the Haunted Mesa (1987)

by L'amour, Louis

  "Know anything about that mesa?"

  Jack was a long time in replying. Finally he shrugged. "Just a big chunk of rock, talus slopes, sheer rock around the rim. Kind of out-of-the-way and nobody pays it much mind."

  Indicating one of Jack's Paiute friends, Mike suggested: "Ask him if he knows anything about it."

  Jack waved a hand, his manner just a little too casual. "Nothing to ask, and don't look for it on a map. Chances are they'll have it in the wrong place, even in the wrong state."

  "I am curious."

  "Ask a Hopi then. They've been here forever. My advice is to forget it."

  "I want to climb it. See what's on top."

  "You're crazy, Mike. Let well enough alone."

  Climb it he had, but that was another story and too long ago. He had covered a lot of country since then, had grown older and, he hoped, wiser.

  He got back in the car and locked the doors, then leaned his head back. He was tired, really tired. Where the devil was Erik? All he wanted now was a quiet meal and his bed at Tamarron. No, he would settle for the bed. He could eat tomorrow.

  He sat up, started the car, and drove slowly, carefully along the road toward the San Juan. The long mesa from which he had seen the flare towered over him now, dark and threatening. The northern tip of the mesa loomed against the sky like the prow of a giant ship.

  Peering ahead he could see the gleam of water. That would be the San Juan River, or water backed up by Glen Canyon Dam. He had not been in this country since the dam was built. He started to get out of the car, then paused, taking time to thread his belt through the holster loop and buckle up again. He wore the holster on his left side, situated for a cross-draw or a left-hand draw if necessary.

  Often he climbed into high, relatively inaccessible places and habitually carried the gun as a protection against an inadvertent meeting with a bear or mountain lion. The chance of such an encounter was slight, but after one near brush with a lion he had gone prepared. He had no desire to kill anything nor did he have any desire to be a chance victim. The gun had a reassuring feel. He stepped down from the car and closed the door softly behind him.

  With the sound there was a scurry of movement off in the dark, a rattle of pebbles, then silence. His hand on his gun, he waited.

  He was not the sort to shoot at any sound, nor at anything he could not identify, but the movement disturbed him. It might have been a coyote but his impression was of something larger.

  For a long time he waited. It was unlike Erik Hokart, who was meticulous about keeping appointments. He paced the road near the car. It was cold, as desert nights were apt to be. He put his hand on the door handle. Suddenly, from the edge of the mesa towering above him, there was a brilliant flare. Only a momentary flash, yet for that instant it shed a white radiance all around, and then, just as suddenly, it was gone.

  In the utter darkness that followed, the desert seemed to scurry with life. He glimpsed vaguely a rush of naked figures, and something smashed hard into the side of his car. He turned sharply and for an instant stared into the wide, expressionless eyes of a naked creature. It seemed not to see him at all, but scrambled around his car and ran off into the night, leaving behind a heavy fetid odor as of something dead.

  Then the creatures--or men, or whatever they were--vanished into the night and he was alone. Only the odor lingered.

  There were far-off retreating sounds, then silence. He shuddered, then got quickly into his car and closed the door, locking it. It had happened so suddenly there had been no chance for fear. Shaken, he turned the car about and drove back to Tamarron, where he was staying.

  The drive was long and day was breaking before he drew up in front of the lodge. Leaving the motor running, he went to the desk for his mail before driving on to the condominium. There was a handful of letters and a small packet wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It bore no stamps and no postmark.

  He recognized the handwriting and turned back to the desk clerk. "When did this come? Were you here when it was delivered?"

  "It was about ten o'clock last night. I asked if she wanted me to inquire whether you were in or not, but she shook her head. She just put the package on the counter, looked at me strangely, then turned away. When she got to the door she turned and looked around--not just at me, at everything."

  "You seem to have paid attention."

  She flushed. "Well ... she was strange, somehow."

  "Strange?"

  "She was very beautiful, exotic-looking. Like nobody around here. I thought at first she was an Indian, but not like any I ever knew. But it was the way shelooked at me, but not really atme , at my face, my hair, my clothes."

  "Why not? You're an attractive girl."

  "It wasn't that. She looked at me like she had never seen anyone or anything that looked like me. I mean that, seriously."

  Once at the condominium he tossed the packet on the bed, and his .357 magnum alongside it. The important thing now was rest. The long flight from New York, the resulting jet lag, and the long drives at night had him ready for collapse.

  He was getting into bed when the telephone rang.

  "Mr. Raglan?" It was the girl at the desk. "I thought you had better know. There was a man in here just now asking for that package you picked up. He said he was to deliver it to you."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "That you had picked it up, of course. Then he asked where the girl was who delivered it." She paused. "Mr. Raglan, you will think me a fool, but he frightened me. I have no idea why, but something about him frightened me."

  "What about the girl?"

  "He ... I didn't like him, Mr. Raglan, and I am afraid I lied. I told him I saw no girl, that it was a man who brought it."

  "And ... ?"

  "You should have seen his face! It was livid! 'Aman ?' He yelled it, Mr. Raglan, and then he rushed outside and got into a van."

  "Thank you for telling me."

  "I hope I didn't do anything wrong."

  "You couldn't have handled it better. Thank you."

  For a moment he stood by the bar, thinking. Maybe he had lived too long with doubts and suspicions, but at this point he had no idea what was going on or how Erik was involved, if at all. Until he knew more he must move with caution. Erik was, he gathered, in serious trouble, but what kind of trouble? And over what? What kind of trouble could a man get into in the desert, miles from anyone?

  Opening the packet he discovered what he had half-expected to discover, Erik Hokart's daybook. Erik had long kept a record of his work when a step-by-step record of an experiment might be very important indeed. Tossing the book to the bed, he took up a copy of an Eric Ambler mystery he had finished reading and rewrapped it with the same paper and string, leaving it in plain sight at the end of the bar.

  A few minutes later he was in bed with the daybook under his pillow and his .357 close to his hand. A light snow was falling at the time he dropped off to sleep. It was his last memory for several hours.

  When the years have accustomed a man to danger there are some feelings that remain with him; one is a subconscious awareness. Exhausted as he was, a surreptitious stirring awakened him.Somebody or something was in the room !

  Ever so slightly he lifted his head. A broad-shouldered man, his back toward Mike, had just moved up to the bar and picked up the brown-wrapped package. The man turned toward the window.

  With the .357 in his hand Mike said, "I can't imagine why a man would risk his freedom to steal a book he could buy on any newsstand for a couple of dollars."

  "Book?"

  "Erik Hokart and I have exchanged books for years. If he reads one he likes he sends it to me and I do the same with him. But if you want it that bad, please take it."

  "Book?"

  "Get out! If you come here again I'll kill you. I don't like thieves."

  The man ducked through the slit where the curtain joined and through the glass doors, which stood open. Mike heard the sound as the man dropped to the
ground--no great drop for an active man. Walking to the window Mike drew it shut and locked it, watching the man crossing toward the highway. Headlights came on and a white van moved off toward Durango.

  Taking the daybook and his gun, he went into the bathroom and showered and shaved. As he shaved he thought about Erik. That the man believed himself in serious trouble was obvious from his letter. Even from his first message it had been clear that something was wrong, and Erik was not given to sudden notions or apprehensions.

  Erik's telephone call had been brief and to the point. "I need," he said, "somebody with your particular interests, somebody with your brand of thinking. I will cheerfully pay all expenses and for your time."

  "It's impossible right now, Erik. I've started something that must be finished."

  Erik had been silent, then had said, "Come as soon as you can, all right? I don't want to talk to anybody else about this."

  "What is it? What's wrong?"

  Again that hesitation. Was he speaking from a public phone? Were there others around, perhaps listening? "Tell you when you get here. You'd think I was off my rocker." He hesitated again. "At least, anybody else would."

  They had said their good-byes and then Erik had said, quickly. "Mike? Please! I'm desperate!"

  Mike remembered how he had hung up, startled, staring at the phone. That was so unlike Erik Hokart. The man must truly be in trouble, but at that time he had not connected it to his own knowledge of the country. Somehow the two ideas had not come together in his mind. Had he realized ...

  Then he got the letter. The writing was erratic, totally unlike Erik's.

  For God's sake, come at once! I need you, Mike, if ever I needed anyone. If it's money, I'll pay, but come! And be careful. Trust no one. No one at all.

  Meet me on the Canyon road, you know the one. If I am not there, for God's sake, find me!

  If anyone can handle this it will be you. I am sending the record as far as it goes. Get us out of this, Mike, and I'll be forever indebted.

  Chapter III

  Us? Was someone with him then? Mike had worried about that plural more than once since the letter arrived, and during his flight west. None of it made sense. Erik had always been a loner, attractive to women but seemingly not attracted by them.

  Mike Raglan turned the idea over in his mind while dressing. Then he made coffee and seated himself at a table where he could see both the glass doors and the front entrance. He put the .357 on the table in front of him. He was not expecting trouble, yet they had gone so far as to force an entry to his condo in the night. What might follow he did not know.

  He opened the daybook, and using his thumb as a marker he sat back, curiously reluctant to delve into its contents. Men had taken the country too much for granted. The obvious dangers and benefits tended to obscure much else, and most people had thought of the West in terms of fur, buffalo, gold, silver, cowboys, Indians, and cattle, rarely looking beyond the surface.

  The Indians the white man met were no more the original inhabitants of the country than were the Normans and Saxons the original inhabitants of England. Other peoples had come and gone before, leaving only their shadows upon the land. Yet some had gone into limbo leaving not only physical artifacts but spiritual ones as well. Often, encroaching tribes borrowed from those who preceded them, accepting their values as a way of maintaining harmony with the natural world.

  There were ancient mysteries, old gods who retired into the canyons to await new believers who would bring them to life once more. Who has walked the empty canyons or the lonely land above the timber and not felt himself watched? Watched by what ghost from a nameless past? From out of what pit of horror and fear?

  The Indian had always known he was not alone. He knew there wereothers , things that observed. When a man looked quickly up, was it a movement he saw or only his imagination?

  The terms we use for what is considered supernatural are woefully inadequate. Beyond such terms asghost ,specter ,poltergeist ,angel ,devil , orspirit , might there not be something more our purposeful blindness has prevented us from understanding?

  We accept the fact that there may be other worlds out in space, but might there not be other worldshere ? Other worlds, in other dimensions, coexistent with this? If there are other worlds parallel to ours, are all the doors closed? Or does one, here or there, stand ajar?

  Each year our knowledge progresses, each year we push back the curtain of ignorance, but there remains so much to learn. Our theories are only dancing shadows against a hard wall of reality.

  How few answers do we possess! How many phenomena are ignored because they do not fall into accepted categories!

  Ours is a world that has developed along materialistic, mechanistic lines, but might there not be other ways? Might there not be dozens of other ways, unknown and unguessed because of the one we found that worked?

  Mike Raglan refilled his cup and put the daybook on the table. He did not know the answers. He had seen things and heard things that made him wonder. In a lifetime devoted to exposing fraud and deception, investigating haunted houses, mediums, and cult religions, he had come upon a few things that left him uneasy.

  That man now? The one he had found in his condo, stealing his book. Who was he? Why did he want the daybook? Did he want it for himself or was he sent by someone to find it?

  Why Mike had the impression, he did not know but he did believe the man was sent by others. He had obviously come to secure the daybook, and he might return.

  He agreed with the girl at the desk that there was something about him, some aura of strangeness. Yet he also had the look of a professional, a man who knew his job and how to go about it.

  Mike took up the book. It was an ordinary loose-leaf notebook with ruled pages, and Erik had written with a brush pen. The writing was thick, black, easily read.

  Landed on mesa top. It is certainly different, as we perceived from the air. The top a rough oval, absolutely flat and tufted with short bunches of vegetation. Soil deep but seems to have been badly leached. Along one side an edging of crags, yet the rocks themselves are smooth. The mesa falls off steeply on that side. On the other sides it also falls steeply away. Oddly enough, seems to have been purposely ringed with slabs of rock. Most unusual. My impression, which may be mistaken, is that the mesa top may have been cultivated in the far-distant past.

  Found three walls almost intact. Roofed them with plywood sheet. Will do nicely for sleeping and a construction shanty while building. A table for blueprints, a corner for tools, one room for camping under cover.

  View tremendous! San Juan River lies below. Across the river a huge mesa rears its head. Must be nearly ten miles long, talus slope, and last three to five hundred feet are sheer rock. That must be the one called No Man's Mesa, probably for good reasons.

  Sunday. Relaxed today, scouted around, worked on the walls of my shelter. Remarkably well built. Mortar treated with substance to make it set harder. It is different from other cliff houses or pueblos, but styles vary and the builders were learning as they worked.

  The house I plan to build, doing most of the work myself, will consist of ten rooms, and a patio, all from native stone and built into the rocks that back up the mesa at that point. The building may require a year or more. This is a dream house, the site chosen because it is one of the most remote in the country.

  Monday. Awakened by fierce growling. Chief on his feet, teeth bared, every hair bristling, growling deep in his chest. Chief is unusually large, weighing 160 pounds. The Tibetan mastiffs have been guard dogs for thousands of years, known to fight bears, tigers, or wild yak, to attack anything invading their premises.

  It was the middle of the night. I spoke sharply but he continued to growl. Rising up from the army cot that was my bed, I saw a faint reddish glow emanating from the adjoining room. For a moment I feared the place was afire but the color was wrong. Catching up my pistol I stepped into the next room, prepared for I know not what. I stopped, astonished. The red glow
was coming from my blueprint!

  There, drawn into my plans with a glowing red line was another room! A round room, resembling a kiva of the cliff dwellers!

  Mike Raglan put down the book and stared out at the snow. The tracks of his recent visitor were still clearly marked in the snow between his condo and the highway, so that at least was no dream.

  His coffee was cold. He walked to the sink and emptied his cup, then ran it full of hot water to heat the cup again. He liked his coffee hot and a warm cup kept it so longer. He refilled the cup with coffee and went back to his seat.

  No wonder Erik had sent for him! The trouble was that, for the time being at least, Mike Raglan had had enough of puzzles and mysteries. What he wanted now was peace and quiet, time to think, to study, to consider some of the things he had learned, or thought he had learned.

  He had been orphaned at twelve, when his parents drove into a filling station during a holdup and were shot dead without any awareness of what was happening. The next two years he had lived on a ranch, helping with the work, riding, and hunting. The family then broke up in a divorce and for a year he worked as an assistant to a carnival magician working the county fairs. Following that, he ran a shooting gallery at an amusement park. He had become a better than average shot while working on the ranch but at the shooting gallery he perfected his skills. When the season closed he spent several months out of work. He was often hungry, and the few jobs he could find were hard labor.

  When spring came again he returned to the carnival, operating the shooting gallery on his own. Twice, when the magician was too far gone in his cups, Mike had carried on with his show. The magician was a Lebanese and from him Mike picked up a smattering of Arabic. At sixteen he was doing a man's work and accepting a man's responsibilities. He gave his age as twenty-four.

  Knowing the show offered no future, he made a point of making local contacts wherever they went. The result was a job that paid little more than room and board with a small-town daily paper and job printer. For the next seven months he swept floors, answered the telephone, delivered orders, and did whatever needed doing. In the meantime, he read.