The Third Western Novel

by Noel Loomis

  “I don’t know,” said Logan.

  “Where is the townsite?”

  “As far as we know,” said Ferguson, “there is no such townsite—and there is no such railroad as the Eastern Nebraska, Omaha & Kansas City.”

  “No railroad!”

  Grimes took four steps toward Logan and Yeakel, and Yeakel said, “My good man, I am armed. Don’t start anything.”

  “If it’s necessary,” said Grimes coldly, “I’ll go back to my wagon and get my rifle.”

  “Simon!” called the fat woman from the top of the slope. “You come back here!”

  Hudson looked, but he did not answer. With somebody to speak up for him, he seemed to have gathered courage.

  Yeakel said, “There is no need to get your wind up. This townsite will be laid out just as it is shown here. We are awaiting only a charter from the Nebraska territorial legislature—which is in the process of being granted right now.”

  “Then what about the churches, and the blacksmith shop, and the sanitarium—and the railroad?”

  “All those things will come in time,” said Yeakel. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  “Where is this townsite gonna be?” Grimes demanded.

  “The exact location is a secret,” said Yeakel, “but it will be in this area. And now, my good man, I advise you to go on about your business so we can get to work.”

  Grimes looked at him levelly. “Mister, this is my business. I quit a job; I sold out everything; and I brung my family all the way out here to settle on this here lot—No. 66.”

  “Perhaps,” said Yeakel, “if you would find something to keep busy at, and give us a chance to develop our plans—”

  “I’m givin’ you a chance,” said Grimes, “but I ain’t goin’ far, and I want to see some action in thirty days, or else!” It would have ended peacefully but for Mrs. Hudson. That high, clarion call came again from the top of the slope, and it must have inspired the little man to show off, for suddenly he stepped toward Yeakel and said, “I want my money back. I want my eight hundred dollars and I want it right now.”

  Charlie Logan lost his patience. “Why don’t you go on back and tend to you knittin’?”

  The little man bristled. “Mr. Logan,” he said. “I paid eight hundred dollars for two lots to start a bakery, and you either show me the lots or give me my money back.” Simmons took a hand—perhaps, thought Ferguson, because he thought he could bluff Hudson. He stepped out to meet him and said, “Come now, let’s not create a scene.”

  “Scene!” Hudson fairly shook with anger. “I paid eight hundred dollars. I got a right to a lot of scenes!”

  Yeakel tried to placate him. “My good man, within thirty days, I promise you, we will have definite information for you.”

  “In thirty days,” he told Yeakel, “you could be in Timbuktu.”

  “I have no intention whatever of leaving the country. I have a farm here,” said Yeakel.

  “That don’t mean you won’t leave,” said Grimes.

  Hudson stepped forward and shook the lithograph under Yeakel’s nose. “This is a townsite. It says it’s a townsite. And I paid eight hundred dollars for lots 38 and 40, and I want my lots or my money back—right now!”

  It was one of those things hard to figure out. Ferguson doubted that Simon Hudson had ever fought before in his life, but something had gotten into him now—perhaps he had taken a notion to show off in front of his wife; perhaps it was desperation; perhaps it was the country and the air of a man’s standing up for his rights. At any rate, he held the lithograph in one hand, and shook his other hand in Yeakel’s face. “You heard me! I want some results!”

  Simmons took hold of Hudson’s arm to turn him away. Hudson whirled, and to Ferguson’s amazement he hit Simmons in the left eye with his fist. Simmons hit back; then Yeakel grabbed Hudson’s arms from behind, and Simmons his face hard, let loose a long haymaker that literally lifted the little man off his feet.

  It was too much for Ferguson. He seized Simmons by the shoulder and spun him around, met him with a hard, bony fist on the point of the jaw.

  Major Yeakel pulled his six-shooter from his waistband, and at that moment Dave Ackerman’s big hand swung down and closed over it. Yeakel pulled the trigger, but the shot went into the ground. Then Ackerman had the revolver and hurled it into the river. Yeakel stepped back to defend himself, and Logan rushed in to help him.

  Ferguson straightened Simmons with two long, looping rights. Simmons stumbled, but fell back against Ackerman and regained his balance. Ferguson followed him, but Simmons lowered his head and roared in to butt him in the stomach. For a moment Ferguson felt as if there was a vacuum inside him, and all the force in the world was trying to pull his body into the hole. While he bent over, helpless, Simmons poured in everything he had, and Ferguson staggered, limp.

  Grimes had gotten into the fight and had picked off Charlie Logan, and closed with him in a bear-wrestle. Logan was wiry, but he was no good at that kind of fighting, and he struggled to get his arms free.

  Ackerman was down but trying to get to his knees. Simon Hudson was fighting toe-to-toe with Yeakel.

  Logan kicked Grimes in the shins and broke loose; he floundered and came to his balance in front of Ackerman; he kicked Ackerman under the chin which sent him down, then turned to get Hudson away from Yeakel.

  Ferguson, straightening in spite of the blows from Simmons, got his arms up high enough to protect his face, and stumbled back to get his breath. He plunged into Simmons and knocked him against Grimes. Ferguson followed Simmons, caught his arm and threw him like a rock from a slingshot. He heard a bone crack as he did so, but then he was into Logan, taking care to keep out of range of Logan’s feet. He went in close and literally walked the man over backward, hitting him again and again as fast as he could pump his arms.

  Yeakel looked around him and suddenly held up his hands. “All right, I quit,” he said.

  Simon Hudson backed off, bloody but triumphant. “How about my eight hundred dollars?”

  “I don’t have eight hundred dollars,” said Yeakel. “I will pay you as soon as I can get it.”

  Ferguson had his own idea when that would be.

  The fight was over an abruptly as it had started. Ferguson drew a deep breath and walked down to the dock; the ferry was in the middle of the river, and held a covered wagon and a small herd of cows.

  Osterman came riding down the slope. “Looks like you had a big fly-up with Yeakel’s outfit,” he said.

  Ferguson nodded. “That little man, Hudson, is quite a scrapper.”

  “What over?”

  “Hudson wanted his money back.” Ferguson washed his face with river water. “What I don’t understand,” he said, “is whether they have any land at all for a townsite.”

  “They got maps,” said Osterman.

  “Why didn’t they call in Patagonia or something?” asked Grimes. “Why did Logan put his name on it?”

  “It don’t seem sensible,” said Osterman.

  “The only land they’ve got, as far as I know, is a quarter for Logan and a quarter for Yeakel. Simmons has none at all, except what he took while Mr. Benson was down here—and he won’t have that long. Two quarters are not enough for a townsite, which is generally one or two sections. Nor would they dare to sell lots of their pre-emption land, because the very essence of pre-emption claims is that they are for personal use. A man has to swear to that before he can get a title. So why would he put his name on the lithograph?”

  “Maybe he’s vain,” said Osterman. “Say, you better go to the doctor. You got a bad cut under your eye.”

  “I always wondered why that Simmons wears a heavy ring,” said Ferguson. “Now I know why.” He tried to stanch this blood, but it continued to flow. “I’ll ride up to the Forks,” he decided, “as soon as this ferryload comes in.”

  While he was waiting, on the extra sheet of brown paper given him by Mr. Weinstein, he wrote out notice of the claim club meeting and laid
it on the corner of the dock with a stone on top. That one, and the one in Weinstein’s store, ought to be notice enough.

  CHAPTER VI

  Ferguson rode off for Turner’s Tavern on the way to the Forks.

  Sally was in back, tying up marsh grass in tight bundles for winter fuel, and Ferguson dismounted and said, “Afternoon, Miss Sally.”

  “Good—oh!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That terrible cut under your eye.”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t amount to much.”

  “Another fight?”

  “I guess they’re trying to see if they can wear me down.”

  She came close to him to look at it. “We’d better take care of it.”

  “I’m willing—but what’s to eat?”

  “Nothin’ just yet,” she said.

  “Nothin’ sure smells good.”

  She smiled. “A hunter from Omaha City come by with a quarter of buffalo-meat, and pa bought it off him.”

  “When will it be ready to eat?”

  “I put it in the oven right after you left this morning. It ought to be ready for supper.”

  “Anything for right now?” he asked, reluctant to leave.

  “Coffee.” She brightened. “How about a can of sardines and crackers?”

  “Sounds great. I’ll tie my horse in front.”

  She had already set up the coffee when Ferguson got inside. Tom Turner was sitting in his accustomed corner and said, “I heard you bearded the lions this morning.”

  “I went down to Chippewa to get a notice in the paper, but Logan wanted me to pay for it.”

  “Ain’t necessary,” said Turner. “I posted a notice on the beer-barrel.” He motioned.

  “I won’t worry about it,” said Ferguson. “If they want a claim club, they’ll be here.”

  “That feller Hudson was real wrought up,” said Turner.

  “I guess he was. He tried to whip Major Yeakel a little while ago.”

  “Him?” Turner’s eyes were wide.

  “Free-for-all. Nobody hurt.”

  “I hope you didn’t break any more arms. They’d have you up for mayhem. Bad cut you got,” added Turner.

  “I’m going up to the Forks to get it sewed together. Feels all right.”

  “I’ll put a dressing on it,” said Sally.

  She brought a pan of warm water and some soft rags, and sponged the dried blood from the cut; her fingers were so gentle he could hardly feel them.

  “Has anybody looked in on Noah?” he asked.

  “Obie went up before noon. He pulled him up, and they took out the dirt and let down some more planks. Noah said he was past two hundred.”

  He watched her fold a small bandage, and asked: “How are you going to stick it on?”

  “An emigrant traded a piece of court plaster for a pie,” she said, “and you get to have it used on you first.”

  When Sally had finished, she stood back and said, “You look like an Indian on the warpath.”

  “I don’t feel like it,” he said, “though I think those sardines will put some life into me.”

  “I just made some bread too,” she said shyly, “if you would like—”

  He smiled broadly. “I knew it wasn’t all buffalo I smelled. You can’t beat fresh light-bread.”

  Turner agreed. “Her mother made the best bread I ever et—and Sally’s is next.”

  “I’ve got lots of time,” said Ferguson.

  Sally brought the sardines and crackers. “I’ll start taking the bread out of the oven now,” she said, “but I’ll have to butter the crust first. Do you like it hot, Mr. Ferguson?”

  “Nothing,” he said, “is better than hot light-bread—not even bear meat. Miss Sally, I would wait a week.”

  “It won’t be that long,” she said, and presently a great cloud of warm aroma came from the lean-to. By the time he had finished the sardines, she was in the dining-room with two huge slices of bread. “I thought maybe you would like a heel, Mr. Ferguson, so I—”

  “Miss Sally,” he exclaimed, “how did you know? The heel is always the best part.”

  He ate the bread, and he knew that Sally was indeed as good a cook of light-bread as any woman he had ever known. “If you’ll let me knew the next time you bake, I’ll come back for a heel,” he said.

  She was pleased. “I’ll sure do that, Mr. Ferguson.” She followed him to the door. “I hope nobody gits scared of you with that big bandage, Mr. Ferguson.”

  He said, “If they do, I’ll tell them you put it on.”

  The Forks was four miles north of Turner’s, and he arrived there in mid-afternoon. The Forks, although without a post office, was bigger than Chippewa City—a small cluster of cabins, one frame house, and two or three false-front business places.

  Ferguson tied his horse in front of the apothecary’s shop. He passed the window with its strange glass containers of colored water, and went up the stairway on the outside. At the top, a door at his right said: R. E. Doddridge, M.D.

  He pushed open the door, and Doddridge looked over his glasses at him.

  “Howdy, doc.”

  “Howdy, Mr. Ferguson. It looks as if you might have been in a knife-fight.”

  “Perhaps it should have been,” said Ferguson.

  The doctor stood up to examine it. “Somebody put a nice bandage on.”

  “Sally Turner.”

  “Real nice girl,” smiled Doddridge.

  Ferguson winced as Doddridge pulled off the court plaster. “Stuff sure sticks,” said Doddridge, looking at the cut. “Hm. Not too deep, but a nasty one. Need a few stitches, I guess.”

  “Does it really need it, doc?”

  “Scared?” Doddridge smiled.

  “Well, no—”

  “It will heal faster, and there will be less danger of gangrene.”

  “All right.”

  “We’ll just save this bandage.” He laid it on his roll top desk. “Anybody hurt on the other side?”

  “Nothing much past a few bruises, far as I know.”

  Doddridge took off his business coat and rolled up his sleeves. He was a jovial man with a heavy brown mustache, and he went to a glass case and looked over his glasses at his instruments. He selected some, and finally came back with some curved needles with short silk threads. “Lean back here,” he said, “so I can get at you.”

  Ferguson said, “Haven’t you got a pain-killer?”

  “Come to think of it—yes, I have.” He opened the bottom drawer of his desk. “Seeing as how you own the only ferry in this part of the country, I could give you a little something special.” He held up the bottle. “French brandy—had it shipped out here for my own use.”

  “Looks good to me.”

  Doddridge got a tin cup out of the instrument case. “Real silky. It’s cognac, actually. Has quite a wallop.” He poured half a cupful.

  Ferguson said, “Doc, I’m sorry to use your private drinkin’ liquor to deaden pain.”

  Doddridge chuckled. “What do you think I use it for?”

  “Put the cork back in and hide it,” said Ferguson. “I won’t need any more.”

  Doddridge put it in the instrument case instead. “I’ll need a little when I get through with you.” He watched Ferguson down the brandy. “Feel it yet?” he asked presently.

  “My upper lip is getting numb already. You can go ahead.”

  “I’ll give you another two or three minutes. Hear you’ve had lots of trouble at the ferry.”

  “Quite a bit.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “And if you could, you wouldn’t?”

  “It’s a thing that has to be worked out,” said Ferguson. “I’ll handle it the best I can.”

  “I hear you specialize in breaking bones.”

  “It happened twice,” said Ferguson, “but not by my intention. They shouldn’t fight with me if they don’t want to fight rough.”

  “I’m sure
they will do it to you if you don’t do it to them.”

  “No question about it.” He lay back and closed his eyes. “I’m ready.”

  He felt the doctor cushion his head; the back of his head against Doddridge’s stomach. “This will hurt,” said Doddridge. “It takes some force to put that needle through your flesh, so hold your head as steady as you can.”

  Ferguson did not answer. He felt the first needle go through, and felt Doddridge tying the thread; the pull of the thread against his flesh hurt more than the needle, but he hung on to the arms of the chair. He heard the door open, several persons come in, and the door close. Doddridge took the second stitch and began to tie it up. “You gents wait around a few minutes,” Doddridge said absently, “and I’ll take care of you.”

  Ferguson did not open his eyes. He heard the newcomers spread around him, and Doddridge took the third stitch. Then he went back to the instrument case, and Doddridge’s voice sounded in Ferguson’s ears: “You gents here again? It looks like you got troubles again.”

  Ferguson opened his eyes. Logan was at his right, Yeakel was at his left. He turned; Simmons was behind him, one arm hanging loose. “You follow me up here?” Ferguson asked.

  “We came for professional services,” said Yeakel.

  “I know now why Simmons wears that big ring on his right hand—and I will remember it the next time we meet.”

  “No hard feelings,” said Simmons.

  Ferguson said dryly, “It is not a question of hard feelings. It is a question of accepting or not accepting your dictation.”

  “These are the growing pains of a community,” Logan began, “and—”

  He looked at Logan. “Tell me one thing: how can you ever get a townsite from the legislature? Your land is preemption land and you can never sell it off as lots.”

  Logan said, “We are told that the legislature will grant the charter, and I don’t argue with facts.”

  Yeakel said, “Mr. Ferguson, I will make you an offer for the ferry. We both know that the ferry is the key to this part of Nebraska. There are only five ferries across the Missouri where it bounds Nebraska territory, and this is the only one north of Omaha City. There is a panic in the East, and everybody is moving west. The ferry will make money; we both know that. And if there is a townsite, the ferry will be entry-point for settlers and for all the supplies that will be needed.”