The lodge had kindly loaned the professor a copy of a homemade map of all the roads, game trails, and paths in the area, a courtesy usually reserved for their seasonal hunting clientele. Professor Gill suspected that any evidence of semipermanent encampments would necessarily be within a walking radius of running water. Where water and established trails crossed, viable locations might exist on all compass points. The rest was a matter of looking for the right signs.
The professor followed the Big Sur River east-northeast for a while. Where game trails crossed fordable creeks, he would ride a wide circuit around the area looking for natural blinds or high points that might command a long view of the approaches. He looked for areas where a small band of hunters could conceivably find shelter and concealment while they dressed and jerked their kills for transport.
The mule moved with a certain and steady gait, never too fast and never too slow. The animal seemed to understand what was required and suffered the professor a wide latitude of blind trails and dead ends to be retraced. Every now and then, Doughboy would come to a dead stop, pull up his head, and focus his long slender ears in all directions. After the mule had repeated this maneuver several times, Solomon automatically started to listen as well.
On two occasions he thought he heard the whinny of a distant horse, and on two other occasions he swore he detected a mounted figure, a mysterious rider spying on him from the dark recesses among the hills above. Then about five o’clock, soon after he had turned Doughboy homeward, Solomon observed the solitary horseman again. This time the rider was way ahead of Solomon on the next rise.
Professor Gill was at a loss to explain how the rider crossed the intervening ground so quickly without being seen or heard. Perhaps there was more than one horseman.
Doughboy was as good as his reputation and, with no prompting from Professor Gill, came within sight of the lodge just as the supper gong sounded. The mule’s timing was impeccable.
That evening the professor ate well and was entertained by several thirsty locals who dropped by to swap wine and tall tales. Some showed serious interest in the professor’s theories and shared what they knew of the puzzle, but in the main, it was Solomon’s opinion that the Pfeiffer outfit had little but speculation to offer. They had seen sites that might fit the professor’s description, but the native groups that had used them were a shrewd and crafty lot. The company agreed that any significant example of such handiwork would have disintegrated and disappeared by now.
“All except for the dark watchers of course,” said “Dozer” Dutch, grinning. “And the fog ghosts that guard Indian graves.” The professor sensed impending yarns and moved to sidestep that eventuality by thanking his hosts and bidding everyone good night. He expressed the wish to ride out again first thing the following morning and pleaded the need for rest, since he was not accustomed to the saddle in the normal course of everyday business.
He was cheerfully hailed off to bed as a good fellow and wished a peaceful night. He did not mention or inquire about the lone horseman who had shadowed him through the hills. He wished to avoid too much attention being focused on his endeavors or his concerns.
Like most academics on the sniff for publishable research, Professor Gill played his cards very close to the vest. Theft of scholarly assets was rife in his profession. He often reflected upon the outright venality and treachery of which fellows of his calling were capable. University dons all grazed in the same small meadows, and academic quarrels occasionally led to intellectual bloodshed. It was rare, if not impossible, to find a lifelong pedagogue who could not exhibit the scar of at least one stab wound in the vicinity of the spine.
Unfortunately, Solomon Gill had anything but a peaceful night. His sleep was marbled with stalking phantoms; images of a shadowed horseman pursued him through endless hills, and he awoke in a troubled sweat. For a few moments he seriously considered returning to San Jose, but the bouquet of fresh-roasted coffee and ranch bacon marshaled warmth and fortitude back into his stiff joints.
As he dressed, Solomon contemplated the logic that had prevented him from discussing the curious horseman. While shaving he decided that it had indeed been wise not to garner a reputation as one who sees visions in the shadows. Mysterious sightings would undoubtedly ring the death knell for his career. He would say nothing until he knew with reasonable certainty what he had seen. The horseman possessed motive and purpose and was concerned with the presence of Solomon Gill. He was almost sure of it. That thought continued to goad him as he went down to the bustling ranch breakfast.
Before his departure on the back of old Doughboy, Professor Gill begged the loan of a pair of field glasses. He had neglected to foresee the usefulness of a good pair of binoculars when planning his adventure. Sadly, the only available solution to his problem lay in a pair of tarnished brass opera glasses that had belonged to a forgetful guest when Adelaide Pfeiffer ruled the roost. One lens was slightly cracked, but they were marginally serviceable. The professor accepted the loan with thanks and a promise of their safe return at the end of the day.
With food and water bindled to an aged McClellan saddle, Professor Gill and Doughboy set off. They headed farther east than north to follow the heights above the dry tributaries that fed the ancient river courses.
The Pfeiffers’ map indicated a likely area for Solomon’s hunt near a plateau overlooking a confluence of four game trails and two brooks. The geology of the place looked promising. Many archaic watercourses were still to be found where their flow had worn away the limestone. Every hour of trekking through this primeval landscape only further convinced Professor Gill that he might be getting closer to something tangible.
Then Doughboy stopped and rotated his tall ears in all directions. Solomon Gill went rigid as he caught sight of the horseman on a rise some ways to the north. Half an hour later, Solomon again found the rider on a crest south of the river. Solomon drew out the opera glasses and focused, but the distance and angle of light prevented a clear view. The mysterious rider appeared again in the north, and Professor Gill became genuinely uncomfortable with the constant reappearance of the apparition.
There appeared to be no overt hostile intentions on the part of the specter, but Gill began to question whether the local legends of the dark watchers might not, indeed, be true. Perhaps this secretive figure was a true source manifestation of the myth.… But then he thought he was just letting his imagination get the best of him. Either way, the professor almost shivered when the mounted figure materialized again on another rise to the north of the trail.
Rather than be confronted at every turn by the shadow presence of the horseman, Solomon Gill decided upon a sly maneuver of his own design. He was angry that the rider had proved such an emotional distraction for two days. The horseman never approached close enough to be identified or confronted, and this struck Professor Gill as bluntly contentious. He had abandoned several promising destinations because he had felt intimidated by the distant horseman’s watchful presence. Now he felt like turning the tables on his shadow. Yes, he would do it, if only to move the game piece one square in his own favor.
On the assumption that he was always being watched, even when the rider was not in sight, Solomon turned northeast through a dense grove of scrub oak and weathered pine. His obvious destination to anyone spying upon him was a narrow plateau a quarter mile away. Solomon assumed, judging from recent behavior, that the rider would contrive to appear on a rise above him on the adjacent ridge to the east.
When the professor and Doughboy were well hidden in the grove, he reined the mule to a halt and waited quietly until the blue jays had ceased their raucous warnings. When he thought the timing appropriate, he reversed the direction from which he had come. Knowing that the rider would soon discover his mistake and retrace his course to hold the advantage, the professor dismounted and posted himself in a natural blind at the southeast corner of the grove. His purpose was to confuse the shadowing rider and force him into revealing himself.
The professor didn’t have to wait for long, but what he ultimately witnessed was something of a shock. The truth, unfortunately, did not conform to any speculations he had loitered over these past two days. What the professor saw was no apparition, but a half-naked Indian galloping astride a black stallion across a shallow depression a quarter mile to the east.
The Indian looked truly savage. He wore nothing but a breechcloth, loose Indian leggings resembling chaps, and a dark cloth headband. His hair was long, black, and streamed out behind as he raced along. The Indian managed his mount with obvious expertise and rode using only a saddle blanket and a rope halter. He easily cleared every hazard and obstacle, as if his equestrian stunts were mere child’s play.
There were a few moments when Solomon caught sight of the features on the Indian’s face. The warrior’s severe aspect was strong, gaunt, and almost classical.
The professor judged the rider as possibly dangerous if provoked and thus decided that his safest alternative was to remain invisible until the horseman moved on. The professor focused closely and determined that the Indian appeared unarmed. He carried the normal sheath knife of course, but Solomon spotted no firearms—and that was a reasonable blessing, to his way of thinking.
In a few moments, the Indian’s stallion had outrun Solomon’s simple binoculars. The rider galloped to the crest of another rise and stopped. Solomon refocused and watched from cover as the Indian slowly surveyed the vista in all directions. After a minute or two, the horseman decided on the southwest and disappeared over the ridge.
It was a while before Professor Gill thought it safe enough to pull Doughboy from cover and, with some difficulty, remount. They then traveled roughly in the same direction that the Indian had taken, except that Gill remained to the north and well behind. He decided that the best policy would be to allow the mule to choose the route. Solomon reflected that every course he had chosen during his search had come to nothing. Perhaps the mule could find what he could not. The professor happily let the reins go slack, sipped water from his canteen, and daydreamed while Doughboy moved purposely along a trail of his own choosing.
Eventually the mule carried Solomon down and out of a small stand of scrub oak. The trail led across a shallow plateau to an ancient, dry creek bed that had once flowed into the Big Sur River beyond. The mule halted again, and Solomon thought for a moment that Doughboy had sensed the near presence of the Indian’s stallion; but the mule’s ears flopped forward, and his head hung down with an air of world-weary forbearance.
Professor Gill looked about and, noticing nothing out of the ordinary, dismounted to serve the needs of nature. This relieving opportunity allowed him a few moments for closer examination of the ground on which he stood. After a few seconds he noticed a complex arrangement of stones hidden under the browning vegetation. He gazed about and noticed still other symmetrical orchestrations of rock masonry, piles of stones that were once part of a greater shelter, now all well camouflaged by generations of plant life and natural erosion.
Professor Gill, now the enthusiastic hero of his own dreams, worked his way through the underbrush and found a score of foundation holes cut into bare rock and anchor stones that had once held the sprung boughs and bent ridgepoles of small temporary dwellings. He was elated beyond all imagining.
After a short search, Gill discovered a location that very likely served to support jerking racks and dressing trees for game. He walked across a shallow clearing to the edge of the hill and found the location of a probable midden. He knew garbage deposits spoke volumes about ancient cultures. To the south the view down to the dry riverbed was perfect for spotting game. In fact, he thought he heard an animal at that instant. Something large moving off down the trail.
Solomon suddenly went rigid. He looked into his hand and spun around to discover his worst fears realized. He had permitted himself an unforgivable distraction in the immediate passion of his discoveries and had dropped his mule’s reins.
During this unattended interval, Doughboy, finding himself at liberty, had decided to go home for supper. He had obviously found no compelling reason to give notice of his intentions. Professor Gill groaned painfully, rolled his eyes to heaven, and palmed himself in the forehead. After this spontaneous celebration of his own stupidity, Gill quickly decided there was nothing for it but to follow the mule as quickly as possible.
Poor Professor Gill left his discovery behind and made his way down the broken trail with all the dispatch allowed a man of sedentary habits. He was distressed to discover how easily the splintered ground fatigued his frame and thwarted his progress. He was forced to rest by the trail often, nursing his swelling feet and cursing his fate. He also came to regret that he had not carried his canteen instead of lashing it to the mule’s saddle.
As he worked his way down the trail Solomon attempted to make mental notes of his location, but he soon realized that any rediscovery of this remote site would be a matter of pure luck. His map didn’t show the location; he was sure of that. And for someone with his poor sense of direction, retracing the way would prove difficult at best. Doughboy knew the way, of course, but he was a creature who kept his own counsel.
Happily, Doughboy wore distinctive iron shoes, and following his tracks was not difficult as the earth softened farther down the trail. Though Solomon realized that after sunset, even that exercise would become useless without a torch.
Lamentable prospects inundated Solomon Gill. The weather held promise of chilly evening winds, very possibly fog, and Solomon hated the thought of a night in the wilderness without food or shelter.
His darkest fantasies were further invigorated by visions of a wild, mounted Indian stalking him after sunset. Then Solomon remembered that he didn’t even carry a small box of matches. He didn’t use tobacco and had never considered the need of a fire in case of an emergency.
Professor Gill grew more nervous and despondent by the moment, but he rippled even further when he heard the Indian’s stallion whinny in the distance. Solomon couldn’t be sure, but he imagined that the sound came from the direction in which he was traveling. The thought gave him few prospects he wished to contemplate in depth. He reflected on the possibility that perhaps he had read too many pulp adventures as a youth. His imagination, though now tempered with education and experience, was still faintly littered with childhood images of bloody scalps, burning cabins, and waves of screaming, painted braves.
Another half hour of footsore travel and the trail flattened and became more bearable. Suddenly the professor thought he caught the scent of smoke, but then it was gone on the breeze.
He was hiking through a landscape of strange shadows and stranger perspectives. Every detail seemed contrived to impede any immediate view of his surroundings. Distances became impossible to judge. Then the fragrance of pine smoke drifted across his path once more, and he stopped for a moment to judge its source. That proved impossible.
Professor Gill limped down the trail until he came to a clearing in the trees. What caught his eye astonished him. There stood old Doughboy, reins secured to a tree limb and hind leg cocked in repose. Doughboy was slumbering the sleep of God’s innocents. A little fire burned in a small stone circle neatly cleared of all surrounding combustibles. The professor’s food bindle had been laid out neatly on the ground like a tablecloth. Closer examination revealed that his packed lunch, which he had neglected, had been partially liberated. Two pieces of fried chicken and two johnnycakes were missing. The professor’s canteen had been set upright on the bindle cloth and he noticed that the collapsible cup was still moist with use.
Though he waited cautiously, no one appeared from the shadows to claim responsibility, and there were no further appearances from the mysterious Ind
ian horseman, for which Professor Gill was prayerfully grateful. Relieved at finding his transportation secure and quiescent, Solomon sat on the ground next to the spread bindle and ravenously consumed the last of the chicken and the remaining johnnycakes. Whoever had caught and tethered Doughboy had been generous enough to leave half the rations intact. Solomon was grateful for both.
When he had finished refreshing himself, Solomon packed his bindle, mounted the reanimated mule, and moved off down the shadow-laced trail with a prayer of sincere appreciation upon his lips. Doughboy and the professor finally made their way back to the lodge about nine o’clock. Both rider and mule were warm and fast asleep within thirty minutes of their arrival.
Solomon Gill rose upright in a cold sweat at five-thirty the next morning. He had heard a sound in his dreams that had frightened him. Suddenly he heard it anew, and it sent chills up his spine. It was the sound of a horse whinny in the distance.
Solomon pulled on his pants and went to the window. A wrangler leading a string of five shaggy cow ponies was coming up the road. The professor sat on the bed to pull on his boots. He was disturbed by his startled reaction to the sound of the horses, and he was forced to concede that the experiences of the last two days had not been all that he might have wished. The fact that he had been spooked by the phantom Indian gave Solomon pause to consider his own suitability as a field researcher. He missed his books and the simple comforts Mrs. Hammel’s establishment was pleased to provide. He had long since become accustomed to the secure precincts of academia. It hadn’t been an acquired taste, either. He had fallen into it quite easily. The vistas might not be as broad and spectacular, but the dangers were correspondingly lessened by the mundane constraints of campus life.
The professor took his little five-and-dime notebook from his jacket pocket and looked at the scant few notes he had made in the last couple of days. There seemed pitifully little to show for his adventures except a possible Neolithic campsite he could never find again and a strange tale of a half-naked Indian horseman that he was sure no one in his right mind would credit.
Down to a Soundless Sea Page 15
