But in Charlie's mind the vivid
outline of what he had seen remained as bright as before. It was
like a giant hotel, a—a saucer-shaped—that was the wording that
came into his mind— a
saucer
type thing in there between the peaks! Charlie
didn't want to believe this picture printed indelibly on his mind,
but he had seen it. He told himself there just wasn't any such
thing, but, with his own open eyes he had seen it. He had seen a
space ship.
Before Charlie could recover from
the numbness that was slowly creeping over him—wondering what, who,
how— was in that ship, three short blasts pierced the silence. The
blasts came clearly to him across the flat sands from the
mountain—echoing clearly from where
it
was. The blasts, the most weird
and terrible sound he had ever heard, sent shivers up Charlie's
back and made goose bumps on his neck. He was sure where the sound
had come from. And so was Navajo. The old horse reared up so
unexpectedly that Charlie froze there in the saddle—and high on his
hind legs,
Navajo let out a shrill whinny of fear. Caught off
guard, Charlie was thrown to the hard-packed sand. He landed on his
back with the wind knocked out of him. For several seconds he lay
there unable to move, then slowly increased his breathing, forcing
the cold air into his lungs again. He scrambled to his feet—but too
late. Navajo was galloping hard, heading around the distant bend in
the roadway. And even as Charlie called to him, he knew it had been
his fault for forcing Navajo to come this far. But Charlie was
momentarily glad that Navajo was heading down river toward the Dam,
back to safety and the Shack.
"Poor Nav," he said aloud, forgetting for a moment
his own predicament. Though he could not see it, Charlie slapped
the dust off his back and the seat of his levis. "It was my fault
for making you come here, Nav. I don't blame you for taking off
like a bird. If I'd had as much sense as you, that's where I'd be.
Home, or heading for home."
As Charlie turned to look at Saddle Mountain again,
he suddenly froze. There at the base of the black bulk of mountain,
where it joined the white sand, stood three tall figures. They were
wearing black-hooded robes. The late moon hadn't yet risen, but
already the sands were lightened by it, and with his eyes now
accustomed to the dark, Charlie was sure. A creeping fear chilled
him far more than the night air, forming beads of cold sweat on his
forehead. Charlie wasn't afraid of ordinary men, or much scared of
animals, even the big cats, unless he was un-armed and knew they
were hungry. But—those hooded figures, those three gaunt black
figures off there now across the sand—what were they, Charlie asked
himself.
He was afraid to guess the answer. He just stood
there staring in silence, without moving at all. They knew he was
there. They could see him. They were coming straight toward
him.
Charlie was suddenly aware
that—but for these three approaching forms—he was out there alone,
on the open desert far from anybody's ranch, far from everybody.
Not even his Winchester, Charlie thought in sudden growing panic,
and Navajo was gone. The rifle had been in the saddle holster. His
panic mounting, Charlie looked toward the mountain again. A patch
of moonlight broke through the clouds to the East, slanting its
clean white shadow across the three black figures— making them
clear as day against the white sand. They were not running, Charlie
could see, and he couldn't even tell if they were walking—they just
seemed to be
moving
like three black ghosts, floating across the sand, toward
him.
Turning, Charlie ran hard for the roadway where
Navajo had gone, the road back around the small hill and down
toward the Dam and back home. Realizing it was his only chance to
escape, Charlie ran harder, heading downriver along the west shore
toward the Dam. If he could reach the Dam engineer's camp on the
other side, down below at the foot of the Dam, they would help and
he'd be safe. And just in case the three hooded figures had decided
to run to catch up with him, Charlie used every bit of his scouting
knowledge, keeping close to the lake shore and getting what little
protection from view the scrub brush afforded him. He knew every
path so it was easy to keep running as fast as he could.
After getting his second wind as he at last rounded
the small inlet harbor where the big barge was kept, he desperately
hoped to see the lighted boat of the government fish and game
warden there. But it wasn't. Under the pale light of the moon, the
empty barge harbor water shone black and smooth. Nobody was in
sight.
Not slowing his pace as he rounded the end of the
empty slip, Charlie kept running all the way to the rise in the
ground at the California end of the Dam. Pausing there, he looked
down the sloping hill grade, to the small camp far down the road
past the Dam. He inhaled sharply, involuntarily, at the sight he
saw. There on the roadway, winding down the hill, were the three
black-robed figures. They were already halfway up the hill, not
hurrying, but moving steadily toward him. They were between him and
the camp. The little relaxation that had come over him on reaching
the Dam now vanished completely. A chilling fear took its place.
There could be no help from the camp. It was too far away, even if
he shouted for help. Charlie turned abruptly, racing onto the short
road that led across the Dam.
The roar of the water too, now far
greater, only emphasized how useless it would have been to shout.
Besides, most of the men at the engineer's camp would probably be
off in town for the evening. But as he ran like the wind now,
Charlie had a further sinking feeling, realizing that
they
could also travel
very fast—possibly even catch up with him the minute they wanted
to! While he had only gone down the roadway by the hill and along
the shoreline, the hooded figures had not only crossed the sand
from Saddle Mountain, but had passed the hill on the
far side, the longer way round, and had doubled
back from far down the road near the camp site at the Dam. And he
had been running, while they seemed to be just walking easily!
Sprinting harder on the Dam road, Charlie thought
that this must have been his fastest crossing from California into
Arizona, even with Navajo. But he didn't have time to think it
funny as he reached the Arizona side of the Colorado River. He
tried harder now to increase his speed on the hard-packed dirt
road. Soon he knew he was around a bend, and out of sight of the
road over the Dam.
As Charlie got what he felt sure was his third
wind, he slowed to an Indian scout trot. He hoped desperately the
hooded strangers would get lost in this Arizona country he knew so
well, and never be able to follow him. At least, long enough for
him to make it back to the Shack and get his Winchester—or better,
Uncle John's loaded 30-30 army rifle. But most of all, to be safe
inside the Shack. Running fast now and skipping the alternating
walking and scout trot, Charlie at last reached the flat sandy
earth this side of the ranch house. He glanced back. His eyes,
though fully accustomed to the semi-darkness, were helped more by
the spots of scattered moonlight, the pale beams that slanted down
through the high and fast-moving clouds, over to the northeast
across the high range country. There was no one in sight from the
direction of the river. Charlie took in a deep breath, and
continuing his easier walk, let it out slowly. He filled his lungs
full of the clear, clean air of the cold desert
light. It felt good. It was only a few seconds
before his breathing was easy and back to normal.
Charlie knew he had run well over a mile, and he
continued now to glance back regularly just to make sure he had
really lost those three black-hooded figures. Then he smiled for
the first time, as he heard the glad welcoming whinny from Navajo.
The old horse trotted out from the corral behind the Shack to meet
him. Charlie put two fingers in his mouth and gave the short
whistle and Navajo, assured it was he, broke into a gallop.
"Good old Nav!" he said. "See—it's only me, Nav . .
. as if you didn't know it all the time!"
Patting Navajo, he walked toward the Shack, with
Navajo clumping along beside him, playfully biting at Charlie's ear
to show how glad he was to see him.
The brief and happy welcome home didn't make
Charlie forget the dangers nearby. As he watched Navajo go back to
the corral, fussing around awhile as he kicked one of the
stagger-fence poles further out of his way, Charlie looked back to
the direction of the river. Frowning as he scanned the broad field
of sand, Charlie then went inside the Shack. Though he never locked
the door ordinarily, he closed it now, shoving the heavy bar bolt
home. Other times he had just closed it to keep out the cold. Few
strangers ever came out in the ranch country and away from the main
highways, and the local people around all knew each other. Local
folks wouldn't bother you or break in your place. But tonight,
Charlie didn't intend to take any chances. Not with what had
happened at Saddle Mountain.
Not turning on the lights since the late moon was
finally breaking through the high clouds, Charlie cautiously went
over to the window, on the side of the Shack facing the fields
toward the river. He saw nothing. The wind was rising a little, an
uncertain, gusty wind, that suddenly rattled things around the
Shack. The clear moon-bathed sand, eery-white, made every stump of
broken cactus and crooked-armed Yucca plant look like a
black-hooded figure. Charlie shuddered as he looked out in silence.
And right before him, off a little way on the sand, was a big
jagged spear of Yucca, like a very skinny black figure standing
guard.
Even though his earlier fears were gone, Charlie
realized he had to do something, tell somebody, about Saddle
Mountain. If that thing out there was what it looked like, he
should let the authorities know about it. He felt uneasy, as he
thought about telling them he saw a flying saucer, and that it was
parked right on top of Saddle Mountain. He knew how crazy it would
sound. But he knew he should do it. He must tell somebody what was
going on out there. He would call the sheriff down in Parker.
Picking up the phone, Charlie jangled the hook,
trying to get the Parker operator. All he could get though was the
steady buzzing, the crackling static, the electrical disturbances
that were always fouling up the telephone lines when anybody wanted
to call. The big powerlines at the Dam were too much for any
ordinary telephones. Charlie tried again, after hanging up briefly,
but it was just the same as always. Too much high tension nearby.
He finally hung up, cutting off the blur of static.
"But—" he began aloud, then left the thought
unspoken. Not removing his Levis or boots, Charlie went across the
big room and lay down on his bed to think. He knew he should notify
the authorities about the thing out there. Somebody ought to
know.
He sat up suddenly. He looked down
on the floor, staring silently at the beam of moonlight moving
slowly across the ranch house floor. Still watching it closely, he
moved further toward the foot of the bed as it came up the side, to
his pillow. He didn't want the shaft of light to spotlight
him.
He didn't know
exactly why he did that, for he had never even thought of doing
such a thing at other times. But right now, he just didn't like the
idea of having the moonlight on him, that was all. Perhaps . . .
and just in case those black- robed figures were around—anywhere
around the Shack.
Getting to his feet, Charlie brushed aside the
thought in irritation. Striding across the room, he caught up the
telephone receiver once more. The static was as strong as ever. He
was totally cut off from Parker. From the rest of the world, he
told himself, as he let the receiver drop back in the phone
cradle.
"There's nothing to be scared of," he said aloud,
more for the sake of hearing his own voice. "There's nobody around
these parts."
Halfway across the room, Charlie stopped
short.
There is nothing to be afraid of, nothing to
fear.
Charlie stood there. He felt a slight twinge of
pain, maybe a headache coming on, though that was unusual for him.
Charlie shook his head hard. Maybe it would be better to just hit
the
sack, he thought now, like Uncle John always used
to say. Get some sleep. Staying up late like this and just
worrying, that was no good. He stretched out on the bunk again,
taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly as he closed his
eyes. He was tired, very tired.
A loud whinny from the corral startled him. Not the
usual whinny when Navajo called, but a frightened one. Jumping to
his feet, Charlie raced across the room to the corral side of the
house. Forgetting his own fear as he looked out the window, he was
now concerned for Navajo. The horse stood by the shed, head up and
erect, sniffing the air. Recognizing his alertness, Charlie felt a
bunch of tiny dots race up the back of his spine. Swiftly he looked
over the corral and all about it, for a possible prowling mountain
lion or—something else. It was the something else that Charlie was
afraid of, the something that he didn't want to remember. He knew
pretty surely that it wasn't a big cat down this close to the Dam
and Parker. Mountain cat could find all the game they wanted up in
the hills, in their own country.
Even as Charlie stood there watching Navajo for
further signs of trouble, the swift shadow of a passing cloud
blanked out the moon's light. Darkness fell heavily down,
blanketing the corral and all the yard and fields about the Shack.
Charlie felt the weight of the shadow as the cloud wiped out the
last trace of light on the broad sands.