campsite.

The driver of the truck arrived at her destination and sat in a worn rocker on the front porch of the shanty, nursing a baby. A mask of contentment covered her strong features as she gazed at the child. She swiftly switched the child to her other breast, provoking a flurry of flailing fists and a confused cry before he was again connected to his food source. She continued to rock and hum until he was satisfied and then burped him on her shoulder. He was still awake when a large black woman joined them on the porch and took the baby in her arms.

He smiled sweetly at his new host, comfortable in her embrace. That was part of the problem; he was all too content wrapped in Katie's strong arms. Oh well, she thought to herself, time to get back to help Jim. He had told her to take her time before she returned, but a nagging feeling had haunted her since she left, and she has concluded to return as soon as possible. The original plan had been to go into town to use the phone at the little general store to call her parents to wish them a happy anniversary before she returned. She was not sure if her decision to change her plans had more to do with her concern about Jim or a desire to avoid speaking with her parents and suffer another lecture about her lifestyle choices.

She waved to them both as she closed the door to the truck. The old house was down at the heels, but spotless, and it was obvious that she cared for him. The only thing that was creepy about leaving him here was the old woman, Katie's grandmother, she understood. Maybe it was her blindness that bothered her, those all-white eyes, but it went beyond that. Some of the local workmen that helped on the dig confirmed her suspicions when she mentioned her to them. A hoodoo woman, they called her with wide-eyed respect, if not fear. It occurred to her how difficult this all had become, turning over the baby to someone she scarcely knew to allow time to assist with work that was only important because it was important to him.

Working dawn to dusk, and longer, only breaking to care for the baby and to run him back and forth to Katie's house was starting to have its effect, and his single-mindedness increased her concern. It was not a lack of faith in him or a feeling that she made a bad choice; she simply didn't understand fully all the choices that were made.

Her family had practically disowned her, greeting the news of the birth of her child with a stiff Congratulations, dear, we must see him someday. They may as well have said It. Her friends and colleagues had slowly given up on her, physically shrinking from her as she tried to explain the importance of what he was…they were doing.

His people were only slightly better. They took a more pragmatic approach to the relationship, seeming to understand the power of the attraction, but clearly had not accepted her as one of their own. Many of the young people took umbrage at her existence and ability to take their special one from them. To her, he was James Walker or just Jim, but to his people, he was Big Bear, a magical and unifying person. She agreed he was magic but in a different way.

From the moment they met, she was a nurse at the army hospital in San Francisco and him a recovering soldier in her unit, he affected her as no man had before. She had been a gawky, bookish girl and was not used to the attention of the opposite sex. Her position as one of the few women in a ward full of men changed all that, what with all the winks and suggestions she fielded on a regular basis. His attention was different somehow; it was not only welcome, but it was also addictive.

She was not the only one affected by him. His fellow soldiers visited as much as possible and were clearly devoted to him, granting him a form of respect she had not seen. The stories they told of his strength and bravery were so amazing as to be difficult to believe. She did know that he had hidden the extent of his injuries in order to stay with his unit. His only explanation was a simple, They needed me.

When he left, he told her that they would meet again as a statement of fact. She laughed it off as so many of the soldiers developed false feelings for their nurses. Looking back on it, his bravery and talk of doing something positive for the world affected her in a profound way. Her upbringing granted few approved career paths for women: homemaker, schoolteacher, or nurse, take your pick. She had chosen the latter but yearned for more, and somehow, his interest and confidence in her prompted her decision to become a doctor. As surprised as anyone when she was accepted to medical school, she dove into the task with passion. The fact that there were so few women in her class only encouraged her to work harder.

Years later, as she rushed to class, she stopped in her tracks at the sound of that slow, deliberate voice she remembered so well: Nurse Wilson, I have been looking forward to the day when we would meet again. Turning toward the voice, a different man smiled at her than had bid farewell those years ago, much more robust; he was now the kind of man that simply took her breath away. He had the physical bearing and strength of an athlete, but that was secondary to his simple presence; it seemed the world revolved around him.

It didn't seem they had rushed the development of their relationship, but from that moment, there wasn't a day that we were not together. She would admit that she was enthralled with him, but it was clear that the feeling was mutual. Her residency coincided with his fieldwork, allowing little time together, but they were married as soon as was practical. Between the two of them, everything seemed so right; it was the rest of the world that had a problem.

She agreed to join him on the quest to reunify the medicine wheel, whatever that was. Jim explained that a medicine wheel was something used to teach peace, tolerance, and understanding by Native Americans. The medicine wheel he sought was something else, however, the one true unifying medicine wheel. The arrival of the white man upset the balance in the wheel, and the shaman that held the one true wheel dismantled it and sent it off to the four corners of the world (as he knew it) to await the departure of the white man lest it be stolen and corrupted. Jim felt obligated to bring the components together again, setting the task as his life goal.

She wanted to believe but mostly figured that it was something he needed to do to get the war out of his system. He believed that he could somehow use the medicine wheel to bring peace to the world, something that seemed a bit of a reach to her. She did not want to spend a day away from him, however, so she agreed to suspend her medical career to act as his field assistant. Little Elk's arrival had not been part of the plan, but he was a welcome addition to the new family.

Initially, she thought there was some grounding in science for what he was doing, but now it seemed it was more some kind of vision quest than anything that would withstand scientific scrutiny. He, on the other hand, became more and more committed to the work and more and more certain of the rightness of it. His zeal was softened by his clarity of thought and gentle nature, however, which provided some comfort. As it was, he could not have been more content. It seemed that every day, he drew closer to some momentous discovery, all the pieces falling into place. This morning, he told her that he thought he had it all but still needed to stay on site to write up his official findings to justify the grant money.

This official version was a simple catalog of known Indian campsites representing the dispersion of his clan some one hundred to two hundred years ago. He had gone to great lengths to work this angle based on interviews with older tribesmen and guidance he obtained in something he called a Uweepe Ceremony, granting him a view of past and future…it all sounded so crazy when it was laid out in a matter-of-fact way.

* * * * *

Margaret

The musings that occupied my mind as I retraced my steps evaporated as I realized that something was wrong, something was out of place. The gate was standing open, and clouds of dust hung in the air, as if a parade of vehicles had recently crossed over the little track that led to the dig. It was not yet full darkness, but I could make out the glow of what must be headlamps from vehicles surrounding the area that made up the campsite.

I brought the truck to a halt, now focused on what I should do. Jim was more than capable of fending for himself, and they had absolute written permission to be here although the ranch foreman made it clear that they were unwelcome in his mind; his opinion was overruled by the owners. Some of the locals had not been kind to Jim and brusque with me, but I supposed any strange people in such a small community could expect to be viewed with some suspicion.

A few individuals had been more aggressive in voicing their opinions, but we had judged that they were the minority and could be sidestepped easily enough. That was the version he discussed anyway; I suspected there was something more to it, but Jim didn't want to burden me with the worry. He did warn me to be cautious and wary against the chance that one of the locals screwed up the courage to act on any of their big talk. As a precaution, we rarely ventured out together, given the social dynamics of the day, particularly in this part of the country.

I decided to press on but slowly, and I left the headlamps switched off. As I neared the camp, I circled well around the site to position myself above the dig on the higher ground that paralleled the creek bottom. I calculated that this approach would support a reconnaissance on foot to investigate what was going on while preserving the option of escaping in the truck if need be. Traveling up a small tributary to the main creek, I turned to follow the fence line along the railroad that led toward the dig. As I reached what seemed to be an alignment with the dig site, I shut off the truck and stepped outside, retrieving the Winchester from behind the seat as I went.

I had been using firearms since my youth on the homestead in Idaho and was comfortable, even proficient, with the instrument. I could not best Jim yet but was gaining on him and had contributed to the meat supply on the dig in the deserts of Arizona. I crept silently in the direction of the voices that drifted up from the creek bottom. All the voices were male, but I could not yet pick out Jim's voice from the others or distinguish any words. The conversation seemed amiable enough, however.

Nearing the embankment, I started to crawl on my knees and elbows, resting the rifle in the crooks of my arms as Jim had taught me to approach game. I angled toward a mesquite bush situated at the crest of the ridge that separated the higher ground from the creek bottom below. Not only did the bush offer concealment, but it was also a perfect place to steady my aim as I slid the barrel of the rifle over a low branch; only then did I risk a peek over the edge.

The scene before me was neither comforting nor alarming: a half circle of men, some police officers and others in street clothing fanned out in front of Jim who had risen from his field desk where he had been transcribing his notes into the journal that would make up his final report. As I strained to hear the words, a man in a uniform with a big hat and bigger belly spoke to Jim, So you are telling me that you served in the Forty-Fifth and you ain't from Oklahoma?

Jim replied, Yes, sir, you are correct that most of the boys in the Forty-Fifth were from Oklahoma, but our outfit included fellows from Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona as well.

The fat man turned in an exaggerated way to look at the others flanking him, spat loudly, and then said, You know we Texans don't cotton to folks from Oklahoma, don't you?

I have heard that, Jim replied patiently, perhaps too patiently.

The fat man gave Jim a hard look and blurted, We also don't cotton to smart-ass, blanket-ass Nazis neither.

Jim started to reply, I fought the Nazis, sir, and killed my share, so I don't understand your ref—

The fat man interrupted, Don't give me that load of crap. Everybody knows that you boys in the Forty-Fifth favored swastikas on your uniforms same as them Nazis.

Jim smiled politely, I see that is a common misconception. If you will allow me to expl—

The fat man shouted, I don't allow you nothin', boy! I may allow you to leave here tonight with your hide and I may not, that is about all of the allowing you ought to be concerning yourself with now, you hear?

The sudden outburst startled me, and I involuntarily jerked the rifle barrel a bit, which caught at least one of the other men's attentions and certainly Jim's, who immediately tried to calm the situation.

He started by saying, I am sorry we got off on the wrong foot, sir, but if I might add, I am just about done with my work here, and I expect we would be able to pack up and leave this location by this time tomorrow. We would be of no bother to you or your community after that, sir.

I could tell that he was biting his tongue, but I hoped he was on the right tact. The fat man did seem to calm down, but I could tell that he was simmering beneath the surface as he stated sweetly, Well, that is good to know, right good. There is just one little thing that needs to be done before we can let you finish your work. We need to meet that little lady that is traveling with you so we can talk to her just a bit. We don't mean her no harm. We just want to make sure that she is here of her own accord. It is just a policy in my department when whites mix with coloreds.

Jim paused before answering, finally replying in a perhaps too-loud voice, with a definite edge of anger, As I mentioned, she is out for the evening visiting friends in Houston, leaving me to complete my work so we can leave tomorrow as planned. I do not expect to see her until just prior to our departure. We could drop by your office on our way out of town if you would like.

This deflated the rest of the crew as I noted a definite letdown and loss of attention, some even turning to drift back toward their vehicles and one kicking the dirt with his boot toe in disappointment.

The fat man remained skeptical, however, noting loudly, Well, you know, I was just thinking I heard the sound of a truck up there on the bench above us, and I figured that she may just be up there waiting for the show to be over.

He turned to the man who kicked the dirt, continuing, Roger, why don't you take one of these men and see if you can find that truck?

The man he called Roger looked familiar; I had seen him at the local market, a handsome young man with a nice smile. He turned and called to someone named Petey, an older man, who paused to light a torch and followed Roger up the embankment. I shifted my body to avoid the spikes of light that came off the torch and followed their progress. As expected, they found the truck quickly and came back to report the event.

Jim was ready, indicating, Of course, she wouldn't use my old work truck to make the drive into Houston, I wouldn't trust it. Our friends were kind enough to pick her up this afternoon.

The fat man whirled in the direction of a wiry little fellow with stringy hair and asked, Well, Willie?

The little fellow responded immediately, There ain't been nobody out here to pick up that she bitch. She just left about an hour ago in that truck, that's all. He closed his sentence with a defiant spit.

What was with all the spitting anyway; it was as if it was a form of punctuation around here.

The fat man nodded his head and moved toward Jim as he retrieved a handgun from the holster at his side. When he reached the far side of the field desk, he pointed the gun at Jim's head and proclaimed, Now tell me the truth, boy, where is that woman?

Jim took a deep breath and said, Well, sir, I expect she is aiming a Winchester rifle at your head about right now, sir. And he was right.

This took him aback for a bit, but he soon recovered and said, Well, does the little lady know how to use a rifle, little man? He kept the pistol pointed at Jim's head.

As the form of my answer, I squeezed off a shot that took the hat off the fat man's head and scattered the rest of the crew. The shot prompted the fat man to duck, providing Jim an opportunity to snatch the pistol from his hand. Jim flipped the gun around, cocked it, and aimed it at the fat man's head in less than a heartbeat.

I levered the rifle, thinking that the worm had turned, but the sound of the rifle action must have given someone enough information about my location to find me as I was immediately set upon by two men attempting to wrest the rifle from my grasp. In the struggle, I managed to kick off one of them, but the other held on as we rolled down the embankment.

The man clinging to the rifle fingered the trigger as the other fellow regained his footing and crested the hill. The rifle discharged, and the bullet caught the man at the top of the hill full in the face. As a group, everyone reacted in horror to this turn of events, and it clearly changed the place we all stood. A situation that could have been manageable suddenly became impossible.

I struggled to make eye contact with Jim as more of the men arrived, twisting me around and wrenching the rifle from my hands. Finally, desperately, I managed to get a good look at Jim before I was tossed to the ground again. As my eyes locked with his, the anger and sadness in them told me that we were lost. Barring a miracle, Little Elk's survival was the most we could hope for at this point.

The fat man charged up the hill faster than I would have thought he could manage. The exertion took its toll, but what he found at the top of the hill did something much worse. He collapsed to his knees and cried to the heavens, knowing that the man was gone, the top half of his skull blown away. He squatted there for a while, sobbing into his hands, but when he rose, his face was a mask. He walked down the embankment slowly, digging his boot heels into the soft soil to slow his progress. Upon arriving at our level, he started to issue commands, even as tears continued to stream down his face.

"Willie, you tie these two up. Boys, if they move, gun them down like they gunned down Roger…you hear!" he screamed before turning to blow his nose and wipe his face.

* * * * *

Petey

What the hell had I gotten myself into? We were just supposed to be spooking a colored and giving his woman a chance to leave him if she was of a mind to take her leave. Sheriff Phillips promised we would lay off if nothing came of that. Nothing had gone right, and now with his son dead, the sheriff was not thinking clearly, and there was no way this was going to end well.

As I started to sort out what I should do, Willie yelled at me, Petey…dammit, man, get over here, we got work to do!

I don't take orders from you, Willie Gimble. If it weren't for your sorry ass, none of this would have happened, I replied before I could think.

Sheriff Phillips snapped to attention and turned his red-eyed stare at me, Listen here, Petey, you are either with us or a 'gin us. You best decide which end of the rope you want to be on. This brought an ugly smile to Willie's face.

I concluded to keep my mouth shut and walked over to where Willie was binding the two prisoners, thinking to pick up and light another torch on the way, figuring there was not much they could ask me to do with both hands engaged. That worked well enough, but I still had to watch what they did to those two, which was hard enough to bear.

They started in to hit and kick the man, but it seemed that they might as well have attacked an old oak tree for all the effect they had. Then the darndest thing happened; Willard Johnson slapped that woman, not liking something she said. In response, the fellow swelled up his chest, flexed his arms, and I'll be damned if he didn't tear right out of the bindings; he must be as strong as a bear. Before anyone could react, he had Willard in his grasp and simply snapped his neck like it was a sapling.

He was ready to take on all of us barehanded, but Willie cut him down with a shotgun blast that just about put a hole right through him. The cry he made before he collapsed was eerie. It was as if he were setting forth his spirit for a purpose, not sinking into death. The woman got a hand on one of the deputy's pistols and shot Willie in the shoulder; she would have got him dead center but was thrown off her aim when the deputy jostled her. Sheriff Phillips responded by gunning her down before she could get off another shot.

After the dust settled, the sheriff called us all together, telling everyone that we had to stick together and laid out the story. We would bury the two and all their belongings. He planned to tell his wife and the community that Roger was killed in a hunting accident, and he figured we would find Willard out by the bullpen and lay his death off as an accident.

He sent me over to the J-D with Willard's keys to the ranch equipment to get a tractor with a front-end loader. By the time I got back and started moving dirt, the men were dismantling the camp, giving rise to another problem.

Hey, what about the baby? yelled Willie, holding up a baby blanket from the tent.

Sheriff Phillips turned and screamed, What baby? Dammit, Willie, why the hell didn't you tell me that there was a baby here?

Hell, Austin…it's just a half-breed. It don't matter none, Willie replied flatly.

The sheriff was livid. As brutal as he could be, the events of the night had gone well beyond what even he was willing to condone. Now, the prospect of locating and killing an infant loomed on top of his own personal loss and all the other loose ends. He took off his hat and ran his hand through his short gray speckled hair with a dazed look on his face. It looked like he might be unraveling before my eyes. When he became conscious of the group of men staring at him, he snapped out of it.

First things first, let's get everything buried. Willie, you take Willard on over to the ranch and leave him just over the fence to the south pasture. Bill, Ray, come help me get Roger wrapped up and in the back of my car. I have got to get him to the emergency room. I will call home from there. I figure that the problem with the baby will just take care of itself, or it is something we can deal with later.

Willie, do you need a ride to the emergency room for that shoulder of yours? the sheriff asked before leaving.

No, I think the bullet went clear through. It should heal up on its own okay, replied Willie.

We complied with the sheriff's orders, carving out a big hole far enough back in the bench where the floods wouldn't uncover anything, and after covering everything over, I returned the tractor to its place on the ranch. I was dropped at my house by Bill, one of the deputies, sworn to secrecy and warned of the consequences if any of this business came to light. I was furious that I had been roped into this mess but figured what was done was done.

The news of the accidental death of the sheriff's boy got some play in the local paper, but there was hardly a mention of Willard's passing. The only thing positive that came out of that night was that I managed to put in a good word for Joe with the ranch owners the next day, and they took a chance on him as the new foreman for the J-D.

I understood that the sheriff cast around a bit for the baby but warned Willie away from any nonsense, letting him take the work truck as a form of appeasement. I had my own ideas about what may have happened to that little one but kept them to myself. I think the sheriff convinced himself that the baby had simply been taken by the elements. Over time, I was able to put it behind me, except for the nightmares.

* * * * *

Katie heard the report of what sounded like a hunting rifle in the distance, causing her to worry since the baby's mother should have returned to collect him by now. No worries on that score since he was sleeping peacefully with her son, Elvis. She walked out on the porch and looked in the direction the gunshot had seemed to arise, down past the railroad tracks and into the bottom land along Lake Creek. Just then, she heard another report from a rifle as clear as day.

It was full dark now, and she could see light from down there, she supposed, in the area where the boy's parents were camped. A few minutes went by, and then she heard another gunshot, but this one had a different tone, a shotgun, unless she missed her guess, followed by a fainter report, two in succession. The shotgun blast was followed shortly after by a roar or a wail from what sounded like a beast, not a man. She then heard a cry from inside the house and rushed inside.

She found her grandmother holding the baby, Martin, like she was trying to see into his soul which was starting to frighten the boy.

You put that baby down, Mamabell, and leave him be! Katie shouted.

She acknowledged she heard by looking at Katie briefly and then turned her gaze back to the baby with a strange look on her face, mumbling, The boy needs this… I know I can't bear it. She then put her mouth on the baby's mouth, breathing into the baby with all her force. The baby went wide-eyed and cried out.

Katie took the baby from Mamabell's arms, and she did not resist. The baby settled into her arms and stared wide-eyed at her briefly before closing his eyes and going back to sleep.

Mamabell finally explained that she had taken on a life force that belonged to the baby and had to give it to him; it would have killed her. Katie's grandmother did and believed many strange things, but this had to top them all. It seemed the baby was not harmed, so Katie did not trouble her further, just telling her to leave the baby alone or there would be hell to pay.

Chapter 2

Found Objects

Martin

I was born in the part of the country that most folks call East Texas, the land of dense forests of loblolly and southern pines, rolling hills, and patches of bogs and swamps full of frogs, snakes, turtles, and the occasional alligator. Our ranch was sprinkled with broad meadows, the traditional pine forests, sand cliffs, ravines, and rocky hilltops. Some of the hills were cuestas, or old shorelines, formed when the Gulf of Mexico extended over this part of the state.

Despite the gently rolling terrain, the area was generally flat, with broad tracts of land drained by a few small streams. The frequent heavy rains could turn a creek that you could jump across in the afternoon into a mile-wide lake overnight.

This cycle of floods created a broad riparian plain along the major creeks with an obvious bench on either side, indicating the high-water mark. The Indians that had inhabited this land set their camps on the bench to be as close as possible to the water without risking inundation in a flood. This habit made the sandy soil in and around the bench prime hunting ground for arrowheads and other Indian artifacts.

My father and I would spend hours walking hunched over with our hands behind our backs, staring at the ground, trying to pick out the buff color of the arrowheads from the similar colored rocks and sand. Every heavy rain would wash up or otherwise expose new material. We experienced one of our late spring storms the day before that had rumbled along through the night and into the morning. The major creek that ran through our property was up and out of its banks by a bit, but any flooding would be a memory by bedtime tonight.

It was late spring by my reckoning; the green fields had not given way to the browns of summer, but the dogwoods and bluebonnets were past their bloom. I looked up from my search to pin down the location of a hummingbird that stopped briefly to investigate a little patch of buttercups growing nearby.

The hummingbird did not seem to take much interest in the buttercups in that he simply investigated each pale pink flower rather than diving in for a meal. I favored those flowers as they were always good for a laugh due to their store of heavy yellow pollen resting in the bowl of the tulip-shaped flower head. The trick was to ask someone to smell the beautiful fragrance (there was none) and then, with a well-timed flick of the wrist, push the flower onto the victim's nose. If properly executed, the maneuver left a yellow mark as if they had stuck their nose into soft butter, hence the buttercup moniker for the flower.

We had a good number of hummingbirds through the area in the spring and summer, but they came and went with the blossoms. These fairy warriors fascinated me; their ruby breastplates, iridescent helmets, and rapier bills armed them as if for a fanciful battle.

They were one of the few common interests I shared with my mother. We would both hang out by the honeysuckles that lined the back of my father's office when the hummingbirds were about and delight at their beauty and strange habits.

The hummingbird soon zipped off like a cartoon character, his attention caught by some other fancy, and I returned my view to the now drab-looking ground and my thoughts to the matter at hand. I relished these times, just the two of us, ignoring family, friends, and chores for hours as we stalked new treasures. I came to associate rain with renewal and release; renewal provided by the fresh clean air after the storms and release from the drudgery of chores and the stifling presence of my mother.

We mostly found broken arrowheads and shards of pottery, but occasionally, something really interesting fell into our laps. We had found meteorites, funny-looking obsidian black rocks, that my dad said the Indians considered sacred. On this day, we discovered some bones that must have come from an Indian grave. I spied something grayish white that initially appeared to be a pottery shard. I tugged on the unusual item and recognized it immediately as a bone.

I saw another similar bone close by. Hey, Daddy, look I found some old deer bones, I announced. I could tell that they were from a large animal but not so big as a horse or a cow.

He looked at the bones briefly and said, Those are no deer bones, they are human. My dad had been a corpsman in the war, so I guessed he ought to know. Go on and fetch the shovel from the back of my truck, we need to get these back into the ground, he continued.

Retrieving the shovel from my dad's pickup, I dropped it to the ground by the tailgate. Swinging myself to the ground, I startled a little anole lizard that had been sunning himself on an adjacent mesquite tree. He was attempting to attract an unseen female by puffing out his neck pouch, I guess an attractive display from a lady lizard's point of view, or so he was hoping. I hoisted the shovel and trotted over to my dad. He took the shovel and with what seemed just a few strokes dug a four-foot-deep hole in the soft, sandy soil.

He deposited the bones into the hole and covered it over. That should keep the coyotes and dogs from getting after them, he said.

For a minute, I thought he was going to say a prayer over the remains since he took off his hat, cast his eyes down, and leaned against the shovel in a contemplative manner. Suddenly, he snapped out of this posture, put his hat back on, took a few steps toward the truck, and with an underhanded throw, tossed the shovel neatly into the back of the pickup where it landed with a solid clang and a rattle as it ricocheted around the truck bed. Seeing the respect he offered the bones, I anticipated his answer, but I asked if we could come back some day and dig deeper to see if there was any treasure like they find when they dig up the Egyptians.

His answer came in a clear but sad voice as if he regretted the question, or maybe the answer, No, son, it wouldn't be right.

I asked what difference it made to dig up bones of long-dead Indians or to excavate the Pyramids with long-dead Egyptians. His response surprised me, Well, for one thing, you ain't related to them Egyptians.

Taken aback by his comment, I inquired, You mean that we are related to the Indians who lived here?

My dad replied casually, There's at least some Indian blood in you.

But Momma told me that wasn't so. Remember back when those older boys at school laughed at me and called me Tonto? I blurted as I felt my face flush at the memory.

Well, son, you know I love your mother, but sometimes she just rearranges the parts of the world that don't suit her.

You mean Momma lied to me? I replied, regretting the response as soon as it left my lips.

That is not what I said. You know it's not a lie if you believe it yourself, he said lightly, further commenting. And I would be disappointed if your mother somehow got the idea that I called her a liar, he said with a little more force.

Aw, I wouldn't do that, Daddy, you know you can trust me, I said with a big smile.

I think I can trust you to look out for your own sake, and getting your momma and I crosswise from one another is not going to work in your best interest, he stated with a raised eyebrow, indicating caution was advised.

"Okay, so tell me where my Indian blood comes from. I guess from your side of the family?" I asked.

Well, it is said that my grandfather was part Indian, one quarter I believe, and he said it was Karankawa Indian, not the kind that lived right here. Yes, sir, those Karankawas was supposed to be a mean bunch. They say they would kill their enemies and then eat parts of their bodies, he ruminated in his storytelling voice.

You're kidding, you mean they were cannibals?

Not strictly speaking, what they did was eat something from their enemy that they admired. If they thought the enemy had a strong heart, they would eat their heart and so on.

We dropped the subject there, and I began to think my dad had hoodwinked me, making up a story to get me off the question about Indian blood; he was a crafty one at times. No matter whether the Indians were kinfolk or not, I felt a burning need to know more about what I had by this time conjured up as a full-blown Indian burial ground, no doubt brimming with loot.

My dad broke my train of thought when he said, Well, son, it's about time we head on home. And with a quick tousle of my buzz-cut hair, he hefted me into the back of his pickup and handed over the beat-up coffee can that contained my day's findings. I had a pretty good day, a bunch of pottery shards, one with markings, about half of what looked like a spearpoint, and three perfect arrowheads. My dad's truck cranked on the second try, and we lurched and bounced across the field toward the road.

As I huddled in the truck bed between the spare tire and the cab, my mind drifted back to thoughts of the buried Indian treasure. Knowing that my father would never allow me to dig in the area, I determined that I would have to conduct the operation on the sly. The first step was to secure a digging instrument