“Bendigo? Ollie Trotter’s coming up the hill. He’s got two men with him.”
CHAPTER 27
* * *
NEITHER OF THE men was Pappin. Cain came up behind me, looking over my shoulder to see who it was. “Two of those roughs that lay about Dad Jenn’s place,” he commented. “The taller one is Nels Taylor, and the other is Vin Packman.”
“All right,” I said, “I’ll handle it.”
When I stepped outside to meet them I saw John Sampson’s door was ajar, and it warmed my heart to think it was like it had been. Whenever the town was in danger, everyone stepped to the front. Cain would be there behind me, and Sampson yonder.
Trotter stopped abruptly when he saw me, frowning under the brim of his hat like he couldn’t believe what he saw, but then they came on, the other two evidently asking him who I was.
It was a bright, sun-filled morning, and the valley was green and lovely. From where I stood I could see spots of color around Ruth Macken’s house where her flowers grew. Slow smoke trailed from chimneys, and in the street in front of Dad Jenn’s I could see two men standing, looking up the hill.
Trotter stopped. “Is Neely Stuart here?”
“Yes, he is, Trotter, but as his legal adviser I have told him to sign nothing, to leave the mine closed, and to institute an investigation as to the free gold that seems to be floating about. As gold is readily identifiable as to its mineral content, it seems possible someone has had access to gold that did not pass through Mr. Stuart’s hands.”
Now I was running a strong bluff, but since Trotter didn’t know how much I knew, and a guilty man is very apt to suspect folks know more than they do, I figured I could make it stick.
“You ain’t no lawyer!” Trotter said roughly. “You can’t come that over me!”
“I have been studying law. As you should be aware, Mr. Trotter, I have been studying for some time now.” He had seen me reading and had no idea just what kind of books they were, I believed he would buy that. I’d read Blackstone and a small book on the rules of evidence, and there was more than one practicing lawyer who hadn’t read more than that. “How long does it take to become a lawyer?”
I knew he couldn’t answer that one offhand, but what I wanted now was to confuse him, give him no excuse for gunplay, and to push the play back upon him and take the weight off Neely Stuart.
“Where’s Neely? I want to talk to him!”
“Sorry. I have advised my client to say nothing.” And then again I lied. “Naturally, the governor of the Territory will be sending an officer to investigate the matter.”
Trotter did not like it and I was glad Pappin wasn’t around. Pappin was shrewd and might not have bought my story so easily.
“He owes us money…wages. He’s got to pay or we’ll take the mine.” Trotter put his hands on his hips. “This here ain’t no affair of yours, Shafter, an’ you’d better stay clear.”
“It is my affair,” I replied calmly, “and you will not take the mine. You have been paid. In fact, we plan to bring suit against you to have an accounting.
“In fact,” I was lying again, “when Mr. Stuart wrote to me…”
“He wrote you?”
“Of course. And when he wrote I immediately began an investigation. A friend of mine has started inquiries as to your background, Mr. Trotter, that of Mr. Pappin, and of Moses Finnerly. We decided that if we had to go to court we wanted all the evidence in our hands.”
Trotter didn’t like it. Obviously, the possibility of an investigation into his own background was something he had not considered. To him it was a simple matter. He would bully Neely, a frightened man, into signing over his mine, and if he did not, they would trick him into a shootout and kill him.
Our town was far from anywhere, there was no law, and what went on here would, they assumed, go unnoticed. My talk of courts, suits, and investigations confused and irritated Trotter. He was prepared for nothing of the kind, and he fell back upon bluster.
“This ain’t the end of this. You just wait until after election. If you want this here to go to court, we’ll just have our own trial, right here in town.”
He turned, and trailed by the others, walked back down the street.
Turning to Cain, I said, “We’ve got to work fast. Get John and we’ll take a walk.”
“What kind of walk?” Bud Macken was coming down the hill toward us.
“We’ve got some electioneering to do. The three of us are going around, house to house, and talking to people about the election today. Some of them don’t know me. I want to meet them.”
Bud had stopped and was listening. Briefly, I explained what had happened so he could tell his mother. “Bud, you can do something for me. Ride up to Ethan’s place and see if he’s around. If he is, tell him I need him. If he isn’t, leave a note for him.”
Bud was off and John Sampson came from his house wearing his black suit, hat on his white hair. He was a fine-looking man.
With Cain we walked down the street to the Crofts. Tom and Mary came to the door. Quietly, I explained about Neely, and that I was now running for marshal in Cain’s place, and that Cain was backing me.
“I don’t know,” Tom objected. “The Reverend’s a good man. I’m not saying anything against you, John, but he’s had experience. He’s been top man in more than one town, and we need a strong hand.”
“I wonder what towns they were?” Cain said. “And why he left them?”
“One thing or another,” Tom said. “He wants to save souls. He’s a preacher first and last.”
“I believe you’re right, Tom,” I said. “It is a pity he has to take time from his preaching when John here could manage the town. The Reverend Finnerly is a real gospel-shouting preacher and that’s what we need here…especially with some of the riffraff that have been coming in.
“He probably is not aware of what Mr. Trotter is doing. However, I believe he should be. If Ollie Trotter takes Neely’s mine, he may realize how well you’re doing with your farm and take that. The Reverend will have to be told, Tom, and if he is elected he must be told. And if he is elected, I would suggest you go to him at once.”
Tom shifted his feet. The idea did not appeal to him, that much was obvious.
“You think about it, Tom. We’ve come a long way together, and we haven’t always agreed, but we’ve made progress. I think before the coming winter is over half of this riffraff will have left the country, anyway. It is going to be a hard winter, and I suspect Ethan and I will be out hunting again.”
We talked a few minutes more, then walked down the hill. A man named Robbins was next, a stiff-necked man who looked at us with some doubt. Obviously he liked John, but knew nothing of me but what he heard; but he listened. We did not appeal to his prejudices, but we did not oppose them, either. We simply stated our case.
“Bendigo Shafter was one of those who went to the Indians and got our children back,” Cain said. “He hunted meat for us through that bad first winter, and he was a leader in the fight against the renegades.”
“You the one went after cattle?” he demanded.
“Yes, I am. The herd should be in town within the next two or three days.”
“That there’s something, to drive cattle all the way from Oregon. And you taken gold money to buy them? You rode to Oregon with it?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Takes some doin’. Most young fellers would have lost it or been tricked out of it. Well, I ain’t sayin’ how I’ll vote, but you seem to be an upstandin’ man.”
There were a dozen men standing in front of the Filleen Livery Stable when we walked up, and they turned to look at us as we approached.
One of them, a square-built man with a rugged Irish face, thrust out his hand. “Howdy, Cain! John!” He turned to me, his eyes keen and measuring under tufted brows. “And you, I take it, are Bendigo Shafter? Word has come that you’re runnin’ for office.”
“Well, well.” The tone was cool, amused, somewhat
taunting.
The crowd parted a little and there stood the big blond man who had tried to cut my herd back on the trail.
“You? Runnin’ for office? What office?”
“Marshal.” I grinned at him. “And I want your vote.”
“You do, do you? Well, you got a nerve.” He jerked his head at me. “I tried to cut his herd back on the Oregon Trail, but he stood me back in fine shape. Sure, Shafter, I’ll vote for you for marshal. I think you’d make a damn’ good one. You didn’t crawl, you didn’t stampede, and you were ready to back what you said.”
He gave me a hard, taunting grin. “I may have to kill you some time, but I’ll vote for you for marshal. You’ve got sand and you’ve got judgment.”
He turned his back on me and walked away toward Dad Jenn’s saloon.
“Well, gentlemen,” Filleen said quietly, “there you have it.” He held out his hand to me. “I’ll go along with Colly Benson. There isn’t a tougher hand around than him.”
After a few more visits we walked back up the slope to Cain’s place. It had gone off rather well. I’d never done any electioneering before, but I liked people, liked meeting them and listening to them, and I wanted to save our town.
What Henry Stratton had said rankled, but there was much truth in it. What trade we had would disappear when the railroad came in, far to the south of us. There would be a little trade with trappers, prospectors, and the like, but not enough for a town. The soil was sparse and the season short.
Why had we built a town at all? Because we needed it. We needed a refuge, and we needed a home and something to believe in. A town can be more than one thing to men. It can be a process of education as well as a place to live and make a living. But to build anything and to make it last calls for discipline, the inner discipline that a man provides for himself and the cooperative discipline that men give to each other.
Slackness, license, and ethical laxity meant death to any town, to any civilization, and it was here, in some of these latecomers. Cain was building, Filleen was also, and John Sampson…no doubt some of the others whom I did not know. Neely in his way, and Tom Croft in his, but Moses Finnerly, Pappin, and Trotter were leeches, contributing nothing, building nothing, but striving to fatten off the work of better men.
They were empty people, who believed they were the wise ones, who would ride on from town to town until finally they were suddenly old and worn with no place to go…if they lived so long. To such men death or prison was a kindness, for in the passing of time there came increased bitterness and usually a realization, too late, of the vanished years and the opportunities.
It was good to be back, even with the changes that had come. Lorna had changed, too. A lovely girl always, she was truly beautiful now in a quiet way, and I ached for her. I knew something and guessed more of the dreams she had, dreams that could never be in our town, for they were dreams of a wider, richer life somewhere in a settled community. Lorna wanted children, a husband, church on Sunday, the shade of trees, the beauty of flowers, singing at her work. She was one of the good ones who would rear strong sons who would walk their way in pride of home, of country, and of pleasure in their families.
“What do you think will happen down there, John?” Helen asked. “I mean when we go to vote.”
“Nothing. They are too sure of themselves. They believe we are frightened.”
Did John Sampson believe that? Or was he reassuring Helen and Lorna?
We talked idly of the old days on the trail, of the long westward marching, and what we had planned. Tom Croft was there, and he sat listening, the old dream returning to his eyes. “Maybe we should go on,” he said, “the soil is thin here.” He turned his eyes to me. “What did you see of the western lands, Ben?”
So I told them of the desert, of the parched and lonely miles, of the haunted nights and the Indians, but of the Grand Ronde also, and the green lands of Oregon. “It’s a good country, Tom. A better country for you than this.”
“What have we done here, then?” he asked.
“I’ve grown up,” I said, “and I think all of us have, a little. Sometimes we have the dream but we are not ourselves ready for the dream. We have to grow to meet it.
“I don’t know,” I said, “and during the long nights riding west or the long days around the cattle I thought about it. At first I thought only of this town, of this place, and then little by little I began to wonder if this was not just a staging area for us, a place to live and grow in.”
“Well,” John Sampson said simply, “I’ve grown. I’ve changed. But I doubt if my life will ever be so simple again.”
We sat there drinking coffee and watching the people come into the streets below. “I think we’ll go down to town,” I said. “Here comes Ruth Macken.”
She was in her Sunday best, and so was Bud. John was dressed in his old black suit, and Cain emerged from behind an adjoining room wearing fresh overalls, polished boots, and a hat. I rarely saw him wear a hat, for he worked bareheaded, and he was usually working.
Tom got up and took his hat. “Mary will be back. She’ll join us.”
Neely got up. He had said little for the past hour, but he looked at us. “I wish Webb was here,” he said. “He’s the only one.”
“And Ethan,” I said.
“Aren’t you going to count me?” It was Drake Morrell. “How are you, Bendigo? It’s good to have you back.”
He looked taut and worried. It took me a moment or so to see that was it, but it was there. He caught my look, then shrugged. “Things do not always go well, Ben. Sometimes things happen to a man…or he lets them happen.”
“Well, come along.”
The poll was at Filleen’s Livery Stable. We walked along together, making quite a group.
On the porch in front of the saloon, raised three steps above the street, stood a man who could only be Dad Jenn. He was looking up the street at us. Moses Finnerly was on the steps, and beside him and a step lower was Pappin.
Several men idled about…too casually, I thought. “Be careful, Cain,” I said. “They are ready for us.”
“I’ll let you call the turn, Ben,” Morrell said. “I’m right with you.”
“Helen,” I said quietly, “you and the other women get back and to our right, so we can keep the fire away from you. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Ben.”
Ruth Macken spoke quietly. “I’ll stand closer, Bendigo. I brought my pistol.”
“Howdy, folks!” Finnerly was smiling. “Good to see you all together like this! First time in quite a while.”
“We take our voting seriously, Mr. Finnerly,” John said.
“Of course! Of course! Too bad about that. You got down the hill just too late. We’ve closed the boxes.”
“You can open them again,” John said quietly. “We intend to vote.”
“Sorry about that.” Trotter suddenly appeared, a shotgun in his hands. “We’ve closed the polls.” He smiled at me. “I’ve been elected.”
“Counted the ballots, Ollie?” I asked gently. “Even that?”
“Well, not exactly.” He grinned. “But we’ll count ’em.”
“We’ll all count them together,” I said, “after we have voted.”
The other toughs were moving in, grinning unpleasantly. They believed they had us.
“Boys,” I said, “you all know Drake Morrell, here. Drake’s with me in this.”
Suddenly Webb appeared on the porch, emerging from the saloon. His face was flushed, and he had been drinking, but there was still that lean, dark face, the straight hard brows. And he wore a gun.
When he looked at me he was smiling; it was a sardonic smile, a strange smile.
“I told them, Ben,” he said cryptically, “but they wouldn’t listen.”
“Drake,” I said calmly, “when the shooting starts, kill Pappin. Get five bullets into him, Drake.
“Cain, you, John, Neely, and Tom, you cut loose into that bunch over there.” With my left
hand I indicated the toughs.
“What about me?” Trotter demanded. “Ain’t I in this?”
I laughed at him. “Ollie, I wouldn’t let anybody have you but me, I’m taking you and the Reverend there, I’m taking you myself.”
And I drew my gun.
They were not expecting it. We were still talking, and then it was there, in my hand. Now there’s nobody can draw so fast you don’t see it. That sort of stuff is told in stories for children, but there are men who can draw very fast…and when you take them off guard it is easy. There’s such a thing as reaction time; it takes an instant for a thing to register on the mind, then the hand has to move. I was still talking, and they hadn’t thought I’d do it, not with the women present. And my gun was on the Reverend.
Now I didn’t believe an old sinner such as I knew him to be would have all that trust in the Lord. And he didn’t. I saw his face turn kind of gray.
Webb chuckled. “See what I mean? You ain’t gonna steal a march on Ben.” He looked over at me. “Where do I come in, Ben? Looks like you’ve taken the play.”
“Take anyone you choose, Webb. I never doubted you’d be here when the going got rough. You know you always were.”
“I was, wasn’t I? All right, I’m here. What’ll it be, boys?”
Dad Jenn had not moved nor spoken, but he did then. “Why, I guess we go on with the ’lection. Isn’t that what you want, Mr. Shafter?”
“It is,” I said.
“And move easy, boys,” Dad Jenn said quietly, “that gent back there in the barn loft door might not know what you’re fixin’ to do.”
It was Ethan Sackett. He was up there, and he had a rifle in his hand.
Dad thought I’d planned it that way. He looked over at me. “You never miss a trick, do you?”
But we almost did. So much had happened, it had all been so close to shooting, so near to death. Dad Jenn set the ballot box out on the porch and we dropped in our votes, still wary, edgy, but nevertheless quite sure it was all over.
Drake Morrell voted and then stepped back where he could look on, as Ethan was doing. I was there, my gun holstered again, not really expecting anything.
Bendigo Shafter (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 21
