The Americans

by John Jakes

  CHAPTER IV

  A TILT WITH MR. MAUNDERS

  i

  FROM ALONGSIDE THE CAR there appeared a middle-aged man with several missing teeth and mangy hair that straggled over his collar. He wore a greasy black buckskin hunting outfit. A huge paunch pushed out the front of the shirt. Two equally disreputable types followed him. All three men were armed with huge revolvers.

  Will swallowed, a metallic taste filling his mouth suddenly. The men snickered and nudged one another as they formed a semicircle near the steps of the car. The ringleader was clearly the man with missing teeth.

  One of his companions said to him, “Hell, Cletus, he’s nothin’ but a youngster.”

  “All the better sport, boys.” The wind brought Will a whiff of the speaker; he smelled like a distillery.

  He swaggered closer to the steps and gazed up at Will with a bleary grin. “You wasn’t thinkin’ of gettin’ off this train, was you, punkin lily?”

  “Yes.” Will tugged his derby down over his forehead, then shifted his weight, ready to move down one step. Somehow his foot slipped, slid off the edge. He lurched forward, then caught the handrail and recovered his balance. The three men whooped and waved their guns.

  “Watch out, punkin lily! Don’t fall an’ spoil that fancy suit!”

  “Lord God, ain’t he the clumsy one!”

  “Now, boys, hold on,” Cletus broke in. “Maybe it ain’t his fault that he nearly busted his ass. Maybe it’s his shoes causin’ the trouble.” Cletus extended a grimy hand and wiggled his fingers. “Lemme see if something’s wrong with that shoe, punkin lily.”

  Behind the trio, a frail station agent cleared his throat. “There are passengers waiting to leave and board that train. You three have no right—”

  One of Maunders’ cronies cocked his revolver and aimed it at the agent’s forehead and smiled. “Shut your mouth, Perkins, else your two little boys’ll be wearin’ black armbands.”

  The station agent backed away. A couple of male passengers on the platform protested the delay. The agent shoved them and whispered, “Keep quiet. I won’t be responsible for any injuries in my station. That’s Cletus Maunders and his friends.”

  Evidently the name meant something to the travelers. They too retreated toward the far edge of the platform. Somewhere to the left, hidden from Will by the corner of the car, a buggy rattled to a stop. A man exclaimed, “There, sir. That must be him.”

  Will was busy watching Maunders. Again the grimy hand moved toward his left foot.

  “Take them shoes off, punkin lily. Then we’ll get you down here an’ have you dance proper for us.”

  The hand changed direction suddenly, shot for Will’s ankle. He reacted without thought—lifted his foot and stamped down, hard.

  His heel struck flesh and bone. The paunchy man screamed, reeled back. He dropped his revolver from his other hand, put the injured one in his mouth and sucked the fingers.

  “Shoot the bastard,” he said in a muffled voice.

  Will brought his valise up to chest level, ready to hurl it. Why the hell did I get into this?

  Maunders’ companions aimed their revolvers at Will. Suddenly, down the platform, boots thumped and spurs clinked. One of the men looked that direction, gulped and tugged the arm of the other.

  “Chad, watch out.”

  Maunders jerked his fingers out of his mouth. “Shoot him, goddamn you!” His saliva-slimed hand groped toward the gun held by the man addressed as Chad. “Shoot him or let me do it—“

  “No, Cletus. Look out behind you. It’s Four Eyes.”

  Maunders ignored him, fixing all his fury on Will. “This is all your fault, you son of a bitch.”

  Will managed to keep his voice steady. “I’d say it’s yours. I just wanted to get off the train.”

  “And by godfrey, Maunders,” exclaimed a high, thin voice belonging to one of the new arrivals, “if you don’t permit him to do so, you and your ruffian friends will regret it.”

  The voice had a comical quality. But none of the three men laughed. One bent and snatched Maunders’ revolver, shoving it into his own cartridge belt for safekeeping. Will walked down the steps to the platform. His heart was still beating at a frantic pace.

  “This tilt ain’t none of your business—” Maunders began, blustering.

  “Any quarrel involving one of my ranch hands is my business.”

  “Four-eyed fucker!” Maunders snarled.

  “If you use one more obscenity in my presence, Maunders, I’ll thrash you to within an inch of your life. You know I can do it. Your behavior will make it a distinct pleasure.”

  Maunders seethed. But he didn’t move. One of his companions tugged at his filthy hunting shirt. “Come on, Cletus. Let’s light out and find someone to take care of that hand.”

  Cletus Maunders gave Will another venomous look. “You damn near broke it, you little shit.”

  The man with the high-pitched voice collared him. “I warned you—”

  Maunders flung off his hand. “I’m leaving, I’m leaving!” Once more he fixed Will with a stare. Will held his ground. A sly light kindled in Maunders’ eyes. “You work for Four Eyes, do you? That means you’ll be around Medora for a while.” He tried to flex the injured hand, winced. “I’ll see you again, punkin lily. I’ll see you and settle up. Bank on it.”

  He and his friends turned and walked past the two anxious passengers and the station agent hiding behind them.

  ii

  Finally, Will had a chance to study the two men who’d come to his aid.

  The first was about forty, very tall, with a heavy brown beard and a taciturn face. He had wide shoulders and a pronounced stoop, as though he was continually bending to avoid doorways. His shirt and shotgun chaps were plain, even drab in contrast to those of the man who’d done all the talking.

  Four Eyes was an absolute model of a cowboy. He was a slender, medium-sized fellow with a fair mustache. Somewhere in his late twenties, Will guessed. He was turned out in a giant white sombrero, scarlet silk neckerchief, spotless buckskin shirt with ornamental beadwork and long fringing, batwing chaps faced with glossy sealskin, and alligator-hide boots adorned with silver dress spurs. Two pearl-handled revolvers jutted from tooled holsters. To complete his outfit, he had a Winchester rifle cradled in his right arm, and eyeglasses on a black ribbon that dangled beside his nose.

  “I saw you operate on that blackguard’s hand,” the man said with a grin. “Smartly done, sir. Smartly done.”

  Will relished the compliment. “Thank you.”

  “Obviously you are Will Kent.”

  “That’s right.”

  The young man beamed, transferred the rifle to his left hand and shot the right one forward. “I’m Roosevelt. Delighted to meet you. Absolutely delighted.”

  “Yes, sir. Same here.”

  Roosevelt’s grip was incredibly strong. Will wasn’t the least put off by the rancher’s glasses or his high voice. The sun-browned young man gave an impression of vigor, determination, and principle so high, it was almost intimidating.

  “Sorry we didn’t arrive sooner,” Roosevelt went on. “We might have prevented that bit of nastiness.” Other passengers were getting off the train now; things were returning to normal. “But you handled those bullies splendidly. Showed plenty of sand, as they say out here. Ah, but I’m neglecting the formalities—”

  He gestured to the older man who was watching with a friendly smile. “This is Mr. Bill Sewall. Bill hails from Island Falls, Maine. He’s my foreman at the Elkhorn Ranch.”

  Sewall and Will shook hands. “We’re pleased to have you with us, Kent.” He sounded sincere.

  “I’m glad to be here,” Will replied, meaning it.

  “Wagon’s down this way,” Sewall said. He had a distinct New England accent. He reached for the handle of Will’s valise. Will protested.

  Roosevelt said, “Might as well let him, Kent. It’s the last time you’ll get that sort of service this summer.” They
started down the platform. Roosevelt went on. “Mustn’t judge the citizens of the Bad Lands by what just happened. Dakota people are grand. The Maunders clan’s the exception. Troublemakers, every one of them. Jake Maunders has had a shady reputation for years. His son Archie was a holy terror and got himself killed sometime back. Cletus, who’s a second or third cousin, has the worst temper of the lot. He imbibes freely and, as you discovered, loses all restraint when he does. His cronies, Sweeney and Chadburn, do whatever he tells them. You’d be prudent to avoid all three, but especially Maunders. Even man to man, he wouldn’t fight fairly.”

  “I’ll take your advice, Mr. Roosevelt.”

  The euphoria produced by Roosevelt’s compliments was quickly wearing off. Will began calling himself a fool for what he’d done.

  To be sure, he’d gotten satisfaction from it. More, perhaps, than he’d ever gotten from anything except his brief conquest of Dolores Wertman. But he’d also gained an enemy.

  As he and Roosevelt and Sewall approached the wagon standing at the end of the platform, Will studied the sundrenched fronts of nearby buildings. Maunders and his friends had disappeared. Yet Will had an uneasy feeling that he was being watched.

  CHAPTER V

  “HASTEN FORWARD QUICKLY THERE!”

  i

  THEY HEADED SOUTH ALONG the river Sewall referred to as the Little Misery. Roosevelt said they would stay the night at the Maltese Cross, the ranch in which he owned a third interest.

  Roosevelt was mounted on his favorite horse, a highspirited animal named Manitou. Will rode with Sewall in the wagon, which was loaded with supplies and mail picked up in town. Sewall said he’d be taking Will up to the Elkhorn ranch while Roosevelt went south to join the roundup already in progress.

  The Maltese Cross consisted of a story-and-a-half log cabin with a shingle roof, and a smaller dirt-roofed shack built stockade style and used as a stable. Will would bunk there, Sewall informed him.

  Will said that would be fine, and carried his valise inside. Several blankets had already been stacked on the dirt floor. He’d have company while he slept, he discovered. Three cow ponies snorted and stamped in their stalls.

  Outside, Roosevelt introduced him to the men who owned the other two-thirds of the spread. They were a pair of sunburned and likable Canadians, Sylvanus Ferris and Bill Merrifield. Ferris was in his late twenties, Merrifield a few years older.

  The job of showing Will around the place fell to Ferris. The others went inside as Ferris led the visitor past the kitchen garden to the circular horse corral with its snubbing post in the center.

  Beyond the corral was a much larger one filled with lowing cattle that had already been rounded up and tallied according to their brands, Ferris explained.

  “That about takes care of the real estate,” he said with a smile. “Hungry?”

  “Starved,” Will said. He was worn out from the journey and the trouble at the depot. The tiredness began to erode his newfound confidence.

  They started back toward the main building. The air was cool; the spring sun was almost down in the west. At the horse corral, Ferris stopped and rested one of his lowheeled boots on the bottom rail.

  “In case the boss didn’t tell you, you’ll be working in this kind of corral up at the Elkhorn. Green hands always start out as wranglers. It’s the meanest, dirtiest job on a ranch. But it’s also very important, and fairly easy to learn. One of the boys will show you the fundamentals. Then they’ll take you out on the roundup. By the way—”

  He turned his back toward the ranch house. “Even though most of the hands are a lot older than the boss, nobody calls him Theodore. Or Teddy, either. He hates Teddy. It’s always Mr. Roosevelt.”

  “I’ll remember that. But if he’s your partner, why do you call him the boss?”

  “Guess it just seems to fit. He’s the smartest one of the bunch.” Ferris’ tone grew wry. “And you’ll notice he has a way of taking charge.”

  Will smiled. “Yes, I noticed that already.”

  “One more thing. Occasionally, one of us drinks a wee bit too much and calls him Old Four Eyes. Wouldn’t advise you to do it until you know him a little better.”

  “I heard someone in town call him that.”

  “Maunders? Bill Sewall told me about your run-in with him. Bet a dollar he just said Four Eyes.”

  Will looked puzzled. “What’s the difference?”

  “A mighty big one. When the boss first came out here, he took a lot of ragging because of his voice and his fancy clothes and his glasses. One day in town, a drunk got pushy and really took after him. Kept calling him Four Eyes. The boss was patient for as long as he could stand it, but pretty soon he couldn’t stand it anymore. He put that drunken bully on the ground with two punches. Ever since, his friends have taken to calling him Old Four Eyes. It’s meant kindly, and I think he sort of likes it. He’s a hell of a fine fellow,” Ferris concluded.

  Bill Sewall appeared at the ranch house door. Squinting into the copper light of the sunset, he called, “Come and get it!”

  Ferris clapped a hand on Will’s shoulder. “You heard him. Hasten forward quickly there.”

  “What’d you say, Mr. Ferris?”

  “Oh”—a chuckle—“that’s another local joke. Goes back to the first summer Mr. Roosevelt was out here. He went on his first roundup, and a couple of yearlings bolted. He thought it was the start of a stampede. That’s the most dangerous thing any of us has got to contend with, a stampede at roundup time. Anyway, the boss got all excited and started waving his arms and hollering at some riders who were coming his way. But instead of hollering for help so any cowhand would understand, he yelled, ‘Hasten forward quickly there!’ It’s the same as Old Four Eyes—something folks say because they like the boss and know he’s got a sense of humor. So hasten forward—!” Ferris hooked a thumb toward the house. “You need to eat your fill, every chance you get. Wrangling’s hard work.”

  “I’ve ridden a lot, but I don’t know a thing about handling workhorses. I hope I can do it.”

  Ferris gave him a swift, questioning look. His smile was less cordial all at once. “Let me give you one last piece of advice. Like I said, the boss is a damn fine man. But he can’t stand anyone who’s timid or unsure of himself. If you got any doubts that you’re big enough for the job, don’t let on to him. Now come on, let’s eat.”

  ii

  The evening meal was a hearty one—venison, beans, fried potatoes, sourdough bread, and strong black coffee. Roosevelt told Will how he’d met Bill Sewall. When he was a student at Harvard, he’d gone to Maine to hunt, and Sewall had been his guide.

  The young rancher spoke with zest and enthusiasm. He laughed frequently and made abrupt verbal leaps from subject to subject, as if he were interested in everything, and couldn’t begin to satisfy that interest in a normal lifetime. He discoursed on the weather, the roundup, national politics, the Marquis de Mores and his seamy friends, a prairie fire that had recently destroyed valuable grazing land, the plummeting price of beef in Chicago, his admiration of Tolstoy’s novels, and the book he planned to finish writing over the summer. It was a life of Senator Thomas Hart Benton, for the well-known American Statesman Series.

  Even though Roosevelt talked and talked, Will never got the impression that he insisted on dominating the conversation. From time to time his partners broke in with a comment or a story, and he listened attentively. When he asked a question, his direct gaze made it evident that he was vitally interested in the answer.

  After the meal, Roosevelt drew Will off to a corner of the main room. He offered the young man a comfortable chair and took a rocker for himself. Full of food and close to falling asleep, Will fought a yawn as the rancher said, “Well, sir—how do you feel about the Bad Lands so far?”

  “It’s beautiful country, Mr. Roosevelt.”

  “Right you are. Hard country, too. But if a man gives it everything he has, the country gives back satisfaction in full measure. It’s my plan to
start you out as a horse wrangler, by the way.”

  “Mr. Ferris mentioned that.”

  The flames of a wall lamp flashed off his glasses. “Think you can handle the task?”

  Ferris’ advice instantly came to mind. Will hid his true feelings. “Yes.”

  Roosevelt slapped both hands on his knees. “Delighted to hear it. Thought that’s how you’d answer. In ten days to two weeks, I’ll stop at the Elkhorn, pick you up and take you out to the roundup with me.”

  “That sounds exciting, sir.”

  “It is, believe me. I suppose I ought to say something about the rules at the ranch. I never ask any more of a man than I’m willing to give myself. And it isn’t my style to be bossy. But I insist on hard work, discipline, and regular habits. I can’t tolerate malingering, half-finished jobs or hard-luck stories. I demand complete integrity, too. That’s what any Westerner expects of a man. I made my first business agreement with Ferris and Merrifield sitting on a log at Cannonball Creek. I handed them a check for fourteen thousand dollars and didn’t want a receipt. Their word and their handshakes were good.”

  Will nodded to signify that he understood. Roosevelt went on. “One other, absolutely crucial point. On a ranch or a roundup, orders must be obeyed instantly, without pause or question. A man’s life may be in the balance. Quick action may be the only way to save him. If you have questions, save them until afterward.” His sternness moderated. “I don’t expect you’ll have any trouble. Provided you avoid Mr. Maunders and the Medora saloons.”

  Despite his doubts, Will murmured agreement. Then Roosevelt grinned that infectious grin and added, “You may have trouble in one area. Getting enough sleep. We work late and rise early. I’d suggest you turn in.”

  Will climbed to his feet. “Gladly.”

  “Do you need a lamp to light the way?”