Conagher Louis L'amour *
Chapter I THE land lay empty around them , lonely and still. On their right a ridge of hills with scattered cedars , on their left an open plain sweeping to a far horizon that offered a purple hint o f hills. In all that vastness there was nothin g but the creak and groan of the wagon, an d overhead the sky, brassy with sunlight.
It's only a couple of miles now, Jaco b told her. Just around that point o f rocks. He pointed with his whipstock.
She felt her heart shriveling within her.
It's awfully dry, isn't it?
It's dry, Jacob's tone was abrupt.
It's been a bad year .
The team plodded, heads bobbing wit h weariness. The last town was fifty mile s behind them, the last ranch almost as far.
In all that distance they had seen not a ranch, a claim shack, or a fence . . . not a horse, a cow, or even a track.
At last he said , I did not promise yo u much, and it is not much, but the land i s ours, and what the land becomes will b e ours, too. The land is not only what it is, i t is what we make it .
The heavy wagon rumbled on, endlessly , monotonously. The heat wa s stifling, their pace so slow they could no t escape the dust. It settled over thei r clothing, their eyebrows, in the folds o f their skin. The children, weary with th e heat, had fallen asleep, and for that sh e was thankful.
The wagon reached the point of rocks , bumped over a flat rock, then rounded th e point.
Her heart sank. Before them, and clos e under the shoulder of a hill, was a cabin, a solitary building, square and bare, withou t shed or corral, without shrubs, without a tree.
There it is! There was pride i n Jacob's tone . There's our house, Evie .
She knew how he felt, for in the thre e years of their life together she had learne d this about him: that he had never known a home, had never possessed anything of hi s own beyond the clothes he wore, and hi s tools. He had worked hard to save th e money for this move.
Drab it might be, barren it was, but t o Jacob, a middle-aged man with years o f hard work behind him, it was home. Sh e warned herself that she must never forge t that, and that she must do what she coul d to help him.
We will plant trees, we will drill a wel l . . . you wait and see. First, I must bu y some stock. We must have cattle .
The wagon rolled down a slight grade , and at long last they drew up at the door.
The cabin was small, but it was well-built.
The cloud of dust settled down over their s settled at last.
Laban awoke and sat up groggily . Pa , are we there? Are we home ? h e asked.
Get down, son. We are here .
Jacob walked to the door, fiddled with i t a moment, then swung it wide . Come , Evie, we have much to do. I must ride ou t when morning comes. There is no time t o waste .
Evie hesitated, hoping that this once h e might help her down. He need not carr y her across the threshold . . . after all, sh e was no new bride.
Still, it was their first home, and he ha d forgotten her, his mind already busy wit h the problems of the place. He was lettin g down the tail gate, while Laban and Rut h ran to the door to peek inside.
Pa! Ruth called . There's no floor!
It's just dirt !
It will have to do , he said testily.
Evie got down and removed her hat , fluffed a little dust from her hair and wen t into the cabin. She knew just what to do , and knew what had to come into the hous e first. Hers was an orderly mind when i t came to such things, and she had planne d for this when they packed the wagon.
There was little to move. Befor e nightfall a meal was on the table, bed s were made, a breakfast fire was laid, an d the little world that revolved around Evi e was once more established and ready fo r the morrow.
The cabin was built of native ston e taken from the ridge back of the house , and it consisted of one large room. It had a peaked roof, with a loft and a ladder tha t reached to it. There was a large fireplace, a square table, a double bed, two chairs an d a bench. The floor was of hard-packe d earth. The water had to be carried from a water hole about twenty-five yards back o f the house, and about twenty feet higher u p the slope.
The children would sit on the bench a t meals, and they would sleep in the loft, o n pallets. The loft would be, as she wel l knew, the warmest part of the cabin.
The first cattle we sell , Jacob said , we will put in a board floor .
The first cattle they sold . . . would tha t be two years away? Or maybe three?
Three years on a dirt floor? She ha d always been poor, but not that poor. Bu t she said nothing, for she had neve r complained; she never would complain.
Jacob had thought of this too long, and h e would need help, not complaints o r arguments.
They were here, and he still had fou r hundred dollars with which to buy cattle.
He had dreamed of this, as he had told her , long before they were marriedeve n before he had married the first time , before the children were born. . . . On e hundred and sixty acres and a cabin buil t with his own hands.
He had built well, for that was his trade.
He was a steady, hard-working man , skilled at both the carpenter's and th e mason's trade, but he had managed to sav e little during the hard years of depressio n and struggle, during his first wife's lon g illness, and the constant loans to hi s brother-in-law, torn Evers.
That, at least, was one thing they ha d left behind. torn Evers had been gone o n one of his forays when they left Ohio, an d was safely behind them.
At daybreak, after a quick breakfast , Jacob stood with her a few minutes , looking toward the east . I shall be gon e several weeks. You have supplies enough , and you will have no need for money, but I have put aside fifty dollars that I do no t need for cattle. Use it only if there i s need .
It was not much, but it was the firs t money she had held in her hands since he r father had died and left her two hundre d dollars. When only five dollars was lef t of that money she had married Jaco b Teale, a widower with two children. He was a stern but kind man, but bad luck ha d dogged him as if it owned him, an d after three years they had this ... n o more.
You will have the shotgun , he said , and Laban is a good hunter. There ar e quail here, and sage hens. He might get a close-up shot at a deer. And you hav e supplies for at least a month, if you ar e careful .
They stood in the doorway, Evie an d the children, and watched him ride awa y on the sorrel, a straight, stiff-backed man , filled with plans and determination, wh o gave no thought to the imponderables, th e little things upon which fortunes are mad e or broken.
Evie went back into the cabin and sa t down at the table.
Her father had been a dreamer and a drifter, filled with excellent advice whic h he never applied to himself . Evie , h e would say , when in doubt, sit down an d think. It is only the mind of man that ha s lifted him above the animals .
She must consider now. This was a tim e of drouth. The heat had parched an d baked the land, sucking away the moistur e from the grass, leaving the trees lik e tinder.
Jacob would be gone for weeks. Ther e must be something to show when h e returned, some things accomplished o f which she could say , There . . . this I have done .
But there was something else t o consider. For there was the sky, and ther e was the vast and lonely land, and there wa s little in either on which the mind coul d feed, not her eager mind, restless, probing , seeking.
She must be busy, and the childre n must be busy. There were the three horse s to be cared for. They must be fed , watered, ridden occasionally or worked.
Laban was eleven, but he had worke d beside his father, and for neighbors. He had milked cows, chopped wood, helpe d with the harvest. He was a
strong, hones t boy, and she thought he liked her.
Ruth was quick, imaginative, outgoing.
She, perhaps more than any of them , needed people.
So she formed her plans.
They must explore the country around.
They must spade up a kitchen garden an d ditch it for irrigation from the spring.
They must find what grass there was, an d wood must be cut for the fires now an d those of the winter to come. There woul d be much hard work, but there must b e other things, too. There must be amusemen t . . . something to do after work, an d above all she must remember that Laba n must be given more freedom, mor e responsibility, without forgetting that h e was still a boy, a very young boy.
The land that lay before them was s o empty. It was brown where it was no t gray. Once this land had been a lake bed , but that was long ago, in some vanishe d time. Now there was before them just dr y grass stretching away into the distance.
Back of them lay the brown, cedar-cla d hills.
Laban, she said , we must explore.
We will need more water for the stock, and* t here may be another water hole. We shal l look for it .
He looked at her . Yes, ma'am, but . . . b ut maybe there's Indians .
Her eyes searched his face . Wha t makes you say that ?
I heard them talking at Socorro.
There's 'Paches in the mountains, an d sometimes there's others, wild ones wh o come up from the border .
She did not know whether to believ e him or not. Jacob had said nothing abou t Indians, and she had heard no such talk.
But Laban was a straightforward, trustworth y boy. If he said he had heard suc h talk, he had heard it ... or what h e thought was that.
They made a slow half-circle throug h the hills behind the cabin. There was a good deal of wood lying around among th e cedars, deadfalls, or lightning-struck o r fallen limbs. For a season at least the y would have no worries about fuel. She als o saw several good-sized logs lying about.
If we could only get them up to th e cabin , she said.
We could snake 'em up , Laban said.
Hitch to 'em with a chain or a rope an d hau l them right up. We could use o l Black. He's steady .
By sundown Jacob Teale was twenty mile s east and turning up a draw to find a plac e to camp for the night. A small arroyo la y just over the crest, he recalled, and beyon d it was a thick clump of cedar. There was a hollow there among the rocks where wate r often collected. He turned up the bank o f the draw, rode over the ridge and into th e arroyo. His horse slid down the stee p bank, and started up the opposite side.
A hoof came down on a loose slab o f rock which gave way., and the horse fell , struggling for a foothold, then rolled over.
Jacob's boot caught in the stirrup an d when the horse rolled the pommel cam e down hard on his chest.
Something snapped inside. He felt n o pain, no shock, only a kind of surprise.
Death, he had imagined, was dramatic , and filled with pain; or one died in be d with friends around, slowly, of an illness.
The horse struggled, lunged, tried to rise , and fell back. And this time there was pai n ... a crushing, terrible, strangling pain.
But he was free of the horse's weight , even though his foot was still trappe d beneath it. Somehow he rolled to an elbo w and looked down at himself. His shirt an d coat were red with blood. He felt faint an d sick. Then he looked at the horse.
One leg was broken, an ugly compoun d fracture with the naked bone exposed.
He felt for his gun, drew it slowly an d carefully . Sorry, Ben , he said, and sho t the horse in the head.
It stiffened sharply, then lay still.
A moment longer he remained on hi s elbow. He looked at the evening sky , where a star had appeared; he looked at th e dusty arroyo, the bloody saddle. He coul d not live; even had there been a doctor, h e knew that nothing could be done for him.
The gun stayed in his hand, but it was no t in him to use it.
He lay back, feeling a tearing within hi s chest. He looked up at the sky and said , Evie . . . Evie, what have I done to you?
. . . Laban . . . Ruthie . . . Lab . . .
He tried to get up then. If he could dra g himself back into the trail. If he could ge t back where somebody could find him. I f he could . . .
He died then, and lay still, and the ligh t wind of evening worried his hair, sifted a little dust into the creases of his clothing.
He died alone, as men in the West s o often died, died trying to accomplis h something, to build something, to g o somewhere. Sometimes the sand burie d those men's bodies, sometimes the coyote s scattered their bones, leaving a fe w buttons, a sun-dried boot heel, a ruste d pistol.
Some of them were found and buried , but some dried up and turned to dust an d the wind took the dust away. One of thes e was Jacob Teale.
WHEN Jacob Teale had bee n gone three weeks the stage cam e by the Teale cabin.
Ruthie saw it first. She was up on th e slope gathering chips for kindling whe n she saw the dust far away up the valley.
For a moment she stared, then , dropping the chips, she ran for the house , calling out , Ma! Ma! Somebody's corning !
Evie put down her dishcloth and, dryin g her hands on her apron, she went to th e door. Laban came running from th e corral, where he was in the process o f building a crude shelter of brush for th e three horses and the milk cow they ha d brought from Missouri, led behind th e wagon.
Shading their eyes, they saw the stag e coming, galloping horses obscured by th e accompanying cloud of dust, and the n suddenly the racing teams swung fro m the trail and came up the road into th e yard.
It was a Concord stage drawn by fou r horses, and two men rode the box. Inside , they could see two other men. The drive r pulled up and stared down at them.
Now where in the Lord's name di d you come from ? he demanded.
I am Mrs. Jacob Teale , Evie replied , with dignity , and these are my children.
Won't you step down? You must be ver y hungry .
That we are, the driver agreed.
Ma'am, this here gent is Beaver Sampson.
He's riding shotgun. He's ridin g against Injuns more than road agents.
The tall gentleman stepping down i s torn Wildy. He's superintendent of thi s stretch of stage line, God help him, an d you will recognize the uniform of the U. S.
Cavalry on the other feller. He's Cap'n Hurley. I'm Charlie McCloud, and we'r e runnin' the first stage through to th e Plaza .
Come in, won't you ? Evie said . We weren't expecting company, but I am sur e we can find something. Laban, will yo u bring in an armful of wood? I'll make fres h coffee . t orn Wildy glanced at the stone cabin , then at the corrals . You will forgive ou r astonishment, Mrs. Teale. We were tol d there was no one in this area at all. Comin g upon your place is quite a surprise .
Sampson glanced from her to th e children . Anybody tell you this wa s Injun country, ma'am ?
We haven't seen any. Of course, w e have stayed close to home. Just gone fo r wood, and all. Mr. Teale is away at th e momenthe has gone to the settlement s to buy cattle .
Teale? I haven't heard the name. No t that I know all the folks who com e through, but a man buying cattle . .. well , usually you hear about such things .
Evie led the way into the cabin . We ar e not set up for company yet, gentlemen , but you're welcome .
Thank you, Wildy said, seatin g himself and holding his hat on his knee.
Mrs. Teale, we'll be running a somewha t makeshift affair for a while, so I wonder i f you could take on the feeding o f passengers until we get our station s established? Your place here is just twent y miles from our last planned stop, and yo u could make yourself as well as th e company a bit of money. That's scarce, I presume .
Indeed it is, Mr. Wildy . Sh e smoothed her apron self-consciously.
Yes, I could do that, but we would hav e to lay in supplies .
No problem. Mrs. Teale, you w
oul d be saving us a lot of trouble and expense i f you could handle this until we get settle d down. You make up a list of whatever yo u need and I'll have McCloud bring it on th e next stage ... at our expense. Th e company will foot the bill to get yo u started, in consideration of the favor yo u would be doing us. After that you wil l have to manage on your own profits .
That would be fine .
We will be having another stage sto p fifteen miles west, but you could save u s the expense of building for the tim e being .
He turned to Laban . How are you wit h horses, son? Could you harness the team s and get them out for us until your pa get s home ?
Yes, sir. I help pa with the horses, sir.
I hitched up and drove when we came wes t from Missouri . to You're from Missouri, then ? Captai n Hurley said.
My husband is a Missourian, Captain.
I am from Ohio .
As she talked she was moving about , getting things ready. She was flushed an d excited. It was a pleasure to have visitors , and she enjoyed hearing them speak of th e common places of travel, of road conditions , the possibilities of rain, and th e grazing of stock.
You will be having neighbors to th e south , Hurley said . Some big cattl e outfits are moving in about thirty mile s down the country .
It will be a pleasure. Will the stage s come often, Mr. Wildy ?
Not at first. Then they will come ever y other day. Two, sometimes three a wee k one going west, and another going east. I t will depend on the business .
She bustled about, getting food on th e table and refilling their cups.
Later, when they had eaten and wer e filing out to get aboard the stage, McClou d lingered . Ma'am, you keep a sharp watc h out for Injuns. They ain't been troublesom e right now, but it can start any time , and there's always young bucks out fo r mischief.
Don't give 'em anything. If you do , they'll figure it's a sign of fear. Make 'e m trade. Any Injun understands trade an d they cotton to it, but they're notional, an d their thinkin' ain't like ours .
Thank you, Mr. McCloud. I wil l remember .
You say your man went to buy cattle ?
He was looking for breeding stock. We hope to raise a good herd and start sellin g in about three years .
Conagher (1969) Page 1
