Bendigo Shafter (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  Suddenly someone spoke and I felt a cold shot of fear go up my spine. “Cain Shafter? Can I speak to you a moment?”

  It was Foss Webb.

  CHAPTER 28

  * * *

  HE WORE BOOTS with his pants tucked in, a vest, and a gun hanging low. His hair was long under his beat-up old hat and the down on his face was soft. His eyes were staring, glassy. He was frightened but trying to look bold and confident.

  He had seen nothing of what had happened. He had not even heard that I was running for marshal in Cain’s place. Somewhere he had been hiding out, working up his nerve for what they had planned.

  “Foss!” Pappin spoke sharply, but I do not believe Foss even heard him. He was intent on doing what he had been thinking of, and he wanted to do it boldly and right.

  “Cain Shafter, I come to ki…!”

  His hand came out of his vest with the hideout gun, and Cain’s hand dropped to cover Foss’s gun hand.

  Even I, his brother, had not known Cain was that sudden. He was always so quiet, so deliberate, so easy sure in his ways. His hand dropped, covered Foss’s, and squeezed.

  “What is it, Foss?” he said gently. “What do you want, boy?”

  Foss screamed. His face went white, and his weak mouth twisted, and Cain released his grip; the gun fell from the broken fingers.

  Cain glanced over at Webb. “I am sorry, Webb,” he said. “The boy was going to kill me.”

  Webb came down the steps and walked up to Foss. “Boy,” he said, “what were you thinkin’ of? Cain’s our friend!”

  Nobody else moved. Cain touched Foss’s arm, and Foss winced away from him. “I’m sorry, Foss. I didn’t intend to squeeze so hard. Maybe you scared me.”

  Webb put his arm over Foss’s shoulders. “Come on, son. We’d better go look at that hand.”

  They went away then, and we saw the ballot box emptied and the votes counted. John Sampson won by fifteen votes, I won by eight, and Ruth Macken by one. Folks just weren’t used to the idea of a woman holding office.

  Colly Benson came out of the saloon with a beer in his hand. He looked over at me, grinning. “I don’t think I’ll try an’ shoot you,” he said, “somehow or other you’d come up holdin’ aces!”

  “Thanks, Colly. You had me worried.”

  He laughed. “Yeah. I’ll bet.”

  When we walked back up the hill Bud Macken looked at me. “Who are you going to arrest first?” he asked.

  “Nobody…I hope.”

  “But what they did to Mr. Stuart!” he protested. “They stole from him, robbed him!”

  “We’d have to prove it, Bud, but I don’t think we’ll have to.”

  Lorna poured coffee, and we sat around the table. Ethan came up to the house and squatted on his heels against the wall.

  “What’s the next move?” Neely asked.

  “We do what we should have done before,” Sampson said. “We will draw up a list of ordinances, keep them few and simple, just enough to keep an orderly town.

  “It will have to be pretty much on our own say-so because it’s a long way to any other authority, but there’s none of us wants anything but peace and quiet with a chance to work.”

  “Seen a couple of buffalo over east of here, Bendigo. Like to have you ride out with me,” Ethan suggested.

  “Let’s see what Moses Finnerly and Trotter will do.”

  “What do you think?” Croft wanted to know.

  “I think they’ll pull out. They already have some of Neely’s gold, and they may figure they’d better take it and run before that investigation I promised can get started.”

  “Or they may make a fight of it,” Drake Morrell said. “Ollie Trotter liked being the power around here. He was careful where he stepped, but when he thought he could get away with it, he stepped hard.”

  “Drake, do you know Henry Stratton?” I asked.

  “Yes, I do. Eastern man, cattle buyer, rancher, and what not. I believe he’s invested in the Union Pacific, too.”

  “We had a talk last night. He says that towns grow according to their natural advantages, and that ours has none. It has only the gold and the trail, and the gold doesn’t amount to much, and the trail will gradually peter out when the railroad goes through.”

  “He is right, of course,” John Sampson said. “I have been thinking of it. In fact, Cain and I have talked about it. So far we have all done rather well, trading with the movers, and we’ve lived by hunting, and our planting has been successful only because we’ve had good seasons, but now is the time to think about the future.”

  “My mine will help,” Neely said. “I think the reason they wanted to get me to sign it over was because they had found something special.”

  “That’s possible,” Morrell said, “but that’s but one resource. We’ll need more.”

  We talked it around, but when all was said and done it boiled down to running cattle on the range and perhaps getting a contract to cut ties for the railroad. They would need them, and we were close to the Wind Rivers and a good supply of timber. I think when everybody scattered out to their homes we’d decided to pull in our horns, spend as little as possible, and begin planning for a move.

  When I walked outside with Ruth Macken I looked up the hill at her house. “I’d hate to see it empty,” I said, “I really worked on that floor.”

  “Nothing is wasted,” she said, “you learned a lot in doing it, and had the satisfaction of seeing your work completed and pleasing to others.”

  “Maybe that’s all there is,” I said.

  It was quiet in the town. Just before sundown I took a walk down the street, and there were few people around. Filleen sat before his livery stable, whittling. Rumson, who was agent for the stage line, was sitting with him.

  I went into the saloon. It was a simple room with a bar along one side and a half dozen tables. There was a barrel with a spigot, several rows of bottles on the back bar, and some tin cups and glasses. On one of the tables there was a deck of cards, scattered as if from recent play.

  Dad Jenn was behind the bar. A man named Bob Harvey, who had recently come over the plains with a dozen head of Holstein milk cows and a bull, was sitting at a table with a beer.

  Dad’s eyes were cool and measuring, very wise old eyes in the face of a man not that old. I suspected he had worked the end-of-tracks Hell Towns as the tracks moved west and there was little he had not seen.

  “I don’t know you, Mr. Jenn, so take no offense at what I am to say. Serve good whiskey and good beer, no knockout drops, no house-operated games. The first man who gets robbed in here, unless you can show it was done by an outsider, and the place gets closed. Run it clean and you stay open…all right?”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “It’s easier for me.”

  He leaned his heavy arms on the bar and looked out at the street. “Heard stories about you,” he said. “You’ve made a name for yourself with that gun.”

  “It is a name I do not want,” I replied. “For this town I want only peace, good business, and a chance to become something. Perhaps it won’t make it…many western towns do not…but let’s give it a chance.”

  He nodded his heavy head.

  “We’re going to set up a meeting of the town council,” I told him, “and we will want you there.”

  “Me? I figured you folks knew what you was about and wouldn’t have use for me.”

  “We think we know what we’re about, but you’re one of the town’s businessmen. We would appreciate your ideas. From what I understand, Mr. Jenn, you’ve had experience with towns before this one.”

  He chuckled. “If you’re pleased to call them that. Most of them were towns only as long as the end of the tracks was there.” He straightened up. “I’ll come to your meeting, Mr. Shafter, and gladly.”

  I made the rounds, stopping to talk to people, shaking hands. I needed to know them, judge their potential for trouble or for support, and to learn from them as well.

  My ideas, such
as they were, had been shaped by experience, by listening to more experienced men talk at home and around the west-moving campfires, and by reading Blackstone, Plutarch, and Locke.

  What is it that shapes a man’s life? Heredity? Environment? Or is there some unknown element produced by certain times and conditions that will shape a man to meet it?

  I began to see that the westward movement, the pioneer movement, had been a selective process, and that those who came west were possessed of something distinctive, for better or worse. More courage? Well…possibly. Some primitive throwback to the times of migration?

  Men had migrated for one reason or another from the beginning of time, but those migrations had been by nation, by tribe, or by group. They had been directed by a witch doctor, a chieftain, a king or a general, or perhaps a messiah. Such was not the case in America. These migrations were created by a multitude of individual decisions, of personal decisions. No one said, “We will move.” No one said, “Tomorrow you are to go.”

  In thousands of homes the issues were debated, and then a family in Virginia or Pennsylvania, a man in Indiana or Ohio, a woman in Missouri decided to go west. Each on his own, of his own, financed by himself. Individually they moved to Independence, to Freeport, to any of the towns where wagon trains made up. There they met others like themselves, banded together, chose a leader, and moved out into the vast plains to travel a thousand miles or more toward a destination that shimmered in the silvery distance, beyond the sky, beyond the grass, beyond the horizon.

  Why did some go and others stay? I did not know. Cain had a successful business. He was an artisan, skilled and aware, he could do well wherever he was…why did he choose to go? And Neely? Irritable, complaining, never sure he had done the right thing, but nevertheless having the will to shake off the ties and move out.

  No movement in history was like it.

  Many were to die, killed by Indians, dead of thirst, hunger, cold. The Indians killed them and killed them, and still they kept coming from some endless stream, pushing on westward, fighting dust storm and snowstorm, crossing swollen streams, casting off bit by bit what they had brought west, retaining only those things inherent within them, the love of home, of law, or of church, school, and their independence. Possibly the only motivating force, understood or not, was a love of freedom for its own sake.

  They had given me the job of maintaining order. I had no wish for power, no wish to control, only to keep the peace.

  There can be no living together without understanding, and understanding means compromise. Compromise is not a dirty word, it is the cornerstone of civilization, just as politics is the art of making civilization work. Men do not and cannot and hopefully will never think alike, hence each must yield a little in order to avoid war, to avoid bickering. Men and women meet together and adjust their differences; this is compromise. He who stands unyielding and immovable upon a principle is often a fool, and often bigoted, and usually left standing alone with his principle while other men adjust their differences and go on.

  I saw nothing of Moses Finnerly, Pappin, or Trotter, yet I watched for them, and was cautious.

  Colly Benson was in the saloon when I returned. I sat down and bought him a beer. “Staying around?” I asked.

  He grinned at me, that tough, cynical grin. “Want me to leave?”

  “Not at all. I want you to stay.” When he seemed surprised, I said, “You’re a fair man, Colly. We had trouble back on the trail, but you did not allow your feelings toward me to influence your judgment of me. A man like you is an asset to any town.”

  He looked uncomfortable, then laughed. “Shafter, if I stay around we might have trouble. I’m a hard man to get along with, and you and me, we both carry guns.”

  “But we have judgment, Colly. You showed it back there on the trail. Many a hothead would have got himself killed. That man back in the brush had a rifle right on you, and there isn’t a better shot west of the Mississippi. You used considered judgment. You were not in the least afraid, you just weighed the chances and made your decision.”

  “I would have stolen some of your cattle.”

  “I know that, but if I’d left you in charge of them they’d have been safe. You’re not a thief, Colly, not by nature or inclination.”

  “I’ve rustled a few head.”

  “So have a lot of western men until they realized it wasn’t the right policy. Think it over, Colly. I may need a deputy. In any case, the town needs men who are willing to fight, but above all, who know when to fight.”

  After a while I went up the hill to Ruth Macken’s place. She was watering her flowers. “Is everything all right?”

  “Quiet,” I said. “I was wondering what was left in that book box of yours. I’m fresh out of reading.”

  She led the way inside.

  The books I selected were Alexis de Tocqueville’s Democracy in America, and John Stuart Mill’s On Liberty, the last one published not long before we started west. Then I also took The Conquest of Granada, by Washington Irving.

  We drank coffee and talked. There was a knock on the door, and it was Henry Stratton. “May I come in? This seems to be the most likely place for conversation and a quiet evening.” He turned to me. “Your sister told me she had seen you coming up the hill.”

  A few minutes later Drake Morrell appeared, and I sat quiet and listened. As I heard them talk of far-off cities that I had never seen, of people whom both knew or knew of, of plays and books, of music and actresses, of politics and politicians, I could not help but realize how very little I knew.

  Stratton was carrying a bundle under his arm. “By the way, I shall be leaving tomorrow, but I thought you might like these. Some I brought with me, some of them have come to me since I arrived.”

  They were newspapers from Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. Even one from London.

  My hand went out to them, touching their pages, as I thought of that wider world of which I knew so little.

  And where, I wondered, was Ninon?

  CHAPTER 29

  * * *

  THE CATTLE CAME in on the third day after the election, and we were all down in the streets at the first call that they were coming. I think it was the first time the newcomers gathered with those of us who had settled the town to celebrate something that brought good to us all.

  At the very least it meant an assured supply of meat for the winter. At best it meant the beginning of several herds and of a new industry.

  Bob Harvey, who had brought the Holsteins to the town, was there to watch. “I’m starting a distribution of milk,” he said to me. “Would Cain’s family be interested?”

  “Sure. Have you talked to John Sampson? They’ll want milk, too.”

  “How many head have you got?” Harvey asked.

  “I’ll have to check. We may have added some calves, but it will number close to one hundred and seventy head. We’ll graze them higher up in the mountains in the summer to get the best of that grass.”

  “What about Indians?”

  “We’ll run that risk, and keep a sharp lookout. We will have to use that mountain grass while we can.”

  The herd came quietly, up the one street of our town, and we bunched the cattle on a rough flat below Ruth Macken’s place and behind the town. Only a few of them, ten or twelve head of those Stacy Follett had led us to, were longhorns.

  Everybody came down to look them over, and I introduced everybody to the Indians as well. Follett grinned at Drake Morrell. “I ain’t huntin’ you no more. Those youngsters convinced me I had to be wrong.”

  “Glad they were there,” Drake agreed. “We might have killed each other.”

  The cattle were in good shape. During the last part of the drive the grass had been good, and they had come along at a moderate pace. Now they settled down nicely, seeming to realize the long trek was ended.

  For several days, all was quiet. The Indians took the cattle to the high meadows. Stacy Follett and Ethan went off into the Wind Rivers, s
etting traps for fur and hunting game.

  On Sunday Finnerly showed up for meeting, but only a handful attended. Neely and the Crofts were up the hill at John Sampson’s service, and oddly enough, Webb showed up.

  Cain went to him at once. “Webb, I’m sorry about the boy.”

  Webb shrugged. “He had it comin’. Damn’ fool, listening to that crowd. Well, you cured him of wantin’ to be a gunman. It’ll be months before his hand’s any good, if it ever is.”

  “I guess I shut my hand too hard,” Cain said. “I forget my strength sometimes.”

  They stood and talked, then went into meeting together. I was the last to enter, standing for a while and looking down the street of our town. Either it or I was changing, for once again it seemed familiar and was no longer a town that had become strange.

  Three Oregon-bound wagon trains came through that week, and we did a brisk business. I traded two head of strong steer for three used-up oxen and a saddle with fifty .44 cartridges thrown in.

  Bob Harvey started sinking a well, and Cain picked up a contract to supply ties to the railroad. The season was late, but our town prospered, and we had put away food against the coming cold. We had jerked venison, stored potatoes, carrots, and onions, as well as canned berries from our gathering along the creeks.

  As town marshal I drew fifty dollars a month, but I augmented my income from time to time by repairing wagons for passersby, and trading. I swapped a bridle woven from rawhide for a colt, newborn and too weak to stand the trek to Oregon.

  Follett insisted I add the cattle he had located in the box canyon to my herd. “See here,” he argued, “you made the drive, without you there’d have been no cattle here. Them cattle are mine to give or leave. You take ’em. I live on wild meat, shot with my own rifle, and I don’t take to cow meat, nohow.”

  So, with two oxen for which I’d traded, I now had fifty head of cattle, four horses, and a colt. Then I swapped a bearhide for a day-old calf.