Novel 1987 - The Haunted Mesa (v5.0) Read Free Page A

It’s mighty rough country.”
    â€œKnow anything about that mesa?”
    Jack was a long time in replying. Finally he shrugged. “Just a big chunk of rock, talus slopes, sheer rock around the rim. Kind of out-of-the-way and nobody pays it much mind.”
    Indicating one of Jack’s Paiute friends, Mike suggested: “Ask him if he knows anything about it.”
    Jack waved a hand, his manner just a little too casual. “Nothing to ask, and don’t look for it on a map. Chances are they’ll have it in the wrong place, even in the wrong state.”
    â€œI am curious.”
    â€œAsk a Hopi then. They’ve been here forever. My advice is to forget it.”
    â€œI want to climb it. See what’s on top.”
    â€œYou’re crazy, Mike. Let well enough alone.”
    Climb it he had, but that was another story and too long ago. He had covered a lot of country since then, had grown older and, he hoped, wiser.
    He got back in the car and locked the doors, then leaned his head back. He was tired, really tired. Where the devil was Erik? All he wanted now was a quiet meal and his bed at Tamarron. No, he would settle for the bed. He could eat tomorrow.
    He sat up, started the car, and drove slowly, carefully along the road toward the San Juan. The long mesa from which he had seen the flare towered over him now, dark and threatening. The northern tip of the mesa loomed against the sky like the prow of a giant ship.
    Peering ahead he could see the gleam of water. That would be the San Juan River, or water backed up by Glen Canyon Dam. He had not been in this country since the dam was built. He started to get out of the car, then paused, taking time to thread his belt through the holster loop and buckle up again. He wore the holster on his left side, situated for a cross-draw or a left-hand draw if necessary.
    Often he climbed into high, relatively inaccessible places and habitually carried the gun as a protection against an inadvertent meeting with a bear or mountain lion. The chance of such an encounter was slight, but after one near brush with a lion he had gone prepared. He had no desire to kill anything nor did he have any desire to be a chance victim. The gun had a reassuring feel. He stepped down from the car and closed the door softly behind him.
    With the sound there was a scurry of movement off in the dark, a rattle of pebbles, then silence. His hand on his gun, he waited.
    He was not the sort to shoot at any sound, nor at anything he could not identify, but the movement disturbed him. It might have been a coyote but his impression was of something larger.
    For a long time he waited. It was unlike Erik Hokart, who was meticulous about keeping appointments. He paced the road near the car. It was cold, as desert nights were apt to be. He put his hand on the door handle. Suddenly, from the edge of the mesa towering above him, there was a brilliant flare. Only a momentary flash, yet for that instant it shed a white radiance all around, and then, just as suddenly, it was gone.
    In the utter darkness that followed, the desert seemed to scurry with life. He glimpsed vaguely a rush of naked figures, and something smashed hard into the side of his car. He turned sharply and for an instant stared into the wide, expressionless eyes of a naked creature. It seemed not to see him at all, but scrambled around his car and ran off into the night, leaving behind a heavy fetid odor as of something dead.
    Then the creatures—or men, or whatever they were—vanished into the night and he was alone. Only the odor lingered.
    There were far-off retreating sounds, then silence. He shuddered, then got quickly into his car and closed the door, locking it.
    It had happened so suddenly there had been no chance for fear. Shaken, he turned the car about and drove back to Tamarron, where he was staying.
    The drive was long and day was breaking before he drew up in front of the lodge. Leaving the motor running,