The Lonesome Gods (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

“Four or five hundred? Ma’am, you must be—”

  “I am perfectly serious, Mr. Finney. I want several hundred horses and I want them broken to ride. If you find any mules among them, and I’ve heard escaped mules do run with the wild herds, I’d want them, too.”

  “Breakin’ that many horses might take a year. Months, anyway. I mean including catchin’ time.”

  “Were you going someplace, Mr. Finney? We have the time. There is plenty of grass, and I believe there will be a market soon. The best stock, I’d like selected for breeding purposes, and we will keep that lot in close to town.”

  “If you say so, ma’am.”

  She gathered the papers she had been discussing with Jacob. “I would like Mr. Kelso to work for me here, to fill in for you, Mr. Finney. People are beginning to realize that we work together, and I’d like to use somebody else for a time. You and Johannes can handle the horses.”

  She stood up, holding her papers; then she looked at me. “Neither age nor size makes a man, Johannes. It is willingness to accept responsibility. Besides, I want you out of town for a while.”

  She turned to glance at Finney. “Mr. Finney? Have you heard any talk of war with Mexico?”

  “War? No, ma’am. I heard talk of some Anglos up north. Seems there’s some trappers, maybe soldiers, too, up at Sutter’s Fort. There’s always rumors, though.”

  “It is more than a rumor, Mr. Finney. There is a war, and I am afraid there will be trouble here. If we Americans are wise, there need be no fighting.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Mr. Finney, most of the leaders among the Californios are intelligent men. California is far from Mexico City, and trade is forbidden except with Mexico. The people are denied many of the things they could enjoy, and they lose the profits from foreign trade.

  “If the American government is intelligent, all can be accomplished through diplomatic channels. Yet if the Californios are challenged, they will fight. It would be a matter of honor.”

  “Have you talked to Abel Stearns about this?”

  “Not really. Mr. Stearns is a Mexican citizen and will take no part in whatever is done. I believe he feels it is inevitable, but he is loyal and will take no part in activities against the government. Nor will I, although I am not a citizen here. Actually, I have no legal right to conduct a business. I am overlooked partly because I am a woman and partly because the local officials like what I am doing.”

  “You think there will be fighting?”

  “I am afraid so. The leader of one of the groups is Frémont. He is said to be ambitious.”

  Finney smiled slyly. “Aren’t we all?”

  Her eyes showed her amusement. “Of course, Mr. Finney, but there are ways of using ambition. One must not be rash.

  “Jedediah Smith showed the way here, others followed, and they have prospered, but change can take place quietly and should be handled with discretion. Have you ever talked to General Vallejo, Mr. Finney?”

  “Seen him a time or two. Talked to him? No.”

  “I have. Several times, in fact. General Vallejo is very intelligent, above all he is a realist. He is a Californian first, everything else after. I think our Mr. Frémont or whoever is to handle the situation should sit down and talk to the general. Above all, Mr. Frémont should listen.

  “Or he should come south, alone, and talk to Pio Pico. After talking to Pio he should get a few of the gente de razón together over a good meal, a bottle of wine, and their cigars. Above all, he should not attempt to dictate, but be guided by what the gente de razón advise. I believe everything could be arranged as something between gentlemen, do you understand?”

  “I do, ma’am, and you may be right. I’m afraid the Anglos are expecting a fight.”

  When he had gone, I asked, “Miss Nesselrode, what is happening?”

  She worked at her papers for a moment, then said, “A few years ago Texas fought a war for her independence. The United States recognized her independence and Mexico was unhappy about it.

  “Now, almost ten years later, Texas has applied for admission to the Union and we have admitted Texas as a state. Mexico said that if we did so they would consider it an act of war. Not long ago a Mexican force crossed the Rio Grande and wiped out an American patrol.

  “Before coming west, I had talked with some gentlemen from Mexico, who assured me Mexico would go to war if Texas was admitted to the Union. They were quite confident, and with reason, as their standing army is several times the size of ours.

  “As a matter of fact, the United States is in no condition for war. We have less than twenty-five thousand men under arms and they are scattered across the frontier protecting settlers.”

  “Will we be beaten?”

  “I doubt it, Johannes. Our Constitution provides that no law shall forbid us from keeping and bearing arms because of the necessity for a militia. We have a militia of a sort, but our greatest strength lies in the fact that so many of our people not only possess weapons but also understand their use, and above all they are prepared to defend themselves against any sudden attack by an enemy.

  “You will remember that we won our freedom because we were armed. We were not a simple peasantry unused to weapons. The men who wrote our Constitution knew our people would be safe as long as they were armed.”

  She gathered her papers and placed them in a leather case. “I was a woman alone, Johannes. I weighed the circumstances and decided to come west, believing California would become a part of our country.

  “I told myself I would do nothing against a people who have been friendly to me, nor have I betrayed that promise.

  “On the other hand, if such a change took place, I wished to be on hand to accept the opportunity. No matter who wins, California will no longer be isolated. There will be trade, and there will be a need for horses and cattle. Prices here are three or four times what they would be if goods could be imported by sea, and trade will become important.”

  She paused. “We are two people alone, Johannes. Whatever happens, we must be prepared to move with the tide. We shall be ready. We must be ready.

  “You were left alone, as I was. I have learned to be strong, and you have also. Whatever is to come, Johannes, each can help the other. We will stand together, you and I.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “You are history,” Thomas Fraser told us. “Do not think of history as something remote that concerns only kings, queens, and generals. It concerns you.

  “Each of you has a history that is part of the history of Los Angeles, a part of the history of California, part of the history of the United States and the world.

  “You and your families march across the pages of history, and often he who plows a furrow is of more importance than he who leads an army. The army can destroy, the furrow can feed.

  “Los Angeles became a town on September 4 of 1781. The founders were eleven adult males and their families. Their names were Camero, Lara, Navarro, Rosas, Moreno, Mesa, Banegras, Villavicencia, Rodríguez, Quintero, and Rodríguez again. These men were or had been soldiers at the Mission of San Gabriel.

  “In all there were forty-six people; twenty were children under twelve years of age. Of the men, two were from Spain, one from China, and the rest from Baja California, Sonora, or Sinaloa.

  “Twelve house lots faced the plaza on three sides, the remaining space was given over to public buildings. This was your town.

  “On the lowlands near the river, thirty fields were laid out, separated from each other by narrow access roads, these fields to be cultivated by the townspeople. Each was provided with two each of oxen, mules, sheep, goats, and cows. The government at first was largely a military government, and the new citizens, having been soldiers, were accustomed to discipline.”

  He paused. “Each of you is a part of what is happening here. Do not think you can sit
idly by while it grows to a great city, as it assuredly will. A city is made up of citizens, and citizens are so called because they inhabit a city, and if they will, can direct its destiny.

  “Is it to be a place where only business is done? Simply a marketplace, or is it to be a place of beauty? The great cities, the remembered cities, are the cities known for their beauty.”

  Our studies slowly became harder and we were given much outside reading and occasional bits of writing to do. In going to and from school we walked only certain streets, staying away from Sonora Town, even though many of the people who lived there were fine people. It was also a hangout for toughs of all kinds. In spite of that, we could see the restlessness in the town, as though trouble was expected. Frémont, I discovered, had been earlier in San Diego and then had gone north.

  Often I thought of what Miss Nesselrode had said, that each of us had been left alone. Was that why she had offered me a home? Because she saw in me what she had been? Or was there some other reason?

  At another time she had said, “Do not be afraid. A little fear can make one cautious. Too much fear can rob you of initiative. Respect fear, but use it for an incentive, do not let it bind you or tie you down.”

  Coming and going from school, I had begun to vary my route, taking one for a day or two, then another. The choices were few, but often I cut through orchards or walked paths where no horseman would go, and the Californios were all riders. They disdained walking.

  Much time passed before I saw the don. Miss Nesselrode had told me he rarely came to town, staying on his ranch for weeks at a time, sometimes for months. Then there was a day when, about to emerge from an orchard, I heard the clatter of hooves and looked out to see him ride by.

  There was no mistaking him. He was a handsome man with a white goatee and mustache, riding a magnificent horse and a saddle loaded with silver. There were six men with him on that day, and one of them I remembered. He of the flat nose and the scarred face, the one who had wanted to kill me.

  They rode swiftly past, but it was not until the dust settled that I emerged on the street and crossed it, leaping over the zanja and climbing the pole fence that divided Miss Nesselrode’s yard from the one behind hers.

  Sitting on the top rail I fed a stolen carrot to my horse and thought about my grandfather. Such hatred was unreasonable. As Miss Nesselrode said, such pride was foolish, yet it was present and must be dealt with.

  On that day I did not go to the shop, but remained at home, reading.

  The hatred was unreasonable, and yet…I had an uneasy sympathy for my grandfather. Was it because of that relationship? Or was it something more?

  His pride was in his family and his name. From what I had heard both from my parents and from others, it was all he had. His family, the name, and his wealth. To him his daughter’s marriage to a common seaman was a disgrace, a blot on the family name not to be tolerated. Having read some of the stories of Sir Walter Scott and similar romances, I could understand what this might mean to a proud man.

  Our world was different in some respects. It was based on accomplishment, on doing. His seemed to be based on simply being.

  Supposing that was all one had, and suddenly it was threatened? Grudgingly I began to see his side of it, although I had little sympathy for that view.

  Later, I explained to Miss Nesselrode what I had thought, and she listened without speaking until I had finished, and then she said, “Johannes, you are growing up. You are becoming a man, and a good man, too.”

  So much was happening. Thomas Fraser explained some of it in school, very carefully, so as not to seem to take sides.

  The Californios had never liked the idea of their governors being political appointees from Mexico. Some of the governors had been liked or at least tolerated; many had come only to get rich and get out. One of those they had not liked was Micheltorena, who, after a bloodless battle fought in the San Fernando Valley, had been driven from California, and Don Pio Pico of Los Angeles had become governor.

  Often I saw him near the plaza, a portly, kindly man with rather heavy features, whose genial manner only partly concealed a native shrewdness and skill in handling people and situations.

  Suddenly, things were happening. On the seventh of August 1846, Commodore R. F. Stockton, with a small flotilla of ships, anchored at San Pedro, and landing four hundred men and some small artillery, marched swiftly and entered Los Angeles. Governor Pico and General Castro evaded capture and escaped to Sonora.

  Later, after Frémont and Stockton had left for San Francisco, the Californios retook the city from Lieutenant Gillespie.

  People hurried along the streets or gathered in knots, talking. Miss Nesselrode was irritated. “It need not have happened! Had they been tactful…!”

  They had not been. Least of all, Lieutenant Gillespie, and he had suffered for it.

  Much was happening of which I knew nothing at all. Jacob Finney had ridden in and was staying around our house, in the event of trouble. “Your grandpa’s gone back to the rancho,” he told me. “Rode out last night. You won’t need to worry about him for a few days.”

  “Have you seen Mr. Fletcher?”

  Finney glanced at me. “He’s around. You seen him?”

  “He came by the bookstore. I don’t like him.”

  “Neither do I.” He glanced at me again. “Fletcher? Well, now.” Jacob was plaiting a rawhide riata as he talked. “There’s a bad one. We’ll have trouble with him one day. I feel it in my bones.”

  “He threatened me.” Then I explained what had happened in the store, and Finney listened without comment until the end. “Say, boy? You’re growin’! Hadn’t realized. If he comes back in, you don’t know anything, haven’t heard anything, and if he wants more, you tell him to see me.”

  He put down the rawhide and went to the window, peering out. “Kelso should be in tonight.”

  Something was worrying him. He returned to his plaiting, then got up and walked to the back of the house to check the corrals. When he came back, he asked, “Have you still got your rifle and pistol?”

  “I have.”

  “Keep ’em handy. I ain’t worried about the Californios or the Americans. I mean, I’m not worried about the soldiers. It’s that riffraff down in Sonora Town. If they think nobody is around to keep ’em in line, they might start looting. Mostly I worry about the Chinese. They’re good folks, but some of them have money. Quite a lot of money.”

  Jacob Finney spread a bed near the front door and put his pistol alongside his bed.

  It was almost midnight when I awakened to hear a scratching at the door. Then a low mumble of voices and a new, familiar one. It was Kelso.

  “Jacob! It is good to see you, man! How has it been with you?”

  “I’m working. You can see that. You would do well to join us.”

  “Well…join you for what? I am too old to wander around, Jacob. These last months…I’ve been like a leaf in the wind. I believe I was happiest when we were coming west. We were alive, Jacob. There was need for us then, and Farley…he was a fine man, Jacob, and Zachary Verne. I can’t get him out of my mind. There was something about him—”

  “Of course. We all felt it, I think. He was special.”

  “But why? I’ve met a lot of men, but none like him. I’ve thought about him a lot, coming west when he knew he was going to die, thinking only of his son, even willing to be killed if he could find a home for him.”

  “He was special. So is the boy.”

  “Is he here? I ran into Peg-Leg Smith up north, and he was asking about the boy. Said he’d found him in the desert. He’d come upon his tracks and followed them.”

  “The old devil brought him in. Picked the kid up.”

  “He told me. He told me something else, too. Somebody was following him.”

  “Peg-Leg?”

 
“No, the boy. Somebody was following the boy.”

  Following me? No…I had looked back, again and again. I had looked back to be sure I was holding my direction. There had been nobody out there. Yet, there were heat waves and it was hard to see very far.

  “What are you talkin’ about, Kelso?”

  “There’s something about that boy. Remember the Indian he saw at Indian Wells? The old man with the turquoise? He told his pa about it?”

  “So?”

  “I was back there, happened to mention it. Folks there said the boy was dreaming, there were no Indians at the Wells that night, and there hadn’t been any for days. There was something going on up in the Santa Rosas, up above Deep Canyon somewhere.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Just telling you, Jacob. You an’ me, we both know there’s things out in that desert…things happen out there.

  “Look, you’ve been around Injuns enough. There’s things they know that we don’t. About the desert, I mean, and the mountains.”

  “Maybe. I’ve heard stories…Hell, Kelso, a man can’t believe half what he hears! Who knows what an Indian is thinking but another Indian? Who knows what they believe? I’ve known men who claimed they knew Indians…they were talking through their hats. Nobody does.”

  Jacob paused. “Kelso? You said Peg-Leg said somebody was following Johannes? Who was it?”

  “Peg saw the tracks. Moccasin tracks of somebody with a long stride…mighty long, according to Peg.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Maybe you should ask what it was. I don’t know anything but what Peg told me.” Kelso paused. “Thing was, he didn’t see anybody, only the tracks.”

  There was silence in the room, and I lay wide-awake, straining my ears for every word. What were they talking about? What did they mean?

  “Look at it this way, Jacob. You’ve heard the stories about how Verne and his woman lived in the desert, how the old man tried to find them, had dozens of men out hunting, rewards offered…everything.

  “Did they find them? No. And why not?”