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

by Louis L'Amour

  One of the horses shied suddenly, and they all turned to look.

  Meghan took the opportunity to get to her feet, cup in her left hand. She glanced at Tomás, nodding slightly. Her right hand slipped into her pocket, through the slit, grasping the small pistol.

  The boy, at some signal from Tomás, was on his feet also. He was watching Iglesias, waiting.

  Now they all heard it, something stirring out there. They heard a footfall, then another, then silence.

  “Who is there?” Biscal challenged.

  A slight breeze stirred the leaves. There was no other sound. Meghan had shifted her attention to the third man, who was not listening. He was looking at her. “Now,” he said, “you come to me, little one, and if you beg a little, I may not hurt you so much!”

  “Don’t be a fool!” she said sharply.

  Iglesias threw his coffee to the ground. “Now! Now it will be!” he said. “I, first, then…”

  CHAPTER 53

  For a moment after the soft rap on the door, Miss Nesselrode sat very still. It was late, scarcely the hour for visitors, and since the appearance of Alexis Murchison she had been careful about opening the door to anyone. Rising, she crossed the room to the door, listened for a moment, and when the rap came again, she asked, “Who is there?”

  “It’s me, ma’am. Kelso.”

  She opened the door and he stepped in quickly, removing his hat as he closed the door behind him. “Sorry to come around so late, ma’am, but I saw your light and figured you’d want to know.”

  “Is it about Meghan Laurel? Or Johannes?”

  “No, ma’am. A long time ago you asked me to sort of look into what happened to that Spanish boy who arrived on the ship with Tía Elena.”

  “Oh, yes. I had forgotten.”

  “Found something kinda peculiar. That woman we heard about? The one who took the boy and rode off with him in the night? She was Felipe’s sister.”

  “Felipe?”

  “That vaquero who sort of fell off a cliff out on Don Isidro’s ranch?”

  She remembered now: she had been interested, although just why, she did not recall. So much was happening, with Johannes disappearing into the desert, and Meghan going after him.

  “She loved that boy like he was her own. Taken him away, cared for him.” Kelso took out his pipe. “Mind if I smoke, ma’am? This here’s quite a story.”

  It was late, and she was impatient for news of Johannes and Meghan. Jacob Finney had gone back to the wild country looking for them. Now, however, she was tired, and she needed the rest. Nonetheless, Kelso was a good man, a sincere, hardworking man, and she would hear him out.

  “Will you have some coffee? It’s hot, but not very fresh, I’m afraid.”

  “Been drinkin’ that kind of coffee since I was a youngster.” He struck a match on the hearth and lighted his pipe. “That boy’s name was Alfredo. That woman was paid to take him away, and she done it. Only thing was, she was a childless woman and she came to love that lad. She took him into the mountains down near Pala…Injun country. She wanted to keep him away from folks, keep him to herself.

  “Then she picked up with a man. Taken to livin’ with him from time to time. He was an Anglo, quiet sort of feller, prospectin’, trappin’, tradin’ a mite…that sort of thing. He took to the boy, too. Used to take him picture books he found—some of them had been left behind at one of the missions when the padres left.”

  Miss Nesselrode refilled his cup. She half-started to rise. Kelso must think this was important or he would not have come around at this hour, so she sat back down, trying not to show her impatience.

  “Old books, they were. Had to do with building over in Rome an’ Greece, things like that. Pictures from Spain, too, pictures of an old mosque in Córdoba and such.

  “That boy, he growed up with those books. There weren’t many white folks around where he was, and not many of the Injuns could read. I reckon it was a lonely life, especially after she died.”

  “Died?”

  “Yes, ma’am, an’ when she died, that boy disappeared. Of course, he wasn’t just a kid. He was somewhere in his teens, I reckon, might have been older.

  “Folks thought him odd, those few who met him, and he went somewhere off by himself.”

  “That’s too bad, Mr. Kelso, but I fail to see—”

  “That man? The one who lived with the Spanish woman? He kept in touch with the boy. He was the only one knew where he lived, although he told nobody, nobody at all.”

  She was very tired. She arose and began putting things away, hoping Kelso would leave. He held his cup, staring into the fire; then he looked up suddenly.

  “Ma’am? That feller? The one who lived for a time with that Spanish woman? He was kind of a loner. Made mighty few friends, although a lot of his kind knew him by name, drifters, prospectors, and the like. But there was one man he considered a friend.”

  “Mr. Kelso, it is very late, and I—”

  He got to his feet. “Sorry, ma’am, but I figured you should know. The one friend that man claimed was Zachary Verne.”

  For a moment she just stood there, but curiosity overcame her weariness. “Sit down, Mr. Kelso. Please have some more coffee.”

  “Like I say, that man was a loner. Had some good qualities, though, and the best one was loyalty. He never forgot a friend or a favor, so when he heard Zack was coming back to California, he met him down in the desert. Met him at that place where the hot spring is and all them palm trees? You were there, I think maybe you might have seen this man. He came to meet Zachary Verne and to get him off the stage. His name was Peter Burkin.”

  Of course she remembered! He had seemed a rough-hewn sort of man—friendly and honest had been her impression.

  “If you will recall, he came to warn Verne that if he went on into Los Angeles he’d be killed. Nobody would think too much of it, as folks were gettin’ killed all the time, and Verne would only be remembered by a few.

  “Burkin warned Verne, then took him to a place he knew, and that was where Verne and the boy lived until Verne was killed, and the boy lived there for some time after, until you sent for him.”

  Long after Mr. Kelso had gone, she lay awake thinking. Alfredo…that had been the boy’s name, and he had come over on the same ship with Elena. Don Federico, only a boy then himself, had supposedly tried to kill Alfredo.

  Why had Alfredo been suddenly spirited away and hidden for all those years? And where was he now? If he was still alive?

  Peter Burkin would know, and somehow she must find Peter and talk to him. Yet, what business was it of hers? That Burkin had also known Zachary Verne was pure coincidence, no doubt, but the woman who cared for Alfredo had been a sister to the mysteriously murdered Felipe. She supposed it all tied together somehow, and she was still thinking about it when she fell asleep.

  When morning came, she awakened disturbed by Kelso’s information, yet uncertain as to why it should bother her. Of course, anything that even remotely concerned Johannes was of interest. He was the only “family” she possessed, and from the beginning he had been the son she had always wanted.

  Los Angeles had changed, and she had seen and was seeing it change. In the passing of years it had grown from scarcely two thousand to a busy city of almost sixteen thousand people. From the beginning she had gone out to the limits of the town and bought land; now much of that land had increased several times in value.

  Down at the end of Spring Street there was an amusement park, the Washington Gardens, a place of about thirty-five acres of fruit trees and vineyards where a few wild animals were kept, and there was a place for dancing and a bandstand. Further along there was the Agricultural Park and its racetrack.

  Houses were beginning to appear on the hills back of the town. There were three principal streets. Main was the busiest, followed by Spring
and San Pedro, the latter a dusty thoroughfare with many orange groves. One of these was Wolfskill’s orchard of well over one hundred acres.

  Every day now there was change, and every day she found herself looking to the hills. The air was clear and beautiful, the town a place of gardens and vineyards.

  Elena! Try as she would, she could not keep her thoughts from returning to Johannes. She must see Elena. Who was Alfredo? What did she know of Peter Burkin?

  She walked to the door, glanced at the street, then turned and walked back behind the railing that separated her desk from the reading room.

  Where was Johannes? And Meghan?

  There had been no word. Jacob Finney had ridden away with Monte McCalla, Owen Hardin, and two other men. They were heavily armed and had packhorses, ready for a prolonged stay.

  She must get word to Elena. She must do that now, at once.

  Johannes, if he was alive, would try to reach his Indian friends, but his enemies would know that and be prepared for it. Yet she could do nothing. Unless…

  Maybe, even at this late date, she could stop it.

  Don Isidro, who rarely came to town these days, had come in that day. She would go to see him. Hesitating only an instant as she reviewed the situation, she sent her girl for Kelso, who would be sleeping in the small cabin on the back of the place. Both Finney and Kelso had become minor partners in her ventures while still on salary. Finney had been prepared for it; Kelso was more reluctant.

  “The town is growing, Mr. Kelso,” she had said impatiently. “We must grow with it. The Californios are doing it. You must also.”

  “I’ve no head for business,” he grumbled.

  She had smiled at him. “But I have, Mr. Kelso. Leave it to me.”

  He followed the maid back into the house, shrugging into his coat, for the night was cool. She noticed he was wearing a gun.

  “We’re going to see Don Isidro,” she said. “I am going to end this, once and for all.”

  “He won’t listen, ma’am.”

  “He’ll listen. Doña Elena is there, too. Together we shall make him listen.”

  Only a few lights showed, but there were several horses in the corrals, and from the men’s quarters there was loud talk and laughter. Kelso stared that way, then said, “That’s a bad lot, ma’am. You sure you want to go through with this? They tell me the old man’s gotten meaner with years.”

  “They are drinking. They will not even know we are here, and we shall not be. Not for long.”

  Reluctantly he walked up to the door and knocked. There was a long silence, and he was lifting his hand to knock again when a hard-featured woman opened the door.

  “Sí? What is it?”

  “We wish to see Don Isidro.”

  “He wishes to see nobody. Especially he wishes to see no gringos.”

  Miss Nesselrode’s tone was sharp. “Then we will see Doña Elena. We will see her now!”

  The woman hesitated a moment; then, turning, she walked away from them and they followed. She passed through an arch, there was muttered talk, and then Doña Elena appeared.

  She came to them. “My good friend! You come here? It is dangerous! What is it you wish?”

  “To speak to Don Isidro. Don Federico has followed Johannes into the desert. We hear he is watching all the water holes to kill him when he appears. I want it stopped, and I want it stopped now.”

  “He will not listen, señora. It is dangerous here. You must go.”

  “I must see him.”

  She hesitated. “Please? Come this way.”

  He was slumped in a great hide chair, a cigar in his fingers, and he looked up, then straightened when he recognized Miss Nesselrode.

  “What is this woman doing here?” he demanded harshly. “Get her out of here! How dare you permit her to come into my house!”

  “Don Federico is in the desert. He is pursuing your grandson and is trying to kill him. I want it stopped.”

  “You want it stopped? And who are you? Get out of here!”

  “I wish her to stay, and I wish you to listen.”

  Don Isidro turned sharply as Elena spoke. For a moment he was speechless; then he said, “You wish? Who are you to wish anything? Go to your room!”

  “No, my brother, I shall stay. If anyone leaves, it shall be you.”

  He stared, the veins in his forehead swelled, and his face turned white. “Elena!” he shouted. “You…!” Words failed him.

  In the moment of silence as he struggled for words, she spoke quietly but firmly. “No, my brother, you will not order me from this room, which is mine, nor this house, which is also mine.”

  Don Isidro struggled to rise, then fell back. “Woman!” he shouted. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner? Your house?”

  “My house,” Elena replied firmly. “You ignored the taxes, I paid them. You ignored the loans that came due, I bought them up. This house is my house. The ranch is my ranch. You may live on here if you behave yourself.”

  He started to his feet and reached for his cane. He grasped it and started as if to strike her, and then her words seemed to have reached him for the first time.

  “What have you done? Where would you get such money?”

  Doña Elena seemed no longer frail. “I had money from our mother,” she replied quietly, “and I have invested it. All the while you sat about, eaten by hatred and pride, I was doing as many Californios were doing. This land is mine, this house is mine.

  “You will send a rider to Don Federico. You will tell him to return. You will tell him he is not to harm Johannes Verne.”

  “I will kill you!” He stared at her, his features twisted from the violence of his emotions.

  She smiled. At that moment, Miss Nesselrode thought, Doña Elena was magnificent. “If you do”—her voice was clear—“Johannes Verne will inherit. Then you will be living in his house! Eating his food! I have left it all to him. My will has been filed in the manner of this country. My lawyer has been instructed.”

  “You cannot do this,” Don Isidro muttered. “It is a trick! You are insane! I shall tell them you are insane.”

  “And will they believe you or me?”

  There was a stir in the doorway behind them. The woman stood there, and beside her were three men. Two of them held guns.

  Miss Nesselrode started to speak, then stopped. “Ma’am,” Kelso spoke quietly, “I told you we should not have come. You surely meant well, but…”

  Don Isidro sat down again, his cane across his knees. He took up his cigar, brushed away the ash, and held it to the candle. He puffed, then puffed again. The hand that held the cigar trembled.

  “So now,” he said, “all is not the same. If what you say, my sister, is true, and if you own this place and Johannes Verne is your heir, then who is his heir?

  “Does he have a son?” The old man smiled. “So I shall win, after all.

  “Don Federico will kill Johannes. You will be killed, and I shall inherit it all!”

  He waved a hand at the men and the woman in the doorway. “And these I shall pay, richly, as they deserve.”

  He looked up at Elena. “You see, my sister, I shall win it all. I shall go to them, these people who sit in their offices, and I shall be greatly worried. I shall tell them you two have ridden into the desert after Johannes, and they will believe me.

  “Especially after your bodies are found. They will have no doubts. They will say, ‘Oh, those foolish ones! Why did they go?’

  “And I shall smile, and be content, at last.”

  CHAPTER 54

  Into the night, into the desert, back to the long days when the heat drained the strength from my body, back into the silences, alone.

  They would be coming after me when dawn broke; until then they could find no trail, although a sound might bring them.r />
  Pausing, I could hear the sound of running horses, then silence as they, too, listened. If they found me, I would die within minutes, and I did not wish to die. In Los Angeles was Meghan.

  Stepping carefully to a flat ledge of rock, I walked along, careful not to kick a pebble that might alert them.

  By now they knew I was without a horse and that I had lost my rifle, with which I might kill at a distance. Also, they must have some idea of my physical condition. With the coming of daylight, catching me should be easy, and once I was located, they had only to close in to rifle range and kill me, with no danger to themselves.

  There was a large flat rock near where I had stopped, so I sat down. They would waste no time now, not wishing to trample out any footprints, but would wait for daylight.

  Now I must think. They would know of my Indian friends and would patrol the edge of the desert to keep me from them. My guess was that Don Federico, probably through Chato, had made contact with one of the gangs of bandits who infested the area and hired additional men.

  As I sat, I chewed on a stick of jerked beef, then drank a few swallows of water. No doubt they would scatter themselves in a long skirmish line as they rode into the desert, and he who sighted me would signal the others, who would then close in. When all had gathered, they would kill me.

  To outdistance them in my present condition would be almost impossible. My alternative was to hide.

  Where? How?

  Rising, I walked into the desert, and finding a dry wash, followed it for some distance. Heavy sand dragged at my feet, yet in the sand my feet would leave no discernible impression. Off to the east were the Bullion Mountains, of which I could remember nothing, although in the long days and nights among the Indians we had talked much of the desert. They were north and east, and I wished to work my way to the south, closer to the San Jacintos.

  Slowly, steadily, I walked. Exhaustion left my muscles heavy and my brain dull. I slogged on, step after step, like a man walking in his sleep or drugged. Several times I stumbled. At least twice I fell. At last, able to go no further, I fell on the ground near several ancient Joshua trees. Rolling over on my back, I looked up at the stars. I was through, finished; I could go no further.