Dan Flores

McJunkin leaned out of his saddle to peer into a fresh chasm sliced into the brown shale. What he saw changed the story of America forever. On a similar rainy August day in 2018, some 35 of us are stepping through the lush grass of that same slope as it angles up towards the rimrock of Johnson Mesa.

We're following David Eck, a New Mexico state lands archaeologist with a long ponytail halfway down his back, who is leading us towards the very spot where George McJunkins' horse had pulled up 110 years before. The topography is now a grassy, shallow drain called Wild Horse Arroyo.

We're following David Eck, a New Mexico state lands archaeologist with a long ponytail halfway down his back, who is leading us towards the very spot where George McJunkins' horse had pulled up 110 years before. The topography is now a grassy, shallow drain called Wild Horse Arroyo.

We're following David Eck, a New Mexico state lands archaeologist with a long ponytail halfway down his back, who is leading us towards the very spot where George McJunkins' horse had pulled up 110 years before. The topography is now a grassy, shallow drain called Wild Horse Arroyo.

And as we crowd around its edges, it seems somehow too commonplace to be the scene of one of the continent's most significant historical finds. Nonetheless, this in the flesh is the legendary Folsom Archaeological Site. What McJunkin had done, about where we now stood talking, was to spot in the flood-gashed arroyo bones of an immense size.

And as we crowd around its edges, it seems somehow too commonplace to be the scene of one of the continent's most significant historical finds. Nonetheless, this in the flesh is the legendary Folsom Archaeological Site. What McJunkin had done, about where we now stood talking, was to spot in the flood-gashed arroyo bones of an immense size.

And as we crowd around its edges, it seems somehow too commonplace to be the scene of one of the continent's most significant historical finds. Nonetheless, this in the flesh is the legendary Folsom Archaeological Site. What McJunkin had done, about where we now stood talking, was to spot in the flood-gashed arroyo bones of an immense size.

They turned out to be from a herd of bison antiquus, an extinct form of giant bison. But the bones themselves weren't the pièce de résistance. At the time, the sciences of ethnology and archaeology in the United States were firm that American Indians had arrived in North America only a couple thousand years prior to the coming of Europeans.

They turned out to be from a herd of bison antiquus, an extinct form of giant bison. But the bones themselves weren't the pièce de résistance. At the time, the sciences of ethnology and archaeology in the United States were firm that American Indians had arrived in North America only a couple thousand years prior to the coming of Europeans.

They turned out to be from a herd of bison antiquus, an extinct form of giant bison. But the bones themselves weren't the pièce de résistance. At the time, the sciences of ethnology and archaeology in the United States were firm that American Indians had arrived in North America only a couple thousand years prior to the coming of Europeans.

In 1926, the black cowboy's plea to have a scientist look at his bone pit reached Jesse Figgins, director of the Colorado Museum of Natural History in Denver. Something of an amateur himself, Figgins was mostly interested in fossil bison that might make exhibits in his museum.

In 1926, the black cowboy's plea to have a scientist look at his bone pit reached Jesse Figgins, director of the Colorado Museum of Natural History in Denver. Something of an amateur himself, Figgins was mostly interested in fossil bison that might make exhibits in his museum.

In 1926, the black cowboy's plea to have a scientist look at his bone pit reached Jesse Figgins, director of the Colorado Museum of Natural History in Denver. Something of an amateur himself, Figgins was mostly interested in fossil bison that might make exhibits in his museum.

His team began an excavation of the site in May of 1926 and quickly began finding the skeletal remains of bison of a monstrous size. That was exciting enough. But in their second season of work, on August 29, 1927, Figgins' crew troweled up big history pay dirt.

His team began an excavation of the site in May of 1926 and quickly began finding the skeletal remains of bison of a monstrous size. That was exciting enough. But in their second season of work, on August 29, 1927, Figgins' crew troweled up big history pay dirt.

His team began an excavation of the site in May of 1926 and quickly began finding the skeletal remains of bison of a monstrous size. That was exciting enough. But in their second season of work, on August 29, 1927, Figgins' crew troweled up big history pay dirt.

As Davidek was gesturing to the dimensions of this near century-old dig, in the pocket of my light Patagonia jacket, my fingers closed over an object that I could fit into my palm. In shape, it was oblate. Think a flattened football, but with an N bitten off.

As Davidek was gesturing to the dimensions of this near century-old dig, in the pocket of my light Patagonia jacket, my fingers closed over an object that I could fit into my palm. In shape, it was oblate. Think a flattened football, but with an N bitten off.

As Davidek was gesturing to the dimensions of this near century-old dig, in the pocket of my light Patagonia jacket, my fingers closed over an object that I could fit into my palm. In shape, it was oblate. Think a flattened football, but with an N bitten off.

Beneath my fingers I could feel an irregular surface made so by labor-intensive flaking to create a pointed blade that dwindled to a remarkably thin base. The delicacy of that base was a result of matching flutes skillfully popped from the flint on both sides. In that first summer of digging, Figgesen's paleontologists had unearthed two of these points in the loose dirt of the site.