The Lonesome Gods

by Louis L'Amour

  When day was breaking, Tomás was resting. “Let him rest. When he is awake, make broth of the dried beef. I come this way again.” He paused a moment. “If I do not, wait five days and then take him home.”

  * * * *

  TIRED AS SHE had been, Meghan had slept but fitfully. Dawn was breaking now, and the strangeness of the place awakened her. She had slept among trees at the mountain’s foot, and now she sat up. Her horse grazed placidly on a patch of grass nearby.

  She was thirsty and hungry, but there was no time to think of that. Johannes was somewhere to the south, and fortunately Tomás had been leading them that way before the trouble began. She saddled her horse, watered him at a trickle of runoff water, and started south.

  Tomás was dead—of this she was sure. If not dead, then so badly hurt he could not help. The boy, if he escaped those others, would not know what to do. He would, if he could, ride home.

  Iglesias and Biscal would follow her. They would be good trackers and they would come on fast. There were ways of hiding a trail, she supposed, but even had she known how, she had not the time. What she needed was a weapon. She had the pistol but no ammunition…yet, might there not be another cartridge or two in her saddlebags?

  She was not in the desert, but at its edge, following a dim trail left, she expected, by Indians. Down lower she might find an easier trail, but also one more exposed. She was riding through foothills that were wooded or partly wooded.

  The trail was suddenly open for some distance, so she rode faster. At the crest of a rise, she drew up among some piñons and glanced back.

  Was that dust?

  She glanced ahead; the trail dipped down among the trees, then went up the slope opposite, winding higher along the slope. She would be visible while climbing, but there was no help for it. She rode on, glancing back from time to time. She had reached the bottom and was about to start up the far slope when her horse shied violently, almost unseating her.

  She fought the animal for a moment, getting him under control, then started up the slope. What had it been? A mountain lion? A wolf? A bear?

  Suddenly off to her left she saw another trail coming up from the desert, apparently to merge with her trail. Frowning, she stood in the stirrups, looking ahead.

  Nothing…Glancing back, she saw a rider come from the trees…Iglesias.

  Touching her spurs to her horse, she plunged ahead; then a rope shot from the brush and fell neatly around her horse’s neck. The horse reared, and she fell. Grabbing at the pommel, she failed to get a grip and hit the ground hard. Her skull rapped on a rock.

  She felt the blow, felt a wave of fear and horror, then nothing…nothing at all.

  Biscal came from the trees, coiling his rope. He glanced at the unconscious girl, then tied his horse and hers.

  “You’d better hurry, Iglesias,” he said, “I think…”

  He had squatted beside her, but suddenly his eyes were riveted upon a foot, a foot in a moccasin, and it was the biggest foot he had ever seen.

  Awed, he tilted his head back as he came to his feet. His jaw dropped, and he gaped; his eyes went up and up…he screamed.

  He started to step back, and a gigantic hand swept down and he was knocked from the path. He fell, hitting a rock ten feet below. His body slipped clear and fell again, bringing up on the rocks fifty feet below.

  His eyes opened to the sky and he whimpered, tried to draw his knees up and turn. He could not. His back was broken.

  Iglesias…where was Iglesias? A shadow crossed his face, and Biscal opened his eyes.

  A buzzard.…

  Chapter 57

  HER EYES OPENED to darkness and flickering shadows. She lay watching the weird lights dancing on the low ceiling without being consciously aware of them. They were just something that was there, like the dull ache in her head. After a while she closed her eyes, but when she opened them the flickering shadows were still there, doing a strange ballet on the ceiling of the cave.

  That was ridiculous, of course, yet it did look like a cave. But what would she be doing in a cave? She closed her eyes, living with the dull ache, a result of the fall, no doubt.

  Fall? What fall? Oh…yes, of course. She had fallen from her horse, or been jerked from it. But who would…? Her mind, still foggy, fumbled with the idea.

  Now she was remembering. Somebody had thrown a lasso from the brush and jerked her from her horse.

  Biscal, that was the name. He had come from the brush coiling his rope as he walked toward her. That was the last thing she remembered.

  Panic-stricken, she opened her eyes wide. Her fingers groped. She was lying on an animal skin, on a fur or hide, and she was in a cave and somebody had covered her with a blanket.

  She was clothed except for her boots, which lay beside her. She started to sit up, but was hit by a wave of pain, so she lay back down. Something slipped across her eyes, and when she put up her hand, she found a damp cloth. It had been folded and placed across her brow. Slowly her mind fumbled its way back to awareness.

  She listened for explanatory sounds. Beyond the crackling from the fire there was nothing. She turned her eyes toward the inner blackness of the cave, for this was a cave. Against the back wall she made out a rifle rack holding two rifles, and standing nearby, a pair of the largest snowshoes she had ever seen. On a rock shelf near them was a row of books.

  Books? In a cave? She turned her head toward the fire.

  The fireplace had been built against the wall, and judging by the flames, had a good draft. Nearby, other shelves were lined with cooking utensils. There was a wood box as well as an ax and a cross-cut saw. Obviously this was no temporary shelter but a place where somebody actually lived, at least from time to time.

  Who had brought her here? What kind of person would live in such a place? There was a solid, tight-fitting door with hinges, one of the largest doors she had ever seen other than on a stable. Looking around again, she realized the cave was a permanent habitation prepared by a neat, careful person who enjoyed reading. That could be neither Biscal nor Iglesias, who were vaqueros turned outlaw.

  Suddenly the latch lifted and the door opened outward, grasped by a hand as large as a dinner plate. She sat up quickly as the door was filled with the most tremendous human being she had ever seen. A huge head with beetling brows, bulging cheekbones, and a massive jaw. He came into the cave, closing the door behind him.

  “Do not be frightened. I am your friend.”

  He placed her saddlebags on the floor near her. “Your horse is cared for. All is well. You may rest.”

  There was an amazing resonance to his voice, as though he spoke from a deep well. “The banditos? Do not fear them. They are gone.”

  “What happened?”

  He sat upon the floor. Sitting down, he was almost as tall as she. “One caught you with his rope. He was surprised when I stepped down from the rocks, but he reached for his gun.” The giant was embarrassed. “I slapped him over the cliff. He fell on rocks, far below.”

  “And the other one?”

  “His horse was frightened.” There was a shadow of amusement in the big man’s eyes. “I have that effect on horses that do not know me. The horse ran away with him.”

  He turned to the fire. “Will you have coffee? You must pardon the poor things I have here. This is just a place where I stay sometimes when I am in these mountains.” He paused, glancing at her. “Sometimes I am not well. I have headaches and must be prepared for that.” He pointed off to the south. “My home is in the San Jacintos.”

  “You are Tahquitz!”

  He chuckled. It was an amazing, rather marvelous sound. “Tahquitz! He used to capture maidens and take them to his cave and eat them.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “But I am not hungry!”

  “I’m certainly glad you’re not, but I am! Dreadfully hungry!”

  He handed her the coffee. “I have little here, but I will see what can be done.” He glanced around at her. “You are Meghan Laurel. I am Alfredo.” />
  He took down a frying pan and a slab of bacon. He began slicing bacon into the pan with an amazingly sharp knife. “Do you know who Alfredo is? Alfredo is the disgrace. Alfredo is the shame. Alfredo was born large and grew larger, and my father was embarrassed. He hid me away and then brought me to California, but on a different ship. Then he gave me to a servant and gave her money to take me away. Anywhere away from him. He could not stand it that he had sired a monster.” He added sticks to the fire. “She was a rare woman, that servant, a rare, rare woman.

  “She had come from Spain with him, and she loved my mother and loved me, too, if you can believe that.”

  “I can believe it.”

  “She was a wild one, that woman. She said she was a witch. She had come from the desert, and was a Berber.

  “Do you know of them? They were a white nomadic people who ruled all the Sahara and what lay north of it, from as long as could be remembered.

  “He expected me to be killed or abandoned, but she carried me off at night to a remote village of the Indians, and at night when I had the headaches she would rock me to sleep and sing to me the songs of her people. I remember them yet.

  “The following year she took me into Mexico to a priest who was a wise man. His blood was as hers, and it was he who taught me to read, write, and work with numbers. Much else besides. He was a good, good man, educated far beyond his time.

  “He explained to me that I would be very large and that there was within people a fear of anything different than themselves. It was a deep-seated, primitive fear found among many wild creatures. A white wolf to exist among gray wolves must become a fierce fighter or be killed. It is a fear, perhaps, of attracting attention and therefore danger.

  “He told me that if I was to survive I must understand this, that I must be tolerant even when others were intolerant, that I must be wary of man.”

  “You knew my name,” Meghan said, remembering.

  “Johannes is my nephew. His mother, Consuelo, was my sister.

  “We brought double disgrace to my father. I by being born a giant, and she by marrying a poor seaman.”

  He dished up several slices of bacon, adding a handful of piñon nuts and several cold tortillas to the plate.

  “It is very little. Had I expected a visitor, I would have prepared for it.”

  “Where is Johannes? I must find him! Is he all right?”

  “He lives, but he suffered much. I think he plans to move against them. It would be like him, and like his father.”

  “You are sure he is all right? Alfredo, I must find him! I love him very, very much and I am afraid he will not come back to Los Angeles.”

  “Of course he will come back.”

  “You do not understand. Don Federico came to see me. He was charming. I suppose I was flattered by it. He was an older man, and so handsome! I told Johannes, and I never thought…”

  “You should have been wiser, but who of us is? Johannes wants to be nowhere where that man has been. Don Federico is an evil man, as he was an evil boy. He thinks only of himself.” Alfredo smiled suddenly, amusement dancing in his eyes. “He believes me dead, and wishes to believe it. Perhaps it is time to give him a hint.”

  “Can you take me to Johannes? I must see him!”

  “I can take you to where he is, or at least to where he was, or I can see you in safety to Los Angeles.”

  “Take me to him! I must see him! I must see him before he goes off again!”

  “When the sun rises. Stay here…you will be safe.” He gestured toward the forest. “I have another place.”

  “Why don’t you come to Los Angeles with me? There’s no need for you to stay here!”

  He chuckled. “Los Angeles has never been surprised by anything, I think. It began with the Spanish and the Indians, and it began with a flair. It has always loved the flamboyant, the graceful dons riding their splendid horses, their saddles plated with silver, but it is not for me. Can you imagine me down there?

  “A man of six feet is considered unusually tall. Most men are five-feet-eight or less.” He smiled gently. “I am seven feet and eight inches and I usually weigh four hundred pounds.

  “They would gasp, they would stare, they would ask how tall I am and be disappointed it is not taller. The doors will be too narrow, the ceilings too low, and the chairs are made for dwarfs.

  “Out here it is different. I am made small by mountains. I am a midget among the trees. Down there is fear, hatred, and jealousy. Here there is pure air, simple food, and I have my books.

  “You see, I have become a night person. I see as well by night as any bat or owl. The trails I walk are walked by me alone, and I have places where I can sit and look down upon the desert or even that hot spring where the palms grow. I can look down there where Johannes is—Johannes, my friend.”

  “You have talked to him?”

  “Oh, no! Perhaps that is why he is my friend. We have shared books, and some thoughts, I expect. He knows of me, knows what I am. Perhaps he even knows who I am. I wished him to know me, so I left my signature, knowing it would explain more than words.

  “To live in a city, one must be larger than one’s environment or enjoy belonging to the crowd. Out here a person can become a part of it all. He can walk the heights with the eagles and the clouds, but it needs a special kind of person.

  “For me there is no other way. Down there I would be viewed as a monstrosity. My own father saw me that way, so what could I expect from others?”

  “Does no one ever see you here?”

  “Perhaps an Indian now and again, but they are polite. I do not intrude upon them, and they avoid me.”

  “They believe you are Tahquitz.”

  “Nonsense! They call me that because I live on this mountain alone, but they know better. It is a joke among them.”

  “They are a simple people, I think.”

  “Simple in their needs, perhaps, but a very complex people.”

  “You are complex.”

  “No. Within this giant house of flesh lives a quiet man who would prefer working at a trade. Or perhaps he is a poet whose dreams are too large for his words.

  “My home is among the mountains. Men destroy what they do not understand, as they destroyed the son of God when he chose to walk among them. I do not wish to be understood. I wish to be left alone. Your Johannes has done this. He is a kind man, a thoughtful man.”

  “Are you never lonely?”

  “When would I not be lonely? When a man is one of a kind, he will be lonely wherever he is. I am a man apart but have become adjusted to it. I have the mountains, and I have my books. I also have the friendship of Johannes.”

  He got to his feet, towering over her. Instinctively she shrank. “You see? Sleep well, then. I shall return in the morning. But please…rise early. I would like you to see sunrise on the desert from my mountains. Until you have seen sunrise from here, or from over there in the San Jacintos, you have seen nothing.”

  He went out, ducking his head through the door, closing it softly behind him.

  In the night that followed, she wondered if he was out on the dark trails of night where owls cruised on silent wings among the dark ranks of the soldier pines, and only the wind for company.

  Chapter 58

  WHEN DON ISIDRO finished speaking, there was a moment of silence. If Miss Nesselrode was alarmed or frightened, she offered no evidence of it.

  “Señor, I am afraid you live in the past. Forty, perhaps even twenty years ago you might have gotten away with such a thing, but no more.

  “You have deliberately isolated yourself from the community to such an extent that you are not aware of the changes that have taken place.

  “The story of your pursuit of Zachary Verne and your daughter are well known, but that was long ago. If anything were to happen either to me or to your sister Elena, there would be an immediate investigation, and I have been careful to record all the facts and leave them in safe hands.

  “If any
thing happens to Johannes Verne, I shall see you hanged. If anything were to happen to your sister or to me, you would certainly be hanged, and these”—she waved a hand at the group in the doorway—“as well. What then of your pride in your family and your name? It would be disgraced forever, and by you.”

  She turned on the group in the door. “Put your guns away. Are you afraid of a woman, that you draw guns? Have you thought who will pay for what you do? He has no money. He can pay you nothng, nothing at all. You are fools to follow so blindly where a blind man leads!

  “Get out of here! At once!” She gestured imperiously. “Mr. Kelso, if they do not leave, shoot them!”

  The guns lowered. Confused, the men looked from one to the other, then at Don Isidro. Kelso had drawn his gun. It was a colossal bluff, and nobody knew it better than he, but he stood quietly, waiting.

  A man at the back of the group silently turned away, then another. The woman was the last to leave.

  “Don Isidro.” Miss Nesselrode spoke quietly but her tone was cold and level. “If I were you, I would send a man to recall your Don Federico. I would suggest, also, that you tell him he is not your heir, and never will be. Until he knows that, your own life is not secure. He has shown himself to be a man who will stop at nothing.”

  “What she says is true, my brother. Even as a boy, he tried to kill Alfredo. A few days ago he threatened me. He only pursues Johannes because he is a possible heir who might dispute his claims to your estate.”

  Don Isidro stared at her with sullen eves. “If what you say is true, I have no estate. I have nothing.”

  “That is true,” Elena replied, her voice low. “You have not managed well, my brother, so I have done what was needed, with Miss Nesselrode’s help, but Don Federico does not know this. You must recall him. You must recall him at once, before more damage is done.”

  “According to our laws, you would be an accessory, Don Isidro,” Miss Nesselrode added. “It is your own safety you must consider.”