The Lonesome Gods

by Louis L'Amour

  There was more than expected, for in a shallow pool scarcely an inch deep and a foot across was water left from a recent rain. I wet my lips, then sucked some up as I waited.

  With my rifle trained on the natural rock gate, I heard them coming, slowing a little, but coming on. A rider loomed in the opening, and I squeezed off my shot.

  My intent was not to kill, nor was it mercy that guided my bullet, but to give them a man to care for, a wounded man who would be a trouble to them.

  He was a good three hundred yards off when he came through the opening, and I shot for his shoulder. His body jerked with the bullet’s impact and he lurched in the saddle. I put a second shot through the opening for good measure, then went down the rocks behind me and ran off down the slope, weaving among the trees.

  They were not within view of me now, for the slope fell away and they must come forward a good hundred yards to have a view of the mountainside. Unexpectedly I came upon a trail, a companion or perhaps even an extension to that which I had followed earlier.

  I hesitated a moment. It led into the desert, and I had no canteen, nor, I was sure, did they. Yet I was but one, needing little water, and they were many.

  Would the wounded man be sent back alone? Or would he try to keep up with them?

  The dim track I followed led along the mountainside, dropping slowly down, yet occasionally climbing. My gait slowed to a walk. Several times I paused for brief rests, once sitting down to study the ridge above me for a way down if they chose to hold to high ground.

  Also, I tried to study the desert into which I was going. At all costs, I must keep to cover or concealment. There were places where runoff from the mountains had cut deeply into the desert; at other places there were shallow washes that still offered some slight shelter behind their banks.

  There would be men among them who knew the desert, some who knew the country better than I, although not many of the Californios ventured into the desert regions.

  Why should they? California offered all they needed, and there was no reason to come into these wilderness areas. Far into the desert I could see other mountains, bare ridges pushed up through the sand. There were springs and water holes in the desert if one knew where to find them, and I had learned from my friends the Cahuillas where they were likely to be. In the barest of rocky ridges there were often natural tanks that collected rainwater. Often in sheltered places they kept the water shaded and cool. Those tanks often held thousands of gallons. To find them was not easy, yet they were often there.

  Rising, I moved on along the slope. Glancing back again, I saw them cresting the ridge far behind and above me. They were scattering out now, with an idea of cutting me off from the mountains, of herding me into the desert.

  It was noon by the time I reached the desert’s edge. The sky was clear and blue. It was very hot.

  The men would be suffering less than I, their horses more, yet now they were thinking of what lay before them. The dim track I followed disappeared, appeared again, vanished again, but its direction was plain. It led into the desert, and those who made that trail would have needed water as much as I. Of course—and this I knew from the Indians—the climate had changed, grown drier over the centuries.

  Pausing beside some rocks fallen from the higher ridges, I glanced back. They were gaining on me, closing in.

  I was tired now. I needed rest but could get along without it. They had a man’s hatred to drive them; I had my wish to survive.

  Again I paused and looked back, measuring the distance and their strength. Suddenly I smiled. They were coming into the desert. They were mine now, they belonged to me.

  This was my world, this barren, lonely place, this vast pink-and-copper silence, this land of dancing heat waves and cruel ridges. Here where even the stones turn black from the sun, if they followed me they would leave their bones to mark their trail.

  Far to the south of here in another desert they had driven my father and mother, who had survived. And so would I.

  Squinting my eyes against the glare, I saw them coming down that last slope. Into a wash I went, and along the bottom, hot as an oven. Deliberately I left my trail. Let them follow.

  Once I went to my knees, struggling to get up. It was done with intent. Let them whet their appetite. Let them think they had me. No longer was I alone, for this was the land of the Lonesome Gods, and they were my friends. The desert itself was my friend.

  “Come on!” I begged. “Follow me!”

  Yet when I left the wash in the shadow of a cloud, I saw them hesitating at the mountain’s foot. There was argument among them, I was sure. At least there was reluctance. Would caution or hatred win?

  One man turned back; the rest came on. Perhaps the wounded man? Or one wiser than the others?

  When I came down off the mountains, I’d been somewhere near Lone Tree Canyon, and heading into the desert, I had a dry lake north of me, and beyond it, a range of ragged mountains. There were occasional clouds now, and when possible I used their temporary shadows, moving into the desert.

  The low range ahead of me could have caught some of the brief showers that had fallen within the past few days. Often when I was with the Indians there had been talk of the desert and of places where water might be found at certain times of year. By this time such water would have been scarce or nonexistent had it not been for those brief showers.

  The mountains ahead of me had no tanks that I knew of, but there would be hollows here and there, some of them shadowed by higher rocks. Water ran off these mountains like off a tin roof and gathered in whatever hollows there were.

  Holding the dry lake on my left and the low range on my right, I moved along the mountains, following a dim trail that was, more often than not, invisible.

  It was very hot. I had a lead of several miles and needed every inch of it. My shirt was soaked with sweat, but that was a help, as every slight stir of wind cooled my body. Turning into the mountains, I began searching for hollows. Several were dry; then under a slanting rock I found a half-shaded hollow with at least two gallons of water. I drank, waited, then drank again. Resting, I drank again, bathed my face and neck in the cool water, then started on.

  They were closer now, but they would need water more than I, and there was none. Turning away, I walked along the rocks, then down into the sand. Almost ten miles, if I had understood correctly, from where I now stood, was Bed Rock Spring. It was northwest, a bit out of my way, but there would be water.

  Keeping Red Mountain on my right, I started. Had it been left to me, I should have holed up somewhere in the shade and waited until sundown before starting, but the choice was not mine.

  Steadily I walked. Sweat trickled down my spine and down the sides of my face. As long as I could sweat, I was not worried. Once, crossing a dry wash, I saw some horse tracks. Most of them were unshod horses, wild stock without a doubt. The desert at this season was an unlikely place for them, so they must have been pursued by somebody or something.

  Several times I saw the tracks of bighorn sheep, and the tracks of coyotes were common enough. I walked on into the heat waves, only occasionally looking back. My pursuers were gaining ground. Coming to a stretch of hard-packed ground where the wind had swept away the sand, I started to dog-trot. The hot air seared my lungs; soon I was gasping, and slowed again to a walk.

  Glancing back, I saw them stopped. They were grouped together, obviously arguing. If they turned back now, they could make it to water by sundown…with luck.

  Stubbornly I pushed on. In places the sand was deep, but whenever possible I moved where the trail was, and there the ground was hard-packed from long years of use. Changing my route slightly, I kept in the shadow of a cloud until there was no more shadow, then sought another, working my way steadily toward Bed Rock Spring. Emerging from the shadow of Red Mountain, I saw Dome Peak ahead of me. The spring was somewhere just beyond it.

  Again I glanced back. Two riders still followed; the others had turned back. Undoubtedly these
two would try to keep me in sight and the others would return for fresh horses and for water.

  The trail, merging with another of later vintage, ran off to the northeast. Only a little of daylight was left, and weary as I was, I knew what had to be done. I turned abruptly into the lava beds near Dome Mountain. Keeping to the rocks to leave no tracks, I worked a careful way eastward toward the spring.

  Coming down off the rocks, I studied the area around the spring. There could be one among them who knew the desert better than I, and who might be waiting for me. I had watched for several minutes when I saw three bighorns walk out from where it lay, one of them pausing to lift a hind foot, and bending his neck, scratch behind his ear. Obviously there was nothing to fear. As I came down off the rocks, they moved away, unhurried but watchful.

  At the spring, I drank deep. The water was brackish but cool, and anything wet was welcome. Placing my rifle close at hand, I settled down to wait. If they wanted me now, they had only to come, and they would come.

  For the last half-mile I had walked on rock, leaving no tracks. For at least a mile before that I had left few, but there were two of them, and casting about, they might find some indication, and their horses would be sure to sense the water.

  Again I drank, and rising from the water, I heard them coming. Shadows were gathering, and the sun was going down. Moving into some rocks near the spring, I waited. I was tired, as tired as I had ever been, moving almost continuously over rough terrain since before daylight, and I had come a long, long way.

  Yet I had known desert Indians to run a hundred miles in a long day, and there were Indians south of the border, the Tarahumaras, who were not reckoned as men unless they could run a hundred miles in a day. Well, they were better men than I.

  A sombrero showed above some rocks, and I put a bullet into it and the hat disappeared.

  Moving slightly to a prechosen position, I waited, but nothing happened. All was still. They would want water, but they were having none of it until after dark, if they had the courage to come after it.

  All was still. I could hear the horses moving on the rocks, restless for the water they were denied. Night drew its shadowy shroud about us, and I drank again; then I took up my rifle and moved off into the night.

  There were low, ragged mountains before me. Well before dark I had chosen a sharp-edged rock for landmark, and now I walked toward it. The night was cool, but every step was an effort, and sometimes I felt like a sleepwalker, yet I pushed on, trying to leave no trail but unable in the darkness to judge how successful I was. When I crossed the low, rocky ridge, I could see Pilot Knob against the sky.

  They would not leave the water in the darkness, not knowing where I had gone, and no doubt they would wait until almost morning before they took the chance to approach Bed Rock Spring. Lying down on the sand, I went to sleep.

  Night was a time for prowlers, a time for snakes and such, but I was so tired I simply did not care.

  An hour or two of sleep, and then I would move on. To travel at night was best when it was cool and pleasant. The sand was soft, and I was very tired. With my rifle cradled in my arms, I fell asleep.

  In the distance, a coyote howled. A stone rattled down the rocks and something scurried in the night.

  Chapter 49

  COLD AWAKENED ME. My muscles were cramped and stiff. Sodden with sleep and exhaustion, I rolled over and sat up.

  The sky was very clear, the stars unbelievably bright. Listening, I heard no sound in the night. Staggering to my feet, I leaned for a moment on my rifle. The sand was very white, and there were dark patches of greasewood. Slowly, for I was still stiff from yesterday’s running, I began to walk toward Pilot Knob.

  Careful to leave no tracks, stepping on rocks whenever possible, I pushed on. There were springs up ahead if they knew where to find them, but I did not intend to be their guide.

  From my conversations with the Cahuillas I knew that Pilot Knob was something over ten miles, yet exact distances were always hard to get from Indians. Yet with luck I could make Pilot Knob by sunup, and those who pursued me would not start before then. As the sun lifted to the horizon, I was drinking from a small spring near the base of the Knob.

  Escape from those who would kill me was first, yet I must conserve my strength. There was no guessing what ordeals might await me, yet I was gambling I knew the desert better than they. One thing worried me: what of those who had turned back? Had they quit? Gone for fresh horses and water? Or to plan some other device, some other way in which to entrap me?

  Indian Spring would be my next stop, and it would not be easily found, but now I would begin the destruction of those who followed me. I suspected they had found Bed Rock Spring, but I had traveled by night and left few signs; the slight winds that stirred the sand would remove those.

  They had followed me into the desert to kill me; they had tried to trap me, and were themselves trapped. Few in California knew the deserts except for the Indians. The Californios kept to their lands along the seaward side of the mountains, and the interior was as strange to them as the surface of the moon.

  I had only myself of whom to think; if the others returned they would have six horses and as many men.

  Looking back along my trail, I thought I saw them, but it was likely to be my imagination. “Go back while you can.” I spoke aloud.

  My muscles had loosened with movement and heat. I walked easily now, although my moccasins were wearing through. By nightfall they would be gone.

  It was very hot. Off to the south where the dry lakes were I saw dust devils dancing. Heat waves shimmered, obscuring the distance and the mountains.

  By midday I was at Indian Spring. There were many boulders in the wash where it lay, and high brush hid the spring itself, offering no indication of the presence of water. Indians had placed stones to wall the spring, and the water was about three feet deep. No stream, not so much as a trickle, escaped it. No doubt it was just a seeping to the surface of water running down the wash from Eagle Crags.

  Kneeling by the water, I drank. Scooping up handfuls of water, I bathed my neck, face, and chest. Then I drank again. Resting in the shade of the brush, I continued to soak up water. Several times I crawled from my shelter, and keeping under cover, studied my back trail.

  At last I saw them. Even at this distance I could see they were walking and leading their horses. I counted the horses.

  Five…Five?

  One was gone, then. One horse had gone down. “I am sorry for the horses.” I spoke aloud, as a lonely man often does, hungry for the sound of some voice, even if it is his own.

  Reluctantly I yielded my shade to the lizards and went away from the spring, stepping from rock to rock. I doubted they would find it. Without my friends the Indians I would never have imagined water in this place.

  The sky was molten brass, the desert a vague, dusty copper where heat waves shimmered. Looking down at my own ragged moccasins, I could scarcely see my own feet, but I went out into the desert, going east now with the knowledge that before me was a long and bitter trek to the next water of which I knew, at what was called Garlic Springs.

  My rifle was heavy in my hands, and it was a temptation to discard it, a temptation I resisted. Pausing briefly in the shade of some rocks, I looked off to the east in the direction I must go, squinting my eyes against the glare.

  Nothing but bald, open desert. In the distance, far away, some low, ragged mountains if such they could be called.

  I sat down, staring again at that awful waste that lay before me. Could I make it? Could anybody make it? Anybody at all?

  There might be water closer than Garlic Springs, but I knew of none, and my enemies were coming behind me. I looked back again but could see nothing; then I did. I saw a man leading a horse, enormously tall, an impression of height created by heat waves.

  It would be hours before I would have another drink, if I ever did. Yet, before I was halfway across, night would come with its coolness and its dark, so I must
think of that. I must endure. I must wait for it.

  Yet, if I waited, I might fight them off. I might get all of them.

  “Don’t be a fool!” I told myself irritably. “One or two, but not all.”

  Standing up, I took a step, and taking it, I gave myself to the desert, to the heat, to the thirst. I walked boldly into the desert and took step after step, my eyes upon those distant mountains, shimmering in heat waves like some weird land beyond imagination. Slowly, steadily, I walked. I chose little goals for myself. That greasewood with the weird shape. If I could get that far…

  A white rock as large as my two fists. I made it to the rock, and chose another, and then another. I kept my eyes from the awful distance and chose just the near goals. It was midafternoon before I stumbled, minutes later when I fell.

  The heat on the face of the desert was unbearable. Struggling up, I started on again. Once I turned to look back. They were there, they had seen me, and they were coming.

  Squinting again, I saw but three. Only three? I was winning, then.

  I was winning? Grimly I laughed within. The desert was winning. Whatever killing was done, the desert would do.

  How long since I had eaten? I could not remember, but the thought of food nauseated me. I fell again, but I got up.

  Glancing back, I could see they were closer now. They had gotten into their saddles. They were riding to catch me, but the horses were walking. I did not think they could run.

  Walking on into the heat, I staggered, almost fell, but caught myself on the rifle, using it as a staff. Turning then, I lifted the rifle, holding to the wood, for the barrel was too hot to touch, took careful aim, and fired.

  A man lurched in the saddle. I had scarcely hoped to hit him, but then he fell.

  Stumbling, staggering, I kept moving. Once more I fell, and from somewhere a thought came to me. “I am Johannes Verne. I am not afraid.”

  I got up to my knees, lurched to my feet, and walked on, nor did I fall again. “I am Johannes Verne, and I am not afraid.”