Novel 1987 - The Haunted Mesa (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “I guess you’re right. Never thought much about it.” He paused. “A man gets on a trail sometimes, seems easy at the time.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Me? Nothin’ at all. Just sort of thinking about all that out there, wondering what will come of it.”

  “Don’t come out there, Volk, unless you are ready to go the route.” He turned to look at the older man. “I am going in there after a friend, Volkmeer, and that’s all. There’s nothing in this for me but a lot of trouble, and if you come along, that’s all I can promise you.”

  “Reckon I know that, Mike.” His hard old eyes measured him. “You got any idea what you’re gettin’ into?”

  Raglan did not answer. What was he doing, anyway? All he had to do was walk away or drive away. Nobody would know the difference, or care. The hell of it was, he was going into this for a man who was not really a close friend. But the man had called on him for help.

  After all, what did a fireman know about the person he dragged from the fire? Or the passing stranger who saved a drowning man? One did what one could. From the best motives in the world he was trapped into a situation where he might die a very unpleasant death, when he would rather be almost anywhere else, doing almost anything other than this.

  He swore, and Volkmeer glanced at him. “Gettin’ cold feet?”

  “Hell, Volk, I’ve had ’em from the beginning! How the hell does a man get into such a situation? I’m no hero. I’m just a tough, self-centered guy who has been trying to make a life for himself.”

  “Like me,” Volkmeer said. “I got tired of punchin’ somebody else’s cows, always makin’ money for the other feller. Wanted some of my own.”

  “Well, you’ve got it, but is it yours? I expect it is if nobody has a claim on you.”

  Volkmeer removed his hat and wiped the hatband with a rough hand. “Watched ’em build that dam. Watched the water back up behind it, fillin’ all those old canyons where I used to ride, covering ruins, filling up kivas. I tell you it was like a blessing, like a blessing.

  “I never thought—”

  Mike Raglan walked to his car. He was in no mood to listen to more. His mind was made up and he could delay no longer. It might already be too late.

  He glanced around at Volkmeer, standing undecided. “Get one thing straight, Volk. I’m going in there planning to come out, and I’m going to bring Erik Hokart with me. And anybody who gets in the way is in trouble, and I mean anybody!”

  Chapter 29

  *

  WHEN MIKE RAGLAN walked into the ruin on the mesa, a robe was lying across his sleeping bag. Beside it was a worn turban of the kind Tazzoc wore. Mike sat down on a campstool and got out his old canvas map.

  Maybe he was a coward. He knew he was scared. In his years of knocking about he had gone into some tight and dangerous places. He had walked the mean streets of the world, he had gone into ancient, supposedly haunted monasteries, he had explored catacombs where the dead were buried, but before he had always had a fairly clear idea of what he was facing, and here he had only the vaguest.

  He studied the map given him so long ago by the old cowboy in Flagstaff, who had copied it from part of a map on gold plaque.

  The entrance the old man had used was now under water, but the other one he had known of was over to the west, in the place Johnny had found when rounding up strays.

  Looming on the map, drawn with remarkable accuracy, was No Man’s Mesa. In the old days one could cross the river easily, but now it was a long way around by car. The dam had backed water up the canyon and deepened it considerably.

  He had to cross over and he could not safely use the window in the kiva. That led, he had been told, into a trap. Still, Chief had gotten through and had apparently not been injured.

  Well…as a last resort, maybe.

  He would try the Hole. There was an opening there and with luck he could find it.

  What had become of Kawasi? More and more he found himself thinking of her. There had been a wistful loneliness about her that stayed with him. Large, beautiful eyes, soft lips…

  What the hell was he thinking of? This was no time to be thinking about a girl. His job now was to cross to the Other Side and survive it, then to find where the Hall of the Archives was, and, once inside, try to find a way into other parts of the structure without getting himself trapped in one of those built-in tombs.

  “You’re a damned fool, Raglan,” he told himself. “Go on into Durango and catch a plane out of here. To hell with it.”

  Yet he was not going to do it. Even as he thought of all the intelligent reasons not to do it, he knew he was going in. Yet he had to be honest with himself. Was it altogether because of Erik? Or was it the challenge of the unknown?

  He had spent months exploring ruins of the Anasazi, he had slept in their kivas in far-out, lonely ruins. He had followed their trails, stood upon fields where they once planted maize and squash, fingered shards of their broken pottery, and in his heart he felt a kinship. Some had undoubtedly merged with the Hopi, others with the Mimbres, and many had died. Yet, if it was even remotely possible that some had gone back to that Third World, he wanted to know how they fared.

  Sometimes, seated alone in one of their ruins, he had felt himself one of them. He had watched in his mind those small copper-skinned people grinding corn, carrying water up the steep trails, weaving cloth, going about the day-to-day business of being themselves.

  What had happened to them? From the little he had learned, and if what they told him was true, some had fallen in with the Evil Ones who had remained behind, but some had fled that world, gone to the mountains or canyons, and there carried on as they might have, had they remained at Mesa Verde, Hovenweep, or Chaco Canyon.

  He checked his gun again, then from his small pack he took another, a Heckler and Koch 9 millimeter, stowing it away in a special holster inside his belt at the small of his back. That was simply insurance. It was the Smith & Wesson .357 on which he intended to rely.

  Where was Tazzoc? He needed to talk to him once more. He needed more guidance, more advice!

  And where was Kawasi? Was she yet alive? Or had they taken her? Killed her or kept her a prisoner?

  He went outside and walked to the kiva’s edge, looking into it. Were those fresh tracks? Made by whom? For what reason?

  He looked at the window and it stared back at him like an open mouth, with spots on the wall seeming like eyes. He shifted his feet uneasily, glancing over his shoulder.

  Chief moved up beside him, growling a little, then sniffing the rocks that made up the circular wall of the kiva. Had something been there? Something that climbed out and prowled about the ruin?

  The sky was a magnificent blue, with only a few scattered clouds. The river lay bright in the sunlight, and No Man’s brooded in silence.

  Was there a trail to the top? He could see no place for it, only the bare red walls rising sheer from the piles of talus. He had been told there was no trail, but an old Mormon had said there was. There were wild horses on the top, horses that must have found a way up and down, for the winters would be bitterly cold, with icy winds sweeping across the unprotected tableland.

  A lone buzzard swung against the sky in solitary awareness that it had only to wait. All things came to it in the end.

  Would there be buzzards over there? Or eagles? Were there gateways in the sky through which they could pass? Uneasily, he watched the buzzard, then shifted his eyes to the red rock land around him and searched it with care, knowing there could be eyes where none seemed to be.

  He looked around, feeling himself observed, but saw nothing. He walked across the mesa and down the steep slope on the side away from the river, going back the way he had come and, after some time, finding his way down the steep cliffs to the bottom of the Hole.

  The first thing he saw were mountain-lion tracks. A big lion, and one there not long before. The place seemed empty, and it was quiet. Leaves whispered their secrets into the stil
lness, then held still, listening for replies that never came. He walked along, his footsteps the only sound, slight as it was.

  Indian painting on the walls. In places the desert varnish had slipped away, and what stories might have been written there, lost. He found his way along a narrow ancient path. Surely, in such a place where there was shade and water, there must have been Indians. But the trees were not old, perhaps no more than forty years in place, and what had it been like before? Had there been other trees? Burned perhaps, or their timbers used by Indians in building or for fuel? There were sand heaps. What lay beneath them?

  Navajo sweathouses, only the cedar posts left, leaning together. And those other huts, built by someone other than Navajos, he believed. By Paiutes? He did not know, but the shape was different. They were not hogans.

  Here was where he had seen the Varanel, but how had they come to be here? Pursuing someone? Or something?

  He stopped, his back against a sandstone wall, to look carefully around. Somewhere here there was an opening into that other world.

  Tracks! The Varanel must have left tracks.

  His back to the red rock wall, he studied the canyon before and around him, searching the rocks for some variation, some anomaly, some indication. He found nothing.

  He touched the butt of his gun for reassurance and it felt good under his hand. Again his eyes searched the terrain, and then he left the wall and went down into the trees. Over there, where he had first seen the Varanel, there was a vagueness, a shimmering. He could feel his heart beating heavily.

  He moved forward through the trees; then, stopping against the trunk of one tree, he looked carefully around.

  Someone was here. His every instinct told him something was here.

  He moved across the open space to another tree, merging his body with the tree trunk. Again, warily, he looked around. If somebody watched him now, where could they be? Keeping his eyes straight ahead, using his peripheral vision, he waited for movement.

  Where? And who? Or should it be what? There were strange creatures on this side, but what might lie over there? What kind of appalling monsters might there be?

  Suppose they were invisible? There were sounds beyond the reach of the human ear. Dogs could hear them, insects possibly. What if there were colors beyond the range of the human eye? Colors no human could see? Suppose some such thing approached him now?

  If men could pass through from one side to the other, what about animals. Chief had done it, going both ways. But what of their animals? Might they not have wild animals of some kind unsuspected?

  Moving as a shadow moves, or as the wind, he went to another tree and still another. There he crouched, waiting and watching, alert for any breath of sound.

  From where he now waited he could look across the open space where he had seen the Varanel.

  Empty. Nothing.

  He touched his tongue to dry lips, not liking the thought of moving away from the shelter of the trees. He would be exposed, vulnerable.

  The worst of it was, he did not know what to look for, or exactly what he would do when he found it.

  He shivered, although the day was not cold. He should get out of here, back to the camp in the ruin, back to something like security, back where he knew where he was and what must be done. Yet he had found nothing. The day would be lost, and there was so little time.

  What was Erik doing? Was he tied hand and foot? Was he imprisoned in a cell? Dying in one of those tombs? Or had he somehow won a reprieve? Convinced them he had more to offer by living?

  He moved along the border of trees, looking across to where the Varanel had gone.

  He could see nothing but a sweep of sand, some desert growth, and, beyond, a low ridge of sandstone.

  Where had they come from? Where had they gone?

  He watched; then his eyes went to the lone buzzard in the skies overhead. Suddenly, with a chill he wondered: What if that was not a real buzzard? Or was a trained bird? Trained to observe him?

  That was nonsense. He was thinking foolish thoughts. He moved on to another tree, almost on the edge of the sweep of sand, and there he waited again, listening.

  Did he hear a sound? A sound of singing? Of chanting? Somewhere a long way off? He glanced around again.

  He would withdraw. It was growing late, and he must return to the ruin before he broke a leg scrambling over rocks in the darkness.

  He heard the chanting again, many voices singing a monotonous song of few words. It was not his imagination, but where did it come from?

  They must be close, very close, for he sensed they were singing in low tones. Uneasily, he pressed closer to the bark of the tree, trying to locate the source of the sound. It seemed to come from somewhere out there before him.

  If he was attacked, and he killed one of them on this side of the curtain, how would he explain the body? Who would believe such a fantastic story?

  He had no evidence to present but the daybook, which could be considered a piece of pure fiction. After all, he was a writer with books to sell and it might be considered an elaborate publicity scheme. So to get help from the proper authorities was out of the question.

  Nobody would accept the story for reality. Mike Raglan knew he must accept the fact that he lived in a world concerned with the deficit, with the arms race, with coming elections. People were thinking about paying rent, keeping up payments on a house or car, and planning for a vacation where at least some of them would come to Mesa Verde and wonder at its builders who lived so long ago. They would wander through the ruins while a park ranger explained them, and when they returned home to Vermont, Iowa, or wherever, they would repeat what they had heard and show the pictures they had taken.

  What if he were killed out here, now? His body might not be found for years, for who came to this lonely, forgotten place?

  Standing among the trees, looking up the sunlit canyon, Mike Raglan knew he was alone.

  Alone as he had never been, alone with a reality no one could share, facing a situation for which he had no answer and where he could expect no help. Whatever was done he must do himself.

  What of Volkmeer? Well, what of him? Where did his loyalties lie? With a man who had helped him once, long ago? Or with a people who had given him wealth such as he had never expected to own, and which might, by some means, be withdrawn?

  All he had expected of Volkmeer was somebody to cover his retreat, if pursued. Somebody to help him at that last minute when he might be at the end of his strength. He could forget that. He was on his own. Yet, when had it not been so?

  He had never had any help from anybody. What he had done had been done by him and him alone.

  Something moved in the trees behind him. He dropped his hand to his gun and turned sharply around.

  Chapter 30

  *

  IT WAS KAWASI.

  She stood alone under the trees, watching him. His eyes swept the trees and brush about her, finding nothing of which to be doubtful.

  “I have missed you.” It was not what he intended to say, nor what he wanted to say or should have said, but it was the simple truth. He had missed her.

  “I cannot be long away. They wait for my words.”

  She made a quick, inclusive gesture. “This place where we are? This is sacred place. This is special place for my people. Some say it was from here we first went into your world, but I do not know if this be true.”

  With one quick glance toward the way he had been going, he turned and walked back to where she stood. “What of Erik?”

  “I know nothing. They have him, I believe.”

  “Somehow I must find and free him.”

  “It is impossible. Nobody ever escapes the Forbidden.”

  “I cannot believe your people—”

  “It is not my people. Those who have him are the Lords of Shibalba, the evil ones. To escape them is impossible.”

  “What of your people, led by He Who Had Magic?”

  “It was long ago and had never b
een tried before. In the dark all were present. By light all were gone. They tried to find us but we closed the ways and they could go no farther. There was much war, but finally they went away and bother us no longer.”

  “Come with me to the ruin. There’s such a lot I should know.”

  They walked on, and she led the way, moving quickly and surely through the trees. She spoke over her shoulder. “This is place where nobody come, only sometimes a priest. All this”—she gestured again—“very uncertain place.”

  She left the trees to climb up to a bench that skirted the cliff. “We do not understand, but all this”—she swept a hand to take in the Hole, No Man’s, and the mesa of the ruin—“all this is somehow…disturbed? Is it the word? It is uncertain place. Sometimes all like this, trees, water, cliffs…other times there is nothing solid, nothing we can be sure of. Sometimes an opening is here, sometimes there. It is like shimmering veil, like spray from a waterfall, and on the Other Side—”

  “It is always this way?”

  “No. It is a sometime way. Then something happens.…It is not earthquake, but something like, only it is in space. No, not space! It is in the essence of things, the overall! Something happens, makes dizzy. The eyes do not seem to see what is there. Then all is still, slowly everything settle, and after that, no openings! All is close! Close for long, long time!”

  “But when are there openings again? When does it go back?”

  She shrugged. “I do not know. The last time was before I am. Before I am born. Long time before. He Who Had Magic made marks on wall each time of which he knew. In his living time there were two.”

  Mike Raglan swore under his breath. So these so-called openings, even the “always” ones such as the kiva, might be closed at any time and remain closed for years. He shook his head irritably. The sooner he could get the hell out of all this, the better. He was perfectly happy with a normal, everyday world of three dimensions, and how did it happen that these Indians, of all people…