Sean and the others without meeting up with Kern? Was being with the men an even greater risk? Once or twice, Tag thought he heard something as he raced up the path to the cave. Each time he swung around, but he saw nothing and hurried on. Sweat poured into his eyes as he scaled up the cliff. Why doesnât this climb get easier? Tag heaved himself over the ledge and lay catching his breath. I made it! He pulled up into a kneeling position. Opening the pack, Tag fumbled for the paho. Walkerâs flashlight rolled against his fingers. Tag hurried toward the caveâs entrance. He felt the buckskin at the bottom of the pack. Tag pulled out the paho and began unwrapping it. âGood thoughts, happy thoughts,â he said. Someone grabbed Tagâs shoulder and jerked him around.
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Kernâs foul breath blasted Tag as his fist flew towards Tagâs face. Tag ducked and jammed an elbow into Kernâs stomach. Sticking his foot in back of Kernâs, he shoved. Kern fell backward in a cloud of dust. Tag raced through the caveâs entrance. Good thoughts, positive thoughts . Tag lunged toward the shrine with the outstretched paho. Please Taawa, donât let Kern come with me! The cave exploded with thunder.
Air finally found its way into Tagâs lungs. He took gulping breaths. Pain hammered his head with each breath, and his thought processes began working again. âKern!â Tag forced his eyes open. His own shrill voicepierced back through his head as it bounced off the caveâs wall. He jerked up. The cave was empty. âThank you,â Tag whispered. âIt doesnât matter where I am in time, as long as Kernâs not with me.â The air in the cave was warm. It felt like late July or early August. Tag stretched out his cramped legs. His back creaked. He felt centuries old. âI guess I am,â Tag said, getting up. âI am . . . I am . . .â his words echoed around him. Tag wrapped the paho up in its leather again. He opened the pack and placed it inside. âIt could be 1993.â â19 . . .â His echoed abruptly died. Tag felt his scalp tighten, âBut something tells me itâs not.â âNot . . . not . . . not . . .â Tramping out of the cave, he started climbing down the cliff as the echo resounded within the walls of the ancient cave. âNo!â Tagâs words bounced off the canyon walls and back into his face as he stared at the pile of rubble that was once Singing Womanâs house. As soon as he had hiked down the main trail, Tag realized things had deteriorated. He had virtually followed a path of graffiti, rusty tin cans, beer bottles, and litter to Singing Womanâs home, but he wasnât prepared for the destruction before him. He scrambled over the pile of limestone slabs. Nothing remained of Singing Womanâs belongings except numerous pottery sherds strewn all over the ground. Tin cans and broken glass bottles circled the fire pit, and half-burnt logs spoke of recent fires. Names and dates scrawled in glaringblack paint, or carved deep into the limestone, covered the back wall and the low roof. Tag pivoted, surveying the destruction, still not accepting it. His knees shook and his empty stomach twisted in fury. âThey didnât listen. No one did a blasted thing to help!â Rectangular rock slabs shot out from under his shoes as he climbed out of the rubble of Singing Womanâs home. Many of the bricklike slabs littered the steep side of the ledge in front of the ruin. How did they get so far down the hill? Tagâs surface emotions, the anger and frustration, urged him to go back to the cave. Itâs useless. You canât change history . Yet the archaeologist, deep within him, demanded that he see the full extent of the damage. Homesickness welled up in his chest. He wished he could crawl into his