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 conducting 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 coming. 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 acom 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.
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 would 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. Out there under the sky, under the stars by night, they waited for the click of a stone thrown upon a pile, for arms lifted in prayer. Men need their gods, but did not the gods also need men?
Forty-three
We rode into the morning while the stars were there, like anchor lights of ships afloat in the harbor of the sky. We rode with a soft wind blowing, our horses stepping quick and light, eager for the trail. We smelled the dampness of fallen leaves and of disturbed grass as we wove our way among the clumps of boulders and prickly pear.
Over coffee and the campfire we had talked that morning of what was to come, our faces heavy with sleep, our lips fumbling for words. We had said what needed to be said and were on our way, five young men armed for the work we had to do. “They will be waiting,” I told them. “This wasn’t just a horse-stealing. There are a dozen ranches around where they could have rounded up more horses with less trouble. You boys would be better off to let me go it alone.” “Are you crazy?”
“I am the one they want, but I am better out there than they know. I grew up with the Cahuilla. I can find them and I can bring the horses back.” “When we hired on,” Owen Hardin said, “we put our money in the pot. We’re not likely to throw in our hands until we see what the other feller is holding.” “Glad to have you along.” I said it with sincerity, although I’d have preferred going alone. Then I should have to worry about no one but myself. A man alone can become a ghost in the woods; others, no matter how skillful, will make some sound. Also, he who leads is responsible. How many riding out on a dangerous venture would ride back? I must think of them as well as myself. If alone I made a foolish move, there was none to pay but me, but with others? Good men might die through some error of mine. Yet these were warriors, veteran fighting men who knew the risks as well as I … or better. What would Sir Walter Scott have thought of us? I wondered. Yet those who rode with me were fit men to ride with any of the clansmen of whom he had written. They were men of much the same stripe, driven by many of the same motives. Those fierce clansmen of Scotland were often driven by pride to actions as foolish as those of my grandfather, and for much the same absurd reasons. I recalled the story of Donald the Hammer who when he saw his son actually working in the fields rushed across the stream intending to kill him to erase the shame. Reading had done that for me-that even when I disapproved of what my grandfather had done, I could understand him. It made his crimes no less, but left me with a clearer view.
We rode into the morning, but we rode alert for trouble and aware of the tracks we followed, all too plain, all too easy. The problem was, how far would they lead us before laying the trap?
The sun was rising when we came down the narrow trail off the mountain into the San Fernando Valley, a vast waste of sparse grass and prickly pear with a few cattle scattered here and there. In the distance lay the old San Fernando Mission. They were moving fast, keeping the horses at a trot, following along the base of the mountains.