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

by Louis L'Amour

  “I have been sent to get you. I cannot return without you.”

  She smiled again. “Then why don’t you stay? Why go back at all?”

  His lips tightened. “Madam, I am an official. My duty—”

  “You are not an official here, Mr. Murchison. Over here I think we would call you a bounty hunter.” She got to her feet. “Will you leave now?”

  “And if I do not?”

  She smiled again, amused. “Mr. Murchison, I need only step to that door and call out. There would be a dozen men here within the minute. They might simply rough you up, but they might shoot you or even hang you.”

  He was coldly furious. He stared at her; then slowly he moved toward the door. “I shall go, but I shall begin the proper steps. You shall see.”

  When he had gone, Meghan stood up, her face pale. “How can you be so strong? I would have been frightened.”

  “Once, I also would have been frightened. It is so no longer. I have friends. My advice to you, Meghan: make friends. Wherever you are, make friends.”

  “You have seen the last of him, I think.”

  “No, I have not. He will go to our officials, I believe, and he will get nowhere. Then he will try force. I know them. It is their way. It has always been their way.

  “A thing to remember, Meghan: governments may change, but a people do not, nor does their basic thinking change. My people, the Russians, have always had a suspicious government. The Russian government has never trusted its people—and they have always been suspicious of outside influences. This is not a new thing, but it is a way of life for them. The czars have always ruled with cruelty and repression; no matter what kind of government they have, that will remain the same.”

  “I shall go now. If you hear of Johannes, if you hear anything, will you tell me, please?”

  “I shall.”

  Miss Nesselrode hesitated and then said, “Your father’s friend…Yacub Khan? I believe I shall ask him to come to your house and stay there while your father is gone. Do you mind?”

  CHAPTER 46

  The oaks were islands of blackness in the pale moonlight. We had made coffee and eaten jerky and then we had left our fire behind and ridden about two miles before camping on a small bench among the scattered oaks.

  It was a good place. Below us the long hill sloped away to the trail, all white and empty in the stillness. The slope above us was steep and rocky, impossible for riders and not easy for men on foot, who would be sure to set a stone rolling.

  As usual we had scattered, not bunching together but bedding down in our separate areas of darkness under the trees. Several of the oaks had fallen, others had shed massive limbs, and we had chosen a spot where these could make easy breastworks in case of attack. Our field of fire was excellent.

  It was a dry camp, but our canteens were full and at the foot of the long slope there was a stream. Further along, the canyon grew narrow and the walls too steep for a horse. The tracks we left to ride up to our camp were fresh. Our stolen horses were not far ahead.

  “They won’t go much further,” Finney suggested. “We’re already a whole lot farther out than I expected.”

  That thought was a worry to us all. We were many days’ ride from Los Angeles and there’d been no need to lead us so far that we could think of. An hour out of Los Angeles was wild country in almost any direction but the seacoast.

  Was it our alertness? That could be it. Maybe they were just waiting until we grew careless.

  We took off our boots and our gun belts but we kept both close at hand. Wherever I rode I carried a pair of moccasins with me. They were light of weight and took up no space to speak of, and they were handy in the woods or at night. When in wild country I often slept with them on in case I had to move out fast. I pulled them on, then lay down with a six-shooter close to my hand.

  The moonlight made black-lace patterns of the leaves against the sky. Sleep never came easy for me on moonlight nights in the open. No one is entirely free of atavistic memories left in the subconscious from primitive times, when men had to fear not only others of their kind but wild animals as well. I lay awake, resting, yet alert. Wind rustled the leaves, then died away. One of the horses stamped a hoof. I put my hand out in the darkness and touched the butt of my gun.

  Then I heard the sound—a faint beating of horses’ hooves against the turf. Rising on an elbow, I looked down toward the trail that followed the creek.

  Three riders, black against the pale grass.

  They drew up at the stream, watering the horses. A faint rustling from nearby told me at least one of my crowd was also listening. The men by the stream were talking, but they were a good hundred yards away and we could hear nothing but a distant muttering. Then they mounted again and rode away.

  “Three of them,” Monte McCalla said. “That means three more to deal with.”

  “Get some sleep,” I suggested. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

  Somebody chuckled, blankets rustled, and then there was silence again.

  Three men, traveling late and traveling fast. It was unlikely they were not involved. To be traveling this late meant they were expecting to be someplace at an appointed time or were close enough to someplace they knew to keep riding.

  Lying on my back, staring up into the lacework of leaves, I considered the situation. A trap was being laid, probably no more than an hour’s ride away, for I doubted they would ride farther in the night. Their horses would be tired as it was.

  So then? Somebody wished to be in at the kill? Don Isidro? It was a possibility, but fine a horseman as he was, I doubted if he would ride half the night to get anywhere. Don Federico was another matter.

  Until Captain Laurel warned me, the idea that I might be wanted out of the way because I was a possible heir had not occurred to me. But with the known negligence of some of the older Californios insofar as business was concerned, it was possible Don Isidro had made no will. He was growing old, and Don Federico would wish to inherit, so he had a very good motive aside from hatred for wishing to be rid of me.

  Had he only realized how little I cared! The idea of inheriting had never entered my mind, and I could not care less. Great wealth had never been one of my ambitions. It was more important for me to become a good human being, and to learn, for there was so much to learn, from the Cahuillas, from the desert and mountains, from books, and from the people around me.

  There was also the mystery of Tahquitz, a mystery that haunted me and was never far from my thoughts. Who or what was this strange creature who lived in the night? Who read the books I read, who created that beautiful floor, who left that gigantic footprint? Did he truly live in a cave somewhere atop the San Jacinto Mountains?

  When the horses are recovered, I must ride back to the palm canyon where the hot springs are, back to my lonely house near the mountains. I must take books with me to replace those he must have read.

  When I awakened, a small fire was burning from smokeless wood, and the coffee was on. I sat up, pulled off my moccasins, and tugged on my boots. Monte was at the fire and Myron Brodie had taken the horses down to the creek for water.

  “Quiet,” Finney said, sitting up, running his fingers through his thinning hair.

  “It will be today,” I said.

  Owen Hardin stood up, slinging on his gun belt. “I think so,” he said.

  Squatting by the fire, I warmed my hands on the cup. Nights in the desert or near it were always cold. Uneasily I studied the rim of the hill above us, studied the scattered oaks, patches of prickly pear, and the rock outcroppings.

  “I don’t like it,” Finney said. “It doesn’t feel right. What will we do if that trail goes up the canyon?”

  I had been thinking of that. “Tough,” I said. “It leaves us wide open to anybody up on those slopes with a rifle. They can get us going and coming.”
/>   “We can wait,” Monte said. “We can just set an’ make them come to us. We can outwait them.”

  The coffee tasted good. I chewed on a piece of jerky. The morning was bright and clear. The sun was not up yet, but the bits of mist were fading away under the trees. A tuft of redbud pushed its way out of the brush near the creek.

  Finishing my coffee, I stood up and threw the dregs on the ground. “Take your time,” I said. “I’m going to shave.”

  “Shave?” Brodie asked, swinging down from his horse.

  “I like Monte’s idea. Let’s let them wonder what we’re going to do. You boys do what you want, just stay close. They are expecting us, so let’s give them a chance to worry about us.”

  There was a clump of willows and several large cottonwoods on the creek, and I went down to them with my rifle, scouted the patch thoroughly, then leaned my rifle against a tree and propped a small mirror in the fork of the tree.

  The water was not warm, but I’d shaved under worse conditions. As I shaved, I listened, but could detect none but the usual, natural sounds. It was quiet but for an occasional gurgle from the stream or bird sounds in the willows.

  Squatting by the stream to rinse off my razor, I considered what lay ahead. I wanted my horses. I had worked hard to get them, as had a lot of others, and we had worked to break them. Given a chance, many of them would go back to the wild, and this was their country, and this was, if he had the chance, where my stallion would come.

  Finding a fallen log from which there was a good view of the canyon slopes ahead of us, I sat down with my rifle beside me and watched the hills, studying them with care. There was, or seemed to be, a dim trail along the side of the ridge above the canyon. I looked away, then looked again. Yes…it was a trail. A game trail or an Indian trail. Did the horse thieves know of it?

  Carefully I studied the ridge for landmarks, knowing that from different angles the view can be very different. When I returned to camp I studied the ridge. The trail was no longer visible.

  Finney had made coffee, and I collected a cup of it and sat down on a log. “Maybe,” I said to him, “just maybe…”

  As they gathered around, I explained what I’d found. “In another light or from another angle, I’d never have seen it. My guess is that it’s an old Indian trail, and I’m also guessing they don’t know about it.”

  “Where does it go? Maybe it angles away from where they are?”

  “Look, Indians liked to travel high country when they could, but they also needed water. I figure that outfit have camped on water, and I’d make a small bet that trail branches off to water. It’s a chance, a wild chance.”

  “Suits me,” McCalla said. “I sure don’t like riding up the bottom of that canyon with them settin’ there waitin’ for us.”

  Monte and Owen Hardin went back down to the creek with me and I found the exact spot where I’d been sitting when I spotted that trail. It took some time for them to locate it.

  “Then it won’t be today, like I promised,” I said. “We’ll try it at daylight.”

  Owen Hardin studied the trail. “I’ve an idea,” he said, “and I think I’ll scout the country to see where that trail starts. At least, where we can find it.”

  When he was gone, we napped, drank coffee, and loafed the sultry, lazy afternoon through. Each of us knew what was coming tomorrow, each of us was aware that when the shooting starts all men are vulnerable. Bullets are not selective, but we were hard men, reared to a hard school.

  Owen came in just before dark. “Found it!” He stepped down from his horse, smiling. “Those Injuns, they always knew what they were doin’! That trail takes off from a bit of a branch canyon back yonder where there’s trees an’ brush. Doesn’t look like anybody has been there in years! If I hadn’t known about where to look, I’d never have found it, takes off from behind a tree, like.”

  He squatted on his heels by the dying fire and filled a cup from the blackened pot. His shirt was sweat-stained and had a fresh tear from the brush.

  “Thanks, Owen. You’ve saved us a lot of hunting.”

  “You’d never find it in the dark,” he agreed, “but we’ll have to ride easy. Somebody has been comin’ down the canyon tryin’ to throw a loop on what we’re about.”

  He drank his coffee, then stretched out under his tree and was asleep in minutes. Moving over to the fire, I dowsed the coals with dust and the last of the coffee and set the pot in the shade to cool off. Then I backed up to my own tree and checked both pistols and my rifle.

  Brodie was on watch, shaded by a low-growing juniper that had an enormous trunk and a wide spread of branches. It was deep shade and he had a view for a half-mile of the canyon.

  Owen was dozing, but suddenly his eyes opened. “Forgot to tell you. I seen some tracks down yonder.”

  Jacob Finney opened his eyes, listening. I spun the cylinder on my gun and then reloaded it.

  “Tracks?”

  “Well, I can’t be sure. I only seen them a couple of times, and these weren’t complete tracks. I mean, I saw only a piece of them, here and there.”

  “Well?”

  “Looked to me like that black stallion’s tracks. The one that got away.”

  Here….But why not? This was home to him, this was part of his old range.

  Finney sat up. “I’d of bet on it. Given a chance, a horse will always go back to where he comes from. They are homebodies, horses are.”

  He looked over at me. “I never told you what Ramón said. He said that black was a ghost horse, whatever that means. Kind of a ha’nt, like. He warned me nobody could ride him ’less he wants to be ridden.

  “Sounded like some of the stories I’ve heard of that pacing white stallion from the Plains country. He told me never to try to ride him, that the stallion would kill anybody he didn’t want on his back.”

  “Superstition,” Hardin said. “Injuns got stories about everything. Up where I come from in the Nova Scotia country, their stories are all about somebody or something called Glooscap.”

  “Did Ramón say anything about me riding him?” I asked.

  Finney took up his hat and wiped the sweatband. He put it on his head and tugged it into place.

  “He surely did. He said he thought that horse wanted you to ride him. He said he thought that horse wanted to take you somewhere.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Under a starlit sky we rode to find our trail. The air was cool, a hoof clicked on stone, saddles creaked, brush fingered our clothing. It was a steep scramble along a bare slope after we escaped the brush of the river bottom.

  Single file we rode along a vague whitish streak through sparse grass still gray with night. No horse had been here, nor did we see track of any other animal. Haunted by a warning from our senses, we paused to listen, heard nothing, and rode on.

  Scattered oaks were islands of blackness on the rolling gray sea of the hills. At last we topped out on a narrow ridge, and on my left there was a loose pile of stones. Swinging down, I picked a fist-sized stone from the earth nearby and threw it on the pile.

  “What’s that for?” Hardin asked.

  “The Old Ones did it. Offering to the god of the trail.”

  “D’you believe in that stuff?”

  “I like doing it.” For a moment I stood beside my horse, my hands on the saddle. “I have a feeling for them. The old gods, I mean. It must be hard for them, with no worshipers left, their lands invaded by strangers who don’t know their ways, or care.”

  “Throw one on for me,” Hardin suggested. “We’ll need all the help we can get.”

  We would be five against at least twelve, going against them on ground of their own choosing.

  I thought of them then, those four young men who rode with me, four young men carved from the same oak of trouble seasoned by the same winds, yet each as different as
could be. They rode forth to battle without a flag except that flown by their own courage, loyal to the last fiber of their being, and strong with the knowledge that if men are to survive upon the earth there must be law, and there must be justice, and all men must stand together against those who would strike at the roots of what men have so carefully built.

  It is all very well to say that man is only a casual whim in a mindless universe, that he, too, will pass. We understand that, but disregard it, as we must. Man to himself is the All, the sum and the total. However much he may seem a fragment, a chance object, a bit of flotsam on the waves of time, he is to himself the beginning and the end. And this is just. This is how it must be for him to survive.

  Man must deal with himself. It is his reality he must face each morning when he rises. It is his world with which he must deal. Perhaps his end is only years away, or even months, yet he cannot more than acknowledge that, for it is the now with which he must deal, unless like a spoiled child he is to fall on his face and beat his fists against the earth. He must be, he must move, he must create.

  If man is to vanish from the earth, let him vanish in the moment of creation, when he is creating something new, opening a path to the tomorrow he may never see. It is man’s nature to reach out, to grasp for the tangible on the way to the intangible.

  We have hedged ourselves round with law, for we know that if man is to survive it must be through cooperative effort.

  We walked our horses down a steep, grassy, rockstrewn hill, across a narrow gully, and were angling along the slope opposite. At times the trail faded or vanished utterly, and once when we lost it, Monte spotted, a hundred yards down a gully, one rock placed atop another. We chose that way and found the trail again. The rocks as we passed were, I saw, coated with the desert varnish of many years. Suddenly my horse pricked his ears and looked to the north, nostrils flaring. I spoke warningly, sharply, and my horse tossed his head, irritated with me.