He had been respected for his Indian lore and knowledge of the country, but disliked for his surly temper and uncertain honesty. Yet in the pinch, when honest men had cowered in fear of the deadly cold, the blizzard and the Sioux, it had been Phillips who risked death to ride for help.
While the men of this wagon train were a chosen group, they were of a part with all those who migrated west. The United States had been settled to a great degree by the economic failures of Europe, albeit the ones with courage enough to attempt a change. The wealthy and satisfied do not migrate, they stagnate.
Even those who offered religion as a reason for migration were also those who were impoverished. Many Puritans and Quakers remained in England, but they were those who had much to lose and little to gain. It was the peasants, the lower middle class, and a few adventurers or impoverished noblemen who settled America.
The thirty men who were to form the nucleus of the new venture were like any such group that might have been chosen from a boom town. They were selected to the degree that they were better equipped physically and in a material way to face the ordeals and trials of beginning a new community in a wild and dangerous country.
Phillips, Murphy, Hardy and himself were all experienced western men. The same could be said of the former stage driver, Elam Brooks.
Aaron Stark, the hillbilly, was a lean and cold-eyed man who feared God and nothing else. He carried his squirrel rifle like an extension of his arm, as indeed it was, and he was the sort of man who would last in any venture. The juices of his hard, sinewy body had been drained away by hard living until he was one rawhide piece of toughness and durability.
Improvident in the sense that he would never accumulate much, he nevertheless possessed all the qualities of the pioneer. He had courage, hardihood, and a stubborn will that balked at no problem as too great. In later years, in a tamed down and more civilized world his kind would be wasted, they would become drifting outcasts, scorned and betrayed, drifting on with their eyes forever searching for some new, distant horizon. They would find names for them, and call them “Okies” and “Arkies” and they would be despised by fatter and more adjusted men. It would be forgotten that it was of such stuff that the pioneers were made, the ones who always had the courage to move on.
During the growth and expansion of the nation he was the durable body of the wagon train personnel. He was the man who refused to remain close to forts and so was often killed by Indians, his wife nursed her children with a rifle across her knees, and he tilled his fields with a gun strapped to his plough handles. He dared off Indians, the big cattlemen, the outlaws. He was the nester, the squatter, the man who moved west.
Eventually, thrown back upon themselves, their horizons lopped off by the sea they would circle like migratory birds with no place to light. Yet these were the people who dared, the people who died for their land, but they rarely died alone, and not always in vain.
From the source from which they sprang came an inexhaustible supply. Fatter, weaker, home staying men might deride them and betray them, yet when the Aaron Starks had opened up the land, they would follow on and buy up their land in tax sales or mortgages to grow fatter and weaker on the land these others had fought to win.
Wherever there was a frontier there were men like Aaron Stark, strong, silent, ignorant men who knew only the longing for home and land. The others came to loot, but the Aaron Starks brought their families along, and of all who came west they alone came to build, to remain, not to loot.
Railroads came west on government subsidy and gifts of government land. They never advanced a foot without government land to sell, government money to spend, and the protection of the Army. The Aaron Starks asked no protection from anybody, or if so, not for long, but moved out ahead of the Army wherever their path was not blocked by too tight a line, and where they stopped they put down roots.
Remembering the faces of the men in the store’s back room, Matt Bardoul considered this. He had travelled and read enough to possess some historical perspective. He could in a sense see what was coming. He had seen the beaver dwindle away on the streams, and he had witnessed the slaughter of the buffalo under the get-rich-quick rifles of the hide hunters.
This was only secondarily a colonization, it was a huge rat race after wealth, a fierce, dog-eat-dog struggle to get yours before the others did. It was a fantastic, grandiose, brutal fight for wealth, the fiercest tide of greed that ever swept across the continent, and the end was not yet. There could be no end until the land was left a desert, raped and looted by a people who too often built only for now and never for tomorrow.
Nobody had come to the Black Hills because they were beautiful. They came only because there was gold, and they came to get the gold and get out. One of them, writing in his diary in that same year of 1877, expressed the feelings of all. “My intention was to make money, to get rich; at that time no one was there for pleasure.”
Elam Brooks and Aaron Stark were good men, substantial men. Neither of them would ever grow wealthy. Their type is always engaged in a heartbreaking struggle to make a living and to rear their families, and they always have big families, but they are families with staying power. They were families of tall sons and daughters who would have more sons. They had vitality, and from their kind came many of the best men the new land was to know.
With some awareness of what lay ahead, Matt Bardoul considered these things. He knew now that his days of hit-and-miss rambling were over. The west had been a gigantic field for exploration. He wanted to know, to see, to understand. Now, when he remembered the red gold hair and blue eyes of Jacquine Coyle, he knew the time had come to stop, to build, to make a life he could share.
So one by one he began to assay the metal of the men who were to travel with him. Of Brooks and Stark he had no doubt. These were good men, sincere men, strong men. Coyle himself was a man of civilization, yet he seemed to have the quality the frontier demanded.
There were others who would bear study. The lean, slab-sided Iry Jackson, burly Lute Harless with his foghorn voice and bulging eyes. Larson, the big, slow moving Swede, and the Jew, Rabun Kline. These men promised well, and no doubt there were others.
Of Pearson he already knew too much, yet he hesitated to form too decided an opinion, for experience might have wrought some change. Nothing Matt Bardoul had seen on the frontier impressed him with military men or their ability, even in their own field. Steeped in tradition, they were bound in a lockstep of ritual and a chain of command that throttled initiative. They were a mill that ground slowly and exceedingly fine, and more often than not by the time the grinding had ceased the need for flour was gone.
The Fetterman Massacre had only served to convince him of his judgment. He had seen Major Powell, an experienced Indian fighter, outranked for command of a rescue party by Fetterman. Then Fetterman, disdainful of the Indians’ fighting ability, had gone out and pursued a few scattered Indians over a ridge. It was a trap in which his entire command was wiped out.
The only two men in the lot who fought with any skill or ability were two civilian guides who had been found, ringed with pools of blood where their enemies had fallen.
The case was not isolated. The mountain men fought the Indians when necessary, lived with them, hunted with them, and kept peace with them for the most part, but when they did fight, they usually won. Pearson was a spit and polish soldier, narrow and self-centered, far from the best of his lot, but better than the worst.
They found Hardy’s German sitting in front of his tent, a squat, red-faced man with cropped blond hair and a blond walrus mustache. His wagons were good and his teams better. When the trading was over, Matt had bought two wagons, Hardy another, and Murphy, despite his objections to encumbering himself, a fourth.
Twice during the two days that followed Matt glimpsed Jacquine Coyle from a distance, and both times she was with Clive Massey.
Matt wasted no time in preparations. His decision had been made and he hurried to buy the su
pplies he wanted, and then the three of them drove out to the rendezvous followed by a man named Bill Shedd whom Bardoul hired.
On the second day after the meeting the man had approached him on Sherman Street. “Seen you at the meetin’,” he said. “I had me a wagon but lost her in a poker game. Coyle said if I could latch onto a job as a driver I’d still be one of the train.”
“All right.” Matt liked the look of the man. He was big, awkward, but kindly looking, and seemingly as powerful as one of the oxen he wished to drive. “You’ve latched on. Have you got a rifle?”
“Uh huh, a rifle an’ a short gun, an’ a fair to middlin’ cowpony.”
“What kind of rifle?”
“Winchester .44.”
“Good! Mine’s the same, so we won’t be worried about having ammunition for you.” Matt reached in his pocket and dropped a couple of gold coins in the man’s hand. “That’ll keep you until we leave, but be ready to go on time. Understand?”
By the next morning there were forty wagons at the rendezvous and most of them had come in during the night. Some of the wagons were carrying passengers with their weapons and tools. They were a rough, hard bitten lot, but good fighting men. Matt strolled aimlessly about, keeping his eyes open. Around the wagons of Deane, Bat Hammer, and a few of their like there seemed to be a preponderance of armed men. In each of those wagons rode two extra men, and a rough, surly lot they were.
“Murphy,” he said thoughtfully, “we’ve got four wagons among the three of us, four men to four wagons, counting Shedd. I was just over near Deane’s wagon. He’s got two hard cases riding with him, and the wagon is loaded light for three men. Hammer has two riding with him, and so has Hatcher. Strikes me they are long on tough men, an’ short on supplies an’ equipment.”
Murphy nodded, lifting one booted foot to a wagon tongue. He said nothing, but his eyes squinted toward Deane’s wagon, and his expression was thoughtful.
The IXL Dining Room was crowded when Matt arrived in town Monday afternoon, but he pushed his way inside, looking for a table. His eye caught the eye of Brian Coyle who was seated at a table with Clive Massey and Jacquine. There was an empty chair, and when Coyle recognized him he stood up and waved for him to join them.
“Sit down, boy! Sit down! If we’re all going on this trip together we might as well get acquainted!”
He gestured. “My daughter Jacquine and Mr. Massey you’ve met. Jacquine, this is Matt Bardoul.”
Matt bowed gravely, his eyes on Jacquine’s, then he seated himself and slid his black hat under the chair. Jacquine lifted her cup and glanced at him over the rim, her eyes amused and faintly curious.
There was quality in this girl, something slim and handsome and finely tempered as a Kentucky thoroughbred. The red gold of her hair against the smooth beauty of her cheek stirred him, and he had trouble keeping his eyes from one flaming tendril of hair that brushed like living fire against the soft whiteness of her neck.
“You’ve been to the Big Horns?” Coyle asked, looking him over with interest.
“Yes, I was there a few years ago during the Indian trouble.”
“You know the Sioux?”
He shrugged. “Some, I expect. Jim Bridger was probably the only white man who knew them well, but Phillips and Buffalo Murphy both know them.”
“Will they make trouble for us?”
“Certainly.” Matt buttered a piece of bread. “They won’t attack a party of our size, although they might even try that, but they are more likely to try to pick off any stragglers or run off our stock. Most of the big chiefs of the Sioux and Cheyenne are on reservations now or in flight, and their statesmen, the ones like Red Cloud, Spotted Tail or John Grass have become men of peace.”
“Statesmen?” Massey smiled, his dark eyes amused. “That’s scarcely the term for a savage, is it?”
“It’s the right term for some of them, and especially for the ones I mentioned. A much better term than savage. There is always a question as to who is the savage and who is not. The Indian was a nomadic people who kept this country in a condition suited to his needs. He felt no necessity for complexity, he was content with the land, the buffalo, the beaver, and the wild game of other kinds. The land remained unchanged, and there was no necessity for change.
“The white man came and the beaver are gone, the buffalo are going. The white man cuts the timber along the streams so the rain rushes unchecked into the streams and causes floods that formerly the roots and brush held back. Already, in some places, he is putting too much stock on the grass, overgrazing the country.
“Time alone will tell what this will mean to the country, but for one, I don’t like the look of it.
“As to being statesmen, what is a statesman? I think he’s a leader who serves best the interests of his people, and the Indians I mentioned have done that, to the best of their ability against what some might consider a superior barbarism.
“If one is to consider oratory as part of a statesman as some people seem to believe, I believe the Indian surpasses any people in history, not excepting the Greeks and the Romans. Had the Indians possessed a Plutarch, you might agree with me.”
“You wouldn’t compare Red Cloud to Cato?” Brian Coyle asked, interested but incredulous.
Matt took a swallow of coffee. Jacquine was looking at him, surprise in her eyes, and he was pleasantly conscious that her interest was intrigued. The subject interested him, and he nodded a response to Coyle’s question.
“Yes, I would. For apt or picturesque expression I doubt if anyone could surpass the orators of the Sioux or Cheyenne, but their greatest asset is the greatest asset of any speaker … they have simplicity of statement, a gift for direct phrasing.
“In all recorded history there is no more tragic epitaph to a beaten, dying people who have been robbed of their birthright than that uttered by Spotted Tail when he said, ‘The land is full of white men; our game is all gone, and we have come upon great trouble.’ ”
“You speak well yourself, Bardoul,” Coyle said with interest. “Where did you attend school?”
“I didn’t. And it seems to me the advantage of academic education is somewhat overrated. Excellent, perhaps, if one takes full advantage of it, but how many do? Benjamin Franklin and Abraham Lincoln were self-educated. As for myself, I’ve done a lot of reading.”
Clive Massey studied Matt thoughtfully, aware of a growing uneasiness. He could sense Jacquine’s interest and the growing friendship of Coyle himself, and it was no part of his plan to allow that. “From what I hear,” he said casually, “you learned other things on the frontier besides sympathy for the Indians. I’ve heard you were quite good with a gun, good enough to have killed fourteen men.”
Steel glinted in Matt’s eyes, but he smiled. “We live as best we can in the west, and it isn’t a tame country. Sometimes,” his eyes were bland and innocent, “it is necessary to protect the innocent against the plans of the criminal.”
It was a chance remark, but Matt saw Massey’s face darken and knew he’d landed a good one. Massey started to speak, but Matt avoided the issue by turning to Jacquine. “You like the west?” he asked.
“What I’ve seen of it is wonderful!” she exclaimed. “However I don’t believe all this killing I hear about is necessary … nor do I like killers!”
Her eyes flashed, and when he smiled, he saw resentment flare up.
“Now, Jackie,” her father interposed, “that’s not a good way to speak.”
Matt pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “On the contrary,” he said, “I like it. I’m a direct person myself, and I always believe in saying what I think and in expressing my intentions.” He turned his head sharply toward Massey. “Don’t you?” he demanded.
Clive Massey jerked. Then anger flooded him. The question had caught him off balance and that filled him with irritation. He looked up at Bardoul. I’ll kill you someday! he thought, but even as he thought it, he smiled. “Yes, I do. Of course!”
Matt picked up his hat and turned away through the crowd, but as he went he saw a man standing against the wall waiting for a table. The fellow’s eyes met his, and he looked away, blushing oddly. Matt glanced at him again. He was a slender fellow with brown hair and dark brown eyes, curiously soft. Oddly disturbed, he walked on outside.
Behind him, Jacquine watched him go. She turned toward Massey. “Who is he? I mean, what do you know about him?”
Massey shrugged. “A drifter and a gunman. He was a trail driver, and they are all a pretty rough crowd. He always has money and never seems to work, but just what he is or does I don’t pretend to know.”
“I think you do him an injustice,” Coyle objected. “He strikes me as a strong, capable young man.”
Clive Massey excused himself and wandered out to the bar. He was irritated and disturbed. That remark of Bardoul’s about protecting the innocent against criminals hit too close to the truth to make him happy. Could something of their plan have leaked out? He dismissed the thought. That wasn’t possible.
He could surmise, but he could not actually know. He was irritated that his plan rested on such a shaky foundation, for he had hoped to eliminate all such men as Bardoul and Murphy, for they knew the Big Horns too well.
Something would have to be done about Matt Bardoul.
He thought of Logan Deane. It was too soon to use him, for Deane must remain a sheathed sword to be used only in dire necessity. A killing now might frighten off many of their best men if it was done by Deane, who was going along. Hammer was of no use for he had already backed down from Bardoul. If Bardoul were dry gulched now the finger of suspicion would point directly at Hammer, and Massey was under no misapprehension about his tool. Under pressure Bat Hammer might talk.
Novel 1950 - Westward The Tide (v5.0) Page 3