the Lonesome Gods (1983) (39 page)

First, we had to ride on to the ranch and discover just what had happened, then take steps. How many horses were gone? How long ago did the raid occur? How many attackers had there been? Then we had to organize pursuit. At least forty horses had been taken. Tomas Machado, who worked on the ranch for Miss Nesselrode, stopped me. "The stallion? He not go with them. He escape. He round up two, three mares and run off. He has gone back to the wild."

"Finney and Kelso are here, they rode in just before you did," Monte said. "Do we go after them?"

"What else?"

"They'll be looking to ambush us like they did wit
h
Sheriff Barton," Finney suggested. "This is a bad lot. I think it was some of Pancho Daniel's outfit."

"We'll have to be careful." I pushed my hat back on my head. "I can go alone. The fewer of us, the better, if we're to slip up on them and avoid an ambush."

"We rode over from El Monte because we figured there'd be some action," Owen Hardin said. "You tryin' to deal us out of it?"

He was a short, barrel-chested man with a thick neck who at twenty-two was already growing bald. "Monte said we'd see some action. Now you're tryin' to hog it all."

"Come along, then. Kelso," I said, turning to him, "I wish you'd stay. Miss Nesseliode will need you, and there's no telling how long we will be gone."

"How long you figure?"

"As long as it takes to find our horses."

"That may take you clean into Sonora."

"Fine! I've never seen Sonora. Nor Chihuahua."

"Ain't nobody waitin' for me," Myron Brodie said, "and I ain't been to Sonora neither. Although," he added, "I did ride down Chihuahua way one time."

"You know that country?" Finney asked.

Brodie grinned. "Not too well. I was ridin' mostly at night."

"Tomorrow morning," I said, "we leave before daybreak." .

The ranch house was long, low-roofed, and pleasant, adobe plastered with white, and a tiled roof made with tile the fathers had taught the Indians to make. It was a trade quickly abandoned when the fathers lost their autocratic control over the Indians. Several rooms opened on the galerla, which was shaded and cool. Inside, there was a central room with a fountain, a table, some chests, and a few hide-covered chairs. The rugs on the floors had been woven by Indians.

Dropping into one of the c4irs, I dropped my hat on the floor nearby. Elfego brought me coffee. After a sip or two I leaned my head back.

I did not like it. Raids upon outlying rarfclios were not uncommon, but such a raid on our horsel so soon after the other was unlikely. Several of the would-be thieves had been killed, and it was strange, I thought, that they would strike again so soon. The object lesson from the previous raid would make them wary. Yet there had been a raid and some horses stolen. What was I to make of that?

Something about it made me uneasy. Where were a dozen horse herds more vulnerable than ours and less well-guarded, so why us? And why so soon?

It was cool and pleasant there. I thought back to Meghan, and shied from the thought. She had not betrayed me. She was her own person and could do as she wished. No doubt Don Federico was a handsome and exciting man. Because he was my enemy did not make him her enemy. I was stupid.

Nevertheless, the thought irked me, and I opened my eyes, staring at the ceiling for a moment, trying to bring my thoughts back to the problem at hand. I sipped coffee. Suppose ... ?

No, that was unlikely. Yet, to consider ... Suppose the stealing of the horses was a deliberate plan to kill me? To lead me into a trap, as Barton had been led and shot down?

Friends of those who died in the previous attempt? Or Don Isidro? Or perhaps even Don Federico? Suppose when Meghan had mentioned me he decided to eliminate me from that field, too?

Or was I too involved with my own problems and not seeing clearly? Suppose it was simply a case of horse theft?

Play it that way, but remembering the ambush of Sheriff Barton, be very cautious.

Long since, I had learned that one needs moments of quiet, moments of stillness, for both the inner and outer man, a moment of contemplation or even simple emptiness when the stress could ease away and a calmness enter the tissues. Such moments of quiet gave one strength
,
gave one coolness of mind with which to approach the world and its problems. Sometimes but a few minutes were needed.

Long walks can provide this, or horseback rides, reading a different book, or even just sitting. Here, in the pleasant coolness of this galerla, listening to the waters of the fountain, I could gather my forces again, and perhaps reach some conclusions about myself.

Hatred is an ugly thing, more destructive of the hater than the hated, and this I had tried to avoid. I did not hate Don Isidro, I did wish there were a justice that would see him pay for what he had done to my parents. Yet in his pursuit of them he may have given them a closeness, a needing of each other they might not otherwise have known.

Although I did not hate, neither did I wish evil to succeed in its evil. Don Isidro had fierce pride in a name whose reputation had been won by others and to which he had contributed nothing. He had fled to this country to keep from his peers a knowledge he deemed disgraceful, and he had driven his daughter from his doors for the same reason. Now, a lonely and embittered old man, he was left with nothing.

The old family servants had left him because of his actions, and those now around him were men he could not control and who showed him outward respect while secretly holding him in contempt.

Thus far I had been occupied in growing up, learning a little, avoiding enemies, but moving no farther, and it depressed me that I was not moving. Nor had I found my direction. From my window I could look off across the grassland, spotted with groves of trees or patches of prickly pear. In the distance lifted the smoke of Los Angeles. Someday, Don Benito Wilson had said, this would be a great city. Perhaps, but it must find other industries than cattle and grapes, which provided its income now. Nor was I sure I wished it to become a great city, for we who are among the first always yield reluctantly to the latecomers, seeing our meadows fade, our trees cu
t
down, our horizons obscured. We who were the first-corners accepted the dollar prices but bemoaned the loss of beau- ty, yet what was happening was inevitable, I suppose. Yet we must never forget that the land and the waters are ours for the moment only, that generations will follow who must themselves live from that land and drink that water. It would not be enough to leave something for them; we must leave it all a little better than we found it. Never did a tree fall that I did not feel a pang, and rightly so, for when the trees are gone, man will also be gone, for without them we cannot live. The very air we breathe comes from trees, and when they are gone, the air will thicken and men will die and our great towers of stone will fall away to rubble and there will be only weeds, and then grass to cover the unsightly mounds we leave behind.

My coffee was cold, and Elfego was off about his business somewhere. As I turned my head to look out across the meadow, I saw some of our horses run by, biting playfully at one another, bright flashes of color upon the green of the meadow. This was the good life, this I could do, raise horses, watch them grow, and perhaps have a little to do in shaping the destiny of our country. For it is not buildings that make a city, but citizens, and a citizen is not just he who lives in a city, but one who helps it to function as a city. My father had often talked of the town meetings in New England and of the discussions that helped to shape the destinies of cities and states. For this I must prepare myself, for I knew too little of law, too little of governing, too little of the con- ducting of public meetings.

There is no greater role for a man to play than to assist in the government of a people, nor anyone lower than he who misuses that power.

The shadows were reaching out toward the edges of the fields, the trees were losing their forms in the darkness, and night was corning.

Night, and I was alone. Restlessly I walked to the window, then hurriedly turned from it, for to expose myself there might give some hidden marksman an opportunity. Grimly I reflected. There was the dream, but there was also the reality, and all men were not men of goodwill.

Where was Meghan now? Did she think of me at all? And why should she?

Why Don Federico, of all people? He was twice her age and more, yet that was almost the custom here, and most girls married when fourteen to sixteen. Meghan was younger than I, although we had gone to school together. Rad Huber had been older than all of us, for ours was a small school and there were no subdivisions.

Tomorrow at daybreak, another venture into the unknown, five men after a band of at least ten and our horses. Unless it rained, highly unlikely at this time of year, there would be a trail. And if this was, indeed, a trap, there would certainly be a trail.

Was it over between Meghan and me? Had there ever been anything to be over? Had I been foolish? I could not escape the idea that had Captain Laurel been at home, Don Federico would never have been permitted to visit. And that did me no good whatsoever.

My thoughts strayed again to the desert. Where was Francisco? Was he married yet? Indians took wives early, in most cases, and he was a man of growing importance among his people.

How was the acorn crop this year? I wondered. And the mesquite and chia? Would they fare well this coming year? And had my visitor come again to the cabin with the mosaic floor?

Odd, that he should have that talent. Had he been instructed? Or did he conceive and plan and originate himself? Had he, my monster, actually laid that floor? Someone else, perhaps?

He returned to the mountains in the dark. How well he must know them! And how sure of foot he must be, for all his size.

If!

What if some night he fell along the trail? Who would find him? Who would look? Who would even wonder? Was there someone, somewhere, who cared?

I cared.

I would send word to Francisco, I would learn if anyone had been in the house or near it.

And my great black horse? Where was he? Was he glad to be free? Glad to be running once more over his wild, wonderful hills? Grazing beneath the oaks where the acorns fell? Watering at lonely streams?

Standing in the middle of the room, I looked around. I was alone. I felt as if I had always been alone, always. Don Federico ...

Why had it been him? Why, of all men?

Meghan, I love you. I spoke the words in my mind, but they fell into silence and left no echo behind.

Had I told her that? I had not, in so many words. Yet, I believed she knew. He would tell her. He would tell her easily and with skill. He was a man who would be good at such things.

It was just as well I was going to the mountains. Settling myself in a corner away from view of the windows, I tried to read, but on this night I could not. Often I read aloud, loving the sound of the words, amazed at how beautifully some writers sounded when read, how impossible it was to read others aloud. Yet now I could not read.

Meghan, I have lost you.

Long I lay awake, staring up into the darkness where the dark-beamed ceiling was, hearing the faint sounds from outside, a mockingbird singing the long night through, a movement of horses in the corrals, the sound of water from the fountain.

Tomorrow I ride to the hills again, to the long green hills now fading to a tawny brown, hills that looked like the flanks of some great lion sleeping.

My father had fled to the hills, had lost himself out there where the silent gods awaited, eyes hollow with loneliness for the worshipers they no longer had. Ou
t
gave one coolness of mind with which to approach the world and its problems. Sometimes but a few minutes were needed.

Long walks can provide this, or horseback rides, reading a different book, or even just sitting. Here, in the pleasant coolness of this galerta, listening to the waters of the fountain, I could gather my forces again, and perhaps reach some conclusions about myself.

Hatred is an ugly thing, more destructive of the hater than the hated, and this I had tried to avoid. I did not hate Don Isidro, I did wish there were a justice that would see him pay for what he had done to my parents. Yet in his pursuit of them he may have given them a closeness, a needing of each other they might not otherwise have known.

Although I did not hate, neither did I wish evil to succeed in its evil. Don Isidro had fierce pride in a name whose reputation had been won by others and to which he had contributed nothing. He had fled to this country to keep from his peers a knowledge he deemed disgraceful, and he had driven his daughter from his doors for the same reason. Now, a lonely and embittered old man, he was left with nothing.

The old family servants had left him because of his actions, and those now around him were men he could not control and who showed him outward respect while secretly holding him in contempt.

Thus far I had been occupied in growing up, learning a little, avoiding enemies, but moving no farther, and it depressed me that I was not moving. Nor had I found my direction. From my window I could look off across the grassland, spotted with groves of trees or patches of prickly pear. In the distance lifted the smoke of Los Angeles. Someday, Don Benito Wilson had said, this would be a great city. Perhaps, but it must find other industries than cattle and grapes, which provided its income now.