A tall man in a stovepipe hat with mutton-chop whiskers stopped him. Sir, would you have a light? I’ve spent my last match.
Cleve provided the light. Are you among the pioneers? he asked, though he realized how foolish the question must seem at this place and time. Lawyer, sir. Attorney-at-law, and westward bound. Gold, sir. I am after gold, but I shall not mine for it. I shall wait for them to bring it to me. You’re a gambler? Or are you planning to open a saloon? Neither, sir. As I said, I am a lawyer, and where there are men and gold there will be litigation, and where there is litigation, lawyers will be needed. I have no doubt, sir, that I shall become rich.
Cleve rode on. Lawyer he might be, but with that nose he had without doubt seen the inside of many a saloon. Cleve rode to the Noland House and was fortunate enough to find an empty bed, although it was still warm from the body of the last man, who was undoubtedly now preparing to start west with a wagon train. Four trains were leaving that morning.
At breakfast the following morning in Noland’s dining room he heard that the Morgan train had gone. The first day they would scarcely move more than eight to ten miles, just enough to break in the teams and get them used to the work. They might even stop short of that, for it was customary to make the first day or two easy, until the stock became broken to the trail. Twice during the morning men came trying to buy Cleve’s horse, but he refused to sell. Later, after he had sat around the hotel listening and keeping his eyes open for a small game which failed to materialize, he went out and laid in some modest supplies. He bought a coffee pot, some pemmican, and, from an old Missourian, some cold flour.
He had never heard of cold flour, but the Missourian merely chuckled. Lots of folks hain’t heard of it, he said. Mexicans, they use it. You just take some corn and grind her up good after it’s parched. Then you add a mite of sugar and cinnamon. Man can live a month on a half-bushel of it, and tasty, too. A feller just mixes a bit of it into water and drinks it down. He bought a gutta-percha poncho, against possible rainstorms, a couple of blankets, and a ground sheet. He added a canteen, and a hundred cartridges for his pistol.
The provision stores were crowded with men buying, planning, asking advice of the storekeepers and of others-of anyone, in fact, who had time to listen. Butter? Cleve overheard a man saying. Why, butter’s no problem at all. Boil it … boil it well, and skim it off until it’s clear like oil, then you put it in tin canisters and solder it up. Even down Texas way where she gets mighty hot, that butter will keep.
Vegetables? Sure, you can have them too. You get them desiccated vegetables like the army uses. They’re pressed down and heated into cakes as solid as a rock. A chunk of it no bigger than a woman’s fist will make a pot for four, five men. I et em with the army out Utah way when we went out to keep an eye on Brigham an’ his Saints. Tasty, that’s what they are, an’ they stick to your ribs.
He found a supply of his cigars at Noland’s and laid in a stock. It was the one luxury he was to permit himself. His was a small outfit, but he had little money, and wanted to keep a few dollars for a stake in case somebody started a game on the way west.
His horse had been ridden but little, and no great distance for some time, and would need breaking in to the trail. He mounted up and started west. He had no plans to catch up to the wagons for a while. He wanted to be far enough away from the settlements so it would be impractical for Roger Morgan to order him to return.
Roger Morgan had a reputation. He was known as a fine wagonmaster, one of the few who organized such trains, for the usual procedure was to elect a captain from among the pioneers themselves, and to depose him if he failed to lead and command as he should. Morgan had been over the trail several times, and functioned both as a guide and as a wagonmaster. He was known as a hard man, who permitted no nonsense on his trains and was prepared to handle any difficulties that arose.
There were scattered settlements and ranch houses for some distance west of both Independence and Leavenworth, and they were pleased to welcome a visitor. People were hungry for news of the world, and they wanted to know what was happening in the outfitting towns like Independence.
An easy talker, polite but never forward, Cleve van Valen found a ready audience for his accounts of what was happening in St. Louis and Cincinnati, and in Independence itself. He took his time, often riding only a few miles a day, stopping on the way at ranches to share the home cooking, and with it all, he asked questions.
He was too wise in the ways of gambling not to realize his handicap in going into an area where he must play the other fellow’s game, something no gambler believed in doing. During long sessions over card tables and around frontier gambling houses and on the river boats he had heard much talk of Indian fighting, of life on the plains and in the mountains, and the result was that he understood what he was facing. Now he made further inquiries from the settlers along the frontier. He wanted to fit in when he caught up with the wagons, to prove valuable to Lilith Prescott and the wagon train. A Cherokee he met west of Leavenworth was riding to join a party of hunters, and Cleve rode along with him. The Cherokee, who had once owned a plantation and slaves in Georgia before being forced to move west during the Indian removal, explained to him about the Kiowa, the Arapahoe, and the Cheyenne Indians he would meet further west. These, in contrast to the Cherokees, Choctaws, Chickasaws, Creeks, and Seminoles, were wild Indians, giving to raiding, horse-thieving, and scalp-hunting.
They will stampede your stock if they can, the Cherokee explained, driving it off to round up later. And any man caught out away from the train will be killed-be sure of that.
After three days’ riding together, they parted on the bank of a small stream, and the Cherokee pointed out the wagon road west. Turning his mount, Cleve van Valen rode away. He crossed the stream, emerged from the brush on the far side, and started his horse up the long grassy slope. The air was very clear … no clouds were in the sky. It was pleasant, not too warm, and his horse walked easily through the tall grass. On top of the bill, with the wagon road below him and some distance off, Cleve drew up. As far as the eye could see, there rolled the endless grass. Far off, two dark objects grazing upon the grass would be buffalo. He drew the fresh air deep into his lungs, and it was like drinking a long draught of cold, clear water. Nothing moved out there, nothing but the wind and the low grass that bent before it. Yes … it was a man’s country.
His gelding pricked its ears at the distance, stamping an impatient foot at the delay.
All through the day he rode across the miles of grass, and when he camped that night it was in the willows near a stream. At daybreak he was up, and for the first time he made coffee and mixed a little cold flour with water and drank it. Then he started on.
The wagons were drawn up for a nooning near a river when he came near to them. They were not far beyond Vermilion Creek and were headed for a camp on the upper crossing of the Big Blue.
Almost the first wagon he saw was that belonging to Agatha Clegg and Lilith Prescott. The big man sitting his mount alongside their fire could be none other than Roger Morgan, who turned his head to look as Cleve cantered up. Cleve removed his hat with a graceful sweep. Ladies, he began, I-I thought, Lilith interrupted dryly, that we had seen the last of you. Frankly, I was worried. I couldn’t bear to think of you making the trip alone and without help. If anything had happened to you I could never have forgiven myself.
You rode a hundred miles alone? Morgan asked. I’ll take your word for the distance. I was so filled with anticipation that I scarcely noticed.
You can anticipate another hundred on your way back. We’ll have no gamblers on this train. When a wagon breaks down I want men who can fix it, not bet on how long it’ll take.
You mean you’d turn a man adrift? In Indian country? We ain’t into Indian country yet, and you got here by yourself, so I guess you can get back.
Lilith started to protest, but Aggie was already speaking. Mr. Morgan, I talked to this man back at Independence. I told him i
f he got his affairs straightened out and caught up with us that we’d take him on. We’re likely to need a man before this trip is over.
I’m a good man on a horse, captain, and a dead shot, Cleve said.
Morgan turned to Lilith, his irritation obvious. Is that right, Miss Prescott?
Did you actually agree to hire this-this gambler? Miss Clegg spoke of it, she replied, honestly enough, and it seemed the thing to do. Besides, Mr. van Valen has another friend on the train. Gabe French speaks very highly of him.
Morgan was surprised, and doubtful. You know Gabe French? Of course. As a matter of fact, we did a bit of business together once-transportation, it was. I will confess that Gabe carried most of the load, but our association was mutually satisfactory. Somewhat reassured, Morgan nodded. All right, then, if that’s what you want.
He rode off toward the head of the wagon train. Lilith then turned sharply on Agatha. Agatha! What’s gotten into you? Are you crazy?
He said he’d do an honest day’s work, and you an’ me have come far enough to know this here is a lot too much for us. I don’t mind rustlin’ buffalo chips an’ drivin’ a team, but takin’ them to water, stakin’ them out, an’ cuttin’ what wood a body can find, that’s too much.
You are right, of course. Lilith measured Cleve with a cool eye. One thing I promise you, Agatha. He will do his work. He’ll do it, or I’ll see that he starts riding alone-no matter where we are.
Yes, ma’am, Cleve said politely. As you say, ma’am. Dismounting, he tied his horse to the tailgate and got up on the seat. He picked up the reins and spoke to the mules.
Hey, you ain’t had nothing to eat! Agatha protested. Another time, fair lady, Cleve replied, keeping a straight face. My ruthless employer allows no time for such nonsense. Besides, it is time to pull out. Cleve removed his coat and folded it carefully, and Lilith glanced at the immaculate white shirt. It would not be white for long. Before them the plains stretched wide and lonely, and the wagons rolled on over the dusty grass. Soon the spring rains would come, and Morgan wanted to have them far enough along so they would be free of the worst of the mud. Sitting behind a team of mules on a long day’s march allows time for thinking, and Cleve van Valen settled down to plan his course of action. Lilith had a gold mine and he wanted it, so the first thing he must do was to win Lilith. Yet the last thing for him to do was to seem to want her. She was no fool, and was far too worldly-wise to be easily taken in. No doubt many men had flattered her and lied to her, and she was already suspicious of him. Therefore he must avoid her.
He must do his job well, but avoid all contact with her in doing it. He must never seem to wish to be close to her, never begin a conversation with her. Also, he must be efficient at what he had to do; if he was not, he might not last long enough with the train to work out his plan. The few days of travel while the wagons were getting well out upon the prairie gave him a chance to break himself in to the life. The Cherokee had been of enormous help and, finding Cleve eager to learn, he had packed a lot of instruction into their few days together. Now, with time on his hands Cleve tried to recall everything he’d ever heard that might be useful. In the course of his traveling about and being around the frontier towns he had listened to a lot of conversation and had retained much of it, for he had a retentive memory, and he had always been interested in concrete information and facts, and he had listened well.
Odd fragments of information began to return to him, things remembered from trappers, or Indian fighters with whom he had spent long hours, gambling or talking. Fortunately, he had read a good bit, too-among other things, Washington Irving’s Tour on the Prairies and Dr. Gregg’s Commerce of the Prairies. Systematically, he began sifting his memory for whatever he could remember from those books.
The Big Blue was clear and cold when they made camp at the upper crossing. At that point the river was all of sixty yards wide. There was good grass and there was wood.
Cleve, who had planned every step he would take upon arriving at camp, swiftly unhitched the mules and stripped them of their harness; then, leaving them tied to the wagon, he got a fire going, using buffalo chips and what sticks lay at hand. Once the fire was ablaze he took the mules to water, then turned them into the rope corral with the other stock to be watched by the night guards. His own horse he picketed near the wagon.
Taking an axe, he went to the timber along the stream and cut wood for the night fire and for breakfast in the morning.
Unaccustomed as he was to such work, he found it hard. His hands blistered on the axe, and the blisters broke. During his boyhood he had often hunted or fished in the mountains of Virginia, and all through his early years he had lived an active life of riding, shooting, and fencing. But he had never done any such work as this.
When he returned to the fire with an armful of wood for morning, Agatha handed him his plate filled with food. His hands felt cramped and stiff, and she noticed the awkward way in which he accepted the plate from her. But he took the plate and walked a few yards away and sat down by himself. Lilith glanced at him curiously, but he appeared not to notice.
He had almost finished eating when he looked up, to see Roger Morgan beside him.
Why’d you keep your horse up?
It seemed to me, Cleve replied, that if Indians stampeded our stock I’d look mighty foolish hunting them on foot.
Morgan made no reply, but looked at him a moment, then walked over to the fire. Lighting a cigar, he stood there talking to Lilith and Agatha. After a few minutes Agatha came over to Cleve and refilled his cup. He refused another helping of food, although he could easily have eaten it. The next morning, awakening early, Cleve rolled out as soon as his eyes were open, and went at once to water his gelding. When he returned, he saddled him and tied him to the wagon wheel. Then he knelt by the fire. Stirring it up, he added fuel and put on a kettle with water. It was cold, and by the time he had the fire going he was shaking with chill. He went to the stream, bathed quickly in the cold water, dressed, and returned to the fire to add more fuel. Agatha was up, so he left the fire and went to the corral for the mules.
By the time the team was harnessed coffee was ready, and Cleve hunkered down near the fire, nursing his cup of coffee in his cold hands. Today their position was near the end of the wagon train, for the positions were changed each day, working by rotation. As he finished harnessing the mules, Cleve turned to Lilith. Would you like to ride my horse? I don’t like him tied to the back of the wagon when we cross that river. Of course, she agreed.
Taking up the lines, he turned the heavy wagon into the column. When the wagon that preceded them was well into the stream, he followed. The mules, he was pleased to see, showed no hesitation at going into the water. It was not deep at the ford, coming scarcely to the wagon bed, but he took no chances and lined up carefully on the wagon ahead and followed with care. Agatha, beside him on the seat, commented, For a gambler, you handle a team right well.
I never drove very much, actually. As a youngster I drove a coach and four a few times.
Just then from behind him there came a sharp exclamation, then a scream. He handed the reins to Agatha and, thinking of Lilith, jumped up on the seat to look around the canvas top. There was another scream, then a frantic splashing in the water, followed by a hoarse shout: Sarah! My God, Sarah! Looking around, he saw that the wagon following them had gone off into the deeper water beside the ledge by which they were fording the river. A large snag had entangled itself in the wagon wheels and rolled over. Thrown clear, the woman was splashing in deep water, obviously unable to swim. Cleve peeled off his boots and dove from the seat into the water. Coming up, he caught hold of a half-submerged tree and looked around quickly to locate the struggling woman. He was just in time to see Morgan extend the end of his whip to her and pull her to shore. Unnoticed by anyone, Cleve reached the bank and staggered up, dripping with water. Glancing back, he saw Roger Morgan watching him.
Nobody else seemed to have noticed his futile gesture. But a
s he started up the bank to rejoin the wagons he slipped and sprawled full length in the mud, and heard a ring of laughter. Looking up angrily, he saw Lilith laughing at him, and even Agatha had a smile on her face.
He got to his feet and stared down at his clothing. Don’t try to wipe it off, Agatha said. If you wait until it dries, most of it will brush off. He went to the wagon and climbed aboard, taking the reins from Agatha. Well, she said dryly, you did more good by falling on your face in the mud than anything else you’ve done.
I felt like a fool.
No woman objects to a man looking the fool once in a while-makes em more human, somehow. Oh, I know what you’ve been doing! Don’t think I’m altogether a fool, Cleve van Valen! Thing is, you did it today. From now on she’ll be on your side.
I doubt it.
You wait an’ see, Agatha said, and mind what I tell you.
Chapter 9
Firelight played shadow games on the white wagon-covers, and the people of the camp moved through the ritual steps of the nightly pause as though through some strange, stately ballet performed only for the stars above. Nearby the waters of the Blue chuckled over the stones-this was the Little Blue-and the horses in their rope corral stamped and cropped grass against the demands of the coming day.
Cleve van Valen glanced around at the tightly drawn circle of wagons. They were in Indian country now, and there were the usual rumors of war parties. These rumors drew the circle tighter as apprehension grew, and the men were more watchful, sensitive to the slightest noise or to a change in the nightly hum of insects.
How the West Was Won (1963) Page 9
