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

by Louis L'Amour

  I smelled smoke.

  Wood smoke, the smoke of a campfire. There, not a half-mile away, perhaps even less, Old Woman Springs, and a faint gleam through the brush.

  A fire. My enemies awaited me. They were resting, drinking water and coffee at their leisure.

  Yet suppose these were not enemies? Perhaps some other travelers, merely camping at the water hole. They would welcome me, give me something to drink and to eat.

  Should I chance it? It had been days since I’d had enough to drink, and I was always hungry. I hesitated, wanting to go closer, yet afraid, too. Now that I was so awfully tired, I was clumsy, too. I could not manage my feet well, I stumbled often, and if I went closer, would be sure to alarm the camp. Moreover, the horses would smell me. Hesitantly I moved closer, pausing often. Somebody moved near the fire, throwing a shadow as he passed close to the fire; then I heard somebody say, “It is a waste of time! The man is dead! Who could survive out there without food or water? And without a horse? Juliano is sure to have caught and killed him.”

  “What difference does it make? Are we not paid for what we do? Sit down, rest yourself. It is for a few days only.”

  For a moment I swayed on my feet, sick with disappointment; then I turned away and walked on by. One step at a time, half-asleep, I stumbled on. Several times I staggered; once I fell to my knees. Saddlerock Spring must be ten…No, more. At least twelve miles.

  There was another spring nearer, but it might be watched as well. On I went, walking, staggering, almost falling. My feet were tender, for the skin had often broken.

  Again I fell to my knees. For a moment I stayed where I was, wanting nothing so much as to fall forward and to sleep. At last I got up and walked on.

  Somehow I clung to my rifle. Time and again I used it to push me up from the sand where I had fallen. Now I was existing only for water, any kind of water, anywhere. There was Two Hole Spring…I had heard of it…somewhere nearer than Saddlerock. Without a drink I would never make it.

  Suddenly the mountains were lifting up before me. I started on, smelled smoke again, and stopped. Peering through some scattered brush and the rocks, I caught a gleam of fire. Carefully I edged closer.

  A fire…one man. A big rawboned Anglo with a straggly beard. A hawk face and long, sparse hair. He added fuel to a fire. I could smell coffee. My stomach growled ominously. Edging closer, I thought of that coffee, of food, of water, of…

  He saw me.

  He had picked up the coffeepot to fill his cup. His eyes held mine. Slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving mine, he put down the coffeepot. He held the stub of a cigar in his yellow teeth and he rolled it to the corner of his mouth.

  He had a straggly mustache that fell on either corner of his mouth. His shirt was stained and dirty. He slowly straightened up, rolling the cigar again.

  When he was straightened to his full height, he smiled past the cigar; then coolly he reached for his gun. Dumbly I stared at him. I was stupid with exhaustion. I saw his hand clasp the gun, saw it start to lift as it came free of the holster, saw the yellow teeth, the wolfish smile, and his gun came up. Then I shot him.

  My rifle, held in my right hand, fired from the hip. The bullet struck him, and, shocked, he stared at me. Then his gun went off, the bullet going into the ground. Stepping forward, I swung the barrel of my rifle against his arm and the gun went flying.

  He fell back in a sitting position, staring at me as blood spilled over his belt and stained his pants. Picking up his cup, I filled it with coffee. Holding the cup in my left hand, I made a gesture of salute. “Gracias,” I said, and drank.

  He made a gesture of indifference, as much as to say: Help yourself. I drank again.

  One of his hands rested on the ground; the other held his belly where the bullet had gone.

  “It was for fifty dollars,” he explained.

  “It is a lot of money, sometimes,” I agreed; then I added, “You make a good cup of coffee.”

  “Por nada,” he said.

  I finished the coffee and refilled my cup. There was no pain in him yet, only shock. “They will come,” he said. “The shot…”

  “Of course,” I agreed.

  He pointed toward his pack. “There is bacon,” he said, “but you have no time.”

  “I can take it? And the coffee?”

  “Of course,” he said, and then he added, “They are at the Old Woman. They will run you down, I think.”

  “Who knows?” I shrugged. “There was a pair of saddlebags.”

  “The bacon is there,” he said, “and the coffee.”

  “I’ll take them, and the pot.” I emptied the last of the coffee.

  “It was for fifty dollars,” he said. “Fifty dollars to be here, a hundred if I killed you.”

  “Ah? You have bad luck,” I said. Taking my time, for my hands were unsteady, I reloaded my rifle. I would need every shot. There was a canteen. Taking that and the saddlebags, I slung them over my shoulder and took the cup and the coffeepot.

  “There is the horse,” he said. “It is saddled. Take it.”

  “Gracias,” I said again, and then, as I started toward the horse, I turned back to him. “Another time, I might have bought you a drink.”

  “Of course,” he said, “and I, you.”

  He was sitting in a pool of blood now. I lifted a hand.

  “Adiós!” I said, and he tried to lift a hand to me but could not.

  At the rim of the firelight I untied the horse. “Fifty dollars?” I said. “It was not enough.”

  “Who knows?” he said, and he rolled over with his cheek against the rocks, his eyes staring toward the fire.

  “Adiós,” I said again, but he did not answer.

  The horse was a tired horse, but not so tired as I. I rode him down Rattlesnake Canyon and then cut back into the hills toward Saddlerock. The canteen, when I hefted it, was only half-full. At Saddlerock I could fill it if it was not watched.

  It was not. Dismounting, I emptied out the water, rinsed the canteen, and refilled it with the fresh, clear water from Saddlerock. I lay down and drank, and drank again. The horse was in no such shape as I and drank but little.

  They would be coming soon, and there would be many of them, nor was I in any shape for a fight. Yet they would find the other man and be cautious.

  Morongo Valley. Was it ten miles? Or further?

  Mounting up, I turned the horse into a canyon that sloped toward the desert. I walked the horse, saving it for runs yet to come.

  The shot would have been heard. On such a night, clear and cool, it would be heard far….Two shots.

  By the time I had gone a mile, the coffee had brought me alive enough to think.

  They would be coming fast down the Burns Canyon Trail, and they would cut me off from Morongo. They would know about the Indians and me, as they had known about the Indians and my father.

  They would cut me off, they would drive me into the desert.

  Not that, not again. Please…not that again.

  Turning my horse, I sought a way over the low ridges and found it. There was open ground beyond, with some Joshua trees. I wove a way among them, ran into a clump of boulders, and had to swing wide around them. And then I heard them.

  They were coming fast down the Burns Canyon Trail, and there were a lot of them, judging by the sound. I ran my horse toward the gap near Chaparrosa Spring, hoping to pass them and ride into Morongo ahead of them.

  Suddenly a yell and a shot. There had been riders at Chaparrosa, heading me off. There were five or six of them. I fired then, and fired again. The horse jumped sharply and faltered.

  What…? Riding hard, I rode into the desert, and under me the horse’s gait became unsteady. They had fired, my horse had been hit.

  Please, I whispered, just a little further! Please!

>   Gamely, desperately, the horse ran on. Then he tumbled and pitched forward and I left the saddle over his head but landed on my feet, running.

  My rifle was gone with the fall; the saddlebags flapped over my shoulder, and the canteen. Desperately I clung to them, saw some boulders and went into them, ran down a slope and wove my way between other boulders and the Joshuas.

  Pausing to listen, I heard them passing off to the south. They would ride on, find the fallen horse, and begin to search.

  Only minutes…just minutes…

  They were coming.

  CHAPTER 52

  Meghan sat close to the fire, her arms around her knees. She stared into the fire and was frightened. She had been a fool, a complete fool, and now she was trapped.

  Tomás was across the fire from her, preparing food, and he was also trapped, and it was her fault. Such a kind old man! He had tried, very gently, to dissuade her. He had tried to tell her how impossible it was to find one man in all that vast world beyond the mountains. She had not believed him, and now it was too late.

  By the third day she had begun to realize the impossibility of it, but her stubbornness refused to let her turn back, and she could not believe she would not find him. She must find him.

  There were two other men with them, and one of them, named Iglesias, had not worked with Tomás but had volunteered to come along. From the first, he made her uncomfortable. He insisted on trying to ride beside her, and kept throwing meaningful glances at her, taunting, contemptuous glances.

  Once, riding near her he had said, “He is an old man. He can do nothing for you.”

  On the night of the third day two other men had ridden down from the hills and joined them. They did not say anything, but they rode along. And they knew Iglesias.

  Obviously the meeting had been arranged. They looked boldly at her, letting their eyes go over her body and smiling at each other.

  One of them had looked at her and said, “Soon.”

  She wanted to turn back now but was afraid that would only precipitate matters. Perhaps if she waited, something might happen.

  She was desperately afraid, but she must not let them know. She also had the small pistol her father had given her, but it was hidden and they had not seen it.

  There were three of them. She had never shot a man and had never believed she could; now she believed. Now she knew it would come to that.

  Now she could not think of Johannes. All her wits must be upon this situation. Tomás glanced at her. He knew she understood and he knew she was ready for whatever could be done.

  If anything could be done.

  “Johannes should be near,” she said suddenly. “He would not have come further than this.”

  She said it, and hoped they would believe it, even though she knew it was not true. Johannes was nowhere near.

  Tomás straightened from the fire. “Of course,” he said. “He should be riding in at any moment.”

  The other men ignored their talk. Except the boy who had worked with Tomás. He was quiet; he was frightened, too.

  “You are young,” one of them said suddenly, “but you can be in it, too. The old one is too old. He does not matter.”

  That one, the one whom they called Biscal, he looked contemptuously at Meghan. “We know where he is. He is in the desert, he is on foot, and they are following him. By now he is for the buzzards.

  “He will not come.” Biscal smiled. “No one will come. We are alone.”

  “Captain Laurel is a man,” Tomás said suddenly. “He fears no one. He has much power, in Mexico as well as here.”

  “Bah! He is far at sea. And when he comes back? She went into the mountains, so who knows what bear killed her?”

  It was said now, it was declared, it was in the open. “You do not know my people,” she said, “or the friends I have among your people. If I am harmed in any way, they will never stop until they find you and hang you.”

  Biscal chuckled. “You are not the first, and I am not hung. Although,” he added, “you are the most beautiful. Had I not promised them, I would keep you for myself.”

  She was still frightened, but now there was something inside of her that was very still, very ready. When the moment came, she would let him get close and she would kill him first.

  The boy would help her, she was sure of that, and Tomás as well, but there were three men against them. She must kill one, quickly, surely.

  “She is under my protection,” Tomás said quietly. “She will not be harmed.”

  “Don’t be a fool, old man. Stay out of this and you may live. Of that I have not decided, but if you are wise…who knows?”

  Tomás knelt beside the fire. He stirred the coals under the coffee, seemed to touch the pot, and jerked his hand away, his eyes meeting hers. He was telling her something.

  The coffee, the hot coffee. That was a weapon, too. She remembered her father once saying that anything could be a weapon, that men had been killing each other for a million years before a gun was invented, and if one did not have a gun, there was always something.

  To be alert, to watch her chances. That was the thing. Not to run, for she could not run as fast as any one of them in her heavy skirts, and running away left her vulnerable to attack.

  She was thinking now. The coffee had been one thought, but there were others. There was a long stick near the fire. She took it up and poked it into the fire as if feeding the flames. There was that stick…

  “Let us eat, Tomás. Let a man’s pleasures come later.” Biscal turned his head and gave her a sidelong glance. “I have seen you about the town and wondered how I could get you.” He jerked his head toward his silent companion. “We talked of it. And then you decided to go into the hills…perfect! We could not have planned it better!”

  Should she shoot him now? Unexpectedly? He had stated his intentions, and if she shot him without warning, when he had not moved toward her, she would take them by surprise. She might have to shoot but one.

  To kill in cold blood? But to defend herself? The riding dress she wore had a slit inside the pocket to allow her to reach her pistol. That had been her father’s idea, and she had scoffed, doubting she would ever need a gun.

  Yet she must not put her hand in her pocket without reason or they might leap upon her and find the gun. She would, when the time came, make believe to sneeze. She would seem to reach for a handkerchief and then shoot him.

  She need not even take the gun out. She could shoot through the material.

  Iglesias was looking at her. “You are not afraid?” He seemed surprised and puzzled.

  “Afraid? Why?” She leaned forward a little. “Have you ever seen Johannes with a gun? He is very good, you know, as his father was. Do you not remember what happened when they tried to steal his horses? There were many of them and he was alone.”

  “Come!” Tomás said suddenly. “It is time for eat. Bring yourselves to the fire.” He indicated a stack of tortillas. “Help yourselves.”

  It was a cool, starlit night. The smell of the fire was good. Meghan Laurel looked to the stars, and then to the fire. In her mind she whispered: Johannes, where are you?

  She had been such a fool, but knowing that did not help now.

  Where was he? Was it true that they were pursuing him into the desert? Even now he might be out there, suffering, dying, alone.

  There was nothing she could do, nor was there anything he could do to help. What must be done, she must do. I will not wait, she told herself. I shall shoot him at once.

  Before he is ready. Before he makes a move. Shoot him suddenly and the others will be frightened.

  She had never killed a man, never dreamed that she might, yet her father had warned her she might someday have to defend herself when he was not near.

  Suddenly one of the horses lifted his head, nostrils
flaring. She seized upon the thought. “Look at him!” she exclaimed suddenly. “There is somebody out there!”

  Startled, they looked. Iglesias, who had been crouching by the fire, stood up and peered into the night.

  “Coyote,” he said at last.

  “Was it?” she asked.

  Biscal looked around uneasily. He spoke low-voiced in Spanish to Iglesias, who shook his head impatiently. Biscal took another tortilla and scooped beans and meat from the pot, yet occasionally he stopped to listen, too.

  She arose and went to the fire. She took her own tortilla and scooped something from the pot, and ate. “It tastes good, Tomás. You are a good cook. May I have some coffee now?”

  “Of course, señorita!” He filled a cup and handed it to her. She sipped a little, then placed the cup on a rock near where she sat. She was ready now. Had they noticed that she took the cup with her left hand? She thought not, but Iglesias was looking at her, puzzled by something.

  The horse’s head was up again, ears pricked. So were the others’. All were looking off into the night; then one turned and looked across the fire at something.

  Biscal swore and stood up, peering into the dark. “Sit down,” Iglesias said impatiently. “You are jumpy as a girl!”

  “Something is here,” Biscal muttered. “I don’t like it.”

  An old man, a boy, and a girl against three grown men, all strong men, vaqueros at least a part of the time. She must shoot one, throw hot coffee on another, if she could. She must be ready, and she must not give herself away, and when the moment came, she must move fast.

  “What was that?” she asked suddenly.

  Biscal looked up. “What? What did you hear?”

  “Something…I don’t know. There was a sound. I—”

  “There was nothing!” Iglesias said irritably. “Nothing at all!”

  Biscal looked around uneasily. Tomás stooped over the pot, then half-straightened, listening. Biscal wet his lips, watching.

  The third man, who had remained still, looked from one to the other. “Estúpido!” he said contemptuously. He got up. “I do not wait. I am ready.”