Novel 1978 - Bendigo Shafter (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “Yes, sir. I was about to have dinner, sir. Would you join me?”

  “On the contrary. You shall be my guest.”

  Over dinner we talked, and as we talked Stryker indicated various people who were dining or passing through the room. Some of the names I remembered from my careful reading of what newspapers had come my way.

  “Stratton told me something of your…your adventures. He also mentioned your age, but you seem older.”

  “I am older,” I replied. “On the frontier every boy wishes only to be a man. One is eager to be given responsibility and to be worthy of it. So if you do your job and act the part they accept you as you are. It is the willingness to accept responsibility, I think, that is the measure of a man.”

  “What about your town?” Stryker asked.

  “Right now it is doing well. We’ve some cattle, and there’s still business from the wagon trains, and then, of course, there’s the mining. There’s considerable gold there, but personally I doubt if the finds will prove to be extensive.”

  “I doubt if I would know gold if I saw it. Not in its native state.”

  I smiled at him. “I can show you some. Right now, in fact.”

  Reaching into my vest pocket I took out a nugget about as big as the end of my thumb. “There…that’s raw gold, right from a stream bed.”

  His face flushed, and he stared at the nugget. “Really?” He picked it up and turned it slowly in his fingers. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Not unless you have too much of it,” I told him, smiling, “and it isn’t that easy to get.”

  A man had stopped near our table, and he was staring at the nugget. “Say there! May I see that?”

  Stryker glanced up. “Yes, of course. How do you do, Mr. Greeley.” He turned to me. “Bendigo Shafter…Horace Greeley.”

  This was the editor of the Tribune. Everybody along the Overland Trail knew of his famous ride with stage driver Hank Monk.

  He was a man of about five feet ten inches, stout, with a partly bald head and white hair. He was dressed in a black suit, white vest, and a black tie that was slightly askew. He took up the nugget in his fingers, turning it to catch the light, and peering at it through his spectacles. “Yes, yes. Very nice. Very nice, indeed. Where did you get it, young man?”

  “From a mining claim of mine in the new Territory of Wyoming. You know the country, sir. In South Pass.”

  “Yes, yes of course. Indeed I know the country. Not much of a pass, though, just a great big wide open prairie.”

  He sat down abruptly. “Shafter, you say? Yes, that’s the name…Bendigo Shafter.” He looked at me again. “I read a piece of yours. Something about a mountain lion.”

  “You read it, sir? But I…”

  “I know…I know. I am interested in things western, and my friend showed it to me. Very interesting. Very interesting.”

  “You’re a famous man out west, sir,” I said, without smiling. “Everybody tells the story of your ride with Hank Monk.”

  “Monk? That stage driver? Was that his name? Oh, yes! Of course. Hank Monk. I should have known better than to ride with a man like that, and when I was in a hurry, too.”

  “But he got you there, Mr. Greeley.”

  Greeley chuckled. “Yes…yes, he did.” He peered at me over his glasses. “Visiting in New York?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He struck it rich in the mines, Mr. Greeley. He was just showing me what raw gold looks like.”

  “Hmm. Not much of it as pretty as that. Come and see me, young man. Come and see me. You write well, but what is more important, you think well…don’t clutter up your work with a lot of nonsense.”

  He moved off, walking awkwardly.

  “By the way,” Stryker said, “are you interested in the theater? There’s a new play opening…or I should say an old play in a new production.”

  “Yes, I am interested.” I was thinking of something else. “I believe I shall be going to New Orleans soon.”

  “If there is any way in which I can be of service…? Mr. Stratton was very emphatic, and if I fail to see anything or do anything you wish to do, I think he’ll have my scalp.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve been seeing the town and learning about it, too.” I looked down at my hands. Had they grown a little whiter already? Or was it my imagination? And had I grown softer? “Yes, I’d enjoy the play. What is it called?”

  “Fashion…it was written twenty-five or thirty years ago…one of the first successes by an American, I think.”

  I was listening, but I was watching the people, wondering about them, enjoying the pageant they made. And then suddenly I was not enjoying it any longer.

  My glass was in my fingers, and I almost dropped it, then placed it carefully upon the table. “Stryker,” I said, “that group over there? Do you know them, by any chance?”

  He glanced the way I was directing my attention. “The girl is Ninon Vauvert…she’s from that play…the new one I was mentioning. The younger woman is in the play also, but the other fellow…I am sorry for her. She’s in bad, bad company.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Jake McCaleb, or that, at least, is the name he uses here. He’s been a riverboat gambler and several worse things. He’s a dangerous man, Shafter, and I’d leave him alone.”

  “I know her.”

  “You know her? Ninon Vauvert? How could you? She’s an actress…from New Orleans. She joined the show there and she’s playing the part of the maid…it’s a good part…in the play.”

  “Will you wait for me? I am going to speak to her.”

  “Be careful then. There’ve been a lot of stories told about the man, and they say his enemies don’t last long. The police know all about him but have never been able to get enough for a case against him.”

  I’d been only half listening. Ninon was no longer a child. She was young, beautiful…but a woman.

  I wended my way among the tables, and as I drew near, her eyes turned toward me. For a moment she sat perfectly still, her eyes widening. Then she came swiftly to her feet.

  “Ben! Oh, Ben! Is it you?” Her fingers clutched both my sleeves.

  “It has been a long time.”

  The other two were on their feet. McCaleb was speaking. “Do you know this man?”

  “Know him? Of course, I know him! Ben, sit down, won’t you? We’ve so much to talk about.”

  McCaleb’s face was growing red. “Ninon, haven’t you forgotten…?”

  She turned swiftly. “I have forgotten nothing. I told you I was not interested. Now I am telling you again.” She looked down at the other man. “Come along, Charles. You will want to know Ben. He’s…”

  McCaleb came around the table. He moved swiftly and easily, and he seemed unhurried. He stepped in front of me. “You were not invited, my friend. Now I suggest you go…alone.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said, smiling at him, and taking Ninon’s elbow I guided her through the tables toward where Stryker waited.

  When we were seated, I glanced back. McCaleb was settling his bill. Then he turned toward us, and I knew trouble when I saw it, but this was no barroom. It was one of the most elegant dining rooms in the city.

  He was standing over us then. One of my boots slipped from under the table. “Look here, you…” His hand grasped my collar.

  Hooking one toe behind his heel, I stood up suddenly, jerking the foot toward me. My standing up suddenly was all that was needed. He tried a quick step back as my toe jerked, and he fell, hitting the floor with a crash.

  “Oh,” I said, “you’d better watch it there. Here, let me help you.” Before he could gather himself I leaned over as if to help him up, taking him by the shoulders to lift. My knee came up sharply and collided with his chin, knocking his head back as though it were on a hinge. Then I picked him up, made a show of brushing him off, and to the waiter and the captain who came over, I said, “I am afraid this gentleman is a little under the weather. I suspect you’
d better call a cab for him.”

  Smiling, I pushed him gently into their hands and sat down.

  He was groggy, shaken by his fall but knocked almost unconscious by the smash from my knee.

  As he was taken slowly from the dining room I sat down. “Poor fellow!” I said, “I am afraid he has had one too many.”

  Ninon was looking at me, her eyes dancing. “Oh, how I wish I could have done that! That man has been bothering me for days, and everyone seems to be afraid of him. But how did you do it?”

  “I was just trying to help him, you know. He seemed a bit unsteady, and well…”

  The headwaiter came over to our table. “I am sorry if that man caused any trouble. You shan’t be seeing him in here again.”

  “It was no trouble,” I said. “He seemed upset about something.”

  Stryker was puzzled. “What did happen? When you got up he fell over, and then you helped him up, but I can’t believe the fall hurt him as much as he seemed to be hurt.”

  “Don’t let it worry you. He will be all right in the morning.”

  Stryker shook his head. “It will not be that simple. Jake McCaleb is a bad man, Shafter. He’ll have some of his shoulder-strikers after you. They are a rough lot…some of that Bowery crowd. You’ve made a dangerous enemy.”

  “Ben”—Ninon put her hand on my arm—“how is everybody? Your brother? Mr. Sampson? Ruth? Lorna?”

  “They are all well. In fact, Lorna is here with me. She wasn’t feeling quite well this evening so she stayed in her room. But I thought you were in New Orleans?”

  “I was…then I was offered this part…I am playing Millinette…my aunt wouldn’t hear of it at first, but I was so eager to do it and she knew I’d not been contented. So finally she agreed and she came with me.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Well, it’s only for a few weeks. You know, most plays don’t run over a week, and two or three weeks is exceptional. When the play closes, I may do something else.” Her eyes met mine. “I have been offered several parts.”

  “Mr. Shafter is something of a writer. Did you know that, Miss Vauvert?”

  She was startled. “A writer? You, Ben? Somehow I never imagined you as a writer.”

  I shrugged, embarrassed. “I am not, really. Just some things about the Indians, the wild animals, and the life out there.”

  We talked, and she listened as I told her of my cattle drive from Oregon, carefully ignoring the gun trouble. It was nothing I cared to discuss, and I was hoping all that was in the past.

  “You have a ranch, then?”

  “Not yet, although I am running some cattle. Just before I left I bought sixty head from a man driving west who decided he’d had enough. I have a few mining claims, and I had been working one of them. I’m afraid, Ninon, that when the trail is no longer used our town will die.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “We live in a changing time, and the railroads are going to affect all our lives. Anyway, our town did what it was supposed to do. It kept us through a bad winter, it gave us breathing time to take stock of what we really wished to do. I know I learned a lot there, from Ruth, from Cain, from Ethan, and from John Sampson. Yes, and from Webb.”

  “He always seemed so dark and morose. He would have made a wonderful Cassius.”

  “For his looks, yes. But if he had wanted to kill Caesar he would have done it alone, not with a crowd to share the blame. But he had depths of loyalty none of us realized.”

  Stryker got up. “I am going to leave you two alone. Remember, Shafter, if there’s anything I can do, call on me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And good night, Miss Vauvert.”

  For a moment we looked at each other, and I hadn’t an idea what to say. I simply said the most obvious thing. “You’re beautiful!”

  She laughed at me, then she stopped laughing. “Ben, I’ve missed you! And strangely enough, I’ve missed your mountains. As long as I’ve been away I find my eyes lifting toward the hills and then looking around for Indians.”

  “They are there. That’s one reason I cannot be away too long. Some think it will be another bloody year on the plains, as it was in ’65.”

  “I hope not. Ben, what’s going to become of them? Of the Indians, I mean?”

  “Just what would happen to us in the same circumstances, and what has happened all the way across the world, I suppose. Some will go further and further back into the hills until they can go no further, some will fall by the way, but a good many will move out into this new world, and they will do well. The Indian is a Stone Age man, actually, but there is no question as to his basic intelligence. I’ve seen rifles Indians have repaired, and they were done as well as any gunsmith who had grown up in the trade.”

  “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 pl
ay, 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 wild life. 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.”