The early civilizations of the Nile, Tigris-Euphrates, and Indus Valley had all been based on irrigation. The same seemed true of the early cultures in Peru. The descendants of the Anasazi had not only irrigated but had terraced their mountainsides, utilizing every foot of possible soil. Here in their secluded world they had hoped to remain aloof from those who followed The Hand.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Raglan said. “Our time’s running out.”
Erik straightened up. “Let’s go!”
Raglan started, then stopped abruptly. From the great hall below he heard a sharp command. Glancing down through the lattice, he saw a dozen Varanel led by a tall man wearing what appeared to be a coat of mail, but a brand-new one of shimmering metallic links. One glance was all Raglan needed. This was no decadent remnant of a dying civilization. Whatever else he was, this was a man!
This had to be Zipacna.
What is there that lies within the male beast that makes him, sometimes, lust for combat? Raglan looked upon Zipacna then and saw clear his destiny. All his life long, though there had been times when it was impossible, he had tried to avoid trouble, had walked wide around the possibility of it, and taken the alleys to avoid the streets where danger was. The climbing of mountains and the walking of narrow trails, or sailing rough, reef-strewn seas, had taught judgment. Growing in strength and fighting skills, he had also grown in caution and the hesitation to use the skills he knew, yet there was something in the man called Zipacna that raised his hackles.
Good sense told him to get away as fast as he could. To save himself and Erik, to find his way back and quickly, before his chance to escape was gone and his life lost here in this place. Yet his every urge drove him to shout through the megaphone, if such it was—to shout a challenge to Zipacna. He started for it, bristling, then stopped.
Stifling the urge, he said, “Let’s get out of here, fast.”
They ran down the steps, taking the stairs on the left, closer to the wall where the old trail had been glimpsed. Perhaps there was a trail, perhaps not, but it must be tried. Pausing on the steps, he remembered he had fired two shots and shucked the empty shells, reloading the chambers.
Erik had gone before him, and suddenly he halted. Hurrying, Raglan almost ran him down. Erik was pointing. In their path, in the dank tunnel, was one of the giant lizards.
Obviously, the beast had found some way into the passage, and how many years it had inhabited the place was anybody’s guess. It was there, directly before them, and there was no way past it.
A moment Raglan stared, shocked and unbelieving. The creatures were amazingly quick, and its tongue was flicking, testing the air, catching the scent. The lizard knew they were fresh meat, and it indicated no sense of fear. Without doubt it had eaten men before, and had found no reason to avoid them.
“Step back, Erik.” Raglan was suddenly calm. This was something he could not avoid. It must be faced here and now. As the beast stared at him, he saw its muscles gather and he fired.
The report of the .357 in the narrow passage was thunderous, but the beast was not ten feet away and its head was the obvious target. It lunged, and he fired.
Its skull burst like a dropped melon, and they rushed past it just as it exploded into death throes and raked the walls with its talons. Appalled, Erik turned to look back. “Keep going!” Raglan urged. “They’re right behind us!”
His light bobbing as he ran, he now led the way up the slanting tunnel.
The floor was muddy, and there were signs that the monsters came often to this place. It was cool and dark, and no doubt it had been long since anything living was discovered here. Before them, light showed.
Mike slowed his pace. Erik caught up and said, “We don’t know what’s out there.”
“If we’re lucky, Johnny is.”
“Johnny?”
Mike explained, moving forward cautiously. So far they had been lucky, very lucky, indeed. But there was little time left.
What about Kawasi? Dared he try to return to the pueblos of the Anasazi? How far was it? And what lay between?
He flipped the switch on his flash and thrust it into his pocket.
“Somebody’s coming!” Erik warned.
They had emerged on a hillside, with the black, towering bulk of the Forbidden behind them like an enormous wall of black glass. At their feet lay the merest vestige of a trail, long unused. Below them and on their right lay the town, its even streets empty as always, its green parks, trees, and occasional pools all bright in the veiled sunlight.
Mike Raglan led the way down the path. First, to get Erik away. After all, that was why he was here,, where he had never wanted to be. His thoughts returned to Zipacna. What was it about the man? Some domineering quality, quality against which he had always rebelled? What was it in him that resisted any idea of tyranny? As a boy he had always bristled when larger boys had tried to bully him or anyone near him. He had believed that the feeling had disappeared with maturity, but it had not.
Erik had paused on the low ground. The Forbidden loomed behind them, some distance off now. “I’m sorry, Raglan. I’m about done in.”
Raglan turned his back on him. “Reach into my pack. There’s some trail mix in there. You know—seeds, nuts, and raisins. Grab a pack, but keep going. Our time’s running out.”
Erik fumbled with the pack and Mike’s eyes went back to the Forbidden. Men were emerging from the tunnel, men in blue: the Varanel. He did not know their weapons’ range but had no desire to risk it. From what he had seen, the range was limited, but how could he be sure? Maybe there was a different setting that would offer greater range. He started on, Erik stumbling behind him, trying to eat and run at the same time.
Now they were winding across a boulder-strewn hillside, and the blue-clad men behind them were gaining. Before them was a crest of crags, looming along the edge of what would have been called rimrock back in his country.
Erik stopped. “Go ahead, Raglan. I’m not going to make it.”
Mike Raglan stopped. “You think I’ve come all this way for nothing? Go ahead of me, and just follow the path.” He shook several loose rounds into his side pocket, for easy access.
The clouded sunlight left no shadows on the hillside. The town lay shimmering in its vague light, and above it in the distance, at least a mile away now and probably farther, was the black awesome presence of the Forbidden.
All was green and lovely in the distance, yet the grass here was yellow and faded. Did it ever rain here? It must, yet the grass was dying, and the brush around was desert brush, not unlike that on the Haunted Mesa. Was he close there? Was there a veil through which he might step? And what of her whom he loved? Would he see her again?
The Varanel were closing in now. Soon they would be within range of his pistol, and it had a good range. He had often done distance shooting with the magnum. It called for steadiness of hand, a good eye, but the gun was a powerful one. He stopped, waiting.
Suddenly, from up on the rimrock and some distance off, there was a dull boom.
The jacket of the nearest Varanel suddenly blossomed with red. He took two forward steps and then fell, all of a piece, and face down. The big gun boomed again, and Mike saw a rock near the next man spatter broken chips under the bullet’s impact.
He turned his back and walked on, following Erik. Behind him the pursuit had stopped. The rimrock was a good six hundred yards off, but at the Battle of Adobe Walls, Billy Dixon had knocked an Indian off his horse at just under a mile, with the same kind of rifle. A Mexican had done likewise during the Lincoln County War.
They were climbing steeply now. The Varanel started again, and again the big rifle boomed. A second man fell, his neck bloody.
“We’re going to make it, Erik. Johnny’s up there with his buffalo gun.”
“I can’t leave her.” Erik stopped. “Raglan, I just can’t.”
“Where is she? Who is she?” Mike asked, but Erik was too out of breath to answer.
Overhead a buzzard soared. One of theirs? Or one of ours? Or was there always a way for them? Mike topped a rise, looking down upon what was apparently a dried watercourse. Once there had been a river here; even the fallen trunks of great old trees were there, an occasional one still standing. It was a weird, desolate scene.