Bendigo Shafter

by Louis L'Amour

  Neely looked startled. “No. That is, why should he build a school? They aren’t his youngsters. We sort of figured your mill wouldn’t be used until spring, and we could hold school there.”

  “It is nice of him to offer,” I said, “you don’t often find a man to volunteer to give freely of his time, like that.”

  Neely shifted his feet under the table. “Well,” he said, uncomfortably, “we had sort of thought we might take up a collection. His time is valuable, and his teaching. We have nobody who can give the time or has the knowledge.”

  Ruth Macken was there, and Helen. The meeting had come about sort of by accident in Sampson’s place, and folks had a way of dropping in when anything got started.

  “I think there is a man,” she said.

  Neely looked up. “Who?” he demanded.

  “Drake Morrell,” she said simply.

  Well, now. If you’d fired a shot in that room nobody would have been more startled. Everybody sort of sat up and stared, not only at each other but into ourselves, wondering what we thought about that.

  Mrs. Croft broke in. “You can’t be serious!”

  “The man’s a gambler and a gunfighter, a killing man who drinks!” Mrs. Stuart was angry. “I declare, Ruth Macken, you’re gettin’ worse all the time! You and your notions!”

  “The man has an excellent classical education,” she replied quietly. “I do not believe anyone present, including myself, can approach him on the basis of education.”

  “Let’s be serious,” Tom Croft said. “The man’s no teacher. And he’s a hunted man, who has been sentenced to hang.”

  “The Reverend,” Neely said stiffly, “has kindly agreed to teach. He’s a man who knows the Bible, and he’s a good talker. He’d be preaching to us all on Sunday, anyhow, and he could teach the young uns on week days. I figure that’ll work out fine. In fact,” he added defiantly, “I told him he’d be the teacher.”

  “We have always discussed things among us,” Sampson said. “It is the only way any decision can be made.”

  “In any event,” Cain said gently, “I doubt if we have to decide this morning.” He got to his feet. “I have work to do, and so have most of us.”

  The meeting broke up, leaving Neely Stuart arguing with Tom Croft as they went out, angry at Ruth Macken for her suggestion. Ethan waited for me outside. “If you mean what you say about the Indian,” he said, “I’ll ride along.”

  “Thanks. I leave in a few days. He’d best be out of here before then.”

  We caught up our horses and saddled them, and then another horse for the redskin.

  Cain was at the door when we came for him. “Be careful,” he warned. “I am not sure I like this.”

  “We haven’t much choice,” I said.

  “We’ll get shut of him,” Ethan said, “an’ when we leave we won’t waste around.” And we didn’t.

  We headed off up country with that Indian between us, Ethan riding ahead and me bringing up the rear, and watching him carefully. It was a far stretch, and the snow-clad mountains lay white and lovely about us, the dark pines trying to shake off their snow to show their proud heads above it.

  Nameless lakes we skirted, and deep ravines where streams struggled against the ice that held them down, and we plunged our horses through drifts, occasionally finding a trail. When at last we smelled smoke we took it easy down through the pines, avoiding the bare poles of the aspen groves.

  The lodges squatted on the valley floor a thousand feet below, smoke lifting from them.

  We sat our saddles a moment, studying them out, for in time to come it might be good to know. “This is your village?” I asked.

  He grunted at me, and I took it for agreement. “We can’t spare the horse,” I said, “so you’ll have to wait for them to come and get you, or crawl. I’d wait, myself.”

  He just looked at me.

  I made the sign for friend to him, but he just glared at me, then spat.

  “All right,” I said. “Have it your own way.”

  “I kill!” he said. “I kill all!”

  “You’d better get some big Indians to come along for the job,” I said, “you couldn’t kill a bug with a stick.”

  We helped him down to the snow, then fetched a few sticks and put together a hat full of fire. When the smoke started to rise, Ethan fired his rifle in the air, and we took off.

  “He’s a mean one,” Ethan said miles later when we’d slowed down. “There’s no give to him. Them Sheep-Eaters are usually good folks. I’ve known a passel of them, time to time.”

  “Keep an eye out for him when spring comes,” I said, “he’s made his war talk, and he’ll likely try to come down upon us.”

  Ethan nodded. “Wished I was coming with you,” he said, “you’re riding a far piece, alone.”

  “Well, I got it to do.”

  “A ride like that,” Ethan agreed, “that’ll grow hair on your chest.”

  “So long as I don’t lose what’s on my head.”

  That night at Cain’s place we held council. We had no idea what cattle would sell for in Oregon, but I had money to take along, a good bit of it for those days and times.

  Cain and I, we had put by a little cash to use in California, but some of it had gone into extra supplies at Fort Laramie. Now we studied it out, the gamble and what might happen, and I took a hundred dollars of my money and two hundred of Cain’s. That left him almighty little and me but fifty to carry for expenses.

  Ruth Macken had two hundred dollars, Drake Morrell put in four hundred, John Sampson forty, Croft fifty, Neely Stuart a hundred in fresh gold.

  “I could afford more,” he said, “but seein’ this here is a gamble, I reckon that’ll have to do.”

  Webb came up at the last and counted out sixty dollars. “Don’t leave me much,” he said, “but if anybody can do it, Ben, you can. Take her along and do the best you can. No matter what happens you’ll hear no complaints from me.”

  “Thanks, Webb. I’ll do the best I can.”

  Listening to their talk, I stood tall and lean, wide-legged beside them, knowing their trust in me and how much each had trusted to me that he could not afford to lose. I carried their futures on my western ride ... their futures and mine.

  Drake walked outside the door with me to look upon the night. For a time we stood there and then he said, “It is a lot of money you carry, and there will be men in towns who are thieves, as well as dangers on the road.”

  “I shall be careful.”

  “Trust no one. Not even the ones who seem most to be trusted. That way you will be safe.”

  He paused and then said, “Life being what it is, and a man not knowing from one moment to the next, I want you to know that if anything happens to me, whatever profit there is from this venture shall go to Ninon.”

  “I will remember.”

  “She has wealthy relatives, but she would not go to them beholden. A little of her own will give her security.”

  Ruth Macken came out. “Mr. Morrell, we are to have a school here.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “For a school there must be a teacher.”

  Even in the half-light I could see the quizzical glance he threw her. “Who better than you?” he suggested.

  “Neely Stuart and the Crofts want the Reverend Moses Finnerly.”

  “Oh, my God!” He looked at her. “You’re joking?”

  “No.”

  “That bigoted fool?”

  “He professes to be a man of God, and he is ready to accept.”

  “Well,” he said cynically, “anything can happen. Why not you? You’ve a gift for it, I think.”

  “There are several boys. Foss Webb is big, and he will be hard to handle.”

  “Just call on me, Mrs. Macken, whenever you need me.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Morrell, I am calling on you now.”

  “Now? What for?”

  “To teach. I want you to be the teacher. I believe there are others who do als
o.”

  He stared at her as if she had lost her mind, and then he said, “You are too kind, Mrs. Macken, but please consider: I am a gambler, I have been known to drink more than I should, and I have killed five men in gun battles. I do not think you understand what you are suggesting.”

  “I do understand. I have heard you were an honest gambler, but skillful. I do not think you would drink while a teacher, and we have ourselves had to use guns. In fact, I am quite sure I killed at least one man myself.

  “I did not wish to do it, but we were protecting our homes.”

  “You honor me, Mrs. Macken.” He turned to me. “Bendigo, how far has this gone?”

  “It has divided the town,” I said. “I am for you. You have already heard Mrs. Macken. John Sampson is for you with reservations, and so is Webb. Cain has not said what he thinks.”

  “And the others?”

  “Neely, his wife, and the Crofts all want Finnerly, so it stands four and four with no vote from Cain.”

  “Mr. Morrell, you are a gentleman. You have dignity and poise. You have an education, that is obvious. I do not believe what we could pay you would serve as any inducement, but I beg you to consider the quality of the gentleman who would accept the position if you decline.”

  “That’s unfair.”

  “Bud is my consideration, Mr. Morrell. Bud and Ninon, since she is now in my care. There are other children here. I believe they should grow up with a love of learning, and a respect for it. Living here they will have no trouble understanding the harsher realities.

  “I want my son to learn what he can, but most of all I wish him to be a citizen, to judge issues, to use logic in his thinking, to respect his country and its people.”

  “That is a great deal. I must think of this, Mrs. Macken. Never in my wildest thoughts have I . .”

  “Please do.” She shivered. “It is growing cold. Bendigo, will you walk to my house? There is something I must give you.”

  Outside her door she whispered, “Bud is probably asleep. Will you wait?”

  She went within and dosed the door softly behind her. When she emerged she pressed something into my hand.

  It was a derringer.

  “You may need it. My husband always believed in having a little more in case of trouble.” She paused. “There is a way of carrying it up your sleeve. Drake Morrell can show you how. He carries one of his there.”

  Chapter 16

  Darkness lay upon our town when I rode away to Oregon.

  We had decided it was better so. No watcher would see me leave, neither to follow me or to know our town held one rifle less.

  Nor was anyone out to say goodbye, for we had talked of that, too, and goodbyes were said earlier and inside. With Cain and me it was quiet talk about various things and a strong handclasp eye to eye, and he turned away to go on with his making of nails.

  Helen had packed a bait of grub for me, and she and Lorna stowed it in my saddlebags.

  When that was done I walked up to the bench to have a few words with Ruth Macken, Bud, and Ninon. Cain walked out to feed the stock, and while he was forking hay to them he saddled my horse and loaded my gear on the packhorse I was taking.

  Ruth had coffee waiting and I sat down, looking around the warm, familiar room, so little like the shell I had built for her. To build a house is one thing, but to make it a home is quite another, and Ruth Macken had a gift for homemaking.

  Ninon brought me a piece of dried-apple pie, and we sat talking of odds and ends. Suddenly Bud said, “Ollie Trotter was asking when you were to leave.”

  “When?”

  “Today. He asked a few days ago, too. He said if you were going to make it you’d best be on your way.”

  I did not like his knowing, for I did not trust him, and he and his friends were one reason we had been secretive. Neely was irritated because I had not asked his advice on the western trip, nor mentioned the day when I would leave.

  “I want to go with you,” Ninon said suddenly. “I really do! I know people in Oregon, and I know people in San Francisco. I could help.”

  “If there is trouble it will be long before I get there, and a man had best have no one to think of but himself if trouble comes.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Not until frost comes again. It is a long ride, and a longer ride back, with cattle.”

  We talked of many things, and before we said goodbye, Ruth Macken went to her box and got out two books. “I do not know if there is room to carry these. You can take one or both, but I think you will want something to think about when traveling, so one of them is Blackstone.”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “Much of our law is founded upon it, and I think you will learn more from it than any book I have given you to read.”

  Ninon came to the door with me. “I shall miss you,” she said, her eyes very large.

  “By the time I come back you’ll have forgotten all about me.”

  “Never!” She looked up at me. “I love you, Bendigo. Someday I shall marry you.”

  “You’re too young to think of that,” I said. “You aren’t thirteen yet.”

  She lifted her chin at me. “Almost ... anyway, that is only five years between us, and there were nine years between the Major and Mrs. Macken. Mr. Cain is seven years older than Helen Shafter. I know. I asked them.”

  “Well,” I said lamely, not knowing what to say, “you’ll change your mind a dozen times. Nevertheless, I’m honored.” I grinned at her. “And I hope you don’t change your mind.”

  She stood up quickly on her tiptoes and kissed me lightly on the lips, no more than the brush of a butterfly wing, but it startled me. “Hurry back, Bendigo. I shall be waiting for you!”

  Walking down to the stable alone in the darkness I felt kind of odd, and told myself she was only a youngster with foolish ideas, but she had always seemed so much older, maybe because of her acting and traveling. So I went to my horse, stepped into the saddle, and rode out of the stable and down the road toward the trail to Fort Bridger.

  After a while I heard the stable door close and knew Cain had been out to watch me go, and by now was at the door of his house, still watching. Turning in the saddle I lifted an arm, but if he responded I could not see for he would be only another shadow against the blackness of the house. Yet inside me I knew he was there, watching me away, as I would have watched him.

  He had been more like a father to me than a brother, but there had ever been a closeness between us, stemming from I know not what understanding.

  After a while I veered from the trail, choosing a spot where the snow had been smeared by the falling of some animal, and going down into a creek bottom. Then I rode swiftly for two miles. I did not wish to meet anyone or be seen.

  Just before daybreak I made a hidden camp in a hollow of a dry creek bank, melted snow for coffee, fried a little bacon, and then slept for a couple of hours while my horses pawed at the thin grass under the snow.

  When I saddled up again I looked back toward home, but saw nothing. Our town had been hidden among the hollow hills long since, and only the Wind River Range, rising above me, was the same. Glancing westward I picked out my landmark. Tabernacle Butte showed its low brow above the Divide, and after studying the country around and seeing nothing I rode along the creek, then up on the plain. Westward I rode, alternating from a walk to a shambling trot. That night I camped in a wind-sheltered cove at Tabernacle Butte.

  Before dusk but after sundown I climbed to a high shoulder of the Butte to study my back trail, remaining until it was too dark to see.

  After banking my small fire I crawled into my blankets and considered the situation. Travelers usually went by way of Fort Bridger, and risky as it might be I intended to stop there. First, I was curious to see the place. Second, I wanted to gather information about the weather and trails that lay before me. And I needed to buy a few odds and ends of supplies.

  Anyone following me and losing my trail would e
xpect to overtake me there, and it would be a good chance to see if I had been followed.

  The post had been established by Jim Bridger, a Virginian who came west to be a mountain man. He had come to know more than probably any other man about the western lands but it was said the Mormons had pushed him out, or bought him out, or something. Later the Mormons had abandoned the fort themselves, after building a twelve-foot stone wall around it.

  The army had established a temporary post there, and the soldiers lived in tents. I envied them not at all.

  Two days later I rode into Bridger, saw the white tents in even rows, and heard the lovely sound of a bugle, although I doubted if it sounded so lovely to those soldiers who had to hustle to formation.

  I found myself a place to sleep, unsaddled my stock, and then went to the store and ordered a drink. I was never much of a drinking man, but drinking men talk together, and I had much to learn about the news of the country.

  There’d been a fight with a Shoshone chief named Bear Hunter awhile back, and he was troublemaking around again. From what was said I decided the young warrior with the two scalps whom we’d taken in had probably ridden with Bear Hunter.

  Traveling was dangerous, but some were doing it, and I listened to a discussion of the Fort Hall trail, and of the road west, and tried to make up my mind what it was best to do.

  There were a dozen soldiers in the room and as many rough-looking civilians, but you never knew who they were. The one you took for an ignorant mountain man might turn out to be a son of European nobility ... there seemed to be plenty of them around.

  About two years before, Richard Burton, the writer and explorer, had traveled this country, and as usual, stories accumulated. He talked to everybody, including Eph Hanks and Porter Rockwell, gathering information about the country and the customs.

  There was nothing to keep me at Fort Bridger. I finished my drink, gathered my few purchases, and eased out into the cold. And it was cold.

  It was nearly midnight and men were stumbling to their sleeping quarters, wherever they might be, but I had no such plan. Saddling up again, I rode six miles west before turning up the bed of a thin little creek and camping in a hollow under a deadfall, where I put together a small fire and slept with my pistol in my hand.