The Americans

by John Jakes

  The words were restrained. But Will was happier than he’d been in years.

  CHAPTER VII

  AMBITION

  i

  NEXT EVENING, JUST AT sunset, Will walked out on the ranch house veranda for some air. Supper had been unusually good. He was well fed and content. The seat of his jeans pants sagged noticeably as he walked. Despite all he ate, he’d lost several pounds. His muscles were firming up, too. There was a pink patch on his nose where the skin had darkened, then peeled away.

  He discovered Roosevelt already outside, seated in his favorite rocker, reading a letter. He murmured that he’d be done in a moment.

  Will sat down on the steps and began fooling with a twig. Thrushes flitted in the cottonwoods overlooking the river. Above the treetops, a prairie falcon wheeled. The sinking sun turned the slow-moving Little Missouri brilliant orange. Out in the middle, a wild steer was wandering on a sandbar. One of the hands would probably rope the stray before dark.

  Roosevelt finished the letter and dropped it into his lap. He told Will the letter came from a young woman named Edith, a childhood friend with whom he kept in touch. From the way spots of color appeared briefly in Roosevelt’s already ruddy cheeks, Will suspected there was more than friendship involved. Roosevelt had been a widower for a couple of years, after all.

  The rancher’s unforgettable smile returned. “Been meaning for us to have a chat, Will. I’m curious to know your ambitions. What sort of future you want.”

  Will’s contentment vanished. “To tell the truth, sir, I don’t have any plans. Beyond going to Harvard, I mean. I’ve been admitted for the fall term.”

  “I believe your father did write me to that effect. Fine school, Harvard. I enjoyed myself there. My principal activities were working on the literary magazine and driving a dog cart all over Cambridge.” His smile grew rueful. “I was a passable student, but a terrible snob. Sam Gompers drummed that out of me.”

  “I’ve met Mr. Gompers. Sometimes my father invites labor leaders to the house for dinner. Sometimes he even invites important businessmen on the same evening. Then the fur really flies.”

  Both of them smiled. Roosevelt said, “Your father was a trade unionist for a time, as I recall.”

  “That’s right. He tried to organize the Erie railroad yards when he worked there after the war.”

  “I used to believe the union movement would bring this country to ruin. I still refuse to tolerate the sort of anarchy some trade unionists advocate. But I also think the doctrine of laissez faire, carried to its extreme, is equally repugnant. Too many capitalists use laissez faire as an excuse to gouge the public and exploit the poor.”

  Settling into his rocker, he went on. “I didn’t hold these opinions four years ago. During my first year in the New York Assembly, I even voted against a bill to put a reasonable limit on the number of hours per day that a municipal streetcar company could demand from its employees. I called the bill sheer Socialism, as I recall—”

  He shook his head, chuckled with chagrin. “Well, it’s to be expected that young men will make mistakes. They aren’t notoriously intelligent. They merely think they are.”

  The good-humored remark had a sting Roosevelt couldn’t have imagined. With time and distance to add perspective, Will recalled some of his behavior at home and saw it for what it was. Callow and boorish.

  “What changed your thinking about unions?” he asked.

  “Acquaintance with Sam Gompers,” Roosevelt said promptly, starting to rock back and forth. “I’d never met anyone like him—a Dutch Jew—a cigarmaker and all that. At first, because of his union affiliation, I distrusted him. I soon learned that was wrong. Sam had plenty of lessons to teach a young man who’d lived in New York City most of his life but never really seen it. Sam took me into the tenements. Showed me the sweat shops. Six, eight, ten people— entire families—rolling cigars in a one-room flat. Sweating fourteen, sixteen hours a day just to earn a few pennies. We have laws regulating most of the work performed in factories. But no laws govern labor that’s subcontracted to private individuals in their homes. Factory owners find the situation most advantageous. I learned this much from Sam. The poor are usually too hungry and often too ignorant to protect themselves. And some of the rich, if permitted, will exploit those weaknesses without mercy.”

  “I’ve never been in the slums—” Will began.

  “The tenements are beyond belief. Dirty—lightless—Sam and his associates are trying to do what they can. Raise wages. Improve working conditions. But progress is so slow! Our laws are so antiquated—”

  He began rocking faster, the chair’s squeak growing steadily louder.

  “Do you know that until a few years ago, dogs had more rights than children? A little girl of eight or nine, beaten and nearly starved to death, was brought into New York municipal court and legally declared an animal, just so she could get assistance under the law protecting mistreated dogs. Only then did someone start work on a new law to protect abused youngsters.”

  Still rocking he sighed and smiled again. “I know I’m the butt of a great many jokes. I’ve been accused of wanting to reform everything in creation between sunrise and sunset of a single day. By godfrey, I’m not ashamed to plead guilty. There’s so much necessary, constructive work to be done.”

  He gazed out across the Little Missouri, a contemplative expression settling on his face. “And it’s because of that single compelling fact that I can’t stay here the rest of my life. I love this ranch. I love the West. But personal gratification isn’t life’s highest goal. A man has obligations—”

  The words struck a familiar chord. Will had heard Gideon express similar sentiments. When such things were said by a father, they could be ignored. When he heard them from a man he admired, he paid attention.

  Roosevelt continued. “To be honest, I’ve started to think about selling my interest in the two ranches. Not solely for altruistic reasons, I confess. I’d like to spend more time with Edith.”

  His hand strayed to the letter in his lap. “Miss Carow is a fine person. I’d like to show her the home I’ve built at Sagamore Hill on Long Island. Still, I sometimes wish I could stay out here forever. I like the active life as much as my father apparently detested it.”

  A strained note had come into Roosevelt’s voice. He added softly, “My father paid for a substitute to take his place in the war between the states. I have heard hints that he was not a brave man. I loved him. But there are still aspects of his character that—”

  Abruptly, he shook his head. Will sat motionless, aware that he’d been admitted to a very private place. Had he inadvertently been given an explanation for Roosevelt’s almost fanatic devotion to physical activity—and for the value he placed on bravery? One of the ranch hands had used the word reckless to describe the boss. Was that recklessness a reaction to his father’s lack of courage?

  Odors of yeast dough and wood smoke tinged the air now. Inside, Mrs. Sewall and Mrs. Dow laughed as they began the evening baking. Dow appeared at one corner of the ranch house, mounted on a nag called Old Mouse. With a wave, he rode toward the sandbar in the fading light.

  The wild steer saw him coming and bolted into the shallows, kicking up a spray of sunlit water. Horseman and quarry disappeared in a patch of blue shadow alongside a bluff. Roosevelt’s familiar smile returned.

  “I’ve rattled on about myself far too much. I want to hear about you. You said you hadn’t thought beyond college—”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mmm, well—you’re a bright lad. It would be a pity if you wasted your brainpower. You’re more fortunate than most, you know. Your family’s well situated. You can do more than choose between different methods of making a living. You can do almost anything you wish, with no worries about earning your next meal. People in that fortunate position have a responsibility to serve others, it seems to me.”

  “So my father always says.”

  “That’s one reason I took to h
im the first time we met. I know what the Kents stand for—and he’s a Kent through and through.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps you’ll gravitate to government, the way I did.”

  “Politics doesn’t appeal to me very much. Nor do any of the other fields my father’s suggested.”

  “What are those?”

  “The law. Journalism—”

  “I’m fond of writing. I’ll never be a professional, but I can hold my own in the amateur ranks.”

  “I read your latest book before I came out here. I enjoyed it.”

  “Delighted to hear that Hunting Trips of a Ranchman was well received. Publishers are a peculiar lot, though. They want an author to participate in all sorts of bizarre stunts in the name of publicity. My publisher insisted I have my photograph taken in a buckskin hunting suit—”

  Stiffly, he posed with an imaginary rifle. “Do I look like an authentic Westerner?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Roosevelt grinned. “Then I continue to be in the minority. I thought I looked like an idiot.”

  He dropped the pose and relaxed again. “As to the legal profession, I share your aversion. After Harvard, I enrolled at Columbia law school. Couldn’t finish. Too musty and stale, the whole business. I like to be in the middle of the action. In the arena, so to speak. Besides, these days the legal profession is a disgrace. Lawyers use their knowledge to evade justice for their clients more often than to promote it.”

  Silence then. In that sunlit moment, while the two of them sat on the Elkhorn porch in the dying light of a long day, Will found Roosevelt’s whole approach to life intensely appealing.

  He leaned back against the post at the side of the steps and gazed at the river. Far away to the south, he heard splashing as Dow hallooed the steer through the shallows.

  “Like you, Mr. Roosevelt, I think I could spend the rest of my life here.”

  “If you tried to make a living from ranching, you’d lose your shirt. I’m going to urge my partners to get out, just as I plan to do.”

  “Why’s that, sir?”

  “The Dakota cattle trade is in a precarious state. That arrogant peacock de Mores strung his refrigerator plants and abatoirs from hell to Bismarck, but he didn’t trouble to learn the realities of the business. People back East simply don’t like the grass-fed beef we’re forced to raise here. It’s too stringy. The market wants beef that’s been fattened on corn. On top of that, the first time widespread fires or severe winter storms do excessive damage to what little grass we have, the local cattle industry will go belly up. Ranching in Dakota may be pleasant, but it’s no way to get rich.”

  “Well, whatever I do, I want to be well off. Not from inherited money. From money I make myself.”

  Roosevelt stopped rocking and gave him a sharp look. “If that’s how you feel, let me suggest you decide one thing right now. Which do you consider more important? Principles or personal wealth? The answer to that, and nothing else, determines the course of a man’s life. Not to mention the worth of it.”

  Frowning, Will asked, “You mean it’s impossible to have principles and be rich?”

  The rocking chair remained motionless. “Not at all. But it is nearly impossible to keep the two in perfect balance. The odds are reduced every time you take a stand on an issue of substance. Ask your father. Did he prosper while trying to organize the Erie yards?”

  “No, he almost starved. He was nearly killed, too.”

  “You see? Life constantly presents you with choices. Besides that, it’s capricious. Just when you think you’re secure, you’re dealt a blow you never expected. Sometimes that too forces a choice. And the easiest choice is seldom the best one. If you decide when you’re young that come what may, you will always favor principle above profit, life takes an altogether different direction. A better one, in my view. Better for you and ultimately better for your fellow man.”

  The sermonizing angered Will. Politeness kept him silent, but the mood of a few moments earlier was spoiled. He stood up. Roosevelt could tell something was wrong.

  “Off to bed?” he asked.

  “Soon.” Will nodded. “Tomorrow will be another busy day.”

  “That’s the only kind we have out here. I didn’t mean to be unduly blunt with you.”

  “I’m glad to know your opinions, Mr. Roosevelt.”

  “But you don’t share them.”

  “I didn’t say that, sir.”

  “Not in words—”

  “Good night, Mr. Roosevelt.”

  “Good night, Will.”

  Will walked out of sight around the corner of the ranch house. Ten minutes later, he was headed north along the riverbank. He walked fast, kicking dirt and grumbling an occasional curse. He didn’t like the choice with which the young ranchman had confronted him. He didn’t like it, and he couldn’t push it out of his mind.

  Uneasily, he wondered if he was upset because Roosevelt’s statements were in direct conflict with the promise to Carter. There was no doubt about the kind of choice Carter would make in a crisis.

  Will vowed he’d never permit himself to be pushed that far. Henceforward, every decision would be made so as to protect him from the necessity of such a choice. Much as he admired the young ranchman, he believed Roosevelt was wrong. You could grow rich and at the same time live a decent, honorable life. The trick was to avoid crusades and lost causes, something Roosevelt—and Will’s father— clearly refused to do.

  Let Theodore Roosevelt be a conscience for someone else. He’d do things his own way.

  And keep the promise to Carter in the bargain.

  ii

  “Come on, boy, wake up. Wake up!”

  “Chris? Is that you—?”

  “It ain’t the risen Lord.”

  “It can’t be morning already.”

  “No, it’s only ha’ past three.”

  “Good God.” Yawning and groaning, Will sat up.

  “Sssh!” Tompkins put a finger to his lips. “Watch that cussin’. The boss is right outside, frettin’ like a bull pup in heat, too. He’s anxious to be away. Been up half an hour.”

  All at once Will recalled what day it was. His resentment faded.

  He reached for his pants, pulling them over his long flannel underwear. The night air was frigid. Tompkins’ lantern provided no discernible warmth.

  Will’s breath plumed in the night air as he dressed. “Almost ready.” He fastened his chaps on and reached for his hat. Outside the stable, he heard the creak and jingle of a saddle and gear. Manitou snorted. Roosevelt said something to Bill Sewall, who answered in a sleepy voice. Roosevelt’s laugh boomed as another horseman arrived. All three men laughed and talked excitedly.

  After the conversation on the veranda, Will and Roosevelt had continued to treat each other politely. But some of the friendliness had faded from their relationship. Now Will put the disagreement at the back of his mind and let himself share the excitement of the day. Before sunrise, the Elkhorn men would be on their way to the roundup.

  CHAPTER VIII

  NIGHT THUNDER

  i

  AFTER AN OVERNIGHT STOP at the Maltese Cross, the men from the Elkhorn pushed south again. They reached the roundup at noon on their second day of travel.

  The June sky was cloudless, the air warm but not hot. Yet Will was soaked in sweat, and layered with dust that turned to mud in the creases of his skin. He was tired, too. Even Tompkins admitted to being worn out from pushing the cavvy of twenty-four horses so far so quickly. Luckily Will had ridden the whole way on a gentle, dependable mount, a little gray cow pony he called Boston.

  He forgot his tiredness and discomfort as he gazed at the panorama of the roundup camp. Cowboys who had ridden the long circle all morning were coming in, driving strays and newborns ahead of them. Other hands were already at the chuck wagon, eating their noon meal in the midst of dust, smoke from branding fires, and a continual din created by profane men, high-spirited horses, angry steers, and forlorn cows bawling for the
ir lost calves. It was a thrilling sight; Will could hardly get enough of it.

  All the ranches taking part in the roundup contributed men to the workforce. The cowboys, in turn, elected a foreman—in this case a well-respected man named John Goodall. The Elkhorn was supplying three experienced hands: Roosevelt; Sewall’s nephew Dow; and Chris Tompkins, who preferred working on the range to busting horses, but did the latter because his skill was in demand.

  A few minutes after Will and the others arrived, they located the day wrangler, who would tally the Elkhorn’s contribution to the roundup cavvy: six newly broken mustangs for each of the three men riding for the ranch, plus six more ponies available for use by any of the trio, as needed. This last half-dozen consisted of cow ponies trained for the more difficult work of cutting and roping.

  The day wrangler was a muscular, friendly man with skin the color of black coffee. He introduced himself as Robert Beaufort; the first syllable of his last name rhymed with dew. “Most folks call me Bob,” he said.

  When the wrangler met Will, who would be helping him, he shook Will’s hand and said with a grave smile, “You’re in plenty of time for hard work, but you missed all the fun.” He was referring to the festivities that took place at the start of a roundup. The cowboys from the various ranches gathered a day or so early for horse racing, shooting contests, bareback riding, mock trials, marathon gambling, and just plain socializing.

  The black cowboy spoke to Roosevelt. “We just pulled in. The main cavvy’s on the way. If you’ll keep your horses close by for a few minutes, we’ll get the afternoon corral up. You can help me string it, Kent. You know how, don’t you?”

  Will glanced at Roosevelt. Luckily the ranchman was saying something to Wilmot Dow. Will shook his head.

  To which Bob Beaufort replied, “You will soon. Follow me. And shake a leg.”

  Long, heavy ropes were quickly tied to the rear wheels of the wrangler’s wagon. The ropes were laid out in the dirt to form a large circle. Jumping to obey Beaufort’s orders, Will scrambled into the wagon and located half a dozen strong, well-worn tree limbs, each about three feet long. They had been cut to preserve a natural fork.