The Third Western Novel

by Noel Loomis

  “Who said there was no God in Nebraska? Those who doubt it, are invited to attend the landing of Ferguson’s ferry any morning about sunrise, to observe the great man make decisions for the benefit of his own personal likes and dislikes. The next few days are expected, however, for it is rumored that divinity will be occupied solving a problem the subjects of which pay no attention to his arbitrary dicta.

  “It is rumored also that His Divine Excellence will call a meeting tonight to organize a claim club. As any such organization is strictly illegal and a violation of law, we urge all who believe in the processes of constitutionality to stay away from said meeting and show this flaunter of the law that Nebraska will have none of his tyrannical ilk.”

  Ferguson looked at No Horse. “He has taken a stand, anyway.”

  No Horse said, “He is a man with the brain of a mouse.”

  “He wants what he wants,” said Ferguson, and went back to the ferry. “All right, Mr. Root,” he called. “Pull her back.”

  He cast off the ropes, and Benson got ready to ease on the towrope. The ferry began to move, and, even in the face of the problem facing him, Ferguson felt better because they had taken the first step. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and they could go at it until midnight; he could hire some of the emigrants to help him, and that would speed things up and also keep the emigrants from rebelling. The ferry was sliding alongside the dock, and Ferguson said: “It looks good, Mr. Benson.”

  “Not too good yet,” said Benson, “but better than this mornin’.”

  “Mr. Ferguson! Mr. Ferguson!” It was a faint cry from far away, and Ferguson looked up toward the slope.

  Obie Turner was coming down, drumming his bare heels against the sides of a mule. “Mr. Ferguson! You better get home quick!”

  Ferguson leaped from the ferry as it parted from the dock, and ran to meet Obie. “What’s the trouble—Noah?” he asked, holding the mule’s mane.

  “No, sir. Not Noah. He’s all right, but somebody has just drove a herd of hogs onto your south quarter.”

  “Hogs?”

  “Yes, sir. Me and Noah counted ’em. Two hundred and four head.”

  Benson said, “Mr. Ferguson, they’re out to ruin your land. Them hogs will root up everything.”

  “Not only ruin it,” Ferguson said slowly, “but also confiscate it.” He looked up at Obie. “You stay here, son, and help Mr. Benson. I’ll take your mule back to see what’s up.”

  CHAPTER XI

  Ferguson stopped at the tavern to see Tom Turner. “What do you know about these hogs?” he asked.

  “No much.” Turner waddled over to the beer barrel. “Obie saw ’em over there this afternoon when he went to look in on Noah.” He drew a tin cup full of beer. “A few minutes ago some fellers were here and said the hogs belonged to Simmons.”

  “Simmons? I never knew he had hogs.”

  “I reckon he’s got ’em now.”

  “Where’s Noah?”

  “He’s workin’ in the well.”

  “I’ll send him home, and then I’ll see about the hogs.”

  “You better not go startin’ a fight. They tell me Simmons has got three killers waitin’ for you.”

  Ferguson said grimly. “That doesn’t stop me from ordering him off my land.”

  “It might get you pretty badly bunged up, though.”

  “I’ll watch that,” said Ferguson.

  “It’d be a heap better if you was to wait till the claim club gets organized tonight.”

  “Then it would look as if I wanted the claim club organized for my own benefit.” He got up. “I think I’d better go along. It’s nearing suppertime, and I’m looking forward to some of Sally’s buffalo roast.”

  Tom Turner seemed concerned. “Don’t git yourself into somethin’ you can’t stop.”

  Ferguson said, “I’ll tell you how it comes out. It might be just a mistake.”

  He rode to his cabin and tied the mule at the well. He started to call down the well to Noah, but heard sounds from the cabin, and went to investigate. The back door was open, and inside was Sally Turner, with bare feet and in her thin dress, pounding a square nail above the tiny window. He looked at the other window and saw a white curtain there. She was aware of him by that time, and turned to speak to him but she was standing on a stump, and in turning she stepped on the edge and started to fall. He leaped to catch her, and reached her just as she started over, arms flying. The stump went back against the wall, and Sally went forward into his arms.

  He held her for a moment, getting the feel of her—and it was good. Then he looked into her eyes, as blue as a butterfly’s wing, and, gradually but irrevocably, he lowered his head and kissed her.

  She didn’t giggle, as he had half expected her to do. Her eyes opened wider, and she stared deep into his as if her soul was bared to him, with nothing held back. He kissed her again, and her arms went around his neck, and she clung to him so tightly it seemed that he might never get loose. And he didn’t think he wanted to. He kissed her once more and let her down gently. She looked at him with the complete confidence that meant to him that she was in love.

  “I always wondered what kissin’ was about,” she said wonderingly. “Now I know.” She threw her arms around him and kissed him again, and he responded in spite of thinking that he should not. Then he drew back.

  He said gently. “We’d better see about Noah.”

  She said, “I’ll finish poundin’ in my nail, and then your curtains will be up.”

  “I’ll see you outside, Sally.”

  He was just going through the door when she called to him. “Mr. Ferguson!”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think I can cook good?”

  He went back and looked down at her. “You are the best cook in Nebraska territory,” he told her. In spite of himself he kissed her once more, and then left in a hurry. He went to the well and leaned over to call Noah. “You all right?”

  The muffled answer came back presently: “All right, Mr. Ferguson. You’re early, ain’t you?”

  “A little—but come on up. That’s enough for today.”

  “I better send some dirt up first.”

  “Save it for tomorrow.”

  “All right. Hoist away.”

  He tied the well-rope to the saddlehorn and rode the mule north until the bucket appeared, and Noah climbed out, put the bucket on the curb, and began to dust his overalls.

  Sally came out and said, “The curtains are all up now, Mr. Ferguson.”

  He smiled at her. “I’m obliged to you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She went to the corral, where her bare-back horse was playfully tossing straw. She bridled the horse and led him outside. For a moment the sun was behind her; then she mounted the horse by use of the fence, with her dress above her bare knees.

  He stopped her as she rode out. “Miss Sally,” he said, “You’re a big girl. You need to wear something under your dress.”

  She grinned knowingly. “You don’t like me this way, Mr. Ferguson?”

  “I do,” he said. “What’s worrying me is that others will see you that way too, and they will talk.”

  She giggled, then suddenly slammed her heels into the horse’s sides and galloped off.

  Ferguson asked Noah: “How deep are you now?”

  “Two twenty-two, the way I figure—and some show of water, but I don’t think it will amount to anything.”

  “I wouldn’t expect it to, at that depth.”

  Noah wrinkled his nose. “Pigs!” he said.

  “Yes, just over the rise there, I guess.”

  “Whose?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Hey!” said Noah. “That’s your land, over the ridge.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t know whose pigs are on it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You better be findin’ out.”

  “That’s where I’m going now.”

  “I’ll go with
you.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind.” Ferguson smiled at the dirt-covered boy; he was a small boy for his age, but full of vinegar. “This might turn out to be a lot of trouble, and I won’t be responsible to your pa if something happens to you.”

  “I better go get help, then.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “But don’t start nothin’ till I get back.” He climbed onto the mule. “If there’s gonna be a fight, I want to see it at the beginning.”

  Ferguson grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

  He stood for a moment, then walked up the easy slope to the top of the rise.

  From under a tree rose Simmons.

  “Your hogs?” asked Ferguson pleasantly.

  Simmons said guardedly, “Yes.”

  “Red Durocs—they will make nice bacon.”

  Simmons nodded, watching.

  “You’re on my land without permission,” said Ferguson.

  “How much land you got?”

  “Three hundred and twenty.”

  “That’s twice what the gover’ment allows.”

  Ferguson knew what the argument would be now, but he said, “It is allowed by the territorial legislature.”

  “But it ain’t been surveyed and it can’t be recorded until the U.S. land office opens up for business.”

  Ferguson said quietly, “Mr. Simmons, I pre-empted this land when there was nothing and nobody on it. It was legal to claim three hundred and twenty, and I took it, as did many others at that time.”

  “I got no land,” said Simmons, walking closer.

  “You did not get here early enough.”

  Simmons stopped. “I figure you got more than you’re entitled to, so I might as well have this quarter.”

  Ferguson said, “I will throw you off, and if your hogs are still here by dark, I will have ham and bacon for next winter.”

  “I reckon not,” said a familiar voice behind him, and be turned to the giant figure of Zachariah Mawson, flanked by the two boys who had been on the other side of the river.

  Ferguson said, “It looks as if you have brought enough help to try to whip me.”

  “I don’t need help,” Mawson growled.

  “But you brought it.”

  Mawson asked ominously, “What was that remark about ham and bacon next winter?”

  “From the way you have left your sheep, you must be trying to furnish mutton for somebody. You’re supposed to be loading them.”

  “I never agreed to help.”

  “How did you know Simmons?” asked Ferguson.

  “That’s our personal affair.”

  “You knew him, and you knew where to find him,” Ferguson said. “It was sheep, and now it’s hogs.” Ferguson took a step forward. “Since you’ve got me cut out for the slaughter, I might as well get in first lick.” He launched himself at Mawson, and caught him off-guard. Ferguson’s long arms flashed in and out, up and down, and for a moment he had the advantage. Mawson began to topple like a felled tree, and Ferguson hit him with his full power to put him down.

  Mawson stumbled back and rallied. But Ferguson was on him again. Mawson straightened, looked dazed for a moment; then Ferguson lashed into him with all his fury, and Mawson, his eyes glazed, turned his feet to run, but then tripped himself and went down on his face, heavily.

  The boys came to life then, and rushed him both at once. Ferguson backed up and tried to keep them off, but one or the other caught him with great, ham-like fists that drove him back. He saw Mawson get to his knees and shake his head like a big bear, then get to his feet, and by that time, Mawson’s black eyes had regained all their cunning calculation. He said, “Hold him, boys. This is one squatter we’ll teach to have respect for us.”

  Ferguson took his last good shot at the man, but it was futile. He could not get past the big man’s arms, and Mawson kept coming in toward him; Ferguson had to back up.

  He found himself in a bear-hug from the back, and Mawson stepped in and began to slug him in the face. He raised both legs and slammed him in the stomach, and Mawson grunted but kept coming. Ferguson raised his legs again, and the man holding him let him drop, and kicked him as he rolled over to get in the clear.

  He knew he was scheduled for a slaughter, but there was nothing he could do. He got to his feet and started to straighten up when one of them kicked him from behind and put him back on his face.

  He rolled again, to avoid those cowhide-booted legs, but they were waiting for him, and he rolled against Simmons’ legs and found himself stopped. He seized the man’s legs and threw his weight against them, and Simmons fell heavily. Ferguson bounded to his feet, but the Mawsons were ready for him. Again he was bear-hugged from behind, and Mawson, his black eyes cold with fury, stepped into him and began to throw those pile-driver fists into Ferguson’s face and against his jaw. Ferguson felt them hit; he felt his head snap back each time; he heard the crack of bone against bone; and finally he went limp. The last he knew was that the big man hit him again, and his head rolled on a limp neck. He knew vaguely that blood was running down his face, and then he dropped, and everything went black when they began to kick him.

  CHAPTER XII

  He came to as water was being squeezed over his face, and looked up at the dark eyes and white skin of Mrs. Talbot, who was shaking her head. “Terrible!” she said. “Who could do a thing like this?”

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and it helped a little. She continued to put water on his face, and then very gently to sponge off the blood and dirt, crooning like a mother over a sick child.

  “You came along at a good time,” he said through swollen and puffy lips.

  She helped him sit up, and he saw tears in her eyes. “It’s terrible,” she said.

  “How did you find me?” he asked.

  Her hands were very gentle as she continued to bathe his face from a wooden bucket of water. “I heard the shouts, and saw men gathered around something on the ground, and I thought it was a dog-fight. But they left, and I came to see, never dreaming—I saw it was a man, and ran back for water. Then I came and found you!”

  He got to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, and leaned heavily on her. They walked across the field to her cabin, and by that time he was walking by himself, but his body felt bruised all over, and his face was a great mass of raw meat and aching flesh. He went into her cabin, ducking his head to keep from bumping the door frame, and sat down on a stump in a corner. He leaned back wearily. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.”

  “No wonder.” She said, “I’m going to bathe your face in buttermilk. It will sting a little, but it will take out the soreness.”

  “All right, ma’am.”

  “Here’s hot coffee.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But be careful. Your lips are cut and bruised.”

  He nodded. “I’ll wait till it cools a little.”

  “Now come over to the table here and let me work on you.” She bustled around him, and he inhaled deeply the faint fragrance of perfume. He said, “It was sure nice of you to pick me up out of the dirt.”

  She turned to him, tears again in her eyes. “It was brutal! They were like wild animals!”

  “They’re going to be surprised when they find out they have to do it all over again.”

  She said, shaking her head, “You’re not going to fight with them again!”

  “I have to whip them or get out of the country. And I’m not getting out. I came here when the land was open, and I got what I was entitled to.”

  She said slowly, “You could be forgiven for killing the men who treated you like that.”

  “I’m not a killing man,” he said, “unless I have to be.”

  “They say you’re a bone breaker.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Mr. Keller was here this morning.”

  He looked at her. “What’s he doing around?”

  “He didn’t say. I think he’s sort of a
guard for somebody.”

  “I think you’re right—and I know who that somebody is.” He winced as she poured buttermilk over his face with a tablespoon.

  “You can stay here all night,” she said. “They might be waiting for you at your cabin.”

  “I would like to,” he said, “but there’s a meeting tonight to organize a claim club—”

  “You can’t go anywhere tonight!”

  “A little whipping isn’t going to lay me up for a couple of weeks,” he said, feigning surprise.

  “You didn’t get a little whipping. You got a vicious mauling.”

  He said, “Ma’am, would you like a big supply of ham and bacon for next winter?”

  She was puzzled. “I won’t be here next winter,” she said at last. “I can’t stand it here alone much longer.” She shuddered.

  He sat back. “What are you putting on my face now?”

  “I’m putting a piece of bacon on that cut the doctor sewed together. It hasn’t been broken open, but—” She shook her beautiful head, and her black hair gleamed in the last light of the sun.

  “And then what?” he insisted.

  “Cream for the cuts and bruises. I was saving it to make butter, but you need it more than I do.”

  “I’ll be obliged to you, Mrs. Talbot.”

  “I’m sure you will,” she said enigmatically.

  After a while, he drank the coffee as best he could, and gathered his strength to go back to his cabin.

  “You have gentle hands,” he said, “and beautiful hair.” She smiled wanly. He got up and put on his hat. “I’m obliged to you for everything. I’d still be out there if you hadn’t come.”

  Suddenly she put her arms around him and hugged him, and then as suddenly stepped back; that stark look was on her face in the twilight, and she said, “Mr. Ferguson, whatever you think of me in the future, I hope you will remember me like this.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I could hardly remember you any other way, could I?”

  He brushed her lips with his own, touched her hand, and was gone.

  * * * *

  The tavern was crowded that night, with Tom Turner drawing beer in tin cups and coffee cups while the men kept Sally busy bringing in sandwiches. Ferguson counted forty-some men, and a few more were coming from north and south.