I looked over my shoulder at acres of turned earth – thousands of graves, unburied – sealing the crate, a child-sized body, mummified, inside. But no child was this, nor its brethren: far older than the Indians who once called these hills home. Seventy-four-thousand pygmies by our count, buried standing. No mark of violence upon them. Now, loaded onto carts for the short journey to the rail, and Washington.

My wagon was last through the pass before the engineers blew the charges, sealing the pass, hopefully forever. We had taken the bodies for study, yes.

The idols we left in the ground.

Image Credit: Peter Kaminski