A man had walked out from the store and was shading his eyes after us. It looked like Fletcher.
My thoughts returned to Los Angeles, and I wondered where Miss Nesselrode was, and Aunt Elena.
Aunt Elena, who had never been married, a strange, lonely, yet lovely woman, so tall, so remote, so very quiet. What did she think to herself when she was alone? What did she think of that brother who had kept her so? And Miss Nesselrode. Who was she? Had she ever been married? Was the story of a lost love and a broken heart true? What was it that drove her? And was it her loneliness that caused her to reach out to me?
Whatever the reason, I was grateful. She had given me a home when I had none, had given me something of stability, of understanding, of sympathy, and of assurance, too. Just to see her standing alone, so quiet in her simple yet so elegant gowns, smiling gently. One would never suspect the iron that was in her soul, the cool efficiency of her mind. She had guided me a little, suggested a little, and had helped me to bridge that gap from being a boy to becoming a young man.
What of her? What did she really want? Security, yes. No doubt of that. She had spoken to me of our being alike, of each being left alone, and there had been a hint of sadness, a hint of rejection, a hint that somewhere behind her there had been those who rejected her because of lack of money, of position, of whatever. This was supposition, but it was a possibility and might account for much. Whatever the reason, she had gambled her little money on a fast trip west, had come to California believing in it, determined to make a place for herself there. Was it because she had been known in the East? Had she come west to escape all that? To start anew where nobody could point a finger or demean her because of what she was or had been? Whatever else she was, she was certainly a woman of fine courage and of no uncommon ability. Riding along a desert trail gave one time to think, to consider. Talking became difficult because most of the trails were for riding single file, and talk also created thirst. So one rode and dreamed or thought or simply dozed. Overhead flew an optimistic buzzard. In the distance was a curious coyote, and far behind, barely visible against the sun-glaring sky, lay a dust trail. A very thin trail, hanging like a mute question mark against the sky. Francisco was leading now, and Jacob fell back, waiting for me to come up to him. I turned in my saddle and nodded toward the rear. “Lots of travel these days,” I commented.
“Hunters,” he agreed. “I wonder what they expect to find?” The sun grew hotter, dust devils pirouetted across the desert, and the distance created enchanting blue lakes that lost themselves as we drew nearer. Sweat trickled down my face. I mopped my cheeks with a bandanna and wiped the sweatband of my hat.
Far ahead, unbelievably tall in the blue water of a mirage, was a man on horseback. Francisco turned in his saddle and pointed toward the still black figure, so far off, yet so visible. “Ramon,” he said. “You will see.”
Thirty-two
“What do you know of this Ramon?” I asked.
“He is Ramon.” Francisco added no comment for several steps and then he said, “He is a shaman, a man of magic.” He paused again. “He is also a fine horseman.” We drew closer. Ramon did not move, simply sat his horse, waiting. Was he young or old? I could not guess at a distance, but he sat very erect, and his sombrero was hanging from his saddle horn.
“He will know where are the horses,” Francisco said. As we approached, the mirage of blue lake retreated but Ramon remained where he was.
“He knows you,” Francisco said at last.
Ramon? I knew no Ramon.
He was slim and he looked tall. It was not until he dismounted that I saw he was not tall, but of less than medium height. He wore a shirt open at the neck and something suspended from a rawhide cord that was behind his shirt. He wore buckskin breeches and a wide leather belt. He had a knife in a scabbard at his hip, but no pistol. A rifle was in the scabbard made of fringed buckskin and beaded.
“I am Ramon,” he said.
“And I am Johannes Verne,” I replied. “This”-I turned in my saddle to indicate them-“is Jacob Finney and Monte McCalla. The others you know.” “I do not.”
Surprised, I added, “This is Francisco. The others are Alejandro, Martin, Diego, Jaime, and Selmo.”
He looked from one to the other as I mentioned their names. His hair was nearly white, his eyes intensely black, his skin a smoky brown, more like East Indians my father had pointed out than our own Indians. It had become a custom for Indians to take Spanish names, although they had their own, often known only to their families. The custom had no doubt begun at the missions, when the fathers, for their own convenience, had given the Indians Spanish names.
Ramon turned his horse about and rode away, leading us.
Francisco came up beside me. “He does not look like a Cahuilla,” I said.
“He no Cahuilla. I said it. He is Ramon, and that is all.”
“I do not know him.”
Francisco eased himself in the saddle. “I did not say you know him. I said he knows you.”
It was a difference, of course, but how did he know me, and from where? From when?
He stayed well ahead of us, riding a line-back dun with black mane and tail as well as black hairs around the hooves. The horse had a thicker neck than most horses I’d seen, and looked strong.
Throughout the long afternoon we rode, and Ramon did not stop until suddenly he turned from the trail and led the way into some tumbled boulders. There, in a small cove almost surrounded by giant rocks, was a small pool of water, and water trickling into it from among the rocks.
He stepped down, drank from the spring, and watched us do likewise. When I got up and wiped the drops from my mouth, he was looking at me. “Johannes of the desert,” he said.
“Perhaps,” I acknowledged, and then added dryly, “Let the desert say.”
We made camp, each tending to his own horse, Selmo preparing a meal. “The horses,” Ramon said, “will be here.” He drew a quick map in the earth, indicating where we were, where the horses would be, and the trail between. “Here”-he put a finger on a spot-“are mountains, and there is a pass, very narrow. A trail leads to the sea.” He glanced at me. “To Los Angeles. “All this”-he gestured to the north-“is the valley of San Joaquin.” He gestured to his right and east. “There is desert”-he glanced at me again-“the desert you crossed.”
He looked at me again. “How many horses?”
“Four hundred, if possible. Four hundred of the best.”
“It is many.”
“We will need many. People will be coming, and they will need horses.”
“No doubt.” He looked over at me. “You can read? You can read books?”
“I can.”
“I have never seen a book,” he said, a note of wistfulness in his tone.
“The wilderness is a book,” I said. “It has many pages.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “but the pages are never quite the same.”
“You live near here?”
“Wherever,” he said. “My home is where I lay my head.”
“But your family? Your people?”
“All gone. I am alone.” After a moment, when the fire was crackling and a bit of smoke rising, he said, waving a hand toward the desert, “Out there was a city. When I was small, it was my home. There was a shaking of the earth. A small shake, then a very strong shake, and much came crashing down. There were other shocks. For days the earth shook. Some of us ran away to the mountains, my father among them, taking us.
“The rains came, and the winds. The winter came, and the bitter cold. With my father I went to the ruins to find food, clothing, weapons. Others would not go, for they were afraid.
“We had grain stored for the future. We took it. We returned to the mountains, and my father was killed for the food we had. My brother, my sister, and two others ran away and hid.
“It was very cold. We found a small hollow among the hills where there were two springs. Below the hollow was a stream. We hid there and were not found. The winter was very cold, but we dug into the hill and built a shelter before it. “Sometimes when hunting for food we would see others, but we did not trust them, so we hid and watched them. They did not fare as well as we, for some of them had never hunted.”