“I say your Miss Nesselrode knows about that gold. Why else has she been keepin’ you? Why are you goin’ into the desert with that there Finney?”
He put the cigar in his mouth and struck a match on his pants, bringing up his knee to draw the material tight over his thigh. “You go ahead. I’ll foller. Maybe there’s enough for all of us.”
“Fletcher,” I said, “you’re a fool.”
For a moment I thought he would strike me, and I said, “Don’t try it, Fletcher.”
Something in the way I said it seemed to warn him, for he suddenly looked at me again. “Hell, you’re a man now. ’Least you’ve growed up. Now I can kill you.”
What happened within me, I do not know, but I was suddenly lighthearted. I smiled at him. “Whenever you’re ready, Fletcher. Whenever you’re ready!”
CHAPTER 31
What I thought of as the store was really nothing of the kind. It was merely a sort of dwelling where the owner kept a few supplies which he sold to the Cahuillas or to passersby. Under the counter he kept a jug from which he dispensed occasional drinks.
When Fletcher walked away, I turned to see him go. Already I had learned that one does not become careless around such men. There was murder in the man; I accepted the realization and was careful.
Yet when I turned, I was surprised. Francisco was there.
For a moment we looked at each other, and then I drew a quick round face in the dirt. He took the twig from my hand and added the smile. Then we looked at each other, and slowly he held out his hand.
His was not a muscular handshake. For that matter, few Indians whom I had known more than touched palms. The strong handshake that many think is an indication of character is not so at all. Many very strong men merely clasp one’s hand. Theirs are not limp handshakes, nor the firm grip one hears of in fiction.
We walked over and stood in the shade of some mesquite. “We’re going up-country,” I said, “to catch wild horses.”
He squatted on his heels, and I did likewise. “We hope to catch many horses,” I said, “and we will need help.” With a twig I dug in the soil for a pebble, turning it over. “We would like to find five or six Cahuillas to help us.”
Francisco pushed his hat back and squinted at the pebble I had dug from the hard-packed earth. He picked it up and turned it in his fingers.
“We are thinking of three or four hundred horses. We would build a long fence of brush to guide them into a corral. There would be much work, but we would pay or share the horses.”
“We do not need horses,” he said. After a silence he said, “You catch cows, too?”
“Maybe.”
“Catch cows, we take some cows.”
“All right.”
We sat silent, watching a raven plucking at something in a palm tree.
There had been times when I was a boy that I had gone with them to the oak groves to gather acorns, or to the mesquite for their beans. I had worked beside them and learned to know them, a little.
There were old men I remembered who sometimes talked to us as they worked. I remembered the stories of the coyote who had planted mesquite beans after the sea disappeared from the basin and left it dry. The fish and the seabirds on which the Cahuilla had lived were gone, but there were forests of mesquite soon. Yet, until the mesquite grew, times must have been hard. They did not speak of that, only the story of the coyote planting the mesquite.
Later, talking to Monte, I mentioned the story. “A legend,” he said. “The Plains Injuns, too. They have many stories of the coyote.”
“But in all the legends there is some truth. As for the coyote planting the mesquite, it could be true.”
He took the cigarette from his mouth. “You mean you believe that?”
“Why not? The coyote eats the mesquite beans. He goes into the desert to hunt rabbits. Where he stops to do his business, he leaves some undigested beans, perhaps? They grow. Why not? That’s the way plants are often scattered, through bird and animal droppings.”
“Didn’t think of that,” Monte admitted. “Runoff water would bring down some seeds, too, I suspect.”
He glanced at me. “You think those Injuns will come?”
“You can depend on it,” I said. “They will come and they will be ready.”
“You’ve been in their villages?”
“Time and again. Lived with them when I was a boy. I stayed in this house but often went hunting with them, gathering nuts and seeds, listening to the old men tell of when the water disappeared, little by little.
“It came and went several times. Sometimes it came slowly, and at least once it came with a great rush, carrying great logs on a vast wave that swept up the valley. Many Indians were lost. The only ones saved were those hunting in the mountains or close enough to the mountains to escape.”
Gesturing toward the mountains, I said, “They have villages up there. In the Santa Rosas, too.
“There are old trails in the mountains and on the desert. A few of them I have followed, and there are more I shall follow.”
“Why?”
Why, indeed? Turning that over in my mind, I shrugged. “How do I know? It is my destiny, I think. All I know is that I shall never rest easy until I have gone into the desert alone. Until I have followed some of those trails to wherever they go.”
“I know,” Monte said wistfully. “It’s something around the bend in the trail or over the next ridge. I feel it, too.”
We would need extra ropes, so we bought hides from the Indians or the Mexicans and we made ropes. We worked, waiting for the day. Our horses were in good shape, as we knew they must be for the work ahead.
The next morning, when we went outside, Francisco was there, and five Cahuillas were with him; with them were their horses.
“Come on in,” Jacob invited. “We’re fixin’ some grub.”
Nobody moved. One Indian lit a cigarette; the others simply looked across the desert toward the mountains. Francisco looked at me and shrugged. “It is the house of Tahquitz,” he said.
Jacob walked over and looked at their horses. They were good stock, mustangs all, and built for the work they must do.
“Tomorrow we go,” he said. He glanced at Francisco. “All right with you?”
“Bueno.”
There were still a few supplies to get, a little work to do. When my part was done, I sat down with The Last Days of Pompeii, by Bulwer-Lytton. It was one of the books I was leaving for my unseen visitor, but I wished to read it first. However, I was scarcely reading, for my thoughts were of him.
Who was he? What was he? A giant? A monster? An evil spirit, as some presumed? Had my father known him? Had the Indians seen him?
If he was so large a being, how could they not have seen him? Where did he live? How did he move back and forth without being seen?
At night…of course, he did travel at night, at least until he returned to the mountains. That he came from the mountains, I was sure, for there was the smell of pines about him.
Where had he come from? Where had he learned to read? Or to lay mosaics as he had here? Or to build so beautifully? How did he pass his days?
The only thing I actually knew about him was that he was or had been a builder, a worker in tile and timber. Also, that he liked to read, and read good books. Presumably he was a thoughtful man, but I did not know. Nobody knew.
Suppose he was mad? Suppose on some occasion he should suddenly go berserk? Or decide that I was spying upon him? What then? He could—he had—come into this house in the night. Suppose he did it when I was here alone?
Inadvertently I glanced over my shoulder. What did I know of him? Nothing….
By the time I closed the book, all were asleep. I extinguished the candle and went outside. The Cahuillas had chosen to sleep in the shed, so I walked along the path that
led into the sandhills. It was very still, the stars bright as only desert stars can be.
Alone, I stood, feeling the stillness, the softness of the night. Far off I heard a faint music. Straining my ears, only half-believing….It sounded like a flute, like one of those I had often made as a child. I listened, but the sound faded, vanished.
The night was empty again.
An Indian? Some of them played flutes, but the music had a sound…It must have been European or American music.
At last I walked back to the house and went to bed. Tomorrow the desert, and after that the northern valley—the San Joaquin, some called it.
Captain Pedro Fages had been there, probably the first one. Others had followed, but very few. The northern desert was the haunt of the Mohaves, at least at times. In the mountains a few Piutes remained, although from what Francisco had told me, they were leaving, going away. There was something about that Tehachapi country they no longer liked.
“I do not know it,” Francisco said. “Ramón does.”
“Ramón?”
“He will meet us. I do not know where, but he will.” He glanced at me. “He comes when he will. Of you I have spoken, and he will come. He will know where the horses are. Ramón is of the desert,” he added, “and the mountains. He comes alone to join us.”
“He is Cahuilla?”
“No Cahuilla, no Chemehuevi, no Piute. I do not know.”
“There are wild horses there?”
“Muchos. There is grass, amigo, and from there to the north and in the mountains there are horses. There are also cattle.”
“We will touch no branded cattle.”
“Of course. It is understood.”
I thought over the situation, and what lay ahead. It was good to be with Francisco again, and I must come to know the others. And in the morning before we left, I must sweep the floors, leave all as we had found it.
At daybreak I was up and dressed, going outside to saddle my horse before Jacob had started breakfast. Monte joined me, and the Indians were already trooping into the yard, bringing their packhorses to tie to the corral bars.
As they rode, I followed, trailing behind. Glancing toward the store, I saw four saddled horses at the water trough.
Whose horses? Why? It was unusual at this hour, and the sight of them disturbed me. The Indians, too, were noticing them and talking among themselves. As the last of them disappeared down the trail into another clump of mesquite, I glanced back again.
A man had walked out from the store and was shading his eyes after us. It looked like Fletcher.
My thoughts returned to Los Angeles, and I wondered where Miss Nesselrode was, and Aunt Elena.
Aunt Elena, who had never been married, a strange, lonely, yet lovely woman, so tall, so remote, so very quiet.
What did she think to herself when she was alone? What did she think of that brother who had kept her so? And Miss Nesselrode. Who was she? Had she ever been married? Was the story of a lost love and a broken heart true? What was it that drove her? And was it her loneliness that caused her to reach out to me?
Whatever the reason, I was grateful. She had given me a home when I had none, had given me something of stability, of understanding, of sympathy, and of assurance, too. Just to see her standing alone, so quiet in her simple yet so elegant gowns, smiling gently. One would never suspect the iron that was in her soul, the cool efficiency of her mind.
She had guided me a little, suggested a little, and had helped me to bridge that gap from being a boy to becoming a young man.
What of her? What did she really want? Security, yes. No doubt of that. She had spoken to me of our being alike, of each being left alone, and there had been a hint of sadness, a hint of rejection, a hint that somewhere behind her there had been those who rejected her because of lack of money, of position, of whatever. This was supposition, but it was a possibility and might account for much.
Whatever the reason, she had gambled her little money on a fast trip west, had come to California believing in it, determined to make a place for herself there.
Was it because she had been known in the East? Had she come west to escape all that? To start anew where nobody could point a finger or demean her because of what she was or had been?
Whatever else she was, she was certainly a woman of fine courage and of no uncommon ability.
Riding along a desert trail gave one time to think, to consider. Talking became difficult because most of the trails were for riding single file, and talk also created thirst. So one rode and dreamed or thought or simply dozed.
Overhead flew an optimistic buzzard. In the distance was a curious coyote, and far behind, barely visible against the sun-glaring sky, lay a dust trail.
A very thin trail, hanging like a mute question mark against the sky.
Francisco was leading now, and Jacob fell back, waiting for me to come up to him. I turned in my saddle and nodded toward the rear. “Lots of travel these days,” I commented.
“Hunters,” he agreed. “I wonder what they expect to find?”
The sun grew hotter, dust devils pirouetted across the desert, and the distance created enchanting blue lakes that lost themselves as we drew nearer.
Sweat trickled down my face. I mopped my cheeks with a bandanna and wiped the sweatband of my hat.
Far ahead, unbelievably tall in the blue water of a mirage, was a man on horseback.
Francisco turned in his saddle and pointed toward the still black figure, so far off, yet so visible.
“Ramón,” he said. “You will see.”
CHAPTER 32
“What do you know of this Ramón?” I asked.
“He is Ramón.” Francisco added no comment for several steps and then he said, “He is a shaman, a man of magic.” He paused again. “He is also a fine horseman.”
We drew closer. Ramón did not move, simply sat his horse, waiting. Was he young or old? I could not guess at a distance, but he sat very erect, and his sombrero was hanging from his saddle horn.
“He will know where are the horses,” Francisco said.
As we approached, the mirage of blue lake retreated but Ramón remained where he was.
“He knows you,” Francisco said at last.
Ramón? I knew no Ramón.
He was slim and he looked tall. It was not until he dismounted that I saw he was not tall, but of less than medium height. He wore a shirt open at the neck and something suspended from a rawhide cord that was behind his shirt. He wore buckskin breeches and a wide leather belt. He had a knife in a scabbard at his hip, but no pistol. A rifle was in the scabbard made of fringed buckskin and beaded.
“I am Ramón,” he said.
“And I am Johannes Verne,” I replied. “This”—I turned in my saddle to indicate them—“is Jacob Finney and Monte McCalla. The others you know.”
“I do not.”
Surprised, I added, “This is Francisco. The others are Alejandro, Martín, Diego, Jaime, and Selmo.”
He looked from one to the other as I mentioned their names. His hair was nearly white, his eyes intensely black, his skin a smoky brown, more like East Indians my father had pointed out than our own Indians.
It had become a custom for Indians to take Spanish names, although they had their own, often known only to their families. The custom had no doubt begun at the missions, when the fathers, for their own convenience, had given the Indians Spanish names.
Ramón turned his horse about and rode away, leading us.
Francisco came up beside me. “He does not look like a Cahuilla,” I said.
“He no Cahuilla. I said it. He is Ramón, and that is all.”
“I do not know him.”
Francisco eased himself in the saddle. “I did not say you know him. I said he knows you.”
It was a difference,
of course, but how did he know me, and from where? From when?
He stayed well ahead of us, riding a line-back dun with black mane and tail as well as black hairs around the hooves. The horse had a thicker neck than most horses I’d seen, and looked strong.
Throughout the long afternoon we rode, and Ramón did not stop until suddenly he turned from the trail and led the way into some tumbled boulders. There, in a small cove almost surrounded by giant rocks, was a small pool of water, and water trickling into it from among the rocks.
He stepped down, drank from the spring, and watched us do likewise. When I got up and wiped the drops from my mouth, he was looking at me.
“Johannes of the desert,” he said.
“Perhaps,” I acknowledged, and then added dryly, “Let the desert say.”
We made camp, each tending to his own horse, Selmo preparing a meal.
“The horses,” Ramón said, “will be here.” He drew a quick map in the earth, indicating where we were, where the horses would be, and the trail between. “Here”—he put a finger on a spot—“are mountains, and there is a pass, very narrow. A trail leads to the sea.” He glanced at me. “To Los Angeles.
“All this”— he gestured to the north—“is the valley of San Joaquin.” He gestured to his right and east. “There is desert”—he glanced at me again—“the desert you crossed.”
He looked at me again. “How many horses?”
“Four hundred, if possible. Four hundred of the best.”
“It is many.”
“We will need many. People will be coming, and they will need horses.”
“No doubt.” He looked over at me. “You can read? You can read books?”
“I can.”
“I have never seen a book,” he said, a note of wistfulness in his tone.
“The wilderness is a book,” I said. “It has many pages.”
The Lonesome Gods (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 22