Monte glanced over at Jacob. “You know these Indians?”
Jacob indicated me. “He knows ‘em. He takes over where Indians are concerned.
They know him, and his pa was a big man among them. You’ll see.” As dusk came, we lighted the lamps, and I took the other books from the sack and arranged them on the shelf. I removed some of those that had long been there, planning to take them to the book shop for those who might not have read them. Reading material was too highly valued and scarce not to be shared. “Your pa was killed?” Monte asked.
“Right out in front,” I said. “He got one of them, might have taken more, but he took time to shove me out of the way. He was a good man with a gun.” “Zachary Verne? I’ve heard of him.” Monte glanced at me. “How about you? With enemies like you’ve got, you should learn to use guns.” “I do all right.”
“Maybe I can help. You should be one of the best. Then you don’t have to worry.”
“All right.”
They spread their beds on the floor near the fireplace and I went into my old bedroom and closed the door. When I was in bed I looked up at the ceiling, which was lost in darkness, and remembered Meghan.
When we had rounded up the horses, we would go back, and maybe then I would see her, and would meet her father.
In the night, the wind came up, blowing softly in from the desert to the east, that strange, empty desert where the old trails were and where the sea had once been. Soon I would be out there, far out on the sands, wandering. And in the night, when the winds whispered around the eaves, I lay awake in the house of Tahquitz and wondered where he was, and how he fared. Where was Francisco, who had drawn the smiling face? And when we met again, would that face still smile? Would he still be my friend? We were older now, and it had been long since we talked. By Indian standards he would now be a man, but was I not a man also?
The swift-paced years had gone by and left no footprints on the sand that had not blown away. I could only hope there would be some traces, some memory in his mind.
Tomorrow, I hoped, I would see Francisco.
My eyes opened suddenly from near-sleep. What of the old man with the turquoise? Would I see him also? Or was he only a ghost figure in my imagination? Why had he come to me that one time? If I had stayed, would he have spoken? Would he come again?
Thirty
My father had prepared me for marvels. He was a cool, logical man, but life upon the sea and the desert had left him with the realization that man thus far has but scratched the surface of knowledge and of his possibilities. “Keep an open mind,” he told me, “for no man can say what can or cannot be, nor can he say what does or does not exist.
“Landlubbers make much of what Columbus did, but many longer voyages had been made under more difficult circumstances. Landlubbers might believe the world was flat; any seaman knew otherwise, for he had seen ships disappear over the curvature of the earth.
“Landlubbers would have you believe that ancient seafarers hugged the coast, when any fool knows that is by far the most dangerous place. For thousands of years men have known the stars and how to travel using them as guides. The open sea had no dangers that compared with the reefs, offshore or onshore winds, baffling currents or floating objects, which were much more common close to shore.
“The farmer, the hunter, or the deep-sea fisherman always had his eyes upon the heavens. He lived with their vagaries as much as with the trails he followed or the furrows he plowed. He could read the weather in the clouds, locate distant islands or lagoons by their appearance. He knew the flight of birds and which lived upon land and which upon the sea. Long before there was a compass, he understood how to locate the sun on an overcast day. He who sits at a desk and tries to understand by logic often loses touch with the realities. “Remember this, my son: our world is one where the impossible occurs every day, and what we often call supernatural is simply the misunderstood. “When you go into the wilderness or out upon the sea, keep your mind open. Much can be learned from books, but much remains about which no book has been written. Remember this: the poor peasant, the hunter, or the fisherman may have knowledge that scholars are struggling to learn.” All this was in my mind when I pulled on my boots that morning. Jacob was already stirring about, and Monte had been outside. He came back in while Jacob was frying some ham. “That track,” he said. “I found where he put his other foot down.”
“Another track?” Jacob inquired.
“Not exactly. He stepped on a rock in a place where the ground was soft. Pressed it deep. I took it up and could see it was freshly done. Judging by the stride, that thing must be seven or eight feet tall.”
“Jumped, maybe?”
“Ain’t likely,” Monte replied. “That rock would have been tipped a mite when he landed. No, that man or whatever it is is big. I checked that track again. It must weigh twice what I do. Maybe more.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Whoever or whatever it is hasn’t bothered us.
Let’s return the compliment.”
Monte started to speak, but Jacob interrupted. “I’d say that’s good advice. Let’s just forget it, shall we?” He glanced around at Monte. “And don’t ask any questions or even mention it.”
Monte shrugged. “Hell, what difference does it make? I’ve already forgotten it.” We switched over to talking about wild horses and how they could be trapped, how canny they were, and the necessity for picking out the good ones. “If they’re too old,” Monte said, “even if they’re in fine shape, we’d be fools to bother. The old ones are tough to break. Some of them will die before they’ll give in.”
“There may be some horses that have escaped from ranches,” Jacob suggested, “and that will almost surely be true of any mules we find.” “There are wild, unbranded cattle out there, too,” I said. “My father told me that some of the cattle he rounded up for the Indians had been running wild.” “How are we going to find those Injuns?” Monte asked.
“We won’t,” I said. “They will find us.”
“You mean we just sit and wait?” Monte asked.
“Let them choose the time,” I said. “They have their own ideas about things. And don’t judge these Indians by others you’ve known. They’re different. “They’re changing, and some of the old ways are being forgotten, and some of the wise old men have not passed on their knowledge, partly because they found no one worthy of it.”
“What’s it mean? Their name?”
“Cahuilla? It’s an open question. Some say it means power or the ‘people of power’ or ‘the power way,’ and by that they do not mean physical strength, but wisdom and something more, the power from the mind.” Monte shrugged. “Maybe. I never knew any Injuns who were much on the mind. Smart … yes. Mighty smart when it comes to that. Of course, it depends on what you mean by mind.”
“You just may not have known them well enough,” I commented. “My father used to say that just about the time you decided you knew all about Indians, you would discover you’d only begun to learn, and then after you’d learned an awful lot more, you would realize you really did not know anything yet.” “Maybe … maybe.”
Jacob was like the Californios in that he preferred to work with a rawhide riata, so he was busy plaiting the rawhide. He was a skillful man who worked fast. All of us had much to do to be ready for the wild-horse hunt. We must wait for the Indians to appear, but I had no doubt they knew of our presence and Francisco or one of the others would meet us “accidentally” at the store. Yet there was something in me that I did not quite understand. Mentally I was more content than I had been at any time since leaving the desert, yet at the same time restless to be out there in the really wild country. Was there an affinity between myself and the desert? Was it true, as some believed, that men had lived other lives? And that one of mine had been lived in the desert? Or-and the thought left me uneasy-had I left something there that now I must find? Of these thoughts I said nothing to my companions. Yet Jacob was puzzling to me. He seemed a simple man, yet on occasion he brought forth ideas that were far from simple. I knew that many men of the wilderness have much time to think, and their thoughts may wander down strange byways. My own father was an example. More and more I was wondering about him, and why he had done certain things, why he had often spoken to me as he had, suggesting ideas rarely shared with someone so young as I. Still, he had known, at the end at least, that his time was short. He had no doubt been trying to pass on as much of what he had learned as possible.