Rivers West

by Louis L'Amour

  “I was not aware of that.”

  “We have excellent managers. They never knew the source of my father’s information, nor have I told anyone but you, now. I have continued to advise them to buy and sell, and we have continued to profit.”

  I don’t think she knew I was present.

  “And you have information that something is wrong in the South, in the West?”

  “Let me say I had grounds for suspicion. And then this letter from my brother. When I received it, I acted at once. I got out the ledgers and read all the information we had on the Louisiana Territory, read the reports of Lewis and Clark and the letters from James Mackay. My father had an agent in Santa Fe for many years, Mr. Tate, and I read his reports.

  “Then I read letters from New Orleans, from Madrid, from Paris and La Rochelle. I made notes. Some items I recalled. Now I am sure. What my brother has discovered, Mr. Tate, is a plot to seize the Louisiana Territory and to make an independent kingdom of it.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  She shrugged. “Exactly the reaction from our senator, Mr. Tate. I approached him on the matter. He either does not believe anything I say or has reasons for not wishing to believe.”

  “Miss Majoribanks, you must remember, you are a very young lady. You are in fact—?”

  “Nineteen, Mr. Tate, and for all those years I sat at my father’s knee. For most of those years I had access to his office. I learned how to read from those letters of his.”

  “That may be, but—”

  “Mr. Tate, I know you have connections of your own. I know some of your political affiliations. I have told you all this not only to give you my reasons for going west, but because I hope you will see the necessity for prompt action.

  “The man who is to direct the subversive movements in the Louisiana Territory may already be en route. I know much of this man. He is a devil incarnate, who will stop at nothing.”

  Tate smiled, shrugging. “Your worry about our country does you credit, but it is highly unlikely that what you fear is true. They would need an army, supplies, munitions.”

  “They will have them.”

  “Miss Majoribanks, if half you suggest be true, it would be utter folly for you to go west. Your brother is a man of judgment. He will handle his own situation, and you can do nothing there but make it more difficult for him. Also, despite your information, I think your fears are exaggerated. No man would have the audacity or the skill to attempt such a thing.”

  “Baron Torville would.”

  Chapter 5

  *

  TORVILLE!” I ALMOST dropped my glass, and I am a man not easily startled.

  She turned to look at me, aware of my presence for the first time. “You have been eavesdropping on a conversation that is no concern of yours!” she said with anger.

  “I beg your pardon,” I replied sincerely. “I am drinking my cider. It was impossible not to overhear your conversation.”

  Simon Tate but glanced at me. Both the men who accompanied her looked over at me, the younger with obvious disapproval, the older with a careful measuring look.

  The conversation continued, but in lower tones. I heard nothing more that made sense, yet I needed little more. Haughty the young lady might be, but she was obviously well informed, and I had great respect for her sources of information. My family knew about the Fuggers. The earliest Talon had dealings with them, may even have written some of those letters of which she spoke. In fact, he had himself used somewhat the same methods to keep abreast of changing situations in India, China, and the Malays.

  In the days of his privateering, this Talon had been active in those waters, and in fact, his own wife had come from India.

  If the girl’s information was correct, Torville was the leader—or one of the leaders—of a plot to seize the Louisana Territory and set up an independent kingdom. It seemed a wild scheme, yet there were many reasons why it might be successful. Not until 1818 had a firm boundary been established between the United States and Canada along the forty-ninth parallel from the Rainy Lake to the Rockies.

  Only recently had the treaty been signed with Spain ceding Florida to the United States and defining the western border of the Louisana Purchase at the forty-second parallel. The United States had renounced claims to Texas, and rights to many parts of this great new land were openly disputed.

  But many Americans believed reports from various officers of the army that the great plains were a vast wasteland, the so-called Great American Desert, and therefore totally unfit for cultivation or settlement. The result was that few Americans believed the area worth fighting for.

  In Mexico there was a growing movement for independence from Spain and the prospects of fighting had lured adventurers and soldiers-of-fortune from all over the world, most of whom had gathered in New Orleans to await the turn of events that might offer them opportunity for sudden wealth, looting, or whatever the chance offered.

  Rumors of gold in the far western lands, mostly originating in Santa Fe and Mexico itself, had lured others.

  Moreover, the changing status of the slave trade had caused a number of slave traders to abandon the sea. In 1808 a law had been passed forbidding the importation of slaves into the United States, and even now a bill was before Congress that would make foreign slave trade an act of piracy punishable by death. Although the smuggling of slaves would almost certainly continue, many of those traders who wished to take no chances were leaving the trade and looking for a fresh area for their talents. Much of this I knew from shore-side gossip in the Gaspé where the sailors from incoming ships were constantly arguing such questions in the grog shops along the waterfront. Jambe-de-Bois had, during our long walk down through Maine, talked of this.

  Finishing my cider, I got up, paid what I owed, and went out. Miss Majoribanks’ older companion followed me.

  “Sir! My name is Macaire. I’d like a word with you.”

  I liked him. There was a broad, straightforward honesty in the man, and a sure strength that I always like to see.

  “Mine is John Daniel,” I said, continuing with the name I’d given myself before.

  “You spoke of Torville. Or you seemed to know the name.”

  I explained, as briefly as possible, about the finding of the body and the papers and our journey since.

  “You said nothing of the murder at the inn?”

  “Not until the others had gone. There were some there I did not like the look of.”

  He kicked at the post of the hitching rail as he considered what I’d said. “They may still be around,” he said.

  “They may indeed. I do not know them, but one at least seems a bad one. A snake-eyed one…I’d not trust him. But I know none of them.”

  “Aye, I will speak to the miss of it.”

  “I’m afraid she took offense at me,” I said.

  He chuckled. “Likely! She’s a proud one! But a fine, fine lass!” He looked at me. “You’ll not be staying on here?”

  “It’s no place for a shipwright,” I said. “I shall go where the building is.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, “it is a fine thing to work with wood, and there’s a deal of it here. The finest maple, oak, or beech. To build…aye, I like that. It is good to build. To stand up something that will last, something that will do a job for you.”

  He held out his hand. “Well, lad, here’s luck to you. May the road lie easy wherever you walk.”

  “And the same to you,” I said.

  Jambe-de-Bois, who’d been patiently waiting, said, “Perhaps there’s a horse to be had in the village yonder.”

  “We’ll walk that way,” I said.

  Simon Tate came to the door as we started to move off. “You will go now?”

  “Aye.”

  He walked over to me. His face was serious. “I will not be sending your papers. I will take them on myself. There is a smell to this I do not like.”

  We parted then, and Jambe and I walked toward the village. Walking opens the
mind to thought, and so it often was with me. When serious problems beset me, I walked and let my mind ramble or, if need be, hold to the problem at hand.

  Torville was not far from my thoughts, although I intended to get about my business. We had officials and all manner of men whose business it was to see to such as Torville, who was probably overrated in his villainy and likely nothing to worry about.

  My thoughts came swinging away from the current in which I wished them to go to muse about the girl, Miss Majoribanks.

  Much as she did not care for me, I found myself admiring her direct, headon approach to things, although I thought her foolish to go into the West looking for a brother who might well be in no trouble at all. Mails were an uncertain thing, and many of those to whom letters were entrusted were themselves careless about delivery and apt to stop for a drink or two…or three or four.

  The village was a neat cluster of buildings—a store, a blacksmith shop, a small inn, and a horse barn.

  “We’ll say nothing about wanting a horse or mule,” I said. “We’ll stop for a drink and talk of the way ahead.”

  A half-dozen men loitered outside the tavern. One was a large-bellied man with a somewhat soiled shirt, but a keen blue eye that took in me, my load of tools, my pack, and the wooden leg of Jambe-de-Bois.

  He looked and smelled of horses, so I walked past him to the inn, then stopped and walked back. “Is it a place for a working man?” I asked him. “Are the prices asked not too strong?”

  “Reasonable,” he commented, “reasonable.” He glanced at my load. “It takes a man of muscle to carry the load,” he said.

  “Aye,” I agreed. “I bargained for a mule, but the cost was dear, and cheaper it be to carry the load m’self.”

  “It’s a way of thinkin’,” he agreed, but I could see that he was of no mind to carry any such loads and thought me a fool for doing so.

  We entered the inn and seated ourselves near the window. Jambe went to the window that opened into the kitchen and asked for ale.

  The proprietor brought it, and I paid him at once. He glanced at the coins in my hand. He nodded toward the road. “Tis a rough road for shank’s mare,” he said. “You should have a horse or two.”

  “Dear,” I said, “a horse is too dear.”

  “You could sell it when we get where were going,” Jambe suggested.

  “Yes, I could that, but I have no horse and I doubt much if this village has a horse for sale, or a mule.”

  The large-bellied man then came into the inn and glanced our way. He sniffed business, and it had probably been some days since he had turned a deal that netted him profit.

  The proprietor and the horse dealer were friends. No doubt one would often turn a bit of business to the other.

  The horse dealer walked over to our table with a mug of cider in his fist. He pulled around a chair and straddled it so he could lean on the back. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  I grinned at him. “You already have, but seeing you brought your own drink, you’re welcome.”

  The dealer chuckled. “You’d not buy me a drink then?”

  “When a man comes to sell me a horse, I think he should buy the drinks.”

  The dealer chuckled again. “Wise, ain’t you? Well, young feller, I’m not saying I’d refuse a deal. And a fine, prosperous-looking lad like yourself…well, it’s a bit rough for you to walk the country carrying such a load of tools.”

  “I’m strong.”

  “Aye,” the dealer admitted, noting the depth of my chest and my broad, powerfully muscled shoulders. Muscles swelled my rough shirt. The bulges of my deltoids were like melons. “Aye,” he repeated. “I can see that.”

  He continued to look me over.

  “We’ve a couple of powerful lads about here. Too bad you’re only passing. We might arrange us a bout of wrestling.” The dealer suddenly narrowed his eyes: “You do wrestle?”

  “Well—” I hesitated, long enough to seem doubtful, “I suppose I could. I am strong,” I added, a bit uncertainly. No reason to let him know I’d thrown everybody who could wrestle in Quebec and Nova Scotia, and a few in Newfoundland. There’s a good bit of friendly grappling done in seaport towns, and in going from one to the other, there’d been fairs and such. Often I’d wrestled, just testing my strength.

  Of course, I’d had good training. I’d had the best, in fact, for it was a tradition in our family since the first Talon, that hard old man who founded the family and who had learned his grappling in India, China, and Japan. He’d only had one hand, but it was said he never lost.

  He had trained his sons well, and in a hard, hard school. Even in his old age there was no softness in the man. And father and son since, they’d learned too.

  Cornish-style wrestling, also, and something of the boxing they do in Britain. But there was no need to say aught of that.

  “There’s those about always ready for a bit of sport,” the dealer commented, “and there’s a local man…Neely Hall. He’s a strong man, and wins most of the time. He’s beaten everybody about here but Sam Purdy. Nobody wrestles Purdy.”

  “Is he so good then?” Jambe-de-Bois asked.

  “Good! He’d make two of the lad here, and he’s got the power to match his size. There was a wrestler came through here two months ago. He’d defeated everybody, and Purdy tossed him in a moment. He’s a giant, Purdy is. Doesn’t know his own strength.”

  Now such talk nettled me a little. I shifted uneasily in my seat. There was no man invincible, not even me, I supposed, and big men always got under my skin a little. That is, if they were the aggressive, bullying type. I didn’t know that Purdy was, but such talk of invincibility stirred something in me.

  “I’d wrestle him,” I said mildly, “just for fun, you know.”

  The horse dealer laughed. “Fun? With Purdy? It would be no fun, lad. He’s rough. When you wrestle with Purdy, it’s no fun. It’s anything goes. You can gouge or bite if you’re of a mind to, although the last man to try biting Purdy left here with no teeth in the front of his face.

  “No, no. I wasn’t thinking of Purdy. It was Neely Hall. I don’t think you’re up to him, but it might be a match. The boys would come out to see it, and there’d be some betting done.”

  He looked at me. “Do y’ bet, lad? Or have y’ scruples against it?”

  “Well…if it isn’t too much. After all, I don’t know this man Hall, and I’m a stranger. There mightn’t be fair play.”

  “Oh, there’ll be fair play!” the dealer said. “They are honest boys about here. There’s sporting blood, but its honest sporting blood.”

  Jambe-de-Bois looked at the dealer, a baleful gleam in his eyes.

  “They’d be honest,” he said coolly. “I’d be sure of that.”

  The dealer looked at Jambe uneasily. It was a quiet comment, but there were undercurrents of iron in it, and, looking at the one-legged man, the dealer felt a momentary icy shiver, as if somebody had stepped on his grave.

  “Would you be for it?” the dealer turned to me. “I could talk to the boys. There’s been nothing doing about here for weeks now.”

  “Well…I’m just passing through,” I said. “I had not thought of it, nor stopping. It is a far way I have to go.”

  “Stay. Neely is about, and it could be done for the morrow. If you’ve a little money for betting—”

  “Well. You were talking to me of a horse. I had not thought of one, but maybe…well, maybe I should use the money and a bit more I have to buy a horse or two.”

  It was Purdy I wanted, but it was plain to see I’d have to go through Neely Hall to get at him. And I might just get a horse in the process.

  “We’d best go,” I said to Jambe-de-Bois. “I make no boast of being one to wrestle in a match. I have tussled with the boys…I don’t think so.”

  “Come, now!” The dealer wanted his bit of sport, and after all, what was there to do in a settlement of forty people, with maybe fifty others within an hour’s ride? “Nobody
will get hurt. It is just a friendly match.”

  He got up quickly. “Enjoy your drinks, lads, and be having another on me. I’ll talk to the boys.”

  When he was gone, Jambe-de-Bois studied me with some care. “You’re surely knowing some of these country lads are strong? They wrestle a bit of an evening, and about the fairs. It’ll be no easy thing to do…if you do. Have you wrestled at all?”

  “Here and there. When I was a boy in school.”

  “A boy in school!” Jambe-de-Bois was contemptuous. “This will not be like that, and you’ll be getting yourself hurt for no reason.”

  “I want a horse,” I said quietly. “In fact, I want three of them…or mules. I want one for me, one for you, and another for the packs. So finish your drink then, and we’ll be over the way to look at the horses.”

  “You’re going to bet?”

  “Aye. I’ll bet.”

  He was silent, and as for myself, I was remembering that the breadth of my shoulders causes me to look shorter than I am. And the fact that every bit of me was solidly packed muscle over bone made me look fifteen pounds lighter than I was. This was in my favor—and then, too, they knew nothing of me.

  But it was Sam Purdy I wanted.

  Chapter 6

  *

  FINE HORSES THERE were in the lot, a couple of handsome geldings and a likely looking mare. There was a stallion, too, but a stallion along country lanes and villages can cause a man a deal of trouble.

  But it was not these of which I was thinking. What took my eye was a couple of sturdy, hair-legged geldings, rough with their winter coats. Neither was over thirteen hands, but they were sturdy-looking, with strong, well-muscled shoulders and power in their haunches. And there was a sad-eyed, wise-looking mule, a black mule with whitish rings around his eyes. When he saw me studying him he tossed his head and yawned.

  Jambe-de-Bois studied them with an unfriendly eye. “I’ll have you know I’m no good a’ setting the deck of one of them,” he said grimly. “I’d rather walk.”