Bendigo Shafter (1979)

by L'amour, Louis

  I looked at him. Conductor, when you get there ... stop. There's fuel ... or should be.

  He went away and the train kept on. Some of the youngsters were whimpering. Lorna helped rock a baby to sleep, and the men went back to the other car to carry in what fuel remained. Nobody had much to say.

  Williams came over to me. It's mighty cold. Trains ever get stuck out here?

  They could.

  His face was gray. It's my fault. I wanted to come out here. Pa said I was a fool, and Lil, she didn't want to leave. I just figured I'd do better. I wasn't making anything back there, just workin' sunup to sundown on the farm.

  It will be the same here, I told him quietly. Wherever a man is, there is work to do. That's the best part of it.

  The best part?

  The very best part. My friend, there is a Hell. It's when a man has a family to support, has his health, and is ready to work, and there is no work to do. When he stands with empty hands and sees his children going hungry, his wife without the things to do with. I hope you never have to try it.

  The car trembled with the force of the wind. Blown bits of snow, each one a bit of ice, rattled against the windows. The windows were coated over with frost, and when the conductor next came through an icy blast blew in with him. He stamped the snow from his overshoes.

  Got to keep the doors open. They'll freeze shut. Anyway, with that stove goin' you'll need air, time to time.

  How far to that station?

  You got me, mister. Ought to be soon. There were five cars on the train. Three freight cars and two passenger cars and a sleeping car for the train crew. It was not really a caboose, just a freight car lined with tar paper with bunks and a stove.

  He went on through, pulling the door shut behind him. After he had gone I looked at the snow that had fallen from his boots. The snow from his last trip was still there, unmelted. The train whistle wailed into the night, a long, mournful cry.

  Lorna put the baby down on the seat and tucked the blanket around it.

  The passengers were few. The nicely spoken man was Miller. What about the town? he asked. Will there be people there?

  No, I don't think so. It is one of those towns that had no reason for being. As I spoke I felt a twinge, thinking of our own town with sadness. It has been abandoned. I've been thinking we might find some fuel.

  The train was slowing, then it ground to a stop. The conductor put his head in the door. Here's your town! But it's not empty. There's somebody got a light yonder.

  With a rush we buttoned up and tightened collars and went down the icy steps to the platform. There were some stacks of firewood alongside the deserted station, and we rushed to it.

  We can tear down a building, Williams suggested. It will make a good hot fire.

  We started for the nearest one, and suddenly a man appeared with a lantern in one hand, a shotgun in the other.

  Here! What you doing? he demanded angrily.

  Loading some fuel, the conductor replied. We're about to freeze on that train.

  Another man appeared, also with a shotgun. You ain't loadin' nothin'! he said roughly. You uns are on a train. You're a-goin' somewhat. We uns are stuck here an' we got a long winter ahead of us. You jest git right back on that train an' git!

  The wood by the depot belongs to the railroad, the conductor protested. We're takin' that!

  No, you ain't! The shotguns came level. We need that wood! Now you jest pull out o' here. You want to argy about it, you start in, but we aim to be shootin'.

  Forget it, conductor, I said quietly. We've loaded some, and it will help. He's right, you know. These men and their families are stuck ... they're here for the winter.

  We could take them on the train, the conductor suggested. We could take them on to the next town.

  What? And leave all this here? One of the men swept a gesture at the town. Mister, we bought lots here! When the other folks pulled out, we done bought their lots! When spring conies this place'll be boomin'! We're gonna be rich! Rich!

  Let's get back to the train before the wheels do freeze, I suggested. We'll find something else!

  We scrambled aboard, the locomotive started, its wheels ground, then it reversed, started forward again, and slowly moved off into the blowing snow.

  Poor damn' fools! the conductor said. I hadn't the heart to tell them.

  Tell them what? I asked.

  About their town. Folks left because they heard what's the truth. Come spring we're goin' to straighten the line through here and this town will be three, four miles from the track. His lots ain't worth nothin' ... this here'll go back to prairie dogs, jackrabbits, and kiyutees!

  Chapter 41

  Nonetheless, we had loaded what amounted to a lot of wood before we were stopped, and when the train rolled westward we went with a slightly greater margin of safety.

  The conductor stopped by about an hour later. We had made coffee on the stove, and we poured a cup for him. He stood by, his clothes streaked with snow from crossing between the cars.

  Gettin' deeper out there. We're almighty afeared of the cut up?

  Cut? Fairchild asked. You mean a cut through a hill?

  Sort of. She's thirty feet deep and most of a half mile long.

  Have you got scoop shovels aboard? I asked.

  I should reckon. Maybe a dozen. If we make it through the cut we can get on to the next settlement. There's folks there, and there's stores and grub ... fuel, too.

  Even as he spoke the train ground to a halt. The train reversed, then lunged ahead, then stopped.

  I picked up my buffalo coat and with the conductor, went up through the cars. We climbed down the icy steps and jumped off into the snow. It was bitter cold even here where there was some shelter from the wind.

  With the conductor breaking trail, we went up to the locomotive. The engineer was a burly Irishman. He leaned from the cab. We're stopped, Walt. Big drift up there.

  He got down from the cab and we walked forward, stumbling and pushing through the snow.

  The drift had come down from the cut, slanting across the tracks. Where the locomotive had stopped it was at least eight feet deep and no telling how far it ran.

  We're about a third of the way through the cut, but I doubt if this drift runs far. If we could just get through here we might make it the rest of the way before daylight.

  Let's have those shovels, I said. And if you've got any more lanterns, let's have a couple.

  The wind swirled snow in my face, taking my breath. I hid my chin behind my collar and turned my face sidewise to the wind, walking-back to the car where the shovels would be.

  Taking a shovel, I walked back to the cow-catcher on the engine and began cutting out blocks of snow and tossing them aside. There was little room, but soon Fairchild joined me, and then Williams.

  Williams was a talker, but he was also a good worker, and we worked steadily, shoveling the snow to one side. The slanting drift had filled in solidly on the far side of the engine, and we could dispose of the snow only where there was some shelter under the bank.

  The work warmed us. We worked steadily, taking a moment now and again for a breather. Soon Miller came and took Fairchild's place while we returned for coffee, and two other men, their names unknown to me, came up and joined in.

  The engine whistled, started forward, gained about fifty feet, and stopped again.

  Snow swirled in our faces, frost formed from our breathing. My toes grew cold, and I stamped my feet on the ties to warm them, to restore circulation. We slugged away at the bank of snow, shoveling under it, then bringing it tumbling down about us.

  We gained a few more feet, then a few more. When I returned to the warmth of the car and held my stiffened fingers to the blaze, I hated the thought of returning to the job, yet it must be done. I looked at the fuel box, then at Lorna. She was watching me, for our minds worked the same and she knew at once how little warmth remained to us. While we had worked the fuel had burned down to nothing.

&nb
sp; Returning, I swung up to the warmth of the cab. You know this country. Are there any creek bottoms near? Anywhere I could find some fuel?

  He shook his head. Not that I recall. There's a crick up ahead, but she don't amount to much. No trees that I know of.

  The fireman spoke up. Yes, there's a few. Back about a hundred yards from the right-of-way the crick takes a turn, and I've seen treetops in there.

  You'll have to share with them back yonder, I said. They're about out.

  He gestured toward the tender. We ain't doin' so well ourselves. Unless we have fuel we don't go nowheres, an' you don't neither.

  An hour more we slugged away at the snowbank, and the locomotive gained a little more. We carried armfuls of wood from the tender back to the car and fed the hungry flames. The cold seemed to have grown more intense.

  Suddenly, we broke through. The wall of snow before us caved in, and we could see the rails ahead. Throwing our shovels into the freight car, we scrambled into our own passenger car to get warm while the train inched ahead.

  A half mile long he had said, and we had come about a third of the distance when we stuck the first time. Now it must be almost half.

  The train chugged-chugged ahead, occasionally spinning its wheels, then catching hold and going on, about as fast as a man could walk.

  Fairchild looked at me. Do you think that's it? Are we through?

  I shrugged. There's no telling. There's maybe another drift ahead.

  Wearily, I dropped into a seat beside Lorna. Are you all right? she whispered.

  Cold, I said, and tired, but I've been cold and tired before this. Don't worry. We'll get through.

  She glanced at Fairchild. He's doing his share, isn't he?

  He is that. He's a good man, honey.

  She sat back, closing her eyes. She had lived with Cain and me too long, and she knew too well how we thought, and I expect she had worried about this, about how Fairchild would stand the gaff, and whether we would accept him. She knew we would accept him. She knew we would take him into the family, but she wanted more than that. She wanted him accepted for himself alone.

  Still, the train was moving forward. How far had we come since we quit shoveling snow? A hundred yards? Two hundred?

  Suddenly the train stopped. I sat still, my eyes closed, hating the thought of going out there again.

  The door opened with a blast of freezing air. Shafter? You got to see this to believe it. The conductor was standing at the door. We're stopped, but it ain't snow this time, it's buffalo!

  What?

  I struggled into my coat. I was tired, but so were the others, probably more tired than I. Fairchild was up. Williams, Miller, and the two of us followed the conductor back through the door. We got down and started forward, and suddenly I saw them.

  We had entered the narrowest part of the cut, and the buffalo had taken shelter here from the storm. They were packed solid, wall to wall of the cut, and snow had drifted over and around them. As buffalo usually face into a storm, the heavy wool on their heads and shoulders was thick with snow. They stood stolidly, peering at us.

  There was no way to judge their numbers, but a rough guess would say there were hundreds.

  They won't budge! the brakeman said, standing near the cowcatcher. They're alive, but they aren't about to move.

  If one of them got down on the tracks, the brakeman added, it could derail the train.

  Exasperated, we stood and stared at them. Heavy heads hanging, they stared back. They had found the best shelter anywhere around, and they were not going to budge simply because this puffing black monster wanted to crowd in where they had established themselves.

  We could shoot them, Williams suggested. And then what? I asked. Some of those right there weigh two thousand pounds or more. The smallest I can see will weigh eight or nine hundred. How are you going to move that weight after it's dead?

  The shooting would scare 'em! he insisted.

  Not buflalo, I replied. Buffalo don't scare very easy. I've seen a buflalo hunter on a stand kill all afternoon from one position and the rest keep on feeding. They won't scare worth a damn. We're stuck.

  We could push into them. Maybe they'd move.

  You can try. You'll just get your tracks all bloody and slippery. Leaning closer to the conductor, I said, There may be five hundred of them in there.

  What can we do then?

  Try pushing ahead very carefully. You might start them. If you don't, our best bet is just to wait. When the storm eases, they'll move.

  When a buffalo wants to go somewhere, he goes. If there isn't an opening, he makes one. Under some conditions buffalo can be stampeded, but in this cold, in such a situation, it was likely to prove impossible.

  We walked back and climbed aboard the train. On the way my toe struck something in the snow, and when I kicked the snow away I saw that it was a broken railroad tie. With Alec Williams to help, we got it aboard. We had no axe, but we did have our Bowie knives and could cut loose pieces to add to the fire.

  The train jerked, bumped a little, then eased forward, ever so slowly. A moment, and it stopped. Eased forward again and stopped again. Putting my head back against the plush seat, I let my muscles slowly relax. It was up to the engineer now ... maybe he could do it.

  Somehow I fell asleep, and when next my eyes opened the car was gray with morning light. Lorna's head was against my shoulder, and Fairchild was curled up on two seats and a sack laid between them, just across the aisle.

  Williams was peering out the window, but looking out, all I could see was white. Where are we?

  Stuck, he said, and the last of the fuel is ready to go in.

  Easing away from Lorna, I got her head off my shoulder and on the cushion. Slowly, I got to my feet.

  Have we made any headway?

  I dunno. I just woke up myself.

  The others were fast asleep. I walked to the end of the car and opened the door. The cold air came in, and if anything it was colder. Suddenly a huge body brushed past the steps, almost at my feet ... then another.

  The buffalo were moving. The engineer whistled, and they started to gallop, then slowed down. I knew there was no steam to waste and that whistling would do little good. The engine threshed its wheels, then eased slowly forward.

  We had cleared the last of the cut, and were on the downgrade when we sighted a square heap of snow that had to be a pile of ties. The train stopped, and we all got down, brushing the snow from the ties and loading most of them onto the tender. Several we carried back to our car.

  There's a town ahead where we can get some grub. Maybe some hot coffee. We'll stop.

  Back at the stove I brushed the snow from my gloves and put them down on the seat. Lorna was awake, and so was Dr. Fairchild.

  Alec Williams stopped by, grinning. Well, we're on our way. How do you live out here, anyway?

  Like anywhere ... we do one thing at a time. It's a good country for men, but as somebody said it's hell on horses and women.

  He chuckled. Maybe ... only my wife's been tryin' to talk me into comin'west for a year.

  He started away, then came back. Say ... didn't they call you Shafter?

  That's right, Williams. I'm Ben Shafter.

  Well, I'll be damned. I'll be forever damned. He shook his head. Wait'll I tell them back home I been workin' side by side with Ben Shafter!

  Lorna had moved over to sit beside Fairchild, so I leaned back and closed my eyes. In a few hours we'd be in Cheyenne, and there would be a stop there long enough to do a little business. The train whistled and the sound lost itself over the vast, snow-covered wastes. It was no longer snowing, and the wind had gone down. The last whisper of the wind stirred the snow like an empty ghost, whirled it, and lacking energy to persist, dropped it. Under the snow there was grass lying still, waiting for the warmth of a spring sun, and where the snow now was there would be buffalo walking, and when the buffalo were gone there would be cattle, and then there would be wheat or corn or rye or flax.


  The Indians would kill some of the newcomers. Cold, starvation, drought, and storm would kill others, but there would be no end for they would still come. Men like Williams and Miller, men like Cain and Webb, men like Neely and Drake and Sackett ... they would still come. There was no end to them.

  The Indian, like the buffalo, would pass from the face of the land or become one with those who came, for they were all caught up with change, the inevitable change that comes to men and towns and nations. Men move across the face of the world like tides upon the sea, and when they have gone, others will come; and the weak would pass and the strong would live, for that was the way it was, and the way it would be.

  For a little while men might change that, but in the last analysis men would not decide. It would be the wind, the rain, the tortured earth, and the looming mountains, it would be drought and hunger, it would be cold and desolation. For it is these elements that decide, and no man can build a wall strong enough to keep them out forever.

  Lorna touched my shoulder. Ben? We're coming into town.

  Chapter 42

  One who returns to a place sees it with new eyes. Although the place may not have changed, the viewer inevitably has. For the first time things invisible before become suddenly visible.

  Our valley remained the same, as did the pines and the white cliff that backed our town. The trees along the hill had thinned out more than I realized, cut by indiscriminate woodchoppers hunting fuel or timbers for the mines.

  Ruth Macken's home and trading post had settled against the hill as if it had been there always, and this I knew she had planned. The makeup of the building itself and the way it fit into the hill were perfect. She understood, as had the ancient Greeks, how the architecture must belong to the setting.

  The trees there were still lovely, the silver in the sunlight on the stream, the snow melting under the morning sun. Someone was cutting wood there. I saw the flash of the axe blade, and a moment later heard the sound of the axe, with always that interval between testifying to the difference between the speeds of light and sound. I think there is no more lovely sound than the ring of an axe on a frosty morning.