Alex Archer - Tribal Ways (Rogue Angel Series #25)  

THE ENGLISH COMMANDER TOOK JOANS SWORD AND RAISED IT HIGH.

The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.

Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn

Standing in the open door of the RV with a mug of coffee steaming in his hand Paul Stavriakos cursed the freezing wind and wondered why hed ever moved to the Great Plains.

Either go or stay, but shut the damn door, Allison York called from the bed. That wind is freezing.

Paul sighed and stepped down to the grass, still dry and tan from winter. He shut the door behind him. The wind howled around him.

Dawn was still a drizzle of red along the horizon. Clouds hid the stars overhead.

The land was all tilted planes. It was flat, in a way, but flat that tipped this way and that in big plates furred in yellow-brown grass. There wasnt much relief; but it was deceptive land, with more hollows and heights than first struck the eye.

Not enough to cut the damn wind, though, he muttered to himself.

Lights appeared in the trailer that Donny Luttrell shared with TiJean Watts. The battered Toyota pickup with the camper shell belonging to Dr. Ted Watkins from the State Archaeological Division was rocking on its suspension more than the winds buffeting would account for. Paul hoped he was pulling on his jeans. The muffled swearing coming from inside seemed to support that thesis.

Ever wonder why those old Indians picked a miserable spot like this to make their camp?

Paul turned. Eric James was swinging off the back of his old buckskin gelding. He wore a sheepskin coat and a battered felt cowboy hat. The hair hanging in thick braids to either side of his head was gray as slate. The wide face between, the color of Oklahoma clay, had a tough and weathered quality but was barely lined. A full-blooded Comanche and full-time rancher, he owned the land where they stood.

He returned to his saddle for a moment, then turned back to Paul. He held white bags with a colorful logo in each hand.

Brought doughnuts for you kids, he said. Hope you make decent coffee. Wasnt carrying that in my saddlebags.

Paul smiled. It felt as if ice was cracking off his face. The digging season seemed to start earlier each year. The ground wasnt fully frozen. That was about all you could say for it.

Then again, he thought, its getting harder and harder to beat the protestors out here. Digging in colder and worse weather was one way of keeping them at bay as long as possible. Even so, theyd be out there with their signs and their shouting as soon as the day warmed up.

The trailer door opened. TiJean started down the steps wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He let out a yelp and popped back inside like a startled prairie dog. The door banged behind him. A second-generation Haitian from Miami, he didnt quite get winter. Even if it was supposed to be spring on the Great Plains.

Like an unlovely butterfly from its cocoon Ted emerged from his camper. Unlike their host his face looked as if each of his fifty years had stomped it hard on the way out the door. He was skinny, with long dark-blond hair hanging out from his grimy Sooners ball cap, white stubble sticking out of his long chin and gaunt cheeks. He wore a drab plaid lumbermans jacket. He completed his ensemble with faded blue jeans over pointy-toed cowboy boots.

Another lovely day in western Oklahoma, he muttered. Christ.

Paul winced as the older man unwrapped a piece of gum and popped it into his mouth. Ted was trying to quit smoking. Apparently gum was his designated substitute crutch.

Allison started out from the RV. Like the trailer it was owned by their employer, the University of Oklahoma at Norman. Unlike the trailer it was at least relatively modern. Since Paul and Allison were the assistant professor and graduate student on the dig, they claimed it by right of rank. Allison had a red wool knit cap pulled down over her long, straight blond hair and a white Hudsons Bay blanket with big bold stripes of blue, yellow, green and red wrapped around her slim frame. Gray sweatpants showed below the bottom of the blanket above fleece-lined moccasins.

Hey, Ally, Paul called softly. Could you make more coffee?

He didnt speak loudly, partly out of consideration for Allison, but mainly to keep his own head from cracking open. They probably shouldnt have drunk quite so much last night, he thought. Indeed, they shouldnt have been drinking inside the RV at all, since it was contrary to university policy.

Not that its the only rule were breaking, he thought. And what the hey? We have proud archaeologist traditions to uphold.

Allison scowled. The spanking of the cold wind was making her cheeks red and her blue eyes water. Why me?

Because youre still mostly inside where its warm, he said, and we have the only coffeemaker that works.

Chauvinist, she said. Did your girlfriend whos coming to visit make you coffee? She turned and went back inside, banging the door.

Shes not my girlfriend, he shouted at the door. Shes just an old friend.