Princess of Mars / Принцесса Марса. Уровень 2. Эдгар Райс Берроуз

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with the country and with the mechanical requirements of mining. We agreed he would make the trip. And I would protect our mine.

      On March 3, 1866, Powell and I packed his provisions on two of our burros. He mounted his horse, and started down the mountainside toward the valley.

      The morning that day was clear and beautiful. I could see him and his little pack animals making their way down the mountainside toward the valley. Half-hour later I noticed three little dots in about the same place I saw my friend and his two pack animals. I tried to assure myself the dots were antelope or wild horses but started worrying. Powell was well armed and an experienced Indian fighter. But I knew his chances were small against a party of cunning trailing Apaches[5]. I armed myself with my two Colt revolvers and a carbine and started down the trail taken by Powell in the morning.

      It became dark. I had to await the rising of the moon. I had an opportunity to think about the wisdom of my chase. Possibly, I imagined impossible dangers, like some nervous old housewife. I am not prone to sensitiveness but following of a sense of duty was a kind of fetish with me throughout my life.

      About nine o'clock the moon was sufficiently bright for me to continue on my way. About midnight, I reached the water hole. I expected Powell to camp here. But there were no signs of a camp.

      I noted that tracks of the pursuing horsemen continued after Powell at the same rate of speed as his.

      I was sure now that they were Apaches and that they wished to capture Powell alive for the pleasure of the torture. So I urged my horse onward at a most dangerous pace. I hoped to catch up with the red rascals before they attacked him.

      Further speculation was suddenly cut short by the report of two shots far ahead of me. I knew that Powell would need me now more than ever. I instantly urged my horse to his topmost speed up the narrow and difficult mountain trail.

      For perhaps a mile or more, there was no further sounds. Suddenly I was on a small, open plateau near the summit of the pass. I passed through a narrow gorge and suddenly I saw something that filled me with consternation and dismay.

      The land was white with Indian tepees[6]. There were probably half a thousand red warriors. I was lucky some object near the center of the camp absorbed them. I easily turned back into the dark recesses of the gorge and made my escape with perfect safety.

      I was sure that Powell was the center of attraction. I whipped out my revolvers and ran down upon the entire army of warriors. I was shooting and screaming at the top of my lungs. The red men fled in every direction for their bows, arrows, and rifles. They were convinced that not less than a regiment of regulars[7] was upon them.

      Under the clear rays of the Arizona I saw Powell. The hostile arrows of the braves pierced his body. Of course, he was dead. But I wanted to save hid dead body from the hands of the Apaches.

      I rode close to him, grasped his body and lifted it up on the horseback. I continued my way across the plateau. By that time, the Indians discovered that I was alone and began to pursue me.

      My horse was traveling practically unguided. I believed that he would find the right path and carry me to safety. But he didn't. He entered a pass, which led to the summit of the range. I heard the yells of the pursuing savages suddenly grow fainter and fainter. I looked the trail below and to my left. I saw the party of pursuing savages disappearing around the point of a neighboring peak.

      I knew the Indians would soon discover that they were on the wrong trail. They would renew the search for me in the right direction as soon as they located my tracks.

      I went short distance further and saw an excellent trail. It was level and quite broad and led upward and in the general direction I wished to go. I followed this trail for perhaps a hundred yards. A sharp turn to the right brought me to the mouth of a large cave. The opening was about four feet in height and three to four feet wide, and at this opening, the trail ended. It was now morning.

      I laid Powell upon the ground. The most painstaking examination[8] failed to reveal the faintest spark of life. I forced water from my canteen between his dead lips, bathed his face and rubbed his hands. I worked over him continuously for the better part of an hour. But I knew he was dead.

      I was very fond of Powell[9]; he was a hard-working man in every respect; a polished southern gentleman; a staunch and true friend. With a feeling of the deepest grief, I finally gave up trying to reanimate him.

      I crept into the cave to explore. I found a large chamber, possibly a hundred feet in diameter and thirty or forty feet in height. There were many evidences that the cave was inhabited some time ago. The back of the cave was lost in shadow and I could not see whether there were openings into other apartments or not.

      I continued my examination but felt a pleasant drowsiness creeping over me. I was tired from my long and strenuous ride. I felt comparatively safe in my present location. I knew one man could defend the trail to the cave against an army.

      I soon became so drowsy that I hardly resisted the desire to rest on the floor of the cave. I knew that it would mean certain death at the hands of my red friends. But as soon as I started toward the opening of the cave I reeled drunkenly against a side wall and slipped upon the floor.

      II. The Escape of the Dead

      Delicious dreaminess overcame me and my muscles relaxed. I was half-asleep when the sound of approaching horses reached my ears. I tried to spring to my feet but was horrified to discover that my muscles refused to respond. I was awake but unable to move. I noticed a slight vapor filling the cave. A faintly pungent odor came to my nostrils. I assumed that it was some poisoning gas. But I could not explain why I should retain my mental faculties and yet be unable to move.

      I didn't have to wait long in my living tomb before a stealthy sound told me of the Indians' nearness. Then, I saw a war-bonneted, paint-streaked face staring at me. I was sure he could see me as the early morning sun was falling full upon me through the opening.

      Instead of approaching, the fellow merely stood and stared. His eyes were bulging and his jaw was dropped. And then another savage face appeared, and a third and fourth and fifth. They craned their necks over the shoulders of their fellows whom they could not pass upon the narrow ledge. Each face was the picture of awe and fear but I could not see why.

      Suddenly a low but distinct moaning sound issued from the recesses of the cave behind me. As it reached the ears of the Indians, they turned and fled in terror, panic-stricken. Their wild cries echoed in the canyon for a short time, and then all was still once more.

      The sound did not repeat but it was sufficient for me to speculate on the possible horror, which lurked in the shadows at my back. Several times I thought I heard faint sounds behind me as of somebody moving cautiously, but eventually even these ceased. I could only vaguely conjecture the cause of my paralysis. My only hope was that it might pass off as suddenly as it fell upon me.

      Late in the afternoon, my horse started slowly down the trail in search of food and water. I was alone with my mysterious unknown companion and the dead body of my friend.

      From then until possibly midnight all was silence, the silence of the dead[10]. Suddenly, I heard the awful moan of the morning. The sound of a moving thing came again from the black shadow. The shock to my already overstrained

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