The Lonesome Gods
Page 1
The
Lonesome
Gods
Louis L'Amour
They Challenged the Land
of the Lonesome Gods
Johannes Verne—Neither the smoldering hatred of his grandfather nor the searing terrors of the desert could stop him from pursuing love, adventure and fortune in the untamed vastness of California.
Miss Nesselrode—A woman of uncommon beauty and an even rarer talent for business. Yet her success threatened many, and her past held a secret that haunted her future.
Meghan Laurel—Her red-gold hair, lovely bearing and fond attentions won Johannes’s eye, but her courtship by his deadly rival became his greatest danger.
Don Isidro—Beyond emotion, beyond reason, beyond family ties, he swore a terrible vengeance against Johannes and his father, carving a bloodstained trail of tragedy amd fear.
To the Applebaum boys
Stuart and Irwyn
Bantam Books
by Louis L’Amour
NOVELS
Bendigo Shafter
Borden Chantry
Brionne
The Broken Gun
The Burning Hills
The Californios
Callaghen
Catlow
Chancy
The Cherokee Trail
Comstock Lode
Conagher
Crossfire Trail
Dark Canyon
Down the Long Hills
The Empty Land
Fair Blows the Wind
Fallon
The Ferguson Rifle
The First Fast Draw
Flint
Guns of the Timberlands
Hanging Woman Creek
The Haunted Mesa
Heller with a Gun
The High Graders
High Lonesome
Hondo
How the West Was Won
The Iron Marshal
The Key-Lock Man
Kid Rodelo
Kilkenny
Killoe
Kilrone
Kiowa Trail
Last of the Breed
Last Stand at Papago Wells
The Lonesome Gods
The Man Called Noon
The Man from Skibbereen
The Man from the Broken Hills
Matagorda
Milo Talon
The Mountain Valley War
North to the Rails
Over on the Dry Side
Passin’ Through
The Proving Trail
The Quick and the Dead
Radigan
Reilly’s Luck
The Rider of Lost Creek
Rivers West
The Shadow Riders
Shalako
Showdown at Yellow Butte
Silver Canyon
Sitka
Son of a Wanted Man
Taggart
The Tall Stranger
To Tame a Land
Tucker
Under the Sweetwater Rim
Utah Blaine
The Walking Drum
Westward the Tide
Where the Long Grass Blows
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
Beyond the Great Snow Mountains
Bowdrie
Bowdrie’s Law
Buckskin Run
Dutchman’s Flat
End of the Drive
From the Listening Hills
The Hills of Homicide
Law of the Desert Born
Long Ride Home
Lonigan
May There Be a Road
Monument Rock
Night over the Solomons
Off the Mangrove Coast
The Outlaws of Mesquite
The Rider of the Ruby Hills
Riding for the Brand
The Strong Shall Live
The Trail to Crazy Man
Valley of the Sun
War Party
West from Singapore
West of Dodge
With These Hands
Yondering
SACKETT TITLES
Sackett’s Land
To the Far Blue Mountains
The Warrior’s Path
Jubal Sackett
Ride the River
The Daybreakers
Sackett
Lando
Mojave Crossing
Mustang Man
The Lonely Men
Galloway
Treasure Mountain
Lonely on the Mountain
Ride the Dark Trail
The Sackett Brand
The Sky-Liners
THE HOPALONG CASSIDY NOVELS
The Riders of the High Rock
The Rustlers of West Fork
The Trail to Seven Pines
Trouble Shooter
NONFICTION
Education of a Wandering Man
Frontier
The Sackett Companion: A Personal Guide to the Sackett Novels
A Trail of Memories: The Quotations of Louis L’Amour, compiled by Angelique L’Amour
POETRY
Smoke from This Altar
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
About Louis L’Amour
Chapter 1
I SAT VERY still, as befitted a small boy among strangers, staring wide-eyed into a world I did not know.
I was six years old and my father was dying.
Only last year I had lost my mother. She died longing for that far-off, lovely California where she was born, and of which she never tired of talking.
“Warm and sunny,” people said when speaking of California, but I knew it as a place where fear lived.
Now we were going there. We were crossing the desert to face that fear, and I was afraid.
My father sat close beside me trying to sleep, but torn occasionally by violent spells of coughing that caused the other passengers to turn their heads, some in pity, some in irritation.
Our wagon, drawn by six half-wild mustangs, plunged into the night, rocking and rumbling over a dim track that only the driver seemed to see. Ours was a desperate venture, a lone wagon with two outriders attempting the cr
ossing from Santa Fe to California.
Lying awake in the darkness, I remembered what people in Santa Fe had said. “It’s a crazy idea! One wagon? Even if they can slip by the Apaches, the Yumas will be waiting at the crossing of the Colorado.”
“Remember what happened to that last outfit? The Yumas agreed to ferry them across the river, but when they had half of them on the far side, the Yumas just took off with all their goods and stock. Left ’em to die in the desert, with nothing.”
“Only they didn’t die. Not all of them.”
“I’ll say one thing. If anybody could take a wagon through alone, it would be Doug Farley.”
“Maybe. But he’s only one man. As for me, I’ll just wait until spring and go through with a wagon train.”
When I told my father what they had said, he nodded. “We have to go now, son. I cannot wait.” He hesitated, then continued. “Some folks would think me wrong to tell you of this, but you must be prepared.
“I cannot wait until spring, Johannes. The doctors say I haven’t that much time. They say I am going to die. You will have to grow up without me, and growing up is never easy. People only talk about how wonderful youth is when they have forgotten how hard it was.”
We had gone together to see the wagon. Doug Farley had built it for the purpose, and the planks were not only tightly fitted but caulked so it would float if need be. The side walls were lined with a double thickness of buffalo hide to add more protection from bullets.
Eight people could ride in the wagon in some comfort, but on this trip there would be but six, including me, and I wasn’t very large. Each man and woman was required to have a rifle in good condition and at least two hundred rounds of ammunition. Each was required to demonstrate that he or she knew how to load and fire his or her weapon.
“We will travel by night,” Farley warned us, “wherever possible. No loud talking, no noise. No shooting unless we are fired upon.”
“What about hunting?” The question was asked by a thick-necked, powerful man in a black suit. His name was Fletcher. He had a square, brutal face with small eyes. I did not like him.
“There will be no hunting,” Farley answered. “We have supplies enough, so there will be no need. A shot would only attract the trouble we’re trying to avoid.”
“You’ve been over this trail?”
“Five times, and I’ve scouted it just for this trip. Every stopping place is chosen now, and I’ve selected alternatives if something goes wrong.”
“How’d it go before?”
“The first time was with a party of mountain men. We had one hell of a fight—five men killed, and we lost all our furs.”
“The other times?”
“The army survey party was strong and we had no trouble except for losing some mules and one man who just wandered off and was lost.
“Another time, with a wagon train, we got through to Los Angeles, losing only two wagons and some stock.”
“Los Angeles? What’s that?”
“It’s a little cow town about twenty miles from the sea. Used to be an Injun village. That’s the place we’re heading for.”
“What’s this here trip goin’ to cost?”
“Three hundred dollars each. Cash on the barrel head.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Take it or leave it. If you wait until spring, you can go through for half that. Maybe less. I am taking people who wish to go through now.” He paused. “We leave at daybreak.”
“How about my son?” my father asked.
Farley glanced at me. His eyes lingered for a moment. “He’s small. He can go for one hundred dollars.”
“That’s not fair!” Fletcher was irritable. “You asked for people who could handle guns. That boy certainly can’t.”
My father turned slowly to look at Fletcher. “As to that, my friend, we shall see. In the meantime, I believe I can shoot well enough for both of us.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Father glanced over at Farley. “Mr. Farley? I am Zachary Verne.”
Doug Farley lit his cigar and dropped the twig back into the fire. “That’s good enough for me.”
“But—”
Farley ignored the interruption. “He goes,” he said, and walked away.
My father dropped a hand to my shoulder. “Let’s get our gear together, son.”
As they walked away, I heard the heavyset man, Fletcher, protesting to the others. “Now, what does all that mean? He just says his name and Farley’s ready to take him on. The way he coughs, he won’t last the trip!”
“Whoever he is,” someone said, “Farley knew him.”
At our room my father told me to wait and he went in to pick up our few things. I sat on the bench shivering, thinking of that fierce old man who awaited me in Los Angeles. He had hated my father, and when my father and mother fled across the desert, he pursued them, hoping, it was said, to kill them both.
Nor dared I tell my father how frightened I was. He did not know of the times I overheard my parents talking when it was believed I was asleep. “After all,” I had heard my father say, “he is the boy’s grandfather. How could he hate his grandson?” And then he added, a note of desperation in his voice, “There is nobody else, Connie, nobody at all.”
Once my father had been tall and strong; now he was pale and shrunken from illness of the lungs and now he grieved for the wife he had loved and the son he would never see grow to manhood.
A dozen times, seeking some way out, they had repeated almost the same conversation. “Zack,” my mother would say, “what else can you do? There is nobody else.”
Then suddenly one night, only shortly before my mother’s death, my father had suddenly burst out, “There’s that other thing, Connie! If only I’d had sense enough to keep my mouth shut! He would never have known that I knew!”
“You were angry, Zack. You didn’t think.”
“I was angry, but that is no excuse. I was angry for Felipe. He would have told no one, but he was killed. Murdered.
“How could a man fall off a cliff he had walked and ridden a hundred times, in dark and daylight, in storm and wind? The night was moonlit, the trail was clear, and Felipe was a careful man. No, it was murder, it had to be murder.”
“I know my father is a hard man, but—”
“He is a proud man, Connie. Pride of name and pride of family are an obsession with him. Of course, he isn’t the only one. Most of the old Spanish families are that way. The difference is that in California some of the first settlers were simply soldiers or mule drivers, and those who came later did not wish to be associated with them.
“In your father’s world a gentleman did not work with his hands, and a gentleman was always a man on horseback. In my world men who worked with their hands, men who could do, were the most respected. When I met you I was an able-bodied seaman, even though my father was a ship’s captain, and that was what I intended to be.
“In his world a man like me never spoke to a man like him unless addressed, and then only with hat in hand and head bowed. To make it even worse, I was an Anglo and a Protestant. I don’t know how I had the courage to speak to you.”
My mother’s voice was low, but I heard her say, “I wanted you to. You were very handsome. My mother thought so, too.”
“Then three of your father’s vaqueros came to me and said if I ever spoke to you again, they would horse-whip me.”
“I heard of that.”
“I told them they were fine men, handsome men, it would be a pity for them to die so young.”
“I heard it, Zachary, I heard them talking of it. We women, we cannot speak much, but we can listen, and there was very little we did not hear. They admired you for it. I remember one of them saying, ‘He is a man, that one!’”
There was silence; then my father asked, in a much lower tone, “Connie? Did Felipe know?”
“I…I believe so. What other reason…? I mean, he was a fine old man. He had been
with us forever, it seemed.”
“But why that night? What happened?”
There was no answer, and lying in the darkness and listening, eyes wide with wonder, I knew there would be no more talking. Whenever that subject came up, conversation ended. My mother would talk no more.
What dreadful secret could there be that so frightened my mother? What was it my grandfather feared to have known?
* * * *
THE WAGON WENT westward in the morning, driving over a hard-packed trail, simply one wagon alone, that might be going anywhere. Only when we neared the lava beds did we begin traveling by night.
After that there were usually no more campfires at night, and those by day were brief, for cooking and coffee. By day the horses grazed and the men slept, always in carefully selected places where they were hidden from observation. One of the outriders was forever on guard. I came to know them both.
Jacob Finney was a man of medium height, a man who never seemed to smile, but with a droll sense of humor. He was a slim, wiry man, part Cherokee, and from northern Georgia. “Been huntin’ my own meat since I was frog-high,” he told me. “I was nigh onto seventeen before I et meat I didn’t shoot myself.”
He was twenty, he said, but he seemed older. “Pa, he up an’ died, leavin’ the place to Amby an’ me. Amby was fixin’ to marry, an’ that place wouldn’t support the both of us, so I taken out.”
He paused. “Amby’s wife was a Natchez woman. You know about them? They was a dif’rent kind of Injun. Worshiped the sun. They got theirselves into a friction with the French from Loosiana and those Frenchmen wiped ’em out. Well, almost.
“Them that got away, some came into our mountains, an’ Amby, he taken up with one. She was a rare kind of woman, tall and mighty handsome. She’d been one of their top folks, one of the Suns, as they called them. Amby, of course, he’s a fine-lookin’ man. Tall, strong, and better educated in his books than me. I taken to the deep woods and far country, he taken to readin’, talkin’, and the like.
“Well, seein’ them together, it looked like I was the odd number, so I told ’em to hold a plot in the buryin’ ground and I taken off west.
“Had me some Injun fights then, one led by a man name of Karnes where twenty-odd of us stood off more’n two hundred Injuns. We gave ’em what-for, we did.”
The other outrider, Kelso, was an older, quieter man, a man with dark red hair streaked with gray. He’d made two trips over the Santa Fe Trail as a teamster and was a veteran of two or three fights with the Kiowa and Comanche.
Steadily we moved westward, keeping off the skyline but using the high, wide-open country of a night when it was possible. Before daybreak we’d be holed up in one of those hideouts Farley had scouted long before. There we would sleep, read, play cards, or wonder the hot days through, waiting for the blessed coolness of the night.