Текст книги "Thunderhead"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston,Lincoln Child
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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

He glanced around the valley, a vista of deepening purples, greens, and golds beneath a bright turquoise sky. It was a beautiful place. And yet it was malevolent in its beauty.

His eyes swivelled up in the direction of the hidden city. To think those three were up there now, opening the kiva as if nothing had happened. They would get the glory. And Nora would get a memorial plaque, nailed onto some wall at the Institute. He spat disgustedly, sighed, and turned to collect his notebook.

Then he stopped and looked around again at the darkened canyon. Except for the rumbling of water and the occasional birdsong, everything was quiet.

But instinct told him he was being watched.

Slowly, he reached over for the notebook. Turning a few pages, he sat back with an air of indifference, pretending to read the scribbled lines.

The feeling did not go away.

Swire’s sixth sense had been honed over many hard years of wrangling horses in wild, sometimes hostile country. He had learned to trust his life with it.

His right hand dropped to the holster and rested easily there, confirming the presence of the gun. Then the hand rose again, this time to thoughtfully stroke his mustache. The roar of the water echoed and re-echoed off the canyon walls, magnified and distorted. The edge of another storm cloud was moving into the sky, staining the turquoise an ugly shade of gray.

He casually slipped the notebook into his pocket. Then, just as casually, he slipped the trigger thong out of its catch.

He waited. Nothing.

He rose to his feet, using an extended stretch as an excuse to take another look around. Again, nothing. Yet his instincts were rarely wrong. Perhaps it washis imagination. To say he’d had a tough afternoon would be putting it mildly.

Still, he felt a presence. More than that: he felt stalked.

Swire wondered what could be after him. There had been no wolves or mountain lions in the valley before, and none sure as hell had come in today. Perhaps it was human. But who? Nora and the others who had entered the slot canyon were dead. And the rest of them were busy with the kiva. Besides, none of them would want to—

With a flash, he realized who it must be. He was confused, in shock from the day’s events, or he would have realized it before. They were the ones who had killed his horses. The bastards who had gutted his animals.

And now they were coming for him.

A surge of anger pushed away his rising apprehension. He couldn’t roll back time; he couldn’t save his horses, or prevent Nora from entering the canyon. But he could sure as hell do something about this.

The rock was not a good place to be. Lightly, he hopped off and strolled out into the open, glancing around, looking for a place from which to defend himself. On the surface the valley looked unchanged; but here, in the open, he could feel the presence more strongly.

His eyes moved toward a small grove of gambel oaks near the far end of the valley. Twelve hours before, the trees had been fifty feet from the water. Now, they were at its edge.

He nodded slowly to himself. From there, the water would be advantageously at his back. And the oaks would hide him from view. They wouldn’t know where he was among the trees. But he would have a view out across the benchland. It would give him time for several clear shots.

He began strolling down toward the river, his shoulder blades crawling with the sense of hidden eyes. When he was halfway to the grove, he stopped, spat out his tobacco, and hiked up his pants, in the process loosening the gun in its holster. It was only a .22 magnum long barrel, but it had the advantage of high accuracy in repeated shots. A good gun for the kind of work he had in mind.

He paused in the gathering gloom. This would be his last chance for a good look at the valley before entering the trees, and he wanted to sense which direction his stalkers might come from. By daylight, there were few hiding places in the valley. But as night neared, the number grew: stands of cottonwoods and chamisa, areas in dark shadow. And yet, he saw no unusual movement, nothing out of place.

Once again, he questioned his instincts. They were still screaming: Run, hide!A few raindrops began to fall, splattering heavily in the sand. His heart beat faster as his apprehension grew. He was not a man to walk away from a fight. But it was hard, not knowing who you were fighting, or from where they would come, or if in the end they were just your imagination, after all. He tried to remind himself that these were the bastards that had killed his horses. But as his thoughts returned to the horses, he saw them again in his mind’s eye: ritually sliced, feathers protruding from the glazed dead eyes, the grayish-blue guts wound in spirals. What kind of monsters could do that . . .

He started forward again, quickening his pace toward the copse. Once he almost turned around, heart beating fast, but he checked himself in time: he must not show that he knew they were there.

A few more steps brought him into the stand of the oaks. Moving quickly to the far side, he crouched, then swivelled around, putting his back to the water. It was dark beneath the hanging limbs, and water dripped onto his head and back. The sound of the flood seemed magnified in the close space: it bore down on him confusingly, coming in from all sides. He shook his head to clear it, taking a step backward as he did so. He was at the very edge of the flood now, and the water gurgled through the tree trunks, curling and tugging around his boots. He moved back yet again, slowly, his boots making a light plashing noise.

With a dull, hollow thud of fear, he realized it had been a mistake to retreat to this grove. Darkness was descending so swiftly on the canyon that he could make out little beyond the dense thicket of trees. He waited, shivering slightly, feeling the coldness of the water creep into his boots. His eyes widened as he tried to separate the shapes of the trees from each other, to distinguish them in the damp, dark gloom.

Now he slipped his gun out of the holster, waiting. He took another step back into the swirling water. It surged a little higher, and a distant, detached part of him noted that the flood was coming up again. His anger was no longer a comfort; now all he felt was cold, naked fear. It was too dark to see anything. If only he could hear, he might be able to act: but the sound of the water was like a heavy cloak, depriving him of his most valuable sense. All he had left, in fact, was smell. And even that wasn’t working properly: by some trick of his overcharged brain, he felt surrounded by the beautiful, delicate scent of morning glories.

Just then, to his left, he saw a terrible movement of shadow: a violent wrenching of black upon black. Too late, he realized the things had been in the grove all the time, watching and waiting, while he came to them.He raised the gun with a cry, but the shot went wild and the weapon tumbled into the flood. As the muzzle flare died away, Swire saw—or thought he saw—the blade of a knife, impossibly black and cold, slicing down through the night.

56

IN THE DEPTHS OF THE HIDDEN CAVERN, BLACK carefully edged a penknife beneath the uppermost clay seal, his arms shaking with exhaustion and excitement. He turned one hand, trying to apply an even pressure to the seal, but his aching fingers twitched and the seal popped free, along with a piece of the plastered door.

“Easy,” Sloane said from her position behind the large camera, some distance away.

Black craned his neck toward the small hole, but it was too small and uneven to make out anything within. From the valley outside the city, there was a faint, muffled crump of distant thunder.

Black coughed into his hand, then again, more violently, finding flecks of mud in the phlegm. He shook it away in disgust and returned to the stone facade. Bonarotti, who had now dug away the piles of sloping dust around the kiva door, joined him in the work.

In another half hour, a second seal came into view. Enough courses of stone had now been removed to expose over three feet of plastered door. Sloane came forward to take a series of photographs. Then she stepped back out of the pall of hanging dust, scribbling in her notebook. Black slid his knife beneath the second seal, pried it carefully away from the underlying plaster, and set it aside. All that now stood between him and the crowning validation of his theory was a thin, featureless wall of plaster and mortar. He reached down for a pick, hefted it in his bruised hands, then swung it toward the wall.

A piece of plaster fell away. Black swung the pick again, then again, enlarging the hole considerably: a dark, ragged rectangle in the glare of the lights. Excitedly, he dropped the pick.

Instantly, Sloane returned to his side. Taking a flashlight from her pocket, she thrust it deep into the hole, pressing her face against the plaster. Black saw her body tense. She remained still for a minute, perhaps more. Then she withdrew, silently, her face alive with excitement. Black grabbed the light from her unresisting hand and crowded forward.

The feeble yellow gleam of the small flashlight could barely penetrate the murk within. But as he played it about, Black felt his own heart swell. Everywhere the glint of gold. . . .The yellow glimmer filled the kiva, winking and flashing everywhere, on the floor, on the stone banco that ran around the perimeter: the rich mellow shine of a thousand curvilinear golden surfaces.

Violently, Black withdrew his hand. “Break it down!” he cried. “It’s stuffed with gold!”

“By the book, Aaron,” Sloane said sharply, but the exhilaration in her voice belied caution.

He seized the pick and resumed working along the top of the doorway. Grabbing a second pick, Bonarotti stood beside him, driving it furiously into the adobe in time with Black’s own blows. Soon, the hole grew to more than two feet square. Black stopped to jam his entire head into the opening, wedging his shoulders hard, trying to force his body through, swinging Sloane’s flashlight back and forth. But their picks had roused so much dust within the kiva that all he could see were faint golden glimmers.

The flashlight beam failed and he pulled himself back out, throwing it down in disgust. “More!” he gasped.

Outside the city, another muffled crump of thunder punctuated the obbligato whisper of rain. But Black heard nothing except the sound of his pick on plaster, and the ragged hiss of his breath in the close air. Reality faded into a dream. A strange sensation filled his head, and he realized he could no longer feel his arms as they wielded the pick.

The dreamlike sense grew stronger, almost frighteningly strong, and he staggered back from the kiva, trying to clear his head. As he did so, he felt an overwhelming tiredness. He glanced first at Bonarotti, who was still swinging his pick in a regular, metronomic cadence; then at Sloane, waiting behind, her body still tensed with expectation.

There was a sudden crumpling of plaster, and Black swivelled his head toward the kiva. A large chunk of adobe had come free, breaking into earth-colored chunks on the rocks below. And now Black saw that the hole was definitely large enough to admit a person.

He picked up one of Sloane’s lanterns and moved forward. “Get out of my way,” he said, peremptorily shoving Bonarotti aside.

The cook staggered back, dropped the pick, then turned to face Black, his eyes narrowing. But Black ignored him, desperately trying to angle the lantern beam into the dusty hole.

“Step aside,” came Sloane’s voice from behind him. “I said, step aside,both of you.”

Bonarotti hesitated a moment. Then he took a pace back. Black followed, surprised by the sudden cold edge to Sloane’s voice.

Sloane came forward, taking another series of shots. Then she looped the camera around her neck, turned to Black, and took the lantern from his hands.

“Help me in,” she said.

Black placed his hands on her hips, pushing upward as she scrambled over the rocks and into the hole. He could see her light striping wildly across the kiva’s ceiling. Then, suddenly, it receded to a mellow glow. He followed quickly, scrabbling up the rocks, wriggling through the rough hole and sliding down the inner side, face-first, sprawling in an ungainly muddle, spitting out mouthfuls of dust. A distant part of him thought that this was not exactly how Howard Carter would have gone about it.

Sloane had dropped the lantern, and it lay on its side in the dust. Trembling with excitement, Black rose to his feet, grabbed the curved metal of the lantern’s handle, and hoisted it upward. His arm ached with the motion, and electric pains went through his lungs each time he drew in breath. But he barely noticed: this was the moment of ultimate discovery; the defining moment of his entire life.

Bonarotti had climbed in beside him, but Black paid him no mind. Everywhere, from all sides, the gleam of gold sprang out of the murk. Almost snorting with excitement, he bent forward and seized the closest object—a dish, filled with some kind of powder.

Instantly, he knew something was wrong. The dish in his hand was light, the material warm to the touch: not like gold, at all. Tossing the powder from the bowl, he brought it closer to his face.

Then he straightened up, flinging the object away with a sob.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sloane cried.

But Black did not hear her. He looked around the Sun Kiva with a sudden, wild desperation: grabbing things, dropping them again. It was all wrong. He staggered, fell, then rose with an effort. The bottomless disappointment, after such feverish hopes, was more than he could comprehend. Mechanically, he glanced at his companions. Bonarotti stood motionless beneath the ragged hole, a thunderstruck look on his dust-caked face.

Then Black slowly turned his eyes toward Sloane. In his pain and unutterable dismay, he could not quite comprehend that her face, instead of despair, reflected shining, complete vindication.

57

IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO KNOW HOW MUCH TIME had passed before—at long, long last—Nora felt a cool gush of air stir the damp hair on her forehead. Slowly, the memory of where she was and what had happened returned. Her head throbbed mercilessly as she gulped at the fresh air.

There was a dead weight pushing against her back. She struggled, and the weight moved slightly, allowing a dim light to filter into the cavity. The roar in the canyon had now abated to a deep-throated, thunderous vibration that rattled her gut. Or perhaps it was just her water-clogged ears that were muffling the sound.

Uncramping her legs and turning painfully around inside the cavity, she saw that the dead weight against her back was Smithback. Now he was lying on his side, motionless. His shirt lay across his chest in torn ribbons. The light was very dim inside the cavity, but as she peered more closely she noticed, with horror, that his back was as lacerated as if it had been brutally lashed. The leading surge of the flood had passed over them while they were jammed in the rock shelter; Smithback had shielded her—and taken the brunt of the water’s force—with his own back.

Nora gently laid her head on his chest, placing a trembling hand on his face as she listened. The heartbeat was faint, but at least it was there. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she kissed his hands, his face. His eyelids struggled open, the eyes beneath glassy and dull. After a moment, the eyes focused. His mouth moved soundlessly, his face screwing up into a rictus of pain.

Over his shoulder, beyond the lip of their little crawlspace, she could see the flood about five feet below them, now a smooth sheet of water, surging, falling, and surging again. It had fallen since the first intense rush. And yet Nora was surprised to see that the water seemed to be rising again, not falling. Rivulets were trickling down the sides of the canyon and dripping outside the mouth of the cavity, and she realized that it must be raining hard again in the upper watershed. It was not just their little space that was dark: it was growing dark outside, as well. She must have been unconscious for hours.

“Can you sit up?” she asked. At the effort to speak, a pain stabbed through her temples.

Smithback struggled, wincing and breathing hard. The movement brought small streams of fresh blood trickling down across his stomach and onto his thighs. As Nora helped him into a sitting position, she got a better look at the damage that had been done to his back.

“You saved my life,” said Nora, squeezing his hand.

“It’s not saved yet,” he gasped, shivering.

Carefully, she peered out from their shelter, scanning the rock face above for some hint of handholds. It was polished smooth; there was no way to climb farther up. She looked back down, thinking. They had to get out of the crawlspace, that was certain. They could not spend a night in there. If the temperature continued to drop, Smithback might become hypothermic. And if the water rose farther—or if another flood surge came through—they could not hope to survive. But there was no way out.

No way, except to launch themselves into the current and hope for the best.

The current just beneath their shelter was fast but smooth, a laminar flow that moved straight down the polished walls of the narrow canyon. She watched pieces of debris flashing by, all trending toward the center. If they could make it out into the middle of the current, they might be able to ride it through the slot and into the valley without being battered against the canyon walls along the way.

Smithback watched her, the lines around his mouth tightening as he followed her train of thought.

She returned the look. “Can you swim?” she asked.

Smithback shrugged.

“I’m going to bind us together,” she said.

“No,” he protested. “I’ll only drag you down.”

“You saved my life. Now you’re stuck with me.” Carefully, she peeled off the tattered remnant of his shirt, ripped off the sleeves, and twisted them into a short tether. Leaving as much slack as possible, she tied one end to her left wrist, and the other end to Smithback’s right.

“This is a crazy—” Smithback began.

“Save your breath for the ride. Now look, we’re only going to get one chance at this. It’s getting dark, we can’t wait any longer. The most important thing is to stick as much to the middle as possible. That won’t be easy, because the canyon is so narrow. So when you find yourself getting too close to one of the walls, lightly kick away from it. The most dangerous moment will be when the flood drops us into the valley. Once we’re there, we’d better head for the shore damn quick. If we get swept through into the far canyon, we’re done for.”

Smithback nodded.

“Ready?”

Smithback nodded again, eyes narrow, lips white.

They waited for a surge to subside. Then Nora looked at Smithback, their eyes locking as she took tight hold of his hand. There was a moment’s hesitation. And then, together, they slid out into the flood.

Nora’s first impression was of the water itself: mind-numbingly cold. The second was of the current: it was shockingly strong, infinitely stronger than it had appeared from the rock cavity. As they tore along, she realized there was no chance of controlling their descent: all she could do was struggle to keep from colliding with the murderous walls, blurring past sometimes a foot, sometimes mere inches away. The surface of the water boiled and churned, full of tiny particles of wood and plant material dancing hysterically around them. Deeper, a chaos of gravel and sand churning in the turbulence battered her legs. Smithback struggled beside her, crying out once when the gnarled root of a tree collided with his shoulder.

A harrowing minute passed. And then Nora saw light ahead; a vertical notch of gray amid the rushing darkness. The canyon wall came dangerously close, and she pushed it away with a desperate kick. Suddenly they were soaring out of the canyon, riding a huge hump of water that sailed over the scree slope and collapsed into a boiling pool. There was an angry roar and Nora felt herself tumbled under the waves. Jerking on the improvised cord, she frantically propelled them upward, breaking the surface. Looking around and spitting water, she was horrified to see they had already traveled halfway through the valley. Only a few seconds’ ride ahead of them lay the narrow crevice at the far end of the valley, the flood boiling and sucking into it with a furious confusion of sound. Then they were briefly caught in a swirl that propelled them into the slacker water near shore.

As she thrashed, Nora felt a blow to her midriff, followed by a painful scraping. She reached down into the water, grasping for a hold, while they swung about in the current. She realized it was the top of a stiff juniper bush. She clawed her way across its top, groping downward for a thicker branch, feeling the current tugging at them, trying to tear them away.

“We’re hung up on a treetop,” she said. Smithback nodded his understanding.

Steadying herself, Nora glanced toward shore. It was only fifty feet away, but it might as well have been fifty miles for all the ability they had to swim across the current.

She looked downstream. There was another treetop, this one sticking out of the flood, lashed and shivered by the water. If they let go, they could grab that one. As long as the roots didn’t give way under the tug of the water, there was a third tree, a little farther downstream—and from that they could reach the slacker water near shore.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Stop asking me that. I hate the water.”

She launched into the current, grasped the next tree, then the next, dragging Smithback along, his head barely above water. Suddenly her feet touched bottom, wonderfully solid after the flood. Slowly, she pulled herself up on the muddy bank toward the copse of cottonwoods, Smithback staggering behind her. They sat down heavily amid a whirlwind of splintered branches, Smithback collapsing in pain. Nora undid the twisted rag that bound them, then rolled onto her back, sides heaving, coughing up water.

There was a ragged flash of lightning, followed by the sharp crackle of thunder. She looked up to see that a second, smaller storm had covered the canyon with a counterpane of darkness. Her thoughts turned to the weather report. Clear skies, it had said. How could the report have been so wrong?

The rain grew heavier. Nora turned her face away from it, looking up the ruined bank toward camp. There was something strange about the camp that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Then she understood: it had been carefully set up again, the struck tents repitched, the equipment carefully tarped against the rain.

Makes sense, I suppose,she thought. No one was going anywhere for a long time; at least, not out the slot canyon.

And yet the camp was deserted.

Had the rest of the expedition sought sanctuary in Quivira itself? But if so, why would they still be there, now that the worst of the flood had passed?

She sat up and looked at Smithback, who was lying on his stomach, water and blood trickling together into the sand. He was hurt. But at least he was alive. Not like Aragon. She had better get him to the warmth and safety of a tent.

“Can you walk?” she asked.

He swallowed hard and nodded. She helped him to his feet; he staggered a little, took a few steps, then staggered against her again.

“Just a little farther,” she murmured.

She half dragged, half carried him to the high ground of the deserted camp. Hauling him into the medical tent, she rummaged through the supplies, picking out a painkiller, antibiotic ointment, and gauze bandages. Then she paused to poke her head out of the tent and look around. Once again, she was struck by how deserted the place was. Had they all been swept away? No, of course not: someone had to have repitched the tents. And Sloane and Swire, certainly, would have known right away what was up. They would have made sure everyone got to high ground in time.

She opened her mouth, preparing to call out. But then she shut it again. Some vague instinct she did not understand told her to remain silent.

She withdrew into the tent and looked at Smithback. “How are you doing?” she asked quietly.

“Bloody great,” he said, wincing. “So to speak.”

Looking down at the wet hair plastered over his forehead, Nora felt a sudden welling of affection. “Can you stand moving again?” she asked.

He looked at her. “Why?”

She shook her head. “Because I think we should get out of here.”

She saw the question in his brown eyes.

“There’s something strange going on,” she continued. “And, whatever it is, I’d rather learn more about it from a distance.” She handed him a couple of painkillers, passed him a canteen, then began dressing the horrible lacerations on his back. He stiffened, but did not complain.

“How come you’re not protesting?” she asked.

“Don’t know,” came the slurred response. “Guess I’m numb from the water.”

He was shivering now, his forehead clammy. He’s going into shock,she thought. The rain outside was increasing steadily, and the wind had picked up, buffeting the sides of the tent. She realized, with a dull finality, that there was no way she could move him, at least not now.

“Keep that sleeping bag bundled close,” she said, stroking his cheek. “I’m going to see if I can’t get some hot liquid into you.” Gently tucking the sleeping bag around him, she moved toward the opening of the tent.

“Nora,” came the voice from beneath the sleeping bag, slow and dreamlike.

She turned. “Yes?”

Smithback looked at her. “Nora,” he said again. “You know, after all that’s happened between us . . . well, I’d really like to tell you how I feel.”

She stared at him. Then, gliding closer, she took his hand in hers. “Yes?”

His lips parted in a feeble grin. “I really feel like shit,” came the dry whisper.

Nora shook her head, laughing despite herself. “You’re incorrigible.”

She bent closer and kissed him. Then she kissed him again, a gentle, lingering kiss.

“Please, sir, I want some more,” Smithback murmured.

She smiled at him for a moment. Then, drawing back, she crawled out of the tent, securing its front flap. Hunching her shoulders against the rain, she moved across the camp, heading for the supply cache.

58

SLOANE GODDARD STOOD IN THE MURK OF THE kiva, gazing at the rows of gleaming pots. For a long time, she saw nothing else. It was as if the outer world of time and space had retreated to a vast distance, leaving nothing but this small space behind. As she stared, she forgot everything—Holroyd’s death, the flash flood, Nora and the others, the creeping presence of the horse killers.

Only a few small sherds of black-on-yellow micaceous pottery had ever been found. To see them whole was a revelation. They were transcendentally beautiful, by far the most exquisite pottery she had ever seen. Each piece had been perfectly shaped and formed, and polished with smooth stones to a sensuous luster. The clay they had been made from fired to an intense yellow, but the color had been immeasurably enhanced by the addition of crushed mica to the clay. The resulting pottery shimmered with an internal light, and as Sloane stared at them—at the heaps of bowls and jugs, hunchbacked figurines, skulls, pots, and effigies—she felt they were morebeautiful than gold. They had a warmth, a vitality, the precious metal lacked. Each piece had been decorated with geometric and zoomorphic designs of superlative artistry and skill: the entire pictographical history of the Anasazi people, laid out before her.

It was all here, as she had been certain it would be: the mother lode of micaceous pottery. It had been her father’s pet project: over the course of thirty years, he had mapped each rare sherd, traced hypothetical trade routes, searched for the source. Because the number of discovered fragments was so small, he had theorized that this pottery was the single most prized possession of the Anasazi people, and that it was stored in a central, most likely religious, place. Eventually, after mapping the distribution points of all known sherds, he had come to believe its location would be somewhere back in the labyrinthine canyons. Briefly, he had entertained dreams of finding the source himself. But he had grown old and sick. Then, when word of Nora and her father’s letter reached him, hope had sprung anew. Instantly, he realized that Quivira, if it existed, might be the source of the fabulous pottery. It was speculative, of course—much too speculative for a man of his position to publish, or even broadcast. But it was enough to launch an expedition, with his daughter on the team.

Sloane knew she was supposed to have discussed the matter privately, with Nora, if they ever found the city. But, of course, there was no way she would have cued Nora into the great discovery that lay ahead. Nora already had more than her share of the glory. How many times, on the trail to Quivira, had the thought wormed its way bitterly into Sloane’s heart: there she was, taking orders from a second-tier, untenured academic, when by rights sheshould be the one in command. In the end it would be Nora, and by extension Sloane’s father, who would get all the credit: just another example of her father’s thoughtlessness, his lack of faith in her.

Well, things would be different now. If Nora hadn’t been so selfish, so stubbornly dictatorial, it wouldn’t have had to end this way. But as fate would have it, the discovery would be hers. Shewas now the leader of the expedition. Hers would be the name forever linked with the discovery of the fabulous pottery. Everyone else—Black, Nora, her father especially—would be subordinate.

Slowly, she came back to the present. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bonarotti, cloaked in silent disappointment, shambling on stiff legs toward the hole he had helped cut. In another moment, he had climbed onto the banco and vanished out into the cavern.

Her eyes swivelled away, over the almost unbelievable abundance of pottery, to a large hole in the floor she had not noticed before. It seemed, inexplicably, to have been freshly dug. But that made no sense: who else but themselves could have been inside this kiva in the last seven hundred years? And who would single-mindedly dig out a few pounds of dust, while ignoring one of the richest troves in all North American history?