Star Ship on Saddle Mountain

by Richard Ackley

  Star Ship on Saddle

  Mountain

  Star Ship on Saddle

  Mountain

  BY ATLANTIS H A L LAM

  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY • NEW YORK

  COPYRIGHT, 1955, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

  All rights reserved—no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper.

  First Printing

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  To Howard Moorepark,

  for his help in the launching of a

  star ship.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Alien Object

  Charles Holt tried very hard to get rid of the jittery feeling he'd had all day, to brush it off and get an early start for the all-night fishing trip up river. He wanted to enjoy that, get all the fun out of it, along the Arizona banks of Lake Havasu on the Colorado River. But still he couldn't escape that strange feeling. There was something sinister in the air. Something that put him on his guard.

  Charlie wasn't scared, for he had lived alone in the isolated ranch house, the Shack, as he and Uncle John had called it, ever since his uncle had died. No, it wasn't fear, Charlie was sure. But it was the strangest, creepiest feeling he had ever had and he couldn't shake it.

  Tucking the old army shirt down into his levi's, Charlie buttoned up the tight pants as he walked across the room to

  the large chunk of mirror leaned against the wall under the water cooler. Stretching one leg at a time, Charlie Holt smiled a little as he looked at himself. He was almost as big as Uncle John. The army shirt fit him pretty good, even if it used to fit Uncle John skin tight. And since it belonged to his last living relative, his father's youngest brother, it was good enough for him to wear now since Uncle John was gone.

  "It's plenty good," Charlie said aloud. "Sure it is."

  Running his fingers through his black and slightly curled hair, Charlie frowned suddenly as he noticed the needed haircut. But it could wait, for right now. He would go on down into Parker and get it later. Maybe tomorrow. The haircut could wait. And besides, the sun was already pretty far down, over there across the Colorado, on the California side of the river. Right now it was getting to be the best time of day for cat fishing, and he better get started, Charlie told himself. He paused a moment, picking up his uncle's old safety razor. You don't need it for fuzz, Charlie! He smiled a little as he remembered his uncle's words, and how he'd always tell him to take an old blade for practice, not a new one.

  "I can use all the new ones now, I guess ..." he said aloud.

  For a brief moment Charlie's face grew sad, as he thought of the family he had never known. That tight feeling inside his chest came on again, as he thought of the many past trips, hunting and fishing, with Uncle John. To keep from remembering more, Charlie turned off the day time fan in the water cooler pronto. But even as he quickly turned off the power that forced the hot, dry desert air into the house, cooling it

  as it passed through the cold water running down the wire

  screen in the cooler box, Charlie heard another screen being

  knocked impatiently from the side window. Navajo's window.

  "Nav!" Charlie shouted at the old horse. "Doggone you, Navajo."

  But Charlie knew old Navajo would pay no attention to his shouts. He always tried to hurry him when they were going on a trip. And Navajo figured the best way to hurry him, Charlie knew from experience, was to knock that loose screen off the side window.

  "Okay, Nav—okay," Charlie said. "Now you got the screen off and your old head poked inside the Shack, I hope you're satisfied, Nav."

  For reply, the old Palomino whinnied joyfully, then shook his head vigorously as he looked back at Charlie. When Charlie just stood there, to tease Navajo, the horse stamped his foot, thumping the side boards of the house. Then he turned his head, when Charlie still didn't move, and with his white-spotted nose Navajo bounced the head harness and reins up and down where they hung on the hook by the window. Charlie laughed suddenly at Navajo's graphic suggestion.

  "Nav—doggone your old hide," he said, putting his arms about Navajo's head. He pressed his face against the smooth and velvety jaws. "You old dogie," Charlie whispered, "you don't have to kick down the Shack, just because you're in a hurry to go up river. Do you?"

  Navajo waited a moment, letting Charlie pet him, as he considered his words. Then once more he stamped insistently, slamming the side of the Shack and trampling some loose lumber under the window. Letting go of him quickly, Charlie tossed the reins back over Navajo's mane, even as Navajo pushed his nose forward into the head harness.

  "You sure are trained, Nav," Charlie said, adjusting the harness as he continued to stroke Navajo.

  Having known each other a long time, ever since Uncle John had brought Navajo as a young and gangling colt to their ranch, Charlie and his best friend understood each other well. They had grown up together. Navajo was a dozen years old now, and he'd always been around, about as far back as Charlie could remember clearly. Charlie stood almost head level with Navajo. His face had a strong desert tan from living a man's life in the hot days and fast-cooling nights of the open desert country, plus the many hunting and fishing trips up and down the Colorado and out in the hill country.

  "Navajo—you old dogie!" Charlie said again, roughly hugging the horse to preserve the remaining loose boards under the window. "Those guys in town can have their souped-up hot rods and their drag races. I'll take you, Nav, any old day, when it comes to going up river. Sure will! I'd like to see them drive up in the hills, Nav, like the way we get around."

  But Navajo was not to be stalled by sweet talk. Charlie crossed the big room and took down his Winchester from above the stone fireplace. He removed the oil-soaked rag that hung over the muzzle.

  "Uncle John sure learned some good things in the army," Charlie went on talking, to keep Navajo from getting excited again. "He sure did, Nav."

  Out on the screened-in back porch, Charlie dug down in the big flour sack, half-filling a paper bag with flour. Then from the corner of his mouth, he said in a loud, clear voice: "I been thinking. Maybe I better tote along a few of these big, juicy, delicious APPLES."

  With the word "apples" fairly shouted toward the front room, Charlie got an immediate reaction from that direction, though he couldn't see the window with the screen knocked off. Navajo whinnied delightedly, rattling the harness and vigorously trampling the loose boards in a sudden clatter. Charlie ran back into the big main room, to try and calm down Navajo's joy over his favorite treat.

  "And I'll take the cat, Nav! You can have your old apples, but one of those big, juicy black catfish with the silver belly spots for me! From 'way down deep in that icy river." Pausing, he frowned at Navajo. "If I catch any."

  Navajo began another whinny, so Charlie bounced the sleeping bag and knapsack up and down on the table. It had the magic effect. Seeing what looked like action, Navajo paused, pulling his head halfway back out the window.

  "But maybe I'll have to just settle for a nice fat bass, Nav, or maybe even worse. One of those doggone old carp, if he decides he wants to try catfish bait!"

  Giving a final pat to the half-filled paper bag, Charlie pushed the flour down beside his own food supplies and Navajo's apples in the saddle pack. Feeling as though he were forgetting something, Charlie glanced uncertainly

  about the big rambling room. But he could think of nothing. Even as he stood there in that short moment, that earlier uneasy feeling came over him strongly again. Pulling up f
ishing gear, rifle and the blanket roll, Charlie took the saddle pack and turned toward the door.

  Pausing again, he glanced back at the big round oak dining table in the center of the room, cluttered with all sorts of things. Charlie smiled a little as his eyes caught sight of the black ballpoint pen with the gold-capped top. The last present from Uncle John, on graduation, he recalled. Shifting the bundle of fishline, he picked up the pen and clipped it onto the edge of the khaki shirt pocket.

  "Nav, Uncle John would call us plain looney for taking a pen on a fishing trip. He sure would—okay, okay, I didn't forget your old apples! So you might as well quit stomping down the Shack!"

  With his arms loaded down, Charlie kicked open the door, as he tried to get outside before Navajo could make it around from the side of the house. He was barely through the door and standing on the hard-packed sandy ground of the ranch house yard when Navajo came clop-clopping around the corner—and as he came, he was already turning sideways, so that Charlie would waste no further time adjusting the saddle and loading their packs.

  "I got a good mind to just leave your old apples," Charlie said, but Navajo didn't get the suggestion. All that counted was that Charlie had mentioned the familiar word "apples" again. That was all the assurance Navajo required.

  He stretched out his long neck low and straight and let out another joyous whinny.

  Charlie tossed the blanket roll up over behind the saddle. The saddle pack, with the fishline atop it, hung from the pommel and the Winchester was shoved down in the saddle holster. Navajo was already on his way before Charlie could seat himself in the saddle after mounting. No need to try and stop old Navajo. He was going up river. And with apples too, well, Charlie knew he would have to hurry or just be left behind!

  Whistling softly as he rode along, Charlie stood up in the stirrups as they topped a low-rolling hillock. In the distance he could see the broad silver of Lake Havasu and, further downstream where the lake ended and the Colorado River once more became its narrow, deep self, Charlie could see the white pillars of cement that monumented the foot of the lake, Parker Dam. The sun was already out of sight behind the sharp, craggy mountains on the California side. For a moment, Charlie casually surveyed the coppery peaks and all the surrounding familiar country he knew so well.

  There was no house in sight. Only the soft-hued colors, rapidly changing with the day's heat and light, the brown tinted sand blending into broad sheets of whiteness, and the dusty green stubble of cactus stood out clearly. Big balls of tumble weed, like giant desert marbles, rolled on a little farther, propelled by the slight breath of wind. And still further off, Charlie saw the greener patches of grass and scrub brush, which grew along the river and the lake shores.

  In the distance the high craggy chocolate mountains, rising straight up abruptly from the flat desert floor, caught his attention again. Glancing further north, to the distant snow-capped peaks high and far away, Charlie sighed a little as he remembered climbing those same giant golden spires with Uncle John. They looked like great caramel ice cream cones now.

  The day's heat still radiating upward all about him, Charlie breathed in deeply of the occasional cool touch of air that came up the hill from the lake shore. It was already darkening down there, the darkness coming swiftly in the desert night. Great shadows everywhere were getting bolder now, snaking their way all over the desert in ever increasing numbers. With night racing across the desert floor bringing its sudden coldness, Charlie knew both he and Navajo would need those blankets he had brought along. The desert cooled quickly when the sun went down.

  "Nav," Charlie said, "you're just showing off a little! Just because we're headin' downhill, that's no reason to make out like you're a young colt again. Or maybe, it's one of those apples you're hankering for!"

  To Charlie's pat and the word "apples," Navajo tossed his head a little higher and increased his pace a bit. The magic of the word apples! Charlie grinned quickly as he reached forward and ran his fingers through the bouncing mane, for in spite of his words he was pleased and pleasantly surprised at Navajo's speed. But concerned about his old horse, Charlie slowed Navajo to an easy walk, and they went toward the lake shore at a more comfortable pace.

  There was the bend ahead now, with the long smoke-punk reeds poking up out of the shallow water of the little bay.

  "Plenty of action there," Charlie said aloud to Navajo, as he watched a loosely-formed squadron of dragon flies go into a jet dive, swooping along low over the smooth water. "With all those other insects, Nav, the bass out there ought to be jumpin' high."

  As they neared the center of the inlet, a big splash sounded out toward the center of the lake, making Charlie glance that way.

  "Noisy old carp," he said. "I'll get around to eating carp when all the cat's gone. And the bass, too."

  Taking the saddle pack up from the pommel, Charlie tossed a booted foot up over Navajo's neck and dropped to the ground. As he walked along the shore the horse followed him. Charlie glanced about briefly, then crouched down and dipped his hand in the clear, icy water. He held a dripping finger over the flat rock, letting the drops fall on the parched stone, in front of the panting little chameleon that had come down to the shoreline for a drink.

  "There . . ." Charlie said, repeating the process as the little lizard got the idea and gratefully tongued up the water. "That's a lot better than if you take chances. If you slipped off this rock, you'd end up making bait for some big fat bass. Or worse, some doggone old carp."

  Several other large and loud splashes continued offshore, breaking the placid surface as Charlie stood up again. Opening the paper bag of flour, he scooped up several handfuls of the cold water, mixing it right in the bag. When it was lumpy

  dough, Charlie took it out of the breaking bag, and gently shooing the little chameleon off his special flat rock, he then kneaded the dough into a solid big ball. Pausing abruptly, Charlie grinned as he watched Navajo nosing down into the knapsack, getting a free sniff of the sweet-smelling delicious apples.

  "Okay—okay boy, just one! And remember, the rest is for later. For dinner, when you get tired of grazing."

  Giving Navajo one more apple, Charlie returned to the dough mixing, removing the dry dough from his hands by locking his fingers and twisting his hands together. Unwinding the spool of strong black thread, he put a dough ball on several of the hooks and then expertly wound each ball with thread to hold it to the hook in the water.

  "That ought to keep you cats from sneaking up on the bait and just nibbling it off the easy way," Charlie said, glancing at Navajo who was chewing the apple and watching the hook-baiting process. "If you won't strike like bass and put up a good fight, this'll fix your wagon, maybe."

  He stood up again, watching Navajo nose disdainfully into a less tasty green grass patch. Slowly he looked about. Now Navajo's head was up too, as the old horse sniffed the chill air uncertainly. Charlie looked up and down the curving shores, letting his eyes sweep carefully over the surrounding hills, and the desert country in general. He wanted to believe he had shaken off that earlier feeling, the creepy sensation he had felt back at the Shack just before starting out. But he knew now he had not.

  He knew that tension had never left him. It was in the air right now. It was here, stronger than ever.

  Looking about again, Charlie had the uneasy feeling that eyes were upon him, watching him. He knew the feeling. He'd felt it before in the past, when hunting with Uncle John. It was the feeling the hunter had—when stalked by the hunted. And yet, if people were heading his way, he could usually see them long before they spotted him, and he could always tell their approach before they saw him, from long experience in the outdoors. But now he had the strange feeling of being stalked, and it was far stronger than ever before.

  "Just—just a crazy idea," Charlie said aloud, though he knew it wasn't. There was Navajo, and from the horse's wide, alert eyes, and flaring nostrils held high as he sniffed the wind cautiously, Charlie knew better. "It sure i
s something . . ." and with his own uncertain words, Charlie got to his feet, still holding the baited line of hooks. He looked about carefully in every direction again. Of one thing he was very sure now. Somebody was around somewhere, and, whoever they were, one or more, they were watching him.

  Putting two fingers in his mouth, Charlie made a low whistle in Navajo's direction. With an uncertain, partial whinny, the horse promptly trotted over to him. Charlie patted Navajo reassuringly.

  "It's okay, Nav. There's nobody around but us. That's the boy."

  But Navajo didn't saunter off to graze as before. He stood very close to Charlie, head high and alert, and Charlie knew

  the old horse reflected his own uneasiness. Turning abruptly to the water again, Charlie was a little annoyed at himself as he wound up for the toss, swinging the coiled line above his head like a lariat. Then he let go. The heavy lead sinker shot through the air, carrying the dough-blobbed hooks far offshore, splashing down and sinking rapidly where the water was deep and cold. That's where the big catfish would be, deep down on the bottom.

  Turning back, Charlie spread out the old army blanket on the grassy patch near his flat rock. Then he pulled off the high-heeled riding boot with the twinkling jingle of the star-wheeled spur as he got it off. Slapping it hard with his palm, Charlie got the last grains of sand out, which had been scooped up into the boot as he knelt by the dough- mixing flat rock. But even as he pounded the upturned boot his hand stopped in mid air.