Speaking softly, I walked nearer, trying not to frighten him. He was in no shape to run, as whoever had chased them had simply run them ragged, and tough as he was, that big stallion was only hours away from going down himself, and then the buzzards would move in.
Edging closer, I took off my hat, and unstopping my canteen, I poured about half of the water into my hat and held it for the stallion to drink. He shied a mite but was too bad off to run, and when he smelled that water, he moved closer.
He dipped his nose into my hat and drank. He drank it all and wanted more, but what I had must be kept. We had a long way to go. However, in that canyon there was water, the canyon where the palm trees were. Getting there was another thing. It would be tough for me, tougher for that black horse.
With the straps from the rucksack, I made a makeshift bridle. From the beginning I’d had a hunch that horse had been ridden at some time or at least handled by some man or woman. He stood quiet while I slipped the bridle on, and let me lead him off down the canyon a ways. Leaving him standing there, I walked back and put that down horse out of its misery.
Leading the black stallion, I started down the canyon. There was water aplenty at Thousand Palms, but getting there would be a trick. No longer did I have just myself to worry about, but a mighty big horse that would need a lot of water.
The canyon down which we were walking, with the desert opening before us, collected runoff from several intermittent creeks, so when I saw a hollow near a boulder with cracked mud in the bottom, I decided to take a chance. Horses, wild horses at least, were good at finding water and sometimes pawing the dirt out to get at it.
Using my bowie knife, I started digging at the ground to see if there was water. When I’d worked maybe a half-hour I began finding damp earth, and down deeper, water began to come in. Scooping out more dirt, I let the water seep in. It was slow, but it came. That stallion needed no urging. He just put his head down and sucked it all up.
We stayed right there until sundown, and whenever there was water enough seeped in, I let the big black drink. Meanwhile I scouted around and found some jimsonweed growing. That was no great wonder, because it can be found growing most everywhere along roads and up canyons, even sometimes on the bald desert. Crushing up some of the leaves with water, I plastered them on the sores. Then I washed my hands with fresh sand, not trusting the weed too much.
When shadows started to gather, I got up. “All right, boy,” I said, “let’s you and me go home.”
He came right along after me, and I did not even have to lead him. He knew when he’d found a friend. I would have dearly liked to ride him, but he was in no shape for that.
We started, taking our time, because he was a very tired horse. The water had done wonders for him, and I’d managed a drink for myself before we started out. Most of the way was downhill, a long, gentle slope. It would be that way until we were fairly close to the palm canyon; then we’d have to climb a bit. By that time the stallion would smell the water and would be eager to get to it.
We plodded along past smoke trees and occasional palo verde that grew along the wash, until we found the wide valley scattered with palms—singles, twos, and groves. Some were ragged with thick skirts of palm leaves that had served their time and folded over at the bottoms of the trees, with the leaves of successive years thickening the skirts as the trees grew tall. Some had been burned, leaving the trunks blackened but alive, but here and there the fires had proved too much and the palms had died.
It was a wild, desolate scene of fallen trees and scattered palm leaves, long dead. From among the palms a lonely coyote trotted away with only occasional backward glances at us who disturbed him.
From along the base of one grove there was a trickle of water rimmed with the white of alkali. Bad-tasting though it was, both the stallion and I drank and drank, then drank again.
Climbing a bench away from the small stream, we found a place under some palms where I searched for sidewinders or rattlers and found none. Lying down on some palm fronds, I promptly fell asleep and awakened hours later with the stallion nudging me with his nose. I put my hand on his neck, and he shied unconvincingly. Rising, I checked the sores on his back. They looked better, but I found no jimsonweed to renew the dressing, although the locality was a likely spot for it to grow.
“Come on, boy, we’re going home.”
Ten miles or so to the mountains across the valley, but ten miles in a wide-open valley with no place to hide.
It was early evening before I walked up the dusty lane to where the store stood.
The small ramshackle house was empty. The door hung on leather-strap hinges; the chimney had fallen, breaking through a part of the roof; wind whined under the eaves and whispered sand across the porch. I looked within. Dust, a broken box, a couple of empty bottles, and a sad-looking dented bucket. Well, he had not been a settler, only a squatter, and had moved on to fresher fields.
Walking beside the black stallion, I went along the road toward home. Rounding the last dune, I saw the ocotillo that fenced the place, but the house was gone.
The walls had toppled; the chimney was a dark, questioning finger; a charred beam lay across where the living room had been. Leaving the horse, I walked up to the ruins. The spine and part of the charred cover of a book…
Walking on past, and calling the stallion, I went to the water trough. It sat there on its sturdy forked legs, unshaken by earthquake, unharmed by fire, clear cold water running from the rusted pipe into it. The stable roof had collapsed, but the corners still stood.
In the gathering dusk I stood and looked around. Gone…all gone, this last place where I had lived with my father and where, despite his illness, we had been briefly happy.
While the stallion drank his fill, I sat on one of the fallen stones. What now of my lonely giant? What of the strange one from the mountains who came to my house for books and brought the smell of pines?
At the pipe I emptied and refilled my canteen. I could not remain here. My enemies would come here first of all, and they could not be far behind me. By now they would have found the bodies by Stubby Spring and my destination would be obvious. They would not take the time to track but would come directly here.
Tired though I was, I must find another place, a place to go, to hide. And then I must return to Los Angeles and to Meghan.
But where now? To Palm Canyon? There were nearly always some of the Indians there, but why take them trouble?
Yet I might be able to borrow a bridle and saddle, and the sores on the stallion’s back were not where they would be chafed by a saddle or a girth.
Yet as I turned away, something stopped me. Turning, I walked back to the chimney, counted the bricks in the fireplace, and then worried one of them loose.
My father’s gold, my gold. I had forgotten about it until now. It was still there. I pocketed the gold and replaced the brick.
All I wanted now was to rest, to stay in one place, to relax if even for a day.
There was a place I knew, a place where I had gone sometimes with Francisco; it was a hollow surrounded by mesquite and a few palms where grass had grown, and no doubt had one dug, he might have found water there, a seep from the mountain that rose sharply up for almost two miles right behind the place.
It was a place to hide, a place to rest, a place where they might not find me.
When I reached the place, nothing had changed. I picketed the black horse, using a length of rope found at the stable, and then I stretched out on the soft ground, looked up at the stars and the black wall of the mountain, and then I closed my eyes and slept.
In the night the mountain stirred, rumbles came from deep within it, and I awakened, listening, suddenly alert. Another quake? We who live with them become accustomed, at least to the small ones. A few stones rattled down the dark flanks of the mountain.
Tahquitz again, trying to escape from his walled-up cavern.
I thought of that, thought of our own Tahquitz, the mysterio
us visitor from the mountain, and then I thought of Don Federico.
Suddenly I sat up, and just as suddenly I was mad; a deep, fierce anger stirred in me. I had been chased and shot at, my life made miserable by the harassment of one man…or two men. Yet my grandfather had bothered me less, of late.
All right, they wanted a fight. I would give it to them. Tomorrow I would become the hunter, and no longer the hunted.
Again I slept, and when I opened my eyes a man in a pink shirt, a blue neckerchief, and a wide hat was sitting on the bank watching me.
“You sleep well,” he said, “for a hunted man.”
It was Francisco.
“Today I become the hunter,” I said. “Now begins a war.”
“I think so. It is time.”
Chapter 56
TOMÁS WAS NEAR the fire, his dark eyes alert. The boy had dropped back toward the shadows, nearer the horses. “Leave her alone,” Tomás said.
Iglesias did not turn his eyes from her. “Do not be an old fool! Who will know? Who comes here?”
“Johannes Verne will know. He reads sign like an Apache. He will come. He will find you.”
“Bah! He is dead. They are killing him in the desert! She is a pigeon to be plucked. She is the little dove and we are the hawks.”
Biscal was on his feet, and so was the third man, who was edging closer. Meghan’s heart was beating slowly, heavily. Her small pistol was gripped in her right hand concealed by the folds of her dress. She had but two bullets, two shots to be fired. The barrel was short, and they must be close. She must not miss.
Yet she was not frightened. She had been, but not now. Her father, who had had many a brush with Chinese and Malay pirates, often talked of such things. “Think,” he had said, “and act with coolness. Do what must be done.”
Tomás looked across the fire at her and said in a casual tone, “Johannes will be with his friends, the Cahuillas. Tell them you are his and they will be your friends also.”
The Cahuillas? Her friends? Was he suggesting that she escape? That she go to the Indians? But how…?
They were edging closer.
“Stop!” Tomás ordered. He reached for his rifle on the rock near him, and Biscal shot him.
She saw him stagger, and the unnamed man lunged for her. She lifted her pistol and shot him in the stomach. As the gun lifted she saw the sudden flash of terror in the man’s eyes. He was already within four feet of her, his hands outstretched. The pistol was unexpected, but he could not stop or even try to evade. He was too close.
His mouth gaped with a cry that never came. She was close enough so she heard the heavy, sodden thud of the .44 bullet as it hit him.
She stepped back quickly and turned the gun on Biscal and Iglesias.
“Señorita!” The boy shouted. “Señorita, please!”
It was her horse, saddled.…She fired another shot that missed, then grabbed the pommel and swung into the saddle. Her skirt caught on the cantle as her other leg swung across the saddle, but the horse was off, plunging into the night.
Behind her she heard another shot, a cry…silence.
Who had been shot? The boy? Tomás again?
She had no memory of using her spurs, but she must have, for her horse was running wildly into the night, leaping rocks and weaving through the brush and cacti.
South. She must go south, into the wilderness Johannes loved so well; she must try to find him, try to find those Indians who were his friends. Tomás had not suggested she ride back toward Los Angeles.…Why? Did he fear there would be too many bandits there? One had less to fear from the wilderness than from men.
She drew up, listening. There was no sound of pursuit. What of Tomás? What of the boy? Yet, to return now would make all their sacrifice for nothing, and make their situation no better and hers worse.
She glanced at the stars. She had been often at sea with her father, and the stars were familiar. She knew no trails, but the North Star was there. She looked for the Pointers in the end of the Big Dipper, and found the North Star; then she turned south.
The San Bernardino Mountains were on her right, low against the sky. She would be safer if she were closer to them. There would be better grazing for her horse, more chances of water.
Far behind her the boy lay in the brush, biting his fist to keep from crying. The old man was hurt, maybe he was dying. He had done what the old man told him. Prepare the horse, have it ready, then get away. There was no reason he should die.
“What of you?” the boy asked.
“I am an old man. I will do what needs to be done and trust in the Good God for what comes. These are evil men, and she is a fine young woman.”
At the last moment he had not been foolish. He fled, but with a good horse under him. Now he waited, wishing they would go away so he could go to Tomás. He was a boy without a family whom Tomás had befriended. Tomás had given him work, made a place for him where he was not really needed, but where he must find work that needed to be done.
The old man was down there, and he was hurting from the bullet, if he was not dead. The boy hoped he was not dead.
The young woman had shot one of them. She had shot that dark, ugly man whom he did not know. He was someone who rode with Biscal, someone who might be one of the men of Vásquez.
Beside the fire Tomás had his eyes almost shut. The hurt was very bad, and he, too, wished they would go. He lay very still, guarding himself against a sound, hoping they would think him dead.
There was much blood. He could feel it, and he could feel the hurt, but the little one was gone, she had gotten away, and the boy was gone, too. So be it. He was an old man, not new to suffering and hurt. He could accept it.
He wished his rifle was nearer. He might kill one of them or both, and so let the boy come back, and then they might help the señorita.
Hah! The small pistol! Who would have thought she had such a thing or would use it?
Iglesias walked over to him. Tomás heard his boots on the gravel. Suddenly he was kicked viciously in the ribs. He made no sound. To moan was to die.
“It was a little gun,” Biscal said, “two barrels. I have seen such a one called a derringer, and she has shot twice.”
“She is unarmed, then?”
“Of course. Let us go. It is very wild land. She will be lost and wandering. Let her be without water and she will welcome us.”
“The small pistol,” Iglesias said. “Who would have believed?” He looked down at Tomás. “He was an old fool. He need not be dead. Who is he to interfere with me?”
Biscal looked sourly at the fallen man, then at the other one. “She shot true, the little one,” he said. “That one is dead, too.”
He took up his rifle and walked toward the brush where the remaining horses had been picketed, away from the flies. “She will not go far,” Biscal commented. “Our horses will find her horse. Let us go.”
Iglesias looked around. “You get the horses,” he suggested.
When Biscal had gone, he walked to the fallen man and went through his pockets. “Fifty pesos,” he muttered. “You had fifty pesos.”
When he had it, he stood up and walked toward Tomás. “Bah,” he spoke aloud, “you had nothing. Not for even one drink. It is better you are dead.”
Not until the last sound of their horses had died out did Tomás move, and when he moved, it hurt. The bullet, he believed, had gone through him, for there was blood under him, too.
The coffeepot was on the fire. It was his coffeepot, and neither Biscal nor Iglesias had bothered with it. Their drink was tequila. Well, he could use a little himself. He could use it now.
The boy came slowly down, watchful, leading his horse. “What can I do?” he asked.
“For the señorita there is nothing. Now it is in the hands of God.” He looked up at the boy. “For me, also, it is in the hands of God, and you.”
“I have not the experience.”
“We will drink the coffee, some for you, some for me. Then you
will put water in the pot, get it hot, and bathe around the wounds. I do not know what good it will do, but I shall feel better.”
“Does it hurt much?”
“A little. I have been hurt before.” His face was gray and his eyes showed the hurt his lips would not reveal. “In my saddlebags there is tequila, a little only. I shall have a drink. Then, when you have bathed the wounds, you will put some on the wounds. Again, I do not know what it will do, but we shall see.”
He leaned back and closed his eyes, and the boy became busy.
“There are plants. My good mother knew them all. I shall have to think. I shall have to remember.”
The boy came with a blanket and put it about his shoulders, and they drank the coffee.
“Now,” Tomás said, “the washing.”
A stick dropped in the fire, and sparks went up. The boy filled the empty coffeepot and turned; then he stopped, frightened.
A man was standing at the edge of the firelight, a man like he had not seen before.
He walked on into the camp, a horse following him. He glanced around, at Tomás, then at the boy. “Yes,” he said, “make hot. I look at him. While I am looking, you tell me what has happened.”
Yacub Khan knelt beside Tomás and drew back the coat; then with a knife, razor sharp, he cut away the bloody shirt.
“Tell all. Leave nothing out. Where is she who rode with you?”
As the boy talked, Yacub Khan went to his saddlebags. Working as he listened, he took the hot water when it was ready and bathed the wounds, front and back.
Tomás’s eyes flickered and opened. He peered at Yacub Khan, wrinkling his brow. “Do not worry,” Yacub said. “I have experience with this. From long ago I have seen men gun-shot, saber-cut, and stabbed. Stab is often the worst. I do what can be done.”
The Lonesome Gods Page 39