The Lonesome Gods (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  Two big boxes of books were dropped off at the door by a freighter, hauled from the harbor. My first job that morning was to unpack, list, and place them on the shelves where they could be seen.

  As I placed the books on the shelves, I called off the titles to her so she could list them. Suddenly I came upon a copy of The Narrative of A. Gordon Pym, published by Wiley & Putnam, in England. It had been previously published in this country but my father had not been able to find a copy.

  With some pride I showed the book to Miss Nesselrode. “He was a friend of my father’s,” I explained. “He often talked with my father about the polar regions because of my father’s experiences with icebergs.”

  “Maybe something of what he told Edgar Poe got into the story.”

  “I believe their talk was later, after the book was written, but I am not sure. It says here the book was published in 1838. I was just two years old then.” I held it in my hands. “May I read it?”

  “Of course.”

  There were still a few books to unpack, but as I worked, I wondered about Miss Nesselrode. Who was she? Where did she come from? On the way west when others talked of who they were and what they had done, she listened in silence. There had been rumors she had been a schoolteacher, but that was probably only a guess. The truth was that nobody knew, and the impression persisted that she had come west to find a husband. It was a natural supposition, but I did not believe it. She liked men and enjoyed their conversation but seemed to avoid the younger, more attractive men. Sometimes when I looked up I would see her staring out the window, her lips tight, her face like marble. Of what she was thinking, I had no idea.

  Yet I sensed some purpose, some intent, some driving urge, and it matched something I could feel arising within myself. One day when I had come from school to help in the shop, she voiced it herself.

  “Thomas Fraser tells me you are doing well in school, Johannes. I like that.” She paused a moment, and suddenly her voice was hard, almost angry. “I want you to show them, Johannes! They cast your father out, and your mother because she married him, and you because you are their son.

  “Show them, Johannes! Become somebody! Do something! Make something of yourself!

  “Listen to the men who come here. Listen well. Education is by no means confined to schools. Listen to such men talk, hear their philosophy, their ideas about the country, about business, trade, shipping, politics. Listen and learn.

  “Some people only learn by reading, others by doing or seeing, some by hearing. Learn however you can, but learn!

  “Mr. Wilson, Mr. Wolfskill, Mr. Workman, all of them. They are the men who will make this town into a city. They have ideas, but they do not merely have ideas, they put the ideas to work.

  “You can become bigger, stronger, better than your enemies. You can defeat them by outreaching them, by becoming a more important man, but also by becoming a better one.

  “All life is based on decisions. Decide now on what you’d like to become and what you would like to do. The two are not necessarily the same, although sometimes they can be.”

  * * *

  As the months passed at school Rad kept his distance but he did not like me and I knew trouble between us was not finished. Meghan Laurel continued to sit beside me, but I was shy. I had little experience talking to girls.

  We read better than the others, but Meghan was better at numbers than I.

  Rad was smart enough, but disdainful of lessons. Because he was as large and perhaps stronger than Mr. Fraser, he was also disdainful of him, although he did well enough in school to get along. For my part, I avoided him. I wanted no more trouble, and although I had beaten him once, it would not be so easy another time, for he would be ready for me.

  Miss Nesselrode, or perhaps Jacob Finney, must have spoken to him in private, for never did Thomas Fraser make any comment on having known me before and having known my father, nor did he speak of the trip across the mountains and desert from Santa Fe.

  Often, when we had settled in our seats, he would talk to us very generally on some topic that he considered important or that occupied his mind at the moment.

  “Actually,” he said one morning, “all education is self-education. A teacher is only a guide, to point out the way, and no school, no matter how excellent, can give you an education.

  “What you receive is like the outlines in a child’s coloring book. You must fill in the colors yourself.

  “I hope, in these classes, to give you an idea of where you came from, how you got here, and what has been said about it.”

  When we started to leave the room, I found Meghan beside me. She looked around at me and said, “What do you think of him? Of Mr. Fraser?”

  “I like him. I think he wants to be a writer.”

  “I wonder where he went to school?”

  “In Scotland, I believe. He is Scottish,” I said. Then, fearful of seeming to know too much about him, I added, “Fraser is a Scottish name.”

  This was one of the first times Meghan had struck up a conversation with me yet I was worried. I did not want to be talking about him because if I seemed to know too much it might start somebody thinking and wondering how I knew.

  “Your father is a captain of a ship?” I said.

  “Yes. Only he says he is the master. He does not use the word ‘captain.’ He sails to China,” she added. “And he has been around the Horn several times.”

  I said nothing to that. She glanced at me. “You are from the East?”

  “Most of us are. I mean, unless we are Spanish.”

  “My father thinks you are an interesting boy.”

  Startled, I said, “Your father? He does not know me!”

  “He has seen you. And I have told him about how well you read. He says you remind him of someone.”

  Suddenly I was scared. I wanted to talk to her but I was afraid of what she might ask, and I did not want to lie.

  “I have to read well,” I explained. “I work at the book shop for Miss Nesselrode.”

  “Papa said he would like to meet you someday. He said I must bring you home sometime.”

  “I’d like that,” I said.

  We had come to a corner. “I’ve got to go to the shop now,” I said. “I promised to help.”

  We parted there, but as I turned away I saw Rad standing across the street, glaring at me. Once, when I looked back, he was still standing there, but Meghan had gone on home.

  Miss Nesselrode was donning her hat when I came in. “I have to go out for a few minutes, Johannes. Will you mind the shop?”

  She left and I gathered up some scattered newspapers and rearranged them, straightened books on the shelves, and had just taken down Pym when the door opened.

  It was Fletcher.

  He was better dressed than he had been in the wagon, and his beard was trimmed carefully now and he had a sense of confidence about him, and seemed less surly.

  “How are you, boy? Long time since we come west together.”

  “Is there something you want?”

  He smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. “Your pa got killed,” he said. “I guess he wasn’t so handy after all.”

  “There were a lot of them!” I said. “There were too many of them.”

  “Maybe…maybe there was.” He grinned at me. “You got a nerve, boy, stayin’ here in town with those about who’d like you dead.”

  My heart began to beat heavily. I was frightened. Yet I tried not to let him know.

  “I been watchin’, boy. Don’t you think I’ve forgotten.” Suddenly he leaned his hands on the desk. “I never liked you, boy, nor your pa either. He thought himself too good.

  “Well, he’s gone, but I got you. I got you right where I want you, and when it’s worth my while, I’ll do something about it.

  “That Nesselrode woman
, now. What’s she up to? I figured she was comin’ west to catch herself a husband, but now I ain’t so sure. Not if what I hear is true.”

  I said nothing, but I was hoping she would not come back, not now. There was a pistol in the desk drawer. I wondered if I could get to it quick enough.

  “I hear she’s been dealin’. Makin’ herself some money. Makes me wonder what she’d pay to keep me quiet about you.”

  “Me?” I tried to speak very casually, carelessly. “Why would she pay for me? I was an orphan and she took me in. Gave me a home.” I looked up at him. “I work for her.”

  Taking up some books, I returned them to the shelves. “You must be crazy,” I said. “She took me in because I didn’t have a home. If you asked her for money, she would just laugh and then she’d probably turn me out. She’d think I was too much trouble.”

  When I returned from the shelves, I walked right to the desk. He was close to me but I was also close to the gun. He was scowling now and I think what I said had made him doubt. “Nobody cares about me.” I tried to sound bitter. “She’s the only one who’s treated me decent.”

  “Maybe.” He took out a cigar and lighted it. “That house, now, the one down in the desert? That belong to your pa?”

  “We stayed in it. That’s all.”

  “I been wonderin’ about that. Comin’ by there a while back, I saw a light in the window. Thought at first it was you, but it wasn’t. I couldn’t get close enough to see, but there was somebody in there, somebody big.” He scowled as if puzzled. “Real big.”

  My heart was pounding now but I tried not to seem interested. “Some of the Indians stay there sometimes when they are in from the desert,” I said.

  Suddenly his manner changed. He smiled in what he probably believed was a friendly manner. “Aw, forget it, kid! I was just funnin’ with you! Matter of fact, I thought your pa was quite a man. Quite a man.”

  He glanced around. “Now, a boy like you, in a place like this, he could make himself a bit of money now and again.”

  He took his cigar from his mouth and leaned closer. “You an’ me, we come over the trail t’gether. We’re friends. If you was to hear some talk, somethin’ about business deals, somethin’ like that, and if you was to tell me…?”

  He knocked the ash from his cigar and put it back in his teeth.

  “More’n that, there’s talk of rebellion. Talk of the Yanks comin’ out here. That there Wilson, he’d know about that. Or Stearns. He’s supposed to be a Mexican citizen, but…You hear anything, boy, you come to me. You tell me what you’ve heard, an’ I’ll pay.”

  He grinned at me from around his cigar; then he winked.

  “Pards, that’s what we are! Pards! You an’ me!”

  “Miss Nesselrode will be coming back in a minute,” I said.

  He went to the door. “All right, I’m goin’, but you remember!”

  He went out and the door closed behind him.

  CHAPTER 25

  Often at night we heard gunshots. Usually they were from Sonora Town, but that did not mean the antagonists were always Mexican or Californio. Just as often, in proportion to their numbers, they were Anglos. Killings were frequent; knifings and cuttings of varying degrees took place almost every day.

  Occasionally groups of vaqueros from one of the nearby ranchos would come galloping down the street to swing down at the nearest cantina and troop inside, spurs jingling and jangling.

  Women did not walk on the streets after sundown unless going to or from a fandango or baile, and then they were usually accompanied by someone of the family. Yet one night, awakening suddenly when it was almost midnight, I heard voices from the outer room.

  Surprised, and a little anxious, I listened. But the voices were those of women. “I have come to you for help. There is no one else.”

  “Of course, Doña Elena. How may I help you?”

  “I do not know of business. Of things with money. My people do not think of money. We…we exchange. One thing for another, you see? You have the shop. The place of the libros, the books.

  “I know nothing, but it has been said that sometimes you do business. I do not know of this. There is a woman with a cantina toward San Pedro. She speaks of you with admiration.”

  “What is it you wish?”

  “I wish to use money. I wish to do business. I wish to be rich from my money.”

  Miss Nesselrode was hesitating, but finally she said, “Always there is risk. If one would make money, one must be prepared to lose, also.”

  “This I understand. It is like gambling, I think. It is like the cards. Sometimes they fall one way, sometimes another. I know nothing of business, but I think you do.”

  “What of your brother?”

  “He knows nothing. He thinks of nothing. He would despise me if he knew. He would not allow it. He borrows money, but has contempt for those who lend. He is hidalgo. He will pay when he wish. Nobody will ask that he pay.”

  “The Yankees will ask. They will insist.”

  “This I hear.”

  Miss Nesselrode was quiet for a few minutes, as if thinking. “Do you have money? Will not your brother know?”

  “I have money, but he does not know. It is from our mother.” Doña Elena looked down at her hands. “My mother knows I have no husband. My father and my brother think no one is good enough, so I have no one, but my mother understands and in secret she has given me money, gold money, and jewels.

  “The woman from the cantina. She says money can work for money. I have thought you could tell me what to do. You see, I could not appear. I am Doña Elena.”

  “Of course. You wish me to help. How?”

  “Make my money work. I will pay.”

  Miss Nesselrode changed the subject. “Your rancho? It is large?”

  “Very large.”

  “Your brother borrows money? Has he borrowed much?”

  “Very much, I think. He needs much money, and the cow skins, they do not bring much. He waves a hand, says all will be different soon, and he borrows.”

  “Do you know who he has borrowed from?”

  “This one and that. A little here, a little there.”

  “This work you want your money to do? Is it that you need money now?”

  “Oh, no! It is for tomorrow, for a long time off.” I saw her lift her eyes to Miss Nesselrode’s. “It is for when I am dead.”

  “If you will risk losing it, I will help.” She paused. “Is there any particular thing you wish?”

  “One thing, first. I wish some to work, to bring more money. I wish some to buy the old debts of my brother.”

  “I see.”

  “He must not know. He must never know. He would be furious. He would destroy me. He would destroy the lender. He would destroy you.”

  Miss Nesselrode smiled. “I do not destroy easily, Doña Elena.”

  “If he knew I had money, he would demand it from me, and I must give it.”

  “He will not know. Can you bring the money here?”

  Doña Elena took up a cloth bag from the floor. “I have it here. I have some.” She placed the bag on the table and reached a hand into it, trickling gold coins to the table. Then from the bag she took a smaller bag, and opening the drawstrings, tilted something to the table that gleamed in the dim light. “I have these, also.”

  “It is quite a lot. You trust me with these?”

  “You are a good woman. I feel this. And you have been good to the niño.”

  If there was more, I did not hear, for I fell asleep and when I awakened again the room was dark and there was no sound but the soft drip of rain from the eaves, the rain for which we all had waited.

  I lay awake thinking of Tía Elena. Women of her class were kept in the background, often knowing nothing of the financial circumstances of their husbands or f
athers, having nothing to do with business.

  What led Aunt Elena to make such a move? I did not know unless she wished some independence, some security. And how had she known of Miss Nesselrode’s knowledge? Or did she know? Did she only come to the one friend she had outside her own circle? The one who would not talk?

  Lying there awake with the rain falling softly, my thoughts returned to the house of Tahquitz, far off in the desert.

  Fletcher had seen the shadow of someone in the house, a very large someone. Of course, it could have been a passerby stopping for the night, as the Indians would not go near the place at night. It might have been the mysterious exchanger of books.

  Suddenly I felt guilty. There had been no new books. I had failed him…or it. Somehow I must arrange for new books to be taken to the house.

  So much time had gone by! Going to school, working at the shop, riding around the country, exploring…The months simply vanished.

  When I opened my eyes again it was morning and I could hear Jacob talking. Dressing quickly, I went out to see him. He was drinking coffee and talking to Miss Nesselrode.

  “It would take some doin’,” he was saying, “but there’s thousands of wild horses in the San Joaquin, and some mighty good stock, too. Nobody’s bothered them for years. With a trap at a water hole, a body could round up a few.”

  “How many men would it take?”

  “Four or five, maybe.”

  She turned to me. “Johannes, would your Indian friends help? I would pay them.”

  “They might. I could talk to them.”

  “Kelso’s in town. I think he’d like a job, and he’s a good hand with stock and he’s steady.”

  “All right. You and Johannes plan it, then. I believe that soon Johannes will have learned about all Fraser can teach him, and an adventure like this would do him good.”

  “How many horses you figurin’ on? A couple of dozen?”

  She smiled. “I was thinking of four or five hundred. Or as many as you can handle with ease.”