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

by Louis L'Amour

  “We never attack first,” she insisted.

  She opened a door in a wall and they entered to a subdued light. She closed the door carefully and they mounted three flights of stairs. At each landing there was a door which she ignored. At the top, another door opened upon a terrace. Here there were trees, a fountain with running water, and a pool. There were many flowers, and the terrace extended off into the darkness, where he could dimly make out rows of planted crops.

  She opened still another door and they stood in a wide and spacious room. At the far side there was a fireplace, and there were several divans covered with what appeared to be Indian blankets. “It is my house,” she said.

  The stone walls were hung with tapestries and the floor beneath was carpeted.

  “Sit you,” she suggested. “We will have food, and men will come to talk. We must decide what is to be done.”

  “My advice is to get that patrol before they can tell what they have seen, if they have actually seen this place.”

  “To kill a Varanel? It is not done. To kill a Varanel is the greatest evil.”

  “Why?”

  “It is not done. It has never been done. It is the greatest evil—”

  “Who told you that?” he asked, irritated. “The Varanel?”

  “No, but it is so. It has always been so.”

  “Do they not sometimes kill others?”

  “Oh, yes! They kill or enslave. It is their way.”

  “But you do not kill them? Somebody, honey, has sold you a bill of goods. They can kill you, but to kill them is a sin. I believe you should think about that,” he said, “and just where that idea came from.”

  A voice spoke from outside the door. She crossed the room and opened it. Six men came in, four of them older men, judging by the whiteness of their hair. They all wore belted cloaks of some thin material.

  Swiftly, she explained. Then she turned to him. “Mike? I did not see. How many were there?”

  “Seven, in sight. I believe that is all there were. If we were to move swiftly, we might get them all.”

  She explained and there were exclamations of astonishment, almost anger. Only one of the younger men kept silent, glancing over at Mike with appraising eyes.

  “They say as I have said. Nobody kills a Varanel. If they attack, we will defend.”

  “And if you kill one then? In defending yourselves?”

  She looked uneasy. “We have never killed one. I do not think we can.”

  One of the older men spoke, relating some incident. The others nodded. Kawasi explained. “Long ago a madman tried to kill one. He struck him three times with a blade. Nothing happened.”

  “They wear armor,” Mike explained, “under those blue jerkins or whatever you call them. Those whom I saw were wearing some kind of armored vest or shirt. I am sure of it.” He paused a moment. “Has anybody ever tried hitting them on the legs? Or in the throat?”

  “We do not attack the Varanel,” she insisted.

  He shrugged, irritated. “Then you might as well surrender and become slaves. It seems to me you have no choice.”

  “Nobody has ever struck a Varanel!” Kawasi said.

  “I struck a couple of their boys and it worked very well. I’ll admit they seemed surprised. From what you say, it must have been quite a shock to them.”

  Raglan glanced from face to face. These people seemed no different from others he knew, yet different they must be, for this was a world he had never known. Were they a softer, gentler people than his own? Or had they lived so long in isolation that they no longer remembered what the real world was like? These were descendants of the cliff dwellers, a people who had chosen to retreat from drought and attackers, to return here and take shelter. Were they hiding from danger? Or were they afraid of their own instincts?

  They had evolved, but how much and in what ways? This apartment of Kawasi’s was a lovely place, but so far he had only glanced at it. How far had it developed from the simple structures at Mesa Verde or Chaco Canyon? Was it only the single-line development from then until now without any input from the outside? And how far apart were the two worlds, this one of Kawasi’s and that other, darker world ruled by The Hand?

  His own world had developed in constant strife—struggle against the elements and the greed of other men. Was war a natural thing among men? Was it a part of their development? Or their path to extinction?

  “You have no contact with the world of the Varanel?” he asked.

  “None, and we wish none. Here”—she gestured about her—“we live in peace. We run water upon our plants. We grow fruit on trees and bushes. We have found many sources of water, and each has been improved. We have learned each place where there is dampness, and we have planted there. If there is space for but one plant, we have that one plant. Each bit of ground is used. We have learned to gather the rain from off the mountains, letting it run into our pools or our ditches. Nothing is wasted. The food left over, the leaves that fall, all is returned to the soil. We gather the droppings of animals and we crush the hulls of nuts. Each of us works in the fields or forest.”

  “You have animals?”

  She nodded. “We raise what you call cattle, and sheep as well. No goats. They are too destructive and will eat every growing thing, given the chance, even the bark from the trees. Long ago we decided there would be no goats, for wherever there are goats there is desert. If there is no desert, in time goats will create it.”

  “There are forests in your mountains?”

  “We cut down only trees that are dead or dying, and we gather every fallen branch for fuel.” She lifted her eyes to his. “It is not easy, our life. Each has a plot to cultivate. Some have several plots. Each year we try to put by some grain for the bad years when no rain comes.”

  “You must make a choice,” Raglan suggested, “to fight the Varanel or to lose all you have.”

  “We cannot fight them. It is impossible.”

  The young man who had been standing aside spoke then. “I will fight them,” he said.

  They turned on him, astonished. “You, Hunahpu? You would dare fight the Varanel?”

  Kawasi translated as he spoke: “I have talk to Johnnee. He has fought them. He has beaten them. They come no more to seek him.

  “We do not wish to die. They do not wish to die. If some are killed, they will go away and come no more.”

  They talked excitedly, angrily, among themselves, and Raglan turned away. Whatever they decided to do was none of his affair. He had come for the purpose of finding a way to free Erik, and that was just what he must do. Yet one thing came to mind.

  “Kawasi? Is there any other way for the Varanel to enter your valley?”

  “Yes, but it is far from here.”

  “To guard this path would be easy, but it must be guarded at once. You have weapons?”

  “Bows and arrows, spears, and blowguns.”

  “And the Varanel?”

  “They have other weapons. I do not understand them. Something penetrates and does something to your inside. After a time you sicken and die. It can be within minutes, sometimes days. It is not a poison.”

  “I would suggest you guard the path. Is there a place where you could roll stones upon them? Look, it is none of my business but you need someone willing to fight, someone who can think in terms of combat.”

  He paused. “That young man? Hunahpu? Why not put him in charge? He at least is ready to fight. If you do not have the weapons, use what you have, think, contrive! There is always a way!”

  This was not his fight. He wanted to get Erik and get out of here, get back to his own world and forget all this. Even—

  No, not Kawasi. He did not want to forget her.

  Ignoring them, he crossed to a divan and got out his old canvas map. It made no sense. If he just had a landmark, some
thing to indicate a location.

  Suddenly, he found it. That leaning tower of rock, like a gigantic finger? It was there, on the very edge of his map! It might be different, but…

  No, there was the trail down the mountainside, that dotted line! Beyond was a maze of mountains, cliffs, peaks, canyons, and in the midst of them a small red cross. What did that mean?

  To the south was open country with lines marking what must be irrigation ditches, and then a cluster of black squares that must be buildings; then, at the end of the valley, a massive black structure—that had to be the Forbidden! He studied it with care, the wide avenue leading up to it, the great gates, and the smaller door beside the gates.

  Suddenly he was aware the others had gathered about and were studying his map. Excitedly, one put a finger on the Forbidden, and then to something he had not yet seen, a path leading from the mountains and coming up to the Forbidden from the side, a path that seemed to end in a blank wall.

  “What is it?” he asked Kawasi.

  “There is no such trail,” she said. “But such a trail might lead to an entrance nobody knows.”

  “This map,” Raglan explained, “was copied from an ancient map found in a ruin. It may be there was such a trail and it has been forgotten, perhaps even by The Hand, and the Varanel.”

  Kawasi looked at him, startled. Then she shrugged. “Who would go there? It is a place of death. A place from which no man returns.”

  “I am going there,” he replied, “and through the door beside the gate. That is where Erik is, and I am going after him.”

  Raglan got to his feet and rolled his map. “And when he is free I am coming for you. I want you to go back with me.”

  “And leave my people? They need me.”

  “There is Hunahpu,” he replied.

  Startled, she looked from him to the young man who stood aside, waiting.

  “Put him in charge of defense,” Raglan suggested. “He at least is ready to fight. I think he will do well.”

  Day was breaking and the sky was faintly yellow. He went to the window and looked out across the terrace at the looming black mountains beyond. It was a starkly beautiful land and reminded him of Machu Picchu in the Peruvian Andes, the hidden city of the Incas.

  All about were towering cliffs, and below were green fields of maize, squash, beans, and other crops he could not distinguish at the distance.

  The pueblos were like those seen in New Mexico, except these were much larger, the work more finished, and there were roof gardens everywhere, some of them carved out of cliffsides. Water had been brought from the mountains and piped into the buildings and the ditches.

  “Is this your only city?”

  “Oh, no. Others are larger than this, and farther up the canyons. Some are in caves, as at Mesa Verde.”

  “You have seen Mesa Verde?”

  “Oh, yes! I go with tour-ist. A park ranger explained it all very nicely.”

  “Was he right?”

  “He did not speak of the always watching for enemies. At first they did not find us. They killed people in the flat lands and took their grain. We watch, and make no sound, but finally they find and attack my people. Some enemies were killed and some fell from cliffs when they try to come down toeholds cut from the rock. They did not know the steps were keyed.”

  “Keyed?”

  “Coming down the cliff you must begin with the correct foot or you would come to a place where you could not go down or back up. Our enemies hung there until they tired and fell. It is very far to fall.”

  CHAPTER 33

  The old men clustered about the map, brows furrowed, intent upon its every line. “We do not have things such as this,” Kawasi said. “Although some tell that He Who Had Magic knew of such.”

  “It is a design,” Raglan said, “showing how the land lies. I study it to see how I must approach the Forbidden and how to escape when I am free of it.”

  “Nobody has ever escaped,” an old man said.

  Raglan was irritated. “You have been telling yourself that for years, and somewhere, sometime they told you that. I shall go in, and God willing, I shall come out, but do not tell me again that it cannot be done. Do not tell yourselves that.”

  Raglan got to his feet. “Tell Hunahpu,” he said to Kawasi, “that he must find men who believe as he does, men who will fight the Varanel. Then he must think of how to defeat them. Use the country against them. Destroy the trail if need be. Stop them, or you will all be slaves.”

  “And you?”

  “I shall do what I have come for. I shall find Erik and free him.” His eyes turned to hers. “Then I shall come for you.”

  Their eyes held. “I do not know if I can go,” she protested. “My people need me.”

  “Not unless you can lead them. Do you not see what is happening? The same thing that happened before when your people fled to this side. They fled because they were afraid, and they had no organized leadership. To defeat such an enemy you cannot have each person deciding what he or she will do. When nomadic Indians attacked your people, they drifted away, family by family, until nobody remained who could or would resist. It was the same when you abandoned your homes and fled back to this world.

  “To protect yourselves you must have organization. You must work together. If you are to follow the old ways, Kawasi, your people are doomed.”

  He waved a hand. “Are you prepared to lose all this? To have someone else reap where you have sown? You have no choice, Kawasi. You must fight or be enslaved. Some of you will undoubtedly be killed—certainly you will be, for you are a leader and a possible focal point of resistance.”

  “You could help us.”

  “I could do nothing for you that you cannot do for yourselves if you but wish to. It is far better you are led by one of your own. I am not a hero. I shall try to help my friend escape because he relies upon me.

  “You are a great people or you could not have built all this, but if you will not save yourselves I cannot save you. Hunahpu will fight. Help him.”

  “What of us?”

  “If I get Erik safely home, I shall come for you, unless you can escape and come to me. We are equal, you and I, but you have your duties and I mine. Let us be about them.”

  No, he told himself, he was no hero. If he was, he would stay here, lead them to victory, and then save his friend. Or die trying.

  Well, he did not want to die. He did not want to be where he was. He would have liked to be safely out of it with Kawasi beside him.

  He shouldered his pack. Hunahpu was watching him, and Raglan turned again to Kawasi. “Tell him to ambush them. To aim for their throats, their legs, their faces. Get on the cliffs above them. Roll rocks down. Kill them any way you can, but kill them.” He stared into Hunahpu’s eyes. “You must show them that a Varanel can be killed.”

  He turned to Kawasi. “Where is the other way out? I must be going.”

  From the terrace she pointed the way. He turned again to her. “I can do nothing for your people they cannot do for themselves, but if you are to exist, you must fight. You must defeat the Varanel. There are but five hundred of them, and you will have more men than that.”

  “Where will you go?”

  He gestured toward the wild and broken country. “I go there. I am going to find the ruin left by He Who Had Magic or whoever was before him. There is a map there, and I wish to see it. Then I shall enter the Forbidden and find Erik.”

  “It is—”

  “Don’t tell me it is impossible. I shall do it because I must.”

  For a moment he took her by the arms, looking into her eyes. “Do not doubt that I love you. Do not doubt that I shall return.”

  When he was on the trail up the canyon he looked back. She stood on the terrace looking after him, and he lifted a hand. “You’re a damn fool,” he said
aloud. “If you were even half smart you’d take that girl and run. You’d get out of here before the roof falls in.”

  That quake or whatever it was? How much time did he have? He no longer remembered how much time had passed. Five hours? Six, perhaps? He would have to hurry.

  When he left the canyon of the green fields, he entered upon a trail where no tracks appeared. If any had come this way, it had been long ago, indeed. He went along the trail, climbing steeply up, working his way around boulders and into a forest. Needles lay soft beneath his feet. Bears were here, and mountain lions, too. He saw their claw marks on trees, and droppings beneath his feet.

  He walked on, aware of all around him, yet moving swiftly. He was, he knew, cutting across the wild country and actually drawing closer to the valley of the Forbidden. Nowhere did he see any tracks of men or any sign of hunting, trapping, or woodcutting. The forest here seemed not to be used. What he was seeing was a society that had drawn more and more into itself, a tight, narrow little world fearful of all that lay outside and controlling all that lay within. Centuries of domination had left the people with no belief in resistance. He doubted if the idea even occurred to them, and if it did, it was quickly stifled by the same defeatist comments he had heard among Kawasi’s people.

  Yet the Anasazi had evolved. Their architecture was better, their fields better cultivated, their irrigation system advanced. Given outside stimulation there was no guessing what heights they might have achieved.

  He paused to catch his breath. This air was not the same, for the altitude, judging by the plants and flowers, was not great. He was in a forest region, which in his own world would be aspen country, with spruce above and around him.

  From a break in the forest he looked for his finger of rock, found it, and took a bearing. Not far now.

  Suddenly he stopped. He looked carefully around, unbuttoning his coat to get quicker access to his pistol. He had seen a track, the track of a fairly tall man, but not heavy.

  His eyes found nothing. Ahead of him he could hear a waterfall. Not a large one, but a fall nonetheless. He let his ears become accustomed to its sound and then began to sort other sounds from it, distinguishing one after another.