"Plenty of action there," Charlie said aloud to
Navajo, as he watched a loosely-formed squadron of dragon flies go
into a jet dive, swooping along low over the smooth water. "With
all those other insects, Nav, the bass out there ought to be
jumpin' high."
As they neared the center of the inlet, a big
splash sounded out toward the center of the lake, making Charlie
glance that way.
"Noisy old carp," he said. "I'll get around to
eating carp when all the cat's gone. And the bass, too."
Taking the saddle pack up from the pommel, Charlie
tossed a booted foot up over Navajo's neck and dropped to the
ground. As he walked along the shore the horse followed him.
Charlie glanced about briefly, then crouched down and dipped his
hand in the clear, icy water. He held a dripping finger over the
flat rock, letting the drops fall on the parched stone, in front of
the panting little chameleon that had come down to the shoreline
for a drink.
"There . . ." Charlie said, repeating the process
as the little lizard got the idea and gratefully tongued up the
water. "That's a lot better than if you take chances. If you
slipped off this rock, you'd end up making bait for some big fat
bass. Or worse, some doggone old carp."
Several other large and loud splashes continued
offshore, breaking the placid surface as Charlie stood up again.
Opening the paper bag of flour, he scooped up several handfuls of
the cold water, mixing it right in the bag. When it was lumpy
dough, Charlie took it out of the breaking bag, and
gently shooing the little chameleon off his special flat rock, he
then kneaded the dough into a solid big ball. Pausing abruptly,
Charlie grinned as he watched Navajo nosing down into the knapsack,
getting a free sniff of the sweet-smelling delicious apples.
"Okay—okay boy, just
one!
And remember, the
rest is for later. For dinner, when you get tired of
grazing."
Giving Navajo one more apple, Charlie returned to
the dough mixing, removing the dry dough from his hands by locking
his fingers and twisting his hands together. Unwinding the spool of
strong black thread, he put a dough ball on several of the hooks
and then expertly wound each ball with thread to hold it to the
hook in the water.
"That ought to keep you cats from sneaking up on
the bait and just nibbling it off the easy way," Charlie said,
glancing at Navajo who was chewing the apple and watching the
hook-baiting process. "If you won't strike like bass and put up a
good fight, this'll fix your wagon, maybe."
He stood up again, watching Navajo nose
disdainfully into a less tasty green grass patch. Slowly he looked
about. Now Navajo's head was up too, as the old horse sniffed the
chill air uncertainly. Charlie looked up and down the curving
shores, letting his eyes sweep carefully over the surrounding
hills, and the desert country in general. He wanted to believe he
had shaken off that earlier feeling, the creepy sensation he had
felt back at the Shack just before starting out. But he knew now he
had not.
He knew that tension had never left him. It was in
the air right now. It was here, stronger than ever.
Looking about again, Charlie had the uneasy feeling
that eyes were upon him, watching him. He knew the feeling. He'd
felt it before in the past, when hunting with Uncle John. It was
the feeling the hunter had—when stalked by the hunted. And yet, if
people were heading his way, he could usually see them long before
they spotted him, and he could always tell their approach before
they saw him, from long experience in the outdoors. But now he had
the strange feeling of being stalked, and it was far stronger than
ever before.
"Just—just a crazy idea," Charlie said aloud,
though he knew it wasn't. There was Navajo, and from the horse's
wide, alert eyes, and flaring nostrils held high as he sniffed the
wind cautiously, Charlie knew better. "It sure is something . . ."
and with his own uncertain words, Charlie got to his feet, still
holding the baited line of hooks. He looked about carefully in
every direction again. Of one thing he was very sure now. Somebody
was around somewhere, and, whoever they were, one or more, they
were watching him.
Putting two fingers in his mouth, Charlie made a
low whistle in Navajo's direction. With an uncertain, partial
whinny, the horse promptly trotted over to him. Charlie patted
Navajo reassuringly.
"It's okay, Nav. There's nobody around but us.
That's the boy."
But Navajo didn't saunter off to graze as before.
He stood very close to Charlie, head high and alert, and Charlie
knew
the old horse reflected his own uneasiness. Turning
abruptly to the water again, Charlie was a little annoyed at
himself as he wound up for the toss, swinging the coiled line above
his head like a lariat. Then he let go. The heavy lead sinker shot
through the air, carrying the dough-blobbed hooks far offshore,
splashing down and sinking rapidly where the water was deep and
cold. That's where the big catfish would be, deep down on the
bottom.
Turning back, Charlie spread out the old army
blanket on the grassy patch near his flat rock. Then he pulled off
the high-heeled riding boot with the twinkling jingle of the
star-wheeled spur as he got it off. Slapping it hard with his palm,
Charlie got the last grains of sand out, which had been scooped up
into the boot as he knelt by the dough- mixing flat rock. But even
as he pounded the upturned boot his hand stopped in mid air.
With the sun long gone down, the deepening twilight
was swiftly changing into black night. But there—off in the
distance. Between the twin peaks—the peaks of Saddle Mountain, as
Charlie had always known them. They were supposed to be— sure, they
had to be right there, opposite the flat rock. Besides, that
couldn't have been any light over there. Those two mountains were
just jagged rock, copper- colored from the heavy iron ore deposits
in them, just plain brown rock that stuck right up out of the flat
surrounding desert. You could walk right up to where the
chocolate-colored rock of the mountain came up out of the desert,
and touch them. He had done it many times.
But this was the usual spot, he
was sure, the regular spot by the lake. Here—right here was the
same old flat rock he'd always used, where he mixed the catfish
dough and cut up other bait a hundred times. Charlie frowned,
puzzled more than ever as he looked about the surrounding
countryside and lake shore for other identifying marks. It was all
the same. But Saddle Mountain—the twin peaks? They couldn't have
changed overnight? And yet, as he stared at them now, they were
just one massive flat-topped mountain, level straight across. The
"saddle" space, the scooped out curve between them, was
gone
! It was filled in.
And even as he stared again at the straight, smooth line, the solid
fill-in from peak to peak, Charlie thought he saw again that
peculiar dull glint of light. It came from right on the fill-in of
the mountain, still silhouetted against the fading western sky. But
then ... he sure must be mistaken, Charlie thought. Just his eyes
playing tricks. Something like a daytime mirage when the sun got
you.
Pulling the boot back on, Charlie stood up, working
his foot back down into it. Darkness was dimming even the craggy
skyline now, on Saddle Mountain. Darkness was everywhere about him,
great clouds of night that covered everything, chilling him with
something more than just the river coolness. Night had fallen. The
sharp, nervous chirping of the lakeshore insects, getting louder
and louder, gave Charlie the jitters for the first time. Navajo
stood very still, and close beside him.
As he looked back across the still lake waters,
once again to the silent blackness that was Saddle Mountain,
Charlie shivered inwardly. At every whispery crackle of the tall
reeds spearing
up out of the water his blood pounded faster. He
jumped suddenly—then breathed deeply in relief. The big splash near
inshore had just been a big carp jumping clear of the water. But
despite his momentary relaxing, Charlie couldn't escape the eery
feeling of the mysterious eyes he felt sure were upon him now—
watching.
Then something cool touched Charlie's neck from
behind him. He whirled—his heart skipping a beat!
"Doggone, Nav! Don't you know any better than to
sneak up on me like that?"
Charlie put an arm about Navajo's neck, lowering
his voice after the first scared outburst. He didn't know why he
had reacted to Navajo's touch like that. Many times before, Navajo
had come up behind him, gently nudging him. Just an affectionate
touch with his smooth nose. Poor old Nav, Charlie thought, he feels
sort of scared, too. Then Charlie rubbed Navajo's side with long
easy strokes, hoping to ease the horse's nervous tremblings.
For a long while Charlie sat holding the fishline,
just staring across the lake at the black silhouette towering
grimly against the night sky. Bright silver stars were shining now,
like the silver all shined up for tourists, at the Reservation. It
took Charlie only a little while to decide, finally, what he must
do. Leaving his equipment and the fishline, Charlie quickly mounted
Navajo.
Turning downstream, he headed for the Dam bridge at
the foot of the lake, the short roadway that ran across the top of
it to the California side of the Colorado River. The place where
Saddle Mountain stood silently on the desert.
"There's something over there, Nav, that I can't
figure. Maybe—" but Charlie stopped, letting the thought go without
speaking it aloud. For even as he spoke, shivers edged up his back,
running into his neck and making his scalp crawl. He glanced from
side to side quickly, all about them, sure that someone was
watching him.
It reminded him of a time once long ago, when he
and Uncle John were hunting up in mountain country. It was the
third night out on that trip, and up to then they had seen no game
at all. Uncle John had sat up suddenly, then quickly got out of his
sleeping bag when he saw how jittery Navajo had become. Then—they
both saw it at once. Two big, burning yellow eyes, shining at them
from just beyond the last glowing embers of their camp fire. It was
a mountain lion. The big cat was stalking Navajo, but had hesitated
when it saw Uncle John and Charlie nearby. It was then Uncle John
had carefully picked up the already loaded rifle, his old army
30-30, and took careful aim. He fired—just as the big cat crouched
low for the final spring at Navajo. One shot echoed in the silent
night about them, reechoing throughout the hills. Navajo had
whinnied wildly, prancing about. The big cat was dead.
But as he rode Navajo now, this feeling of being
stalked was far greater than at that other time years ago. Besides,
this was too near the camp at the Dam. Mountain lion kept clear of
where people lived, mostly, and never came near towns. They
wouldn't have to come this close to the Dam to get water from the
lake or river. They'd stay much further upstream, in the
hills.
"It's no big cat, Nav," Charlie said aloud to
Navajo, as well as to reassure himself. "Whatever it is, it's
something else around these parts. Something else . . ."
Charlie rode around the small slip upstream from
the Dam, where the big barge and the fish and game warden's
motorboat were kept. Sometime later he noticed the dim outline of
the high steel frame tower, high atop a hill, on which the high
tension powerlines were strung out across the desert, westward
across California, carrying hydro-electric power to the City of Los
Angeles. Charlie knew in a few moments he would turn the corner of
the hill, traveling this dirt road at its base, and there out
across the flat sands in the darkness, he would dimly see the
mighty bulk that should be twins—the two craggy peaks of Saddle
Mountain. The tension within him grew, rising steadily with
Navajo's every step on the dusty roadway. He patted the old horse
once again.
Then—Charlie reined in suddenly, stopping abruptly
as he completed the bend in the narrow road. He was face to face
with the giant called Saddle Mountain. A short exclamation died
unspoken on his lips. He just stared, unable to understand what he
saw.
CHAPTER TWO
Strange
Pursuers
Everything inside him told Charlie to turn
back—head for home. He braced himself hard against the silent
darkness all about, and letting go the reins, he reached out to
take the Winchester from the saddle holster. Charlie told himself
he'd investigate, see just what made that great solid mass between
the Saddle peaks. Whatever it was, it hadn't been there a few days
back, the last time he remembered riding up river, and he knew now
that whatever it was must be almost as large as either one of the
mountains to fill in the space like that between them.
In the darkness, straining his eyes to see better,
Charlie found it hard to make out just what the thing was. Unable
to make out any part of it, he picked up the reins and, despite
Navajo's nervous trembling, he headed the horse toward
Saddle Mountain. The towering mass grew more
menacing with every passing minute, but Charlie rode on.
They had been moving toward Saddle Mountain no more
than five minutes when it happened. The entire space between the
high peaks was slowly illuminated in a rising, eery glow—a dark,
greenish blue light—clearly outlining the "saddle" between the two
peaks! It lasted only a moment. But in that very short time,
Charlie also saw something else—or was it his imagination? He
didn't know, he couldn't be sure. The light fading, dwindling away
to black nothingness, left the night dark again, and terribly
still.