The Lonesome Gods

by Louis L'Amour

  We stepped down from the saddle and Owen Hardin took his rifle and walked out to the farthest point of shade and hunkered down to keep watch on the trail. We all took our time in sizing up our situation. There was no protection where we were, except for the occasional fallen trees or the tree trunks themselves.

  “We’ll take it easy,” I suggested. “No use killing ourselves or our horses. If you ask me, they’re holed up someplace, too.”

  Monte stretched out on the thin grass and put his hat over his eyes. The water in my water bag was cooled by evaporation, and it tasted good. I took only a swallow.

  “After sundown,” I said, “we’ll move on. Catch some rest.” Turning to Brodie, I said, “You want to give Owen a break in about an hour?”

  “Sure.”

  With my back against a big oak, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, wishing for another breeze through my wet shirt.

  Finney was close by. “Couldn’t help but hear what Hardin was sayin’ last night,” he said. “Do you reckon that was your big man from near the palm springs?”

  “Isn’t likely there’d be two such. Not so close together.”

  There was silence for a while and then Finney asked, “Are you goin’ back that way?”

  “Uh-huh. I love that country, Jake, and there’s nothing holdin’ me in Los Angeles.”

  “Nothing?” He glanced at me.

  I thought of Meghan again. “No, Jake, there’s nothing to keep me. I’m going back to the desert. I don’t want to have to kill anybody, and there’s nothing keeping me, nothing at all.”

  Chapter 44

  FOR AS LONG as she could remember, Aunt Elena had been rising at daybreak. She supposed it was her father’s influence. Although he had been an hidalgo with vast estates in both Spain and Morocco, it had been his custom to ride each morning with the rising sun. Often, as a small girl, she had ridden with him.

  Her breakfast was frugal. Habitually she drank one cup of maté, a tea imported from the Argentine, and ate one tortilla and a piece of fruit.

  She supervised the house of Don Isidro, although she and her brother had never been close. Each Saturday morning she checked her accounts as she had learned from Miss Nesselrode. She kept a careful record in one small book of what she was doing with her money, and on another page of the book she listed possible investments. She had learned from Miss Nesselrode but now went her own way, made her own plans, and in a time when much was growing and expanding, her small investments accumulated.

  Although she went to mass regularly, she did not consider herself a religious woman. She loved the quiet of the church, the voices of the priests who officiated, and the subdued rustling of garments.

  Often she took walks along the zanjas or under the oaks. She loved the tranquillity of those moments alone. Occasionally she was joined by a young priest, Father Jaime. They were, she suspected, kindred spirits. It was a term she had heard but had never applied to anyone until meeting Father Jaime.

  On this morning she had walked alone, and upon returning to the house decided upon another cup of tea. Scarcely had she seated herself when she heard the jingle of spurs. For an instant, caught in the act of pouring, she hesitated, and a flicker of annoyance touched her eyes and mouth. She knew the step, the hard-heeled arrogance.

  Don Federico, dressed for riding, came into the room. “Ah, Tía! You rise early?”

  “As always.”

  “I was not aware.”

  “Of course.”

  He gave her a sharp glance, but she was replacing the teapot. She did not offer him a cup.

  “It will soon be over now.” He spoke with satisfaction.

  “Is anything ever really over? Do things ever really end? No lingering aftereffects?”

  He shrugged. “Johannes Verne has ridden into the desert to recover some stolen horses.” His eyes were upon her. “He will not come back. The stain will be erased.”

  She tasted her tea. “Yes?”

  “This time it will be finished.”

  “Have you talked to Don Isidro? Is he involved?”

  He made an impatient gesture. “He grows old! He is too slow to act, and we could not wait! He thinks too much, and sometimes I am afraid he weakens. No matter. I have done it.”

  “You assume too much. Don Isidro wishes to be consulted.”

  “He wavers and hesitates. Besides, I know what he wishes done, and am I to sit idly by while this…this peón lives?”

  He turned on her suddenly. “You have never liked me, Tía.”

  “What is there to like?” she asked mildly.

  He flushed and his eyes turned mean. “You shall see! When I inherit—!”

  “Ah?”

  “Who else? They are gone. Consuelo is gone. Alfredo is gone. Now this other one, he who could never inherit anyway, he will be gone. Who else is there?”

  Her shrewd old eyes taunted him. “I shall be here,” she said gently.

  He made an impatient gesture. “You are a woman. What can you do?”

  “I can inherit. What will you do? Kill me, too?”

  He stalked across the room, standing with his back to her. “You need not worry. You shall have this place. I shall return to Spain.

  “To Spain, do you hear? Who would live in this place when he can live in Madrid? Or Rome. Or Paris. I have thought it all out! I shall live in style! In elegance! Bah! What do I care what you do here? All but this house I shall sell.”

  “Don Isidro is still alive. Have you plans for him, too?”

  He shrugged. “He is old…old.”

  “He is sixty-seven. His father lived to be ninety-five, his grandfather to eighty-nine. Don Isidro may live thirty years more.”

  Don Federico made an impatient gesture and strolled to the arch, where he could look into the patio, but he made no reply.

  “He could live another thirty years, Federico, and you would be an old man then…if you live so long.”

  “You talk too much.”

  “If I talk, it is to stir some grain of sense in you. Do you not see? You dream. You cannot win. You build castles. You cannot defeat Johannes, as you could not defeat his father.

  “You wished to marry Consuelo to ensure that you would inherit, but she would not have you. Then she married Zachary Verne.”

  “A common sailor! A peón!”

  “A man.”

  “A man! Am I not a man?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Who knows?”

  He took a step toward her, his face twisted with fury. “Someday I will—!”

  She showed him the small pistol in her sewing bag. “Be careful, Federico. I do not like you very much.”

  “You talk the fool.”

  “When your mother died, Don Isidro provided for you, sent you to school, treated you as one of us.”

  “And I hated you! All of you! Why should you have so much and me nothing?”

  “What is so special about you, Federico? Is there any reason why you should have anything?”

  He brushed it aside. “What is so special about you, then? Or Don Isidro?”

  She poured tea into her cup. “Not very much, Federico. Really, not very much. In Spain we are of the nobility, but what is that? It means that we had an ancestor or two who were bold men, energetic men. One fought against the Moors and so became wealthy.

  “He was a poor lad who helped a tanner with his hides, and when war came he proved a good man with a sword. He killed a Moor and took his armor, weapons, and horse. He took a gold chain from his neck and a ring from his finger. He captured another Moor, and the man was ransomed, and our ancestor was no longer a poor peón, but a young man of wealth.

  “He rode his horse to war, and with the money from the ring which he sold, he hired several men-at-arms who followed him. He fought with great strength, and perhaps with great courage, and was made a noble. He married well and his son was a captain in the armada, commanding a warship. He was one of the few to bring his ship back intact. Largely, I think, because
he avoided battle and fled to a safe harbor at the first sign of a storm. His grandson was a skillful manager of their estates, and what he inherited, he doubled.”

  “So?”

  “The one who began it all was a peasant. You have nothing, so why not do something yourself? Many of those whom you respect are the sons and daughters of leather-jacketed soldiers.”

  He did not respond, and she said, “You tried to kill Alfredo on the ship.”

  “A pity I did not succeed. Nobody wanted him. You cannot tell me that you did. Consuelo made a fuss over him just to show off.”

  “She loved him. We all did.”

  He shrugged. “So you say. You all wished to be rid of him, and now he is gone. I see no tears.”

  She hoped he would go, but he lingered.…Why? Her fingers closed on the small pistol butt. He was arrogant, greedy, and completely selfish. For such a one there were no limits, and she was alone but for the girl in the kitchen. Yet she was not afraid. He hated her, and she despised him for all that he had become.

  “Take my advice,” she suggested, “and leave Johannes alone. You do not know him. He is stronger than his father was, and infinitely more dangerous.”

  “Bah!”

  “You are being foolish, Federico. Don Isidro would give you more land. You have some. Today all is changing, and it is a time to become rich.

  “Drop all these foolish thoughts of revenge and hatred. There is money to be made in a growing land. Many of the Californios are already prospering. They have found their place in business, in politics—”

  He snorted his disgust. “What do you think I am? A tradesman?”

  She leaned back in her chair and looked at him. Her fingers held the pistol in the folds of her dress. “I think you are a very conceited, vain man, with empty hands and an empty head. You are not a tradesman. Perhaps you could not be.

  “You dress very prettily. You strut. You ride well, so perhaps you could become a vaquero, but if you have other talents, I have not seen them. You are, despite what you seem to believe, no longer a young man by present-day standards. From childhood you seem to have had no other idea than to inherit the wealth of Don Isidro.”

  “And I shall. I shall have it all. Now that you have shown what you are, and what you think of me, you shall have nothing. Nothing at all!”

  For a moment she held the pistol. Suppose she killed him now, here? Would it save Johannes? Or would she simply drag them all through the disgrace of a public trial? For a moment she looked at him, weighing the possibilities. He needed killing, he deserved to be killed. Yet slowly, reluctantly, her fingers relaxed.

  “You may go,” she said.

  He turned sharply around. “What?”

  “You may go. I will not kill you now.”

  “What?” He stared at her. “Kill me?”

  She lifted the pistol. “I have been considering it, but you are not worth the trouble. But go…please go before I change my mind.”

  He was shocked, yet as his eyes went from her to the pistol and back, he became suddenly aware of how vulnerable he had been.

  But Aunt Elena? Kill him? He looked at her suddenly with a realization that this quiet, strange old woman was not known to him at all. She had seemed a frail shadow hovering somewhere near Don Isidro, someone you passed by, someone you acknowledged, something dim and ghostlike. Now suddenly her voice had changed. There was iron beneath those rustling garments. She could have, might have, killed him.

  Abruptly he turned and walked away, and he did not look back. Out on the patio he stopped. Suddenly he shivered. She could have done it. She might have done it.

  His mouth was dry with shock. There had been a tone in her voice he had not heard before, and he shivered again. She could have killed him, she might have; the idea appalled him.

  He went to his horse, and stopped after gathering up the reins. For a moment he stood there; then he swung into the saddle and turned away. He must be careful. There were enemies everywhere.

  But Aunt Elena! It was impossible!

  * * * *

  TÍA ELENA FINISHED her tea and then went to her room. Now, more than ever, she was sure she was doing the right thing, but she should consult the alcalde, or perhaps one of those American attorneys. Miss Nesselrode had showed her what a woman could do, and other Californio women were in business and doing well.

  Coolly, carefully, she considered what she was doing and its consequences. She had watched Federico for many years and knew the kind of man he was. She also knew their conversation would not deter him in any way and might even act as a spur.

  With the desertion of Don Isidro’s loyal workers and the subsequent weakening of Don Isidro’s position, Federico had become more assertive, more confident, and he had, to all intents and purposes, taken command. Her brother had withdrawn more and more, eaten by his hatred.

  She must move a little faster now, even at the risk of being discovered. Of the properties in Spain, she knew little, although when the time came she must learn more of them. They were her brother’s concern, and when she had left Spain she had no reason to interest herself in them. Of the house in town and the ranch, whatever other property there was—these were the focus of her attention.

  “Somehow,” she whispered to herself, “I must save them. I must protect the young ones.”

  Federico had stated his intentions clearly. Of his intentions there was no doubt. For Consuelo she could do nothing. Consuelo was gone, but for…She would see.

  At the same time, she must be careful. Now she had presented herself as an antagonist. Federico recognized her as an enemy, and he would not hesitate to do what he felt needed to be done; only now he would be cautious.

  One thing more remained to be done. She must find the woman.

  But how to find a woman gone these forty years or more? Where to look?

  She would be dead by now, or gone to Mexico, or taken by Indians. In all those years, there had been no word.

  She had been a strange woman, a woman alone in the world. Where would such a one go? What would she do? Elena remembered that night, a stormy night when the rain came down in torrents and the wind blew. It had been one of the worst storms ever known along the Pacific coast of California.

  A man had come with two black horses, a man whose face she never saw, and she herself had opened the door that the woman might leave. She, with little Consuelo at her side.

  She had seen the horses plunging in the rain, their coats streaming with it, their eyes rolling, their teeth gnashing at the bits. Lightning had flashed, and in a roll of thunder the woman had climbed into the saddle with her bundle, and the horses had raced away, their iron shoes striking fire from the pavement.

  Gone! But where? And nothing…nothing left after all those years? No sight, no sound, no word.

  Vanished.…

  Chapter 45

  MISS NESSELRODE UNLOCKED the book shop only just after daybreak. The street outside was deserted. She had seen a lone horseman riding along Aliso Street, and a man had been sweeping the boardwalk in front of a store on Main Street.

  Half the night she had lain awake worrying about Johannes, yet explaining to herself there was no need to worry. Johannes was born to the wilderness. He knew it and was at home there. He had lived with Indians; he had survived several ordeals in the mountains and had shown himself capable of handling difficult situations.

  Scarcely was she seated at her desk when the door opened and Meghan burst in. “Where is he?”

  “You quarreled with him?”

  “Well…I guess. Maybe it could be called that. Don Federico had called on me, and Johannes did not like it.”

  “Did you expect him to?”

  She avoided that. “Where is he?”

  “He has gone to the mountains, following some horses that were stolen from us. I have no idea when he will be back.”

  Meghan sat down, eyes wide. “Stolen horses? But he might be killed!”

  “He is aware of that. He is also awa
re the horses were stolen to lead him into a trap. Those who stole the horses hoped he would follow. They will be waiting.”

  “But why, then? Why would he go, knowing it was a trap?”

  “He caught those horses, helped to break them. They were to be the beginning of a horse ranch for him. I am sure he can handle the situation.” Even as she spoke the words, she was praying she was right. “Jacob is with him. There are others.”

  “But who would do such a thing? Was it Don Isidro?”

  “Not this time,” Miss Nesselrode replied coolly. “It was Don Federico, or so we believe.”

  “That’s absurd! Why should he do such a thing? Oh, I know Johannes believes Don Federico tried to kill him once, but—”

  “And you do not?”

  “Of course not! Federico is a gentleman! And why should he do such a thing?”

  “You should know. It was your father who warned Johannes of what he might expect.”

  “My father does not know Federico! He has never even met him!”

  “Well, we shall see.” Miss Nesselrode pushed her mail to one side, folding her hands before her. “Where is Don Federico now? Do you have any idea?”

  How should she know? He had not said when he would call.

  “How could Johannes leave like that? He did not even say good-bye!”

  “He left very quickly. And if you quarreled—”

  “It was not really a quarrel! He did seem upset when I told him Federico had been calling, but I did not think it mattered that much.”

  “He felt betrayed. I know he did. It is very hard, Meghan, but you must decide where your loyalties lie. Hannes knows Federico tried to have him killed. Not once, but several times. When Don Isidro was leaving him in the desert, Don Federico wanted to kill Johannes and then leave him.”

  “I do not believe that. He was only a small boy then. He cannot remember.”

  “He does remember. Also, where is Don Federico now? I believe he has gone into the desert to make sure of his trap.”

  Meghan stood up. “That’s a hateful thing to say! I don’t believe it!”

  “Your father did. He warned Johannes.”