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

by Louis L'Amour

  “But will people accept him?”

  “If he succeeds, they will. What is happening here has happened all across the world from the beginning of time. The migrations out of Central Asia into Europe displaced or absorbed other peoples. In Africa it was the same way. I was talking to a man the other day who believes the Bantu originally migrated out of Asia into Africa. Wherever two cultures collide, the one with the most efficient way of living will survive.”

  “Are you going back, Ben?”

  “I have to. For a while, at least, but I will not stay. We’ve done all we can do there. I have some mining claims to sell, and I own some cattle. I may start a newspaper somewhere out there.”

  “Not here?”

  I thought about that, and then decided. “No. I like it here, and I’ll come back…often. But that’s my country out there.” I looked at her. “Ninon, you’ll have to face it. I am at least half a mountain man. I like to ride the wild country.”

  Neither of us said much that was personal. We just sort of talked as people will, rambling on about those we knew, about the town, the snows, the mountains, and whatever came to mind.

  “May I take you home?” I asked.

  She laughed. “I am home, Bendigo. I live here at the hotel…with my aunt. You see, my play is in the Fifth Avenue Theater right behind the hotel. It is very close and convenient.”

  We got up and I took her to the elevator, and there I left her with a promise to meet the next day, and to meet her aunt.

  When the elevator had gone up I walked across the hall and bought a copy of Mr. Greeley’s Tribune.

  Tomorrow I would call upon the editor who had my lion story.

  Lorna was sitting up in bed reading when I knocked on her door. She put down her book and looked at me. “You’ve seen her? You’ve seen Ninon?”

  “Now how in the world could you know that?”

  She laughed. “I’ve had a guest, too. Her aunt.” She put the marker in the book and closed it. “She’s a very beautiful and very intelligent woman, Ben, but how she knew we were in town, I have no idea. But she did know, and she came calling.”

  CHAPTER 37

  * * *

  WE MET AT Delmonico’s. It was, at the time, the most favored eating place in the city. If possible, Ninon was even more lovely than before, and her aunt, Mrs. Beaussaint, was a woman of forty or so, and very attractive.

  When they approached the table where Lorna and I waited, I got to my feet. She looked right into my eyes, a searching glance that flickered with amusement.

  “Well? Am I the ogre you expected?”

  “You are Ninon’s aunt. How could you be anything but beautiful?”

  “Well said. You are very quick for a frontier savage,” she said, smiling. “I was expecting someone in buckskins and carrying a scalping knife.”

  “I wear clothing suited to the activity in which I am engaged,” I said, “and I don’t think the buckskins would suit the situation.”

  “And the scalping knife?”

  “That’s another thing. However, I believe most of the scalping here is done with words…nothing so crude, or so clean, as a knife.”

  We sat together, talking quietly of many things, of the theater…I remembered now that I had read Ninon’s play, Fashion, from a play script owned by Miller Pine…of books, travel, New York, New Orleans…I listened, talked, and let my eyes stray from time to time to the others in the room.

  It was pleasant to sit here, relaxed and quiet, and the food was excellent, nothing like our rough fare on the frontier.

  How far from here to the Beaver Rim! To the heights of the Wind Rivers or the canyon of the Popo Agie!

  “Why did you come east, Mr. Shafter?”

  I looked at her. “To see Ninon. It has been a long time.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Oh…there was a matter of some manuscripts I’d mailed east, but they would have replied sooner or later. As a matter of fact, I am glad I came. I have sold two articles…after I work them over a little.

  “I spent an hour or two with the editor this morning, and he suggested how I might put them in shape. I’d spent too much time telling about it instead of telling it.”

  “What sort of thing do you write?”

  “I can’t claim to be a writer, but I’d seen there was interest in the west and in some of the wildlife. I did a piece on mountain lions…pumas, panthers, whatever you wish to call them. I did another on a rescue from the Indians.”

  “Ninon has been telling me of your life out there. You must be very brave.”

  Was I? I had often wondered about that. I shrugged. “One does what one has to do.”

  “He rode miles and miles through the cold and snow to find me,” Ninon said quietly. “If he had not come I would have died, just as my brother did.”

  “It was Drake,” I said, “had it not been for his ride, and he was wounded and in very bad shape, I’d not have known where to go.”

  “Drake?” Emilie Beaussaint’s eyebrows lifted. “Drake who?”

  “Morrell…Drake Morrell. He knew Ninon’s mother…your sister. After she died he started out to bring them to you, but he was badly wounded in a gun battle with some old enemies. When I found him he was passed out in the snow.”

  “Drake Morrell!” Emilie Beaussaint turned her eyes to Ninon. “You didn’t tell me about him.”

  “Grandmother said I shouldn’t. She said it would only make you feel bad.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Yes, I did. I knew him very well. He was an old friend of the family, and…well, I liked him.”

  “He’s quite a man, and we’ve been glad he rode to our town. I suspect it has been a long time since you’ve seen him, but Drake is a handsome man, a very wise one, too. From all I hear he has been rather…well, rather sudden, on occasion.”

  She smiled. “You could say that. Drake gambled too much, you know. We all liked him, but he would gamble. The worst of it was, he was a very good gambler, and when one is successful there is always a question of one’s honesty.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s he doing now? Is he still a gambler?”

  “He’s teaching school.”

  “Drake Morrell? Teaching school?”

  “Yes, and very well, too.” It was a good story, and I told it, right down to the day his students gathered around him with their pistols.

  “They actually carry weapons into the schoolroom?”

  “You have to remember, Mrs. Beaussaint, that our town is apt to be attacked at any moment, and then some of the students ride over from ranches or other settlements nearby.

  “There’s small chance of trouble, but when trouble does occur it is rather decisive. One had better be prepared for it. There are mountain lions…they don’t often attack, but occasionally they do.

  “Or one might come between a she-bear and her cubs. In that case she will always attack.

  “It’s customary for the boys to hang up their guns and gunbelts along with their wraps, but at the time Follett came after Drake they were about to ride home, and luckily they were armed.”

  “I can’t imagine it.”

  “Of course not. It is very easy for people living in warm, comfortable homes miles from the frontier to tell people on the frontier how they should live, but quite another thing for the settler to return home to find his wife and children murdered…for no particular reason.”

  “What about you, Lorna?” Ninon asked. “Are you going back?”

  “I don’t know. I am still thinking about it, when I can find the time. If I do stay here I would have to think of some way to make a living, and that isn’t easy. I am not an actress as you are, and my brothers couldn’t afford to let me live here and do nothing. I think I shall go back, but not all the way. I may stop in Denver, or some such place. Or even go on to California.”

  We finished our meal, and sat long over our coffee. I listened to the easy sound of the voices and watched the people pas
sing on the street.

  Suddenly, two men loomed alongside our table. One was Horace Greeley, the other a stranger. “May we join you, Mr. Shafter? My friend and I have been discussing the Indian situation and we thought a little on-the-spot information might be helpful.”

  “Of course.” I stood up quickly, and presented them to the ladies.

  “You mentioned the possibility of much fighting on the plains when spring comes. What can be done to avoid it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Come, come, young man! Surely there must be something!”

  “Possibly, but I am sure I do not have such an answer. What I have said is what I believe. Most white men do not understand the Indian, many do not think it important to try. They simply accept the Indian as an obstacle to settlement of the land, just as the buffalo is.

  “The young Indian who would win honor among his people can do it only through hunting or war. He has no other avenue. The old Indians have fought their wars, they have counted coup, taken scalps, stolen enough horses to make them rich in their terms. They have status in the Indian community.

  “But how is the young Indian to do this? If the old Indian wishes to make peace, the young wishes to make war. An Indian cannot get a wife until he has proven himself as a man, as a warrior, so he must fight. He must trade horses for his bride, so he must steal horses. She will want the things the white man has, and so will he, and the only means of getting them is by killing or by trading, and he has very little to trade these days. So he must kill.

  “The white man’s way is to work, but this has for long been considered beneath a man…to do manual labor is to demean himself. And we need not think this surprising for there are areas in Europe, and even some in this country, where men believe the same.

  “The Indian sees the white man in his land. A wagon train to an Indian is like a Spanish galleon loaded with Aztec treasure to Sir Francis Drake. Many of the Indians who attack the wagon trains live nowhere near the route of travel, but they ride for miles to attack those ‘treasure’ trains.

  “The problem is simply that we have two peoples face to face with different religious beliefs, different customs, different styles of living. War was a way of life for the Viking, and for several centuries it was the accepted route to success in Europe. With the Indian it still is.

  “Reason, if you like, with the old Indians. They are wise men, and they will listen. Their minds are as quick, their brains as good as yours. But after you have reasoned and made peace with the old Indian, the young Indian who wishes to become a warrior still has his problem.

  “Before there can be peace there must be a new code of values for the Indian, and such things take generations to develop.”

  “Hmm.” Greeley rubbed his chin whiskers. “There you have it, my friend. I cannot say that I agree with this young man, but he has given us the most lucid explanation I’ve heard.”

  “We all wish there was an easy way to solve the problem,” I commented, “but there is none. Everyone hopes for an immediate solution, but the only solutions to social problems come through time. We in America always believe we have only to pass a law and everything will be changed, but the truth is nothing is changed. There is only one more law upon the books to be ignored or broken. People only obey a law the majority have already decided to obey, and it must be a very large majority.”

  “You don’t talk like such a young man,” the other man commented. “I would imagine you’ve done some thinking on the subject.”

  “On the frontier there is no time for ‘boyhood.’ One is a child, and then one is a man. As for the Indian, we had better think about him for he is thinking about us. But I’ve been fortunate. I’ve had some good teachers. The wilderness first, my neighbors, and then of course, I’ve had Plutarch, Blackstone, Hume, Locke, and a few others to consider.”

  “You are going back?”

  “Yes. I am marshal of our town, and if trouble comes we will need every fighting man available.”

  When they had gone Mrs. Beaussaint left us, and Lorna remained with Ninon and me. We talked long into the night, and when they went up to their rooms I stepped outside the hotel.

  Fifth Avenue was quiet. The leaves in the trees on Madison Square rustled softly. A carriage went by, turning up Broadway, and I crossed the street and walked along by the park.

  I strolled along a path under the trees, crossing toward the other side of the park.

  Footsteps whispered in the grass. Somebody was following me, keeping pace a little to my left and behind me. Following me where? Soon I’d be out on the other side in the bright glow of the gaslights again, so what was to happen must happen soon.

  They were clumsy at being quiet. Any child in our town could have done it better. My ears tuned themselves to the sound, and when they began to move closer I glanced carefully around.

  The area of the park was about ten acres. On the east side I could see a handsome-looking church on Madison Avenue. The Square had walks that led from side to side, and in the summer there were often band concerts. It was a fashionable area and a favorite promenade of the people who lived in the hotels or nearby homes.

  Near the bandstand there were good lights, and I walked along toward them. As I neared the stand I saw why those following me had not closed in, for two other men, roughs by their look, stood waiting there. When they saw the direction I was taking they had evidently circled around.

  I’d been mentally prepared for two…four was rather more than I wanted, and I’d no desire to get into a shooting scrape in a strange city where such things were frowned upon.

  The two near the bandstand stepped out to block my way. “Hello, boys,” I said cheerfully, “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Take him,” said another voice, and inadvertently, I glanced up.

  It was Jake McCaleb, of course.

  The shoes behind me suddenly scraped on the walk, but the two coming toward me from the front were closer.

  Four of them there were, but it was still no fair chance for them, for I’d lived my life on a hard frontier working with pick, shovel, and axe, climbing mountains, riding horseback. These were undoubtedly tough men among their kind, but they’d lived too soft, drunk too much whiskey, lazed about, then beat up some citizen in the process of robbing him.

  The two were coming in, and I did not wait. I closed in suddenly, and stepping off to the left to put the outside man out of position, I threw a high, hard right at the man on the left.

  There’s an old adage that to win a street fight one had best land the first punch. I did just that and landed it with the idea in mind that if it landed there would only be three to my one after it.

  I threw the punch at his chin but actually toward a point four inches back of his chin. I was punching through…and he, bless him, was coming in fast.

  My fist caught his chin like the butt end of an axe hitting a log, and he was cold before he hit the ground. I had thrown my weight with the right hand punch, but as the blow landed I rolled at the hips, throwing a left from where my fist was when the right landed. The second man coming in caught the left, and then a man leaped on my back. I had thrown myself far to the right with the follow through with the left hook, and he leaped across my back rather than on it.

  Turning sharply, I was face to face with the fourth man while the third was climbing off the grass. My right hand brought the pistol out, and laid the barrel of it across the side of his head, then wheeled on the one who was getting up. I had the gun on him, but backed swiftly around to face McCaleb.

  I had them both under the gun, and they stopped. I backed off just a little in case any of the others made a move to rise. One of them was on his knees, shaking his head.

  “I am going to kill you,” I said to the fourth man. He began to back up, pleading.

  “Now listen, guvner,” he pleaded, “this here’s a mistake! I…”

  “You!” I motioned to the man I’d hit with the left, who was getting up. “You two h
ave just one chance of walking away from here.”

  “What? Now, see here! We…!”

  I had moved a little closer. “You two,” I said, “were hired to beat up a man, perhaps to kill him. Now you’re going to earn your money.”

  They stared at me, but the gun offered little room for argument. “You’re going to earn it,” I said, “or when they sweep up in the morning they’ll have your corpses to sweep away.”

  I pointed at McCaleb with the pistol. “Let’s see how good you are…beat him up.”

  “What? Hey, now…!”

  My thumb eared back the hammer, and the click was loud in the park. “You’ve got until I count three.

  “One!” They hesitated. “Two!”

  McCaleb turned to run, and they wasted no time. Leaping after him, they began swinging with a will. Both were strong men, if not in very good shape, but McCaleb was tough. He turned sharply around, and he was no coward. He plowed into them, swinging.

  Had he attacked instead of trying to get away, he might have done it, but they’d landed several heavy ones before he got started.

  It was a short, vicious, bloody fight, but in moments they had him staggering. He kicked, butted, and swung, and he had brass knuckles on his right hand…but so did they.

  He went down suddenly, started to get up, and they both swung at his skull. He went down again, and they started to reach for him.

  “That’s enough! Now beat it!”

  They hesitated, gasping for breath, then they turned and ran in a stumbling run toward the park entrance on Madison.

  Suddenly a voice spoke behind me. “Ah, that was a lovely sight! A lovely sight, lad! Sure, ’n these four years I’ve been wishin’ for such a chance! Beggin’ all the saints for it!”

  My gun was in my hand when I turned. The man standing there was a large Irish policeman, and he was smiling. “Put it away, lad. You’ll no be needin’ it.