Novel 1987 - The Haunted Mesa (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Kawasi stopped suddenly, lifting a hand, listening. He heard nothing. What was he getting into? All his life he had heard of time warps, had known that our seemingly orderly world was actually far from orderly.

  Standing slightly behind her, aware of little more than vague darkness, Mike Raglan tried to bring himself back to reality. He was a young man, with a beautiful girl, alone in a desert, and supposedly she was about to lead him into another world, a world that existed parallel with his own.

  “It is here,” she whispered. “Take my hand.”

  She stepped forward quickly and he had a quick, flashing vision of a tunnellike opening at his feet, and then he fell.

  There was a moment of gasping horror as he seemed to be falling into a pit, and then he struck the ground, face down.

  A moment he lay still; then, lifting his head, he spat dust from his mouth and tried to sit up.

  A hand pressed down, and someone hissed, “Ssh!” warningly.

  He lay still, swearing to himself, but in the midst of the swearing he heard movement and was suddenly alert. Someone was near them. Someone was approaching.

  He felt movement beside him on the ground. It was Kawasi. Her fingers gripped his, warming him again. He lay perfectly still, wanting to reach for his gun, yet dreading the thought of what a pistol shot would do to the night. It would certainly bring enemies, if any were about. He would be rid of one, perhaps, only to have a dozen or a hundred come down upon them.

  His chest felt tight and uncomfortable and he was suddenly conscious of his breathing. His breath was coming in gasps as if he had been running. He fought to stifle the sound.

  He was immediately aware of something else. He was lying upon grass!

  Not rock, but grass. Above all, he could smell it. He could smell the dampness of nearby water, too. And there was a vague smell of something burning.

  He could feel Kawasi beside him, her hand clutching his, warning him. Who was approaching? And where did this grass come from? There was some in the bottom of the Hole, but a coarser grass than this.

  A voice spoke, but he could not understand the words, and then there was a reply from a greater distance. The footsteps ceased to move, and mentally Raglan gathered himself, preparing to leap to his feet.

  Footsteps again, retreating now, and then again the voices, speaking in some foreign tongue. He had a smattering of languages, never staying long enough in one place to be proficient, but this was unlike anything he knew. It was, he decided, more like Castilian Spanish than anything he could remember. Like, he reflected, but unlike.

  A stick cracked as if being broken for a fire. Almost without a sound, Kawasi got to her feet and he followed. Still holding his hand she started off, keeping to the darkness. Suddenly he could see the fire, a low blaze with several men lying about, wearing blue.

  The Varanel!

  A border guard, or something of the kind. But why here? Why—He paused so suddenly that his grip stopped her. It hit him so hard he caught his breath.

  They were on the Other Side!

  Impossible! It was…! “Come!” she whispered, and he followed, careful not to stumble. They were still walking on grass, moving toward what appeared to be trees. Once among the trees she stopped. “Something is wrong!” she whispered. “Something is very wrong! What are they doing here?”

  There was something close to panic in her tone. He looked around, and dark though it was he could see what must be the sky, although he saw no stars. Towering above the forest on the edge of which they stood was a cliff that must rise a thousand feet sheer from the ground. There was nothing like that near the mesa of the ruin.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “My village is near. Only a few miles. And these—these people have never come so close!”

  “Kawasi, I do not know your situation, nor that of your people, but that is an army patrol encamped for the night or on guard here. Any soldier would recognize the signs at once. Either the approaches to your village are being guarded or they are preparing an attack.”

  “Attack? Oh, no! They must not!” Her voice was anguished. “Oh, Mike! I’ve been too long away! I fear! I fear greatly!”

  He put his arm around her. “Take it easy, honey. Now let’s get down to business. How do we get to your place from here?”

  Her momentary fear and doubt seemed to ebb away. The need for action dispelled her anxiety for the moment. Taking his hand again, she went swiftly along the edge of the woods. At a pause, he whispered, “Careful! There may be scouts out, or other parties.”

  “I do not think so. Nobody ever fights them. Nobody has resisted them for many years.”

  And that, he told himself, might be their only advantage. He had noticed that in the strong-arm men he had encountered in the parking lot at the motel. They had not expected resistance, at least not the resistance offered by a fighting man who knew his business.

  “It is far?”

  “Only a few miles.”

  “Will there be a guard?”

  “A guard? Oh, no! There has never been need for one. Not for a long, long time.”

  So what started the ball rolling, he wondered. Was it Erik? Or had Erik escaped somehow? Was this part of a searching party? Or had they—he caught his breath—decided to do what he had suggested to Gallagher, come through to the other side, in force?

  The idea did not greatly worry him. They might overcome a few outlying ranches or take over one of the marinas on Lake Powell, but once the word was out, there were too many homes with weapons, too many citizens who were prepared to defend themselves.

  Gallagher, for example, could have a hundred armed men deputized to help within a half hour after realization of the necessity. There was almost no place in the West, and in many parts of the East, where this was not true. No enemy paratroop attack had ever been made into a country where the citizens were armed. And of course, they had the advantage of knowing the country.

  With Kawasi leading, almost running now, they wove their way among boulders, up a dry wash, then a narrow path up the face of the cliff. Obviously, she was accustomed to this, but he was not and the altitude was high. It was growing lighter. Daybreak, perhaps? But it was too soon. He glanced at his wristwatch.

  Three A.M.?

  He swore suddenly, and Kawasi looked around. “What is it?”

  “When I came through,” he said, “I was going to mark the place so I could get back. Now I don’t know where I am.”

  He was in a world he had never wanted, facing enemies he did not know, and he had no means of escape.

  Above all, there was little time. Only a matter of hours until the openings were closed forever, or for more years than he cared to contemplate.

  Buster, he told himself, this time you’ve done it! This time you’ve bought the packet!

  Chapter 32

  *

  AT THEIR FEET was a vast black gulf, and around them great wind-scoured cliffs and jagged spires, an unbelievable chaos bathed in deep shadows and misty gold light. Awed, he stood transfixed by the dark grandeur of the sight. Kawasi tugged at his sleeve. “Come!” she whispered.

  Leading him, she plunged down an unseen path into that bowl of blackness, switching back and forth across the face of the cliff into the cool darkness below. Once, during a momentary pause, he glanced back up to see a leaning tower of rock like a great warning finger, a warning of he knew not what danger.

  When they reached level ground, she was almost running. Nearby he heard water.

  “A stream?” he whispered.

  “Irrigation ditch,” she replied. “There are miles of them. This is our land, all down this canyon and on the mesas around us. That is why I am frighten. We did not believe they knew where to find us. For a long time we are undisturbed. Now that is over.”

  They reached a well-trodden path, and before them loomed the dark bulk of some kind of a structure. His eyes could dimly find its outlines. A pueblo not unlike those near Taos but vastly larger.

>   Kawasi walked to what appeared to be a blank wall, moved something with her fingers, and spoke into what must have been a speaking tube.

  There was a muffled response and a moment later a ladder was lowered from the roof above. Kawasi climbed swiftly and he followed. The ladder was withdrawn by a man to whom Kawasi spoke swiftly and sharply. Turning, the man ran into the door of his sleeping quarters. Mike could hear the man talking to someone else, apparently spreading the alarm.

  Kawasi did not linger. She led him swiftly along the roof to another ladder, fixed in position. On this second level several men awaited her and she spoke rapidly, evidently explaining the situation and the necessities of the moment. He could see them peering at him; then they moved away, scattering out.

  “Do you expect an attack?”

  “We must be prepared. This might be only a scouting party.”

  “Do you think they know where you are?”

  “How can we know? We must act as if they did, and act promptly.”

  “It was not a large party. Maybe you shouldn’t let them get away.”

  She turned sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “If they are the only ones who know where you are, and they could not return with the information…?”

  “You mean…kill them?” She was shocked. “They are Varanel. Nobody has ever killed a Varanel!”

  “Not even Johnny?”

  “Well…perhaps, but it does not seem possible. They are invulnerable!”

  “Nobody is invulnerable,” he said, “and if they are a danger to you, why not?”

  “We do not attack. We only defend.”

  Mike Raglan walked on beside her for several steps. “Often it is better to attack first. Destroy them before they can attack, and before they can return with the news of what they have found.”

  “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, something 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.