Novel 1987 - The Haunted Mesa (v5.0) (20 page)

Bloody and in handcuffs, they stared at him, expressions surly. “That one”—he pointed—“I saw at Tamarron today. They told me he wasn't a guest. Looks to me like they tried to mug somebody who didn't want to be mugged.”

“You didn't hear anything?”

“At the time I expect I was too busy to listen, Officer.”

“Aren't you a friend of Gallagher's?”

“Gallagher? He's a fine man. Yes, I'd consider him a friend. If you need me for anything I'll be right here, or in the restaurant over there. I'll be glad to help in any way I can.”

Later, thinking about it, he knew he had been lucky. His tactics had taken them by surprise, and in another conflict he might not be so fortunate. All species of men have some style of combat in which they are trained. Undoubtedly his attackers had not expected a fight but planned simply to overpower him with sheer strength; whatever skills they possessed had not been brought into use. There simply had been no time for them to adjust. The entire action had taken no more than a minute, so he must not become overconfident.

His own skills were limited. In his years of knocking about, from his early days with the carnivals to his travels abroad, he had picked up here and there some tricks of self-defense and had been trained in a half-dozen such skills. From China, Japan, and Tibet to Burma, Sumatra, and Java, he had learned what he could and had trained with some superb athletes. At the same time he had worked at none of them long enough to be truly proficient.

Naturally curious, he had acquired some understanding of each people's system of self-defense but had not practiced enough. He had an advantage over these people, he suspected, because he had been exposed to more different styles of fighting than they.

He awakened at daylight, shaved, showered, and dressed quickly. He had an idea Gallagher would be around, and after that he intended to see Eden Foster.

He had no idea that she would admit to any connection with these people or with Shibalba, but he intended to discuss the matter of Erik Hokart. There was always the chance that his release might be arranged by negotiation—certainly better than an attempt to go through the curtain and release him by force or by some stratagem. It was worth a try.

At the same time, he must be on his guard. By going to her home he was, in a sense, entering enemy territory. No doubt she had men on call who would like nothing better than to lay hands on him.

Gallagher was seated at a back table, his eyes quizzical, when Raglan came in. “Figured you'd be in about now. I didn't feel any need to wake you up.”

“Things were lively around here last night. Sorry you missed it.”

Gallagher glanced at the skinned knuckles. “Looks like you didn't. How was it?”

“I was lucky. I doubt if they believed I'd be trouble, so I got the jump on them. I didn't tell your boys much because I wanted to get some sleep, and to be frank, what could I tell them?”

“What was it? Attempted kidnapping or killing?”

“Damned if I know. They rushed me from behind and I simply went into action. Whatever they had in mind I didn't want any part of it, so I registered my objections. Have you talked to them?”

“
Talked
to them? I haven't even seen them! They disappeared from the jail sometime during the night. No sign of them. Just like they'd never been around!”

Mike Raglan told his story, briefly and to the point. The events in the canyon, his return to town, the rush from the darkness, his defense, the call to the police, and their appearance. “That's the gist of it. I'd know them if I saw them again. One was certainly the man I saw at Tamarron, and I suspect they are the two who followed me along the highway.”

Gallagher stared out the window. “The heat's on. We've had two more calls about Hokart. An electronics outfit phoned, and a lawyer.”

“I'm going to call on Eden Foster.”

Gallagher nodded. “Business or pleasure?”

“Strictly business. I'm going to put my cards on the table and try to negotiate. She's an intelligent woman. We've agreed on that. We've got to get Hokart back or she will be on the carpet. I've got to make her understand the situation.” He paused. “The trouble is, can she make
them
understand?”

Sunlight warmed the street outside. The truckers seated themselves nearby and ordered. Gallagher filled his cup from the pot left on the table. Mike Raglan sat thinking, wondering how he'd gotten himself into this situation, and what he could do.

Going to see Eden Foster might be just a stalling move. Was he really afraid to go through the window? Of course he was. Once on the Other Side, all bets were off. He had no idea how they lived, what he would need to do, or how he could find Erik.

There was, it seemed, some kind of an official area like the Forbidden City in Beijing or the Kremlin in Moscow, and only a few were permitted entry. Once inside, he would have to go directly to his destination, yet he had no idea what that destination would be. Information was what he needed.

What about Eden Foster? If she was working for them, was one of them, how much weight did she carry? How much influence? If he convinced her, would they listen? Apparently they knew scarcely more about this world than this world knew of them.

The Anasazi had been good people, seemingly a quiet, agricultural people who lived by hunting, food-gathering, and planting. They planted corn, squash, and beans, and when the rains provided, their crops had been plentiful. In the good years piñon nuts had been a welcome addition to their diet.

Yet before their disappearance they had already become a regimented people. Their lives fell into definite patterns and there seemed to be little scope for invention or discovery. Pottery was introduced gradually and no doubt had an influence on the ready acceptance of beans as a supplement to their diet. The bow and arrow appeared among them, probably first used against them by enemies. For there were enemies. Fierce nomadic tribes were coming down from the North, regarding the settlements as their legitimate prey, as had always been the case.

The cliff dwellers could defend their dwellings, but to work their fields they had to go to the exposed mesa tops or perhaps a few fields in the bottoms of the canyons, and there they were exposed to attack. Their grain they stored in the most inaccessible places they could find, often in other caves above their villages, but the attacks continued.

Before their cliff dwellings were finally abandoned, there had been a gradual migration to the South. More and more of their people were leaving the cliff settlements in hopes of escaping the invading bands of Indians from the North. The first of these were undoubtedly the Paiute or Ute Indians, shortly to be followed by advance hunting parties of the Navajo-Apache.

“The American white man,” Raglan suggested to Gallagher, “has never seen himself as part of a natural pattern. What happened here has happened in every land on earth. Men, animals, and plants tend to seek out a place where they can develop. Before the coming of the white man, who is the last of the invaders up to now, there were invading Indians from the North or South, attacking the settlements of those who preceded them.

“Several attempts were made to construct a more advanced way of living before the coming of the white man, each of which was destroyed by nomadic invaders. This obviously happened to the Anasazi, and a similar thing must have happened to the Mound Builders.

“Our Indians warred against each other, just as did the Mongol tribes before Genghis Khan welded them into a single fighting force. Tecumseh tried to do the same thing in America, and so did Quanah Parker, but any chance of uniting them against a common enemy was spoiled by old hatreds and old rivalries.

“In almost every war the white man fought against Indians, he was aided by other Indians who joined to fight against traditional enemies.

“When Crook fought the Sioux at the Battle of the Rosebud he had several hundred Shoshone allies fighting beside him. The Pawnee scouts led by Major Frank North were valuable allies against old enemies, and in the Southwest, Apaches scouted for the white armies against their cousins.

“What we must do is stop talking nonsense and understand that what happened here was the result of a natural historical development that no man could halt or change. If we were invaded by a superior race from outer space it would happen to us. Our dreamers imagine that contact with an advanced civilization would bring enormous benefits. On the contrary, it would destroy all we have of civilization, undermining our beliefs. We would become as other primitive cultures have become, a poor, benighted people hanging about the fringes waiting for a handout.

“Moreover, it would be our greatest scientists and scholars who would suffer the most, for their knowledge would be superseded, relegating their scholarship to an ash heap of discarded ideas.

“Any creature arriving from outer space would be as far ahead of us as we are ahead of the most primitive native of New Guinea, and what we refer to as science would be simply amusing to such creatures.

“Actually, if we wish to be happy on our green earth, the last thing we want is a visit from a superior people from outer space. Distant contact would be quite another thing, although the probability is we would have to learn a new language, a new math, and an entirely different way of looking at things. This would undoubtedly take generations and would be opposed bitterly by many factions.

“Men have never readily accepted new ideas. Our schools and general thinking are cluttered with beliefs long proved absurd by contemporary knowledge. Man has demonstrated over and over again that the last thing he wants are new ideas, even when they are desperately needed. Ideas are welcomed as long as they do not contradict theories on which scholarly reputations have been erected.”

Gallagher was amused. “You're really wound up this morning. Supposing what we're talking about is true? What would it be like over there?”

“We can only guess. Judging by the little I've had from Kawasi and Tazzoc, it is a very regimented, locked-in society desperately afraid of ideas or strangers that might inject some discontent.

“I suspect a once-progressive society became locked into a pattern which they are struggling to preserve, and we constitute a threat. At the same time the powers that be are eager for some aspects of our knowledge, especially those aspects that can help them maintain the status quo.”

“Do you think that's why they grabbed Hokart?”

“Not at all. They grabbed him because he knew of an opening into their world, but whatever they have learned since may make them wish to keep him. Right now I suspect they are experiencing severe intestinal discomfort from trying to digest even a small part of what he has to offer.”

“Do you think he will help them?”

“If he's smart he will convince them he is too valuable to kill or torture, and I believe he will feed them just enough to whet their appetite until he can find a way to escape.

“He's no fool, and in time he will know that if he is to get away he must do something about it himself. What he does will depend on his own imagination and what materials he has access to that will be useful. He will also have to learn the limits of their knowledge so they will not suspect what he is doing. A man of his knowledge should be able to create explosives or gases that might help and, in time, broadcast facilities that would upset their carefully ordered world. It depends on how much freedom he can acquire, the state of their knowledge, and how much time he has.”

Gallagher shook his head again. “Too much for me, but I'd like to talk to this Tazzoc guy. He could help us a lot.”

“He could help us, but he could help Hokart even more. You see, Tazzoc will know what they know. He is a Keeper of the Archives and he will know more than anyone. That helps us.”

“How do you mean?”

“The man's an historian and, after a fashion, a scholar. Such men are hungry for knowledge. To know a little arouses a hunger to know more. I've stirred his curiosity, and believe me, he'll be back to find me.

“There's my chance. Tazzoc can open the door for me. He is the key to everything.”

“You think he will help you?”

“I'm betting on it. I'm betting my life.”

Chapter 22

U
SING THE TELEPHONE in his room, Mike Raglan dialed a friend in Denver, another in Washington, D.C. If they did not hear from him within two weeks, he told them, they had better investigate. He directed them to contact Gallagher and referred them also to the daybook in a safe at Tamarron. Then he made one more call; if he was going to do this, he needed backup.

The moves he planned could lead to disaster, but no matter what happened to him, someone must know, for if there was life on the other side, and he had evidence of it, there was no telling what their intentions might be.

Volkmeer drove up to the motel at sundown. He was a tall man with narrow shoulders, somewhat stooped, with a weather-beaten face. He was fifty years old but looked ten years younger.

He wore a battered black hat, a blue shirt, gray vest, a pair of well-washed jeans, and boots with run-down heels. “Been years,” he said, when seated. “Heard of you now and again. Never expected your call.”

“I need help, Volk.”

“Figured as much, but it's hard to imagine. Last I knew of you, you could do it all.”

“Ever ride that No Man's Mesa country?”

Volkmeer took a cigar from his breast pocket, regarded it thoughtfully, then bit off the tip. “Time or two. It's a place to fight shy of.”

He struck a match on the seat of his pants and lit the cigar. “Used to be Paiute country—Navajos never liked it much. I never liked it much, either.”

“There's a mesa on this side of the river. Odd sort of place. Looks like the top was cultivated at one time or another.”