William MacDonald - The Battle At Three-Cross

“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.