Erik had paused on the low ground. The Forbidden loomed behind them, some distance off now. “I’m sorry, Raglan. I’m about done in.”
Raglan turned his back on him. “Reach into my pack. There’s some trail mix in there. You know—seeds, nuts, and raisins. Grab a pack, but keep going. Our time’s running out.”
Erik fumbled with the pack and Mike’s eyes went back to the Forbidden. Men were emerging from the tunnel, men in blue: the Varanel.
He did not know their weapons’ range but had no desire to risk it. From what he had seen, the range was limited, but how could he be sure? Maybe there was a different setting that would offer greater range. He started on, Erik stumbling behind him, trying to eat and run at the same time.
Now they were winding across a boulder-strewn hillside, and the blue-clad men behind them were gaining. Before them was a crest of crags, looming along the edge of what would have been called rimrock back in his country.
Erik stopped. “Go ahead, Raglan. I’m not going to make it.”
Mike Raglan stopped. “You think I’ve come all this way for nothing? Go ahead of me, and just follow the path.”
He shook several loose rounds into his side pocket, for easy access.
The clouded sunlight left no shadows on the hillside. The town lay shimmering in its vague light, and above it in the distance, at least a mile away now and probably farther, was the black awesome presence of the Forbidden.
All was green and lovely in the distance, yet the grass here was yellow and faded. Did it ever rain here? It must, yet the grass was dying, and the brush around was desert brush, not unlike that on the Haunted Mesa.
Was he close there? Was there a veil through which he might step? And what of her whom he loved? Would he see her again?
The Varanel were closing in now. Soon they would be within range of his pistol, and it had a good range. He had often done distance shooting with the magnum. It called for steadiness of hand, a good eye, but the gun was a powerful one. He stopped, waiting.
Suddenly, from up on the rimrock and some distance off, there was a dull boom.
The jacket of the nearest Varanel suddenly blossomed with red. He took two forward steps and then fell, all of a piece, and face down. The big gun boomed again, and Mike saw a rock near the next man spatter broken chips under the bullet’s impact.
He turned his back and walked on, following Erik. Behind him the pursuit had stopped. The rimrock was a good six hundred yards off, but at the Battle of Adobe Walls, Billy Dixon had knocked an Indian off his horse at just under a mile, with the same kind of rifle. A Mexican had done likewise during the Lincoln County War.
They were climbing steeply now. The Varanel started again, and again the big rifle boomed. A second man fell, his neck bloody.
“We’re going to make it, Erik. Johnny’s up there with his buffalo gun.”
“I can’t leave her.” Erik stopped. “Raglan, I just can’t.”
“Where is she? Who is she?” Mike asked, but Erik was too out of breath to answer.
Overhead a buzzard soared. One of theirs? Or one of ours? Or was there always a way for them? Mike topped a rise, looking down upon what was apparently a dried watercourse. Once there had been a river here; even the fallen trunks of great old trees were there, an occasional one still standing. It was a weird, desolate scene.
He paused beside Erik. He was looking at what lay before him, standing on the very side of a vast desolation. What lay beyond? Were there other people? Perhaps a real civilization? Or was this all? This dreary waste stretching away to the end of time, to the end of everything?
And this was so close, so close to his world, his rich, green, wonderful world! He had never valued it so much as now.
Johnny, carrying his rifle, was coming down the mountain toward them.
How far away were they? Had they traveled in distance? In Time? He did not know. He had never known about such things. His world had been one of illusion, and the solving of easy mysteries. Of course, there had been times…
Johnny came down to them. “Raglan? Can you take us back? You said you could.”
“Maybe,” Mike said. “I’ll try.”
In the distance a finger of rock pointed at the sky. Was it the same?
He was tired, very tired. Somewhere among those distant crags was the opening to his world, and he wanted nothing so much as to be there, crawling into his own bed, to sleep, to rest. Time was short, and they had far to go.
Yet what was Time? Was it the same here as over there? Did they even measure time there? Could Time be measured?
He started on down the hill toward the long-dead forest, its bare arms entangled with other bare arms, no life, no birds, no animals, not even an insect. Nothing. What he saw was a blighted place, something struck by forces of which he knew nothing.
Now they were in the forest, only skeleton trees, twisted, agonized branches like arms writhing in a nameless torture. The only bark lay on the ground in great, ragged strips, threads trailing from it. In the dead silence, even their steps seemed to make no sound. A dead forest in a land too dry for them to rot, a place where decay seemed unknown.
Before them was the bed of a wide river, and suddenly Mike stopped. “Johnny,” he whispered. “Look!”
A white stone, standing on edge, then another and another.
“A graveyard,” Johnny said, awed. “Somebody was here!”
They walked nearer, and paused. Scratched on the stone was a name, below it the simple words:
born: 1840
died: 1874
On gentle feet they walked among the stones. They counted forty-one stones, all the dates in the same range of years, none earlier than 1810. The latest recorded death was 1886.
“Can’t figure it,” Johnny said. “These folks all in one passel, all the gravestones written in English!”
Mike Raglan pointed. “There’s your answer!”
Along the bank of the dry riverbed was what remained of a steamboat.
“That will be the Iron Mountain. Disappeared in 1872, fifty-five people aboard.”
Chapter 40
*
TOGETHER THEY WENT down to the bank of the dry river, following along the shore to the gangplank, its boards gray with age. The name of the steamboat was still there: Iron Mountain.
It was not a wreck, but had come to rest on the bottom of what must have been a flowing stream. One stack had fallen forward at some much later time, and the end of it rested on the smashed railing. Here and there a door hung on its hinges. Its almost flat bottom rested comfortably. The door to the main cabin was closed. Boats still hung from the davits.
Erik sat down on a timberhead. “I’ve got to rest. Sorry, Mike, but I’m all in.”
“Take your time. I’m going to look around.”
There was no time, but Erik could have a moment’s rest while he looked about.
He opened the door to the main cabin. All was in order, yet it was obvious people had lived here. They must have stayed with the riverboat, hoping that whatever force had brought them here would take them back. One after another they must have died and been buried on the hill.
Not all of them. Forty-one graves had been counted, and if he recalled correctly there had been fifty-five passengers and crew. Such, at least, was the story. He could vouch for none of it except that the steamboat was here, as it must have remained for over one hundred years.
At first they must have suffered from shock; obviously then they had wondered what had happened, where they now were, and how to get back. No doubt there was discussion, argument, and some local exploration, limited by fear that the steamboat might be transferred back while the explorers were gone. After a while, no doubt, that possibility must have become improbable.
Slowly they adjusted, although no doubt hope remained. Some would have loved ones awaiting their arrival in St. Louis or whatever river port might have been their destination. Some were on business, some going to stations upriver, others just adv
enturing.
Hope must have lasted long, while they clung to the one thing familiar: the steamboat.
The main cabin had obviously become a community hall where all gathered. There were tables there, and in one corner the few books aboard had been gathered and a sort of library organized. In another corner a store had been set up for the purpose of passing out what clothing was available as what they possessed wore out. There had been cases of clothing, boots, shoes, and other articles destined for some place upstream. From a tablet on a table, Raglan could see an effort had been made to keep a list from which to compensate the owner if they ever returned.
There was no evidence of turmoil or confusion. All seemed to have proceeded in an orderly fashion and with decorum.
Yet there had been trouble, but not from among themselves. Obviously, they needed one another and reacted accordingly. The trouble had come from something outside.
Bales of cotton had been arranged around the rails, and behind one he found a dozen brass cartridge shells and a Henry rifle. Kneeling down where the marksman must have knelt, he sighted toward shore. Up there in those rocks…
There were dishes on the tables in the main cabin, and there was still chopped wood alongside the fireplace.
In the pilot house he found the one skeleton, still wearing dried-out leather boots, clothing in rags.
The skeleton bore no evidence of violent death. He must have been one of the last to die, as his body remained unburied.
Johnny came up from the Texas, the officers’ quarters. “Found some powder,” he said. “I don’t know about it.”
“Probably no good any longer,” Raglan waved a hand. “Pilot, I expect.”
He looked around again. How must the man have felt? Yet he had stayed with his steamboat. Obviously, he or someone had maintained discipline. Some of the people had gone off exploring, trying to find where they were or some way to return.
Did they know what had happened?
“We’d better get going.” Raglan gathered up a small stack of account books and one that might have been a log. “Put these in my pack. I’d like to go over them when there’s time.”
Erik got to his feet as they came down from the boiler deck. “Sorry. I’m played out. They didn’t pay much attention to feeding me.”
Mike Raglan studied the distant hills. He knew only approximately where they must go. He started off, crossing the dry riverbed on a diagonal, heading for what seemed to be a dim path as observed from the upper deck of the steamboat. Paths usually led somewhere and were always a time-saver if the direction was right. In cutting across country, a man never knew what he might encounter.
From time to time he stopped to study their back trail. There would be pursuit, of that he was sure. How soon it would begin and what form it would take he had no idea. There were Varanel ahead of them—at least the patrol he had seen near the Anasazi pueblos. Had they some means of communication? If they knew he was coming, they could set up an ambush.
Where was Kawasi? And what had happened at the pueblos?
Several times he sighted vestiges of ruins not unlike the ruins found in Arizona and New Mexico, but there was no time to stop or to collect even the simplest of artifacts for future study.
The air was very still. Uneasily, Raglan looked around. Nothing, so far as he could see, moved upon the landscape, yet he had a haunted feeling, a sense of imminent disaster. There were no clouds, only that veiled yellow sky from which he could read nothing.
Mike glanced at Johnny. “Do you feel it, too? What is it?”
Johnny shrugged. “No idea, but we better get where we’re goin’.”
Raglan started off again, walking swiftly. He was scared and he did not know why. There was a chill along his spine that worried him. What did his body know that he did not?
Before they reached the cliffs there was a vast city of tumbled rocks. Huge boulders and slabs that had evidently fallen here in the past, unlike anything he had seen.
He led the way, following the dim, long-unused path that wound among the rocks, climbing higher and higher. Somewhere up here was where they had come through. He thought he could find the place. He hoped he could.
The trail went up steeply into the rocks and he hesitated, glancing back down the trail just covered. Somehow the air was no longer clear, and he could make out objects only as far as a few hundred yards away. From here he should have been able to see clear to the dry riverbed, but it was lost in distance. He climbed on, moving faster as he climbed farther, driven by an urgency he did not recognize. When he topped out on the ridge he waited for Erik, who was making slow time of it.
Johnny walked over to Raglan. The shrewd old eyes studied him warily. “Are we goin’ to make it? I’d surely like to be among my own kind one more time. I’d like to get me a little cabin somewhere, just live out my days.”
Raglan looked off to his left. She was over there somewhere, among her own people. If he took her away from all that, would she be happy? Was he vain enough to believe he could make it up to her? What right did he have to assume he could?
Erik’s face was strained and pale when he came off the climb. He looked at Raglan with haunted eyes. “I’d no business getting you into this. I’d no claim on you.”
“You spoke as if there was somebody with you,” Raglan said.
Erik shrugged. “It was a dream. She got away, or they let her go.” He sat down on a flat rock. “It was she who left me the sunflowers.”
Raglan started to speak, then hesitated. Could it be that Kawasi was the one? It was Kawasi who had brought the daybook to him.
He turned abruptly. “We’ll be getting on.”
The path led into the rocks, up a steep trail through a narrow crack wide enough for them to move in single file. He looked back. Erik was behind him, Johnny following. He turned back, using his hands to help pull himself up. Here and there a projecting root offered a handhold, yet a subtle change had taken place.
The rocks now were weirdly shaped, looking like thick molasses frozen in movement. Once they had been molten lava. The climbers emerged suddenly on a small plateau covered with ruins, incredibly ancient. Fallen arches, tumbled columns, and long, unroofed halls, the walls covered with paintings.
The painted figures resembled some of the kachinas he had seen, but with a difference. The kachinas he had seen in the Hopi and Zuni villages, no matter how grotesque, had always seemed beneficent, but these conveyed a subtle feeling of horror, of fear. These were malevolent beings. “I’ll be glad when I’m out of here,” he said over his shoulder.
“Know what you mean. I lived with it for years.” Johnny paused, looking around. “Never seen anything like this. Not in all my born days. Figured I’d seen everything over here, but this here’s different. This is all wrong.”
Mike’s eyes sought the rocks, the alleyways between the ruins. How did one get out of here? Where were they exactly? They were, he was sure, close to the point at which he had come through from the other side, but where was it? Had it been among these ruins? He remembered nothing of the kind.
“Raglan? Better decide what’s next. They’re comin’.” Johnny pointed back down the trail. Not a half mile away the Varanel, a dozen of them, were coming out of the rocks.
Slowly Raglan looked around, trying to clear his mind of all but the immediate necessity. It was so much easier to be a follower than a leader. The responsibility could be left to another, and one had only to go along. Yet he was the leader and they trusted in him. He was the one who thought he knew the way back, but now he was near and he had no idea which way to turn. His eyes searched the rocks, trying to find some vestige of a way. The ruins invited them with numerous openings that might have been streets or passages, yet where did they lead? Were they traps? Were they to end in blind alleys? There was no time to try each one. His first decision had to be the right one.
“Johnny? Can you slow them up for me? I need some time.”
Johnny walked to the rocks, looking
back down the trail. “This light’s deceivin’, but I’ll try.”
He paused then and said, “Raglan? There’s some of the Lords of Shibalba among them. They don’t mean for us to get away.”
Somewhere ahead of them, unless they had been destroyed by the people of the pueblo, was that other patrol of the Varanel. The worst of it was, he had lost track of time. There seemed nothing on which he could depend to count the hours or the days. The light varied so little. Raglan walked away among the ruins, trying to think, to find a way out. It had to be quick.
Kawasi—what of her? Could he find her again? He paused on the edge of a kiva. Here, too, the roof had fallen in like so many of those he had seen in his own world. He stared into it. No sipapu, of course, but the ventilation was the same, the construction the same. Around the inside were moving figures, or figures that seemed to move, for there was a series of them in different positions.
His thoughts were suddenly cut sharply by the boom of Johnny’s Sharps Fifty. Standing on tiptoe he looked over a wall and could see a blue-clad figure lying in a deserted path. The man was obviously dead.
He looked into the kiva again. There was a window there, like the one on the Haunted Mesa, but not a window, exactly. More like one of the T-shaped doors so familiar from the ruins at Mesa Verde. Only this door seemed to open on nothing. Or was it open? He walked closer.
This was not the way he had come. This certainly could not be the way the Poison Woman or others, including Tazzoc, had crossed to his world.
Where was Tazzoc?
He prowled among the ruins. There had to be a way, but how? Where?
If he could find the way he could send Johnny over with Erik and then he could go for Kawasi.
The Sharps boomed again.
He glanced over at Johnny. The old man looked at him, their eyes meeting. “Raglan? I can’t hold ’em long. They’re creepin’ up on us, gettin’ closer. We don’t have much time.”
Raglan dropped into the kiva, approaching the window. He could not see through it. Open it undoubtedly was, but here, too, what lay beyond was masked by that weird curtain of what appeared to be a thick smoke, or something akin to it.
Novel 1987 - The Haunted Mesa (v5.0) Page 30