The Stolen Relic

  9. Ancient Artifacts

  “Grab the raft and hold on!” Byron shouted as he fought to keep it steady. Luckily the three of us were still bobbing next to the raft. We took hold of it, but it was way too wobbly to do us much good. I knew our weight would pull it over in no time.

  “Let’s try to push this thing to shore,” I yelled to Ned and George. “At least it’s something to cling to.”

  “Don’t lean too hard,” Ned warned. “The air is going out fast.”

  The three of us kicked like crazy, hoping to reach the riverbank ahead of the cur- rent. Byron paddled as hard as he could before the raft deflated any more. I peeked over the brim. The bank was still twenty feet away. My heart raced. I hadn’t realized how wide the river was.

  Using every ounce of energy, the four of us kicked and pushed and paddled. Byron’s arm muscles strained, and Ned, George, and I choked on water that slapped our faces as the flow swept us along.

  “Faster!” I shouted. The raft surged ahead as we kicked together in a burst of determination. I kicked harder and harder until my foot hit an underwater rock.

  Pain shot through me. For a moment I felt paralyzed. I hung in the water, dizzy from the impact. My whole leg throbbed. If the white water rocks were as sharp as that one, we’d be sliced apart in ten seconds flat.

  Suddenly something was pulling me. The current! I forced myself to stay alert.

  Adrenaline surged through me. We had to reach the bank. “Ten more yards!” Byron yelled. “Kick, everyone—keep pushing!” But the current was getting stronger.

  Another rock grazed my knee. I flinched.

  “Ow!” Ned yelled. He raised his face from the water, a bright red spot spreading across his forehead. I could already see a bump rising there. I looked downstream. Just ahead, the rapids boiled. The waves were like tiny white flames lapping the air.

  A whirlpool yawned at the brink of the rapids. Surrounded by rocks like giant’s teeth, it looked ready to eat us alive.

  I judged the distance between us and the rapids—about ten feet. We still had a chance. Making one more huge effort, I kicked off from the rock underneath me, held my breath, and pushed the raft.

  We skimmed toward shore. The moment my feet touched the riverbed, a thrill of relief went through me. Traction! With the water too shallow for paddling, Byron rolled off the raft to help us push. We reached the bank. Safe at last.

  I staggered to my feet. Standing in shallow water, we all stared at one another, dripping wet and gasping as if we’d just run a race.

  “Hey, guys, let’s get the raft onto land,” Byron said.

  We all pitched in and dragged it onto the shore. Fortunately the cliff here was set back, and a pebbly beach rose gradually from the riverbed.

  The moment the raft was secure, we peeled off our life preservers and flopped to the ground, exhausted. I glanced over at Ned. Blood trickled down his face from his forehead cut.

  “Let’s get out the first aid kit,” I said to Byron. “Ned cut his head on a rock.”

  Byron unstrapped the waterproof box and took out the kit. Everything still looked dry. He handed the kit to me, and I took out a gauze pad, some peroxide, and a bandage.

  Ned winced as I gently cleaned his cut. I was relieved to see that it wasn’t that bad. “No big deal,” I said, trying to cheer him up. After smoothing on the bandage, I added, “This will stop the bleeding in no time.”

  “Head wounds always bleed a lot,” Ned said as I stooped next to him. “They look much worse than they really are.”

  “There’s a bump, though,” I said. “Do you have a headache?”

  Ned smiled. “Nope. I promise I don’t have a concussion, Nancy. By the way, you’re an excellent nurse.”

  “Thanks, Ned. I just hope I won’t have to practice my nursing skills any more on this vacation.” I pulled my wet hair into a topknot, then scrambled for my hat, shoes, and sunglasses, which were safely tucked into the hull of the raft.

  Ned lay on the shore for a few more seconds as he gathered his strength. Meanwhile Byron and I inspected the raft, which by now had almost completely deflated, and George sat on the beach munching trail mix.

  “Weird! I wonder what caused this?” Byron said, peering at the rip in the side. “It couldn’t have been cut by a rock—the gash is too high up.”

  “You’re right. It’s really strange,” I said. “Could you have cut it by mistake with- out knowing?”

  Byron chewed his lip, thinking. “I use a knife sometimes to cut the anchor rope if the knot is too tight, but I don’t think I used one recently. And I definitely would have noticed cutting the raft.”

  I walked around the raft, inspecting all the sides. “Hey, Byron, what’s this?” I asked. I ran my finger over a thin piece of yellow tape near the gash.

  Byron frowned as he studied the tape, which was only about three inches long. “I have no idea. I never patched this raft. This is news to me, for sure.”

  “The tape blends in perfectly with the yellow rubber,” I observed. “I only noticed it because I was on the lookout for clues about what caused the rip.”

  Byron cocked his head and studied me. “What, are you a detective or some- thing, Nancy? I mean, you’re really observant. I’m impressed.”

  I laughed. I hadn’t realized I was that obvious. But I had to keep my detective work a secret from some if I hoped to discover any secrets in Moab. “Uh, I’m interested in figuring out simple mysteries, like what caused our raft to rip,” I mumbled.

  “Have you got any theories?” Byron asked.

  “Not yet. Can I take off this tape?”

  Byron nodded, and I peeled it back. Underneath was another slit, much smaller and more evenly cut. “This doesn’t look accidental,” I said. “Look how neat it is.”

  Byron’s green eyes widened. “That’s bizarre,” he muttered. “Why would anyone cut a hole in the raft?”

  I studied the rubber between the two slits. A small bump caught my eye. “What in the world?” I said. I reached inside and felt a hard metal object.

  It was a small penknife. Its chrome blade gleamed in the sunlight as I held the tiny hilt. I touched the point. Sharp as a razor.

  “Whoa, Nancy, that is freaky,” Byron said. “How did a knife get in there?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “But I’m sure it was done on purpose.” I thought for a moment. Different scenarios of what might have happened flashed through my brain. But no matter how hard I tried to come up with other explanations, a sabotage theory made the most sense.

  Ned and George wandered over to us, drawn by our surprised voices. After telling them about the penknife, I explained my theory.

  “I think someone deliberately tried to sink our raft,” I said grimly. “Probably the person made a small slit with the knife, then placed the knife inside the rubber, and taped over the gash before the rubber deflated.”

  George nodded. “As long as the raft was inflated, no one would notice the knife. There’d be so much air around it.”

  I added, “The person probably guessed that the rapids would make the knife poke a hole in the rubber from the inside. It probably wouldn’t have happened in the calm section of the river.”

  “But who knew we were going rafting?” Ned asked. “I don’t think I mentioned our plans to anyone except the desk clerk.”

  “Me neither,” George said. “Let’s think, though. Ned, you and I decided at breakfast to go rafting, and we asked the desk clerk for information. He told us about River Outfitters, and we called and spoke to you, Byron.” Her dark eyes studied Byron’s boyish face.

  “I was the only person on duty when you guys called,” Byron said. “The other river guides were already on the river with customers who had prereserved rafts. The only reason I could take you all spur-of-the-moment is that we got a cancellation. Believe me, I didn’t tell anyone about our trip. I just filed a memo in the office log, as a standard safety measure in cas
e we didn’t come back.”

  “I totally believe you, Byron,” I said, “but even if you had mentioned our trip, you didn’t do the wrong thing. We’re just trying to figure out who could have done this.”

  “I know,” he said. “Any other thoughts?”

  I turned to George and Ned. “What about Margaret or Nick? Did you see them this morning?”

  “They weren’t around,” George said, “and Bess was at Red Horse with you, Nancy. Really, the only person we mentioned this to was the desk clerk.”

  Ned glanced at me, a lock of hair covering his bandage. His brown eyes were clear and alert—showing, to my relief, no sign of a concussion. “Did you tell Bess where we were going?” he asked me. “She could have mentioned it to someone.”

  “She could have mentioned it to Nick at the Cliff-Hanger today,” I said, “except I know I didn’t tell her. I didn’t even realize we were going rafting till I ran into you guys at the Ranger Rose.” I paused, thinking. “Hey, Ned, remember how you phoned Red Horse this morning looking for me? Did you let Earl Haskins know your plans?”

  Ned shook his head. “I just asked for you, and Earl said you were on your way into Moab. I thanked him. End of conversation. I definitely never mentioned rafting to him—why would I?”

  I cast my mind back to every conversation I’d had today. I’d talked with Mr. Littlewolf, of course, but I hadn’t known I was going rafting then.

  My conversation with Mr. Starflower flashed through my mind. “Wait!” I said. “Remember just before we headed out, I called the Starflowers to update them on the case? I told Mr. Starflower where we were going. He said he hoped we’d find Sasha—or at least some evidence of where she is. He also said he was on his way to Littlewolf’s Antiques to ask Mr. Littlewolf questions about Sasha. Mr. Starflower knew those two were friends.”

  “Do you think he could have told Mr. Littlewolf about our rafting trip?” Ned wondered.

  “Possibly,” I said. “I can ask him when we get back. But if Mr. Littlewolf knew, then he could have told Margaret about it—that is, if she returned to his shop. There’s a whole possible chain of events here.”

  “You’ve lost me, guys,” Byron said, looking confused. “I guess the point is that somehow, someone knew you were out on the river and meant to hurt you. Not a good scene at all.”

  There was no arguing with that. As we packed supplies for our hike inland, I pocketed the penknife for evidence. Also, as a tool, it might come in handy. After all, this was Canyonlands—a major desert wilderness.

  “Everybody ready?” Byron asked, hoisting a small backpack and adjusting his dark glasses. “Let’s head downriver. Fortunately the trail inland isn’t far away.”

  We followed him down the beach, past an awesome stretch of white water. We were lucky to get out of the water when we did, or we’d have been diced fish food. From the shore, the rapids were beautiful as they swirled and foamed tirelessly over the rocks.

  Soon we came to a trail leading away from the water, and I pulled out my trusty map. Missy had drawn a bend in the river, with a red rock arch marking the beginning of the trail. And there it was, ahead of us! I had to admit that Missy was not a bad cartographer—at least so far.

  We made our way under the arch, which was the portal to a canyon filled with awesome rock formations. Byron said, “This part of the park reminds me of the Grand Canyon, except I think it’s nicer. It doesn’t have tons of tourists coming in, so it feels more remote. I really like that.”

  He pointed out some desert wildlife—a rabbit hopping through some brush, a small brown bird perched on a pine tree, and a rattlesnake. Fortunately, the snake was more than ten feet away, and the moment we heard its warning rattle, we quietly scooted off in the other direction.

  “Look, everybody,” Byron said about ten minutes later, “guess what these prints are?”

  Ned, George, and I looked down at the place where he was pointing. Canine prints were pressed into the soft red dirt.

  “Coyote,” Byron said, and I felt a prickle of fear. Maybe Sasha had been hurt by a wild animal after all.

  “I am so thirsty,” George said, taking a swig of water from a bottle in her pack.

  We all felt parched. Every now and then, we’d drink water and nibble on salted nuts. To take my mind off the heat, I studied the bands of color in the canyon walls.

  “Why are they different colors?” I asked Byron.

  “Each band is from a separate geological era millions of years old,” he explained. “Oh, and look—there’s a petroglyph.” I glanced at the cliff face. There was a picture of a bison along with some human figures. “Let me check this place against the map,” he added.

  I handed it over. “So this is where the X is,” he told us after a moment, gesturing at the surrounding area.

  I peered across his shoulder at the map. He was right. Missy had drawn the X next to these petroglyphs.

  We began to search for clues—behind bushes, under stones, everywhere. But try as we might to find evidence of Sasha, we came up empty handed. Still, I knew that appearances could be deceiving.

  “This is where Missy last saw Sasha,” I said, “but Sasha was last known to be somewhere else, investigating noise.” I studied the canyon wall. A thin trail snaked up one side, barely noticeable in the dry overgrown grass. Could Sasha have hiked up there to check out the noise?

  I had to know.

  “Be right back, guys,” I said, moving toward the trail.

  “What? Where are you going, Nancy?” Ned asked, alarmed.

  “I’m re-creating Sasha’s steps. I’m thinking she went up that path—it’s the only way forward. But don’t worry. I won’t go out of earshot.”

  Ned and George know me too well to argue when I’m on a scent, so I struck out on the trail. It wasn’t too steep. After a few twists and turns, it fizzled into scrub grass and rocks. But the cliff side ahead had an interesting indentation in it. A cave? I headed straight there to find out.

  Sure enough, it was a shallow cave about five feet deep. A small boulder in the back looked out of place, as if a person had set it there.

  I studied it curiously. That thing was hiding something, or my name wasn’t Nancy Drew.

  I pushed against the boulder. It rolled back easily to reveal a natural cupboard filled with broken pottery. But what really grabbed my attention was a piece of paper lying on the ground, half hidden by a chunk of clay. On it were typed words on letterhead.

  I picked it up. Andy Littlewolf’s name and address jumped out at me in bold black print.

  10. Desert Tricks

  I picked up the paper. Some of the words had faded, and about a third of the page was torn off, but I could get the gist. It was a letter from Mr. Littlewolf to a mystery person whose name must have been on the missing fragment. Mr. Littlewolf was describing a legend in Hopi mythology.

  This legend is called “The Revenge of the Blue Corn Ear Maiden,” and it goes like this: Once upon a time, Blue Corn Ear Maiden and Yellow Corn Ear Maiden were in love with the same man. Yellow Maiden turned her rival into a coyote, who was captured and taken to Spider Woman, a powerful spirit. Spider Woman turned the coyote back into Blue Maiden, and instructed her on how she could take revenge on Yellow Maiden. Blue Maiden returned to her village and pretended to be friendly to Yellow Maiden. They ground corn together and fetched water. Blue Maiden filled her vessel, which Spider Woman had given her, and the water glistened with magic rainbow colors. Yellow Maiden was curious, so she drank from it and instantly turned into a snake. From that time on, her life was filled with hardship. She was turned away by her own people, who thought she was just a snake.

  The rest of the letter was a bunch of illegible ink stains, maybe from rain or dew, but I could make out the faded ending: “Yours truly, Andy.”

  I sighed. How could I learn who Mr. Littlewolf had written to? I studied the pottery fragments. All were broken. As my gaze roamed the cave, I couldn’t he
lp wondering whether Sasha had run into Mr. Littlewolf here. If so, could he have harmed her somehow? But why would he want to kidnap or hurt her? Maybe she’d surprised him as he was doing something illegal, like stealing artifacts.

  I swigged some water, thinking. Would taking stuff from here be illegal for a Native American? I wasn’t sure. Anyway, I could always ask Mr. Littlewolf who this note was for. I pocketed it with a sense of satisfaction. It was my first solid clue in the case. Somehow it hinted that Sasha had not fallen prey to a wild animal. Maybe the letter had been hers.

  I scrambled back to the spot marked X, taking care not to fall off the side of the cliff in my eagerness to show everyone my clue. “Mr. Littlewolf’s address is a rural route in Monument Valley,” I said to Byron after everyone had peeked at the letter. “How far away is that?”

  “It’s a couple hours south of Moab on the Navajo reservation.”

  I exchanged looks with Ned and George. I didn’t want to blurt out our plans to Byron, but my friends understood me perfectly—we were to be off to Monument Valley ASAP.

  After a few more minutes scouting for signs of Sasha, we trudged back to the riverbank. Byron used his cell to phone a colleague to fetch us in another raft, and we were back in Moab by sunset. We thanked him, then contacted Bess at the Cliff-Hanger and told her to meet us at the Laughing Tortilla for supper.

  When we were all settled in at our table, we briefed her on our day, then asked about hers.

  “How can you three eat after you almost drowned?” Bess said, looking amazed. “I can’t believe someone sabotaged your raft. Anyway, I know it wasn’t Nick. He was with me all day.” She paused to place her order of chicken tacos with the waiter, then went on. “There’s no question in my mind that Nick is totally innocent.”

  George threw her a skeptical look. “No surprise there. He’s cute and he likes you, so of course you think he’s innocent.”

  “Unfair, George!” Bess protested. “If there were the slightest clue Nick was guilty, I’d admit it. I want to find Sasha as much as you guys do. But there’s no evidence pointing to him. I mean, being her ex-boyfriend shouldn’t be a crime.”