The Lonesome Gods

by Louis L'Amour

  Jacob Finney walked to the door. He glanced back at Miss Nesselrode and lifted a hand.

  When the door closed, she said, “He did not want to go.”

  “And I don’t blame him,” Wilson replied.

  Chapter 51

  ON A COOL brown ledge in the shade of a jagged upthrust of rock, I looked out upon a desert turning gray with the coming of night. It had been four days since I left my last enemy shouting threats and obscenities as I walked away.

  Those who pursued me were dead, and some future traveler could mark their trail by their whitening bones and the sound of a desert wind moaning in their empty rib cages.

  My moccasins had worn out again. As I watched the desert that tomorrow I must travel, I made a fresh pair from the buckskin of my sleeve-canteen. That water bag had leaked, yet retained enough water to get me across three long stretches where there were no springs.

  Torn on the rocks when I fell, the water bag lost the last few drops and I was near my end when I glimpsed some salt grass at the lowest part of a blistering desert basin. As I drew closer, I saw arrowweed and crawling mesquite, two more evidences of water. And then I found a spring that offered no other sign of its presence.

  That had been two days ago. Now I sat within a dozen feet of a rock tank containing water, a place visited by bighorn sheep, coyotes, and other wildlife. Their converging tracks, scarcely to be seen in the sand, had brought me here. I had drunk deep, splashed my face and chest with water, and then I’d moved off to sleep the night through and leave my animal guides access to the water. In the morning I returned to drink and then settled down to rest, study the desert, and wait for night.

  The changing light on the desert had let me pick my route. Tonight there would be a moon, and I would start for the mountains on the skyline. Now I was close to the southern edge of the desert and must move with extreme care.

  Every instinct and a bit of common sense warned me somebody would be waiting. At least three men had turned back, and one of them would have been Don Federico. He had tried too often and had a fierce hunger to see me die. The logical thing would be to watch every water hole at the desert’s edge until I appeared, as eventually I must.

  Odd, but I had never thought of myself as an heir. Nor had I wanted anything from Don Isidro, although the irony of it appealed to me, to inherit after all his efforts to see me die. It would serve him right.

  On the horizon were the San Gabriel and San Bernardino mountains. If I could reach those mountains I could travel south to join my friends the Cahuillas with less trouble. Not only would I be traveling among the pines, but water would be easily available. The thought of traveling with water and shade was tantalizingly beautiful.

  Now, studying the desert from my high point, I tried to decide where my enemies might await me.

  Not more than five miles from the low range of rocks where I now rested was Old Woman Springs; near it, Cottonwood Spring. Beyond them were the mountains where I wished to be.

  Twenty-five or thirty miles away was Rabbit Springs, but in the wrong direction for me. Don Federico would rightly guess that I would attempt to reach my friends the Indians at the hot-water springs at the mountain’s edge. Not these mountains, but the San Jacintos further south. He might or might not know about the Indians in Morongo Valley, closer, and also my friends. It was near there, I believed, that Paulino Weaver had settled. Don Federico would have men watching these springs.

  That I would be in desperate need of water they would realize, and they had only to wait. Yet there was now an advantage for me. This was country I had ridden and walked with the Cahuilla.

  By the time I reached the vicinity of Old Woman, I would be thirsty and needing a drink, yet I would pass it by in favor of a more hidden spring with even better water, Saddlerock Spring, where the water flowed right from the granite in a hidden place in the mountains. Only a few miles further south and I would be safe among my friends the Indians.

  Now I rested. My belt was drawn four notches tighter than when I left the others. The last piece of jerky left to me was now in my mouth. I chewed slowly, to make it last as long as possible. During the days in the desert, I had found seeds that could be eaten, and with my small supply of jerked beef they had kept me alive.

  One more stretch of desert to cross, one more group of watchers to evade, and then I was safe.

  Now…I sat still, dreading the moment when I must leave this water behind and once more endure the desert.

  I arose. On a rock face near where I had been sitting there was Indian writing, faded by blown sand, almost obliterated by time. Here, long ago, Indians had come to drink. There was no pile of stones, what some unknowing people had called “shrines,” but I placed two stones, one atop the other. Then I turned away into the desert.

  San Gorgonio Mountain, something over eleven thousand feet above sea level, was almost due south of me. For a moment I looked at it, then chose a star just east of the peak and started walking. Once I paused to stretch, trying to stretch some of the stiffness from my muscles. I was tired, very, very tired.

  Until now all my effort had been directed simply to the next spring, water hole, or tank. At each I had fallen, exhausted. One spring upon which my hopes depended had proved to be dry. A tank I had hoped to find containing some water had been a bed of sand.

  Before me, beyond this stretch of desert, were the mountains. A forest, even if a sparse forest at first, but the cool, cool shade and cool, cool water! I longed to lie on pine needles beneath a tree and rest, just rest.

  A little further, just a little further! Into the night and the coolness I walked…and walked. Sometimes I found my eyes closing even as I walked; I stumbled and awakened, but on course. There was my star, there were the mountains.

  I smelled smoke.

  Wood smoke, the smoke of a campfire. There, not a half-mile away, perhaps even less, Old Woman Springs, and a faint gleam through the brush.

  A fire. My enemies awaited me. They were resting, drinking water and coffee at their leisure.

  Yet suppose these were not enemies? Perhaps some other travelers, merely camping at the water hole. They would welcome me, give me something to drink and to eat.

  Should I chance it? It had been days since I’d had enough to drink, and I was always hungry. I hesitated, wanting to go closer, yet afraid, too. Now that I was so awfully tired, I was clumsy, too. I could not manage my feet well, I stumbled often, and if I went closer, would be sure to alarm the camp. Moreover, the horses would smell me. Hesitantly I moved closer, pausing often. Somebody moved near the fire, throwing a shadow as he passed close to the fire; then I heard somebody say, “It is a waste of time! The man is dead! Who could survive out there without food or water? And without a horse? Juliano is sure to have caught and killed him.”

  “What difference does it make? Are we not paid for what we do? Sit down, rest yourself. It is for a few days only.”

  For a moment I swayed on my feet, sick with disappointment; then I turned away and walked on by. One step at a time, half-asleep, I stumbled on. Several times I staggered; once I fell to my knees. Saddlerock Spring must be ten…No, more. At least twelve miles.

  There was another spring nearer, but it might be watched as well. On I went, walking, staggering, almost falling. My feet were tender, for the skin had often broken.

  Again I fell to my knees. For a moment I stayed where I was, wanting nothing so much as to fall forward and to sleep. At last I got up and walked on.

  Somehow I clung to my rifle. Time and again I used it to push me up from the sand where I had fallen. Now I was existing only for water, any kind of water, anywhere. There was Two Hole Spring…I had heard of it…somewhere nearer than Saddlerock. Without a drink I would never make it.

  Suddenly the mountains were lifting up before me. I started on, smelled smoke again, and stopped. Peering through some scattered brush and the rocks, I caught a gleam of fire. Carefully I edged closer.

  A fire…one man. A big rawboned A
nglo with a straggly beard. A hawk face and long, sparse hair. He added fuel to a fire. I could smell coffee. My stomach growled ominously. Edging closer, I thought of that coffee, of food, of water, of…

  He saw me.

  He had picked up the coffeepot to fill his cup. His eyes held mine. Slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving mine, he put down the coffeepot. He held the stub of a cigar in his yellow teeth and he rolled it to the corner of his mouth.

  He had a straggly mustache that fell on either corner of his mouth. His shirt was stained and dirty. He slowly straightened up, rolling the cigar again.

  When he was straightened to his full height, he smiled past the cigar; then coolly he reached for his gun. Dumbly I stared at him. I was stupid with exhaustion. I saw his hand clasp the gun, saw it start to lift as it came free of the holster, saw the yellow teeth, the wolfish smile, and his gun came up. Then I shot him.

  My rifle, held in my right hand, fired from the hip. The bullet struck him, and, shocked, he stared at me. Then his gun went off, the bullet going into the ground. Stepping forward, I swung the barrel of my rifle against his arm and the gun went flying.

  He fell back in a sitting position, staring at me as blood spilled over his belt and stained his pants. Picking up his cup, I filled it with coffee. Holding the cup in my left hand, I made a gesture of salute. “Gracias,” I said, and drank.

  He made a gesture of indifference, as much as to say: Help yourself. I drank again.

  One of his hands rested on the ground; the other held his belly where the bullet had gone.

  “It was for fifty dollars,” he explained.

  “It is a lot of money, sometimes,” I agreed; then I added, “You make a good cup of coffee.”

  “Por nada,” he said.

  I finished the coffee and refilled my cup. There was no pain in him yet, only shock. “They will come,” he said. “The shot…”

  “Of course,” I agreed.

  He pointed toward his pack. “There is bacon,” he said, “but you have no time.”

  “I can take it? And the coffee?”

  “Of course,” he said, and then he added, “They are at the Old Woman. They will run you down, I think.”

  “Who knows?” I shrugged. “There was a pair of saddlebags.”

  “The bacon is there,” he said, “and the coffee.”

  “I’ll take them, and the pot.” I emptied the last of the coffee.

  “It was for fifty dollars,” he said. “Fifty dollars to be here, a hundred if I killed you.”

  “Ah? You have bad luck,” I said. Taking my time, for my hands were unsteady, I reloaded my rifle. I would need every shot. There was a canteen. Taking that and the saddlebags, I slung them over my shoulder and took the cup and the coffeepot.

  “There is the horse,” he said. “It is saddled. Take it.”

  “Gracias,” I said again, and then, as I started toward the horse, I turned back to him. “Another time, I might have bought you a drink.”

  “Of course,” he said, “and I, you.”

  He was sitting in a pool of blood now. I lifted a hand.

  “Adiós!” I said, and he tried to lift a hand to me but could not.

  At the rim of the firelight I untied the horse. “Fifty dollars?” I said. “It was not enough.”

  “Who knows?” he said, and he rolled over with his cheek against the rocks, his eyes staring toward the fire.

  “Adiós,” I said again, but he did not answer.

  The horse was a tired horse, but not so tired as I. I rode him down Rattlesnake Canyon and then cut back into the hills toward Saddlerock. The canteen, when I hefted it, was only half-full. At Saddlerock I could fill it if it was not watched.

  It was not. Dismounting, I emptied out the water, rinsed the canteen, and refilled it with the fresh, clear water from Saddlerock. I lay down and drank, and drank again. The horse was in no such shape as I and drank but little.

  They would be coming soon, and there would be many of them, nor was I in any shape for a fight. Yet they would find the other man and be cautious.

  Morongo Valley. Was it ten miles? Or further?

  Mounting up, I turned the horse into a canyon that sloped toward the desert. I walked the horse, saving it for runs yet to come.

  The shot would have been heard. On such a night, clear and cool, it would be heard far.…Two shots.

  By the time I had gone a mile, the coffee had brought me alive enough to think.

  They would be coming fast down the Burns Canyon Trail, and they would cut me off from Morongo. They would know about the Indians and me, as they had known about the Indians and my father.

  They would cut me off, they would drive me into the desert.

  Not that, not again. Please…not that again.

  Turning my horse, I sought a way over the low ridges and found it. There was open ground beyond, with some Joshua trees. I wove a way among them, ran into a clump of boulders, and had to swing wide around them. And then I heard them.

  They were coming fast down the Burns Canyon Trail, and there were a lot of them, judging by the sound. I ran my horse toward the gap near Chaparrosa Spring, hoping to pass them and ride into Morongo ahead of them.

  Suddenly a yell and a shot. There had been riders at Chaparrosa, heading me off. There were five or six of them. I fired then, and fired again. The horse jumped sharply and faltered.

  What…? Riding hard, I rode into the desert, and under me the horse’s gait became unsteady. They had fired, my horse had been hit.

  Please, I whispered, just a little further! Please!

  Gamely, desperately, the horse ran on. Then he tumbled and pitched forward and I left the saddle over his head but landed on my feet, running.

  My rifle was gone with the fall; the saddlebags flapped over my shoulder, and the canteen. Desperately I clung to them, saw some boulders and went into them, ran down a slope and wove my way between other boulders and the Joshuas.

  Pausing to listen, I heard them passing off to the south. They would ride on, find the fallen horse, and begin to search.

  Only minutes…just minutes…

  They were coming.

  Chapter 52

  MEGHAN SAT CLOSE to the fire, her arms around her knees. She stared into the fire and was frightened. She had been a fool, a complete fool, and now she was trapped.

  Tomás was across the fire from her, preparing food, and he was also trapped, and it was her fault. Such a kind old man! He had tried, very gently, to dissuade her. He had tried to tell her how impossible it was to find one man in all that vast world beyond the mountains. She had not believed him, and now it was too late.

  By the third day she had begun to realize the impossibility of it, but her stubbornness refused to let her turn back, and she could not believe she would not find him. She must find him.

  There were two other men with them, and one of them, named Iglesias, had not worked with Tomás but had volunteered to come along. From the first, he made her uncomfortable. He insisted on trying to ride beside her, and kept throwing meaningful glances at her, taunting, contemptuous glances.

  Once, riding near her he had said, “He is an old man. He can do nothing for you.”

  On the night of the third day two other men had ridden down from the hills and joined them. They did not say anything, but they rode along. And they knew Iglesias.

  Obviously the meeting had been arranged. They looked boldly at her, letting their eyes go over her body and smiling at each other.

  One of them had looked at her and said, “Soon.”

  She wanted to turn back now but was afraid that would only precipitate matters. Perhaps if she waited, something might happen.

  She was desperately afraid, but she must not let them know. She also had the small pistol her father had given her, but it was hidden and they had not seen it.

  There were three of them. She had never shot a man and had never believed she could; now she believed. Now she knew it would come to that.

&nb
sp; Now she could not think of Johannes. All her wits must be upon this situation. Tomás glanced at her. He knew she understood and he knew she was ready for whatever could be done.

  If anything could be done.

  “Johannes should be near,” she said suddenly. “He would not have come further than this.”

  She said it, and hoped they would believe it, even though she knew it was not true. Johannes was nowhere near.

  Tomás straightened from the fire. “Of course,” he said. “He should be riding in at any moment.”

  The other men ignored their talk. Except the boy who had worked with Tomás. He was quiet; he was frightened, too.

  “You are young,” one of them said suddenly, “but you can be in it, too. The old one is too old. He does not matter.”

  That one, the one whom they called Biscal, he looked contemptuously at Meghan. “We know where he is. He is in the desert, he is on foot, and they are following him. By now he is for the buzzards.

  “He will not come.” Biscal smiled. “No one will come. We are alone.”

  “Captain Laurel is a man,” Tomás said suddenly. “He fears no one. He has much power, in Mexico as well as here.”

  “Bah! He is far at sea. And when he comes back? She went into the mountains, so who knows what bear killed her?”

  It was said now, it was declared, it was in the open. “You do not know my people,” she said, “or the friends I have among your people. If I am harmed in any way, they will never stop until they find you and hang you.”

  Biscal chuckled. “You are not the first, and I am not hung. Although,” he added, “you are the most beautiful. Had I not promised them, I would keep you for myself.”

  She was still frightened, but now there was something inside of her that was very still, very ready. When the moment came, she would let him get close and she would kill him first.

  The boy would help her, she was sure of that, and Tomás as well, but there were three men against them. She must kill one, quickly, surely.