“I heard he had done well,” Raglan commented. “I was surprised, as he didn’t look it when he came to see me and I figured I was about to hire an old cowboy to stand by me. I had no idea he’d become so successful.”
“He was in an almighty hurry. He wanted that property the worst way, so he paid in gold. Taken it right out of his saddlebags.”
“So?”
“Seemed odd, to me. The shape of it, I mean. The gold he paid me was in discs. Round discs thicker in the center, tapering off to the edges.”
Inside, Raglan was suddenly cold, chilled. He stared out of the window at the cliffs topped with forest. In his memory he was hearing a voice, the voice of another old man, that one in Flagstaff, long ago.
“ ‘Ree-fined gold, boy. Discs, like. Size of a saucer.’ ”
CHAPTER 27
Mike Raglan looked across the table at Artemus Weston. He looked more like a cattleman than a banker, but that was apt to be the case in these western towns.
“You’re retired now?”
Weston nodded, without turning to face him. He was staring off across the room, but what he was seeing was probably in his memory. “Ain’t got long now.” He turned his eyes toward Raglan. “Too many years behind me and my health’s not what it was. Figured a young man like you, you ought to know.”
“Why did you think it important?”
“I’d guess you know why, or you’d surmise. That there was the only time I ever saw gold like that, but livin’ in a place as long as I have, a man hears talk. Volkmeer got himself rich all of a sudden, seems like. Might have found himself a cache somewheres.”
He took a cigar from his pocket and bit off the end. “A man in bankin’, even an old cow-chaser like me, he thinks about money. Money’s what he deals with, money an’ people. Out here in the West it wasn’t our way to ask questions, but that can’t stop a man from wonderin’, and I done some wonderin’ about where that gold come from.
“Wasn’t all this worry about income tax, those days. A man didn’t have to explain where money come from. Volkmeer got rich mighty fast. Bought other property, here and there, and it seemed to me either he’d found a cache or somebody who had was paying him for something.”
Weston got to his feet. “Talked enough. Time I was headed home. Get tired easy these days. Ain’t like it was when I could ride forty hours at a stretch an’ done it, many’s the time, with cows or the like.”
He looked down at Raglan. “Used to have a lot of friends among the Injuns. Spoke Navajo since I was a youngster. Some of the old men used to come in for loans now and again. Never had one welsh on me. Always paid up when they got around to it.
“Now and again we’d just set an’ talk, an’ I heard some tales make your hair curl. You be careful, boy. You just be careful. You’re ridin’ bareback into some rough country.”
Raglan watched the old man walk away, weaving a path among the tables. Artemus Weston must indeed have been disturbed to have come here to see him. The old man must have made considerable effort just to get there.
Volkmeer? With gold such as the old cowboy in Flagstaff had found? How had he come by it? And whose side was he on, anyway?
Volkmeer, a hard, tough old man, and a rich one now. Was he an ally or an enemy? Suppose it was the latter? Suppose the man he had selected to back him up could not be trusted? He dared not take the risk, but how to be rid of him now that he had enlisted his aid?
It was time he drove out to see Eden Foster, and then made his move. Of course, she might have been able to intercede for Erik, but Raglan doubted it. From the little he knew, The Hand was all-powerful.
He started to rise, then sat down abruptly. The Lords of Shibalba! Why had he not remembered before this? Several years before, investigating the discovery of a Jaguar-throne in Central America, he had occasion to read the Popol Vuh, a sacred book of the Quiché Maya, and if he was not mistaken there was a reference to the Lords of Shibalba!
A waiter came to the table. “Were you leaving?”
“No, bring me another cup of coffee. I’ll be here for a while.”
He got out his notebook and started to jot down what he remembered.
Shibalba…an underground world inhabited by evil people who were tormentors of men, a place of dread and horror.
The Cakchiquels had believed Shibalba to be a place of great power and magnificence, but a place well known to them.
Hence, in the past there must have been some connection, some exchanges between the two worlds.
One thought prompted another, and he began to jot down every word he could recall, hoping each would stir some vagrant memory. He had used the method often and it always helped. Just seeing the words brought back other words seen in conjunction with them. For a half hour longer he worked, thinking, remembering.
So then, the connection between the Maya and the Anasazi extended to more than trade? Perhaps. In dealing with bygone peoples it was always perhaps. One had to learn, surmise, and then learn more, often proving the original theory mistaken.
Prevailing opinion often affected theory. In an age when peace was much to be desired, there was a reluctance to think of the Anasazi as warlike. The Maya had been deemed peaceful until the numbers of their human sacrifices became obvious. Many reasons other than defense were advanced for the retreat of the Anasazi from the mesa tops to cliff houses. It should have been immediately obvious that no sensible people, no matter how desirable cliff houses might seem in some respects, would endure the drudgery of climbing steep ladders day after day with food, water, and fuel for any reason but sheer necessity.
Memory can throw a golden aura over bygone years until only the pleasures are remembered. So it must have been for the Anasazi of the Four Corners region. Each day they must have had to go farther and farther afield to find fuel or building timbers, suffering from drought and stalked by fierce nomadic Indians. The world abandoned so long ago might suddenly become very inviting. Perhaps, also, the old evils might have vanished in the interim.
Mike Raglan signed his check, returning to his condo to write a few letters and pick up a few essentials, including emergency food packs he used when mountain-climbing.
Now to see Eden Foster! He glanced around, saw nothing suspicious, and got into his car. Deep within him he was hoping, desperately hoping, that Eden would tell him Erik was released, or about to be released.
No man goes willingly to his death; each believes he will survive somehow. Each of us is not only a participant but an observer. The world we see around us exists only for us and in our own mind, so when we die, that world dissolves, although it may exist in other minds in other forms.
Mike Raglan was thinking that as he drove westward. These mountains, forests, and deserts were his for the time in which he observed them, and it was hard to imagine a world in which he was not. He knew that now he went toward a destination he did not want, a way he had not chosen. Each of us, he reflected, is to some extent a child of our conditioning. We grow to believe certain things, to accept certain things as true and right. Loyalty and honesty, for example. Even a thief who steals, cheats, or defrauds is furious if he is robbed, cheated, or betrayed. And he, Mike Raglan, was trapped by a sense of loyalty, of what was perceived as honor.
It was a pleasant, sunlit afternoon when he drew up before the house of Eden Foster. He turned his car around and parked facing back down the road. From now on every step he took, every minute he lived was tight with danger.
She answered the door herself. Her features were tight and pale, her eyes large. As she stepped back from the door, he took a quick look around. There was no one else in the room.
He walked over and sat down with his back to a wall. They seemed to be alone, but he was quite sure they were not. Now, suddenly, now that the moment was upon him he was ready. It was coming, all right. To hell with it, he was ready. If they
wanted trouble he was ready for it.
“Where is Erik?” he demanded. His tone was a little harsh.
Her lips tightened, and he saw some anger come into her eyes. He had started off wrong, damn it. “After all,” he said, more quietly, “he is my friend.”
“I know nothing about him. You have come to the wrong place.”
He shrugged. “If that is the way you want it.” He paused, then said, speaking calmly, “I have drawn maps. I have written a complete report and have had copies made. They will go to the United States government, to the state capital, to the Highway Patrol, to the FBI, and to various newspapers. If something happens to me, all will be alerted. I have given them a time schedule within which I shall act and within which they should hear from me.”
Her face grew whiter still. Her lips were stiff, and when she spoke she had a hard time framing the words. “You do not know what you do. Your own world will be destroyed.”
“If anything is done it will not be settled by me. The problem is in other hands if anything goes wrong for me.” He looked up at her. “I need your help.”
“My help? You are joking. I cannot help you. Even if I were so minded I could not. I am watched. I do not know by whom.” Her eyes held on his. Even now, in this moment when she was obviously frightened, she was beautiful. “I did not know how closely I was watched until now. They know you are here. And they know why you are here. I do not believe they intend for you to leave.”
“They are fools. Instead of stopping things, that will only open it wide.”
“The Hand rules. Nothing thwarts him.” She got to her feet suddenly. “Oh, you’re right! I would like to stay here! I would like to forget all that! I would like to be a part of your world forever, and not go back!
“I like it here. I like the way you live, the bright sunlight, the people. But I cannot! I am a slave! I am a tool used by The Hand.”
She paused again and then spoke recklessly. “I do not know if he hears. It may be that he does, but I must speak what I believe.
“I think The Hand is a man, simply a man, all-powerful in his world, but a man ignorant of your world, ignorant of anything and everything beyond his reach. He has never been thwarted. Nothing has ever been permitted to stand in his way and he cannot conceive of a power greater than his. And he has power, enormously great power. He has weapons, which your science has not even dreamed of, and he will use them. Do not think he will not. And he can, if he so wishes, close all avenues to his world.
“Yes, I mean it. Long ago, when his world was younger and wiser, there were great advances in science, advances far beyond yours. Those advances ceased many years ago, but he has access to power such as you cannot believe, a power to destroy life. And he will do it. He has no fears of your world except of ideas. He knows little of you but despises you as weak and inefficient.
“You must understand. The Hand has never seen a newspaper or a book. He cannot read and can scarcely imagine it.”
“You have seen him?”
“I? Nobody has seen him! Perhaps the Lords of Shibalba who are his supporters. I doubt if even the Varanel have seen him. So far as anyone knows, he has never moved from the Forbidden area, and no one is allowed to approach him, but his eyes and ears are everywhere. Even now he may be hearing what I say.”
“How do you dare?”
She lifted her eyes to his. “I do not intend to go back.”
“You know nothing of the others? Of the dissenters who live in the mountains.”
“I have never heard of such people. I do not believe they exist.”
“However, they do exist and The Hand is aware, if you are not. They are descendants of people who returned from here—whom we call the Anasazi. They fled your world of evil and created their own world.”
“I do not believe that.”
He indicated a small sunflower he was wearing in his buttonhole, a practice he had started only a few days ago. “Do you know this flower?”
She shrugged. “I have seen it here. It is not permitted over there.”
“Not permitted?”
“It is not grown, and where grown, must be eradicated.”
“Why?”
She shrugged again. “It is a rule. We do not question rules.”
“It is a symbol, I believe—perhaps a symbol of rebellion. It is used at least by some of those who fled to the mountains.”
“So you say. How do you know this?”
He avoided the question. “You must have seen maps of our country? Of the state, at least? Have you not wondered that your land is so small? So limited in area? For so it must be. I believe much is kept from you.”
She was silent and then she said, “I believe it, too. Since coming here I have changed, but your country disturbs me. It is too…too open. I am bothered by this. In my country everything is regulated, organized. Everyone knows exactly where he is, what is important, what he can do.”
“And what he cannot do?”
“We do not think of that. We know where we live, where we work, where we go for amusement. It is enough.”
“What of Erik Hokart?”
She hesitated. “Nothing. I informed the Lords of Shibalba that he was missing, that officials here were disturbed that he was missing, and there would be trouble.”
“And?”
“Nothing. You see, they think so different from you. They cannot understand that one man disappearing would matter or be noticed. We think in another way than you. It is…it is like you and the Russians.”
“How do you mean?”
“Their newspaper people serve the government, so they believe yours do, too. They cannot accept the idea that newspapers are free to publish what they want. In Russia every newspaperman writes what the government wishes. Newspapermen gather information. Therefore they are spies.
“In our world if somebody disappears, no questions are asked, and…”
She got suddenly to her feet. “You must go! Go now!” She glanced again at her watch. “I had not realized it was so late. Please! Go at once!”
Without another word he stood up and started for the door. Then he stopped abruptly. The door was opening, and two men stepped in. He recognized them both.
Eden Foster stepped quickly back and they came for him. Of their intentions he had no doubt.
He left them none about his.
CHAPTER 28
Instead of retreating or trying to escape—which he knew would be futile in any event—he moved in and, with a flip of his foot, kicked a chair into their path. The nearest rushing man tripped over the chair, and as he hit the floor, Raglan kicked him in the head.
The second man skidded to a halt and whipped a knife from his belt. Without slowing down, Raglan dropped his right hand to the table, scooped up a dish of guacamole standing on Eden’s sideboard, and slapped it into the man’s face. Then he kicked him in the crotch. The first man was struggling to get up, so Raglan swung a backhand blow with a wine bottle that stretched him out on the floor with a smashed ear and a bleeding scalp.
“They’re too confident,” Raglan explained. “They need to spend some time on the streets. I don’t believe anybody ever resisted them before.”
“Nobody would dare,” Eden said.
The second man was pawing the guacamole from his eyes. Mike Raglan picked up the fallen knife. “Lie down,” he said, “or I’ll give you a new waistline with this.”
He waved a hand at the mess the fight had created. “Sorry about this, Eden, but your boys need better manners.”
She was staring at him, white-faced and shocked. “Just muscle won’t handle it, Eden,” he said. “These boys are playing in a rough league when they come here. Take my advice and cut loose from them. If you can’t help me get Erik back, think of yourself. Cut your ties. Move away. Go east or something.”
/> He walked outside to where their car was standing. Passing it, he used the knife to rip open a couple of tires, driving it deep and pulling back on it. The blade was razor-sharp and the damage considerable. He tossed the knife into the brush across the road and got into his own car.
He drove swiftly but carefully back to the motel, parked the car, and went to the café.
Gallagher was seated at a back table. He looked up with a wry smile. “Had an idea you’d be in. Have you seen Eden?”
“We visited some. Then there was an interruption.”
Gallagher looked at him over his coffee. “Tell me about it.”
“Two husky boys who thought they were tough,” he said. “Not from around here. I read them from The Book.”
He reached for the pot the waitress had left and filled his cup. “Whatever is done I must do myself. Eden can’t help me.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Can’t, I think. Apparently nobody will listen. She’s ready to defect, I think. Likes it here.”
“So, now what?”
“I’m going over. I’ve no choice now.”
“You really believe that stuff, don’t you?”
“I have to.” He paused. “Seen Volkmeer around?”
“No, I haven’t. I drove over to see him and he wasn’t home. At least if he was, he wasn’t receiving visitors.”
Mike Raglan was tired. The brief difficulty at Eden’s had been exhilarating if nothing else. For one brief moment he had confronted something tangible, something he could handle. The rest of it was all too elusive, too vague, nothing he knew how to cope with. Frauds and deception were something he understood, but this was a reality beyond anything he knew.
He thought about Volkmeer. Always a cold and quiet man, not given to talking, he now presented even more of an enigma. True, Raglan had once saved his life, but how far did that go? There was always that “yes, but what have you done for me lately?” idea.
The Haunted Mesa (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 21
