The Haunted Mesa (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  “He will not be,” Kawasi said. “He is on the Other Side. They have him.”

  Something within him cringed. He did not like to think of that “Other Side,” nor to believe in it. He knew now that he did not wish to cope with unreality, and that was how he thought of it. Of course, he reminded himself, if it did exist it was simply another phase of reality. He had dealt most of his life with the eerie, the impossible, the strange. These had been his daily fare, but they had been, for the greater part, simply illusion, fraud, and legerdemain. People were gullible because they wished to believe. His role had been to see the reality, to expose the chicanery.

  So far, all he had encountered except for some experiences in Sinkiang and Tibet, had been easily exposed by someone skilled in illusion.

  Pausing, she pointed. “It is right over there, beyond the rocks.”

  She indicated a low mound of red rock. “Erik planned to build there, using the standing rock for walls.”

  “And the kiva?”

  “It is close by.”

  They started on and his hand touched his pistol butt. It was a comforting feeling, but would a bullet work against these…what? These creatures?

  What was he thinking? Kawasi was one of them, or said she was.

  What if it was some kind of an elaborate swindle? After all, Erik was a wealthy man. He had money, lots of it. Suppose all this was some kind of a plan to get money from him?

  If so, Kawasi must be a part of it, and this he did not wish to believe. Yet better men had been deceived by seemingly nice women before this. But if it was not a fraud, was Kawasi normal? Was she human?

  What were they like, those creatures from the Other Side? Did Kawasi truly exist? Or was she merely a phantom, something from beyond the veil, from that world of evil the old Indians had fled?

  What was the Other Side? That question shadowed Mike’s every thought, every decision. He had heard of parallel worlds, of other dimensions. Strange disappearances had been a part of his life. And there had been many such. The case of the Iron Mountain, for example, a riverboat with a crew and fifty-five passengers that steamed around a bend in the Mississippi into oblivion. Or at least that was the story.

  Its barges were found adrift, but there had been no wreckage, no sound of an explosion. The story had been well known along the river in 1872 and since, but of course, the Mississippi had given birth to many legends.

  There was no path, no trail as such, yet Kawasi walked quickly among the rocks until suddenly they were there. He stopped, struck by the strange appearance of the mesa top. It gave the appearance of having been a field, badly leached, but nonetheless a field.

  Mesas with any amount of soil on top were few. More often than not, in this part of the country, mesas were almost flat rock with occasional patches of earth supporting a meager growth of brush and occasional small trees, usually juniper.

  The ruined walls were close by, covered by a sheet of plywood weighted down with rocks to make a temporary shelter. Inside he found Erik’s sleeping bag, an air cushion, a small gas stove, and a few dishes. There was also a small portable ice chest and a food box, closed tight.

  He glanced around the workroom where, on a wide and long table, were spread the plans for the house Erik had projected. Glancing out the window he could see the space between the rocks Erik planned to utilize. If the natural rock floor were smoothed just a little, it would be quite level. Two major walls would be solid rock, both flat on the inner side. Actually, he would have only two walls to build, unless he decided to add more rooms—something easily done. The view was magnificent.

  Across the river, and downriver just a little, was the great mesa where he had seen the flare of light. He paused, frowning. With all that had happened since, he had forgotten the incident. Was there a connection? Might that have been the instant that Erik vanished?

  Looking around for Kawasi, he saw her standing, staring off at the mesa.

  “What is it?” He spoke softly, moving toward her.

  She did not turn toward him, but said, “That place! It looks like…”

  “Like what?”

  She shook her head. “It cannot be.” She looked toward the west. “If it was…over there…” She shook her head again. “It cannot be.”

  He looked around again. “Erik is not here, that’s obvious. I guess we’d better go back.”

  “No! Please! You must not! We must not! Not tonight!”

  “What’s wrong? Why not tonight?”

  “It would be dangerous. They…they are worse at night. They would see us but we could not see them. It is better if we stay here.”

  He did not want to stay. He wanted to get away, to get back to a town, to people—anywhere but here. Nor did he relish the drive back over those winding desert trails where it was easy enough to miss a turn by daylight, let alone at night.

  It was an eerie, lonely place. The drop down to the river must be almost sheer, and several hundred feet. The mesa was a peninsula of rock pointing downstream, almost due west, and surrounded by deep gorges except at the place where they had approached it.

  “All right,” he agreed reluctantly, “but as you can see, the accommodations aren’t much.”

  He went back into the ruin. A glance into the portable refrigerator showed cheese and some cold cuts, a few cold drinks. There was a case of cold drinks, a mixed lot, sitting nearby. He went outside and looked around for fuel. He wanted a fire; he wanted very much to have a fire.

  Nearby there was a stack of roots, broken branches, and the trunks of a few lightning-blasted trees—nothing large but good fuel. He needed only a few minutes to build a fire. Kawasi walked to it and put out her hands to it, gratefully. “It is cold,” she said.

  Stars were appearing now, and only the tops of mesas, ridges, and the distant Navajo Mountain were catching the last glow of light.

  “I’ll make some coffee,” he said.

  Erik had planned well. There were supplies enough to last for some time. Did he bring them all himself? Or did someone come to him? By helicopter, perhaps? That would certainly be the easiest way, and there was plenty of room for landing.

  He took out his gun and checked it. Kawasi watched him, then asked, “It is a weapon?”

  “A gun,” he said, “a pistol. Did Erik have one, do you know?”

  “I do not know. I think possible. I think maybe. It is different, more flat.”

  “An automatic, I expect. I wonder if they found it?” He glanced at her. “Would they search him? Go through his pockets?”

  “I think yes. I do not know, but…”

  More than likely they would. How much did they know of guns? Or did they have some of their own? Or some similar weapon? Or, if they could come back and forth, might they not have brought weapons from this side?

  The last light was disappearing, so he added fuel to the fire, causing it to blaze up. Instinctively, he looked toward the long mesa where he had seen the flare. It was dark and ominous.

  Closer, just across the river, was another mesa. He recognized its shape, remembering there had been some mining there at one time, but unsuccessful mining, if he remembered correctly.

  He found some bread in the food chest and made sandwiches from the cold cuts. When the coffee was ready, they sat down in the opening of the ruin.

  He thought, suddenly, of the kiva. It would be on his left. Or was it to the right? He tried to remember what Erik had said.

  He turned to Kawasi. “I am afraid,” she said.

  “You need not be. We will manage.”

  “But if they come?”

  He shrugged. “Stay behind me. Let me handle it.”

  “But you do not know. They have means to…to make you helpless. And they are evil, evil!”

  He added fuel to the fire and handed her a plate with a sandwich and then a cup of
coffee. He sipped his own, and it tasted good. The air was cold, and the coffee warmed him.

  His eyes were busy, his every sense alert. He bit into his sandwich, glad of the silence, realizing that every slightest sound could be heard. He glanced at Kawasi. She was beautiful. Really, truly beautiful in a very quiet unassuming way.

  “Over there,” he suggested, “you live in a house?”

  “ ‘House’?” She puzzled over the word. “It is a cave where I live. Where the old ones lived. You see, we must hide. They look for us. Always they look.”

  “How do they live?”

  “What you call this?” She indicated the walls. “It is room?”

  “It was once. Yes, I’d call it a room.”

  “Over there, in the other place, many rooms are together, many people live. Each family have rooms but all in one place.”

  “Like an apartment building? Or a pueblo?”

  “Yes! Pueblo! It is a word I know. I hear it spoken, although the word is not ours. There are many pueblo, some very fine.”

  He stood up, cup in hand, and let his eyes reach beyond the firelight, out into the darkness, seeking, watching.

  “How large is your country?” he asked. “How much land?”

  She shook her head. “I do not know. I think no one knows. Those who work know where they work. They know where are park places. To go far from where we sleep or work is not allowed.”

  She paused. “Sometimes I believe even they do not know, those who command us. I think they know little more than we.”

  She paused. “Once it was not so. When my people ruled—”

  “Your people?”

  “Yes. My great-grandfather was…was what you call He Who Rules. There was sudden attack. He was kill. Others took control, and we escape. Now my people live in far hills where nobody comes. Or nobody did come until Erik. Then all is change.”

  Slowly, the story took shape. Evidently her family had ruled for many years, and then there had been a palace revolution. The evil ones took control, or the ones she implied were evil. Her family and a few others had escaped to the lonely canyons where nobody came, and lived as the Old Ones had lived.

  “The ones the Navajo called the Anasazi?”

  “Yes, I—” She caught her breath, and something moved out in the darkness.

  Mike Raglan stood very still. His gun was in his holster but he was wishing it was in his hand.

  There was something out there, something very close, something coming nearer, and nearer….

  CHAPTER 11

  The face of Kawasi was very pale. She moved closer to him.

  The sky was clear, blue with early night, and already a few bright stars shone. Downriver and across loomed the long dark bulk of the great mesa.

  “It’s all right, Kawasi.” He spoke quietly. “No need to be afraid.”

  Something moved out there beyond the firelight, something drawing closer. His hand went to his gun. Suddenly it was there, looming across the fire at the very edge of the light.

  It was a dog, a very large dog. It was Chief.

  He sighed in relief. “Chief?” He spoke quietly. “Come, Chief!”

  The mastiff remained where he was, testing the air with his nose, watchful and wary.

  “It’s all right, Chief. Don’t you remember me?”

  The big dog came forward another step, then another. “Come on, Chief. It’s all right. Where’s Erik, Chief? Where’s your master?”

  The dog drew nearer, then came around the fire, and Mike put out a hand. “You remember me, Chief? We’re old friends. We came out of Tibet together, you and I. We walked down the mountains and we camped in the desert.”

  With sudden realization the big dog leaped up, yelping with excitement. “Easy! Easy, boy! You’re too big for that now! You’d knock a man down!”

  Kawasi had drawn back in amazement while he ruffled the hair around Chief’s neck and talked to him. “Where’d you leave Erik, Chief? We’ve got to find him, Chief.”

  The big dog was beside himself with joy. “Settle down now, boy, and I’ll find you something to eat. Seems to me I saw a case of dog food back here.” He went over to a box under the drafting table and got out two cans of dog food and emptied them into the dog’s dish. Chief wasted no time but went to eating as if starved.

  Kawasi stared at him. “It is a beast? You speak like to person.”

  Mike chuckled. “You’ve asked a good question, Kawasi. To me, Chief has always been a person. We met each other when he was a tiny puppy in Tibet, up in the Chang-Tang. He was given to me by an old friend there, and I gave him to Erik when he was coming out here. I thought he might need him. He’s been with Erik a while now but I guess at heart we both still felt he was my dog.”

  He looked up at her, apologetically. “I was traveling a lot and had no place to keep a dog. This fellow is used to big, open country. He needs room to move.”

  Chief had emptied his dish and Mike filled it with water. The big dog drank greedily.

  “You like beasts?” She was puzzled. “Why is this?”

  He glanced at her. “You do not have dogs over there?”

  “It is not permitted.” Kawasi said. “But even if it was”—she shook her head—“we would not think of keeping a beast.” She puckered her brow. “Why is this? Why you like him?”

  “He’s my friend,” Mike replied. “The dog was the first animal domesticated by man, and they’ve been companions these thousands of years. I expect the first dogs were captured wolf puppies that were raised for food, and they became such good companions the people decided not to eat them. Men and dogs began hunting together and that settled it, I guess.”

  “We do not keep beasts except for food and for skins,” she said primly.

  “You miss a lot,” he said. “Of course, there are people among us who do not keep dogs for pets.” He paused. “I think it is more a custom among Europeans and Americans than others, with the exception of some nomadic peoples.”

  “ ‘Nomadic’? I do not know what it is.”

  “People who wander from place to place, often driving cattle or sheep to fresh grazing lands. Do you not have people of that kind?”

  She frowned again. “I do not know. There is great desert. I do not believe anybody goes past it, ever. There are miles of plantings, although not so much as long ago. All is controlled by the Lords of Shibalba.”

  “Shibalba?”

  “It is the name of where I live.”

  “The Maya have a legend of an underground place where live the enemies of men. It is called Xibalba.”

  “It is the same, I think.”

  He added fuel to the fire, and a few sparks flew up. “Once when we talked you said you saw something familiar in the mesa over there? Do you remember?”

  She looked over her shoulder, then shifted position so the mesa was no longer behind her. “It is like a place I know on the Other Side. It cannot be, yet…”

  “You think it is the same?”

  “It cannot be, and yet I think…it is like, but different somehow. I do not like it,” she added. “I do not even like to think about it.”

  Chief lay close to them, his head on his paws. Mike looked out across the mesa, his eyes straying beyond to the silver of the river. The stars were very bright, the night dark. Somewhere, far off, a coyote howled. Chief lifted his big head, listening.

  Kawasi was silent, staring into the fire. Mike slowly began arranging his thoughts, trying to face his problem and decide what was necessary. There was no use in going it blind. He must have a plan, but one he could adjust to circumstances.

  Of what he was facing he had no idea, beyond hostile people in a world of which he knew nothing. A dozen times in the past he had come upon accounts of mysterious disappearances or appearances for which there was no logical expla
nation. Ships, planes, even a whole Chinese Army had vanished without logical explanation. But what was logical? Only that which men knew, and they know so little.

  Erik was gone.

  A thin film of dust lay over the worktable and the blueprints. The sleeping bag was rolled up tight, something one did in desert country for fear of snakes, spiders, or scorpions taking refuge in one’s bed. They were not the best of sleeping companions.

  He unrolled the bag. “You can sleep in it. I’ll make out with Erik’s parka.”

  He brought fuel closer to the fire, then walked out away from the ruin. The mesa top was thick with powdery soil and only a sparse growth of weeds. The night was cool; the stars seemed very close. All was still, and he knew the nearest habitation was at least an hour’s drive, unless there was some Navajo hogan south of the river, which was deep and offered no crossing nearer than Mexican Hat.

  The night reminded him of Sinkiang, the Kunluns, and the Pamirs. This was a ghostly, haunted land. Men had lived here and died here, but others had vanished—into what? He knew the feeling from the Kunluns, those mountains that border Tibet on the north, virtually unknown to climbers or travelers, offering few passes, yet one of the mightiest mountain ranges on earth. Only a few local people knew those mountains, and there were areas into which even they did not venture.

  He listened into the night, thinking of tomorrow when he would examine the kiva.

  There was no sound. The big dog walked out to stand beside him, testing the wind with his nose. Deep in his chest he growled. Mike dropped a hand to the dog’s head. “Watch ’em, boy!” he said softly. “You watch ’em now!”

  How he wished the dog might tell him what he knew, what he smelled. Yet the growl warned him they were not alone. There was somebody, some thing out there.

  He walked back, picking up more fuel for the fire. Kawasi was in the sleeping bag, and her even breathing told him she was probably asleep. He touched the butt of his pistol again.

  What was it like over there? Would his pistol even work? Suppose it would not? Suppose the passing of the veil wrought some unexpected change in him? In his personality? His comprehension? His awareness?