The Ford Explorer roared into the parking lot, tires spitting a shower of gravel as the driver screeched to a halt.  Shane Jarvis retrieved his backpack from the Explorer’s passenger seat, the slamming door echoing like thunder in the morning silence.  Not yet eight o’clock in the morning, the temperature had already reached ninety degrees.  Heat rose in waves from the asphalt and Shane’s tee shirt was soon soaked with perspiration.  The only other vehicle in the parking lot was a mud-splattered Jeep bearing a faded “Dig Geology” bumper sticker.

Jarvis studied the granite domes rising from the parched desert landscape.  Millions of years ago, lava had spewed from cracks in the Earth’s crust, intruding into softer sedimentary layers.  Over the centuries, erosion had whittled away the less resistant rock, leaving only the granite, a shapeless black blob resting in the desert like a giant hive.

“Dr. Jarvis?”

Jarvis turned.  Beneath the wide brim of a cowboy hat, two black eyes observed him with interest.  The speaker was about forty-five, his olive skin tanned and leathery from a lifetime beneath the sun’s brutal gaze.  The man wore a faded denim shirt and his well-worn chinos were frayed at the cuffs.  His long black hair was fastened into a ponytail with an ornament of turquoise and beaten silver, and a red handkerchief was knotted around his throat.

“Dr. Paul Herrera.  We spoke on the phone.”  Herrera clasped Jarvis’s hand warmly.  “Your résumé is impressive for someone so young:  British Columbia, Wyoming, Argentina.  We are lucky to have you on the site, even temporarily.  Taking a vacation from fossils?”

Shane ran his fingers through his thick blonde hair.  “I started my career in archaeology before switching to paleo.  It’ll be nice to return to my roots for awhile.”

Herrera nodded appreciatively.  “I’ll show you the site.  But first, the huecos.” Herrera led Jarvis over the winding gravel trails, small lizards scattering before the men’s heavy boots.  The two men entered the natural monument, twisting through the maze-like stone corridors, the cool passages shaded from the sun’s penetrating rays.  Herrera paused in a sheltered chamber.

Carved into the stone by centuries of falling water, the huecos were an oasis in the West Texas desert.  Pear-shaped droplets of water plummeted from the ceiling like tears, feeding two pools of emerald green water.  Sweet-smelling wildflowers grew in clumps around the natural basin and songbirds chirped from gnarled tree branches.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Herrera whispered.

Jarvis nodded.

“This place was sacred to the Native Americans,” Herrera continued, “As the only water source for miles, the huecos were necessary to the survival of countless species, mankind included. We have evidence of human civilization here as early as 10,000 years ago.  Not far from where you will be working, we discovered the site of an ancient village.”

“Let me show you the petroglyphs.  This way.”  Herrera scrambled up a polished rock face, stopping before a jumble of fallen stone.  Squeezing through a narrow fissure, he and Jarvis entered a small cave.

“This is what we are trying to save.”  Herrera clicked on his flashlight.  A dozen tiny faces gaped at them from the darkness.  The cave paintings were about the size of a man’s fist, the brilliant turquoise, gold, and rust-red paints sparkling like gems against the gray walls.  Some depicted humanoid creatures on horseback, but most were masks, star-eyed, horned creatures staring disapprovingly from the cold stone.  “Over six thousand paintings have been discovered in the park so far.  Some date to 620 A.D.  A group of hikers found these twelve while searching for relief from the heat.”

Herrera indicated a sinuous ivory serpent.  “The snakes are water symbols.  We find several throughout the park, always near a water source.”

Jarvis pointed to a date carved into the stone.  “1851.  Nice of them to date their work for us,” he winked.

Herrera grinned.  “Early graffiti.  This was one of the watering stops along the Butterfield Trail.  Many settlers left signs of their passage west.  Unfortunately, several pictographs were damaged during the heyday of the Trail.”

“Do you know who made the paintings?” Jarvis asked, pressing his face close to a blocky gold figure.

“Various peoples made the drawings.  The men on horseback are Apache.  The masks are the mystery.  Attributed to the Mogollon people, some people believe they are representations of gods or protectors, left to ward off evil spirits.”

Shane raised an eyebrow.  “And the other theories?”

“The images represent demons, destroyers trapped in the rocks as punishment for their evil deeds.”

Jarvis laughed.  “Every religion has its own version of Hell.”

Herrera smiled.  “You’ll have the park to yourself.  The heat drives away the hikers and climbers this time of year, and the areas with paintings are restricted.”

“You’ll be away three weeks, correct?  For pleasure?”

Herrera frowned.  “Bureaucrats.  Some want to allow unrestricted visitor access to the park.  I must explain the danger that poses to the pictographs.”

Jarvis set his canteen and backpack in front of a moon-eyed, horned mask.  Pulling a bundle from his pack, he unrolled an array of delicate brushes and picks.

“You seem to have everything in hand,” Herrera nodded.  “Keep your walkie-talkie handy in case you run into trouble.  There’s usually a volunteer at the visitor’s center if you need anything.  See you in three weeks.”  Herrera tipped his hat, and then departed.

Once the sounds of Herrera’s footsteps faded, Jarvis removed a second set of tools from his pack.  This set contained chisels, hammers, and a cordless rock saw.

Shane Jarvis had spent years kissing corporate backsides, scrounging for research grants and donations.  Big business fat cats did not care about scientific significance; they wanted a Hollywood show, a piece of the action.  And Jarvis now knew how to give deep-pocketed supporters what they wanted.

He had raided sites from British Columbia’s Burgess Shale to the Green River of Wyoming, depositing prize specimens with wealthy collectors.  Most of the time, the fossil beds were so rich the thefts went unnoticed.  As his prizes became more rare and valuable, Jarvis had developed a knack for making losses appear the work of vandals.  At first, the scientist in him had been outraged.  This was history theft of the highest order.  The sad truth was, few people cared about the fossils he collected.  Museum patrons ignorantly raced past the displays of sow bug-like trilobites and Eocene fishes, anxious for bigger game:  dinosaurs and mammoths.

Now he had a client interested in prehistoric Native American art, a true connoisseur who would appreciate the piece for its beauty and history, not destroy it with spray-paint and pocketknives.  The dancing horned figure, with its baleful eyes and black and white stripes, was just what he needed.  Jarvis expected the work to move slowly.  He would need the entire three weeks to carefully cut the painting from the rock.

He fired up the saw, the machine’s metallic whine shattering the peaceful silence.  Jarvis heard shifting rock, and promptly cut the motor.  The last threads of a low moan whispered through the cave.  He listened, heart pounding.

“Herrera?” Jarvis’s voice echoed through the lonely cave.  Precious moments passed with no reply.  Satisfied he was alone, Jarvis restarted the saw, the blade cutting deeply into the granite wall.

Immediately, thick red fluid seeped from the gash.  Puzzled, Jarvis swept his fingers across the scar, rubbing the slick, blood-like substance between his fingers.  He shook his head in confusion.  Probably just heavy iron sedimentation in the groundwater.

He continued slicing, halting frequently to examine the pictograph for signs of breakage; his client would never pay for damaged artifacts.  The mask appeared more ominous now, the eye slits narrowed and more menacing than at first study.  In the dim light of the cave, Jarvis almost understood how primitive men would have found the image threatening.  Almost.

As Jarvis continued to observe the mask, the tiny figure seemed to waver and flicker, the small mouth twisting into an angry grimace.  Soon, other images began to join the writhing dance.  Over the saw’s din, Jarvis clearly heard the pounding of drums mingled with the ripple of angry voices.  The noises grew louder, closer, slamming into his brain like a feverish pulse.  Alarmed, Jarvis switched off the saw.  He listened with straining ears, but his ragged breath was the only sound in the tomb-silent cave.

Jarvis blinked rapidly and swallowed, his throat parched from the dry desert climate.  The sun had climbed high in the sky and even in the shelter of the cave, the air was warm and stifling.  He brushed his sweat-soaked blonde hair from his eyes with a trembling hand, the whine of invisible flies buzzing in his ears.

“Must be the heat,” he murmured, reaching for his canteen.

A soft rattle froze his outstretched hand.  Jarvis turned slowly.  An albino rattlesnake rested in the gravel, chalky coils wrapped possessively around the canteen.  The snake lifted its flat head, carefully regarding Shane with lidless eyes.  Rising threateningly on its coils, the snake emitted a gentle hiss, the black tongue flitting from the narrow mouth, tasting the air.

Shane’s eyes darted toward the wall.  The wavy white pictograph Herrera had shown him—the serpent—was gone.

With a curse, Shane leapt backward. The snake uncoiled like a whip, lunging toward the man with glimmering teeth bared.  Jarvis stumbled out of striking range, one ankle twisting beneath him.  His back slammed into the cold wall, the air escaping his lungs in a loud whoosh.  A strong hand grabbed his shoulder.

“Herrera,” he panted in relief.

Turning, Jarvis glimpsed a furry, horned head and angry, half-moon eyes.  A low, alien voice rumbled with a furious growl.  Jarvis gasped in horror, pulling away from the horned demon.  The hand tightened its grip, pulling the scientist closer.  As Jarvis struggled, a dozen pairs of fists erupted from the stone wall, groping his body and dragging him toward the granite prison.  Shane Jarvis screamed once as he felt his limbs crush into the hard gray stone.

*  *  *

Three weeks later, Dr. Herrera returned to discover Jarvis had vanished.  His torn backpack was found in the cave, the tools broken and scattered, along with the footprints of strange, unknown animals.  No body was ever found.  A team of volunteers later catalogued thirteen pictographs at the site, including an unusual image of a fair-haired man, his face forever frozen in an expression of wide-eyed horror.

THE END