Careless Mesa
The boys climbed in the jeep early the following morning.
Scotty shifted into gear and drove through the base. "The time is now
zero minus twenty-two hours."
Rick looked at him. "What does that mean?"
"Firing time for Orion is tomorrow morning, twenty-two hours from now.
That must be the reason for the balloon that we just saw go up. The
weather group is starting to watch winds and visibility. Something else
I picked up at maintenance, too. There's going to be a dry run today."
"Spell it out," Rick requested.
"As I get it, all hands go through the same procedures they'll follow
tomorrow morning. The Orion group will fire a small weather rocket to
check the circuits, and to allow the tracking and monitoring group to
check their equipment. And do you know what that means?"
Rick saw it at once. "Mac and Pancho will be going to Careless Mesa!"
"Yep. But the dry run doesn't start until ten this morning. That gives
us plenty of time to get there, look around, and shove off before Mac
and Pancho show up."
"Suppose they get there early?" Rick asked.
"They probably will. We won't hang around, though. According to the
control board in the vehicle shop their truck isn't supposed to be ready
until eight, which is an hour and a half from now."
Rick thought that was cutting it fine, but he made no further comment.
Both boys had checked the map again, and knew the route to follow.
Scotty drove through the base and onto the access road that led to the
firing areas. In a short time they had a clear view of Orion waiting on
its pad, project personnel swarming over the gantry crane as they
performed a variety of last-day chores. The sight filled Rick with
excitement. To-morrow he would see the big rocket go up.
"Pretty," Scotty said.
Rick nodded. Orion was a beautiful sight. Its lines were clean, and its
paint job was colorful, mixing white with high-visibility colors to
allow greater ease of visual tracking.
"Blockhouse ahead," Scotty pointed out.
It was the first time either of them had seen the blockhouse, the
control point from which the rockets were fired. It was within a mile of
the concrete firing pads, close enough to be in great danger from wild
rockets that had gone out of control. For that reason it was made of
heavily reinforced concrete, several feet thick. It could take a direct
hit from even the biggest rockets without harm to the personnel inside.
Then the firing area was passed and the jeep sped along next to the
miles-long black, oiled path of the airstrip. Soon the strip was behind,
then the level floor of the dry lake bed became rough terrain and the
jeep began to climb toward the foothills.
"Isn't there a guard post this way?" Rick asked.
"Should be."
There was, a few miles beyond, as the jeep mounted the foothills and
went through a pass. The guard inspected their badges, then waved them
on. They were outside of the base area now.
The dirt road led them across a valley and up a gradual slope to another
pass through the mountains. This time, as they emerged, Rick pointed to
a flat-topped mountain directly ahead. "That's a mesa," he declared.
"Suppose it's the right one?"
Scotty squinted against the glare. "Probably. I don't see any others on
the horizon."
"What are we going to do when we get there?" Rick asked.
Scotty waved a hand. "Look, and hope there's something to see."
"Okay. Let it go. We'll wait and see." Rick fell silent, watching the
desert. It was odd, he thought, that most people thought of deserts in
terms of sand. It was a fact that some deserts were sandy, but this one
was composed of hard-packed earth and stones in which plants struggled
for survival. It was more like smooth clay. Then, as the desert rose
from smooth plain to mountains, the ground became simply broken rock,
sparsely dotted with creosote bush and cholla.
Once or twice he turned and looked back at the road over which they had
come. The jeep left a trail of dust behind it, but he could see no dust
from any other vehicle. Apparently they were well ahead of Big Mac and
Pancho. He hoped they would stay ahead.
"If Mac and Pancho do catch up," he said thoughtfully, "we can always
say we just came out for the ride, to see a little of the country."
Scotty gave him a sideways glance. "Think they'd buy it?"
"Could be. They have no reason to suspect us. We're just a couple of
kids who work on the base."
The road was steep now, and Scotty shifted into second to take some of
the strain off the engine.
Careless Mesa loomed ahead. Rick wondered if the road led all the way to
the top. Apparently it did, because the trail twisted and turned,
climbing constantly. He closed his eyes and visualized the map.
Somewhere up there the road split.
Suddenly Scotty pointed. "Look!"
In a shady spot just off the road two sidewinders were coiled on a rock,
beady eyes watching the jeep's passage. The snakes were the color of
mottled sand, the "horns" on their diamond-shaped heads clearly
identifiable. Their tails were a blur, and he knew they were rattling a
warning, but the distinctive buzz couldn't be heard above the jeep's
engine noise.
Rick restrained a shudder. Although he had no particular fear of snakes,
he had an inborn dislike of the creatures. He had read that the
sidewinder, or "horned" rattlesnake, was common in the Western deserts.
Then the jeep rounded a turn with a sheer drop of several hundred feet
on Rick's side, and the sidewinders were lost to view. Rick looked down
at the steep slope and said, "Nice place to meet a car coming down."
"Let's not meet one," Scotty replied. He had to drop back into first
gear now, because the climb was very steep.
The road cut through a notch and emerged onto a relatively level area.
Rick tried to get his bearings. The road had twisted and turned so much
he had lost his sense of direction. The sun's position helped him to get
oriented again, and he realized they were high on the side of Careless
Mesa, overlooking the road across which they had just traveled.
"Clearing ahead," Scotty said. "Bet we've reached the station."
He was right. The road led across a wide shelf, perhaps fifty feet below
the top of the mesa. On the far side of the shelf the road dipped again.
Scotty let the jeep roll to the edge of the dip and they looked down the
roadway which twisted and turned and finally forked a thousand feet
below.
Scotty put the jeep in reverse and backed to the center of the shelf. It
was about two hundred feet wide, the road hugging the inner cliff.
Toward the edge of the shelf the ground was disturbed by vehicle tracks.
"Stop here," Rick said.
Scotty killed the engine, and pointed to a pile of cans near the remains
of a fire. "This must be where Mac and Pancho set up their radar gear."
Rick looked around him appreciatively. In the direction of Scarlet Lake
there was a clear view for miles. Only the low ridges of intervening
hills prevented them from seeing the base itself. A radar outfit could
track the rockets from here with no interference at all, once the rocket
had risen above the range of low hills.
Scotty indicated the scenery with a wave of his hand. "Plenty to see.
But twenty tons of transistors could be in plain sight and we'd never
know it. How would you hide stolen goods, if you had to do it?"
Rick turned and surveyed the base of the cliff that led to the top of
the mesa. "I'd probably hunt for a space between two big rocks, pack it
in, and load rocks on top."
"And that ain't stuff and nonsense," Scotty agreed. "Come on. Let's
start moving boulders."
Rick shook his head as his eyes encompassed the more than a hundred
yards of strewn rocks at the cliff's bottom. "Shall we move them a ton
at a time?"
Scotty grinned helplessly. "At that rate we'd be here six months." He
kicked an empty beer can. "Maybe we'd better look in the cans instead."
As though by magic the can flew into the air, flashing in the sunlight.
At the same instant they heard the spiteful crack of a rifle.
Scotty reacted instantly, and Rick was only a fraction of a second
behind. They dashed across the road and dove for cover in the rocks
behind the jeep.
The rifle cracked again. A slug whined into space a few feet from their
noses, leaving a silvery streak of lead on a rock.
The boys moved again, closer into the face of the cliff, and took
shelter under a slight overhang.
"Now what?" Rick asked.
Scotty surveyed the situation, estimated the line of fire from the lead
smear on the rock, then shook his head.
"We can't get in the jeep and make a run for it, because we'd be right
in the line of fire. He's on top of the mesa, whoever he is. He can't
reach us here, but he can reach us if we move, or if he moves."
The rifle punctuated Scotty's estimate of the situation. This time the
slug slapped rock close enough to spatter sandstone chips in their
faces.
"We can't stay here," Scotty said grimly. "I'm going to see what I can
do."
"How?" Rick demanded.
Scotty was busily picking up stone fragments, choosing them by weight
and shape. "I can move along the face of the cliff, staying under cover.
At least I think I can. If I reach the place where the road drops, I can
get up to the top. With luck, I won't be seen. Besides, you can distract
him."
"How?"
"I don't know. Put the Brant brain to work and figure out something."
Scotty unrolled his sling, slipped the loop over his index finger, and
gave Rick a tight grin. "Keep the boy busy, chum. Here I go."
Scotty moved rapidly but silently, across the bottom of the cliff,
taking advantage of every overhanging rock. When Scotty was perhaps ten
yards away, Rick moved into action. He picked up a rock, hefted it, then
threw it into the pile of cans. They scattered noisily, bringing a rifle
shot in reply.
Rick thought swiftly, then peeled off his shirt and wrapped it in a
good-sized rock. He gauged the distance and heaved it in the direction
opposite the one Scotty had taken, aiming for a niche under an overhang
six yards away. He hoped the motion would be mistaken for one of them.
Evidently he succeeded, because a rifle slug chipped rock a foot away
from the shirt as it rolled under the overhang.
Raising his head cautiously, he saw a rock perched precariously on the
steep slopes. Evidently it had come to rest there, or the rains had
washed away much of its support. He found a rock to throw, sighted with
care, and tossed it underhand. It struck directly under the balanced
rock and dug away enough dirt to upset its equilibrium. The rock tumbled
down, bringing a tiny landslide of other rocks and dirt with it. There
was no response from the rifle this time.
Rick turned to see how Scotty was doing, but his pal was out of sight,
behind some boulder along the way. Now what? His bag of tricks was
almost exhausted.
He looked outward, across the road. A few yards to the right of the
campfire and cache of cans was a rock pile. It was big enough to shield
him, if he could make it. He took a deep breath. If he dodged and
twisted fast enough, the rifleman probably couldn't hit him, and he
would certainly have the man's full attention. That would give Scotty a
better chance.
He chose a rock, hefted it, and got up into a sprinting position. He
made sure of his footing, then simultaneously tossed the rock sideways
to attract the rifleman's eye, and charged out of the niche.
Ten feet and he jumped sideways, took two forward leaps, and went
sideways again. The rifle barked and dirt spurted where he had just
been. But by then Rick was within reach of the rock pile, and he went
over it in a headlong dive, rolling like a tumbler as he landed. Quickly
he flattened out, as close to the rocks as he could get. A bullet whined
off the top of the pile, and then there was silence.
Rick's heart pounded and his breath came in gasps. He had made it! But
how about Scotty? He risked a push-up that brought his head to the level
of the upper rocks in time to see Scotty fire his first sling stone. His
pal had reached a position just below the top of the mesa, where his
stones would clear the top without exposing him. As Rick watched, Scotty
put another stone in the pouch and let fly. The stone smashed into rock
on top of the mesa. A third stone, and Rick suddenly caught a glimpse of
motion on the mesa top, directly above him. The rifleman was changing
position! Evidently Scotty's stones were coming too close!
"Watch it!" he yelled. "Watch out, Scotty! He's moving!"
Three closely spaced shots sent Scotty to the ground as slugs whined off
the mesa rim directly above him. Then there was silence. Rick heard, as
though from far off, the clatter of rock. He waited. Scotty was waiting,
too.
[Illustration: _A bullet whined off the top of the rock pile, and then
there was silence_]
Minutes ticked by. Then, faintly, Rick heard a sound that could only
have been a horse whinnying.
Scotty stood upright and climbed to the very top of the mesa. Rick
started to yell, then choked it back. Scotty must know what he was
doing. He saw his pal walk leisurely out of sight. Rick stood up,
watching. In a moment Scotty reappeared, climbing down the incline he
had used to get to the top. In a moment the boys were face to face.
"He's gone," Scotty announced. "Had a horse staked out below the
opposite side of the mesa. I saw him ride off. He was too far away for
me to get a good look at him."
"Mighty strange," Rick said with a sigh of relief.
Scotty nodded. "Strange is right. You know what? He saw me standing
there on the rim. He turned and looked at me, and he waved."
"Waved?" Rick asked.
"Yep. It was a real jaunty wave."
Rick shook his head in bewilderment. "My, that was friendly."
"I thought so," Scotty agreed. "Come on, boy. We've got to make tracks
out of here. Time is running out."
Rick collected his shirt and jumped into the jeep. Scotty backed around
and headed toward the base as fast as the road allowed. Not until they
were down on relatively level ground did they try to converse.
"The rifleman must have read about David and Goliath," Rick said. "Why
else would he run off?"
Scotty chuckled. "He was helpless. He was in deadly peril, as the
storybooks say. Seriously, I think he _was_ helpless."
Rick stared at his pal. Scotty could mean only one thing. "Then he had
no intention of hitting us?"
"I doubt it. He was shooting at short range, and even a poor shot
couldn't very well have missed as often as he did. Besides, I don't
think you'd find many poor shots with rifles in this country."
"Then he must have been trying to scare us off," Rick said thoughtfully.
"When you started heaving rocks at him, he knew we weren't scaring very
much."
"Not much," Scotty said ruefully. "I don't know about you, but my
innards turned to custard."
Rick grinned. He knew exactly what Scotty meant. "If things had happened
a little more slowly, I'd have dropped dead from sheer fright. But I
didn't have time. Anyway, when you started with your sling, he had a
choice of shooting for keeps or getting out of there. So he got. Is that
how you figure it?"
"Exactly right. What other explanation is there? Stones against rifle
slugs isn't much of a contest. I only tried it because there wasn't
anything else to do."
"We could have stayed under cover until Mac and Pancho arrived," Rick
pointed out.
"Negative. All he had to do was shift position and he'd have had a clear
shot at us."
That was true, Rick realized. "But why did he try to scare us off?"
"It beats me. He wasn't a guard, I'm sure. If he was guarding something,
he wouldn't have ridden off and left us there. And there wasn't anything
personal in it, because he waved at me like an old pal. It was a kind
of humorous wave. You know? Real jaunty."
Rick asked the obvious question. "Was it the Earthman?"
And Scotty made the obvious answer. "I didn't have a chance to ask him.
Anyway, he didn't wear armor."
Rick had been keeping his eye on the road ahead. "Pull over," he said
quickly. "Let's get out and be looking at cactus or something. I think
Mac and Pancho are coming."
Scotty complied quickly and shut off the jeep engine. The boys got out
and walked quickly into the desert, found a barrel cactus, and began
dissecting it with Rick's scout knife.
The dust cloud that marked an oncoming vehicle grew larger, and in a few
minutes they saw the panel truck and the trailer with radar dish mounted
on it. As the truck drew nearer they stood up, Rick holding the cactus
impaled on his knife. It was a natural action; simple curiosity would
require that they pause to see who might be in a passing vehicle.
The truck drew abreast and slowed. Big Mac was driving. Pancho leaned
out and waved. "Hiya, kids!"
They echoed him. "Hiya, Pancho." Then the truck was past, en route to
the mesa for the day's dry run.
Rick drew a deep breath. "In the clear," he said with relief. Suddenly
he grinned. "This is what I call progress. We go to Careless Mesa. We
find nothing. We get shot at. We add to the mystery without adding a
single thing to the puzzle. One more day like this and we'll have to put
our Junior G-man badges back in the cereal box where we got 'em."
"I beat you," Scotty said unhappily. "I left mine under a rock at the
top of the mesa."