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

by Louis L'Amour

  “Nothin’ even feels the same. Did you ever wake up in the night an’ find everythin’ out of kilter? The door seems in the wrong place? Everythin’ switched around? Well, that country can be that way, only it doesn’t stay that way for minutes—it’s like that for hours!”

  He paused, staring out into the night’s darkness. “You listen to me, boy. You do like I done. When that country seems all catty-corner-wise, you stay where you’re at. Don’t you move! Don’t let nobody get you down into that crazy, twisted-up country!

  “Three, maybe four times in thirty years I seen it. Each time I had sense to stay right where I was.

  “I had me an ol’ burro them days. Canny beast! Follered it over mesa an’ canyon for nigh thirty years. It was that ol’ burro learned me. With green grass an’ water right down the slope, that ol’ burro wouldn’t take a step! I pushed him one time, tol’ him not to be such a damn fool, but he jus’ laid back his ears an’ wouldn’t move!”

  He reached into an inside pocket and brought out a piece of canvas, opening it on the table. “There she be. This here is Navajo Mountain. Nobody’s goin’ to miss that. Biggest thing around, an settin’ right in the middle of some of the roughest country you ever did see. Canyons so deep you have to look twice to see the bottom. You look as far as you can see, then you start from there an’ look again.

  “That squiggly line? That’s the San Juan River. Empties into the Colorado. Most of the time she flows in the bottom of a canyon. There’s a trail leads from Navajo goin’ east. Mighty rough.”

  “That’s the way we’re headed.”

  “Keep goin’, son. Just don’t stop. You keep a-goin’.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The old cowboy put his finger on a mesa, carefully drawn on the canvas map. “That’s the place to fight shy of. You’re gettin’ into cliff-dweller country but you won’t find any up there. Them old Injuns was smart! They wanted no part of that place!

  “But it ain’t just that one spot. There’s forty or fifty square miles of country it’s best to leave alone. Not to say I was never there. I got in there a time or two. There was an old Injun, a fine old man. Knowed him for years before he said anything to me about that there place.

  “He said there was a ‘way,’ whatever that meant, but all those who knew how to use it were gone. It was a clan secret an’ the clan died out. Or was killed off by somebody who wanted the ‘way’ kept secret.”

  He pushed the canvas toward Mike Raglan. “Stick this inside your shirt an’ never let anybody know you got it. There’s those would kill to get their hands on it, and it would serve them right. That’s why I never told nobody until now.

  “I’m an old man, boy. I seen the sun set over that red rock country many’s the time. I seen men go into that country who never came back. I’ve knowed others who come back stark ravin’ mad, memory gone an’ their wits along with it.

  “There’s another world over there somewheres. At least there’s a way to get to it. Like them Spanish men in their iron suits. They seen the Seven Cities of Cibola. They really seen ’em! They weren’t lookin’ at any pueblos with the sun on ’em. They just happened to see through the veil. Somehow it was open then and they seen right through and never got over what they seen!

  “They are there, boy! I seen ’em, too! But there’s evil over there, evil like you an’ me can’t even imagine. It was that ancient evil that drove the cliff dwellers into this world, comin’ through, as they said it, a hole in the ground.

  “In their kivas, their ceremonial centers, there’s what they call a sipapu. It’s a hole in the floor that symbolizes how they escaped from the evil. But that evil is still over there, son, an’ don’t you forget it!”

  That had been a long time ago, and Mike Raglan had told the story to no one, not even to Erik Hokart. Yet he had warned Erik about the country. He had advised him to forget it, to choose any other place, but Hokart would not listen.

  Later, on that same early trip, he had mentioned the mesa to Jack. “No Man’s Mesa,” the old miner said. “We camp near there tomorrow night, if we’re lucky.” He shook his head. “There’s not much in the way of roads—some trails and wagon routes the Navajos use. I been through there a-horseback but never with a car. You may have to walk ahead an’ scout a route, roll rocks out of the way and such. It’s mighty rough country.”

  “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 she looked at me, but not really at me, 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! ‘A man?’ 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 3

  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 i
nhabitants 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 were others, 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 as ghost, specter, poltergeist, angel, devil, or spirit, 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 worlds here? 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.