Star Ship on Saddle Mountain
Star Ship on Saddle
Mountain
Star Ship on Saddle
Mountain
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY • NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT,
1955,
BY THE MACMILLAN
COMPANY
All rights reserved—no part of this book may be
reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the
publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages
in connection with a review written for inclusion in magazine or
newspaper.
First Printing
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Published simultaneously in
Canada
To Howard Moorepark,
for his help in the launching of a
star ship.
CHAPTER ONE
The Alien
Object
jittery feeling he'd had all day, to brush it off and get an early
start for the all-night fishing trip up river. He wanted to enjoy
that, get all the fun out of it, along the Arizona banks of Lake
Havasu on the Colorado River. But still he couldn't escape that
strange feeling. There was something sinister in the air. Something
that put him on his guard.
Charlie wasn't scared, for he had lived alone in
the isolated ranch house, the Shack, as he and Uncle John had
called it, ever since his uncle had died. No, it wasn't fear,
Charlie was sure. But it was the strangest, creepiest feeling he
had ever had and he couldn't shake it.
Tucking the old army shirt down into his levi's,
Charlie buttoned up the tight pants as he walked across the room
to
the large chunk of mirror leaned against the wall
under the water cooler. Stretching one leg at a time, Charlie Holt
smiled a little as he looked at himself. He was almost as big as
Uncle John. The army shirt fit him pretty good, even if it used to
fit Uncle John skin tight. And since it belonged to his last living
relative, his father's youngest brother, it was good enough for him
to wear now since Uncle John was gone.
"It's plenty good," Charlie said aloud. "Sure it
is."
Running his fingers through his
black and slightly curled hair, Charlie frowned suddenly as he
noticed the needed haircut. But it could wait, for right now. He
would go on down into Parker and get it later. Maybe tomorrow. The
haircut could wait. And besides, the sun was already pretty far
down, over there across the Colorado, on the California side of the
river. Right now it was getting to be the best time of day for cat
fishing, and he better get started, Charlie told himself. He paused
a moment, picking up his uncle's old safety razor.
You don't need it for fuzz, Charlie!
He smiled a little as he remembered his uncle's
words, and how he'd always tell him to take an old blade for
practice, not a new one.
said aloud.
For a brief moment Charlie's face grew sad, as he
thought of the family he had never known. That tight feeling inside
his chest came on again, as he thought of the many past trips,
hunting and fishing, with Uncle John. To keep from remembering
more, Charlie turned off the day time fan in the water cooler
pronto. But even as he quickly turned off the power that forced the
hot, dry desert air into the house, cooling it
as it passed through the cold water running down
the wire
screen in the cooler box, Charlie heard another
screen being
knocked impatiently from the side window. Navajo's
window.
"Nav!" Charlie shouted at the old horse. "Doggone
you, Navajo."
But Charlie knew old Navajo would pay no attention
to his shouts. He always tried to hurry him when they were going on
a trip. And Navajo figured the best way to hurry him, Charlie knew
from experience, was to knock that loose screen off the side
window.
"Okay, Nav—okay," Charlie said. "Now you got the
screen off and your old head poked inside the Shack, I hope you're
satisfied, Nav."
For reply, the old Palomino whinnied joyfully, then
shook his head vigorously as he looked back at Charlie. When
Charlie just stood there, to tease Navajo, the horse stamped his
foot, thumping the side boards of the house. Then he turned his
head, when Charlie still didn't move, and with his white-spotted
nose Navajo bounced the head harness and reins up and down where
they hung on the hook by the window. Charlie laughed suddenly at
Navajo's graphic suggestion.
"Nav—doggone your old hide," he said, putting his
arms about Navajo's head. He pressed his face against the smooth
and velvety jaws. "You old dogie," Charlie whispered, "you don't
have to kick down the Shack, just because you're in a hurry to go
up river. Do you?"
Navajo waited a moment, letting Charlie pet him, as
he considered his words. Then once more he stamped insistently,
slamming the side of the Shack and trampling some loose lumber
under the window. Letting go of him quickly, Charlie tossed the
reins back over Navajo's mane, even as Navajo pushed his nose
forward into the head harness.
"You sure are trained, Nav," Charlie said,
adjusting the harness as he continued to stroke Navajo.
Having known each other a long time, ever since
Uncle John had brought Navajo as a young and gangling colt to their
ranch, Charlie and his best friend understood each other well. They
had grown up together. Navajo was a dozen years old now, and he'd
always been around, about as far back as Charlie could remember
clearly. Charlie stood almost head level with Navajo. His face had
a strong desert tan from living a man's life in the hot days and
fast-cooling nights of the open desert country, plus the many
hunting and fishing trips up and down the Colorado and out in the
hill country.
"Navajo—you old dogie!" Charlie said again, roughly
hugging the horse to preserve the remaining loose boards under the
window. "Those guys in town can have their souped-up hot rods and
their drag races. I'll take you, Nav, any old day, when it comes to
going up river. Sure will! I'd like to see them drive up in the
hills, Nav, like the way we get around."
But Navajo was not to be stalled by sweet talk.
Charlie crossed the big room and took down his Winchester from
above the stone fireplace. He removed the oil-soaked rag that hung
over the muzzle.
"Uncle John sure learned some good things in the
army," Charlie went on talking, to keep Navajo from getting excited
again. "He sure did, Nav."
Out on the screened-in back porch, Charlie dug down
in the big flour sack, half-filling a paper bag with flour. Then
from the corner of his mouth, he said in a loud, clear voice: "I
been thinking. Maybe I better tote along a few of these big, juicy,
delicious APPLES."
With the word "apples" fairly shouted toward the
front room, Charlie got an immediate reaction from that direction,
though he couldn't see the window with the screen knocked off.
Navajo whinnied delightedly, rattling the harness and vigorously
trampling the loose boards in a sudden clatter. Charlie ran back
into the big main room, to try and calm down Navajo's joy over his
favorite treat.
"And I'll take the cat, Nav! You can have your old
apples, but one of those big, juicy black catfish with the silver
belly spots for me! From 'way down deep in that icy river."
Pausing, he frowned at Navajo. "If I catch any."
Navajo began another whinny, so Charlie bounced the
sleeping bag and knapsack up and down on the table. It had the
magic effect. Seeing what looked like action, Navajo paused,
pulling his head halfway back out the window.
"But maybe I'll have to just settle for a nice fat
bass, Nav, or maybe even worse. One of those doggone old carp, if
he decides he wants to try catfish bait!"
Giving a final pat to the half-filled paper bag,
Charlie pushed the flour down beside his own food supplies and
Navajo's apples in the saddle pack. Feeling as though he were
forgetting something, Charlie glanced uncertainly
about the big rambling room. But he could think of
nothing. Even as he stood there in that short moment, that earlier
uneasy feeling came over him strongly again. Pulling up fishing
gear, rifle and the blanket roll, Charlie took the saddle pack and
turned toward the door.
Pausing again, he glanced back at the big round oak
dining table in the center of the room, cluttered with all sorts of
things. Charlie smiled a little as his eyes caught sight of the
black ballpoint pen with the gold-capped top. The last present from
Uncle John, on graduation, he recalled. Shifting the bundle of
fishline, he picked up the pen and clipped it onto the edge of the
khaki shirt pocket.
"Nav, Uncle John would call us plain looney for
taking a pen on a fishing trip. He sure would—okay, okay, I didn't
forget your old apples! So you might as well quit stomping down the
Shack!"
With his arms loaded down, Charlie kicked open the
door, as he tried to get outside before Navajo could make it around
from the side of the house. He was barely through the door and
standing on the hard-packed sandy ground of the ranch house yard
when Navajo came clop-clopping around the corner—and as he came, he
was already turning sideways, so that Charlie would waste no
further time adjusting the saddle and loading their packs.
"I got a good mind to just leave your old apples,"
Charlie said, but Navajo didn't get the suggestion. All that
counted was that Charlie had mentioned the familiar word "apples"
again. That was all the assurance Navajo required.
He stretched out his long neck low and straight and
let out another joyous whinny.
Charlie tossed the blanket roll up over behind the
saddle. The saddle pack, with the fishline atop it, hung from the
pommel and the Winchester was shoved down in the saddle holster.
Navajo was already on his way before Charlie could seat himself in
the saddle after mounting. No need to try and stop old Navajo. He
was going up river. And with apples too, well, Charlie knew he
would have to hurry or just be left behind!
Whistling softly as he rode along, Charlie stood up
in the stirrups as they topped a low-rolling hillock. In the
distance he could see the broad silver of Lake Havasu and, further
downstream where the lake ended and the Colorado River once more
became its narrow, deep self, Charlie could see the white pillars
of cement that monumented the foot of the lake, Parker Dam. The sun
was already out of sight behind the sharp, craggy mountains on the
California side. For a moment, Charlie casually surveyed the
coppery peaks and all the surrounding familiar country he knew so
well.
There was no house in sight. Only the soft-hued
colors, rapidly changing with the day's heat and light, the brown
tinted sand blending into broad sheets of whiteness, and the dusty
green stubble of cactus stood out clearly. Big balls of tumble
weed, like giant desert marbles, rolled on a little farther,
propelled by the slight breath of wind. And still further off,
Charlie saw the greener patches of grass and scrub brush, which
grew along the river and the lake shores.
In the distance the high craggy chocolate
mountains, rising straight up abruptly from the flat desert floor,
caught his attention again. Glancing further north, to the distant
snow-capped peaks high and far away, Charlie sighed a little as he
remembered climbing those same giant golden spires with Uncle John.
They looked like great caramel ice cream cones now.
The day's heat still radiating upward all about
him, Charlie breathed in deeply of the occasional cool touch of air
that came up the hill from the lake shore. It was already darkening
down there, the darkness coming swiftly in the desert night. Great
shadows everywhere were getting bolder now, snaking their way all
over the desert in ever increasing numbers. With night racing
across the desert floor bringing its sudden coldness, Charlie knew
both he and Navajo would need those blankets he had brought along.
The desert cooled quickly when the sun went down.
"Nav," Charlie said, "you're just showing off a
little! Just because we're headin' downhill, that's no reason to
make out like you're a young colt again. Or maybe, it's one of
those apples you're hankering for!"
To Charlie's pat and the word "apples," Navajo
tossed his head a little higher and increased his pace a bit. The
magic of the word apples! Charlie grinned quickly as he reached
forward and ran his fingers through the bouncing mane, for in spite
of his words he was pleased and pleasantly surprised at Navajo's
speed. But concerned about his old horse, Charlie slowed Navajo to
an easy walk, and they went toward the lake shore at a more
comfortable pace.
There was the bend ahead now, with the long
smoke-punk reeds poking up out of the shallow water of the little
bay.
Other books
The Remarkables (The Remarkable Owen Johnson, part 1) by Elliott, A. D.
Graphic the Valley by Peter Brown Hoffmeister
La hija de la casa Baenre by Elaine Cunningham
Return - Book III of the Five Worlds Trilogy by Al Sarrantonio
The Baby Track by Barbara Boswell
Max Swings for the Fences by Anne Ursu
Dakota Dream by James W. Bennett
Ignite Me by Tahereh Mafi
Fall On Me by Chloe Walsh
Catch by Michelle D. Argyle