Page 30 of Dead Mountain

Nora was speechless for a moment. “You want me to dig up the bones tomorrow?” she asked. “No permit—just like that?”

“As an archaeologist, you know how to do this respectfully and professionally. Councilman Tenorio will go with you to perform the proper ceremonies. He’ll bring a van. You’ll simply put the remains in the van, and he’ll drive them back here for reburial.”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Nora stammered.

“We’ve determined the remains belong to us. NAGPRA law says once that happens, the bones are ours to do with what we wish. I assert that taking them now would be perfectly legal.”

“I’m no lawyer . . .” Nora hesitated. “But you might be right.”

“Would it be unprofessional for you to do this?”

Nora thought about this. The request was not out of line. Professionally, she would not be violating any standards—far from it, in fact. The feds might not like cutting a few bureaucratic corners, but would they object? Probably not. The ownership of the bones was clear, and there were innumerable legal precedents to back this up. Certainly, popular opinion in New Mexico would overwhelmingly side with the Isleta Indians and their efforts to protect the remains of their ancestors. Nobody at the Archaeological Institute would object—in fact, given how the treatment of indigenous artifacts had evolved in recent decades, they’d applaud.

“I think my professional responsibility as an archaeologist would be well served in helping you preserve those remains from further desecration,” she said, keeping her tone measured. “The Institute works closely with the Pueblos all the time: the remains are yours and we’d simply be helping you repatriate them.”

“So, Dr. Kelly—will you help us?”

Once again, Nora paused. The National Forest people might object, and the sheriff probably would. But she could disinter the remains in an hour, and then it would be a fait accompli. That was the key: moving the bodies before the local authorities could jump in and muck up the works. Once it was done, who could object?

But trumping these considerations was something else: it was the right thing to do. Just thinking of all the permissions, the hearings, the blowhard expert witnesses, and the attention-seeking politicians who would weigh in with uninformed opinions made her head reel. Meanwhile, the cave would be a target for looters and vandals. And at a fundamental level, the governor was right: there was nothing illegal about it. NAGPRA case law was clear: the remains belonged to Isleta and had to be returned to them.

She was aware of a more selfish motivation as well. If she did the work herself, she might be able to glean some important archaeological data—perhaps even involving the micaceous pottery.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

“Good. We can provide diggers.”

“Not necessary, I’ll be able to do it with Stan—if he’s willing.” She turned to him. “Sorry, I should have asked you before. What do you think?”

Morrison shrugged. “I’m fine with it.”

She turned back to the governor. “I’ll enlist my brother to help us—he works for the Institute and has archaeological field experience. The three of us will be sufficient. Mr. Tenorio will be there to make it crystal clear—should that prove necessary—that what we’re doing is officially sanctioned by and at the behest of Isleta Pueblo.”

The governor laid his palms down on the table and looked around, smiling. “This is good news. Are we all agreed to this plan?”

When everyone nodded, the governor turned back to Nora. “What time tomorrow?”

“It’ll take me the morning to get my tools and equipment together. Let’s say, two o’clock?”

“Very good. Mr. Tenorio will be there at two PM with a Pueblo van, carrying an official letter from me authorizing your work. He will bring the remains directly back here after exhumation.”

“Agreed,” said Nora.

The governor rose, and she and Stan did as well. “I know I speak for the entire Pueblo in thanking you, Dr. Kelly, for helping us bring peace to our deceased ancestors. We will never forget your service to our people.”

18

SOCORRO COUNTY SHERIFF’S Office, Homer Watts speaking.”

“Hello?” came the old-crone voice.

“This is the sheriff. Can I help you?”

“Hello?”

“Ma’am, can you hear me? This is Sheriff Watts.”

“Speak up, sonny. I’m just a mite hard of hearing.”

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