The Third Western Novel

by Noel Loomis

  “I’ll make you a gamble,” said Mawson. “Double the ferriage for the sheep, against the ferry itself, that you can’t move them in three days.”

  Ferguson looked at him. “Make it four days.”

  “No. Three days from this morning.”

  “Today is over half gone,” said Ferguson. “Three days from tomorrow morning.”

  He watched the avaricious gleam in Mawson’s eyes, and knew he could make a bet.

  “All right,” Mawson said finally. “Three days from tomorrow morning.”

  “With a qualification,” said Ferguson. “I will move them any way I can.”

  “And have you drown my whole outfit!”

  Ferguson said carefully: “If there is any loss, I will pay the market price, to come out of my charges. If there should be more than that, I will pay it in cash.”

  He saw the calculating look in Mawson’s eyes, and knew something was about to come. Mawson said, “I will accept that on one condition: if you move the sheep but the loss is more than your charges, I will have an interest in the ferry.”

  Ferguson thought about it, watching the faces of the emigrants. Mawson’s black eyes, Teddy Root’s puzzled expression. Ferguson had no intention of losing any substantial number of sheep. The ferry charges would be $960, and twice that would be almost two thousand dollars—a small fortune. Likewise, here was a chance to get rid of Mawson, one way or another. Mawson would be after him until he should win or until he should be convinced that he could not win. Ferguson knew that he was running some risk of losing the ferry, but he did not think it likely, for he had reserves that Mawson knew nothing about. He looked at Mawson and said, “I will accept that condition. You heard it all, Mr. Root?”

  “Yes, sir. You’re gamblin’ the ferry against twice the charges that you can move them sheep in three days without losin’ very many of ’em.”

  “All right. Mawson?”

  Mawson drew a great breath. “How much do you value the ferry—if I get an interest in it?”

  “One thousand dollars.”

  “All right, Ferguson.” He turned and went toward the approaching band of sheep.

  Ferguson said, “Mr. Root, take the goat to meet them. Let her mingle with them; then start her off this way and we’ll find out if she can lead.”

  Root went off toward the sheep, the goat following docilely. Ferguson turned to Sledge and two other men who had come up beside Sledge. “I hope you gentlemen realize than I am trying to make things better for you.”

  Sledge said, “I believe you are, Brother Ferguson. Otherwise there would be no call for you to risk your ferry. New wagons come across the prairie every day.”

  “I will admit that I don’t like Mawson.”

  “You don’t look to me like a man who would go out of his way to do something for somebody you don’t like.”

  “There’s more than that,” said Ferguson. “That man is a troublemaker; he will cause difficulties for every emigrant here. He’s a bully, and I don’t like bullies—but I guess it’s more than that, reverend. I came out here like everybody else; because this is a new country and a chance for everybody to start over. It ought to be a free country, so those who take the risks, who bring their wives and children through the heat and the storms and the Indians, will have a fair chance. Then some feller like Mawson comes along… I admit I am going to get a great satisfaction out of getting rid of him.”

  “You will have him on the other side of the river when you do.”

  Ferguson grinned. “It’s seven hundred feet closer to the Pacific Ocean.”

  “I admire your courage, Mr. Ferguson,” said Sledge, “and I will help all I can. All of us here will stay at least until the time is up, and we will try to persuade the other emigrants to stay too.” He turned to the men with him. “Agreed?”

  They nodded, and one man spoke vehemently: “I hope you beat him, Mr. Ferguson.”

  “I am going to try,” said Ferguson.

  “I don’t think there’s any point in leaving anyway,” said one of the men. “Down by Omaha City you have to wait a week, and up above there ain’t no ferry—and I don’t trust this here river. They tell me she can rise in an hour till a man can’t cross her in a boat even.”

  Ferguson agreed. “It’s a dangerous river. A man could lose his wagon and team and all his family if he doesn’t know the water.”

  “Brother Mawson is bringing another band of sheep,” said Sledge.

  Ferguson went out to meet them, and found that Root had put the goat into the band, and the goat was now stepping out in front as if she knew what was wanted; the sheep plodded along behind as if they had been following the goat all their lives, and Ferguson felt relieved.

  The goat led the way up the wooden dock. Ferguson stepped alongside her at the last moment, took her collar, and steered her onto the ferry. The sheep followed without a second look.

  When they were all on, Root closed the opening with the rope, and Ferguson called across the river: “All right, Mr. Benson.” Then he said, “Mr. Root, we might as well take the goat off. We can use her to bring down the next bunch, and be ready for the ferry again.” He turned to Mawson, whose black eyes were glinting, and Ferguson knew definitely that Mawson was not pleased. “Cut a hundred and eighty next time,” Ferguson said. “We can speed it up a little.”

  “You’ll crowd ’em too much, and they’ll push each other off the ferry.”

  “My risk,” said Ferguson. “Bring a hundred and eighty.” Root picked up the goat in his arms and carried her, blatting and struggling, off the ferry and set her on the dock. The ferry began to move away slowly as Benson’s team got into the collars.

  “You reckon one of us oughta go with them?” asked Root.

  “I’ll go,” said Ferguson. “Mr. Benson might have trouble getting them off the ferry.” He turned to Mawson. “You’d better send a couple of your boys over, too. I’m not responsible for them once they are on dry land.”

  Mawson turned to his four sons and nodded. Two of them ran lumbering to the ferry, and got on. Ferguson jumped the gap at the last moment, and settled down for the slow but steady movement across the brown water. He looked at the two boys—as tall as Ferguson and much heavier. “Which two are you?” he asked.

  “I’m Dutch,” said the older one. “He’s Matt.”

  “You people haven’t had these sheep long,” Ferguson suggested.

  “Long enough,” said Dutch.

  “You aren’t sheepmen, though.”

  “We was miners,” said the younger one. “Pa owned a coal mine in Pennsylvania.”

  “Shut up!” Dutch growled.

  Matt looked at him resentfully. “You ain’t runnin’ me.”

  “Pa told you not to tell him nothin’.”

  Matt glowered, but he refused to say any more. However, Ferguson had learned all he needed to know for the moment; that Zachariah Mawson was not a sheepman, that he had only recently bought the 12,000 sheep, and that undoubtedly his only motive had not been to take them west. However, sheep in the west should be money-makers, and for the time being, at least, Mawson could take that outfit to Kearney or somewhere along the Oregon Trail, and sell them off as mutton to the emigrants for twice what they had cost him.

  Obviously, also, Mawson had had his eye on the ferry all the time; perhaps he had heard of it by prairie-dog telegraph; perhaps, even, he had been put up to it by Yeakel or Logan.

  One thing was sure, Ferguson decided as the ferry neared the Nebraska shore: all this was not accidental. The coming of Mawson, the colored lithographs with the non-existent townsite, the attempts to buy the ferry—all these were part of a master plan. But who was behind it? Was it Major Yeakel, Charlie Logan, or Simmons? Or even Wiggins?

  The ferry nosed into the water at the north side of the dock, and Ferguson noted that Benson had measured the length of rope well, for he had stopped the mules at exactly the right time. He picked up the small coil of rope at the stern and leaped onto the dock
, threw a half-hitch around the snubbing-post, and put some pressure on it. The ferry slowed down and swung out a little at the bow, then settled in against the dock under the pressure of the current. Benson, having stopped the mules and thrown the rope off the double-tree, was hurrying back to the dock, but before he reached it, Ferguson had made fast the stern rope and was pulling up the long rope that went to the snubbing-post on shore and acted as an anchor.

  “It looks like the feller’s goat did the trick,” said Benson.

  “I figured we could get them off by ourselves,” said Ferguson.

  “Be strange if we can’t. You want me to get No Horse down here to help?”

  Ferguson looked at the two sullen young men in the black hats. “I think not. Let No Horse stay up there. We’re going to have enough trouble just trying to keep him out of trouble.”

  When the ferry was snug against the dock, they took down the ropes on that side, and Ferguson waited for the sheep to move.

  But nothing happened. One or two sheep approached the edge but drew back.

  “They don’t like the crack,” said Benson.

  “Or worse,” said Ferguson. “They like the ferry too much to leave it.”

  Dutch Mawson grabbed his big hat and gave a shout. His younger brother followed his example. They both rushed at the sheep to force them onto the dock, but the sheep, frightened, crowded into the far end of the ferry, bleating helplessly. Ferguson seized Dutch Mawson by the shoulder and spun him. “Leave those sheep alone,” he said.

  “We was helpin’.”

  “You don’t have to do anything until the sheep get on dry land. Then they’re yours.”

  Dutch began to glower. “You put your hands on me again, and I’ll whup you.”

  “You interfere with my work again,” said Ferguson coldly, “and I’ll hit you so hard you’ll come down in Omaha City.” Dutch rushed at him, but Ferguson slid to one side aid kept out of range. He led the man onto the dock, got him against the far side, and then waded in and hammered at Dutch’s face until Dutch gave way. Then Ferguson bored in with a hard hammering of fists to the man’s chin, and Dutch, backing from the attack, stepped off the edge of the dock and went into the water.

  Ferguson went back to the boat “Mister,” said Matt, “our pa will fix you for that.”

  Ferguson merely glanced at him. “You’d better go help your brother out of the mud,” he said. “We have sheep to unload, and we don’t want interference, so you and your brother keep busy at something that won’t get you into trouble.”

  Matt left, and Ferguson said, “Mr. Benson, let’s carry a couple of these critters off the boat.”

  They got two of the sheep in their arms, and set them on the dock. The sheep stood for a moment, bleating, then dashed back onto the ferry, and all the sheep on the barge crowded back against the ropes, bleating in panic. Ferguson took a deep breath.

  “Maybe you’ll have to get the goat,” said Benson.

  “It doesn’t make any sense at all,” said Ferguson. He looked up suddenly. “Wait a minute.”

  Dutch and Matt started to walk out on the dock, but Ferguson went to meet them. “If you interfere,” he said, “I will call the whole thing off. I will shut down the ferry until your pa moves his sheep away.”

  “You can’t,” said Dutch.

  Ferguson smiled in satisfaction. “If the ferry doesn’t run for a week, what happens to your pa’s sheep?”

  “Nothin’,” said Dutch.

  “Plenty,” said Ferguson.

  “Nothin’ can happen. We’ll keep ’em there until we get control of the ferry.”

  Ferguson smiled. So that really was the object of the whole thing. He said, “You are not going to get control of the ferry, for while you are waiting, your sheep have to eat, and in another twelve hours they will have eaten every blade of grass within miles.”

  They stared at him, and at that moment, some distance beyond them, Yeakel and Logan rode into sight on the slope and started down.

  “It’s worth thinking about,” said Ferguson. “Three days is about as long as you can keep those sheep within any distance of the dock on the Iowa side. Then they will start to die.”

  “Pa never said that.”

  “Maybe he didn’t think about it, but I am telling you now, those sheep have to eat or they will die off, so the best thing you can do is go up there on the slope and wait till we get this load off the ferry.”

  They were puzzled, but they could not fail to recognize the validity of his argument. Finally Dutch said, “Let’s go,” and they both left the dock.

  Ferguson said, “Come on, Mr. Benson, let’s go make some coffee.”

  “Sounds good,” said Benson, “but what about the woolies?”

  “Give them a chance to settle down.”

  “All right.” He felt in his pocket for a chew. “We run out of wood, and I sent Obie out with his pa’s team to get us a load of buffalo-chips.”

  Ferguson nodded. “Anything to eat?”

  “Sally Turner sent over a pan of real good cornbread.”

  Benson looked up. “You reckon them two fellers are goin’ to try to throw a scare into the sheep?”

  Ferguson looked at Yeakel and Logan. “I doubt it. They—” He stopped. Yeakel and Logan had gone straight to Dutch and Matt Mawson, and had started to converse in low tones without any apparent introduction. Ferguson said to Benson, “When is the last time those two crossed the river?”

  “’Bout a week ago—on the ferry.”

  Ferguson got to his feet.

  Benson said, “They’re headin’ for No Horse.”

  Ferguson ran up the slope, but reached the Indian too late. Logan was reading him the riot act. “You’re a damn’ no-good Indian,” he said, “and we’re servin’ notice: you get the hell out of here fast. We don’t want no Indians in this part of the country.”

  No Horse watched him impassively, but said, “Mr. Logan, I’m not doing anything but helping Mr. Ferguson with the ferry.”

  “Takin’ a job away from a good, honest American.”

  Ferguson reached him. He seized Logan’s shoulder and spun him around hard, down the slope, so that Logan floundered for a moment and then went on his face in the dust Yeakel said harshly, “Ferguson, you are going to do that once too often.”

  Ferguson said, “Keep your hands off of that pistol. And stay away from my helper. I need No Horse to work with the ferry—but you don’t want me to operate the ferry. Further, you picked on an innocent Indian who was American long before you were.” He watched Logan get out of the dirt.

  “You can’t play God just because you run the ferries,” said Logan bitterly.

  A folded newspaper had dropped from Logan’s hand, but he did not pick it up. “If you know the Mawsons, get on down there and help them with their sheep,” said Ferguson.

  Logan’s eyes were baleful. “You won’t last, Ferguson. I’ll see to that.”

  Ferguson waited until they walked away, then said to No Horse: “You scared?”

  The Indian, hardly eighteen, looked after the two men and moistened his lips. “I don’t know, Mr. Ferguson. They are bad men, but they don’t fight in the open. I think they are after me.”

  “Any reason why?”

  No Horse looked at him. “Mr. Logan was across the river a couple weeks ago, tried to buy my sister for one night. I said no. He was drunk, and we had to put him out of the village.”

  For the first time, Ferguson felt discouraged. He wondered if there were too many things for him to cope with. He said “Don’t do anything hasty, No Horse, but if you think it is best, stay with your people. You’re a good worker, and I’d like to keep you, but I don’t want you to get into a fight you can’t win.”

  The young Indian regarded him solemnly. “Thank you, Mr. Ferguson. Most people say Indian no-good worker.”

  “I don’t,” Ferguson said warmly. “If it gets too much for you, you can get your money from me or Mr. Benson any time.”

 
; “I will think about it—and talk to Walking Bird. He is a wise man.”

  “Fine.” Ferguson went back down the slope, keeping an eye on the two men, who were now talking to the two Mawsons. “They’ve sure got their minds set on making trouble, haven’t they?”

  “It looks that way,” said Benson, pouring coffee into tin cups. “Mr. Ferguson, I’m worried. You got all them sheep to get across the river, and you got all these skunks tryin’ to keep you from it.”

  Ferguson looked at him. “I guess you’re right. Do you think they can do it?”

  Benson bit off a mouthful of cornbread, and said after a minute: “I got lots of respect for you, Mr. Ferguson, but you sure got the short end of the stick.”

  “Sort of like fighting with your hands tied under your knees.”

  Ferguson got to his feet. “One sheep has just walked across the crack, and others are starting to follow. That part of our problem is about to be solved.”

  “But you can’t go somewhere to have dinner between every boatload.”

  “That’s obvious.” He studied the four men, who were watching the sheep begin to pour out onto the dock. “There are twelve thousand to be moved in three days.”

  “You couldn’t move that many even if everything was going right—which it ain’t.”

  Ferguson nodded. “We’ll have to keep trying, though.”

  “If you try to swim ’em, it might be worse, because the river might come up.”

  “They’re heading toward shore now,” said Ferguson, “In a minute we can saunter over and get behind them.”

  The four watching men stayed quiet while Ferguson and Benson herded the sheep to the left. Then Ferguson said to Dutch Mawson, “They’re yours now. Think you can handle them?”

  Dutch did not answer.

  Benson chuckled. “He looks as if he’d just et a green persimmon. Hey, what’s the matter with No Horse?”

  The Indian was running down the slope waving a paper. “Mr. Ferguson!” He unfolded the paper. “This is the Chronicle, Mr. Ferguson, and there is an editorial about you.” Ferguson saw that the date was of that day, and read from the left-hand column on the front page: