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    The Lonesome Gods (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures): A Novel
    The Lonesome Gods (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures): A Novel
    The Lonesome Gods (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures): A Novel
    Ebook573 pages8 hours

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

    By Louis L'Amour

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    About this ebook

    The classic Western, now newly repackaged as part of Bantam's Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures program—with never-before-seen material from Louis and his son, Beau L'Amour.

    "I am Johannes Verne, and I am not afraid."

    This was the boy's mantra as he plodded through the desert alone, left to die by his vengeful grandfather. Johannes Verne was soon to be rescued by outlaws, but no one could save him from the lasting memory of his grandfather's eyes, full of impenetrable hatred. Raised in part by Indians, then befriended by a mysterious woman, Johannes grew up to become a rugged adventurer and an educated man. But even now, strengthened by the love of a golden-haired girl and well on his way to making a fortune in bustling early-day Los Angeles, the past may rise up to threaten his future once more. And this time only the ancient gods of the desert can save him.

    Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures is a project created to release some of the author’s more unconventional manuscripts from the family archives.
     
    In Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures: Volume 1 and Volume 2, Beau L’Amour takes the reader on a guided tour through many of the finished and unfinished short stories, novels, and treatments that his father was never able to publish during his lifetime. L’Amour’s never-before-seen first novel, No Traveller Returns, faithfully completed for this program, is a voyage into danger and violence on the high seas.
     
    Additionally, many beloved classics will be rereleased with an exclusive Lost Treasures postscript featuring previously unpublished material, including outlines, plot notes, and alternate drafts. These postscripts tell the story behind the stories that millions of readers have come to know and cherish.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRandom House Publishing Group
    Release dateApr 28, 2020
    ISBN9780593158616

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

      CHAPTER 1

      I sat very still, as befitted a small boy among strangers, staring wide-eyed into a world I did not know.

      I was six years old and my father was dying.

      Only last year I had lost my mother. She died longing for that far-off, lovely California where she was born, and of which she never tired of talking.

      Warm and sunny, people said when speaking of California, but I knew it as a place where fear lived.

      Now we were going there. We were crossing the desert to face that fear, and I was afraid.

      My father sat close beside me trying to sleep, but torn occasionally by violent spells of coughing that caused the other passengers to turn their heads, some in pity, some in irritation.

      Our wagon, drawn by six half-wild mustangs, plunged into the night, rocking and rumbling over a dim track that only the driver seemed to see. Ours was a desperate venture, a lone wagon with two outriders attempting the crossing from Santa Fe to California.

      Lying awake in the darkness, I remembered what people in Santa Fe had said. It’s a crazy idea! One wagon? Even if they can slip by the Apaches, the Yumas will be waiting at the crossing of the Colorado.

      Remember what happened to that last outfit? The Yumas agreed to ferry them across the river, but when they had half of them on the far side, the Yumas just took off with all their goods and stock. Left ’em to die in the desert, with nothing.

      Only they didn’t die. Not all of them.

      I’ll say one thing. If anybody could take a wagon through alone, it would be Doug Farley.

      Maybe. But he’s only one man. As for me, I’ll just wait until spring and go through with a wagon train.

      When I told my father what they had said, he nodded. We have to go now, son. I cannot wait. He hesitated, then continued. "Some folks would think me wrong to tell you of this, but you must be prepared.

      I cannot wait until spring, Johannes. The doctors say I haven’t that much time. They say I am going to die. You will have to grow up without me, and growing up is never easy. People only talk about how wonderful youth is when they have forgotten how hard it was.

      We had gone together to see the wagon. Doug Farley had built it for the purpose, and the planks were not only tightly fitted but caulked so it would float if need be. The side walls were lined with a double thickness of buffalo hide to add more protection from bullets.

      Eight people could ride in the wagon in some comfort, but on this trip there would be but six, including me, and I wasn’t very large. Each man and woman was required to have a rifle in good condition and at least two hundred rounds of ammunition. Each was required to demonstrate that he or she knew how to load and fire his or her weapon.

      We will travel by night, Farley warned us, wherever possible. No loud talking, no noise. No shooting unless we are fired upon.

      What about hunting? The question was asked by a thick-necked, powerful man in a black suit. His name was Fletcher. He had a square, brutal face with small eyes. I did not like him.

      There will be no hunting, Farley answered. We have supplies enough, so there will be no need. A shot would only attract the trouble we’re trying to avoid.

      You’ve been over this trail?

      Five times, and I’ve scouted it just for this trip. Every stopping place is chosen now, and I’ve selected alternatives if something goes wrong.

      How’d it go before?

      The first time was with a party of mountain men. We had one hell of a fight—five men killed, and we lost all our furs.

      The other times?

      "The army survey party was strong and we had no trouble except for losing some mules and one man who just wandered off and was lost.

      Another time, with a wagon train, we got through to Los Angeles, losing only two wagons and some stock.

      Los Angeles? What’s that?

      It’s a little cow town about twenty miles from the sea. Used to be an Injun village. That’s the place we’re heading for.

      What’s this here trip goin’ to cost?

      Three hundred dollars each. Cash on the barrel head.

      That’s a lot of money.

      "Take it or leave it. If you wait until spring, you can go through for half that. Maybe less. I am taking people who wish to go through now. He paused. We leave at daybreak."

      How about my son? my father asked.

      Farley glanced at me. His eyes lingered for a moment. He’s small. He can go for one hundred dollars.

      That’s not fair! Fletcher was irritable. You asked for people who could handle guns. That boy certainly can’t.

      My father turned slowly to look at Fletcher. As to that, my friend, we shall see. In the meantime, I believe I can shoot well enough for both of us.

      What the hell does that mean?

      Father glanced over at Farley. Mr. Farley? I am Zachary Verne.

      Doug Farley lit his cigar and dropped the twig back into the fire. That’s good enough for me.

      But—

      Farley ignored the interruption. He goes, he said, and walked away.

      My father dropped a hand to my shoulder. Let’s get our gear together, son.

      As they walked away, I heard the heavyset man, Fletcher, protesting to the others. Now, what does all that mean? He just says his name and Farley’s ready to take him on. The way he coughs, he won’t last the trip!

      Whoever he is, someone said, Farley knew him.

      At our room my father told me to wait and he went in to pick up our few things. I sat on the bench shivering, thinking of that fierce old man who awaited me in Los Angeles. He had hated my father, and when my father and mother fled across the desert, he pursued them, hoping, it was said, to kill them both.

      Nor dared I tell my father how frightened I was. He did not know of the times I overheard my parents talking when it was believed I was asleep. After all, I had heard my father say, he is the boy’s grandfather. How could he hate his grandson? And then he added, a note of desperation in his voice, There is nobody else, Connie, nobody at all.

      Once my father had been tall and strong; now he was pale and shrunken from illness of the lungs and now he grieved for the wife he had loved and the son he would never see grow to manhood.

      A dozen times, seeking some way out, they had repeated almost the same conversation. Zack, my mother would say, what else can you do? There is nobody else.

      Then suddenly one night, only shortly before my mother’s death, my father had suddenly burst out, There’s that other thing, Connie! If only I’d had sense enough to keep my mouth shut! He would never have known that I knew!

      You were angry, Zack. You didn’t think.

      "I was angry, but that is no excuse. I was angry for Felipe. He would have told no one, but he was killed. Murdered.

      How could a man fall off a cliff he had walked and ridden a hundred times, in dark and daylight, in storm and wind? The night was moonlit, the trail was clear, and Felipe was a careful man. No, it was murder, it had to be murder.

      I know my father is a hard man, but—

      "He is a proud man, Connie. Pride of name and pride of family are an obsession with him. Of course, he isn’t the only one. Most of the old Spanish families are that way. The difference is that in California some of the first settlers were simply soldiers or mule drivers, and those who came later did not wish to be associated with them.

      "In your father’s world a gentleman did not work with his hands, and a gentleman was always a man on horseback. In my world men who worked with their hands, men who could do, were the most respected. When I met you I was an able-bodied seaman, even though my father was a ship’s captain, and that was what I intended to be.

      In his world a man like me never spoke to a man like him unless addressed, and then only with hat in hand and head bowed. To make it even worse, I was an Anglo and a Protestant. I don’t know how I had the courage to speak to you.

      My mother’s voice was low, but I heard her say, I wanted you to. You were very handsome. My mother thought so, too.

      Then three of your father’s vaqueros came to me and said if I ever spoke to you again, they would horsewhip me.

      I heard of that.

      I told them they were fine men, handsome men, it would be a pity for them to die so young.

      I heard it, Zachary, I heard them talking of it. We women, we cannot speak much, but we can listen, and there was very little we did not hear. They admired you for it. I remember one of them saying, ‘He is a man, that one!’

      There was silence; then my father asked, in a much lower tone, "Connie? Did Felipe know?"

      I…I believe so. What other reason…? I mean, he was a fine old man. He had been with us forever, it seemed.

      "But why that night? What happened?"

      There was no answer, and lying in the darkness and listening, eyes wide with wonder, I knew there would be no more talking. Whenever that subject came up, conversation ended. My mother would talk no more.

      What dreadful secret could there be that so frightened my mother? What was it my grandfather feared to have known?

      The wagon went westward in the morning, driving over a hard-packed trail, simply one wagon alone, that might be going anywhere. Only when we neared the lava beds did we begin traveling by night.

      After that there were usually no more campfires at night, and those by day were brief, for cooking and coffee. By day the horses grazed and the men slept, always in carefully selected places where they were hidden from observation. One of the outriders was forever on guard. I came to know them both.

      Jacob Finney was a man of medium height, a man who never seemed to smile, but with a droll sense of humor. He was a slim, wiry man, part Cherokee, and from northern Georgia. Been huntin’ my own meat since I was frog-high, he told me. I was nigh onto seventeen before I et meat I didn’t shoot myself.

      He was twenty, he said, but he seemed older. Pa, he up an’ died, leavin’ the place to Amby an’ me. Amby was fixin’ to marry, an’ that place wouldn’t support the both of us, so I taken out.

      He paused. "Amby’s wife was a Natchez woman. You know about them? They was a dif’rent kind of Injun. Worshiped the sun. They got theirselves into a friction with the French from Loosiana and those Frenchmen wiped ’em out. Well, almost.

      "Them that got away, some came into our mountains, an’ Amby, he taken up with one. She was a rare kind of woman, tall and mighty handsome. She’d been one of their top folks, one of the Suns, as they called them. Amby, of course, he’s a fine-lookin’ man. Tall, strong, and better educated in his books than me. I taken to the deep woods and far country, he taken to readin’, talkin’, and the like.

      "Well, seein’ them together, it looked like I was the odd number, so I told ’em to hold a plot in the buryin’ ground and I taken off west.

      Had me some Injun fights then, one led by a man name of Karnes where twenty-odd of us stood off more’n two hundred Injuns. We gave ’em what-for, we did.

      The other outrider, Kelso, was an older, quieter man, a man with dark red hair streaked with gray. He’d made two trips over the Santa Fe Trail as a teamster and was a veteran of two or three fights with the Kiowa and Comanche.

      Steadily we moved westward, keeping off the skyline but using the high, wide-open country of a night when it was possible. Before daybreak we’d be holed up in one of those hideouts Farley had scouted long before. There we would sleep, read, play cards, or wonder the hot days through, waiting for the blessed coolness of the night.

      Inside the wagon we talked little, and Papa least of all. Papa was a sociable man most of the time, but on this trip he kept to himself. Maybe it was his illness, but maybe it was something else, something that worried him more and more as he drew closer to California.

      Jacob Finney rode up beside me one day when we were walking to ease the horses. We’d been on the trail no more than an hour, and it was coming on to moonlight.

      Want a ride, son? You can he’p me look for Injuns.

      One of the passengers spoke up. You will frighten the child.

      No, sir, I said. I ain’t…I mean, I’m not frightened. Although I was, a little bit.

      He took me up on the saddle in front of him. We don’t talk, he said, we listen. Injuns mostly sleep of a night, but sometimes they are late gettin’ back to their lodges, just like we are. We want to kind of ease by ’em, like.

      We could fight.

      Yes, son, we could, but fightin’s something you do when you’ve tried everything else.

      CHAPTER 2

      Our wagon was our world. We were six people isolated from all about us as long as the wagon moved. We slept, we read, we stared at the canvas overhead or at one another, and we listened. Always, we listened.

      Our stops during the day were brief, and always in selected positions where concealment was possible. Our rules had been laid down before the wagon started to roll.

      One or the other of the outriders did the cooking. No pans were allowed to rattle, no voices were raised. Our campfires were brief and built from wood that promised little or no smoke. The side walls of our wagon were higher than usual, but the canvas top was much lower than on the prairie schooner or Conestoga, and the canvas itself was browned by smoke and usage. We wanted no glaring white top to draw the eyes of our enemies.

      As we drew nearer the Colorado River, our travel periods were shorter and we were in hiding well before daylight.

      We saw no Indians. Once Jacob Finney found tracks, but they were several days old.

      My father talked little and did his best to stifle his coughing, yet it was a problem. Opposite us sat Thomas Fraser, a lean, tall Scotsman in a gray store-bought suit that was too small for him. Throughout the day he took notes in a small notebook he carried in the side pocket of his coat.

      Hunched over the notebook, his thin shoulders like a buzzard’s wings starting to unfold, he hovered in scowling intensity over his stub of pencil. I wondered how he could write at all while the wagon moved, but somehow he accomplished it. When we stopped for the day, he wandered off by himself to sit on a rock or log and stare at nothingness.

      On the last night before reaching the river, Mr. Farley led the horses to a secret tank where water collected from the rains. We’ve got to water them good, he explained, else when they smell the river they’ll run for it. There’d be no holdin’ ’em. We’d have things scattered to hell an’ gone, and no end of racket. Bring ever’ Injun in the country down on us.

      Are there Indians close by? I asked.

      I hope not, son. But they’re about. Not many for such a big country, but they show up when least expected. Yumas can be almighty unpleasant, and they are fighters. Your pa can tell you.

      Jacob Finney came up, his rifle in the hollow of his arm. Smoke off to the northwest. Thin trail.

      How far?

      Six, eight miles. Maybe less. This side the river, I’d say. He paused. Want me to scout the trail to the river?

      Farley hesitated, then said, No, we’ve got it to do, and we’ll move out quietly as soon as it’s dark. No use tipping our hand until we must. With luck we can be across the river before they know we’re around.

      He glanced over at me where I stood listening. Y’see, son, Injuns will come out an’ study the country after the sun goes down. The glare is gone, everything is still, and things sort of stand out. Sound carries further and any movement is easier seen. You put that away in your skull an’ hold it for another time. He spat. No, Jacob, we’ll sit tight and take our chances.

      It was very hot and the air was still. The wagon was drawn up among some cedars and the horses were grazing on a small patch of grass. Around us was a forest of sandstone boulders, and beyond them a rocky ridge. There was a good-sized pool of water.

      They’ve thought it out, Papa said, speaking softly. The wagon’s tight, and if need be we can cut loose from the gear and float all the way to the Gulf.

      My father was a puzzle to me. From the start there was a difference in the way Farley, Kelso, and Finney treated him. They seemed to accept him as one of themselves, but the others were not treated so. Why was this so?

      Of course, my father had been over the trail before, yet even that did not seem reason enough.

      How much farther? I asked.

      The hardest part will be after we cross the river. From the river to the mountains is a long way, all of it desert. There are bare ridges, lava beds, some cinder cones, and—

      What’s a cinder cone?

      Easiest way to explain it is, it’s a small volcano. Most of ’em are a couple of hundred feet high, or less, cone-shaped, with a crater inside.

      Is there water in the desert?

      Here and there, if you know where to look. There’s a river, too. Water’s not too good, and it isn’t much of a river, only a few feet across, and some places no more than an inch deep.

      Where will I live?

      My father was silent for a few minutes and then said, "Your grandfather is a very rich man. He has thousands of cattle, sheep, and horses. He has a big ranch, and then he has a house in town, too.

      Most of the men who work on the ranch are Indians, those in town are Mexicans. Good men, most of them.

      I wanted to ask him about Felipe, and what he might have known that he was not wanted to know, but I did not. I could not let my father realize that his private conversations had been overheard, even though I only listened when they spoke about the past or about my grandfather.

      We dozed, awakened, then dozed again. Fletcher paced irritably. He was a difficult, impatient man, one accustomed to having his own way, I thought, and he did not like being just one of a group, nor did he like my father. I did not like Fletcher, nor did he like me.

      What’s the matter with him? he demanded once. He doesn’t talk like any boy I know.

      My father’s expression was bland. He has spent much more time with adults, so he talks like one, even thinks like one. We’ve been in few places where there were other children, a fact I regret.

      Later, when I had gone to get a drink from the pool, I heard Farley talking to Kelso. He’s trouble, and I don’t want trouble. I’m not worried about Verne. He can take care of himself, but I don’t want shooting.

      There’s been no trouble so far.

      No, and I want to keep it that way. Fletcher looks like a tough man, but he doesn’t know anything about Verne, and I don’t think he knows much about the West.

      There was a pause. I want to get these people through safely and with as little trouble as possible. I nearly refused Fletcher on sight. I am sorry I didn’t.

      Fletcher finally seated himself against a tree, removed his hat, and closed his eyes. I watched him curiously, wondering why he was going to California in such a hurry. Yet I had no idea why any of them were going except for my father.

      So far, neither of the two women had tried to talk to me, which seemed strange, as women traveling always seemed to fuss over youngsters, and I had been wary of them for that reason.

      Miss Nesselrode was a slender, graceful woman who might have been thirty and was probably younger. She wore high lace collars that were always immaculate, no matter how dusty the trail. Her gray traveling dress was much worn and there were signs of raveling at the cuffs. She was rather pretty in a fluttery way, but I did notice that with each day we were on the trail she fluttered less and her eyelashes were steadier. If she had a first name, I had never heard it.

      Mrs. Weber was a stout lady in black satin—or what looked like it. I felt sorry for her in that old stiff black dress she wore that seemed to have so many layers. She held a small handkerchief to her nose most of the time, and sniffed a good deal.

      Sometimes I tried to imagine why they were all going west, but could not.

      It was very still. Not a breath of air stirred. Occasionally one of the horses would stamp a hoof to drive away flies. Jacob Finney, who had been lying under the wagon, got up, and taking his rifle, went out to relieve Kelso.

      Farley walked over and dropped to the sand beside my father. Verne? Did you ever make the crossing this high up?

      My first time was in Mohave country, but I never crossed in here.

      You know the country west of the river?

      Some of it. There’s some water holes at the west end of the Chocolates. He paused, then abruptly he asked, Farley? Do you know Peg-Leg Smith?

      No. I heard of him, but who hasn’t? Trapper, isn’t he? Mountain man?

      "He’s that, but he’s more. He’s a horse thief, too. He’s a mean, dangerous man, and he runs with a bunch of renegades, both Indian and white. He steals horses in Arizona and sells them in California, then he steals horses in California and sells them in Arizona.

      When they take after him, he hides out somewhere in the desert. Vanishes. Just drops off the end of the world and leaves no trail. Nobody’s been able to catch him. Obviously he has a hideout somewhere in the desert north of here, a place even the Indians can’t find—or don’t want to find.

      What has that to do with us?

      "Peg-Leg will steal any horses or mules he can lay hands on. He’s attacked at least one of the Spanish gold trains coming down from northern California. He wasn’t even thinking of the gold, didn’t know there was any, I expect, and just wanted the mules. He got them, too. Wiped out every man, he thought, but two of the mule drivers got away.

      Funny part of it was, they say he didn’t take the gold, just dumped out the ore and went away with the sacks and the mules.

      He probably didn’t know it was gold. I’ve seen only two or three pieces of gold ore in my life and wouldn’t have bothered to pick up either piece. How many people know gold when they see it in the rock? Farley was silent; then after a moment he said, You mean that whole mule train of ore was dumped out somewhere and is just lyin’ there?

      That’s the story.

      I’ll be damned.

      The point I’m making has nothing to do with gold, but a whole lot to do with Peg-Leg. You’ve got some fine stock here, and what looks like a wagonload of something valuable, so be careful.

      We’re watchin’.

      For Indians. But are you watching for what seems to be a friendly white man?

      CHAPTER 3

      There was another time when Finney had taken me up on the saddle. My pa used to ride with me like this. He taught me about cows. More’n I needed to know, I suspect.

      He indicated the hills around. "Mighty bare, you’d say. Not much but cedar, but there’s always more’n a body would suspect. You’ve got to look close to see an Injun, if you ever do. Watch out of the corners of your eyes. You pick up movement quicker that way. An Injun never looks over the top of a rock or a bush, always around the base. They don’t skyline theirselves. You best learn to do the same.

      "Don’t wear nothin’ bright, nothin’ to catch the sun. Shining things can be seen for miles. Buckskin, that’s a good color. Stay away from white. Some damn fools want all that fancy, jingly stuff on their horses. Surest way to get killed.

      Your pa, now, he knows an uncommon lot about Injuns. I’d never have figured it of him, either. He looks more like a schoolteacher.

      He was one, for a while.

      You don’t say? Well, what d’you know? I wonder if any of them youngsters knowed what a ring-tailed catamount they had for a teacher?

      A what?

      He drew up to study a wide stretch of country opening before us. "Maybe you don’t know about your pa, son. Farley told me, but I’d heard a few stories before that. Seems like somebody didn’t want him alive, so they sent some outlaws after him. He killed two of them, wounded another, and got away—wounded himself.

      "When he run off with your mother, they took in after him, the old man and about forty tough vaqueros. He played hide-an’-seek with ’em in the desert and got plumb away, and him with a woman with him. There’s a lot of folks know about Zachary Verne.

      Farley was thinkin’ of that when he taken him on. Just knowin’ how to shoot is one thing, knowin’ when to shoot is something else again, an’ your pa has savvy.

      That had been days ago, and now we were waiting, waiting for the last long hours to pass—and then we had the river to cross.

      This was the most dangerous moment so far, perhaps the most dangerous we would encounter. Yet the Indians were a danger of which we thought little. They might attack, and the men in the wagon would fight back. Even the women would, for both of them knew how to shoot. Or they might just reload guns for the men to fire. The Indians were a present danger, but it was that fierce old man who was my grandfather that I feared the most.

      I fell asleep and was awakened by a stirring about. The sun was already low, and Doug Farley was harnessing his horses. It was something he always did himself, allowing no one to even help. He always wanted to be sure everything was just as he wished it in case Kelso and Finney spotted trouble.

      Check your weapons, he said. "This here’s liable to end in a fight. Don’t be skeered. Just shoot low and take your time.

      "I don’t want a fight, but if we get one, we’ve got to win it or die. I figure we’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of swimming the river without bein’ spotted, but no better than that.

      Just gettin’ across ain’t the end of it, for they might chase us into the desert, seein’ we’re only one wagon. We’ve got to be ready for that.

      Farley turned to my father. Verne? What do you think our chances would be, startin’ now? We’ve got a canyon about three miles long to get through, with some big rocks in the trail. That’ll take us the best part of an hour. By that time it will be dark.

      I’d say start now.

      Finney? Kelso?

      Both men nodded. We can miss some of the rocks if we can see, otherwise we’ll bump over them an’ make a racket.

      Kelso rode out ahead, keeping well to the left, as close to the canyon wall as the fallen rocks would permit. He rode with his rifle in his hands. Fifty yards behind and on the opposite side rode Jacob Finney. Riding warily, eyes searching the canyon ahead and the rock walls and rims, the small group moved slowly down the canyon.

      Papa called it a cavalcade, and it sounded strong and good to me. He had his own rifle out and now he had a shotgun too, which he took from his blanket roll. He put his hand on my shoulder. Now, Johannes, I have taught you how to load and fire a gun. Today I want you to load for me. As I put down the rifle, take it up and reload. The same with the shotgun. If, when we are fighting, some Indian tries to crawl into the rear of the wagon, take this pistol and shoot him. But you be sure it is an Indian, because Finney or Kelso might have a horse shot from under them.

      Yes, Papa.

      My heart was beating with great, heavy thumps. He was trusting me. He was depending on me. I must do it right. Step by step I went through the reloading process in my mind. There might be many Indians, and I would have to work very swiftly and surely.

      Surely. Papa had always said not to be too hasty. Not to be nervous, not to waste time.

      We were moving at a walk, the wheels grating on the sand. My mouth was dry. I inhaled deeply. My father always said if I was nervous to take a few deep breaths and tell myself to be calm.

      Mrs. Weber looked around at me. She was on her side with a rifle in her hands, and surprisingly, she winked at me. Don’t you worry, son. We’ll be all right.

      Yes, ma’am. I was worried about Mr. Kelso and Mr. Finney.

      Well you might, son, well you might. If they attack, those boys will take the brunt of it, but they are good men, mighty good men.

      She looked around at Miss Nesselrode. If I was you, miss, I’d set my cap for that Jacob Finney. There’s a right upstanding young man. He’d make a good husband for a girl like you. He’s knowledgeable, he’s steady, he ain’t no drinker, and for the right woman he’d make a fine husband.

      Miss Nesselrode tried to look shocked. She didn’t make it very real. I am sure he would, she said primly, but I am not coming to California to look for a husband.

      Fraser looked at her; then, as their eyes met, he looked quickly away. Fletcher simply snorted, and Miss Nesselrode blushed.

      My father looked at her and smiled. The young men of California will be the losers, ma’am. It will be a disappointment to them.

      There are other things than marriage, she said with dignity.

      There surely is, Mrs. Weber said, "an’ I tried one of ’em. There’s bein’ a spinster and there’s bein’ a widow, an’ I don’t care for neither. Not that I was ever a spinster. I married when I was sixteen an’ seen my man die when a log jam broke on the river whilst he was runnin’ logs.

      Two years later I married up with a gamblin’ man. Flashy, he was, a handsome man with diamonds and all, an’ for a while we had everything. Then he had a run of bad luck and I taken in washin’ to he’p us live. Then he hit it big again, a run of luck that lasted three year, an’ we bought us a fancy house in Dubuque, had us a carriage drawn by four black hosses, an’ then he run off with a red-headed woman from Lexington.

      The wagon slowed down and Doug Farley spoke over his shoulder. A little open through here. Stand ready.

      It was dark inside the wagon. Outside it was still light, but it would not be so for long. I saw Doug Farley’s hand come back to his six-shooter to see if it was where he wanted it. I could see Jacob, sitting easy in the saddle, but Mr. Kelso was away off ahead of us now, around a bend in the canyon.

      Now the horses began to trot, Doug Farley talking easy to them. Rounding the bend in the canyon, we could see a silvery gleam of water far ahead. My mouth was dry, and I tried to swallow.

      My father put his hand on my shoulder. It’s all right, son, all right. These are good men.

      Farley was talking softly to my father. You know the place, Verne? Cottonwood Island?

      I do. My father paused; then he said quietly, Unless they’ve spotted us, it’s unlikely the Mohaves will be around there at night. That big mountain on the left ahead is Dead Mountain, where the Mohaves’ spirits go when they die. They don’t like to be around there at night.

      Farley slowed the horses through some soft sand. The wheels only hissed slightly as the sand fell from them.

      Kelso suddenly came in out of the dark. Looks good, Doug. Water’s no more’n twenty inches deep this side of the island.

      Pray to God we don’t have a flash flood upriver, Farley muttered.

      It was all downhill now, and Farley held the horses back, saving them, I guess, for a hard run if need be. I had listened to my father talk with other men and with my mother and could understand some of what was happening.

      It was dark and still. The stars were bright in the sky, and we could smell dampness from the river. Farley swung the team to avoid a boulder and bumped over another. He swore softly at the sound.

      Deep cuts in the gravel here an’ there, Farley commented. Kelso will find one we can use, somewhere the bank’s broken down. You know the Colorado—changes all the time. You can’t count on the channel one time to the next.

      There are waves of mud underwater, too, my father said. I’ve known them to take down strong swimmers.

      After that, nobody spoke. In the darkness of the wagon, I could hear the people breathing. My father took a drink from a bottle. He was not a drinking man, but sometimes it stilled his cough, and nobody wanted that now.

      Is there a road? Miss Nesselrode inquired.

      Ma’am, Farley spoke over his shoulder, there ain’t even the ghost of a trail beyond what moccasins leave.

      It was quiet again. Even Fletcher was still. I heard him grunt a little as the rear wheel hit a rock. Then we heard the click of hooves on stone and Farley drew up, resting the horses. A shape loomed out of the dark. It was Kelso.

      I don’t like it, Doug. I don’t hear the frogs.

      Maybe we aren’t close enough.

      I was right up there. I haven’t heard a coyote in the last half-hour.

      Not much choice now, Farley said. Better to try it than get caught out here in the open.

      There’ll be aplenty of them.

      Nobody said this was a picnic. There may be deeper water on the other side. Worse comes to worst, we can cut loose the horses and try to float downriver.

      Kelso agreed. Water’s deeper in Pyramid Canyon, right below here, but that takes us right into the heart of Mohave country.

      Where’s Jacob?

      Ain’t seen him in a while.

      My father said, If it’s all right with you, Farley, I’ll ride up there on the seat with you. This looks like close work, and I can handle my pistols better.

      Glad to have you. He clucked to the horses and slapped them gently with the lines. All right, Kelso, stay close now. We’re going in.

      There was no sound but the creak and bump of our wagon and of the hooves of the horses as they walked. Kelso was ahead and a little to one side, and I could see he was holding a pistol in his right hand.

      Bank breaks off right ahead. Kelso was back beside us again. He spoke softly. Keep right ahead, and you can cross the end of the island. No dead trees or fallen stuff in the way.

      Suddenly the horses went down before us, the wagon bumped, slid, then went over the edge. The horses were in the water. Gravel bottom here, Farley commented. I’ve crossed here a-horseback.

      The current was strong. I could feel the thrust of it against the wagon, high though our wheels were. Once the wagon was pushed and almost swung end-wise in the current, but Farley spoke to the horses and they leaned into their collars and pulled the wagon straight.

      We could almost taste the coolness from the water. Farley’s voice to the horses was low, confident, strong. How long we were crossing, I do not know, but suddenly the horses started to scramble and pulled us up out of the water.

      We could see the dark loom of the trees on our right, a few scattered ones just ahead. It was almost a half-mile across the island at this point, or so I remembered someone saying. We moved on, and there was no sound.

      Fletcher swore, slowly, bitterly. Miss Nesselrode spoke primly: Please, sir, it is no time for that.

      Fletcher was silent, and I wondered what Fraser was thinking. Now he would have something to write in his little book. If he got through this alive.

      Leaves rustled softly. Kelso was guiding us through brush and fallen logs.

      It’s a trap, Fletcher said, a bloody trap.

      They came out of the trees then, a dark wave of them, coming in silence that suddenly broke into a weird cacophony of yells. Farley’s whip cracked like a pistol shot and the mustangs leaped into their harness. The wagon lunged forward, and I saw my father’s pistol dart flame.

      A wild face painted with streaks of white suddenly appeared in the back curtains of the wagon as a warrior attempted to climb in.

      Miss Nesselrode thrust her rifle against his face and pulled the trigger. The face, and the head, disappeared.

      CHAPTER 4

      Papa’s pistol was empty and he passed it back to me and began shooting with the other. He did not shoot hastily, yet he did fire rapidly, and there was a difference, for he seemed to make every shot count. Swiftly the Indians faded from the scene. Their ambush having failed, they would try other tactics.

      The wagon raced on, and suddenly there was a shout. Finney’s down! Finney’s shot!

      Deliberately Farley pulled up, and before he could speak, my father was gone from his seat. I saw him running back, I saw an Indian with a club start toward him, and my father fired; the Indian dropped.

      In the vague half-light I could see Finney, or someone, pinned down by a horse and struggling to get from under it. My father raced up, fired another shot, and then offered a hand to Finney.

      Somehow he got him free, and together, Finney firing now, for I knew my father’s pistol was empty, they retreated to the wagon as Kelso raced back, firing.

      They scrambled into the wagon and I passed the loaded pistol to my father and took the other. The wagon moved, jolted over a small log, and plunged ahead.

      Miss Nesselrode, her heavy rifle in her hands, waited at the rear of the wagon, Mrs. Weber beside her. Miss Nesselrode was lifting her rifle to fire when the wagon pulled up so sharply she almost fell from her seat.

      Looking past my father, who had again scrambled to the seat beside Farley, I could see the dark waters of the river rushing by, much swifter here, and obviously much deeper.

      The western bank of the river was there, not thirty yards away, but the water looked deep and strong.

      We’ve no choice. Papa spoke quietly. There are too many of them back there, and by daybreak we will be surrounded and all escape cut off.

      Steady, boys! Farley spoke gently to the team. Urging them on, he talked to them quietly. They hesitated, then plunged in. The current caught the wagon and slewed it around downstream from the team, but they fought for footing, dug in, and leaned into their harness. For a moment they simply held their own, and then they began to move slowly. Guiding them diagonally across the current, Farley pointed them toward a gap in the brush.

      Slowly, steadily, they gained ground. Suddenly it seemed they were only belly-deep; then they were climbing out on to the shore and up a dry wash that emptied into the river.

      They’ll be coming after us, Farley commented. He drew up, glancing back into the darkness of the wagon. Is anybody hurt?

      Verne has been shot, Finney said.

      I’ll be all right. It is nothing.

      The team started again and the wagon rolled ahead; then, when the bank was low, they went over the edge to higher ground.

      Farley turned the team southwest and started them out at a steady walk. Kelso came up beside the wagon. She’s all clear so far as I can make out, he told Farley. And flat—hard desert sand and rock. No problem.

      Miss Nesselrode said to my father, Sir? If you will come back here, I can put a compress on that wound. It will help to control the bleeding until daylight.

      Very well. My father moved back into the darkness of the wagon.

      All night long the wagon rolled westward and south. Sometimes I slept, sometimes I was awake. We can’t make more than ten or twelve miles by daylight, Fletcher was saying, and the horses must rest.

      When I awakened, gray light was filtering into the wagon. Fletcher was asleep, as was my father. Farley had crawled back into the wagon, and Finney was driving. Crawling up beside him, I looked out at the bleakness of the desert, all gray sand and black rock in the vague light before the dawn.

      Lost m’ horse, Finney said gloomily, and a durned good saddle. They killed him. That there was a good horse, too.

      The horses plodded wearily along, heads low. The fire was gone from them now, and I could see an angry, bloody bullet burn along one’s hip. Ahead of us was a rugged, rocky range of mountains, and I could see no way through. I said this, and Finney nodded. "Does look that way, but it ain’t so. There’s a couple of passes, such as they are.

      Doug Farley, there, he don’t make many mistakes, and he’s figured this trip mighty close. Right up yonder there’s a place where we’ll hole up for a while. A few hours, anyway. There’s water an’ grass. We’ll let these mustangs feed a mite and then pull out again.

      Will the Indians come again?

      Sure. He paused, thinking it over. "Injuns are given to notions, but the Mohaves are fighters, and unless they take a contrary notion, they may follow us for days.

      Y’see, son, they expected an ambush would do it, but Farley bein’ what he is, we was ready for them and there were just more guns than the Injuns expected in one wagon.

      When I looked from the back of the wagon, I could see the gleam of the river far behind. We had come farther than I would have believed, and we were higher, for we had been climbing steadily.

      Farley turned the team off into a hollow among the rocks. There

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