The Lonesome Gods

by Louis L'Amour

  “She is under my protection,” Tomás said quietly. “She will not be harmed.”

  “Don’t be a fool, old man. Stay out of this and you may live. Of that I have not decided, but if you are wise…who knows?”

  Tomás knelt beside the fire. He stirred the coals under the coffee, seemed to touch the pot, and jerked his hand away, his eyes meeting hers. He was telling her something.

  The coffee, the hot coffee. That was a weapon, too. She remembered her father once saying that anything could be a weapon, that men had been killing each other for a million years before a gun was invented, and if one did not have a gun, there was always something.

  To be alert, to watch her chances. That was the thing. Not to run, for she could not run as fast as any one of them in her heavy skirts, and running away left her vulnerable to attack.

  She was thinking now. The coffee had been one thought, but there were others. There was a long stick near the fire. She took it up and poked it into the fire as if feeding the flames. There was that stick…

  “Let us eat, Tomás. Let a man’s pleasures come later.” Biscal turned his head and gave her a sidelong glance. “I have seen you about the town and wondered how I could get you.” He jerked his head toward his silent companion. “We talked of it. And then you decided to go into the hills…perfect! We could not have planned it better!”

  Should she shoot him now? Unexpectedly? He had stated his intentions, and if she shot him without warning, when he had not moved toward her, she would take them by surprise. She might have to shoot but one.

  To kill in cold blood? But to defend herself? The riding dress she wore had a slit inside the pocket to allow her to reach her pistol. That had been her father’s idea, and she had scoffed, doubting she would ever need a gun.

  Yet she must not put her hand in her pocket without reason or they might leap upon her and find the gun. She would, when the time came, make believe to sneeze. She would seem to reach for a handkerchief and then shoot him.

  She need not even take the gun out. She could shoot through the material.

  Iglesias was looking at her. “You are not afraid?” He seemed surprised and puzzled.

  “Afraid? Why?” She leaned forward a little. “Have you ever seen Johannes with a gun? He is very good, you know, as his father was. Do you not remember what happened when they tried to steal his horses? There were many of them and he was alone.”

  “Come!” Tomás said suddenly. “It is time for eat. Bring yourselves to the fire.” He indicated a stack of tortillas. “Help yourselves.”

  It was a cool, starlit night. The smell of the fire was good. Meghan Laurel looked to the stars, and then to the fire. In her mind she whispered:Johannes, where are you?

  She had been such a fool, but knowing that did not help now.

  Where was he? Was it true that they were pursuing him into the desert? Even now he might be out there, suffering, dying, alone.

  There was nothing she could do, nor was there anything he could do to help. What must be done, she must do. I will not wait, she told herself. I shall shoot him at once.

  Before he is ready. Before he makes a move. Shoot him suddenly and the others will be frightened.

  She had never killed a man, never dreamed that she might, yet her father had warned her she might someday have to defend herself when she was not near.

  Suddenly one of the horses lifted his head, nostrils flaring. She seized upon the thought. “Look at him!” she exclaimed suddenly. “There is somebody out there!”

  Startled, they looked. Iglesias, who had been crouching by the fire, stood up and peered into the night.

  “Coyote,” he said at last.

  “Was it?” she asked.

  Biscal looked around uneasily. He spoke low-voiced in Spanish to Iglesias, who shook his head impatiently. Biscal took another tortilla and scooped beans and meat from the pot, yet occasionally he stopped to listen, too.

  She arose and went to the fire. She took her own tortilla and scooped something from the pot, and ate. “It tastes good, Tomás. You are a good cook. May I have some coffee now?”

  “Of course, señorita!” He filled a cup and handed it to her. She sipped a little, then placed the cup on a rock near where she sat. She was ready now. Had they noticed that she took the cup with her left hand? She thought not, but Iglesias was looking at her, puzzled by something.

  The horse’s head was up again, ears pricked. So were the others’. All were looking off into the night; then one turned and looked across the fire at something.

  Biscal swore and stood up, peering into the dark. “Sit down,” Iglesias said impatiently. “You are jumpy as a girl!”

  “Something is here,” Biscal muttered. “I don’t like it.”

  An old man, a boy, and a girl against three grown men, all strong men, vaqueros at least a part of the time. She must shoot one, throw hot coffee on another, if she could. She must be ready, and she must not give herself away, and when the moment came, she must move fast.

  “What was that?” she asked suddenly.

  Biscal looked up. “What? What did you hear?”

  “Something…I don’t know. There was a sound. I—”

  “There was nothing!” Iglesias said irritably. “Nothing at all!”

  Biscal looked around uneasily. Tomás stooped over the pot, then half-straightened, listening. Biscal wet his lips watching.

  The third man, who had remained still, looked from one to the other. “Estúpido!” he said contemptuously. He got up. “I do not wait. I am ready.”

  One of the horses shied suddenly, and they all turned to look.

  Meghan took the opportunity to get to her feet, cup in her left hand. She glanced at Tomás, nodding slightly. Her right hand slipped into her pocket, through the slit, grasping the small pistol.

  The boy, at some signal from Tomás, was on his feet also. He was watching Iglesias, waiting.

  Now they all heard it, something stirring out there. They heard a football, then another, the silence.

  “Who is there?” Biscal challenged.

  A slight breeze stirred the leaves. There was no other sound. Meghan had shifted her attention to the third man, who was not listening. He was looking at her. “Now,” he said, “you come to me, little one, and if you beg a little, I may not hurt you so much!”

  “Don’t be a fool!” she said sharply.

  Iglesias threw his coffee to the ground. “Now! Now it will be!” he said. “I, first, then…”

  Chapter 53

  FOR A MOMENT after the soft rap on the door, Miss Nesselrode sat very still. It was late, scarcely the hour for visitors, and since the appearance of Alexis Murchison she had been careful about opening the door to anyone. Rising, she crossed the room to the door, listened for a moment, and when the rap came again, she asked, “Who is there?”

  “It’s me, ma’am. Kelso.”

  She opened the door and he stepped in quickly, removing his hat as he closed the door behind him. “Sorry to come around so late, ma’am, but I saw your light and figured you’d want to know.”

  “Is it about Meghan Laurel? Or Johannes?”

  “No, ma’am. A long time ago you asked me to sort of look into what happened to that Spanish boy who arrived on the ship with Tía Elena.”

  “Oh, yes. I had forgotten.”

  “Found something kinda peculiar. That woman we heard about? The one who took the boy and rode off with him in the night? She was Felipe’s sister.”

  “Felipe?”

  “That vaquero who sort of fell off a cliff out on Don Isidro’s ranch?”

  She remembered now: she had been interested, although just why, she did not recall. So much was happening, with Johannes disappearing into the desert, and Meghan going after him.

  “She loved that boy like he was her own. Taken him away, cared for him.” Kelso took out his pipe. “Mind if I smoke, ma’am? This here’s quite a story.”

  It was late, and she was impatient for news of Johann
es and Meghan. Jacob Finney had gone back to the wild country looking for them. Now, however, she was tired, and she needed the rest. Nonetheless, Kelso was a good man, a sincere, hardworking man, and she would hear him out.

  “Will you have some coffee? It’s hot, but not very fresh, I’m afraid.”

  “Been drinkin’ that kind of coffee since I was a youngster.” He struck a match on the hearth and lighted his pipe. “That boy’s name was Alfredo. That woman was paid to take him away, and she done it. Only thing was, she was a childless woman and she came to love that lad. She took him into the mountains down near Pala…Injun country. She wanted to keep him away from folks, keep him to herself.

  “Then she picked up with a man. Taken to Livin’ with him from time to time. He was an Anglo, quiet sort of feller, prospectin’, trappin’, tradin’ a mite…that sort of thing. He took to the boy, too. Used to take him picture books he found—some of them had been left behind at one of the missions when the padres left.”

  Miss Nesselrode refilled his cup. She half-started to rise. Kelso must think this was important or he would not have come around at this hour, so she sat back down, trying not to show her impatience.

  “Old books, they were. Had to do with building over in Rome an’ Greece, things like that. Pictures from Spain, too, pictures of an old mosque in Córdoba and such.

  “That boy, he growed up with those books. There weren’t many white folks around where he was, and not many of the Injuns could read. I reckon it was a lonely life, especially after she died.”

  “Died?”

  “Yes, ma’am, an’ when she died, that boy disappeared. Of course, he wasn’t just a kid. He was somewhere in his teens, I reckon, might have been older.

  “Folks thought him odd, those few who met him, and he went somewhere off by himself.”

  “That’s too bad, Mr. Kelso, but I fail to see—”

  “That man? The one who lived with the Spanish woman? He kept in touch with the boy. He was the only one knew where he lived, although he told nobody, nobody at all.”

  She was very tired. She arose and began putting things away, hoping Kelso would leave. He held his cup, staring into the fire; then he looked up suddenly.

  “Ma’am? That feller? The one who lived for a time with that Spanish woman? He was kind of a loner. Made mighty few friends, although a lot of his kind knew him by name, drifters, prospectors, and the like. But there was one man he considered a friend.”

  “Mr. Kelso, it is very late, and I—”

  He got to his feet. “Sorry, ma’am, but I figured you should know. The one friend that man claimed was Zachary Verne.”

  For a moment she just stood there, but curiosity over came her weariness. “Sit down, Mr. Kelso. Please have some more coffee.”

  “Like I say, that man was a loner. Had some good qualities, though, and the best one was loyalty. He never forgot a friend or a favor, so when he heard Zack was coming back to California, he met him down in the desert. Met him at that place where the hot spring is and all them palm trees? You were there, I think maybe you might have seen this man. He came to meet Zachary Verne and to get him off the stage. His name was Peter Burkin.”

  Of course she remembered! He had seemed a roughhewn sort of man—friendly and honest had been her impression.

  “If you will recall, he came to warn Verne that if he went on into Los Angeles he’d be killed. Nobody would think too much of it, as folks were gettin’ killed all the time, and Verne would only be remembered by a few.

  “Burkin warned Verne, then took him to a place he knew, and that was where Verne and the boy lived until Verne was killed, and the boy lived there for some time after, until you sent for him.”

  Long after Mr. Kelso had gone, she lay awake thinking. Alfredo…that had been the boy’s name, and he had come over on the same ship with Elena. Don Federico, only a boy then himself, had supposedly tried to kill Alfredo.

  Why had Alfredo been suddenly spirited away and hidden for all those years? And where was he now? If he was still alive?

  Peter Burkin would know, and somehow she must find Peter and talk to him. Yet, what business was it of hers? That Burkin had also known Zachary Verne was pure coincidence, no doubt, but the woman who cared for Alfredo had been a sister to the mysteriously murdered Felipe. She supposed it all tied together somehow, and she was still thinking about it when she fell asleep.

  When morning came, she awakened disturbed by Kelso’s information, yet uncertain as to why it should bother her. Of course, anything that even remotely concerned Johannes was of interest. He was the only “family” she possessed, and from the beginning he had been the son she had always wanted.

  Los Angeles had changed, and she had seen and was seeing it change. In the passing of years it had grown from scarcely two thousand to a busy city of almost sixteen thousand people. From the beginning she had gone out to the limits of the town and bought land; now much of that land had increased several times in value.

  Down at the end of Spring Street there was an amusement park, the Washington Gardens, a place of about thirty-five acres of fruit trees and vineyards where a few wild animals were kept, and there was a place for dancing and a bandstand. Further along there was the Agricultural Park and its racetrack.

  Houses were beginning to appear on the hills back of the town. There were three principal streets. Main was the busiest, followed by Spring and San Pedro, the latter a dusty thoroughfare with many orange groves. One of these was Wolfskill’s orchard of well over one hundred acres.

  Every day now there was change, and every day she found herself looking to the hills. The air was clear and beautiful, the town a place of gardens and vineyards.

  Elena! Try as she would, she could not keep her thoughts from returning to Johannes. She must see Elena. Who was Alfredo? What did she know of Peter Burkin?

  She walked to the door, glanced at the street, then turned and walked back behind the railing that separated her desk from the reading room.

  Where was Johannes? And Meghan?

  There had been no word. Jacob Finney had ridden away with Monte McCalla, Owen Hardin, and two other men. They were heavily armed and had packhorses, ready for a prolonged stay.

  She must get word to Elena. She must do that now, at once.

  Johannes, if he was alive, would try to reach his Indian friends, but his enemies would know that and be prepared for it. Yet she could do nothing. Unless…

  Maybe, even at this late date, she could stop it.

  Don Isidro, who rarely came to town these days, had come in that day. She would go to see him. Hesitating only an instant as she reviewed the situation, she sent her girl for Kelso, who would be sleeping in the small cabin on the back of the place. Both Finney and Kelso had become minor partners in her ventures while still on salary. Finney had been prepared for it; Kelso was more reluctant.

  “The town is growing, Mr. Kelso,” she had said impatiently. “We must grow with it. The Californios are doing it. You must also.”

  “I’ve no head for business,” he grumbled.

  She had smiled at him. “But I have, Mr. Kelso. Leave it to me.”

  He followed the maid back into the house, shrugging into his coat, for the night was cool. She noticed he was wearing a gun.

  “We’re going to see Don Isidro,” she said. “I am going to end this, once and for all.”

  “He won’t listen, ma’am.”

  “He’ll listen. Doña Elena is there, too. Together we shall make him listen.”

  Only a few lights showed, but there were several horses in the corrals, and from the men’s quarters there was loud talk and laughter. Kelso stared that way, then said, “That’s a bad lot, ma’am. You sure you want to go through with this? They tell me the old man’s gotten meaner with years.”

  “They are drinking. They will not even know we are here, and we shall not be. Not for long.”

  Reluctantly he walked up to the door and knocked. There was a long silence, and he was liftin
g his hand to knock again when a hard-featured woman opened the door.

  “Sí? What is it?”

  “We wish to see Don Isidro.”

  “He wishes to see nobody. Especially he wishes to see no gringos.”

  Miss Nesselrode’s tone was sharp. “Then we will see Doña Elena. We will see her now!”

  The woman hesitated a moment; then, turning, she walked away from them and they followed. She passed through an arch, there was muttered talk, and then Doña Elena appeared.

  She came to them. “My good friend! You come here? It is dangerous! What is it you wish?”

  “To speak to Don Isidro. Don Federico has followed Johannes into the desert. We hear he is watching all the water holes to kill him when he appears. I want it stopped, and I want it stopped now.”

  “He will not listen, señora. It is dangerous here. You must go.”

  “I must see him.”

  She hesitated. “Please? Come this way.”

  He was slumped in a great hide chair, a cigar in his fingers, and he looked up, then straightened when he recognized Miss Nesselrode.

  “What is this woman doing here?” he demanded harshly. “Get her out of here! How dare you permit her to come into my house!”

  “Don Federico is in the desert. He is pursuing your grandson and is trying to kill him. I want it stopped.”

  “You want it stopped? And who are you? Get out of here!”

  “I wish her to stay, and I wish you to listen.”

  Don Isidro turned sharply as Elena spoke. For a moment he was speechless; then he said, “You wish? Who are you to wish anything? Go to your room!”

  “No, my brother, I shall stay. If anyone leaves, it shall be you.”

  He stared, the veins in his forehead swelled, and his face turned white “Elena!” he shouted. “You…!” Words failed him.

  In the moment of silence as he struggled for words, she spoke quietly but firmly. “No, my brother, you will not order me from this room, which is mine, nor this house, which is also mine.”

  Don Isidro struggled to rise, then fell back. “Woman!” he shouted. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner? Your house?”