He paused beside Erik. He was looking at what lay before him, standing on the very side of a vast desolation. What lay beyond? Were there other people? Perhaps a real civilization? Or was this all? This dreary waste stretching away to the end of time, to the end of everything?
And this was so close, so close to his world, his rich, green, wonderful world! He had never valued it so much as now. Johnny, carrying his rifle, was coming down the mountain toward them.
How far away were they? Had they traveled in distance? In Time? He did not know. He had never known about such things. His world had been one of illusion, and the solving of easy mysteries. Of course, there had been times …
Johnny came down to them. “Raglan? Can you take us back? You said you could.”
“Maybe,” Mike said. “I’ll try.”
In the distance a finger of rock pointed at the sky. Was it the same?
He was tired, very tired. Somewhere among those distant crags was the opening to his world, and he wanted nothing so much as to be there, crawling into his own bed, to sleep, to rest. Time was short, and they had far to go.
Yet what was Time? Was it the same here as over there? Did they even measure time there? Could Time be measured? He started on down the hill toward the long-dead forest, its bare arms entangled with other bare arms, no life, no birds, no animals, not even an insect. Nothing. What he saw was a blighted place, something struck by forces of which he knew nothing.
Now they were in the forest, only skeleton trees, twisted, agonized branches like arms writhing in a nameless torture. The only bark lay on the ground in great, ragged strips, threads trailing from it. In the dead silence, even their steps seemed to make no sound. A dead forest in a land too dry for them to rot, a place where decay seemed unknown. Before them was the bed of a wide river, and suddenly Mike stopped. “Johnny,” he whispered. “Look!”
A white stone, standing on edge, then another and another.
“A graveyard,” Johnny said, awed. “Somebody was here!”
They walked nearer, and paused. Scratched on the stone was a name, below it the simple words:
BORN: 1840 DIED: 1874
On gentle feet they walked among the stones. They counted forty-one stones, all the dates in the same range of years, none earlier than 1810. The latest recorded death was 1886.
“Can’t figure it,” Johnny said. “These folks all in one passel, all the gravestones written in English!”
Mike Raglan pointed. “There’s your answer!”
Along the bank of the dry riverbed was what remained of a steamboat.
“That will be the Iron Mountain. Disappeared in 1872, fifty-five people aboard.”
XL
Together they went down to the bank of the dry river, following along the shore to the gangplank, its boards gray with age. The name of the steamboat was still there: Iron Mountain.
It was not a wreck, but had come to rest on the bottom of what must have been a flowing stream. One stack had fallen forward at some much later time, and the end of it rested on the smashed railing. Here and there a door hung on its hinges. Its almost flat bottom rested comfortably. The door to the main cabin was closed. Boats still hung from the davits.
Erik sat down on a timberhead. “I’ve got to rest. Sorry, Mike, but I’m all in.”
“Take your time. I’m going to look around.”
There was no time, but Erik could have a moment’s rest while he looked about. He opened the door to the main cabin. All was in order, yet it was obvious people had lived here. They must have stayed with the riverboat, hoping that whatever force had brought them here would take them back. One after another they must have died and been buried on the hill.
Not all of them. Forty-one graves had been counted, and if he recalled correctly there had been fifty-five passengers and crew. Such, at least, was the story. He could vouch for none of it except that the steamboat was here, as it must have remained for over one hundred years.
At first they must have suffered from shock; obviously then they had wondered what had happened, where they now were, and how to get back. No doubt there was discussion, argument, and some local exploration, limited by fear that the steamboat might be transferred back while the explorers were gone. After a while, no doubt, that possibility must have become improbable.
Slowly they adjusted, although no doubt hope remained. Some would have loved ones awaiting their arrival in St. Louis or whatever river port might have been their destination. Some were on business, some going to stations upriver, others just adventuring.
Hope must have lasted long, while they clung to the one thing familiar: the steamboat.
The main cabin had obviously become a community hall where all gathered. There were tables there, and in one corner the few books aboard had been gathered and a sort of library organized. In another corner a store had been set up for the purpose of passing out what clothing was available as what they possessed wore out. There had been cases of clothing, boots, shoes, and other articles destined for some place upstream. From a tablet on a table, Raglan could see an effort had been made to keep a list from which to compensate the owner if they ever returned.
There was no evidence of turmoil or confusion. All seemed to have proceeded in an orderly fashion and with decorum. Yet there had been, trouble, but not from among themselves. Obviously, they needed one another and reacted accordingly. The trouble had come from something outside.
Bales of cotton had been arranged around the rails, and behind one he found a dozen brass cartridge shells and a Henry rifle. Kneeling down where the marksman must have knelt, he sighted toward shore. Up there in those rocks …
There were dishes on the tables in the main cabin, and there was still chopped wood alongside the fireplace. In the pilot house he found the one skeleton, still wearing dried-out leather boots, clothing in rags.
The skeleton bore no evidence of violent death. He must have been one of the last to die, as his body remained unburied.
Johnny came up from the Texas, the officers’ quarters. “Found some powder,” he said. “I don’t know about it.”
“Probably no good any longer,” Raglan waved a hand. “Pilot, I expect.”
He looked around again. How must the man have felt? Yet he had stayed with his steamboat. Obviously, he or someone had maintained discipline. Some of the people had gone off exploring, trying to find where they were or some way to return. Did they know what had happened?
“We’d better get going.” Raglan gathered up a small stack of account books and one that might have been a log. “Put these in my pack. I’d like to go over them when there’s time.”
Erik got to his feet as they came down from the boiler deck. “Sorry. I’m played out. They didn’t pay much attention to feeding me.”
Mike Raglan studied the distant hills. He knew only approximately where they must go. He started off, crossing the dry riverbed on a diagonal, heading for what seemed to be a dim path as observed from the upper deck jf the steamboat. Paths usually led somewhere and were always a timesaver if the direction was right. In cutting across country, a man never knew what he might encounter.
From time to time he stopped to study their back trail. There would be pursuit, of that he was sure. How soon it would begin and what form it would take he had no idea. There were Varanel ahead of them—at least the patrol he had seen near the Anasazi pueblos. Had they some means of communication? If they knew he was coming, they could set up an ambush.
Where was Kawasi? And what had happened at the pueblos?
Several times he sighted vestiges of ruins not unlike the ruins found in Arizona and New Mexico, but there was no time to stop or to collect even the simplest of artifacts for future study.
The air was very still. Uneasily, Raglan looked around. Nothing, so far as he could see, moved upon the landscape, yet he had a haunted feeling, a sense of imminent disaster. There were no clouds, only that veiled yellow sky from which he could read nothing.
Mike glanced at Johnny. “Do you feel it, too? What is it?”
Johnny shrugged. “No idea, but we better get where we’re goin’.”
Raglan started off again, walking swiftly. He was scared and he did not know why. There was a chill along his spine that worried him. What did his body know that he did not?