Why did he impress his hand upon the clay? Did he hope to send across the centuries a thought? A dream, perhaps? Or just to say that “I, too, was here. This was my place. This I built with my hands.”
I knew the image of that hand would be with me forever, for we who pass do not own this land, we but use it, we hold it briefly in trust for those yet to come. We must not reap without seeding, we must not take from the earth without replacing.
My father told me of a Navajo once who found an arrowhead on the sand and took it up, but then he took from his pocket a small buckskin sack and from it a pinch of dust to replace what he had taken.
Jacob Finney rode into the yard with Monte McCalla, and they swung down, leading their horses around to the corral. I followed, and suddenly Monte stopped, holding up a hand.
There, in the dust, was a footprint, the print of a gigantic moccasin!
“Lord a’mighty!” Jacob said in an awed whisper. “Look at the size!”
“Make two of mine,” Monte said, placing his boot beside it. “Hell, it would make three of mine!”
I looked, then looked away. That footprint, I told myself, was no accident. Like the hand in the clay, it was a signature. It was a hint, a warning, the opening of a story.
Never before had there been a footprint, never before an indication, only the missing books.
This was a statement. This was saying to me, “This manner of man am I. If you would go no further, you may leave the trail here.”
Within me there was a pang, a sharp pain of sympathy. Where would such a one find a companion? Who could bridge the awe of size to share a meeting with this man, this being, this creature? Could I?
How lonely he must be! How cut off by strangeness, by difference!
Yes, I thought, the footprint had been deliberately left.
Yet I, in my own way, had been a stranger, had been cut off from others of my age by the circumstances of my parents. Wherever I had gone, people had thought me strange, except in the desert, except, so far as I knew, the Indians.
Yet no doubt the Indians thought all white men strange, for our ways were different from theirs and each people is apt to consider their own ways as “human nature,” not realizing they were merely a pattern imposed upon them by rearing, by education, by the behavior of those with whom they associated.
“Got a nice place here,” Monte commented thoughtfully. “Somebody taken a deal of trouble. Clean, too.”
Monte glanced over at Jacob. “You know these Indians?”
Jacob indicated me. “He knows ’em. He takes over where Indians are concerned. They know him, and his pa was a big man among them. You’ll see.”
As dusk came, we lighted the lamps, and I took the other books from the sack and arranged them on the shelf. I removed some of those that had long been there, planning to take them to the book shop for those who might not have read them. Reading material was too highly valued and scarce not to be shared.
“Your pa was killed?” Monte asked.
“Right out in front,” I said. “He got one of them, might have taken more, but he took time to shove me out of the way. He was a good man with a gun.”
“Zachary Verne? I’ve heard of him.” Monte glanced at me. “How about you? With enemies like you’ve got, you should learn to use guns.”
“I do all right.”
“Maybe I can help. You should be one of the best. Then you don’t have to worry.”
“All right.”
They spread their beds on the floor near the fireplace and I went into my old bedroom and closed the door. When I was in bed I looked up at the ceiling, which was lost in darkness, and remembered Meghan.
When we had rounded up the horses, we would go back, and maybe then I would see her, and would meet her father.
In the night, the wind came up, blowing softly in from the desert to the east, that strange, empty desert where the old trails were and where the sea had once been. Soon I would be out there, far out on the sands, wandering.
And in the night, when the winds whispered around the eaves, I lay awake in the house of Tahquitz and wondered where he was, and how he fared.
Where was Francisco, who had drawn the smiling face? And when we met again, would that face still smile?
Would he still be my friend? We were older now, and it had been long since we talked.
By Indian standards he would now be a man, but was I not a man also?
The swift-paced years had gone by and left no footprints on the sand that had not blown away. I could only hope there would be some traces, some memory in his mind.
Tomorrow, I hoped, I would see Francisco.
My eyes opened suddenly from near-sleep. What of the old man with the turquoise? Would I see him also? Or was he only a ghost figure in my imagination?
Why had he come to me that one time? If I had stayed, would he have spoken?
Would he come again?
CHAPTER 30
My father had prepared me for marvels. He was a cool, logical man, but life upon the sea and the desert had left him with the realization that man thus far has but scratched the surface of knowledge and of his possibilities.
“Keep an open mind,” he told me, “for no man can say what can or cannot be, nor can he say what does or does not exist.
“Landlubbers make much of what Columbus did, but many longer voyages had been made under more difficult circumstances. Landlubbers might believe the world was flat; any seaman knew otherwise, for he had seen ships disappear over the curvature of the earth.
“Landlubbers would have you believe that ancient seafarers hugged the coast, when any fool knows that is by far the most dangerous place. For thousands of years men have known the stars and how to travel using them as guides. The open sea had no dangers that compared with the reefs, offshore or onshore winds, baffling currents or floating objects, which were much more common close to shore.
“The farmer, the hunter, or the deep-sea fisherman always had his eyes upon the heavens. He lived with their vagaries as much as with the trails he followed or the furrows he plowed. He could read the weather in the clouds, locate distant islands or lagoons by their appearance. He knew the flight of birds and which lived upon land and which upon the sea. Long before there was a compass, he understood how to locate the sun on an overcast day. He who sits at a desk and tries to understand by logic often loses touch with the realities.
“Remember this, my son: our world is one where the impossible occurs every day, and what we often call supernatural is simply the misunderstood.
“When you go into the wilderness or out upon the sea, keep your mind open. Much can be learned from books, but much remains about which no book has been written. Remember this: the poor peasant, the hunter, or the fisherman may have knowledge that scholars are struggling to learn.”
All this was in my mind when I pulled on my boots that morning. Jacob was already stirring about, and Monte had been outside.
He came back in while Jacob was frying some ham. “That track,” he said. “I found where he put his other foot down.”
“Another track?” Jacob inquired.
“Not exactly. He stepped on a rock in a place where the ground was soft. Pressed it deep. I took it up and could see it was freshly done. Judging by the stride, that thing must be seven or eight feet tall!”
“Jumped, maybe?”
“Ain’t likely,” Monte replied. “That rock would have been tipped a mite when he landed. No, that man or whatever it is is big. I checked that track again. It must weigh twice what I do. Maybe more.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Whoever or whatever it is hasn’t bothered us. Let’s return the compliment.”
Monte started to speak, but Jacob interrupted. “I’d say that’s good advice. Let’s just forget it, shall we?” He glanced around
at Monte. “And don’t ask any questions or even mention it.”
Monte shrugged. “Hell, what difference does it make? I’ve already forgotten it.”
We switched over to talking about wild horses and how they could be trapped, how canny they were, and the necessity for picking out the good ones.
“If they’re too old,” Monte said, “even if they’re in fine shape, we’d be fools to bother. The old ones are tough to break. Some of them will die before they’ll give in.”
“There may be some horses that have escaped from ranches,” Jacob suggested, “and that will almost surely be true of any mules we find.”
“There are wild, unbranded cattle out there, too,” I said. “My father told me that some of the cattle he rounded up for the Indians had been running wild.”
“How are we going to find those Injuns?” Monte asked.
“We won’t,” I said. “They will find us.”
“You mean we just sit and wait?” Monte asked.
“Let them choose the time,” I said. “They have their own ideas about things. And don’t judge these Indians by others you’ve known. They’re different.
“They’re changing, and some of the old ways are being forgotten, and some of the wise old men have not passed on their knowledge, partly because they found no one worthy of it.”
“What’s it mean? Their name?”
“Cahuilla? It’s an open question. Some say it means ‘power’ or the ‘people of power’ or ‘the power way,’ and by that they do not mean physical strength, but wisdom and something more, the power from the mind.”
Monte shrugged. “Maybe. I never knew any Injuns who were much on the mind. Smart…yes. Mighty smart when it comes to that. Of course, it depends on what you mean by mind.”
“You just may not have known them well enough,” I commented. “My father used to say that just about the time you decided you knew all about Indians, you would discover you’d only begun to learn, and then after you’d learned an awful lot more, you would realize you really did not know anything yet.”
“Maybe…maybe.”
Jacob was like the Californios in that he preferred to work with a rawhide riata, so he was busy plaiting the rawhide. He was a skillful man who worked fast. All of us had much to do to be ready for the wild-horse hunt. We must wait for the Indians to appear, but I had no doubt they knew of our presence and Francisco or one of the others would meet us “accidentally” at the store.
Yet there was something in me that I did not quite understand. Mentally I was more content than I had been at any time since leaving the desert, yet at the same time restless to be out there in the really wild country. Was there an affinity between myself and the desert? Was it true, as some believed, that men had lived other lives? And that one of mine had been lived in the desert? Or—and the thought left me uneasy—had I left something there that now I must find?
Of these thoughts I said nothing to my companions. Yet Jacob was puzzling to me. He seemed a simple man, yet on occasion he brought forth ideas that were far from simple. I knew that many men of the wilderness have much time to think, and their thoughts may wander down strange byways. My own father was an example.
More and more I was wondering about him, and why he had done certain things, why he had often spoken to me as he had, suggesting ideas rarely shared with someone so young as I.
Still, he had known, at the end at least, that his time was short. He had no doubt been trying to pass on as much of what he had learned as possible.
No individual completely acquires the experience of another, but if even a small part may be carried over to the next generation, much time can be saved. In technical ways, methods of working and such, knowledge has been passed on, but too few have learned from experience. I remembered my father once saying that perhaps in the future some device might be constructed into which all historical knowledge could be fed, particularly all knowledge of government, of diplomacy, of statecraft, and then this device might tell us what mistakes have been continually made and what situations to avoid.
Men have passed on the knowledge of how to mix cement, lay brick, splice a line, navigate a ship, make steel, and dozens of other crafts, yet in politics, statecraft, and social relationships we continue to repeat old mistakes.
Wandering outside, I gazed up at the looming mountains, at the distant haunts of Tahquitz. Up there, somewhere, was Tahquitz. Both the fabled creature of whom the Cahuilla spoke and the creature who sometimes inhabited this house where now we lived. When the person or creature or whatever it was wished to be known, he or it would make itself known. Until then its privacy would be respected.
Seven feet tall? It seemed impossible. Yet I myself was almost six feet now, and still growing. Who could say? I had never seen a man so large, although occasionally stories were heard of huge men.
Walking around to where the track was, I studied it with care. I must remember, for sometime it might be important. Then with my boot I brushed out the track. I could not escape the feeling that it had been deliberately left, for there had been no others. Only that one, as if it were a hint, a warning, or even a signature.
Our waiting was not in idleness. Jacob taught me how to plait a rope, and Monte already knew, although he favored a hair rope, as many from Texas did. We would need a number of them, for some would surely be broken, no matter how well done. Listening to Jacob and Monte talk, I learned much about wild horses and their capture.
That night when Monte returned from the store he said, “We got company. Neighbors, I mean.”
We looked at him, waiting. “Paulino Weaver, he’s moved in over yonder. Been here for some time.”
“Mountain man,” Jacob said. “I mind meeting him some while back. He’s a good man.”
“A man named Sexton with him. They’ve made friends with old Juan Antonio. They’re trading, cutting timber and what-all.” Monte looked around at me. “Paulino knew your pa back when your pa was on the dodge from the old don.”
They were good men, yet in a mild way I resented them. I was jealous of my Indians, jealous of my canyons and desert, yet even as I thought that, I was amused by it. People would come, and my desert would not remain empty, yet that thought made me irritable, and I got up and went outside. The stars were out, and the wind off the mountain was cool.
If more men came, crowding the desert, what would happen to the Lonesome Gods? Where would the spirits of the ancient ones go? Would they fade into the old trees? Into the rocks? Or, being worshiped no longer, would they fade gradually away?
When I went back inside, I said, “It’s bound to be, I suppose, but I don’t like the country getting crowded up. It seems to me we’re losing something.”
Jacob nodded. “I know how you feel. I’m gettin’ so if I see another rider on the trail, I’m jealous, but we can’t be that way. It’s here for all of us.”
“There’s something out there, Jacob. Something I’ve got to find before it is too late. There’s something out there for me.”
He said nothing for a while, and then he said, “Your pa and ma found something for them. They were on the run, but no matter. Your pa told me. They found happiness out there, happiness with each other. Maybe they didn’t have it long, but they had it good. Don’t you ever forget that.”
Thinking of them led me to think of Meghan. Where was she now? Did she ever think of me? I smiled into the darkness beyond the door, thinking how foolish that was. Why should she think of me? I was just a boy who had sat close to her in school, a boy too shy to talk, too awed by her presence to do anything but grow red and embarrassed if she so much as looked at me, which she rarely did.
How did my father meet my mother? Had he been shy, too? I doubted it. He seemed the essence of confidence, of assurance. Months had gone by with Meghan, and I had said nothing, yet…there had been communication of a sort. We read
better than others in the class, and Thomas Fraser had often had us read aloud, first one, and then the other. It was not much, I realized.
* * *
Restless because Francisco had not appeared, I saddled my horse the next morning and rode down to the store. As I walked up the steps, a man came from the store. It was Fletcher.
His smile was not pleasant, and there was a kind of a taunting in his expression that irritated me. “Been keepin’ an eye out for you,” he said, “wonderin’ when you’d head for the desert.”
“Does it concern you?”
His smile was there, but the amusement was gone from it. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe it does. Your pa, now, he spent a lot of time in the desert. Him and those Injun friends of his. I been wonderin’ why, and there’s some who figured that was where he got his money.”
“Money?” I was puzzled. “What money?”
“Him an’ your ma. They lived it up back east there, an’ your pa had money to pay your way west. Now, you take what your pa paid for you an’ him on the wagon. That’s a good year’s income for many a well-off man these days.
“Where’d your pa come by that kind of money? I figure he had it when he went east. I figure he got it out of that desert.”
I simply stared at him. My father had had a difficult time during those years back east, barely having enough to keep us alive at times. There were periods when he had, briefly, done quite well, and then at the end the windfall from the races the horses had won, and the generosity of his employer.
“You are mistaken, sir,” I said. “My father had nothing when he went east beyond a little he had saved from cattle sales and furs.”
Fletcher took a cigar from his pocket and bit off the end. “Maybe, an’ maybe not. Why’d he stop here instead of ridin’ right into Los Angeles with the rest of us?” He waved a hand. “Why stop in this godforsaken spot? I say he had reason. I say he’d found gold, or those Injuns showed him where it was.
The Lonesome Gods (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 21
