Novel 1978 - Bendigo Shafter (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “What can we do then?”

  “Try pushing ahead very carefully. You might start them. If you don’t, our best bet is just to wait. When the storm eases, they’ll move.”

  When a buffalo wants to go somewhere, he goes. If there isn’t an opening, he makes one. Under some conditions buffalo can be stampeded, but in this cold, in such a situation, it was likely to prove impossible.

  We walked back and climbed aboard the train. On the way my toe struck something in the snow, and when I kicked the snow away I saw that it was a broken railroad tie. With Alec Williams to help, we got it aboard. We had no axe, but we did have our Bowie knives and could cut loose pieces to add to the fire.

  The train jerked, bumped a little, then eased forward, ever so slowly. A moment, and it stopped. Eased forward again and stopped again. Putting my head back against the plush seat, I let my muscles slowly relax. It was up to the engineer now…maybe he could do it.

  Somehow I fell asleep, and when next my eyes opened the car was gray with morning light. Lorna’s head was against my shoulder, and Fairchild was curled up on two seats and a sack laid between them, just across the aisle.

  Williams was peering out the window, but looking out, all I could see was white. “Where are we?”

  “Stuck,” he said, “and the last of the fuel is ready to go in.”

  Easing away from Lorna, I got her head off my shoulder and on the cushion. Slowly, I got to my feet.

  “Have we made any headway?”

  “I dunno. I just woke up myself.”

  The others were fast asleep. I walked to the end of the car and opened the door. The cold air came in, and if anything it was colder. Suddenly a huge body brushed past the steps, almost at my feet…then another.

  The buffalo were moving. The engineer whistled, and they started to gallop, then slowed down. I knew there was no steam to waste and that whistling would do little good. The engine threshed its wheels, then eased slowly forward.

  We had cleared the last of the cut, and were on the downgrade when we sighted a square heap of snow that had to be a pile of ties. The train stopped, and we all got down, brushing the snow from the ties and loading most of them onto the tender. Several we carried back to our car.

  “There’s a town ahead where we can get some grub. Maybe some hot coffee. We’ll stop.”

  Back at the stove I brushed the snow from my gloves and put them down on the seat. Lorna was awake, and so was Dr. Fairchild.

  Alec Williams stopped by, grinning. “Well, we’re on our way. How do you live out here, anyway?”

  “Like anywhere…we do one thing at a time. It’s a good country for men, but as somebody said it’s hell on horses and women.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe…only my wife’s been tryin’ to talk me into comin’ west for a year.”

  He started away, then came back. “Say…didn’t they call you Shafter?”

  “That’s right, Williams. I’m Ben Shafter.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. I’ll be forever damned.” He shook his head. “Wait’ll I tell them back home I been workin’ side by side with Ben Shafter!”

  Lorna had moved over to sit beside Fairchild, so I leaned back and closed my eyes. In a few hours we’d be in Cheyenne, and there would be a stop there long enough to do a little business. The train whistled and the sound lost itself over the vast, snow-covered wastes. It was no longer snowing, and the wind had gone down. The last whisper of the wind stirred the snow like an empty ghost, whirled it, and lacking energy to persist, dropped it. Under the snow there was grass lying still, waiting for the warmth of a spring sun, and where the snow now was there would be buffalo walking, and when the buffalo were gone there would be cattle, and then there would be wheat or corn or rye or flax.

  The Indians would kill some of the newcomers. Cold, starvation, drought, and storm would kill others, but there would be no end for they would still come. Men like Williams and Miller, men like Cain and Webb, men like Neely and Drake and Sackett…they would still come. There was no end to them.

  The Indian, like the buffalo, would pass from the face of the land or become one with those who came, for they were all caught up with change, the inevitable change that comes to men and towns and nations. Men move across the face of the world like tides upon the sea, and when they have gone, others will come; and the weak would pass and the strong would live, for that was the way it was, and the way it would be.

  For a little while men might change that, but in the last analysis men would not decide. It would be the wind, the rain, the tortured earth, and the looming mountains, it would be drought and hunger, it would be cold and desolation. For it is these elements that decide, and no man can build a wall strong enough to keep them out forever.

  Lorna touched my shoulder. “Ben? We’re coming into town.”

  Chapter 42

  ONE WHO RETURNS to a place sees it with new eyes. Although the place may not have changed, the viewer inevitably has. For the first time things invisible before become suddenly visible.

  Our valley remained the same, as did the pines and the white cliff that backed our town. The trees along the hill had thinned out more than I realized, cut by indiscriminate woodchoppers hunting fuel or timbers for the mines.

  Ruth Macken’s home and trading post had settled against the hill as if it had been there always, and this I knew she had planned. The makeup of the building itself and the way it fit into the hill were perfect. She understood, as had the ancient Greeks, how the architecture must belong to the setting.

  The trees there were still lovely, the silver in the sunlight on the stream, the snow melting under the morning sun. Someone was cutting wood there. I saw the flash of the axe blade, and a moment later heard the sound of the axe, with always that interval between testifying to the difference between the speeds of light and sound. I think there is no more lovely sound than the ring of an axe on a frosty morning.

  Lower down and further back, our own place. Or I should say, Cain’s place. The mill was ours. I had helped to build it and was a partner, and yet I had always thought of it as Cain’s. He was the master here, and rightfully so. Yet the small cluster of original cabins sat well against the hill, and those built later were further down the small valley, closer to the road, the unpainted buildings weathered now and a little shabby.

  We rode up into the street, and the first person we saw was Colly Benson.

  “Howdy, Ben. We missed you.”

  We gripped hands. His was hard and strong. “Everything’s quiet, Ben. Just like you’d want it.”

  “Thanks, Colly.”

  “There’s been a few people driftin’ in,” he said, “and a few leavin’. I think more are leavin’, Ben. More of the latecomers are just stoppin’ by.”

  “See anything of Finnerly or Trotter?”

  “Well…no. Only somebody took a shot at Neely awhile back, and a couple of days ago somebody tried to break into his mine. He’d rebuilt the door, set heavy timbers into the rock wall, and they made too much noise. But they got away before we could get to them.”

  We rode on up the slope, Lorna, Dr. Fairchild, and I. We could hear the ring of Cain’s hammer from the blacksmith shop and the whine of the saw in the mill.

  John Sampson came to the mill door and looked down the hill. We rode up to him, and a smile creased his weathered face. Time, which had used our town unkindly in some respects, had only laid a blessing upon John. His hair was as thick and white as ever, his eyes as clear and kindly, his face a little nobler. He made me think of Hawthorne’s story about “The Great Stone Face,” and the man who came to resemble the face on the mountainside. Age, confidence, and growing knowledge and usefulness had worked a miracle with John…or perhaps it had always been there, and we saw it only now. Yet I believe it began on the way across the plains, when for the first time men and women came to him for advice.

  “We’re home, John. And Lorna’s brought a friend with her, Dr. Fairchild.”

  “How do you do,
sir? Are you a medical doctor? Our town can use one.” He turned his eyes to Lorna. “Lorna…you’re a woman now, a beautiful woman.”

  She blushed and laughed to cover it. “I’m just a country girl, home from the city.”

  Cain came out, then Helen, and the others. On the slope Ruth Macken was shading her eyes at us.

  “I’ve some coffee,” Helen said, “and I’ve baked a cake.”

  “She’s baked one every weekend since you left,” Cain said, “expecting you home.”

  “Webb’s coming up the hill, Bendigo,” Helen said. “I’m afraid he’s very lonely now.”

  “Now? What’s happened?”

  “Foss is gone. His hand got better and he pulled out, rode east. Said he wanted to ride north with the Texas cattle. He left right after you did.”

  Webb was gaunt, somber. He held out his hand. “Hello, Ben. Seems like old times.”

  “It does. I’ve missed you, Webb. You know there was a time back east when I had a little difficulty with some men. I found myself looking around because when we had trouble you were always there.”

  “If I’d of known, I’d have been.”

  “Come in, Mr. Webb. We’re going to set for coffee and cake.”

  “Well…”

  “Come on.” I started to put a hand on his shoulder, then stopped. Webb was not a man you touched. Always, there was that aloofness in him.

  We sat around inside and talked of things we knew, yet I felt myself a stranger here and looked across at Lorna. She looked wistful, and inquiring. I knew it was upon her, too, that strangeness of returning, for the secret is what Shakespeare said, that no traveler returns. He is always a little changed, a little different, and wistful and longing for what has been lost.

  There was the smell of the wood fire, the warmth of the room, and familiar faces. This was home. I suspected, somehow, that it was more of a home than any other place I would ever know.

  “What about Ninon?” Helen asked.

  I looked up at her, smiling a little, and embarrassed. “She’s coming out. We will meet in Denver.”

  “Good! She’s a lovely girl, Bendigo. I’m happy for you.”

  Slowly the pieces were falling into place; the picture that was my town began to assemble itself once more. I looked down at my boots and listened to their voices, talking, laughing, bantering a little, these people who had not gone away.

  “The tie contract is filled, Ben. I’ve been cutting timbers for some mines. We’ve been asked to move the mill down to Rock Springs.”

  “Rock Springs?”

  “There’s a town down there. Looks like it will grow.”

  I shifted uneasily in my chair, a chair Cain had made with his hands. I looked at the puncheon floor we had hewn from logs and fitted ourselves, yet I was not thinking only of the floor or of the chair, nor was I thinking of the cabins and the mill. I was thinking of these people around me, who fitted as solidly into our picture. Here in this place I had become a man, and here John Sampson had found his stature and his place, Drake Morrell, Dad Jenn…all of them had somehow staked their claims.

  Ruth Macken came down from the hill, holding out both hands to me. “Bendigo! Why, you’re handsome!”

  I blushed, and she laughed at me. We sat together and talked and drank coffee. I mentioned Croft.

  “They haven’t told you? He’s gone.”

  I felt a queer emptiness within me. “Tom? Gone?”

  “He had a falling out with Neely, and of course his wife had never really liked us. He sold his place, and they pulled out, headed for some place in Nevada…Eureka, I think it is.”

  Foss Webb, who had always been an outsider in a sense, but one of us still, was gone. And now Croft. Uneasily, I emptied my cup…was this the beginning?

  Rock Springs was not for me. I knew the place…the spring had been discovered in 1861 or about then by a pony express rider who was dodging Indians. Later, it was a stage stop, and some folks named Blair built in the neighborhood. In our country it never took much to start a town, and according to the last reports they’d found coal down there, and the railroad was interested in it as a source of fuel.

  Other towns were building along the tracks, and there was much talk of them around the fire that first evening. Others were leaving town, and I decided to buy whatever stock they did not want to take along.

  When we’d had supper I walked back up the hill with Ruth. Bud had been keeping store and he came out to meet me. He was nearly as tall as I was…maybe I hadn’t noticed before.

  “We’re not replacing our stock, Bendigo,” Ruth said. “Trade has slowed down, and we are doing much less business. I think when the stock is gone I will close up the store and move to California.”

  “I’ve known it would happen, but I hate to see it,” I said slowly. “I love the place.”

  “So do we, and we always shall.”

  We talked of Ninon, of New York, of the hotels, the cafes, and the theater. “I miss it,” she said at last. “And I want Bud to have a chance to go on to school. Drake has done well by him, and he’s started the same books you read, but they’ll have better schools out there, and I’ve done well with the store.”

  Ethan was squatting by the fire when I came in. He looked up. “Heard you was back. Stacy’ll be around later.”

  “Have you seen Uruwishi, Ethan?”

  “Seen him? I reckon. He’s waitin’ for you, Ben. He talks of the long ride you’re takin’ with him, far up into the Big Horns. That’s about the only thing he talks about except for the old days, and I expect if you hadn’t told him that, he’d have died this past winter. He’s livin’ for that ride.”

  “We’ll take it.”

  “Want some comp’ny? Me an’ Stacy would like to ride along. You’ll need somebody to keep the boogers off your back.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  “Mebbe you would. Ben, give it some thought. Come spring the Sioux will be out. They’ll be huntin’ hair, an’ we’d be likely candidates for somebody’s coup stick.”

  “Scared?”

  “Uh-huh, but scared never kep’ me back so far. I’ll be ridin’ along.” He looked up suddenly. “It’ll seem like old times, Ben, like old times.”

  “All right…if they don’t need us here.”

  The night was crisp and still. The Wind Rivers held their icy ridges against the cold night sky, the stars were bright, and underfoot the remnants of the snow crunched and the frozen ridges of mud crumbled.

  There were more lights than I remembered, more houses, and they seemed scattered. In the distance the black streak of the road wound away down the valley. It was on that road I had found Drake Morrell, and down that road I had gone to find Ninon.

  A wolf howled, somewhere back up on the Beaver Rim, and I listened to the wild, lonely howl. Something within me stood still, hearing the weird and lovely sound, a sound that found strange echoes in my own being.

  If we left here would we ever find its like again? Not that this was the best of places. The growing season was too short, the winds blew too strong…there were many better places, and yet this had been, for a brief period, ours.

  Would we ever again work together as we had here? Would we look to the mountains where there was no corruption? We had built with our hands and our hearts. We had tried to build homes, although in each of us there must have been the feeling that this was not forever.

  It is this seed we carry with us, we Americans, the feeling that this is not the end. It would be better, perhaps, if we built our homes deeply into the land, built to last, built homes not for ourselves alone but for our grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Yet far away and long ago, we moved.

  We moved…we left all behind. With our courage or our foolishness or whatever it was, we moved. And there remains with us the feeling that we can move again, that there is always a better place somewhere out beyond the rim of the world.

  We are a people of the frontier, born to it, bred to it, looking always toward i
t. And when the frontiers of our own land are gone, when we have drawn them all into an ordered world, then we must seek other frontiers, the frontiers of the mind beyond which men have not gone, the frontiers that lie out beyond the stars, the frontiers that lie within our own selves, that hold us back from what we would do, what we would achieve.

  I had yet to find my own place in the world. I was not so fortunate as my brother Cain, who turned the iron in his hands and it became steel, a steel that yet carried with it the tenderness, the knowingness that a craftsman needs to bring beauty from the cold material. I think we must beware not to stray too far from the hands of the craftsmen, the hands that weave, the hands that sew, the hands that weld and mold, for I think whatever man makes must carry pride in its making or we have lost much, too much.

  The pride of a man who can stand back and look at what he has done, as I once had looked upon a floor, and say, “Yes, it is good, it is well done.”

  Turning from my way, I walked to the lodge of Uruwishi and spoke at the doorway, then entered. They were there, Uruwishi smoking by the fire, and Short Bull.

  “The Old One waits for you, my friend.”

  Uruwishi looked up and gestured to a place beside him on the buffalo robe.

  For a time he smoked in silence, and I sat beside him, watching the flames fingering the dry sticks that had once been trees, trees whose decaying roots and ashes would feed the earth where other trees would grow, other lions, other men.

  “Short Bull warned me you might not come,” Uruwishi said, “but I told him we would ride together toward the place where the winds gather.”

  “We will ride.”

  “I am old…old. My bones have felt many winters, and each winter they feel them more. It must be soon, my son.”

  “After two suns,” I said, “this morning there was a little green showing where there was no snow.”

  “It is good. When you were gone our hearts lay in the shadow. Now you are back, and we are young again. After two suns, then. We shall be ready.”

  Chapter 43

  LORNA AND I went up the hill to Ruth Macken’s in the morning, walking with Drake Morrell. Drake looked thinner, I thought, and taller somehow. His clothes were neat, brushed carefully, and he was freshly shaved. Yet so it had ever been with Drake.