The man claimed to be on the trail of artifacts stolen from Crow tribal land in Montana. “Stone carvings about yay high,” he said, holding his fingers apart. “They didn’t come from Bone Valley, but Florida is where a lot of tribal stuff ends up.” My stilthouse on Sanibel Island, the Gulf Coast, is four hours from Orlando, and two thousand miles from Big Sky Country. “You sure you have the right Marion Ford?” “You’re Doc?” “Yeah, but not the kind you need.” “A marine biologist who doesn’t read his horoscope, that’s what I heard. You could be just the guy.” I was standing outside my lab, water slapping at pilings below my feet, thunderheads sliding our way. “What does astrology have to do with stolen artifacts?” The man, who had introduced himself as Duncan Fallsdown, said, “Tonight, at what’s supposed to be a sweat lodge, it would be nice to have a buffer.
