Ruth had coffee waiting and I sat down, looking around the warm, familiar room, so little like the shell I had built for her. To build a house is one thing, but to make it a home is quite another, and Ruth Macken had a gift for homemaking.
Ninon brought me a piece of dried-apple pie, and we sat talking of odds and ends. Suddenly Bud said, “Ollie Trotter was asking when you were to leave.”
“When?”
“Today. He asked a few days ago, too. He said if you were going to make it you’d best be on your way.”
I did not like his knowing, for I did not trust him, and he and his friends were one reason we had been secretive. Neely was irritated because I had not asked his advice on the western trip, nor mentioned the day when I would leave.
“I want to go with you,” Ninon said suddenly. “I really do! I know people in Oregon, and I know people in San Francisco. I could help.”
“If there is trouble it will be long before I get there, and a man had best have no one to think of but himself if trouble comes.”
“When will you be back?”
“Not until frost comes again. It is a long ride, and a longer ride back, with cattle.”
We talked of many things, and before we said goodbye, Ruth Macken went to her box and got out two books. “I do not know if there is room to carry these. You can take one or both, but I think you will want something to think about when traveling, so one of them is Blackstone.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Much of our law is founded upon it, and I think you will learn more from it than any book I have given you to read.”
Ninon came to the door with me. “I shall miss you,” she said, her eyes very large.
“By the time I come back you’ll have forgotten all about me.”
“Never!” She looked up at me. “I love you, Bendigo. Someday I shall marry you.”
“You’re too young to think of that,” I said. “You aren’t thirteen yet.”
She lifted her chin at me. “Almost…anyway, that is only five years between us, and there were nine years between the Major and Mrs. Macken. Mr. Cain is seven years older than Helen Shafter. I know. I asked them.”
“Well,” I said lamely, not knowing what to say, “you’ll change your mind a dozen times. Nevertheless, I’m honored.” I grinned at her. “And I hope you don’t change your mind.”
She stood up quickly on her tiptoes and kissed me lightly on the lips, no more than the brush of a butterfly wing, but it startled me. “Hurry back, Bendigo. I shall be waiting for you!”
Walking down to the stable alone in the darkness I felt kind of odd, and told myself she was only a youngster with foolish ideas, but she had always seemed so much older, maybe because of her acting and traveling. So I went to my horse, stepped into the saddle, and rode out of the stable and down the road toward the trail to Fort Bridger.
After a while I heard the stable door close and knew Cain had been out to watch me go, and by now was at the door of his house, still watching. Turning in the saddle I lifted an arm, but if he responded I could not see for he would be only another shadow against the blackness of the house. Yet inside me I knew he was there, watching me away, as I would have watched him.
He had been more like a father to me than a brother, but there had ever been a closeness between us, stemming from I know not what understanding.
After a while I veered from the trail, choosing a spot where the snow had been smeared by the falling of some animal, and going down into a creek bottom. Then I rode swiftly for two miles. I did not wish to meet anyone or be seen.
Just before daybreak I made a hidden camp in a hollow of a dry creek bank, melted snow for coffee, fried a little bacon, and then slept for a couple of hours while my horses pawed at the thin grass under the snow.
When I saddled up again I looked back toward home, but saw nothing. Our town had been hidden among the hollow hills long since, and only the Wind River Range, rising above me, was the same. Glancing westward I picked out my landmark. Tabernacle Butte showed its low brow above the Divide, and after studying the country around and seeing nothing I rode along the creek, then up on the plain. Westward I rode, alternating from a walk to a shambling trot. That night I camped in a wind-sheltered cove at Tabernacle Butte.
Before dusk but after sundown I climbed to a high shoulder of the Butte to study my back trail, remaining until it was too dark to see.
After banking my small fire I crawled into my blankets and considered the situation. Travelers usually went by way of Fort Bridger, and risky as it might be I intended to stop there.
First, I was curious to see the place. Second, I wanted to gather information about the weather and trails that lay before me. And I needed to buy a few odds and ends of supplies.
Anyone following me and losing my trail would expect to overtake me there, and it would be a good chance to see if I had been followed.
The post had been established by Jim Bridger, a Virginian who came west to be a mountain man. He had come to know more than probably any other man about the western lands but it was said the Mormons had pushed him out, or bought him out, or something. Later the Mormons had abandoned the fort themselves, after building a twelve-foot stone wall around it.
The army had established a temporary post there, and the soldiers lived in tents. I envied them not at all.
Two days later I rode into Bridger, saw the white tents in even rows, and heard the lovely sound of a bugle, although I doubted if it sounded so lovely to those soldiers who had to hustle to formation.
I found myself a place to sleep, unsaddled my stock, and then went to the store and ordered a drink. I was never much of a drinking man, but drinking men talk together, and I had much to learn about the news of the country.
There’d been a fight with a Shoshone chief named Bear Hunter awhile back, and he was troublemaking around again. From what was said I decided the young warrior with the two scalps whom we’d taken in had probably ridden with Bear Hunter.
Traveling was dangerous, but some were doing it, and I listened to a discussion of the Fort Hall trail, and of the road west, and tried to make up my mind what it was best to do.
There were a dozen soldiers in the room and as many rough-looking civilians, but you never knew who they were. The one you took for an ignorant mountain man might turn out to be a son of European nobility…there seemed to be plenty of them around.
About two years before, Richard Burton, the writer and explorer, had traveled this country, and as usual, stories accumulated. He talked to everybody, including Eph Hanks and Porter Rockwell, gathering information about the country and the customs.
There was nothing to keep me at Fort Bridger. I finished my drink, gathered my few purchases, and eased out into the cold. And it was cold.
It was nearly midnight and men were stumbling to their sleeping quarters, wherever they might be, but I had no such plan. Saddling up again, I rode six miles west before turning up the bed of a thin little creek and camping in a hollow under a deadfall, where I put together a small fire and slept with my pistol in my hand.
Before daybreak I was riding west.
It was Indian country and some of Bear Hunter’s braves might be about, but I saw none, and passed no one. It was coming on to dark when I saw a settlement of a half dozen huts crowded together, along with as many haystacks. There was only one person in sight, a man driving a half dozen cows. He was carrying a rifle, which he brought casually into view when he saw me.
Riding up, I asked him about bedding down for the night, and he looked me over carefully, asking if I was a Mormon. “No,” I said, “I’m from a settlement back at South Pass.”
He looked at me again, more carefully. “Heard of it. What might your name be?”
“Shafter,” I said, “Bendigo Shafter. I’m riding out to Oregon.”
“It’s a fur piece,” he commented. “You’re one o’ them what fed some o’ the Saints, ain’t you?”
“Awhile back,” I agr
eed. “They were trapped by snow and we got word of it. Good folks.”
“ ’Light an’ come in. I’ll do for your stock.”
“Obliged. Seems to me you’ve got work enough for yourself without me troubling you. I’ll care for the horses. All I need is a place to roll my bed.”
He watched me work over the buckskin. “Don’t find many folks who care for their horses like that. This is a rough country on horses.”
“And women,” I said.
He looked at me. “You married?”
“No.”
“I got two wives. You’ll meet ’em inside. Mag, she was the fust one. She done picked out the second for me. I surely couldn’t have done better. Maybe not as well, although I’m figured a good provider.
“Comp’ny, that’s what it is. They’re comp’ny for each other, and they share the work. Makes it a whole sight easier.”
We walked on up to the house. I took off my fur cap, and we went inside.
There were two women there, and four youngsters. The women were maybe seven or eight years apart, age-wise, both of them attractive women, steady-looking, too. One look at that table and I saw that this man had him somebody who could put grub together. Maybe two somebodies.
“Mag…Bess…this here’s Ben Shafter, from over to South Pass. He’s one of them who did for Esther an’ them.”
“Welcome,” Mag said. “You just take off your wraps an’ set up. Your name has gone about among the Saints, Mr. Shafter, and you’ll find friendliness amongst us.”
“We were pleased to do what we could, ma’am,” I said, embarrassed by her words.
“We haven’t met friendliness in many places,” Bess said quietly. “It is something to be treasured.”
Well, we sat up and ate, and I was a hungry man, and those two women brought us food aplenty, and they made me a bed by the fireside, rolling out my own blankets for me.
It worried me some, when it came to undressing, for there was just one big room. They fetched a blanket for a curtain, but I worried nonetheless. That gold in my belt made quite a swelling under my shirt. Lucky it was that I am a narrow-waisted man, with wide shoulders, but anyone peeking would surely see it. Not that I expected peeking, but folks are curious, and many a good man has found his sense of right twisted by the sight of gold, or the appearance of it.
I trusted these folks, but I didn’t want to lead them into temptation, either.
Yet I slept well, and sounder than I’d wanted, and waked so late that one of the women was up and stirring the fire when my eyes opened. It shamed me, that’s what it did. Not since I was a youngster had any woman ever built fire when I was around.
These were poor folks, that was plain enough, but they had enough to do with, and grub to put on the table. The house was clean and neat, and those women washed their children and their potatoes.
When I came to saddle up, the man walked out to me. “Mr. Shafter,” he said apologetically, “you done saved my sister, and the folks with her. We ain’t got much, but a passerby left a book here…I seen the books you had and figured you might cotton to this one. It’s one o’ them storybooks.”
Glancing at it, I saw a novel I’d not seen before. It was Rienzi, the Last of the Tribunes. It was written by a man with two names and a bridge between them, Bulwer-Lytton.
“Thanks,” I said, and he could have given me nothing I would appreciate more.
As I rode away, and when I got clear of things and looked around over the bunch-grass levels and saw no one, I looked it over. I hadn’t read a storybook since I became a man. Once, when I was a boy, we’d seen a few, and I’d read a few stories, but this didn’t seem to be for children. I knew what a tribune was because I’d read Plutarch.
The ride was bleak and lonely, with wide flats here and there, rocky ridges, and a few scattered cedars. When I came to where the station should be, there were only a few blackened timbers from a fire months old and three ugly-looking holes filled with slightly alkaline water that trickled off into a mud hole.
There was no welcome here for man or beast, so tired though I was, I moved on over a plain scattered with sage and greasewood. Patches of snow lay in every shadowed place. The sky was a dull gray overhead, the earth a dull gray beneath.
The miles unrolled without end, and just when I was about to give up and bed down on the open plain, the trail took a sudden dip into a shallow valley.
CHAPTER 17
* * *
THE WEATHER WARMED, there were patches of black mud where snow had been, but snow remained in every shadowed corner, under the shelter of banks.
Far rolled the land wherever the eye turned, gray, desolate, the only vegetation a stunted sage, the only lure the blue haze that shadowed distant mountains. I saw no sign of Indians, only occasional jackrabbits that leaped up, bounded away, then stopped and sat up to look as if wondering what manner of creature was invading their lonely hills and plains.
Occasionally, on some far slope, a black-looking cedar cropped up…there was nothing else. I came upon a sign that told me it was 533 miles to Carson City, but I was not going that way. The country flattened out. The plain was a dead white. Dust arose and covered me with a thin film. It got into my eyes, ears, and nose. The sage and greasewood grew scarcer, there were ugly patches of white salt like sores on the face of the land, and in the distance, Granite Mountain, a rough and craggy hogback. It was rumored there were springs at the base of the mountain.
I made camp that night near a pool of sulphurous water surrounded by some straggly rushes. There were rocks nearby and a place that could be defended if need be. The horses turned up their noses at the water, but finally drank as nothing better could be offered.
Putting a fire together from some dead cedar and using dried sage for kindling, I got some coffee started with water from a spare canteen I carried on my packhorse, a result of advice from Ethan Sackett. The night was cold.
About a mile away there was a low, ragged ridge of blackish rock that thrust up from the desert. There were some scattered cedars on its slopes, and obviously some deep coves along its flanks, an ideal place for Indians to hide and watch travelers who might stop at the spring, if such it could be called.
There was nothing about the place I liked, yet others had camped there. I found the remnants of their fires.
CHAPTER 18
* * *
ONLY A FEW days since I had left our town, yet it seemed long since I had left, and I wondered what they were doing now, and was glad that Drake Morrell was there, and Webb as well. Neither was a trusting man, and each was ready to fight if need be. Too often when trouble arises there is too much time wasted in trying to temporize, and it becomes too late for action.
By morning it had begun to snow. The flakes fell few and large, drifting swiftly down, and then the fall thickened and the flakes grew smaller. The wind moaned in the cedars. I rode back along the line, studying my back trail and the country around as well as I could through the thickly falling snow. There was no time when a man was safe from Indians, and at such a time they might easily attack.
They had observed white men traveling in the cold and had seen them muffle their ears with ear flaps, turn coat collars up to narrow their vision, and huddle deep into their coats, seeking nothing but warmth. Sometimes it is better to be a little cold and remain alive.
Snow was inches deep upon the trail when I made the ascent toward Butte Station. Thomas, a Mormon who operated the station, saw me coming and poured hot coffee.
Butte Station was about thirty feet long, built of country stone, and about fifteen feet wide. One end was partitioned off with a canvas wall. Behind it were bunks for four men covered with ragged blankets. Beneath the bunks were heaps of rubbish, saddles, harness and straps, dried-out boots, sacks of grain and potatoes.
The door was the backboard of a wagon, scarred by bullets. From the walls, on wooden pegs, hung several cartridge belts, an empty canteen, a pair of shotgun chaps, and a buckskin coat, as well as seve
ral overcoats and slickers. The floor was of tamped earth, but unswept.
Thomas, who kept up a running fire of conversation, told me he had three brothers in the English army, and that he was considering a move to California, come spring.
The fireplace was huge, piled high with wood, and blazing comfortably. There had been a good stack of cut wood just outside the door, a reassuring sight with the weather as cold as it was.
“Have to sleep on the floor,” Thomas advised. “With buffalo robes and all, it won’t be bad.”
It’s just for one night, I thought. Tomorrow night I’ll be at Ruby Valley Station, and it’s much better.
I finished my coffee and took up my rifle. “I’ll look after the stock,” I said to Thomas.
Stepping outside, I found it was bitter cold. My boots crunched on the snow as I walked over to the ramshackle stable and pole corral.
My stock was under the stable roof and sheltered from any wind. I stood there a few minutes, talking to my horses, and then I stuffed hay into the manger for them and turned back to the house.
From where I stood I could see bits of light through cracks in the shutters and a thin trail of smoke against the starlit sky.
CHAPTER 19
* * *
IT WAS QUIET when I rode up to Ruby Valley Station with towering, snow-covered peaks looming not far off. It was cold, but the sky was clear, and it looked like a good day a-coming.
I stripped the gear from my horses while Uncle Billy Rogers told me of the happenings along the western trail I’d be following tomorrow.
When I asked about cattle, he warmed up. “Fine! Fine stock, son. Mostly Durhams and Shorthorns…mixed breeds, but mixed from good stock. The for-age has been good so they’re overstocked on the range. If you want to buy cattle, this is the best time.”
Bendigo Shafter (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 15
