Ambush on the Mesa (6 page)

“You’re sure?”

“I’m not sure of anything except that I won’t let go of this picket line.” Hugh fastened his end of the line to his saddle, then coiled up the slack.

Clymer spat. “Get going, Greer.”

The little man looked at Hugh and then at Clymer. Then he gingerly placed his feet on the ladder and began to go down. He took his time. Hugh could hear him breathing harshly as he tested each shaky rung.

Clymer shoved back his hat. “Yellowbelly,” he said.

“I didn’t see you racing to get down there, Clymer,” said Hugh.

There was no sound from below. Then suddenly something snapped. A high-pitched scream seemed to shoot out of the hole like a rocket. Wood splintered, and there was the thump of a falling body. From the sound of it Greer hadn’t fallen far. Hugh drew in on the line. The little clerk screamed again. “Give me a hand!” snapped Hugh at Clymer. They hauled Greer up, easing him through the hole. Hugh stared at Greer’s face. It was a mask of blood.

Marion Nettleton screamed, “What’s down there!”

Greer sank to the ground, pawing at his bloody face. Incoherent cries seemed to be pistoned out of his mouth at intervals. “It was awful!” he finally managed to gasp.

Hugh gripped Greer by the collar. “What, you fool!” he said. “What was it you saw?”

Greer’s eyes were wide in his face. “Nothing! I saw nothing! It was the feeling I had down there.”

Hugh unfastened the picket line from Greer. He passed the end under his arms and lashed it. “Stevens,” he said, “feed out the slack as I go down.”

Hugh went down into the darkness, feeling out with his legs as he went down. It was only a short distance. He hit hard earth with his feet and drew down a little slack from the line. He lit a match and looked about. The flickering light of the big match revealed a circular room, perhaps twenty feet across. A low shelf completely encircled the wall, and from it rose a number of low pilasters which held up the roof. The shelf was supported by an ingenious framework of cribbed logs covered with the hard earth of the terrace.

Hugh lit another match. The packed floor had been sprayed by the blood from Greer’s nose. An eerie feeling came over Hugh as he stood there. He pulled at the picket line, then raised himself hand over hand until he pulled himself out onto the terrace. He looked at the others. “Nothing down there,” he said.

Greer was wiping his face. “No? Maybe something you can’t see, but there’s something down there, Kinzie, and you know it. I can see it in your eyes!”

Some of the onlookers were nervous. Others stood there with drawn faces. There was something about the whole occurrence which had triggered strange thoughts in their minds. The whole place had an eerie, haunting quality about it, as though unseen eyes were always watching them.

Willis crawled out of a room. “Got it fairly well cleaned out,” he said. “Lotsa trash in there. Mrs. Nettleton, you’ll be all right in there.”

Nettleton looked at Greer. “Get Mrs. Nettleton settled in there. For God’s sake, get the rest of that blood off of your face.” Nettleton turned toward Clymer. “Form a guard, Mr. Clymer.”

Clymer looked at Phillips. “Take over, Mr. Phillips,” he said shortly.

Later, as Hugh carried his blankets into one of the shelters which still boasted a roof, he looked out along the terrace. Stevens was pacing back and forth at the far end. Pearce leaned against a wall at the other end. The horses had been unsaddled and the mules unloaded. From somewhere in one of the small rooms he could hear a strident snoring. There was no sign of life in the canyon.

Hugh straightened out his blankets. Harry Roswell raised his head from where he was lying. “You think they’ll bother us?” he asked.

Hugh pulled off his boots. “Not likely. Unless we try to leave. They don’t like these places. Places Of The Dead, they call them. They’ll bide their time until we’re ready to pull out.”

“Then we’ll get it.”

“Maybe … maybe not.”

Hugh dropped on his blanket and looked up at the dim ceiling of the little dwelling. He wondered how many years had passed since the builders of the room had slept there.

Roswell rolled over and looked again at Hugh. “What happened to Greer down there?” he asked quietly.

“Nerves.”

“You feel anything down there?”

“No.”

Roswell rubbed his jaw. “You looked a little pale when you came up.”

Hugh rose up on an elbow. “Look, Harry. I don’t like this place. I don’t like the deal we’re in. But I’m not going to lie awake talking about ghosts, if that’s what you mean.”

Roswell lay back and covered his eyes with his right arm. “Sorry, Hugh,” he said.

The wind moaned through the little window and small doorway. It sighed along under the great arch of the cave high above the cliff-dwelling ruins. From somewhere down the canyon a coyote howled softly.

H
UGH
was up at dawn. He shivered in the cold wind as he stepped out onto the terrace. Roswell was on guard with Greer. Hugh rolled a smoke and handed the makings to Roswell. “How did it go, Harry?”

Roswell looked out over the dim canyon. He shrugged. “As quiet as the grave.”

Hugh grinned. “A neat comparison.”

Roswell lit his smoke. “Greer is acting peculiar.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Something has cracked inside of him.”

Hugh nodded. “I’ve been expecting it. I’m going to look around.”

Hugh glanced at Greer as he walked behind the little clerk. Greer was standing at the edge of the terrace, looking off into the dimness of the canyon, mumbling softly to himself.

Hugh worked his way over a pile of debris in a passageway between two dwellings. High above him the arched roof of the great cave showed darker streaks of deep red. They blended into black splotches where the cave roof ended. The streaks were at almost regular intervals and Hugh finally deduced that the smoke from the fires had discolored the reddish-brown rock.

There was a triangular space behind the back walls of the last row of dwellings, forming a long passageway between the walls and the slanting roof of the cave. It was littered with trash. Hugh picked up a finely shaped pottery bowl decorated with a black-on-white design.

Hugh walked east the length of the passageway. It ended against the blank wall, stained by the smoke of ancient fires. He walked back the other way, feeling the utter loneliness of the place. He picked up a square of yucca matting, pieces of pottery and a flint arrowhead.

Then he was at the western end of the passageway. Here there was a semicircular area, littered with ears of dried corn. There was a great fault in the cave wall, forming a narrow V-shaped crack in the rock. It had been carefully fiilled with mortared rock. Hugh skirted the crumbling wall at the end of the passageway, and eased his way through a narrow door into the bottom floor of a square, three-storied tower. A notched chicken ladder rose up to the next floor. Hugh climbed up to the second story. There was no ladder leading up to the third story, but he was able to stand on a pile of debris, grasp the edges of the trap door, and pull himself up into the top story. The roof had fallen in at one side. The light of early morning came in through a window, and flooded in through the gap in the roof.

Hugh walked over to the window, and standing well back from it, he looked out over the canyon. The tower afforded a fine place to watch the whole area in front of the ruins. There wasn’t a sign of life on the brushy floor of the canyon. Hugh looked across to the far wall. He could have sworn the brush at one point moved a little against the wind.

Hugh rolled a smoke and studied the canyon. A good rifleman in the tower could sweep the slopes in front of the ruins. He knew they could hold the ruins against fifty Mimbrenos. But would the Mimbrenos attack? It was a place of the dead, and their superstitious fears would work on them enough to keep them at a distance. But they could let the lack of food and water drive the White-eyes from the ruins. It shouldn’t take long.

Hugh looked along the terrace below him. Willis was kindling a fire from shattered roof poles. Stevens was filling a large coffeepot with water from a canteen. Greer was squatted against the front of a dwelling, his thin hands hanging down in front of his knees. Morton was on the
terrace just below the tower with his battered Bible in his hands.

Katy Corse came out of one of the dwellings. She swept back her long hair with her hands, and thrust a comb into one side of the deep black tresses. She walked to the edge of the terrace and stood there, breathing deeply of the fresh morning air. Hugh thought that Katy Corse would be at home anywhere.

Darrell Phillips walked toward Katy. She laughed as he said something. They stood there together looking out toward the canyon, almost as though they were safe in some park back in the East.

Dan Pearce came out between two buildings, looked up and down the terrace, then furtively ducked back into a passageway again. First Sergeant Hastings was checking over the small stock of food, shaking his head as he did so. Harry Roswell was inspecting the horses picketed along the terrace.

Captain Nettleton came out of the room in which he had spent the night “Is that coffee ready, Stevens?” he called out.

“No, sir.”

“Hurry it up.”

“The fire isn’t hot enough, sir.”

Nettleton threw his hands up in petty anger. He looked into the room he had just left. “It won’t take long, dear,” he said.

Hugh thought of the lack of water. Maybe he should stop Stevens from making the coffee. But he had stuck his neck into enough bickering already, without going so far as to deprive them of their morning coffee.

Hugh dropped down to the second floor of the tower. There was a startled exclamation from the first floor, then the crush of boots against the debris-littered floor. Hugh looked down through the opening. The first floor was empty. He turned on a heel and jumped to a side window, looking down into the narrow passageway between the wall and the end wall of the great cave. It was empty. But he did see something. Across from him was a rock shelf, slanting down and away from him. There was a thin trickle of moisture glistening against the wall.

Hugh pulled up the chicken ladder and thrust it across the gap between the tower and the rock shelf. He teetered across. There was a shallow pan of water there, hardly
enough to wet the rock. There was a slow dripping from the trickle against the wall. Hardly enough water to keep one person alive for long, much less thirteen. “Thirteen!” he said aloud.

He walked back across the ladder and replaced it where he had found it. He’d keep the knowledge of the water to himself for a time, until he figured out what to do. He passed back into the triangular passageway. It was empty of life.

Hugh walked out on the terrace. Abel Clymer appeared at the far end and glanced at Hugh, then he came toward the fire. Hastings was doling out the meat and hardtack. “Willis,” he said, “you and Pearce take morning guard.”

Willis stopped with his meat halfway to his wide mouth. “Hell, Sarge! I was on four hours last night.”

“We’re not running this outfit from a duty roster.”

Willis glanced at Phillips, at Clymer and then at Hugh. “There’s some here had a full night’s sleep,” he said.

Hugh leaned against a wall. “We can get by with one guard during the day,” he said. “Send him to that tower at the west end. He can see the whole terrace, the slope, and a good part of the canyon from up there. Good field of fire.”

Clymer’s eyes held Hugh’s for a moment, then the big officer turned away. “Captain Nettleton,” he said loudly, “how long are we going to stay here?”

Nettleton put down his coffee cup. “Until we’re sure there are no Apaches out there,” he said.

Clymer laughed. “We haven’t seen any yet. Maybe there aren’t any out there.”

“Walk down the slope,” said Hugh. “Take a little stroll up or down the valley. If you dont’ come back then you’ll know they’re out there.”

“I don’t like this,” said Clymer. He looked at Hastings. “Send out a man to look around.”

Hastings stood up. He wiped big hands on his thighs. “One man, sir?”

“Did you expect to send a squad?” asked Clymer sarcastically.

Hugh rolled a smoke. He eyed Clymer. “Ask for a volunteer, Hastings,” he suggested.

The men looked away. Hastings wet his cracked lips. “Any volunteers?” he asked uncertainly. No one spoke up.

Hugh shifted a little. “You’ve got two good junior officers
here, Captain Nettleton. A good officer wouldn’t send a man on a detail he wouldn’t take on himself.”

Clymer scowled. Phillips went pale beneath his tan. Nettleton stood up and placed his coffee cup on a rock. “Why, yes,” he said brightly. “That’s it! Mr. Clymer, you and Mr. Phillips decide between yourselves who is to go.”

Clymer looked at Phillips. “You go,” he said.

Phillips felt about in his trousers pocket. “We’ll flip for it,” he said quietly.

Clymer spat. “Forget it. Forget the whole thing!” He stamped off down the terrace.

Willis softly laughed as he picked up his carbine and walked toward the tower to stand guard.

• • •

The heat of the afternoon seemed to hang in the silent canyon like a thick issue blanket. There wasn’t a breath of wind. Nothing stirred. The sky was a pitiless blue, without even a cloud to suggest shelter against the blazing sun.

Hugh was in the tower, studying the far wall of the canyon with his field glasses, feeling the sticky sweat rolling down his sides. He lowered the glasses and wiped the misted eyepieces with his bandanna. Now and then one of the horses whinnied pitifully, to be answered by the dry braying of a mule. Something scraped below Hugh. He turned and looked at the opening in the floor.

There was a rattling noise from the first story. Hugh cased his glasses and walked softly to the opening. He looked down through both openings. Harsh breathing came up to him. Hugh moved. A piece of stone rolled over the edge of the opening and dropped on the chicken ladder which was between the first and second stories. Boots crushed against debris.

Hugh leaped over to the side window of the tower. He thrust his head through the window. Dan Pearce looked up at him. “What’s on your mind, Dan?” asked Hugh.

Pearce flushed. “Water,” he said.

“You’ll have to wait.”

“Willis says there’s water around here somewhere.”

“There is. But it isn’t in that first-floor room.”

Pearce looked down. “Hell,” he said. “I thought there might be something a man could pick up and take along with him.”

“Such as?”

“Gold, maybe.”

Hugh grinned. “These people were farmers, Pearce.”

Pearce squinted his eyes as he looked up. “You find anything?”

“Pottery. Arrowheads. Matting. That’s all.”

“They must have had something of value.”

Abel Clymer entered the passageway. He stared at Pearce. “What are you doing in here?”

Pearce straightened up. “I’m next on guard, sir.”

“Then get up in that tower!”

Pearce glanced sideways at the big officer. He entered the tower and came up beside Hugh. “Sonofabitch,” he said. “He’s been poking around these ruins himself. Always was looking for something to lay his hands on back at Fort Ayres.”

“Such as?”

“Money. Women. Liquor. What else is there?”

Hugh handed Pearce the glasses. “Keep away from the water,” he said.

Pearce glanced out of the side window. “Ain’t enough there to wet a blotter,” he growled.

“Just the same … leave it alone.”

Pearce spat dryly as Hugh went down through the opening.

Clymer was still in the passageway. He eyed Hugh. “You’ve got influence with the captain,” he said. “Get him to give us orders to move on.”

“We’ve been through this before.”

Clymer flushed. “Mrs. Nettleton isn’t standing this heat too well.”

“Who is?”

Clymer gripped Hugh by the shirt front and drew him close. “Damn you! Don’t get me riled, Kinzie!”

Hugh dropped his carbine butt on one of Clymer’s feet. Clymer grunted in pain and stepped back. The carbine muzzle prodded the big officer in the belly. “Get out of my way,” said Hugh softly.

Clymer limped backwards. His eyes were filled with feral hate as he watched Hugh walked out onto the terrace. A soft laugh came from high above Clymer. He looked up to see the grinning face of Dan Pearce. “Damn you, Pearce!” said Clymer. “I won’t take anything from
you!
”

Pearce shoved a stone over the edge of the window. It hit
Clymer on the head. Clymer clawed for his Colt but Pearce leisurely rested his carbine barrel on the bottom of the window. He cocked the hammer. His eyes met Clymer’s. Clymer released his hold on his pistol and limped back into the passageway. Pearce touched the partially healed scar on his head, then spat dryly down into the passageway.