With the sun long gone down, the deepening twilight was swiftly changing into black night. But there—off in the distance. Between the twin peaks—the peaks of Saddle Mountain, as Charlie had always known them. They were supposed to be— sure, they had to be right there, opposite the flat rock. Besides, that couldn't have been any light over there. Those two mountains were just jagged rock, copper- colored from the heavy iron ore deposits in them, just plain brown rock that stuck right up out of the flat surrounding desert. You could walk right up to where the chocolate-colored rock of the mountain came up out of the desert, and touch them. He had done it many times.
But this was the usual spot, he was sure, the regular spot by the lake. Here—right here was the same old flat rock he'd always used, where he mixed the catfish dough and cut up other bait a hundred times. Charlie frowned, puzzled more than ever as he looked about the surrounding countryside and lake shore for other identifying marks. It was all the same. But Saddle Mountain—the twin peaks? They couldn't have changed overnight? And yet, as he stared at them now, they were just one massive flat-topped mountain, level straight across. The "saddle" space, the scooped out curve between them, was gone! It was filled in. And even as he stared again at the straight, smooth line, the solid fill-in from peak to peak, Charlie thought he saw again that peculiar dull glint of light. It came from right on the fill-in of the mountain, still silhouetted against the fading western sky. But then ... he sure must be mistaken, Charlie thought. Just his eyes playing tricks. Something like a daytime mirage when the sun got you.
Pulling the boot back on, Charlie stood up, working his foot back down into it. Darkness was dimming even the craggy skyline now, on Saddle Mountain. Darkness was everywhere about him, great clouds of night that covered everything, chilling him with something more than just the river coolness. Night had fallen. The sharp, nervous chirping of the lakeshore insects, getting louder and louder, gave Charlie the jitters for the first time. Navajo stood very still, and close beside him.
As he looked back across the still lake waters, once again to the silent blackness that was Saddle Mountain, Charlie shivered inwardly. At every whispery crackle of the tall reeds spearing
up out of the water his blood pounded faster. He jumped suddenly—then breathed deeply in relief. The big splash near inshore had just been a big carp jumping clear of the water. But despite his momentary relaxing, Charlie couldn't escape the eery feeling of the mysterious eyes he felt sure were upon him now— watching.
Then something cool touched Charlie's neck from behind him. He whirled—his heart skipping a beat!
"Doggone, Nav! Don't you know any better than to sneak up on me like that?"
Charlie put an arm about Navajo's neck, lowering his voice after the first scared outburst. He didn't know why he had reacted to Navajo's touch like that. Many times before, Navajo had come up behind him, gently nudging him. Just an affectionate touch with his smooth nose. Poor old Nav, Charlie thought, he feels sort of scared, too. Then Charlie rubbed Navajo's side with long easy strokes, hoping to ease the horse's nervous tremblings.
For a long while Charlie sat holding the fishline, just staring across the lake at the black silhouette towering grimly against the night sky. Bright silver stars were shining now, like the silver all shined up for tourists, at the Reservation. It took Charlie only a little while to decide, finally, what he must do. Leaving his equipment and the fishline, Charlie quickly mounted Navajo.
Turning downstream, he headed for the Dam bridge at the foot of the lake, the short roadway that ran across the top of it to the California side of the Colorado River. The place where Saddle Mountain stood silently on the desert.
"There's something over there, Nav, that I can't figure. Maybe—" but Charlie stopped, letting the thought go without speaking it aloud. For even as he spoke, shivers edged up his back, running into his neck and making his scalp crawl. He glanced from side to side quickly, all about them, sure that someone was watching him.
It reminded him of a time once long ago, when he and Uncle John were hunting up in mountain country. It was the third night out on that trip, and up to then they had seen no game at all. Uncle John had sat up suddenly, then quickly got out of his sleeping bag when he saw how jittery Navajo had become. Then—they both saw it at once. Two big, burning yellow eyes, shining at them from just beyond the last glowing embers of their camp fire. It was a mountain lion. The big cat was stalking Navajo, but had hesitated when it saw Uncle John and Charlie nearby. It was then Uncle John had carefully picked up the already loaded rifle, his old army 30-30, and took careful aim. He fired—just as the big cat crouched low for the final spring at Navajo. One shot echoed in the silent night about them, reechoing throughout the hills. Navajo had whinnied wildly, prancing about. The big cat was dead.
But as he rode Navajo now, this feeling of being stalked was far greater than at that other time years ago. Besides, this was too near the camp at the Dam. Mountain lion kept clear of where people lived, mostly, and never came near towns. They wouldn't have to come this close to the Dam to get water from the lake or river. They'd stay much further upstream, in the hills.
"It's no big cat, Nav," Charlie said aloud to Navajo, as well as to reassure himself. "Whatever it is, it's something else around these parts. Something else . . ."
Charlie rode around the small slip upstream from the Dam, where the big barge and the fish and game warden's motorboat were kept. Sometime later he noticed the dim outline of the high steel frame tower, high atop a hill, on which the high tension powerlines were strung out across the desert, westward across California, carrying hydro-electric power to the City of Los Angeles. Charlie knew in a few moments he would turn the corner of the hill, traveling this dirt road at its base, and there out across the flat sands in the darkness, he would dimly see the mighty bulk that should be twins—the two craggy peaks of Saddle Mountain. The tension within him grew, rising steadily with Navajo's every step on the dusty roadway. He patted the old horse once again.
Then—Charlie reined in suddenly, stopping abruptly as he completed the bend in the narrow road. He was face to face with the giant called Saddle Mountain. A short exclamation died unspoken on his lips. He just stared, unable to understand what he saw.
CHAPTER TWO
Strange Pursuers
Everything inside him told Charlie to turn back—head for home. He braced himself hard against the silent darkness all about, and letting go the reins, he reached out to take the Winchester from the saddle holster. Charlie told himself he'd investigate, see just what made that great solid mass between the Saddle peaks. Whatever it was, it hadn't been there a few days back, the last time he remembered riding up river, and he knew now that whatever it was must be almost as large as either one of the mountains to fill in the space like that between them.
In the darkness, straining his eyes to see better, Charlie found it hard to make out just what the thing was. Unable to make out any part of it, he picked up the reins and, despite Navajo's nervous trembling, he headed the horse toward
Saddle Mountain. The towering mass grew more menacing with every passing minute, but Charlie rode on.
They had been moving toward Saddle Mountain no more than five minutes when it happened. The entire space between the high peaks was slowly illuminated in a rising, eery glow—a dark, greenish blue light—clearly outlining the "saddle" between the two peaks! It lasted only a moment. But in that very short time, Charlie also saw something else—or was it his imagination? He didn't know, he couldn't be sure. The light fading, dwindling away to black nothingness, left the night dark again, and terribly still.
But in Charlie's mind the vivid outline of what he had seen remained as bright as before. It was like a giant hotel, a—a saucer-shaped—that was the wording that came into his mind— a saucer type thing in there between the peaks! Charlie didn't want to believe this picture printed indelibly on his mind, but he had seen it. He told himself there just wasn't any such thing, but, with his own o
pen eyes he had seen it. He had seen a space ship.
Before Charlie could recover from the numbness that was slowly creeping over him—wondering what, who, how— was in that ship, three short blasts pierced the silence. The blasts came clearly to him across the flat sands from the mountain—echoing clearly from where it was. The blasts, the most weird and terrible sound he had ever heard, sent shivers up Charlie's back and made goose bumps on his neck. He was sure where the sound had come from. And so was Navajo. The old horse reared up so unexpectedly that Charlie froze there in the saddle—and high on his hind legs,
Navajo let out a shrill whinny of fear. Caught off guard, Charlie was thrown to the hard-packed sand. He landed on his back with the wind knocked out of him. For several seconds he lay there unable to move, then slowly increased his breathing, forcing the cold air into his lungs again. He scrambled to his feet—but too late. Navajo was galloping hard, heading around the distant bend in the roadway. And even as Charlie called to him, he knew it had been his fault for forcing Navajo to come this far. But Charlie was momentarily glad that Navajo was heading down river toward the Dam, back to safety and the Shack.
"Poor Nav," he said aloud, forgetting for a moment his own predicament. Though he could not see it, Charlie slapped the dust off his back and the seat of his levis. "It was my fault for making you come here, Nav. I don't blame you for taking off like a bird. If I'd had as much sense as you, that's where I'd be. Home, or heading for home."
As Charlie turned to look at Saddle Mountain again, he suddenly froze. There at the base of the black bulk of mountain, where it joined the white sand, stood three tall figures. They were wearing black-hooded robes. The late moon hadn't yet risen, but already the sands were lightened by it, and with his eyes now accustomed to the dark, Charlie was sure. A creeping fear chilled him far more than the night air, forming beads of cold sweat on his forehead. Charlie wasn't afraid of ordinary men, or much scared of animals, even the big cats, unless he was un-armed and knew they were hungry. But—those hooded figures, those three gaunt black figures off there now across the sand—what were they, Charlie asked himself.
He was afraid to guess the answer. He just stood there staring in silence, without moving at all. They knew he was there. They could see him. They were coming straight toward him.
Charlie was suddenly aware that—but for these three approaching forms—he was out there alone, on the open desert far from anybody's ranch, far from everybody. Not even his Winchester, Charlie thought in sudden growing panic, and Navajo was gone. The rifle had been in the saddle holster. His panic mounting, Charlie looked toward the mountain again. A patch of moonlight broke through the clouds to the East, slanting its clean white shadow across the three black figures— making them clear as day against the white sand. They were not running, Charlie could see, and he couldn't even tell if they were walking—they just seemed to be moving like three black ghosts, floating across the sand, toward him.
Turning, Charlie ran hard for the roadway where Navajo had gone, the road back around the small hill and down toward the Dam and back home. Realizing it was his only chance to escape, Charlie ran harder, heading downriver along the west shore toward the Dam. If he could reach the Dam engineer's camp on the other side, down below at the foot of the Dam, they would help and he'd be safe. And just in case the three hooded figures had decided to run to catch up with him, Charlie used every bit of his scouting knowledge, keeping close to the lake shore and getting what little protection from view the scrub brush afforded him. He knew every path so it was easy to keep running as fast as he could.
After getting his second wind as he at last rounded the small inlet harbor where the big barge was kept, he desperately hoped to see the lighted boat of the government fish and game warden there. But it wasn't. Under the pale light of the moon, the empty barge harbor water shone black and smooth. Nobody was in sight.
Not slowing his pace as he rounded the end of the empty slip, Charlie kept running all the way to the rise in the ground at the California end of the Dam. Pausing there, he looked down the sloping hill grade, to the small camp far down the road past the Dam. He inhaled sharply, involuntarily, at the sight he saw. There on the roadway, winding down the hill, were the three black-robed figures. They were already halfway up the hill, not hurrying, but moving steadily toward him. They were between him and the camp. The little relaxation that had come over him on reaching the Dam now vanished completely. A chilling fear took its place. There could be no help from the camp. It was too far away, even if he shouted for help. Charlie turned abruptly, racing onto the short road that led across the Dam.
The roar of the water too, now far greater, only emphasized how useless it would have been to shout. Besides, most of the men at the engineer's camp would probably be off in town for the evening. But as he ran like the wind now, Charlie had a further sinking feeling, realizing that they could also travel very fast—possibly even catch up with him the minute they wanted to! While he had only gone down the roadway by the hill and along the shoreline, the hooded figures had not only crossed the sand from Saddle Mountain, but had passed the hill on the
far side, the longer way round, and had doubled back from far down the road near the camp site at the Dam. And he had been running, while they seemed to be just walking easily!
Sprinting harder on the Dam road, Charlie thought that this must have been his fastest crossing from California into Arizona, even with Navajo. But he didn't have time to think it funny as he reached the Arizona side of the Colorado River. He tried harder now to increase his speed on the hard-packed dirt road. Soon he knew he was around a bend, and out of sight of the road over the Dam.
As Charlie got what he felt sure was his third wind, he slowed to an Indian scout trot. He hoped desperately the hooded strangers would get lost in this Arizona country he knew so well, and never be able to follow him. At least, long enough for him to make it back to the Shack and get his Winchester—or better, Uncle John's loaded 30-30 army rifle. But most of all, to be safe inside the Shack. Running fast now and skipping the alternating walking and scout trot, Charlie at last reached the flat sandy earth this side of the ranch house. He glanced back. His eyes, though fully accustomed to the semi-darkness, were helped more by the spots of scattered moonlight, the pale beams that slanted down through the high and fast-moving clouds, over to the northeast across the high range country. There was no one in sight from the direction of the river. Charlie took in a deep breath, and continuing his easier walk, let it out slowly. He filled his lungs full of the clear, clean air of the cold desert
light. It felt good. It was only a few seconds before his breathing was easy and back to normal.
Charlie knew he had run well over a mile, and he continued now to glance back regularly just to make sure he had really lost those three black-hooded figures. Then he smiled for the first time, as he heard the glad welcoming whinny from Navajo. The old horse trotted out from the corral behind the Shack to meet him. Charlie put two fingers in his mouth and gave the short whistle and Navajo, assured it was he, broke into a gallop.
"Good old Nav!" he said. "See—it's only me, Nav . . . as if you didn't know it all the time!"
Patting Navajo, he walked toward the Shack, with Navajo clumping along beside him, playfully biting at Charlie's ear to show how glad he was to see him.
The brief and happy welcome home didn't make Charlie forget the dangers nearby. As he watched Navajo go back to the corral, fussing around awhile as he kicked one of the stagger-fence poles further out of his way, Charlie looked back to the direction of the river. Frowning as he scanned the broad field of sand, Charlie then went inside the Shack. Though he never locked the door ordinarily, he closed it now, shoving the heavy bar bolt home. Other times he had just closed it to keep out the cold. Few strangers ever came out in the ranch country and away from the main highways, and the local people around all knew each other. Local folks wouldn't bother you or break in your place. But tonight, Charlie didn't intend t
o take any chances. Not with what had happened at Saddle Mountain.
Not turning on the lights since the late moon was finally breaking through the high clouds, Charlie cautiously went over to the window, on the side of the Shack facing the fields toward the river. He saw nothing. The wind was rising a little, an uncertain, gusty wind, that suddenly rattled things around the Shack. The clear moon-bathed sand, eery-white, made every stump of broken cactus and crooked-armed Yucca plant look like a black-hooded figure. Charlie shuddered as he looked out in silence. And right before him, off a little way on the sand, was a big jagged spear of Yucca, like a very skinny black figure standing guard.
Even though his earlier fears were gone, Charlie realized he had to do something, tell somebody, about Saddle Mountain. If that thing out there was what it looked like, he should let the authorities know about it. He felt uneasy, as he thought about telling them he saw a flying saucer, and that it was parked right on top of Saddle Mountain. He knew how crazy it would sound. But he knew he should do it. He must tell somebody what was going on out there. He would call the sheriff down in Parker.
Picking up the phone, Charlie jangled the hook, trying to get the Parker operator. All he could get though was the steady buzzing, the crackling static, the electrical disturbances that were always fouling up the telephone lines when anybody wanted to call. The big powerlines at the Dam were too much for any ordinary telephones. Charlie tried again, after hanging up briefly, but it was just the same as always. Too much high tension nearby. He finally hung up, cutting off the blur of static.
Star Ship on Saddle Mountain Page 2
