garlanded by bright-petaled clematis.
Another truck was parked beside Kenlaw’s Plymouth—a battered green 1947 Ford pickup that Brandon recognized as belonging to Dell’s father-in-law, Olin Reynolds. Its owner greeted them from the porch as they walked up. He was a thin, faded man whose bony frame was almost lost in old-fashioned overalls. His face was deeply lined, his hair almost as white as Brandon’s. Once he had made the best moonshine whiskey in the region, but his last stay in Atlanta had broken him. Now he lived alone on his old homestead bordering the Pisgah National Forest. He often turned up about dinner time, as did Brandon.
“Hello, Eric,” Olin called in his reedy voice. “You been over to get that ’chuck that’s been after my little girl’s cabbages yet?”
“Hi, Olin,” Brandon grinned. “Shot him yesterday morning from over across by that big white pine on the ridge.”
“That’s near a quarter-mile,” the old man figured.
Brandon didn’t say anything because Ginger Warner just then stepped out onto the porch. Dell’s younger sister was recently back from finishing her junior year at Western Carolina in nearby Cullowhee. She was tall and willowy, green-eyed and quick to smile. Her copper hair was cut in a boyish shag instead of the unlovely bouffant most country women still clung to. Right now she had smudges of flour on her freckled face.
“Hi, Eric,” she grinned, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Supper’ll be along soon as the biscuits go in. You sure been keeping to yourself lately.”
“Putting together some of my notes for the thesis,” he apologized, thinking he’d eaten dinner here just three nights ago.
“Liar. You’ve been out running ridges with Dan.”
“That’s relaxation after working late at night.”
Ginger gave him a skeptical look and returned to her biscuits. With a ponderous grunt, Dr Kenlaw sank onto one of the widearmed porch rockers. He swung his feet up onto the rail and gazed thoughtfully out across the valley. Mist was obscuring the hills beyond, now, and the fields and pasture closer at hand filled with hazy shadow. Hidden by trees, the Pigeon River rushed its winding course midway through the small valley. Kenlaw did not seem at ease with what he saw. He glowered truculently at the potted flowers that lined the porch.
“What the hell!” Kenlaw suddenly lurched from his rocker. The other three men broke off their conversation and stared. Balancing on the rail, the archeologist yanked down a hanging planter and dumped its contents into the yard.
“Where the hell did this come from!” he demanded, examining the rusted metal dish that an instant before had supported a trailing begonia.
Dell Warner bit off an angry retort.
“For god’s sake, Kenlaw!” Brandon broke the stunned reaction.
“Yeah, for god’s sake!” Kenlaw was too excited to be nonplussed. “This is a Spanish morion! What’s it doing hanging here full of petunias?”
Ginger stepped onto the porch to announce dinner. Her freckled face showed dismay. “What on earth...?”
Kenlaw was abashed. “Sorry. I forgot myself when I saw this. Please excuse me—I’ll replace your plant if it’s ruined. But, where did you get this?”
“That old bowl? It’s lain around the barn for years. I punched holes along the rim, and it made a great planter for my begonia.” She glanced over the rail and groaned.
“It’s a morion—a conquistador’s helmet!” Kenlaw blurted in disbelief. Painstakingly he studied the high-crested bowl of rusted iron with its flared edges that peaked at either end. “And genuine too—or I’m no judge. Show me where this came from originally, and I’ll buy you a pickup full of begonias.”
Ginger wrinkled her forehead. “I really don’t know where it came from—I didn’t even know it was anything. What’s a Spanish helmet doing stuck back with all Dad’s junk in our barn? There’s an old iron pot with a hole busted in it where I found this. Want to look at it and tell me if it’s Montezuma’s bulletproof bathtub?” Kenlaw snorted. “Here, Brandon. You look at this and tell me I’m crazy.”
The albino examined the helmet. It was badly pitted, but solid. It could not have lain outside, or it would have rusted entirely away centuries ago. “It’s a morion, of course,” he agreed. “Whether it dates to conquistador days or not, I’m not the one to tell. But it does seem equally unlikely that a careful reproduction would be lying around your barn.”
“Hell, I know where that come from,” Olin cut in, craning his long neck to see. “I was with your-all’s daddy time he found it.” Kenlaw stared at