The Lonesome Gods

by Louis L'Amour

  “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 look 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.”
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br />   Her amusement showed. “Yes, I believe you have. I believe you went to school with Meghan. She’s a beautiful girl, Johannes, and very 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.”

  As we sat over coffee, Kelso told me what had been happening in town, new businesses starting up, new people coming in from across the isthmus. “Carry your gun,” he added. “There’s renegades of all kinds driftin’ in. Some of them run out of Frisco are comin’ down here.”

  West of the town, where I liked to ride, the hills were almost bare. Main and Spring streets had been laid out past First Street, but there were only a few scattered structures there, and east of Main and along that street there were many vineyards. From Spring Street west to the coast there was a wide area of swampy land, the ciénaga, miles of tules inhabited by wild cattle, occasional deer, and great flocks of ducks and geese at certain seasons.

  Nearly every house had heavy wooden shutters that could be closed and barred at night. The houses were almost all of adobe, bricks made of clay mixed with straw, and the roofs were covered with tar from the tar pits on the La Brea Rancho, now owned by a man named Hancock, whom I saw about town but did not know.

  Water was still obtained from the zanjas, but it was also peddled from door to door by a waterman. If he had been there earlier, I did not remember him, but now he went from house to house filling the ollas that hung in the shade of a porch. The water was cool and pleasant, even in the hottest weather. Riding about town after my long absence, I noted the changes that had been made, yet some things remained the same. Despite the laws against it, women still washed clothes in the zanjas, and more often than not some Indian children were found splashing naked in the water ditches from which the drinking water was obtained. Bill the waterman supposedly drew his water from the Los Angeles River or some of the springs he knew of in the hills around.

  Thomas Fraser was no longer conducting his little school. William Wolfskill had hired teachers and opened a school for his children and those of some friends, but there was at least one other small school.

  Business was slow, and I saw several storekeepers playing cards on the wide windowsills.

  Further along the street were several gambling houses, the El Dorado and the Montgomery being two of the busiest. Turning suddenly to go back, I caught a glimpse of the flat-nosed Mexican with the scar. A glimpse only, and the man was gone. Was I being followed?

  Walking on, I turned a corner and stopped. Only a moment later, the Mexican appeared. He started around the corner, but seeing me, stopped abruptly.

  “Looking for someone? Maybe I can help you.” I took a step toward him.

  He stood his ground. His hand was on his red sash and the hilt of his knife.

  “I am not a boy any longer,” I said. “You wanted to torture me once. You intended to kill me. Now you have the chance.”

  “Someday,” he said.

  “Why not now? I am ready.”

  “Someday.” He gestured around. “You have friends. I can wait.”

  “Whenever,” I said.

  He turned away, then stopped, and when he looked back, his eyes were ugly. “You think you are man now,” he sneered. “You are nothing! Nothing! You think you brave? Who did you ever fight? Who did you kill? Bah! To kill you is like a kitten! A sheep! You are nothing!”

  He disappeared around the corner, and I stood there hot with anger, yet as the anger cooled, my ego was pierced by a thin shaft of cool logic.

  Who had I fought? The flat-nosed vaquero might have had a dozen, two dozen, three dozen fights. He would be skilled with a knife, perhaps with a gun as well. Only his own caution had saved me.

  Walking along the street to the book shop, I stepped inside and sat down. Long ago Jacob Finney had spoken of a man, a former boxer who lived in Sonora Town.

  Boxing alone would not be enough. My skill with a gun was far beyond that of the average man. Part of this was due to a natural aptitude for which I deserved no credit, and a part was due to practice. Coordination was a gift, and my physical strength, which was considerable, had been not only a birthright but also developed during those years of living with and among the Cahuillas, climbing mountains, running in the desert, and wrestling.

  Yet Rad Huber had already given me one lesson, and the fact that I had triumphed the second time did not fool me. I had won because he had been too ready for an easy repeat victory and my sudden attack had taken him by surprise. If we met again, as I was sure we would, he would whip me again. He had probably grown even more than I, and he, too, handled himself with natural ease.

  There was only one answer. I had to learn something that would give me an edge.

  Finney’s boxer, if he was still around, would be one way, but my father, who had traveled much in the Far East, had told me of skills each people possessed, known to them alone.

  In both China and Japan as well as in Korea the fighting arts had been widely developed by various schools, each claiming its system the best, each possessing some tricks known to them alone. These included not only bare-hand fighting but fighting with all manner of ingenious weapons.

  The world in which we lived was a violent one; furthermore, it had always been violent. Much as I wished to avoid trouble, it would surely come, and I must be prepared to meet it.

  Sitting alone at the back of the shop, ignoring the conversation that went on, I considered myself with some irritation. People might have said I was brave to face Flat-Nose as I had, but it had been the bravery of ignorance. No doubt he had been fighting since he was a child, and in bitter win-or-die fights. He had sneered at me, treated me as a child, but he had been right and I was wrong.

  Had he chosen to attack, I would now be dead, and the only reason he had not attacked was that we had stood among Anglo stores and shops or places where the gente de razón, the gentlemen of reason among the Californios, were to be found. In Sonora Town i
t would have been different.

  When we walked home that evening, Miss Nesselrode was silent until we were almost at the door. “You are quiet,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

  “It is never nice to realize one has been a fool,” I said.

  “If you have done something foolish and realize it, then you are not quite the fool you were,” she said. “May I know what happened?”

  Inside, seated in that quiet room I had come to think of as home, I explained.

  “Your flat-nosed vaquero is a bad one. Only last week Vicente Lugo pointed him out to me as a troublemaker who had been driven out of his own town in Sonora. He uses the name of Valdez, but it is not his own. Chato Valdez is well known in Sonora Town, and much feared. You did well not to have trouble.”

  “He was the wise one, not I,” I replied bitterly.

  “And now?”

  “Now I try to learn. With the gun, I shall not worry, but otherwise? And here, in the town, it could be otherwise. There is also Rad Huber.”

  We talked long, of that and other things, but through it all there was a nagging thought, something said in passing that I had not noted at the time. Some reference to a man who lived near the mountains. He was Chinese, if I remembered correctly.

  Miss Nesselrode told me then, for the first time, of her meeting with Don Isidro.

  “And now?”

  “He has not forgotten,” she said, “but I think he is a little afraid. I do not think he has ever been afraid except of being shamed, of being made to seem ridiculous. To be laughed at or pitied—that he could not stand. I think it has been the ruling motive of his whole life. But he is a small man—small in character, I mean. He hates you, and he now hates me as well, and I do not believe he has forgotten us.”

  “Nor has the flat-nosed one, the one you say is Chato Valdez. Nor, for that matter, Fletcher.”

  She smiled. “We have enemies, Johannes, but enemies can make one strong. And we will be strong.”

  For a moment she was silent. “Your Aunt Elena, now? She, in her own way, is very strong. Yet, I think she has a secret. Perhaps it is her brother’s secret as well, but there is something…”