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

by Louis L'Amour

  “Actually, if we wish to be happy on our green earth, the last thing we want is a visit from a superior people from outer space. Distant contact would be quite another thing, although the probability is we would have to learn a new language, a new math, and an entirely different way of looking at things. This would undoubtedly take generations and would be opposed bitterly by many factions.

  “Men have never readily accepted new ideas. Our schools and general thinking are cluttered with beliefs long proved absurd by contemporary knowledge. Man has demonstrated over and over again that the last thing he wants are new ideas, even when they are desperately needed. Ideas are welcomed as long as they do not contradict theories on which scholarly reputations have been erected.”

  Gallagher was amused. “You’re really wound up this morning. Supposing what we’re talking about is true? What would it be like over there?”

  “We can only guess. Judging by the little I’ve had from Kawasi and Tazzoc, it is a very regimented, locked-in society desperately afraid of ideas or strangers that might inject some discontent.

  “I suspect a once-progressive society became locked into a pattern, which they are struggling to preserve, and we constitute a threat. At the same time the powers that be are eager for some aspects of our knowledge, especially those aspects that can help them maintain the status quo.”

  “Do you think that’s why they grabbed Hokart?”

  “Not at all. They grabbed him because he knew of an opening into their world, but whatever they have learned since may make them wish to keep him. Right now I suspect they are experiencing severe intestinal discomfort from trying to digest even a small part of what he has to offer.”

  “Do you think he will help them?”

  “If he’s smart he will convince them he is too valuable to kill or torture, and I believe he will feed them just enough to whet their appetite until he can find a way to escape.

  “He’s no fool, and in time he will know that if he is to get away he must do something about it himself. What he does will depend on his own imagination and what materials he has access to that will be useful. He will also have to learn the limits of their knowledge so they will not suspect what he is doing. A man of his knowledge should be able to create explosives or gases that might help and, in time, broadcast facilities that would upset their carefully ordered world. It depends on how much freedom he can acquire, the state of their knowledge, and how much time he has.”

  Gallagher shook his head again. “Too much for me, but I’d like to talk to this Tazzoc guy. He could help us a lot.”

  “He could help us, but he could help Hokart even more. You see, Tazzoc will know what they know. He is a Keeper of the Archives and he will know more than anyone. That helps us.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The man’s an historian and, after a fashion, a scholar. Such men are hungry for knowledge. To know a little arouses a hunger to know more. I’ve stirred his curiosity, and believe me, he’ll be back to find me.

  “There’s my chance. Tazzoc can open the door for me. He is the key to everything.”

  “You think he will help you?”

  “I’m betting on it. I’m betting my life.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Using the telephone in his room, Mike Raglan dialed a friend in Denver, another in Washington, D.C. If they did not hear from him within two weeks, he told them, they had better investigate. He directed them to contact Gallagher and referred them also to the daybook in a safe at Tamarron. Then he made one more call; if he was going to do this, he needed backup.

  The moves he planned could lead to disaster, but no matter what happened to him, someone must know, for if there was life on the other side, and he had evidence of it, there was no telling what their intentions might be.

  Volkmeer drove up to the motel at sundown. He was a tall man with narrow shoulders, somewhat stooped, with a weather-beaten face. He was fifty years old but looked ten years younger.

  He wore a battered black hat, a blue shirt, a gray vest, a pair of well-washed jeans, and boots with run-down heels. “Been years,” he said, when seated. “Heard of you now and again. Never expected your call.”

  “I need help, Volk.”

  “Figured as much, but it’s hard to imagine. Last I knew of you, you could do it all.”

  “Ever ride that No Man’s Mesa country?”

  Volkmeer took a cigar from his breast pocket, regarded it thoughtfully, then bit off the tip. “Time or two. It’s a place to fight shy of.”

  He struck a match on the seat of his pants and lit the cigar. “Used to be Paiute country—Navajos never liked it much. I never liked it much, either.”

  “There’s a mesa on this side of the river. Odd sort of place. Looks like the top was cultivated at one time or another.”

  “Witch plants.”

  “What?”

  “Witch plants growed there. That’s what an Injun boy told me. Forty-odd years ago when I rode in there with this boy, there was still a few volunteers comin’ up.

  “Mostly they died out over the years or been gathered and not replanted, but here and there some still lived. That kid an’ me, we climbed up there one time to get a drink out of a natural tank in the sandstone. He knew about that mesa and when he seen the plants, he taken out. I mean we left.”

  “You never went back?”

  “Some years later I was huntin’ strays and hunted that tank for a drink. Rainfall collected there, thousands of gallons of it, and good to drink unless some animal fell into it. I remembered what that Injun kid tol’ me—that the plants were planted by witches who wanted them for bad medicine.”

  “Ever camp up there?”

  Volkmeer glanced at him, his hard old eyes cynical. “I did. Camped in an old ruin. Wall made a good windbreak and she was blowin’ up cold. Eerie sort of place. I left out of there came daybreak. My horse didn’t like it no better than I did.”

  Volkmeer put his hat on a chair. His hair was thin now, and gray, but he was still the man he had been, a grim, hard man with no nonsense about him. Years ago he had caught three rustlers with some cattle of the brand he rode for. He brought them in, two of them over their saddles and the third with a knot on his skull.

  “I remember when you rode for that outfit over in the Blues,” Raglan commented.

  “The Blues, the Henry, and the La Sals. I rode ’em all. There was still some bad ones hangin’ out on the Swell back in them days. Cassidy was gone, and so was Matt Warner, but there were others around. Cassidy never bothered us, nor any of his crowd. Some of that later bunch, they didn’t know no better, there at first. We had to dust a few of them with our Winchesters before they taken us serious.”

  He brushed ash from his cigar. “What you want of me? I was just settin’ around goin’ to seed up yonder, just wishin’ something would happen.”

  “This may not be to your taste,” Raglan said, and explained.

  Volkmeer listened, then stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. “You figure to go in there?”

  “I am.”

  “I won’t say you’re crazy. I heard the like from old Injuns a time or two. Some of the young ones don’t believe anymore. You got to talk to the old men and women, the kind I growed up with. Stories make your hair stand on end, believe me.”

  He paused. “What d’you want me for?”

  “Backup. I want somebody who won’t stampede. When I go through that window I want somebody standing by who will be there when I come back.”

  “You pulled me out of that mine, years ago. I owe you one. You came in an’ got me when I figured myself a goner. There was nobody else around and you taken your life in hand when you come after me. You could have gone off an’ left me and nobody would’ve known. Now, what do we do?”

  “First, I’ve got to see a woman. Eden Foster.”

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p; Volkmeer gave him a bleak look. “Know her, do you? She come up to my place a few years ago.”

  Raglan was surprised. “Your place in the Blues? What did she want?”

  “She’d heard I guided some parties back on the Ute reservation. Showed them a cliff dwelling called Eagle’s Nest. You know it?”

  “I do.”

  “Seemed like some kinfolk of hers lived there one time. She didn’t actually say that, but I gathered it. She wanted to know what was around, any paintings on the rocks, and suchlike.”

  “What else?”

  “She wanted to know if I ever got down to No Man’s. I was sort of curious but I didn’t let it show. I made no mention of No Man’s or the Hole.”

  “Johnny’s?”

  “You know about Johnny?”

  “No, not much. I do know about the Hole. I’ve been there and I’m going back.”

  “I never knew Johnny. He was before my time, but I heard talk. Johnny was a top hand, rode for several of the old outfits, and was a well-liked man. He was a rider. Broke the rough string for a half-dozen outfits, so they were all some cut up when he disappeared.

  “Johnny usually rode alone. He’d come back a time or two tellin’ about this Hole he found, with water, trees, and all. Folks didn’t know whether to believe him or not but nobody wanted to ride forty mile just to prove him a liar. Johnny brung back some strays, mostly our stock that drifted south. Then he went back after some others and we never seen him again.

  “It was common talk when I was a youngster. There’d been an Indian outbreak led by Old Polk and Posey, his son. That was about 1915. They killed a couple of Mexicans and when a posse went hunting them, they killed one of the posse. They’d been camped in Cow Canyon near Bluff when the posse came up on them, and there was a lot of shooting.

  “Johnny had been riding over west of Bluff and when he didn’t show up, folks just naturally figured he’d run into Posey and his bunch of renegade Indians. Anyway, he disappeared.”

  “He’s still alive, Volk. Somehow he got over to the Other Side and couldn’t find his way back.”

  “I find that hard to believe. Johnny was just a youngster but he was a good tracker.” He paused. “Alive, you say? Why, he’d be over a hundred years old!”

  “Not quite. But he’d be close to ninety, or maybe a year or two older.”

  “I’ll be damned! Well, he was a tough man. If anybody could make it, Johnny could, from all I heard about him. You expect to find him?”

  “I’ll be looking, Volk. He’s my key to what’s over there, he and the two I mentioned: the girl named Kawasi and the man Tazzoc.”

  They talked the moon out of the sky and then Volk turned in on the twin bed. Mike Raglan sat awhile in the dark, just thinking. Then he went to bed himself, only to lie awake trying to consider all aspects of his problem.

  What had happened to the Anasazi in the years following their return? They were far from a static culture when they vanished, and although changes were few, there were experiments with architecture brought about by the demands of the cliff caves in which they built their cities, if such they could be termed.

  What would they have become had they remained here and been able to resist the attacks of the wild nomadic Indians who were coming in from the North and West? How would their civilizations have developed?

  So much depended on water and the use of water that eventually their civilization, like those of Egypt, Babylon, the Indus Valley, and the Maya, would have had to agree to an overall control of water use by someone.

  Lying in the darkness after he got into bed, Mike Raglan turned the problem over in his thoughts. There had been so much concentration on the native Americans found in possession when the white man came that little thought had been given to those who preceded them.

  There had been excavations at Cahokia Mound, at Hopewell, and other places, as well as speculation about the Mound Builders, but much had been ignored that did not fit accepted theory. Too many workers in the field were inclined to ignore, as an intrusion, anything that did not fit previously conceived ideas. It was time for all such ideas to be set aside and for each bit of evidence to be examined with a completely open mind.

  Nearly every state has had discoveries ignored or put aside as “fakes” because they do not conform. It would appear that several hundred people over a century of time had devoted much energy to planting evidence to confuse scholars whom they would never know, and from which they would never profit. If runes or other inscriptions were found that did not conform to scholarly standards, no allowance was ever made for the fact that there were few men in any country who could write, let alone write well. Whatever was found was simply that left by men often poorly educated but trying to leave a record.

  Wanderers and seafarers were rarely scholars or even possessed of anything but rudimentary education. They would attempt to mark their progress with what signs they possessed.

  It was time men abandoned the ridiculous assumption that two great continents dividing the great seas of the world, and surrounded by seafaring peoples, had remained isolated for thousands of years.

  What was the percentage, Mike wondered, of people living in the Scandinavian countries who could write runes correctly?

  Raglan rolled to his back, staring wide-eyed into the darkness. It was time white men understood that most of the Indians found in possession were latecomers, and all too little was known about who had preceded them.

  It would be good to have Volkmeer with him. He knew the man, had worked with him long ago, and had been lucky to find his name in the telephone directory. He was a man who would stay with him when the going got rough, and from his brief experience with the Varanel, it could become very rough indeed.

  First, though, he must see Eden Foster. If he could negotiate the return of Erik Hokart, all would be well.

  How much authority, if any, did she have? Dared she take? And how much was she prepared to risk her own position to ensure the security of her people?

  The picture he had been putting together might be mistaken, but his impression was of a small, tightly held civilization, strong in itself but desperately afraid of ideas penetrating from beyond the veil. No doubt they considered this world to be evil and wished to protect themselves from it.

  Tazzoc…

  Tazzoc was a man of knowledge, and no man of knowledge was ever content with what he knew. He always wished to know more. No doubt Tazzoc had questions for which he wanted answers, and if so, he might be induced to trade.

  Tazzoc did not believe, for example, in the existence of Kawasi’s people. No doubt that information had been carefully kept. He believed, or seemed to believe, that He Who Had Magic was a fable. Yet no doubt in those stone and clay tablets there might be a clue, or even a history of the events that led to the exodus of He Who Had Magic and his people.

  Somehow he must see Tazzoc again, must find some way of meeting Kawasi and, of course, Johnny.

  It was daybreak when he opened his eyes. Volkmeer was already dressed and combing his gray hair.

  “Let’s have some breakfast,” Raglan suggested. “Maybe Gallagher will come in.”

  As he was slipping into his boots he said, “I haven’t talked about how to pay you, Volk, but I intend to.”

  Volkmeer glanced at him. “Did I ask? You need help. That’s all that’s important.”

  “But I have to pay you for your time,” Raglan protested. “It isn’t fair to take you from your work and not pay you.”

  Volkmeer shrugged. “I never like to talk about money until I’ve et. Let’s get with it.”

  The air was cool, the sky overcast. Their boots grated on the gravel as they crossed to the restaurant.

  The place had just opened, and the girl at the cash register glanced around at them. “Hello, Mr. Volkmeer! It’s been a long time!”

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bsp; Volkmeer grunted and walked across to a table and sat down.

  “I guess you get over here once in a while,” Raglan suggested.

  “Been a while, like the lady said. Mostly I’m over at Monticello or north from there.”

  They were drinking coffee when Gallagher came in. “Mr. Volkmeer!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

  “Been years,” Volkmeer said. “He found me in the directory.” He excused himself and walked to the counter to buy a cigar.

  Gallagher leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. “You sure do get around! Why didn’t you say you knew Mr. Volkmeer?”

  “Volk? I pulled him out of a collapsed mine tunnel once. Haven’t seen him for years.”

  Gallagher stared at him. “Mr. Volkmeer,” he said, “is one of the biggest ranchers and landowners anywhere around. He’s got a home you just won’t believe. He’s one of the most respected men in the state!”

  CHAPTER 23

  Mike Raglan closed the car door and locked it, dropping the key into his pocket. Then he walked up the path to the door. It was shady and cool on the wide veranda and the flowers were as beautiful as he remembered them.

  It was Mary, the Navajo girl, who answered the door. “I’d like to see Eden Foster,” he said.

  She stepped back, her large dark eyes on his. “I will tell her,” she said. “Won’t you be seated?”

  She drew back a chair, brushed some invisible spot of dust from the cushion, and whispered, “Be careful!”

  He did not sit down but stood glancing around the room. All seemed to be the same except that one of his books was on the table, his book on a visit to a long-lost monastery in the Taliangshan Mountains, near Tibet.

  He heard a low murmur of voices from the direction in which Mary had gone, and looked around again. There were two doors leading to other parts of the house, another door into the garden, and a fourth that went out to an empty lawn bordered by trees.