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

by Louis L'Amour

  The horses were tired now, and they had found their places in the pecking order of the herd. The old mare still led and the rest trailed out behind, only my black stallion aloof, alone, watchful but accepting, too. He was growing accustomed to the long drives, to the night camps, to the presence of men whom he had come to recognize and not to fear.

  “Will the Mohaves follow us? Or will they go back?”

  Francisco shrugged. “Who knows? They lost men, I think.”

  Of course. There had been much shooting, and all the shots could not have missed, so they might have turned back, no longer sure of their medicine, even though they had probably won.

  At noon I changed horses and took from the herd a sturdy bay with a black mane and tail. He had been ridden but little, and when I hit the saddle he ran forward, stopped suddenly, then, switching ends, spun in a tight circle. I stayed with him, rather enjoying it, and when he quit, I patted him on the neck and said, “Take it easy, boy, it’s going to be a long day.”

  He was a good horse, a tough horse, and he moved well. He was very quick to pick up any horse that started to cut out from the herd.

  We saw an old cow and two lean steers coming down a trail from the green hills. I watched them along a narrow trail, wondering how they could make it at all, yet they did, with no more trouble than so many mountain goats.

  At night we made camp in the open, not liking it very much, but the valley was wide and flat and we were hours from the pass that opened into the hills. From here on we would be climbing slowly. Atop a small rise I studied our back trail and all the country we had left behind. I saw no dust, no sign of movement.

  We had only a rope corral, but when we had eaten I took a tortilla and walked down to the corral and stood near the black stallion. He tossed his head and watched me from the corners of his eyes, but after a bit I moved closer and held out the tortilla to him.

  He showed no interest, so I let my hand fall, waiting. After a bit I edged closer and held it out again. Tentatively he stretched his neck toward me, sniffed, and drew sharply back, shook his head, then reached his neck toward me again, and this time he nibbled cautiously at the tortilla. He got a bit of it, seemed to like it, and reached for more. I let him have it all, then walked away from him and back to the fire.

  It had been three days since we had seen Ramón when he rode in from the darkness.

  “They are behind us, and they need horses.”

  “Mohaves?” Monte asked.

  “The others. The white men. Three were killed, and one Mohave, I think.”

  “They need horses?”

  “Four men, two horses. Two ride, two walk, then they change.”

  It was still dark when we moved out, keeping the horses moving at a good gait until the pass opened before us and the trail grew steeper. It was a narrow place between high, grassy hills dotted with clumps of oak.

  “Further along,” Ramón said, “there is a spring and the burial place of a French trapper, Peter Lebec. There is a carving on a tree which says he was killed by—” he drew an “X” on the ground with his foot to show us the way it had been carved—“a cross bear.”

  Monte chuckled. “You’d be cross too, if a bunch of fur trappers started setting traps around your home!”

  “It is the rancho of José Antonio Aguirre and Ignacio del Valle,” Ramón explained, “but they are not often here. Too many raids by Indians.”

  It was a stiff climb up through the pass, and we let the horses take their time, grazing a little as they moved.

  Taking my hat from my head, I mopped the sweat from my brow and looked back to where the tall V of the canyon opening looked out upon the vast sweep of the San Joaquin Valley. Far away there seemed to be a tiny plume of dust.

  Riders? Or a dancing dust devil?

  Topping out on a small hill, I saw the long line of horses going down the slope before me and around the side of the low hill. Despite the dust on their coats, they were a fine lot of horses. Suddenly, far ahead of us where the pass widened into a valley, I could see a small cloud of dust.

  Riders! Several of them. Turning in the saddle, I said to Ramón, “Stay with us. I think we’re going to have trouble.”

  Pulling out from the drag end of the herd, I rode swiftly along the flank until I came up with Jacob, who was in the lead.

  “Riders coming,” I explained. “Quite a few of them.”

  Jacob turned and motioned to Monte McCalla, who rode up beside us.

  “Trouble,” Jacob said, “or it could be. There are more bandits in this country than bears, and there’s a lot of grizzly.”

  From where we were we could see no dust cloud as I had spotted it from the top of a rise. Jacob dropped back, speaking to Francisco, and they began bunching the horses.

  We walked the horses forward, and my eyes swept the terrain ahead. There was a low hill crowned with a few cedars backed by the steep grass-covered mountainside. To the east of it there was a deep gully cut by runoff water.

  “Jacob?” I pointed.

  “Good idea.” He turned in the saddle and pointed, and Francisco moved up and began to turn the herd. They went into the few acres of grass against the hill, and almost at once Jaime and Martín faded into the cedars. Francisco stepped down from his horse behind a boulder where there was also a fallen, decaying tree trunk with its web of branches. The others found their places, and we waited.

  The riders came on. That they had seen us from afar was obvious, for two of them were standing in their stirrups, searching for us. There were seventeen or eighteen men in the lot, a mixed bunch of Anglos and Mexicans, heavily armed.

  “Bandidos,” Francisco said.

  We waited. Suddenly one of them pointed, and they turned and rode toward us in a wide skirmish line.

  “If there’s trouble,” Jacob said, “the tall one with the red scarf is mine.”

  “I want the two on the paint horses,” Monte said.

  They rode nearer, slowing their pace as they took in the situation.

  “Looking for something?” I asked.

  The man who answered was a thin, wiry man with a pockmarked face. He smiled quickly, his even, very white teeth showing under his black, trimmed mustache. “We are looking for lost horses,” he said, “and we have found them.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “We’ve been lucky, too. We captured some wild horses and broke them. We’re taking them into Los Angeles.”

  “It seems there is a difference of opinion,” he said.

  One of the Indians up in the cedars cocked his rifle. The sound was sharp and clear, and I saw several of the men turn their heads in surprise. From where they sat their horses they could have seen no more than four of us. Now they knew there were more, but how many more?

  My heart was beating slowly, heavily. Sweat trickled down the side of my cheek, yet I did not feel nervous. I was curiously relaxed, ready.

  “It is a lovely day,” I said mildly. “The way is clear for you to ride on.”

  “Give us the horses,” the pockmarked one said, “and you will not die.”

  “We watched you coming,” I said, smiling at him, “and we have a bet among us. Selmo,” I said, “is almost behind you now. He was betting we could kill twelve with the first firing. I am more modest. I believe nine or ten only. The rest we will have to get later.”

  “Ten,” Monte said. “I figure we can get ten, settin’ out in the open like that, and our boys under cover.”

  “We got you outnumbered,” the pockmarked man protested.

  “Have you, now?” I said. “You’re a guessing man. If you were a gambling man, I’d lay you three to one you’re wrong, but I’d never collect, because three of the rifles are on you. Right on you, and that’s too bad, because I wanted you for myself.”

  He shifted his eyes to right and left. I saw him l
ook at Monte, then look quickly again. Obviously he recognized him.

  My rifle was in my hands, directed toward them but at no one in particular.

  “You know,” I said, “it’s strange what a moment can do. Right now you’ve got it all on the table. You can turn your horses and ride quietly down the trail and live for years. There are a lot of women, a lot of wine and whiskey down that road, and if you stay here, there’s only a mouthful of blood, teeth, and the dirt you’ll bite into while dying.”

  “You talk too damn much!” he said, but I could just feel him trying for a way out.

  “I want to live,” I said simply, “and if you don’t turn down that road, a lot of you will die. Most of my men will live, because you can’t even see them.”

  Suddenly I smiled. “Now, why don’t you save my life?”

  “Save your life?”

  “Sure. I’m right out in front, like you. We’re going to catch it, sure as hell, so why don’t you save my life by riding right off down that trail?”

  He stared at me for a moment; then he lifted a hand. “Adiós!” he said, and rode away, his men following.

  We sat there, our guns ready, and watched them go. As they reached the trail, some of them looked back, and I lifted a hand. Their leader lifted a hand in return.

  “Now, what the hell?” Monte spat into the dust. “I thought we’d bought ourselves a scrap.”

  “A man can always fight,” I said, “but sometimes there are other ways.”

  “We were outnumbered,” Jacob commented.

  “He didn’t know that, and all he had to show was right on the table. We could see what he was holding, but he didn’t know what we had. Also, our men were on the ground, which gives us the advantage over men on moving horses.”

  We moved them out and headed off down the trail. As we moved on, that day and the next, the country became increasingly broken. Ridges, hills, jagged rocks, which I indicated to Jacob. “Earthquake country?” I asked.

  “It happens here,” he admitted.

  Ramón heard our conversation and said, “It is often the ground shakes, but soon a big one. Maybe this year, maybe next. The Old Men are agreed, the next one will be bad.”

  “That one,” Monte said suddenly, “the one with the pockmarks? I remember him now. He rides with Boston Daimwood, a very bad one, and he himself is bad. His name is Steffens, Turkey Bob Steffens.”

  The name meant nothing to me, although I had heard of Boston Daimwood.

  Yet now I wished to be finished with the drive. I wished to be in Los Angeles again, and to see Meghan.

  Other trails fed into the one we now traveled, and from time to time we saw other travelers, some headed toward Los Angeles, some riding away.

  All day I rode abreast or right behind the black stallion, and from time to time I talked to him, letting him grow accustomed to my presence and my voice.

  “Wait until you try to ride him,” Monte said. “He’ll kill you if he can. He’s just bidin’ his time.”

  Of that I was not so sure, but Monte had more experience with wild horses than I, and caution was advisable. Thus far I had made no effort to approach him beyond offering him bits of food from time to time. These he only occasionally accepted, and once when I seemed to get too close, he started to rear, as though to strike with his forefeet. Casually I walked on past, ignoring him.

  We drove our horses to some brush-and-pole corrals west of Cahuenga Pass. Monte and the Indians agreed to stay with them while Jacob and I rode into town.

  Months had passed, and I noticed Jacob looking at me. “You’ve taken on some beef,” he commented. “Miss Nesselrode will hardly know you.”

  Francisco strolled over and squatted on his heels. “We go home soon,” he said.

  “You’ve got money coming,” Jacob said. “Better stick around until we talk to the boss.”

  “We want cattle,” Francisco said.

  Along with the horses, we’d rounded up a few head, but they deserved more.

  “You’ll get them,” I said.

  Jacob came up, leading my horse. Mounting, I lifted a hand to them and we rode away. Smoke lifted from the town. I stood in my stirrups, looking to see farther.

  “You can’t see her from here,” Jacob said.

  Embarrassed, I glanced at him. “Just wanted to see the town,” I said. “We’ve been gone a long time.”

  “It’s still there. Don Isidro is still there, too, so ride easy.” He glanced at me. “Monte says you’re pretty good with that gun.”

  “We didn’t work much,” I said.

  “The way he talks, you didn’t need it. Your pa teach you?”

  “Some.”

  “Watch yourself, anyway. Last year Los Angeles averaged a killing a day. I don’t want one of them to be you.”

  “Or you,” I said, grinning at him.

  CHAPTER 36

  Miss Nesselrode looked up when I came through the door, then sat back in her chair, her eyes on me. “Johannes! It has been almost a year.”

  She stood up and extended her hand. There was gray in her hair that I had not seen before. I felt a sharp twist of pain, for somehow she had seemed ageless, and she was my family, she was all I had.

  “Come and sit down. I want to hear all about it.”

  “I’ve just come from the corrals,” I protested.

  “Don’t be foolish. Sit down.”

  Curiously, I was shy. “We’ve some fine horses. They are beautiful, wild and wonderful, and I’ve loved every minute of it.”

  “Even the hard work?”

  “Why not? The work is part of it. I suppose a woman wouldn’t think of it that way, but I like the smell of my own sweat, the dust, riding the rough stock. I am afraid I am a man of the hills, after all.”

  “We must talk of that.” She was a beautiful woman, I thought, and wished my father might have lived to know her better. “Have you decided what you wish to do? It is time, I think.”

  “No, not exactly.” Changing the subject I asked, “Have you seen Aunt Elena?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I have seen her several times. She loves you very much, Johannes.”

  “How could she? She does not know me.”

  “You are your mother’s son, and despite Don Isidro, she always admired your father. She has told me how romantic he was, how exciting a man. I believe she was half in love with him herself, without knowing it.”

  She paused. “Anyway, Johannes, she is a lonely woman and you are all she has.” Hesitating again, she said, “I gather she had much sadness long ago. Something about a relative. Would you know anything of that?”

  “I know very little about her. I remember my mother talking of Tía Elena, but she was only a name to me.”

  “You must be careful, Johannes. Don Isidro is still here, rarely in the town, but on his ranch. All the men he used to have with him left him. Now he has a new lot—a very bad lot, if all we hear is true.”

  We talked long and I told her of Ramón, of the Tehachapis, and of the desert. She listened, as always intent upon any information she could obtain. Finally she stood up.

  “You must get some sleep, and tomorrow you must see a tailor. You will need clothes, and you have outgrown everything you had.”

  She measured me with her eyes. “You’ve grown a lot, and you’re a bigger man than your father.”

  Picking up my hat, I had taken a step toward my room when she said, “Johannes, I have been dealing with a man named Captain Laurel. He has a ship that often comes to Wilmington and San Pedro.”

  Starting to speak, I stopped abruptly. Then, more carefully, trying to seem casual, I said, “Oh? I have heard of him, I believe.”

  Her amusement showed. “Yes, I believe you have. I believe you went to school with Meghan. She’s a beautiful girl, Johannes, and ve
ry interested in you.”

  “In me?”

  “We’ve been riding together several times, in fact. She is very curious about you, Johannes.”

  “It’s been a long time. We sat beside each other in school for months and months. Sometimes she was away on voyages with her father.”

  “And you had a fight over her.”

  I blushed. “Well…maybe. I can’t say it was over her, although it was because of her. I mean, there would probably have been trouble between us anyway. Rad seemed to be hunting trouble.”

  “He still is, Johannes, so be careful. He killed a man in Sonora Town a few weeks ago, and he’s been in two or three other shootings, and some rather ugly brawls.”

  I wanted nothing to do with him, and after I had gone to bed I thought of him and of Meghan. She was a young woman now. Many at her age were already married.

  Was she married? Miss Nesselrode had said nothing of that. I sat up suddenly. She couldn’t be! Miss Nesselrode would have told me! Yet, would she? Why should she?

  I started to get out of bed to go ask, and then realized how foolish that would be. Besides, Miss Nesselrode would be asleep.

  Kelso was at the table when I came out in the morning. The hot bath I’d had made me feel better. He looked up from his coffee as I came in.

  “Well, now! You’ve grown some!”

  We talked about the horses, laying plans to break them more thoroughly, and I told him about the black stallion.

  “Heard about him. That’s a mean horse, boy.”

  He paused, and then he said, “Be careful around town. This has been a quiet week, and four men were killed. Since you’ve been gone, we hung twenty-two murderers or thieves, some were hung legal, some were just hung because they needed it.

  “Down there in Sonora Town they’ll kill you for no reason at all, and believe me, it ain’t just the Mexicans. There’s fifty or sixty of the meanest Anglo outlaws you’re liable to find who hang out down there, Boston Daimwood for one.”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “You’ll hear more. Vásquez is runnin’ around the country, too. The law can’t seem to catch up with him.”