The Battle At Three-Cross (16 page)

Suddenly Lance and Katherine emerged into a small clearing. Lance saw the professor first. The man was crawling about on hands and knees closely studying the earth in all directions.

“What's wrong?” Lance yelled. “Rattler?”

Jones didn't even raise his head.

“Uncle Uly,” Katherine exclaimed sharply, “why don't you answer us? Are you hurt? Quick! What's the matter?”

Jones reluctantly gained his feet. “Hurt?” he queried vaguely, seemingly unable to comprehend. His thin features were ashen; his hands trembled with excitement. His knees quaked as he approached. “Katherine—Lance,” he stated solemnly, “this is the greatest day of my life. Look!” He led them to a spot a few yards away.

Lance looked. Katherine looked. The professor looked—with something of mingled awe and adoration in his gaze. There, at their feet, grew a globular-shaped cactus with many slightly waved ribs, each rib lined with black spines. It was about the size of a small orange, deep green, and from either side rose two deep blue, funnel-shaped flowers with yellow centers. Yellow, Lance thought, like Katherine's hair.

Katherine gasped suddenly and went off into paroxysms of laughter. “D-do you mean to s-say this is what you g-g-got us so excited about? We thought you were hurt.” She dropped weakly to the earth, still laughing. Lance grinned with sudden relief.

“I'm admitting those flowers are plumb pretty,” he said, “but do you think it's something to get worked up about?”

“Worked up?” Jones sounded indignant. “Can't you realize I've found a new, unknown genus? An
Echinopsis
north of the Andes! I predict—entire cactus world—worked up! Y'understand it's a marvelous discovery. Think of it—an
Echinopsis
—here in Mexico! And with
blue
flowers. Why—why, it's unheard of!”

“All right,” Lance said genially. “It's unheard of. But why?”

Jones looked his exasperation. “In the first place”—trying to conceal his impatience—“the
Echinopsis
family does not grow in this continent. None has ever been discovered north of South America. And—what is more important”—Jones's voice dropped to an awestruck whisper—“did you ever in all your life see, or even hear of, a cactus with a
blue
bloom?”

“I reckon I didn't,” Lance admitted.

“Now you know.” Jones breathed a long, happy sigh. He dropped onto his knees to inspect the plant at closer range. Almost Lance expected him to bow down and give worship. After a few minutes he commenced making notes in a shaking hand, regarding the type soil in which the cactus had been discovered, amount of sun, shade and so on. He produced a small steel scale and made mea surements. Lance could hear him muttering to himself as he made notes: “Ribs—fourteen. Areoles—seat of buds. Spines—black. Flowers—blue. Pistil—cream. Stamens—yellow——” He looked up suddenly. “Katherine, my dear. These flowers—like your eyes. I think I shall name this cactus—in honor—you and your father.
Echinopsis gregoriana
. How's that?”

“It sounds very grand, Uncle Uly,” Katherine said soberly.

Jones colored self-consciously. “The name—Ulysses Zarathustra Jones—will take its place—among great—world cacti authorities.” He paused, then: “I fear this specimen—only one of its kind—hereabouts. Already searched for more. No luck. Katherine—Lance—look about like good folks—see if you can find—further specimens—er—
Echinopsis gregoriana
.”

Lance and Katherine moved away, scanning the earth in all directions, but without success in finding more specimens of the desired plant. The professor
continued muttering to himself and making notes and mea surements. Katherine whispered to Lance: “Finding that plant means the realization of an old ambition to Uncle Uly. He's always wanted to discover a hitherto unknown genus.”

At length they returned to the professor. He had finished his notes and was engaged in digging a small trench about the plant. He had already packed loose grass about the blooms. A solid clump of earth remained about the base of the plant. “Mustn't disturb roots.” He smiled at Lance. “Employ every care—this specimen. Must take earth.” He tore into narrow strips the burlap he had brought and covered the balled earth about the plant's roots. Producing a few lengths of hemp twine from his pocket, he proceeded to tie the burlap firmly in place. Now the plant was ready to be lifted from its resting place. Jones smiled happily.

“Extreme care—necessary in handling,” he said. “If I should stumble and drop this—break earth from roots——” An expression of pain at the very thought of such calamity crossed the professor's face. “Lance—a favor, please. Can't risk handling this—like ordinary cacti. Like a good fellow—bring up my horse. I think this may—fit snugly into one of my saddlebags. More secure, what? No risk at all.”

“Sure, I'll get your bronc.” Lance nodded and left Katherine listening to further happy utterances on the part of the overjoyed professor. He started back to the spot at which the horses had been left.

Five minutes later he arrived and found the ponies peacefully cropping near-by vegetation, with the reins dangling from their heads. The professor's gray pony stood near a great shelf of overhanging rock, beside which grew a narrow clump of trees. Lance
gathered the reins in his hand. Then he stopped, thinking he had heard a movement from overhead. He stepped back, but the move came too late. He had only a brief glance of a hurtling brown form, in flapping cotton garments, as it projected itself from the shelf above his head. He caught a quick glimpse of wild black hair, angry eyes, a red, open mouth. Then something crashed heavily on his head and a curtain of black, black velvet folded sickeningly about his fading senses!

Lance awoke slowly. At the first move he made a dull ache permeated his head. His tongue felt thick and furry; his mouth was parched. He moved one hand exploringly and discovered he was stretched full length on a flat stone surface. He tried to make out where he was, but only the faintest light was to be seen, and that far above him.

“Jeepers!” Lance muttered. “What a head. If I didn't know myself I'd sure think I'd been on one wild brannigan. What in the dev il happened to me? Where am I? What time is it?” Memory's fingers feebly commenced to trace certain patterns on his mind. “Lemme see. I remember going after the professor's horse and then——Oh yeah, I looked up just in time to see that hombre leaping down on me from above. He looked like a Yaquente. There was two Yaquentes anyway. I remember seeing a second man looking down over the shoulder of the first just before he jumped. He must have had a rock in his fist…. I know something came down awful hard on my head.”

He raised one hand and felt tenderly of the lump high above his right ear. “Whew! What a wallop! Dammit! I had a hunch there was something
wrong—a feeling like somebody was watching us. I'll bet those Yaquentes have been following us ever since we left the border. Maybe not though. Maybe just since yesterday. Or was it yesterday? When did this happen?”

Lance came slowly to a sitting position. A flash of pain shot through his head. “Oooo!” He winced. “What I would give for a drink of water. Where am I anyway?”

His right hand, still exploring, suddenly encountered a small can of water. That brought further memories. This wasn't the first time Lance had regained consciousness. He recollected now finding that water before. It had been pitch dark then. The water had had a queer, bitter taste, and Lance had swallowed only a little, fearing it might be drugged.

“By cripes!” Lance grunted, “it was drugged too. I remember starting to slip off right after the first sip. Somebody must be figuring to keep me unconscious. Why?” Fearing that thirst might induce him to drink even the remainder of the drugged water, Lance quickly emptied the can onto the floor upon which he lay. “That's settled, anyway,” he said grimly. “I may go out thirsty, but I'll know what's going on anyway…. Who in the dev il brought me here anyway? Those Yaquentes, I suppose. But what is the idea?”

He gained his feet, took a single staggering step, then another. A wave of dizziness swept through him. After a moment his head cleared, and he commenced to feel better. He took a few more steps and suddenly encountered a rock wall. It was too dark to see, but his fingers told him the wall was built of flat blocks of stone smoothly set together. He took more steps. There were three more walls. He paced
off the distance. Overhead, far overhead, he could see a faint, grayish square of light.

“Looks to me like I'm at the bottom of a pit,” Lance muttered. “Offhand, I'd guess it's about ten feet square and thirty or forty deep. This is certainly one hell of a fix. I wonder what happened to Katherine—and the others.”

For a moment he felt horribly afraid. Something of panic took possession of his senses. Frantically he strove to scramble up the side of the nearest wall. It wouldn't work. He couldn't find a projection on which his fingers could seize, let alone a foothold. The walls were too smooth for that. Perspiration rolled from his forehead; his entire body was soaked with sweat. His fingernails were broken; the skin at the end of his fingers felt raw and scraped. Finally, exhausted, he sank back to the floor of the pit.

Only then did he come to his senses. “Lance Tolliver,” he told himself disgustedly, “only a damn fool would lose his head that-a-way. Get a hold on yourself. You're still alive. If those Yaquentes had wanted you dead they'd killed you long ago. That means they want you alive. They put you down here for safekeeping. That means somebody will come back for me sometime. If they want me they'll have to pull me out. Once I'm out of this hole, then we'll face the next problem.”

He smiled in the darkness and pulled himself to a sitting position. His gun had been taken, but an examination of his pockets showed nothing else had been touched. They'd even left his cartridge belt about his waist. He found his sack of Durham and papers and matches. Once he'd commenced to inhale tobacco smoke he felt immeasurably better. He held the lighted match to examine the walls.
Then he struck more matches. He laughed at himself. “You jug-headed idiot, Tolliver, trying to climb a wall of glass wouldn't be much worse than those. Let this be a lesson to you. Hereafter, when you get in a tight, stop and think things over before you let yourself be stampeded into such damn fool actions.” He felt around and found his sombrero.

When the first cigarette was finished he rolled and lighted another. He was halfway through a third smoke when he heard a slight sound overhead. Peering up through the gloom, he thought he could make out a head peering down into the pit. Then he heard a voice. There was a queer hollow, ringing sound to the tones as though they'd been spoken in a stone-vaulted chamber.

“Yeah, I'm still here,” Lance called back. “Who is it?”

There was no answer. Lance called out again. Something struck the side of his head and fell away. Lance put out one hand and grasped the end of a rawhide lariat. Now he caught the idea. “Just a minute, I'll be with you.”

Knotting the lariat tightly about his shoulders, beneath his arms, he commenced to climb. At the same instant the unseen benefactor above started to haul on the rope. Halfway up, the rawhide changed to hemp. Lance judged it had been necessary to knot two ropes together. He was making fast time now, moving hand over hand.

A few moments later Lance's hands encountered the edge of the pit. He hauled himself out and scrambled to his feet, quickly unknotting the rope about his shoulders and prepared to fight if need be. It was lighter up here. Lance looked at his rescuer. The Yaquente looked familiar. He was in loose cotton
garments. Beneath the big straw sombrero was a stolid brown face with two cruel, healing scars across the nose and high cheekbones. Suddenly there came the flash of white teeth in the brown features. Only then did Lance remember the Yaquente he had saved from the quirting at Chiricahua Herrick's hands.

“Horatio!” Lance exclaimed. He shoved out one hand, and the Indian grasped it. Next he handed Lance his six-shooter. Gratefully Lance shoved the gun into his holster.

“It is bes'”—the Yaquente struggled with the words—“you go 'way queeck—pronto! Savvy?”

“Savvy.” Lance nodded. “Gosh, Horatio, I sure owe you a lot. What happened to my friends? Where are they?”

“Nozzing is 'appen. No kill. You find friends Three-Cross Rancho. You go 'way queeck now.”

“Right. I'll get moving.”

Still he didn't start. While the Yaquente waited uneasily beside him Lance glanced around. His eyes widened in amazement. He was standing in a huge vaulted chamber built of oblong-shaped blocks of granite. Here and there massive stone pillars supported the ceiling. The walls were covered with elaborate frescoes in faded pigments. Certain patterns in mosaic work carried a frieze around the chamber. A design depicting a snake seemed to dominate the decorations.

“Say,” Lance exclaimed, “what is this place?”

The Yaquente frowned. “You go 'way queeck. Many men soon come. I be kill', you find here. You help me. Me help you. Go 'way queeck!”

“A lot of men coming, eh? All right, we'll get moving in a minute.”

Lance took a last look around. The only light in the big chamber entered through a wide doorway at the opposite end of the huge room. Lance and the Yaquente stood at the inner end. Lance glanced down at the pit from which he'd been rescued. A few yards away from the pit stood a large block of stone, the surface of which was intricately carved with various symbols. Seeing them, Lance was reminded of the symbols on the armlet Katherine's father had sent her. He gazed again on the huge stone block. It looked to be some sort of altar.

Then he looked closer. Here and there a brownish stain had seeped into the stone. Comprehension came to Lance. He spoke to the Yaquente. “Blood, Horatio?”

“Blood. Men have die there. You nex'. Go 'way queeck!”

“I'm next!” For an instant a chill of fear ran along Lance's spine. Then he grinned. “Maybe I'm next. I'll be with you in a minute.”

He had noticed a small door leading to another chamber back of the altar stone. With the Indian following reluctantly at his heels, Lance decided to investigate. He stepped into a smaller room. It was too gloomy to see much, but Lance had time to see some stacked pine boxes. At the opposite side of the room was another smaller box.

“You come 'way—queeck.” The Yaquente was growing more insistent. He tugged at Lance's arm. “You be kill'. I be kill'.” He forced a wan smile and managed to get out, “Hell to be paid!”

“There sure would be hell to pay.” Lance chuckled. “All right, Horatio. I'll make my getaway.”

They left the small room and emerged into the big chamber. The Yaquente led the way past the
bloodstained altar and down the length of the long room toward the open doorway. Dust lay thickly on the floor but it was printed with the marks of hundreds of feet, both bare and booted. This much Lance gathered as he followed the Indian toward the doorway.

Once he paused and examined one of the many paintings of snakes along the walls. The paint had faded and was chipped off at several spots, but Lance had no trouble making out the outlines of a rattlesnake, rattles and all. What he didn't understand was that the reptile seemed to have a ridge of feathers growing from its body.

“What's the idea of this?” Lance asked, pointing to the snake painting.

The Indian looked uneasy. “Quetzalcoatl—him—great god——Him——” He broke off. “Come 'way queeck!”

Lance frowned. “Say, when are the men coming back here?” He had to frame the question in two or three different ways before the Indian understood.

“Come here—tonight,” the Yaquente finally answered.

“To night, eh? I reckon I'll be on hand for the show.”

Whether he understood the words or not, the Indian certainly gathered Lance's meaning. An expression of horror crossed his face. “No—no—no!” he said emphatically. “Come 'way——”

“I know,” Lance cut in, grinning, “queeck! All right, Horatio, lead the way. I won't hold you back any more.”

The Yaquente hurried now. Their footsteps, despite the heavy dust on the floor, echoed queerly in the great chamber. Scattered along the floor near the
walls Lance saw ancient fragments of pots and bowls. Some were too gray with the dust of centuries to tell anything of the color; on others faint traces of red or blue or black showed.

The big chamber was probably seventy-five or eighty feet long and nearly as wide. They were nearing the entrance now. Ahead Lance could see bright sunlight on gravelly soil. The sun had never looked so good to him. They reached the wide doorway which was shaped something like a triangle with the apex removed. The next instant they were in the open air. Lance drew great draughts into his lungs. Air had never before seemed so sweet.

The Yaquente kept urging Lance to hurry. Lance glanced at the sky. He judged it to be about three-thirty or four in the afternoon. He glanced back at the building from which he had just emerged. With surprise he saw it was built much like a pyramid. On the entrance side a flight of broken steps ran completely across the face of the pyramid. Where the steps led to it was difficult to say. The top of the structure was earth covered, furnishing a foothold for the trees and brush that grew there. On either side the earth was stacked to the top of the building. Lance couldn't quite decide whether the pyramid had been cut into the side of a ridge or if earth had settled or been stacked against it at a later date.

Large blocks of rock lay scattered over the earth, some still in the natural state; others had been sculptured by ancient tools into the form of huge building bricks.

Now, Lance saw, there appeared to be a sort of wide roadway leading to the pyramid. Along both sides of this road, spaced at intervals, were great slabs of graven stone covered with serried squares of
symbols similar to the ones Lance had seen on Katherine's armlet. Some of these great rocks lay flat; others still stood erect, embedded in the earth; still others were tilted crazily to one side or the other like tombstones in an ancient graveyard. Lance felt like a pygmy wandering through the burying ground of some age-old, gigantic race. The symbols on the stones were worn almost smooth by centuries of erosion and sandstorms. Lance quickened his step to overtake the hastening Yaquente. “Hey, what is this place?” Lance asked.

“You come 'way queeck. I tell,” the Indian promised.

Gradually, using both En glish and Spanish, and with the aid of signs, Lance managed to get the information. It appeared that the pyramid was a place of Yaquente religious ser vices known as, so far as Lance could make out, the Temple of the Plumed Serpent. Lance frowned.

“You savvy, huh? Him great god.”

Getting further information proved even more difficult. Lance followed the Indian through a thick tangle of high brush, asking questions as they proceeded. He realized suddenly a path had been worn through here at some previous, more ancient time. They topped a low ridge covered with brush and prickly pear. Lance glanced back. He couldn't see the temple now, so thickly was it screened by the brush and trees through which they'd passed. They dipped down across a hollow, Lance still asking questions and eking out, little by little, certain information he desired.

By this time he had learned that the Yaquentes had followed the expedition since the day it left the
border, looking for an opportunity to capture Lance. It was on the previous day Lance had been knocked on the head and carried to the pit where the Indian had found him.