p&c.thunderhead-第67章

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s　impossible　to　count　the　number　of　the　pany。　They　stared　long；　bodies　motionless。　Then　they　eased　forward　along　the　brow　of　rock。　
　With　consummate　stealth　they　moved　along　the　top　of　the　canyon；　pausing　now　and　then　to　look　down　toward　the　sleeping　expedition。　Occasional　sounds　drifted　up　from　below：　the　call　of　an　owl；　the　babble　of　water；　the　rustle　of　leaves　in　a　night　breeze。　Once；　a　belt　of　silver　conchas　clinked　around　the　midriff　of　one　of　the　figures；　otherwise；　they　made　no　noise　in　the　time　it　took　to　reach　the　top　of　the　rope　ladder。　
　Here　the　figures　paused；　examining　the　munications　equipment　with　intense　interest。　A　minute　passed；　then　two；　without　movement。　
　Then　one　of　the　figures　glided　to　the　edge　of　the　cliff　face　and　gazed　down　the　thin　ladder。　It　disappeared　back　beneath　the　brow　of　rimrock。　The　figure　looked　out；　into　the　valley。　He　was　almost　directly　above　the　camp　now；　and　the　glow　of　the　fire；　eight　hundred　feet　below；　seemed　strangely　close；　an　angry　nugget　of　red　in　the　darkness。　A　low；　guttural　sound　rose　out　from　deep　within　his　frame；　at　last　dying　away　into　a　groan　that　resolved　itself　into　a　faint；　monotonous　chant。　Then　he　turned　back　toward　the　equipment。　
　In　ten　minutes；　their　work　there　was　done。　
　Slinking　further　along　the　rimrock；　they　made　their　way　to　the　end　of　the　canyon。　The　ancient　secret　trail　wormed　down　through　a　cut　in　the　rimrock；　descending　toward　the　narrow　canyon　at　the　far　side　of　the　Quivira　valley。　The　trail　was　perfectly　concealed　against　the　rock；　and　terrifyingly　precipitous。　The　faint　sounds　of　the　waterfall　echoed　up　below　them；　the　water　thrashing　and　boiling　its　way　on　the　long　trip　down　to　the　Colorado　River。　
　In　time；　the　figures　reached　the　sandy　bottom。　They　moved　stealthily　out　of　the　curtain　of　mist；　past　the　rockfall；　then　along　the　base　of　the　canyon　wall；　keeping　in　the　deeper　darkness　of　moonshadow。　They　stopped　when　they　neared　the　first　member　of　the　expedition：　a　figure　beyond　the　edge　of　the　camp；　sleeping　beneath　the　stars；　pale　face　looking　deathlike　in　gray　half…light。　
　Reaching　into　the　matted　pelt　that　lay　across　his　back；　one　of　the　figures　pulled　out　a　small　pouch。　It　was　made　of　cured　human　skin；　and　in　the　glow　of　the　moon　it　gave　out　an　otherworldly；　translucent　sheen。　Loosening　the　leather　thong　around　it；　the　figure　reached　inside　and；　with　extreme　caution；　drew　out　a　disk　of　bone　and　an　ancient　tube　of　willow　wood；　polished　with　use　and　incised　with　a　long　reverse　spiral。　The　disk　flashed　dully　in　the　moonlight　as　he　turned　it　over　once；　then　again。　Then；　placing　one　end　of　the　tube　to　his　lips；　he　leaned　toward　the　face　of　the　sleeping　figure。　There　was　a　sudden　breath　of　wind；　and　a　brief　cloud　of　dust　flowered　in　the　moonlight。　Then；　with　the　tread　of　ghosts；　the　two　figures　retreated　back　toward　the　cliff　face；　disappearing　once　again　into　the　woven　shadows。　
　
　
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　COUGHING；　PETER　HOLROYD　WOKE　abruptly　out　of　dark　dreams。　Some　stray　breeze　had　chased　dirt　across　his　face。　Or　more　likely　it　was　dust　from　the　day's　work；　he　thought　blearily；　still　weeping　out　of　his　pores。　He　wiped　his　face　and　sat　up。　
　It　had　not　been　the　dust　alone　that　awakened　him。　Earlier；　there　had　been　a　sound：　a　strange　cry；　borne　faintly　on　the　wind；　as　if　the　earth　itself　were　groaning。　He　might　have　thought　he'd　dreamed　the　noise；　except　that　nothing　remotely　like　it　had　ever　existed　in　his　imagination。　He　was　aware　that　his　heart　was　racing。　
　Gripping　the　edges　of　his　bedroll；　he　looked　around。　The　half…moon　threw　zebra　stripes　of　silvery…blue　light　across　the　camp。　He　glanced　from　tent　to　tent；　and　at　the　still　black　lumps　of　bedrolls。　Everything　was　still。　
　His　eyes　stopped　at　a　spot　on　a　small　rise；　perhaps　twenty　yards　from　the　campfire。　Usually　Nora　would　be　at　that　spot；　sleeping。　Tonight　she　was　gone…gone　with　Smithback。　Many　times　during　the　desert　nights　Holroyd　had　found　himself　looking　in　her　direction。　Wondering　what　it　would　be　like　to　creep　over　and　talk　to　her；　tell　her　how　much　all　this　meant　to　him。　How　much　she　meant　to　him。　And；　always；　the　last　thing　he　wondered　was　why　he　just　never　had　the　guts　to　do　it。　
　Holroyd　lay　back　with　a　sigh。　Even　if　Nora　had　been　around；　though；　tonight　he　had　no　desire　to　do　anything　but　rest。　He　was　bone…tired；　more　tired　than　he　remembered　ever　being　in　his　life。　In　Nora's　absence；　Sloane　had　directed　him　to　clear　away　a　tidal　wave　of　sand　and　dust　that　had　risen　up　against　the　back　wall　of　the　ruin；　not　far　from　Aragon's　Crawlspace。　He　hadn't　understood　why　he　needed　to　dig　that　particular　spot；　there　were　many　sites　in　the　front　of　the　ruin　that　had　yet　to　be　studied。　But　Sloane　had　brushed　off　his　questions　with　a　quick　explanation　about　how　important　pictographs　were　often　found　at　such　sites　at　the　rear　of　Anasazi　cities。　He　was　surprised　at　how　quickly　and　pletely；　after　Nora　left；　Sloane　assumed　mand。　But　Aragon　had　been　working　by　himself　in　a　remote　corner　of　the　city；　his　face　dark　and　severe；　apparently；　he'd　made　yet　another　disturbing　discovery；　and　he　was　too　preoccupied　to　pay　attention　to　anything　else。　As　for　Black；　he　seemed　to　yield　up　all　critical　sense　in　Sloane's　presence；　automatically　agreeing　with　whatever　she　said。　And　so；　from　morning　until　dark；　Holroyd　had　wielded　a　shovel　and　a　rake。　And　now　it　seemed　to　him　that；　even　after　a　month's　worth　of　baths；　he'd　never　get　all　the　dust　out　of　his　hair；　nose；　and　mouth。　
　He　stared　up　at　the　night　sky。　There　was　a　funny　taste　in　his　mouth；　and　his　jaw　ached。　The　beginning　of　a　headache　was　forming　around　his　temples。　He　didn't　know　what　he'd　expected　to　do　on　the　expedition；　but　his　vague　romantic　notions　of　opening　rich　tombs　and　deciphering　inscriptions　seemed　a　far　cry　from　the　endless　grunt　work　he'd　been　doing。　All　around　lay　fantastic　ruins　of　a　mysterious　civilization；　while　they　were　immersed　in　gridding　this　and　surveying　that。　And　moving　piles　of　empty　sand。　He　was　sick　of　digging；　he　decided。　And　he　didn't　like　working　for　Sloane。　She　was　too　aware　of　her　perfection　and　the　influence　she　cast　on　others；　too　willing　to　use　her　charm　to　get　what　she　wanted。　Ever　since　the　confrontation　with　Nora　at　Pete's　Ruin；　he'd　felt　on　his　guard　when　she　was　around。　
　He　sighed；　closing　his　eyes　against　the　pressure　in　his　head。　It　wasn't　like　him　to　be　this　grouchy。　Normally；　he　only　got　grumpy　when　he　was　ing　down　with　something。　Sloane　was　all　right；　really；　she　was　just　outspoken；　used　to　getting　her　way；　not　his　type。　And　it　didn't　matter　if　he　was　digging　sand　or　breaking　rocks。　The　important　thing　was　he　was　here…here　at　Quivira；　at　this　miraculous；　mythical　place。　Nothing　else　mattered。　
　Suddenly；　he　stiffened；　eyes　opening　wide。　That　sound　again。　
　Pushing　the　blanket　to　one　side；　he　rose　to　his　knees　as　quietly　as　he　could。　Whatever　he'd　heard；　it　had　stopped。　No；　there　it　was　again：　a　murmur；　a　low　groan。　
　But　this　sound　was　different　from　the　sound　that　had　awakened　him。　It　was　softer；　somehow；　softer　and　nearer。　
　In　the　pale　light；　he　hunted　around　for　a　stick；　a　penknife；　anything　that　could　be　used　as　a　weapon。　His　hand　closed　around　a　heavy　flashlight。　He　hefted　it；　thought　of　switching　it　on；　then　decided　against　it。　He　rose　to　his　feet；　staggering　a　moment　before　gaining　his　balance。　Then；　silently；　he　moved　in　the　direction　of　the　noise。　All　had　grown　quiet　again；　but　the　sound　seemed　to　have　e　from　beyond　the　stand　of　cottonwoods　near　the　stream。　
　Cautiously　picking　his　way　around　boxes　and　shrouded　packs；　Holroyd　moved　away　from　the　camp　toward　the　stream。　A　cloud　had　passed　over　the　moon；　darkening　the　landscape　to　an　impenetrable　murk。　He　felt　hot；　unfortable；　disoriented　in　the　close　darkness。　The　headache　had　grown　worse　when　he　stood　up；　and　it　almost　seemed　as　if　a　film　lay　in　front　of　his　eyes。　In　a　detached　way；　he　made　out　what　looked　like　a　patch　of　highly　poisonous　druid's　mantle　a　few　feet　away。　Instead　of　taking　a　closer　look；　he　regarded　it　with　uncharacteristic　disinterest。　He　should　be　resting　in　his　blanket；　not　wandering　around　on　a　fool's　errand。　
　As　he　was　about　to　turn　back；　he　heard　another　sound：　a　moan；　the　soft　slap　of　skin　against　ski