THE MESA VILLAGE
"I tell you one thing," said Jim, "I'm mighty glad to get out of the
country of the Apaches. Our one experience with those beggars will last
me the rest of my natural life."
"We might run into some roving bands," I said. "I don't believe that
they have any regular boundaries to their country."
"They don't get beyond their own section, unless they are at war with
some other tribes. They ought to be satisfied with all those mountains
and plains back of us to hunt over."
"Say boys, what is that ahead of us on that mesa?" asked Tom. "It looks
like some houses to me."
"Houses!" I exclaimed, skeptically, "what would anybody do with houses
up on a place like that and who would live in them?"
"It's reasonable enough," said Jim, "that the Indians should build on a
high place like that. It's a natural fort and they would be safe from
the attacks of their enemies. In a flat country like this where there
are no woods or other defense those mesas are just the thing."
"I suppose that we had better keep to the north," I said, "because we
don't want to mix it with any Indians. I don't care for their society,
no matter how kind and gentle they are and perhaps it isn't their day at
home."
"We can't always be dodging around," replied Jim, "for we will never
reach the Colorado River. It's right on our line of march and we might
just as well take in all the sights."
"Perhaps it is just a mirage," I suggested hopefully, "like that
beautiful lake we saw on the plains in Kansas, with the trees around it.
That was nothing but a heated haze and our thirsty imaginations."
"That's no mirage, it's the real thing," declared Tom. "You'll see in a
half hour."
"A half hour," laughed Jim, scornfully, "you've been in the West all
this time and can't tell distance better than that. It will take us a
good three hours to reach it."
Jim hit it about right, for it took us three hours and a half before we
came within striking distance of the mesa.
"It looks like quite a town up there," said Jim, "but nobody seems to be
at home."
I took off my sombrero and began to brush down my shock of light hair.
"I must slick up," I announced, "if we are going into society. Lend me
your mirror, Tommy."
"I'll lend you a kick," he offered, as he rode alongside, and shot his
moccasined foot out, but missed me and hit Coyote in the flanks, making
him jump.
"You do that again to my horse and I'll bump your nose for you," I
cried, hotly.
I would not have minded it if he had landed on me. Tom knew that I meant
business and refrained from further exercises along that line.
"Just look at the dust on your clothes, Thomas, I'm ashamed of you," I
continued, after a moment, "and you have no more polish on your
moccasins than you have on your manners."
"Stop your kidding, Jo," commanded Jim, "you and Tom can do your
scrapping in camp."
"Beware of the Boss, he bites," I said, warningly.
Jim grinned, his only response.
"Look out, Tom, he's showing his teeth."
But we forgot our little controversy as we drew near to the great mesa.
It was as impregnable as a powerful battleship of these later days.
There was nothing to detract from its impressiveness as it rose in clear
cut symmetry and sheer walls from the level plain. We gazed up at it in
admiration.
"How high are those walls, do you suppose, Jim?" I asked.
"All of five hundred feet," he answered, "but I don't see how we are
going to get up."
"Get up!" I exclaimed, "what for, we haven't got any relatives up there
that we want to meet."
"Why Jo," expostulated Jim, "don't you want to meet and converse with
our red brothers and have a great powwow. You know they are the original
Americans?"
"All Americans are original," I retorted. "I thought you were in a hurry
to see the river."
"I am," replied Jim, "perhaps we can see it if we climb up there. Then I
want to see this village; you can't make out much from here. Looks
something like swallow nests built in the rafters of the old barn."
"How do you suppose the Indians get up there?" I asked, "ladders?"
"Hardly," replied Jim. "Let's look around and find out. You and Tom go
around the north end and I'll ride the other way."
"All right," we responded.
So we separated after we had arrived at the middle of the east wall. We
rode slowly along, but found no break in the solid grey masonry of the
wall. Before rounding the northern end we waved our hats to Jim in a
given signal indicating that we had found nothing so far.
The mesa must have been three quarters of a mile in length and the ends
about a quarter of a mile. As we came to the west side we saw Jim riding
slowly along; as yet he had found nothing. Then I saw him wave his
sombrero.
"He's found it," I cried, and we started our horses at full gallop,
looking like little pygmies beside the massiveness of the great mesa
that loomed above us.
"Here's the main traveled road," he cried, as we galloped up.
"Can we make it?" cried Tom.
"Gee! she's narrow," I commented.
It extended a mere pencil line zigzaging up the face of the rock.
"Come on," cried Jim.
I knew expostulation was useless, a mere waste of breath, so I followed
behind Jim, as he started up. It was barely wide enough for our horses
and though we had taken a few narrower trails in the mountains, we had
never followed one up a precipitous cliff before and I vowed we never
would again if we ever got down safely.
Fortunately our horses were as sure footed as goats, but I shall not
easily forget the sense of dizziness I felt as I looked down. One slip
of Coyote and I would fall like Lucifer, never to rise again.
In some places there was nothing but the narrow two-foot width of rock,
with nothing to stop a slide but the earth way down below, but in most
places the path was cut into a little gully deepened by the corrosion of
the rains.
I think that Jim by the time we had got up several hundred feet repented
himself, of his foolhardy attempt. But there was nothing to do but go
on, it was impossible for us to back down, but if Jim felt worried he
did not show it by word or action to us.
There was no wind stirring and the early afternoon sun beat against the
blank wall with blinding effect. It was surprisingly hot, intense and
dry.
Every once in awhile we had to stop to spell our horses and they stood
with heads held level, and one bent hindfoot, panting with the steep
climb.
"If the Indians up there don't want us they can just toss us down," I
said. "It looks suspicious to me. Something like an ambush."
"I don't see the bush," replied Jim, "I guess they are taking their
siesta. Fine view, isn't it?"
I suppose it was, but it did not interest me just then, as I kept my
eyes riveted on Coyote's ears, not caring to look out or down. If you
want to get an idea of how I felt, step out on the jamb of a window of a
twenty story building and look down at the street, where the people
appear like crawling ants and the street cars like big cockroaches.
We were now nearing the top when Jim stopped his horse and the whole
line halted. He gave a low whistle of surprise.
"What's the matter?" I asked, anxiously.
"Washout on the line," he said.
"We're in for it now," I said. "Is it dry?"
Jim dismounted gingerly from his horse and went forward a few steps.
Then I saw a broken place in the trail with a sheer fall. We were
check-mated.
It was impracticable for us to go back with the horses, though we could
easily go back on foot. It was also impossible to go forward.
Then I saw Jim step back a ways, and with a short run, he made the leap
across. It was only five feet, but in such cramped quarters it was very
difficult. My heart stopped as Jim jumped. His foot slipped as he landed
and he saved himself from being killed, by grabbing the outer edge of
the trail, a thin knife of rock, then he scrambled up, his moccasined
feet aiding him to a secure foothold.
"Never say die!" he yelled to me. "I'm going to investigate."
Then he disappeared on top of the mesa. In a few minutes he came back
dragging two round poles with him. "Lend a hand, Jo," he urged.
I got off very carefully, not looking down and edged my way past Coyote
and Piute, maintaining a firm grip on them as I went along. My back felt
cold and creepy with nothing but the dizzy air back of me.
But I got by safely and helped Jim lay his bridge. He made several trips
and as the poles were fifteen feet long we made quite a secure
structure.
At first Piute absolutely balked. He would not lead at all. Then Jim got
in the saddle and went for him with the spurs. The broncho strain showed
up in him and he went across that bridge on the fly and went full gallop
up the remaining bit of trail.
I led Coyote, who made no trouble as Piute had broken the ice and the
rest of the procession followed.
In a minute I was on the deck of the broad mesa and at the threshold of
the little town. Jim was waiting for me.
"Welcome to our little city, stranger," he said, "all the Indians are
asleep, you must be careful not to disturb them."
"It's deserted," I said. "I guess the Apaches cleared them out."
We left our horses and proceeded to investigate this curiously silent
village, isolated on the great mesa.
The houses were in a good state of preservation and would stay that way
for years in this dry climate. They were made of adobe bricks with a mud
cement over them, flat roofs, and with a second tier of smaller
buildings on them. Ladders were used in reaching the roof and we found
some that were unbroken lying on the ground. The doors were made of the
regulation size and square windows cut through.