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

by Louis L'Amour

  He hesitated, not liking it. He never liked closed-in feelings, anyway, but this should lead back to the hall. The direction was right.

  “Let’s go!” he said and, snapping on his flashlight, led the way. No sooner did the door close behind them than he wished he hadn’t. The tunnel was walled and roofed in stone, some of it cut from natural rock, some fitted stones.

  The air was dank, musty. Erik stumbled after him.

  Red rock around him now, the tunnel hewn from solid rock. There was dust on the floor, occasional cobwebs. There was no evidence that the passage had been used in a long, long time.

  Fear welled up, choking him. He stopped, fighting for control. What if there was no way out? What if this, too, was a trap? He pushed on. The air was bad and it was hot. Sweat poured down his cheeks and neck.

  How far had he traveled from the Hall of Archives to where he had found Erik? He had worked through only the edge of the maze until he reached the mirrors and the glass walls, and it was hard to estimate the distance.

  Erik stumbled and fell. Helping him to his feet, Mike Raglan could sense that the man was all in. His strength was gone.

  “A little farther, Erik? We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “All right. Just…just a minute. This damned air…”

  He straightened himself away from the wall, braced himself. “All right,” he said. “I’ll make it.”

  They started on. The narrow beam of the powerful flashlight pierced the darkness of the tunnel. He should have counted the steps. Should have made some kind of an estimate of distance.

  Water dripped from the rocks overhead. They seemed to be climbing. Erik paused again, and Mike stopped, only too ready to rest. His own breath was struggling. It was the air. In this closed-in space…His head was aching.

  Suppose the tunnel was closed at the other end? Could they ever make it back? And could they escape from the tunnel if they did? The foul air…They had to get out.

  He started on, stumbling a little, and heard Erik coming behind him.

  He fell.

  For a moment, on his hands and knees, Mike stared at the damp sandstone floor. His breath was coming in great gasps; his head was heavy with a dull ache. He struggled to his feet.

  Erik was leaning against the wall. His face was deathly white and he was struggling to breathe through lips turned blue.

  They started on, staggering a little. Raglan’s chest felt tight, constricted. He breathed with difficulty.

  The tunnel curved slightly and they confronted a door. There was the wooden square. Desperately, Raglan pressed it.

  Nothing happened.

  Filled with panic, he pressed again and again.

  Nothing.

  “My God!” Erik breathed.

  “You’d better pray,” Raglan said. “There’s nothing else will get us out of here now.”

  He stabbed at the square again, pushing against the door with his shoulder.

  It moved. Something moved! Only slightly, but still a movement. He kept a continual pressure on the wooden block while beating against the door with his shoulder. Slowly, the door opened.

  “You press it,” he told Erik, and lunged against the door. The crack widened, and there was light—light and air.

  Leaning against the door he gasped at the fresh air, breathing deeply, then coughing.

  The door opened slowly, stiffly, reluctantly. Erik stumbled past him into the space beyond.

  CHAPTER 39

  The room in which they found themselves was circular. On their right was a sort of divan about eight feet long, on the left, shelves holding a number of books of the sort seen in the Archives. Covered with dust, they showed no sign of having been disturbed for many years.

  Directly before them was a rounded cubicle and, about five feet from the floor, a tube like the small end of a megaphone. Curving away on each side of the cubicle, a latticework.

  They were behind the lattice screen in the Hall of Archives. This must be the place from which The Voice had once spoken.

  On the left and right were steps leading down to a lower level. In the center of the room a fountain bubbled with water. Warily, Mike Raglan tasted it. The water was fresh and cold. He drank deeply, suddenly aware of how desperately thirsty he had become.

  Would they guess the route he had used for escape? Did they even remember that the passage existed?

  All about were evidences of a dying civilization. Suspicion and hatred, as well as denial of any existence but their own, had sapped their strength and narrowed their intellects. Certainly, the builders of this vast structure had been creative men of great power, and in control of an extensive labor force. Yet he had seen no signs of recent building or even of repair. Confined to routine tasks, the people obviously did what was necessary and no more. There had been no time to study the wide acreages of irrigation surrounding, except to note that they were green and lovely, obviously producing what was needed.

  The early civilizations of the Nile, Tigris-Euphrates, and Indus Valley had all been based on irrigation. The same seemed true of the early cultures in Peru.

  The descendants of the Anasazi had not only irrigated but had terraced their mountainsides, utilizing every foot of possible soil. Here in their secluded world they had hoped to remain aloof from those who followed The Hand.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Raglan said. “Our time’s running out.”

  Erik straightened up. “Let’s go!”

  Raglan started, then stopped abruptly. From the great hall below he heard a sharp command. Glancing down through the lattice, he saw a dozen Varanel led by a tall man wearing what appeared to be a coat of mail, but a brand-new one of shimmering metallic links. One glance was all Raglan needed. This was no decadent remnant of a dying civilization. Whatever else he was, this was a man!

  This had to be Zipacna.

  What is there that lies within the male beast that makes him, sometimes, lust for combat? Raglan looked upon Zipacna then and saw clear his destiny. All his life long, though there had been times when it was impossible, he had tried to avoid trouble, had walked wide around the possibility of it, and taken the alleys to avoid the streets where danger was. The climbing of mountains and the walking of narrow trails, or sailing rough, reef-strewn seas, had taught judgment. Growing in strength and fighting skills, he had also grown in caution and the hesitation to use the skills he knew, yet there was something in the man called Zipacna that raised his hackles.

  Good sense told him to get away as fast as he could. To save himself and Erik, to find his way back and quickly, before his chance to escape was gone and his life lost here in this place. Yet his every urge drove him to shout through the megaphone, if such it was—to shout a challenge to Zipacna. He started for it, bristling, then stopped.

  Stifling the urge, he said, “Let’s get out of here, fast!”

  They ran down the steps, taking the stairs on the left, closer to the wall where the old trail had been glimpsed. Perhaps there was a trail, perhaps not, but it must be tried. Pausing on the steps, he remembered he had fired two shots and shucked the empty shells, reloading the chambers.

  Erik had gone before him, and suddenly he halted. Hurrying, Raglan almost ran him down. Erik was pointing.

  In their path, in the dank tunnel, was one of the giant lizards.

  Obviously, the beast had found some way into the passage, and how many years it had inhabited the place was anybody’s guess.

  It was there, directly before them, and there was no way past it.

  A moment Raglan stared, shocked and unbelieving. The creatures were amazingly quick, and its tongue was flicking, testing the air, catching the scent. The lizard knew they were fresh meat, and it indicated no sense of fear. Without doubt it had eaten men before, and had found no reason to avoid them.

  “Step back,
Erik.” Raglan was suddenly calm. This was something he could not avoid. It must be faced here and now. As the beast stared at him, he saw its muscles gather and he fired.

  The report of the .357 in the narrow passage was thunderous, but the beast was not ten feet away and its head was the obvious target. It lunged, and he fired.

  Its skull burst like a dropped melon, and they rushed past it just as it exploded into death throes and raked the walls with its talons. Appalled, Erik turned to look back. “Keep going!” Raglan urged. “They’re right behind us!”

  His light bobbing as he ran, he now led the way up the slanting tunnel.

  The floor was muddy, and there were signs that the monsters came often to this place. It was cool and dark, and no doubt it had been long since anything living was discovered here. Before them, light showed.

  Mike slowed his pace. Erik caught up and said, “We don’t know what’s out there.”

  “If we’re lucky, Johnny is.”

  “Johnny?”

  Mike explained, moving forward cautiously. So far they had been lucky, very lucky, indeed. But there was little time left.

  What about Kawasi?

  Dared he try to return to the pueblos of the Anasazi? How far was it? And what lay between?

  He flipped the switch on his flash and thrust it into his pocket.

  “Somebody’s coming!” Erik warned.

  They had emerged on a hillside, with the black, towering bulk of the Forbidden behind them like an enormous wall of black glass. At their feet lay the merest vestige of a trail, long unused.

  Below them and on their right lay the town, its even streets empty as always, its green parks, trees, and occasional pools all bright in the veiled sunlight.

  Mike Raglan led the way down the path. First, to get Erik away. After all, that was why he was here, where he had never wanted to be. His thoughts returned to Zipacna. What was it about the man? Some domineering quality, a quality against which he had always rebelled? What was it in him that resisted any idea of tyranny? As a boy he had always bristled when larger boys had tried to bully him or anyone near him. He had believed that the feeling had disappeared with maturity, but it had not.

  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.