The paintings were impressive.
Booker would have never noticed them in the sharp fold of the great canyon unless the light had been right.Most horses traveledin the other direction, with the glare of the desert sun in their eyes.
They were simple, to be sure. And who knew how old they were. But they depicted dancing horses, decked out in some kind of costume,around something that was either a fire or a plant. He couldn't tell, and a good bit of it had been weathered away by wind and scouring sand. Perhaps a drawing of worship, done to celebrate a god. Or a record of some important event from long ago, by horses long gone to dust.
Booker mixed his paints carefully. He wanted to capture the lines just as they appeared. He had a little ink with him; he could make some notes. Maybe somewhere out there a horse would pay for his discovery. Rich idiots, who liked thinking that because they owned fine things it meant they made them. Booker didn't much care, but it would be better off in an archive than in his satchel.
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