I had no water. We had stopped at no spring. I had not been this way before. I did not know where water could be found. I was thirsty, but not enough thirsty to worry. I would wait, and walk.
"I am Johannes Verne," I said aloud. "I am not afraid." Then the strangeness came. Suddenly I stopped and looked all around. The sand was almost white, the rocks that had seemed black now were brown, the sky was very blue and there were no clouds. I should have been afraid, but I was not. All about me seemed familiar, although I had seen none of it before, and had ridden through it only in darkness.
I sat down on a flat rock. This was where I belonged. My mother had come to love the desert, my father had lived with it, in it, had loved it and its people. Maybe that was it, but there was something more, too. I felt that I was born for this, to live here, to be a part of it.
When I began to walk again, I did not hurry. Soon I must seek shade, and before night I should have to find water. Yet the strangeness was upon me, the feeling that I was not alone, a feeling that the desert was a friendly place.
A jackrabbit started up and bounded away, then stopped, sat up, and looked at me. Then I saw where a snake had crossed the sandy trail, and some kind of bug had crossed over the snake's trail.
It was growing hot. In the sky, no longer quite so blue, but misty with heat, there was a buzzard. He had seen me and was watching.
"Go away!" I said aloud. "I am not your dinner!"
The buzzard could not hear me, but he would not have believed me. I remembered what my father had said, that the buzzard has only to wait. In the end, we all come to him or his like.
I began to look for shade. There was none. I thought of pulling brush and piling it over a place where I could crawl for shade, but everything was stiff and dry and covered with thorns or stickers.
The shadows of the Joshua trees were short. It would be nearing midday and there was no shade. My mouth was very dry. I picked up a little pebble and held it in my hand until it was not so hot, and then put it in my mouth. It would help for a little while. I stumbled. Some kind of small bird had run ahead of me in the sand. Far off, to the south and a little west, there seemed to be mountains. Were they our mountains? They must be. How far I had walked, I did not know. I sat down again.
By the shadows it was midday, and I had been walking since just before daylight. Jacob Finney had talked to me about the desert, as had Mr. Farley and Mr. Kelso, and of course, my father. I knew I must find shade and rest. A man or a boy could not live long without water. The trail of tracks I was following dipped down into a dry wash, and the opposite side was steep. By the time I climbed out of the wash, I was very tired. And then I saw the rocks. It was only a small clump of rocks, but they were heaped together and one of them made a shelf that held a little shadow. When I was closer, I could see a hole behind it. Carefully, because of snakes, I inspected it. Taking a stick, and careful before I picked it up to be sure it was a stick and not a snake, I prodded into the shallow hole.
Nothing....
Crawling in, there was room enough for me to lie down. A crack toward the back let a small breeze come through. It felt good.
Finally I must have slept, because when I opened my eyes it was cooler and I could see the sun was down. Crawling out, I looked all around. There was nothing but the desert. Keeping the stick with which I had prodded for snakes, I started to walk.
A little sand had sifted into the tracks. They were no longer so plain. Suddenly I was afraid. What if the tracks disappeared?
Stopping, I remembered what Jacob Finney had said. "Always take your bearings. Locate yourself."
I knew where the sun had gone down, which would be west. So I was facing south. Far away I could see a jagged point of rock, and it was due south. Walking on, night came, and I chose a star that hung in the south right over my point of rocks; then I walked on.
The desert is cold at night, and soon I was cold, but I walked on, stumbling once in a while. A coyote howled and I took a firmer grip on my stick. It was a good strong stick.
My mouth was very dry. Sometimes it was hard to swallow. I took deep breaths of the cool, clear air, which seemed almost like water, it was so fresh. Once I almost fell asleep walking. When I found a flat rock, I sat down. The coyotes seemed close, and I wondered if they were following me.
Somebody had said they did not eat people. My father laughed at that. They were carnivores, he said, and would eat anything available. They were afraid of the man-smell because it meant danger, but they would attack anything they might eat if it could not fight back. If a man or a child is helpless, my father said, he might be eaten. Jacob Finney had agreed.
"No animal has any special respect for man," he said. "It is just that they have learned to fear. Once they lose their fear, a man has to be careful."
Clutching my stick, I waited. If one came close, I would hit him.
Bending over, I gathered some rocks. They were black against the white sand. I piled them beside me on the flat rock.
Sometimes I dozed, yet I tried to stay awake, and several times I heard something moving, but I couldn't see anything. A small wind stirred, rustling the dry leaves on the brush. Something stirred again, closer. I picked up a rock and threw it hard. After that I heard no sound. A long time later I awakened from dozing and heard a soft sound, so I took my stick and hit the brush near me; then I threw another stone into the darkness. In stories, they always spoke of gleaming eyes peering from the darkness. I saw no eyes. I heard only the soft rustling of something moving in the darkness.
When the first gray light came, I stood up. I was very stiff, and very tired. Also I was hungry, but mostly I wanted a drink. The coolness of the night had made it better, but I wanted a drink, I needed a drink.
Papa had said one could get a drink from a barrel cactus, but I did not see any. Just stiff, dry wood and sometimes whitish-looking grass.
My point of rock was gone. My star was gone. I could not find the tracks, yet I could see where the sun was rising and I started off to the south. I had not gone far when I saw a coyote track in the sand. It was a fresh track.
When I topped a small rise, I sat down. My legs ached and I was very tired. I put a pebble in my mouth again, but it did not work very well. The sun had come up, and it was very hot.
Heat waves shimmered on the desert, and far ahead I could see a blue lake that was only mirage. There were rocks ahead, and more brush. Beyond them I could see the mountains, the San Jacintos they were called, but they seemed far, far away.
Then, walking on, I found the tracks again. Following them, I fell down, and when I got up from the sand, my hands were bloody from the gravel.
There were other, older tracks. I was on some kind of a trail, and it seemed to dip down into the hotter desert, but beyond were the mountains. My tongue was dry and I could not swallow. My eyes hurt and I was very hot. I wanted to lie down, but the sand was like a hot stove.
For a time there was a sound, a drumming sound, and then it became the sound of horses, and I turned around. A half-dozen riders were coming at me. Was it a dream? My eyes blinked slowly, and I frowned, trying to make them out. They were only a blur against the shimmering heat waves, and the horses seemed to have legs enormously long, but that was the heat waves again.
They came up, coming out of the heat waves and the dust, and the foremost rider had a wooden leg.
They pulled up, and the man with the peg leg said, "Holy Jesus! It's Verne's boy!"
He dropped from the saddle, amazingly agile, and held his water bag to my lips. A sip and a swallow, then he took it away.
"Just rinse your mouth this time," he said. "Let it soak in a mite." After a moment he said, "Where you comin' from, boy? Where's your pa?"
"They killed him," I said. "They were waiting for him. He tried to push me away so I would not be hurt, and they shot him."
"He git any of them?" another man asked.
"One, I think." Peg-Leg gave me another swallow and then stepped back into the
saddle, reaching a hand down for me.
"Come on, son," he said. "We'll take you in." Then he hesitated. "Your pa's dead, boy? What'll you do now?" "I want to go to our house. Peter Burkin will come." "Reckon he will, at that. Pete's a loyal man." Peg-Leg started off, leading the way. "You got grub in that house, boy? You got some'at to eat?"
"Yes."
We rode on for a little way, and then he stopped and let me have a drink, stopping me before I drank too much. "We come on your trail, boy," Peg-Leg told me. "We follered you. You come quite a stretch, you surely did." He looked down at me. "You got anybody in Los Angeles, boy?"
"No, sir." Then I said, "Maybe Miss Nesse!rode." He laughed. "Say! I mind her! That there's quite a woman!" He turned in his saddle to speak to the others. "Said if I stole any of her horses she'd hang me!" He chuckled. "By damn, I think she'd do it, too! That there was some kinda woman, boy. When the time comes, you find yourself a woman like that. Ain't none any better." A long time later, after the drum of hooves and my own tiredness had made me fall asleep, we rode up the lane toward our house. All was dark and still.
"Tom?" Peg-Leg said. "Take a look inside. See if there's anybody there. We'll cover you."
Tom swung down, and, gun in hand, walked over to the door and lifted the latch. He stepped inside. A moment, and we could hear him fumbling about for the candles; then light streamed out the door.
His boots went from room to room; then he came to the door. "She's clean as a whistle, Peg!"
Peg-Leg lowered me to the ground. "You'll be all right here, boy? You an' them Injuns get along?"
"Yes, sir."
"I know they set store by your pa. You get some sleep now, boy. Drink a mite now an' again, but don't tank up until tomorrow. Then you'll drink more'n you ever thought a man could hold.
"An', boy? You be careful of that ol' Spanish man. He hears you're alive, he'll come back for you. He'll skin you alive."
For a moment longer he stayed, and then he said, "You see, boy, I dasn't stick around. I'm a man with enemies. There's some as would hang me in a minute if they come upon me. I d'clare, boy, I'm goin' to pack it in an' head north. This here's too rough a life for an old man. I can make a good livin' up there in Frisco sellin' maps to that gold mine folks think I lost."
He turned. "See you, boy! I'm right sorry about your pa. He was a good man!"
For a long time I stood alone in the yard near where my father had fallen, listening to the receding sound of their horses. Then I went inside and looked around. I was alone in the house of Tahquitz. Would he be angry that I was here? Would he come to drive me away or kill me?
What was Tahquitz? Who was he ... or it?
I was very hungry, yet I did not want to eat. I straightened my bed, undressed slowly, then crawled into bed. For what seemed a long time, I lay still, staring into the darkness above me.
Somewhere far off there was a low rumble, and the earth seemed to shake a little. Was it Tahquitz?
Was he angry?
But this was my home. It was the only home I had. What would I do now? What could I do? Would Peter ever come again? And why should I matter to him? I was not his boy. He had business of his own to see to.
A low wind moaned around the eaves, and sand rattled against the windows and ran nervous fingers along the roof.
Miss Nesselrode had said I could come to her, but if I did, I should be close to my enemies and they would know I was alive; and that they must not know. To Los Angeles was a ride of five or six, maybe seven days. I did not know just how far.
What could I do? I could stay. I could live here, in the house of Tahquitz.
At least. until he returned....
Chapter 15
When morning came I went to the cupboard. There was bread in the breadbox, there were two jars of jam, and there was cornmeal, two bottles of wine which I did not drink, and there was coffee which I did not drink either. At least, not often.
I found in the cool place under the floor a big hunk of cheese, so I cut off a piece and returned the rest to the cloth wrapping and the open jar. With the cheese and a piece of bread thickly covered with jam, I sat down by the table and ate. Until then I had not realized how hungry I was. Before, I had only wanted water.
When I had eaten, I went to the door, and Francisco was there.
"You do not see Tahquitz?"
"No," I said.
"He was here. He covered the blood." Francisco pointed to the place where my father had fallen. "Then he went away."
"What was he like?"
"I did not see him. Nobody sees him. He comes in the night, and he goes. He was heard." Francisco looked at me. "He was in the cabin."
Awed, I looked at the cabin. He was there? He had been inside?
"What do you do?"
"What?"
"You can come with us. You can become an Indian." "But I am not an Indian."
"You can live like Indian." He glanced at me from the corners of his very black eyes. You can eat like Indian. At least," he added, "you can eat."
I could eat. When the bread was gone, and the jam and cheese, what would I do?
Father had told me that the Cahuilla collected acorns, that they were an important part of their diet. They also collected chia and other seeds.
"I must stay here. Peter Burkin will come. Then I will go with you and you will teach me what to do." Francisco stood up, and then for the first time I saw the buckskin bag he had. He held it out. "Is for you." He looked at me. "Jerky?" he said, as if the word were not familiar.
Peering into the bag, I could see the pieces of dried meat.
"Gracias," I said, and he smiled, showing his white teeth.
"I go now," he said.
He walked away, and after a moment I went back inside. Tahquitz had been here!
Standing just inside the door, I looked all about me. If Tahquitz was here, what did he do? Why would he come? To see his home, if this was his house? To see what we did here?
Nothing was changed, nothing was different. Carefully, going from room to room, I looked for what he might have done here, and I found nothing.
Anyway, I did not believe in Tahquitz. He was a story, like "Cinderella" or "Jack the Giant-Killer." Even the Cahuillas had not seen him; they had heard him, which was not the same. It could have been the wind, or a coyote. It could have been anything.
Papa's rifle stood in a corner, and I went to see if it was loaded. It was. His pistol belt had been hung on a peg in the bedroom, and I took it down. It was loaded, too. Somebody had loaded it, because my father had fired it. Somebody had loaded it while I was gone.
Taking the pistol belt from the peg, I hung it on the bed. It would be close to me at night, if I needed it. I had shot a pistol, but only with my father helping me. I had shot a rifle, too.
Remembering what my father had done, I got the broom and swept the cabin floor. Then I wiped the windows clean and dusted the furniture. In the desert there is much dust.
When the house was clean, I filled the bucket with fresh water and filled a water bag and let it hang in the wind to keep cool.
Chewing on a piece of the dried meat, I went to the shelf to look at the books. Quentin Dunvard was the book my father was reading. I would try to ...
It was gone!
There were twelve books on the shelves, and I had looked often at each, but Quentin Dunvard was not among them. Yet there were still twelve. I looked again, and the book that replaced Quentin Dunvard was another novel by Scott, Guy Mannering!
Hesitantly I took the book down, and as I opened the pages, I caught a faint odor of pine needles. Holding it to my nose, I sniffed curiously.
Definitely pine, but our books had been nowhere near any pine trees. Very carefully, half-frightened, I put the book down. Who had been here since we had been gone? Tahquitz, Francisco had said, but that was nonsense. There had been someone else; someone had been in our house, had taken one of our books and left another, hoping no doubt that we would not notice. Especial
ly that I would not notice, for my father was dead.
It was unusual that a boy of my age should read such books, but my father and mother had both taught me, and I had begun reading at an early age, after my parents had read to me.
Why bother to substitute a book at all? Why not just push them together, hoping no one would notice there was one fewer on the shelf?
Again I picked up the book, slowly turning the pages. I turned almost a third of the book, page by page, but there was no clue. The odor of pine needles remained, and there were no pines here. The only trees here were palms, smoke trees, and a few palo verde. In some of the canyons there were sycamores.
Uneasily I put the book down again. Yet, why not read it? Quentin Durward was gone, but the new story might be quite as good.
Yet I put the book down for the time and went outside. The horses came to me eagerly, and I realized I had not fed them, and did so. They had water running into a trough, so that was something I did not have to do, yet they were my responsibility now, and I must not forget. But who had fed them when I was gone? Francisco, no doubt, or one of the other Indians.
Turning, I stared up at the looming San Jacinto Mountains, rising so steeply from the desert. If Tahquitz lived up there, why would he come down here? It was high, and must be cooler. Cool enough that there might be pines. The thought frightened me, and I went quickly inside.
My feet were very sore and there were places where my heels had chafed during the walk. I bathed them again and lay down, trying to think what Papa would have wanted me to do.
I was half-asleep when I heard a horse. I heard the clop, clop-clop of hooves and got quickly up, wide-awake. I looked to the pistol and went to stand beside the door. My heart was pounding. Then the rider came into sight, and it was Peter. I put down the pistol and ran outside. "Howdy, boy. Is it true, then?"
"Yes, sir. There were many of them. He pushed me out of the way before he got his pistol out."
"He git any of them?"
"Yes, sir. One, I know."
the Lonesome Gods (1983) Page 9