Thus far I had been occupied in growing up, learning a little, avoiding enemies, but moving no farther, and it depressed me that I was not moving. Nor had I found my direction. From my window I could look off across the grassland, spotted with groves of trees or patches of prickly pear. In the distance lifted the smoke of Los Angeles. Someday, Don Benito Wilson had said, this would be a great city. Perhaps, but it must find other industries than cattle and grapes, which provided its income now.
Nor was I sure I wished it to become a great city, for we who are among the first always yield reluctantly to the latecomers, seeing our meadows fade, our trees cut down, our horizons obscured. We who were the firstcomers accepted the dollar prices but bemoaned the loss of beauty, yet what was happening was inevitable, I suppose.
Yet we must never forget that the land and the waters are ours for the moment only, that generations will follow who must themselves live from that land and drink that water. It would not be enough to leave something for them; we must leave it all a little better than we found it.
Never did a tree fall that I did not feel a pang, and rightly so, for when the trees are gone, man will also be gone, for without them we cannot live. The very air we breathe comes from trees, and when they are gone, the air will thicken and men will die and our great towers of stone will fall away to rubble and there will be only weeds, and then grass to cover the unsightly mounds we leave behind.
My coffee was cold, and Elfego was off about his business somewhere. As I turned my head to look out across the meadow, I saw some of our horses run by, biting playfully at one another, bright flashes of color upon the green of the meadow. This was the good life, this I could do, raise horses, watch them grow, and perhaps have a little to do in shaping the destiny of our country.
For it is not buildings that make a city, but citizens, and a citizen is not just he who lives in a city, but one who helps it to function as a city. My father had often talked of the town meetings in New England and of the discussions that helped to shape the destinies of cities and states. For this I must prepare myself, for I knew too little of law, too little of governing, too little of the conducting of public meetings.
There is no greater role for a man to play than to assist in the government of a people, nor anyone lower than he who misuses that power.
* * * *
THE SHADOWS WERE reaching out toward the edges of the fields, the trees were losing their forms in the darkness, and night was coming.
Night, and I was alone. Restlessly I walked to the window, then hurriedly turned from it, for to expose myself there might give some hidden marksman an opportunity. Grimly I reflected. There was the dream, but there was also the reality, and all men were not men of goodwill.
Where was Meghan now? Did she think of me at all? And why should she?
Why Don Federico, of all people? He was twice her age and more, yet that was almost the custom here, and most girls married when fourteen to sixteen. Meghan was younger than I, although we had gone to school together. Rad Huber had been older than all of us, for ours was a small school and there were no subdivisions.
Tomorrow at daybreak, another venture into the unknown, five men after a band of at least ten and our horses. Unless it rained, highly unlikely at this time of year, there would be a trail. And if this was, indeed, a trap, there would certainly be a trail.
Was it over between Meghan and me? Had there ever been anything to be over? Had I been foolish? I could not escape the idea that had Captain Laurel been at home, Don Federico would never have been permitted to visit. And that did me no good whatsoever.
My thoughts strayed again to the desert. Where was Francisco? Was he married yet? Indians took wives early, in most cases, and he was a man of growing importance among his people.
How was the acorn crop this year? I wondered. And the mesquite and chia? Would they fare well this coming year? And had my visitor come again to the cabin with the mosaic floor?
Odd, that he should have that talent. Had he been instructed? Or did he conceive and plan and originate himself? Had he, my monster, actually laid that floor? Someone else, perhaps?
He returned to the mountains in the dark. How well he must know them! And how sure of foot he must be, for all his size.
What if some night he fell along the trail? Who would find him? Who would look? Who would even wonder? Was there someone, somewhere, who cared?
I cared.
I would send word to Francisco, I would learn if anyone had been in the house or near it.
And my great black horse? Where was he? Was he glad to be free? Glad to be running once more over his wild, wonderful hills? Grazing beneath the oaks where the acorns fell? Watering at lonely streams?
Standing in the middle of the room, I looked around. I was alone. I felt as if I had always been alone, always.
Don Federico…
Why had it been him? Why, of all men?
Meghan, I love you. I spoke the words in my mind, but they fell into silence and left no echo behind.
Had I told her that? I had not, in so many words. Yet, I believed she knew. He would tell her. He would tell her easily and with skill. He was a man who would be good at such things.
It was just as well I was going to the mountains.
Settling myself in a corner away from view of the windows, I tried to read, but on this night I could not. Often I read aloud, loving the sound of the words, amazed at how beautifully some writers sounded when read, how impossible it was to read others aloud. Yet now I could not read.
Meghan, I have lost you.
Long I lay awake, staring up into the darkness where the dark-beamed ceiling was, hearing the faint sounds from outside, a mockingbird singing the long night through, a movement of horses in the corrals, the sound of water from the fountain.
Tomorrow I would ride to the hills again, to the long green hills now fading to a tawny brown, hills that looked like the flanks of some great lion sleeping.
My father had fled to the hills, had lost himself out there where the silent gods awaited, eyes hollow with loneliness for the worshipers they no longer had. Out there under the sky, under the stars by night, they waited for the click of a stone thrown upon a pile, for arms lifted in prayer.
Men need their gods, but did not the gods also need men?
Chapter 43
WE RODE INTO the morning while the stars were there, like anchor lights of ships afloat in the harbor of the sky. We rode with a soft wind blowing, our horses stepping quick and light, eager for the trail.
We smelled the dampness of fallen leaves and of disturbed grass as we wove our way among the clumps of boulders and prickly pear.
Over coffee and the campfire we had talked that morning of what was to come, our faces heavy with sleep, our lips fumbling for words. We had said what needed to be said and were on our way, five young men armed for the work we had to do.
“They will be waiting,” I told them. “This wasn’t just a horse-stealing. There are a dozen ranches around where they could have rounded up more horses with less trouble. You boys would be better off to let me go it alone.”
“Are you crazy?”
“I am the one they want, but I am better out there than they know. I grew up with the Cahuilla. I can find them and I can bring the horses back.”
“When we hired on,” Owen Hardin said, “we put our money in the pot. We’re not likely to throw in our hands until we see what the other feller is holding.”
“Glad to have you along.” I said it with sincerity, although I’d have preferred going alone. Then I should have to worry about no one but myself.
A man alone can become a ghost in the woods; others, no matter how skillful, will make some sound. Also, he who leads is responsible. How many riding out on a dangerous venture would ride back? I must think of them as well as myself. If alone I made a foolish move, there was none to pay but me, but with others? Good men might die through some error of mine. Yet these were warriors, veteran fighting men
who knew the risks as well as I…or better.
What would Sir Walter Scott have thought of us? I wondered. Yet those who rode with me were fit men to ride with any of the clansmen of whom he had written. They were men of much the same stripe, driven by many of the same motives.
Those fierce clansmen of Scotland were often driven by pride to actions as foolish as those of my grandfather, and for much the same absurd reasons. I recalled the story of Donald the Hammer who when he saw his son actually working in the fields rushed across the stream intending to kill him to erase the shame.
Reading had done that for me—that even when I disapproved of what my grandfather had done, I could understand him. It made his crimes no less, but left me with a clearer view.
We rode into the morning, but we rode alert for trouble and aware of the tracks we followed, all too plain, all too easy. The problem was, how far would they lead us before laying the trap?
The sun was rising when we came down the narrow trail off the mountain into the San Fernando Valley, a vast waste of sparse grass and prickly pear with a few cattle scattered here and there. In the distance lay the old San Fernando Mission.
They were moving fast, keeping the horses at a trot, following along the base of the mountains.
“They’ve chosen the place, I’m thinking,” Finney suggested. “Some special place to hole up and wait for you.”
“They’ve a full day’s start on us,” Monte added.
We held to a steady pace, took a short nooning, then pushed on. The trail was rarely used, and from the top of each small rise we could see the tracks several hundred yards in advance.
Short of sundown we saw a trickle of water coming down from some rocks among the oaks and willows. There was grass for the horses and a good place to camp.
Myron Brodie came over after staking his horse. He hunkered down beside the fire. “Notice the tracks back by that big lichen-covered boulder?”
“They’ve got company.”
“Two more,” Brodie said. “Probably whoever was in town watching to see if we left, and when. That’ll make maybe a dozen men they’ve got.”
“That figures about right.”
“And there’s five of us?” Monte lifted an eyebrow.
The coffee was coming to a boil. I pushed fuel under it and glanced at him. “The way you talk, I figured you’d be good for two, anyways, and those El Monte boys—”
“No more’n five,” Hardin said, straight-faced, “an’ do tell ’em not to bunch up. I like to take ’em single and straight up.”
There were oaks behind us with a lot of fallen branches. Some of those blue oaks, as they called them, shed branches like leaves, sometimes good-sized limbs. All of which made a place nobody could come through without making noise. Backing up against that with the stream from the spring before me and some rocks lower down, I felt good.
The others scattered out, so if the thieves came at us at night they wouldn’t get us all crowded together. Each chose his own bed in his own way and back from the small fire we’d had.
“I’m not sleepy,” Brodie suggested, “so you boys roll up and catch some shut-eye. I’m good for two, maybe four hours.”
When Monte was bedded down, he spoke out. “They don’t care about the horses, like you said. What they want is a battle. They want to kill you.”
“They’ll let us catch up,” I said, “and maybe they will set up a camp that is a trap. They’ll corral the horses in plain sight, making them easy to get at, and they will bed down early, then slip off in the dark and wait for us.”
“It’s better not to have any preconceived ideas,” Finney suggested. “There’s no telling what they might do.”
He was right, of course, but I was trying to foresee. There were many possibilities, and I hoped to consider them all.
From now on our travel must be extremely wary, for an ambush could be mounted at any place. Each night before dropping off to sleep, I tried to work out the possibilities of the following day, but Finney had been right. We must not expect any particular course of action, but be prepared for the unexpected.
Owen Hardin awakened me at what must have been about three o’clock, judging by the position of the Big Dipper, but he was in no mood to sleep. While I tugged on my boots, he sat beside me.
“Finney tells me you spent some time down in the desert with the Cahuillas. He says there’s a big pass down there opens right into the desert. How come nobody knows much about it?”
“Folks out here are just not interested. Who cares about the desert? To most people it is just a big desolate place.”
“Never figured that way myself. I’ve prospected some, never had any luck, but there’s a-plenty to keep a man interested, old riverbeds and the like. Found some old camps, too, and some Injun writing on the walls.”
“Ben Wilson has been through that pass. You know, the man they call Don Benito. He chased a bunch of horse thieves through there at one time, and long ago a Spanish man named Romero went through. I suppose he was the first white man, but you never know.”
“Weird country,” Hardin said. “I was sixteen when we come through from Texas. Started with a herd of four hundred head of cattle. With the deserts and all, we got through with less’n seventy head.
“My brother Pete, he died out yonder. He was maybe seven year old. Wandered off from camp an’ we hunted for him most of two days, We’d about give up. Came back into camp all wore out.
“Ma, she was beside herself. So were the girls. We figured to start huntin’ again when morning came, but about midnight the dogs set up an awful barkin’ an’ me an’ Charlie, we rolled out, tired as we was, to see what was happenin’.
“We rushed out, gun in hand, and there was Pete. He was settin’ up against a rock wrapped in a great big old coat, and it taken only a look to see he was in bad shape.
“He’d fallen and hurt himself and he’d been snake-bit into the bargain. Odd thing about that, he’d busted his wrist and that was all bound up with a splint and all, and whoever taken care of him had tried to fix that snakebite, but I reckon he was too long gone.
“We taken him into camp and we tried to do for him. He was conscious from time to time when he wasn’t delirious, and he told us about fallin’, breakin’ his wrist, and gettin’ snake-bit.
“He said he yelled for us, yelled for help like, and then his mind kind of wandered off. We never could make head or tails of what he was gettin’ at. He said he was yellin’, scared as could be, when a giant showed up.”
I sat up. “A what?”
“A giant. Oh, I know! It sounds crazy. That’s what we thought, too. He said that there giant came right down into that hollow in the sand where he was lyin’ and fetched him to where there was some shade from rocks, and then the giant set his wrist and worked on that snakebite.
“Well, some little time had gone by. That poison had a chance to get through him. Wonder was he even alive. The giant picked him up an’ carried him to us, then set him down an’ left him.”
“You never saw him?”
“Never. Nor any sign of him. All we had to go on was what Pete could tell us. He said that was the biggest giant ever, that he carried Pete, a pretty solid chunk of boy, like he was a baby. To get him back to us fast, he climbed over a ridge in the dark that I wouldn’t tackle by day, an’ him carryin’ Pete.”
Hardin shrugged. “I never believed in no fairy tales, no giants or the like, but Pete swore it was the truth.”
“You say Pete died?”
“Had that poison all through him. The giant or whatever had done all he could and then brought him to us, but there was mighty little left to do.”
I slung on my gun belt. “Is that all? Nothing more?”
“One thing. Pete never lied, and he wasn’t crazy in the head when he talked of giants. When we found Pete, he was wrapped in a buckskin huntin’ coat, fringed and all? Well, that coat was big! Pa, who weighed about one-sixty and stood about five-nine, him an’ another man close t
o his size, they put that coat on. Standin’ shoulder to shoulder, that coat was a fit for the two of them across the shoulders.”
“Have you still got that coat?”
“No, sir. We surely ain’t. Ofttimes Pa wished he had it so folks wouldn’t think he was lyin’, but Ma, she said maybe that poor man needed his coat, so we taken it back and hung it over a rock near where we’d camped.”
I walked down to the fire for coffee, and Owen joined me. “Where did that happen?” I asked.
“South of here. Down in the desert about a day’s travel this side of Indian Wells.”
* * * *
FINNEY RODE UP beside me. We had been in the saddle for several hours, and the tracks had suddenly veered left into the hills. “I rode this way a few years back. There’s a valley off yonder, all surrounded by hills, a mighty pretty little hidden valley.”
“How little?”
“A few thousand acres, with a spring or two. I’ve had an idea of moving in there and settling. It’s a likely place to hide stolen stock, too.”
“Do you suppose that’s where they are headed?”
“I’d bet on it.”
We rode off the trail and into the oaks. It was very hot. With my bandanna I mopped my face and neck, squinting my eyes against the glare. When I turned in the saddle to speak to Finney, the cantle was too hot to touch.
“Used trail”—I indicated it—“but they didn’t go that way.”
“There’s a ranch down there. They wouldn’t go near it.” He sidled his horse into deeper shade. “They’re surely going on into the valley.”
He pointed to some even deeper shade where several oaks had clustered together. “Let’s ride over yonder and take a breather. It’s too hot.”
We walked our horses, occasionally ducking our heads to avoid a low branch. There were several deep pools of shade, and a faint stir of wind was coming off the shoulder of the mountain. Our shirts were soaked, and when the wind touched them, it was mighty cooling.
The Lonesome Gods Page 30