“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 passing 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 have 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.
“I want to shake you by the hand, I do. That spalpeen of a Jake…he’s standin’ in with some of them with political power in the town, and there’s no touchin’ him, but I’ve wished this many a time to put him behind bars where he belongs.”
“They attacked me,” I said. “I am afraid the gentleman and I had a few words over in the Fifth Avenue, where I am staying.”
“I know that, lad. I heard of it. There’s little happens about here that does not come to me, and I’ve had me eye on that Jake for a long time now. I was expectin’ this…but not tonight.
“Oh, it was a lovely sight! Ah, man, you should be a boxer!”
“Thank you, officer. I think I’d better get inside. If you have no objections?”
“Oh, none at all! Go along with ye, an’ carry the blessin’s of Tom Mulrooney with ye!” He waved a hand. “Go along! Ye’ll hear no more of this!”
When I reached the walk in front of the hotel I straightened my coat and put my hat back on my head. For a moment I stood on the steps, composing myself, then strolled inside, nodded to the clerk, and crossed to the elevator.
Suddenly, I felt very good. New York was quite a town, after all. Quite a town.
I could come to like it here.
Chapter 38
YET I FOUND myself restless, and my mind returned again and again to the mountains and to my promise to Uruwishi. I thought I had detected in the old man’s manner a wish to do just as I wished…to go to the Medicine Wheel. What it meant to him, if anything, I did not know, but he had been a great warrior. I knew he did not wish to waste away, to die slowly, seated by the fire.
On the night after my brief difficulty in Madison Square, I took Lorna to the theater. She wore a new gown she’d found in a shop on Broadway. At that time the fashionable shopping area was on Broadway between the St. Nicholas Hotel and Thirty-Fourth Street, and most of the great stores were located there. She found the gown she wanted in Stewart’s, and as we were shown down the aisle to our seats I overheard many complimentary comments, as many from women as from men.
She was excited, and I was pleased for her. This was more her world than mine, for I longed for the feel of a good horse under me and the fresh chill of a wind from off the Big Horns. I wanted again the dark and lonely canyons where only echoes lived, the crash and roar of waters charging between the boulders, hurling themselves against a rocky wall…I wanted to skirt the deadfalls, gather the dead sticks from the ground, build a fire of cedar or pine, and smell the smoke.
I liked to sit in Delmonico’s or the Fifth Avenue and watch the pretty women pass. I liked the swish of silks and the quiet tones of people talking…I liked to think they spoke of music, the arts, and the theater, and that they said witty things or ironic ones…but I knew that most of the conversation was dull and common-place, of day-to-day things, a woman complaining because her corset was too tight, and a man wishing he could get outside for a smoke or a drink.
But I liked looking at them, though not so much as at my own country, so far, far away, and I whispered to Lorna, “I’m going back. I want to see the country again from up on the Beaver Rim…I want to ride the trails up the Wind Rivers and drink from the Popo Agie.”
She nodded quickly. “I’m afraid I do too, Ben. Let’s go home.”
When the show had finished, we went backstage for Ninon. She was dressing quickly, and she looked around at me and laughed. “Ben, you look like a little lost boy tonight!”<
br />
“I am,” I admitted, “I’m going back to the mountains.”
“Tonight?”
“No…soon. Lorna wants to go, too.”
“My show closes on Saturday, Ben. I think I will play Millinette for the last time, then.”
“It is enough. You can come home with me.”
She gasped, beautifully, teasing. “Lorna! Did you hear that? I think he’s proposing.” Suddenly she looked very prim, and she came right up to me and looked up at me, her eyes laughing. “Young man, are your intentions honorable?”
“Sort of…at least they are intentions.”
There was one more thing to do, something I’d neglected. I called upon Stryker.
“There’s a place called the Gold Exchange, I think?”
He looked at me curiously. “Yes, of course. You are interested in buying gold?”
“Selling,” I said, “I want to sell gold.”
He frowned a little. “But you see, they have no gold at the Gold Exchange. They are buying paper…speculating in gold prices.”
“I want to sell gold,” I replied quietly, “a considerable amount.”
He sat back in his chair. “That can be arranged, of course. It might be interesting to see their reaction to some real gold. Do you have this gold? Or is it still to be mined?”
From my inside belt I took a bar of gold weighing about two kilos. “No, it is gold. Here…fresh, clean, unadulterated.”
He was startled. “You are carrying that around with you? On your person?”
“Part of the time,” I admitted. “At the going price I imagine that is worth about fifteen hundred dollars. I want to sell this one and eleven others just like it.”
He sat back in his chair. He looked a little pale. “Shafter, I never knew anybody like you. You mean you have about twenty thousand dollars in pure gold? And you’re carrying it with you?”
“Oh, I’ve been reasonably careful! Can you arrange a sale?”
“Of course, of course! A dozen bars of gold! Shafter, I never saw the like!” He sobered suddenly. “I suppose you can account for it? After all, that’s a lot of gold.”
Novel 1978 - Bendigo Shafter (v5.0) Page 29
