Read Online the Lonesome Gods (1983) by Louis L'amour - Free Book Online
Authors: Louis L'amour
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me."
He cleared his throat. "I think of her, though. I got something to remember, anyway. There was a fountain in the patio and we used to set there in the moonlight. Sometimes we'd talk, but mostly we just set. Her mama was close by, but that made us no mind. We really didn't need to talk.
"I heard about your pa an' ma, an' how they run off into the desert an' were married there by a priest comin' up from Mexico.
"Can't figure why the old don hated him so. He was an Anglo, of course, and a Protestant. Maybe that's enough for an old Spanish man who is proud of his name and family. An' maybe it was because your pa was just a seaman. I don't know, but it was too bad. But he's become kind of a legend, y'know.
"The way they chased him. Four or five bands of men huntin' just her an' your pa, an' he slipped away from them, time an' again.
"The Injuns he'ped. They set store by your pa because during a starvation time for them he gave them beef cattle. He'd been building a herd, hoped to make hisself wealthy so the old don might accept him. Well, when the Injuns was starving, he gave them beef, so when your grandpa was after him, the Injuns hid him, told him where to hide, like that."
Finney glanced at the stars. "Better roll your bed, youngster. We're startin' early because of the heat."
After Jacob Finney walked away, I turned back to the desert. For a long moment I stood perfectly still, listening. But was I listening? What was I listening for? I did not know. Behind me there was a stirring. Behind me there was movement, activity, but it seemed far away. I walked a few steps further and the sounds seemed t o recede. I stopped again, and then I felt an odd coolness, a feeling of something strange, something different.
I shook myself, but it was still there. I looked around and I could see people around the camp. Mr. Kelso was saddling his horse. Mr. Finney was loading his rifle again, and my father was rolling his bed, yet it all seemed far away and in a world different from the one in which I stood. Yet I did not know why.
I waited, expecting something, but I did not know what, and then I saw the shadow out there in the greasewood. A shadow where there was nothing that could offer a shadow. Yet something was there, something a little more tangible than a shadow, something that seemed to be appearing, something that seemed to be happening. Back at the fire, someone spoke, asking about me. I heard my father say, "He's walked into the desert, but do not worry, he will be back."
Suddenly I was not at all sure if I could go back. That I even wanted to go back. I looked again for the shadow, and it was still there, standing as if waiting--waiting, perhaps, for me?
Turning sharply, half-afraid, I walked back toward the fire, walking slowly, always with the feeling that I wanted to look back, even to go back--perhaps to join that shadow? No ... not that. Not that exactly.
My father walked out to meet me. "Hannes? Are you all right?"
"Yes, I am."
He stood beside me for a moment and said, "Your mother and I used to walk into the desert at night. We loved it, and loved our time together.
"Long ago, before the Indians who live here now, there were other people. Perhaps they went away, or maybe they died or were driven out by these Indians' ancestors, but they are gone. Yet sometimes I am not sure they are gone. I think sometimes their spirits are still around, in the land they loved.
"Each people has its gods, or the spirits in which they believe. It may be their god is the same as ours, only clothed in different stories, different ideas, but a god ca n only be strong, Hannes, if he is worshiped, and the gods of those ancient people are lonesome gods now.
"They are out there in the desert and mountains, and perhaps their strength has waned because nobody lights fires on their altars anymore. But they are there, Hannes, and sometimes I think they know me and remember me.
"It is a foolish little idea of my own, but in my own
He cleared his throat. "I think of her, though. I got something to remember, anyway. There was a fountain in the patio and we used to set there in the moonlight. Sometimes we'd talk, but mostly we just set. Her mama was close by, but that made us no mind. We really didn't need to talk.
"I heard about your pa an' ma, an' how they run off into the desert an' were married there by a priest comin' up from Mexico.
"Can't figure why the old don hated him so. He was an Anglo, of course, and a Protestant. Maybe that's enough for an old Spanish man who is proud of his name and family. An' maybe it was because your pa was just a seaman. I don't know, but it was too bad. But he's become kind of a legend, y'know.
"The way they chased him. Four or five bands of men huntin' just her an' your pa, an' he slipped away from them, time an' again.
"The Injuns he'ped. They set store by your pa because during a starvation time for them he gave them beef cattle. He'd been building a herd, hoped to make hisself wealthy so the old don might accept him. Well, when the Injuns was starving, he gave them beef, so when your grandpa was after him, the Injuns hid him, told him where to hide, like that."
Finney glanced at the stars. "Better roll your bed, youngster. We're startin' early because of the heat."
After Jacob Finney walked away, I turned back to the desert. For a long moment I stood perfectly still, listening. But was I listening? What was I listening for? I did not know. Behind me there was a stirring. Behind me there was movement, activity, but it seemed far away. I walked a few steps further and the sounds seemed t o recede. I stopped again, and then I felt an odd coolness, a feeling of something strange, something different.
I shook myself, but it was still there. I looked around and I could see people around the camp. Mr. Kelso was saddling his horse. Mr. Finney was loading his rifle again, and my father was rolling his bed, yet it all seemed far away and in a world different from the one in which I stood. Yet I did not know why.
I waited, expecting something, but I did not know what, and then I saw the shadow out there in the greasewood. A shadow where there was nothing that could offer a shadow. Yet something was there, something a little more tangible than a shadow, something that seemed to be appearing, something that seemed to be happening. Back at the fire, someone spoke, asking about me. I heard my father say, "He's walked into the desert, but do not worry, he will be back."
Suddenly I was not at all sure if I could go back. That I even wanted to go back. I looked again for the shadow, and it was still there, standing as if waiting--waiting, perhaps, for me?
Turning sharply, half-afraid, I walked back toward the fire, walking slowly, always with the feeling that I wanted to look back, even to go back--perhaps to join that shadow? No ... not that. Not that exactly.
My father walked out to meet me. "Hannes? Are you all right?"
"Yes, I am."
He stood beside me for a moment and said, "Your mother and I used to walk into the desert at night. We loved it, and loved our time together.
"Long ago, before the Indians who live here now, there were other people. Perhaps they went away, or maybe they died or were driven out by these Indians' ancestors, but they are gone. Yet sometimes I am not sure they are gone. I think sometimes their spirits are still around, in the land they loved.
"Each people has its gods, or the spirits in which they believe. It may be their god is the same as ours, only clothed in different stories, different ideas, but a god ca n only be strong, Hannes, if he is worshiped, and the gods of those ancient people are lonesome gods now.
"They are out there in the desert and mountains, and perhaps their strength has waned because nobody lights fires on their altars anymore. But they are there, Hannes, and sometimes I think they know me and remember me.
"It is a foolish little idea of my own, but in my own
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