Novel 1963 - How The West Was Won (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

“Don’t know how you could tell,” she said shortly. “You’ve already had two plates.”

  “Doesn’t pay to eat too much on an empty stomach, ma’am, but I can’t say I ever et better.”

  Zebulon got to his feet. “Bedtime…we make an early start. You’ll have breakfast with us, Mr. Rawlings?”

  “Thanky, Mr. Prescott, but sometimes I wake up and take the urge to move. By sun-up I may be long gone. Good night.”

  Linus Rawlings took up his rifle and moved away from the fire, pausing to glance at the arrangement of the camp. Grudgingly, he admitted that for tenderfeet they had placed their camp wisely, and when he saw Sam Prescott settling down to stand watch, he turned his back and walked toward his canoe.

  Movement under a tree near the shore drew his attention, and he saw Eve kneeling there, spreading blankets over a pile of neatly cut boughs. The distinctly Indian pattern of the blankets was obvious even in the dim light.

  “Those look like my blankets.”

  “They are.”

  “Then I’m a mite confused. Whose bed would that be?”

  “Yours.”

  “You cut all them boughs?”

  “Is it enough?” she asked anxiously. “I never made a bough bed before.”

  “You did right well.” He glanced at her warily. “Why? Why would you do a thing like this? You ain’t thinkin’ you’ve got to pay me for that beaver pelt?”

  She got to her feet, as gracefully as any Indian girl. “It ain’t…isn’t polite to ask a girl why she does things.”

  “My manners ain’t much, ma’am. Had no use for them for some time now.” He placed his rifle carefully on the boughs where his hand could fall easily upon it. “Thanky, ma’am, an’ good night.”

  She made no move. “Are those Indian girls pretty?”

  “Some of them…some of the others—well, it depends on how long since you’ve seen a white girl. They get prettier an’ prettier as time goes by, seems to me.”

  “How long since you have seen a white girl?”

  Linus was cautious. He was too experienced a trapper not to be wary, and he sensed trouble. “I ain’t quite sure where you’re headed, ma’am, but it’s gettin’ right late. Your pa might—”

  “How pretty do I look to you?”

  “Ain’t you bein’ a bit forrard, ma’am? I mean…well, you’d be a mighty pretty girl if a man never went away at all. You’d be counted pretty wherever, but it seems to me this conversation is headed right into some mighty swampy country.”

  “You’re headed upriver and I’m going down. There isn’t much time to get questions answered.”

  “Are you sure—dead sure—you want ’em answered?”

  She was proud, he thought suddenly, very proud. It was not like her to talk so to just any man…she had gumption, all right.

  And she was lovely. He had scarcely dared look before, not being a forward man himself, and knowing from long experience that strangers had better be careful in their attentions to womenfolk. He shifted his feet uneasily. This thing had come upon him too fast, and he was not accustomed to judging such situations quickly. If it had been a buffalo, now, or a cougar…or any kind of a redskin…but this was a civilized white girl, and a very pretty one.

  “Are you sure, ma’am?” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “Bein’ alone at nighttime…in the forest and all…it ain’t exactly the safest place for a girl to be. There’s something about the woods, ma’am—it stirs need in a man.”

  “In a woman, too.”

  He shifted his feet. This was getting out of hand. He was ready as the next man, but this here…she was a decent girl, with her folks hard by.

  “I’ve come a far piece, ma’am, and I’m goin’ on. You’ll likely never see me again.”

  “There is a chance of that.” She looked straight into his eyes. “I would be sorry if that happened.”

  He took her by the shoulders and drew her toward him. She came willingly, yet with a certain reserve that let him know this was something special, something different for her. He took her in his arms and held her close and kissed her. He kissed her thoroughly, becoming more interested as the seconds fled, but he kissed her no more thoroughly than she kissed him.

  She stepped back, breathless. “Glory be!”

  Linus was startled to find himself a bit breathless too, and the feeling worried him. “Ma’am…seems like you’ve not done much kissing before.”

  “I never been kissed permanent before.”

  Uneasily, he glanced toward the fire, almost wishing her father would come looking for her. Linus Rawlings had never cared for the word “permanent” and it aroused all his old-time wariness, which had been in danger of subsiding.

  “There’s something you shouldn’t forget. I’m headed upriver and you’re goin’ down.”

  “Lovers have parted before, and they have come together again.”

  So it was lovers they were now? Linus hesitated, uncertain of what to say. He had a notion he should turn and run…run like a yellow-bellied coward. He should leave the bed, his blankets…even his rifle if need be.

  “Ma’am—”

  “Eve.”

  “Eve, I been a sinful character. Deep-down, black, rock-bottom sinning. I’m headed for Pittsburgh to sin again. Can’t wait to get at it. Why, it’s likely I’ll be dead drunk for the first month and won’t even remember the fancy gals I dally with or the men I carve up out of pure cussedness—any more than I’ll remember you.”

  Deep within her, Eve was sure, as sure as a girl could be, that this was her man. She was fighting now, fighting for what she wanted, for what she had always wanted. She was not at all sure her weapons were adequate, and she had little experience to guide her, but she knew the battle must be won here and now.

  She was acting shamelessly, she knew that, but she remembered something she had once heard a woman say: that men marry by accident, women by design, and that every man is by instinct a wanderer and will not willingly forfeit his freedom to wander.

  Every woman wanted a home, protection for herself and the children she would bear…hence, whenever man and woman meet there must ever be this struggle, not so much to win the man, but to keep him after he was won. And she did not have weeks or days, not even hours…she had minutes only.

  “Linus, I am asking you…can’t you still feel that kiss? Or was it only me? Do you want to forget it? Do you want to walk away?”

  “You make me feel like a man come face to face with a grizzly b’ar on a narrow trail. There just ain’t no ignorin’ the situation.”

  He stepped up to her again and she stood her ground, her face lifted, calm, secure, proud…but frightened, too.

  Chapter 4

  *

  THE HOUR BEFORE daybreak was still and cold. Zebulon Prescott eased from under the blankets so as not to wake Rebecca. He did it with the practiced skill of many years, for the habit of early rising was deeply ingrained in his being. And his wife would need rest…the travel would be hard on her, no matter how he tried to ease the way.

  In trousers and undershirt, galluses hanging, he started toward the water’s edge carrying the tin washpan. The two rafts were there, as they should be, but the canoe was gone. He walked out on the raft and started to dip up water to wash, then paused as an idea came to him.

  “Eve!” He straightened up as he shouted the name. Fear and astonishment mingling in his voice. He looked toward the girls’ lean-to. “Eve?”

  Heads lifted from under blankets, and Harvey sat up, staring toward him. Sam swung his feet from under the blankets and started to pull on his boots.

  Zebulon dropped the tin basin and started back toward the lean-to, fear gripping his insides. Suddenly Lilith pushed back the canvas that served as a curtain. “What is it, pa? Is anything wrong?”

  “You can tell me where your sister is,” he said, anger sounding in his voice.

  The flap turned back again and Eve stepped out, tossing her hair back. “Pa? Wha
t’s wrong?”

  “Well, you’re still here, anyway,” he said testily. “I was afraid you’d gone off with that—that trapper.”

  “Gone?” The word had an empty sound. “He’s gone?”

  Her eyes went to the river. The space beside the raft was empty. The canoe was gone…Linus was gone.

  “I knew you were settin’ up with him, but I told myself you were at least lookin’ at a man, even a wisp of smoke like that’n.”

  Tears welled into her eyes. Linus was gone. She had tried…what else could she have done? She had wished him to stay, she had tried to keep him with her.

  “You cryin’ for him? What’s that mean?” Prescott’s suspicions mounted. He grasped her shoulder. “Tell me,” he almost shouted, “what’s it mean?”

  “Nothin’, pa. Linus is gone, that’s all.”

  “What time did you come to bed?”

  “It was early,” Lilith lied promptly. “I was still awake.”

  Eve’s chin lifted. “No, it wasn’t. It was late.”

  “Daughter”—Zebulon Prescott’s voice was stern—“I’ll only ask you once. Is there anything for your ma and pa to worry about?”

  “No…no, there ain’t, pa. There’s not a thing.”

  Eve turned back to the lean-to and took up the washpan and, with Lilith beside her, started toward the river. Under the tree where she had made the bed of boughs there was only the mat of twisted branches now. The blankets were gone.

  “Lilith…look!” Eve went around the tree and pointed. On the tree, cut deep into the bark, were two hearts, freshly cut, and cut deep. They were joined by a deep gash.

  Lilith was amazed, and envious. “You mean…you mean you actually got a grown man to do that? Did you get him to say those crazy words, too?”

  “I did…just like in the book. Seemed like he enjoyed it.”

  “Eve Prescott, you’re lyin’ worse than pa! You cut those hearts yourself!”

  “I won’t say I didn’t coax a little, but he did it. He said it was a mighty solemn occasion, like shootin’ rapids without a paddle.”

  “Well, it sure didn’t keep him by you. More’n likely he did it just so’s he could get away. You know how driftin’ men are…they never want to stay put. You’re lucky he’s gone. Do you want to live out your days like some squaw? Like an Indian squaw? More’n likely that’s all he’s used to.”

  “I’ll see him again,” she said confidently. “I know I will…and he hasn’t got a wife and six kids, either. Not yet he hasn’t!”

  *

  EVENING BROUGHT COOLNESS to the river. Behind Linus the setting sun painted fading colors upon the darkening waters. The bluffs were higher now, and the trunks of the forest trees were merging into one solid wall of blackness, although their tops still etched a jagged line against the sky.

  It had been a slow day. The current seemed stronger than before, and perhaps he was not trying quite as hard. It irritated him that his thoughts kept reverting to the girl at last night’s camp. His mind was usually crystal clear, open for impressions, warnings, dangers. His instincts were alive to every change of sunlight or shadow, to every hint of movement.

  “That was quite a woman,” he said aloud. “Now, if’n I was a marryin’ man—”

  He could see the white of the sign before he could make out the words. The sign was on the river bank, and behind it a path wound up the bluff to a cave where a feeble glow of light could still be seen.

  With a sweep of his paddle he swung nearer to read the sign, feathering the blade as he swung alongside.

  FINE OLD LIKKER SOLD HERE

  The sign presented an invitation and a challenge. Besides, it was getting late. A few drinks would make him sleep good and sound, and it wasn’t often he dared trust himself to let go and really sleep.

  “Waal, now…” He turned the canoe deftly to the spot where two dugouts were moored.

  From the cave above came a faint sound of music, harmonica music, played with a dancing lilt. “Waal, now!” he repeated. “I don’t mind if I do. This ain’t Pittsburgh, but a man might as well try a hair of the dog that’s goin’ to bite him.”

  Tying the canoe, Linus took his rifle and mounted the trail. Off to the left, through the trees, he saw just the vestige of another trail. It was not dark, although the sun was down sometime since. That old trail was long out of use, but it indicated that somebody had probably lived here long before these folks had moved in. More than likely it had been an Indian trail, or one made by some early hunters.

  Then from above he heard the music break and a voice called out, “Customer!” A bare-footed, yellow-haired girl, quite pretty despite the rags she wore, appeared at the mouth of the cave.

  “Thirsty, mister?” she called. “This here’s prime whiskey.”

  “Drier’n a grasshopper on a hot griddle.” Linus wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and followed her into the cave. The harmonica player, he noticed—for he noticed most things—was a lean, scrawny youth who looked at him with a queer, taunting expression, as though he had just scored some victory over Rawlings.

  The cave’s interior was lighted by a fire that burned in a sort of natural fireplace, the smoke issuing through an opening in the cave roof. There was a bar composed of two planks laid across two barrels, and beyond the end of the bar Linus could see a high, narrow opening that gave into another room. A faint stir of breeze came through that opening.

  Two haggard, hard-looking men played cards near the wall, using the bottom of a packing case for a table. Another man leaned on the bar in conversation with the white-haired patriarch who stood behind it.

  The patriarch thrust out his hand. “Name is Hawkins, suh. Colonel Jeb Hawkins, late of Alabama. Where you bound, suh?”

  “Pittsburgh.”

  “He looks like a mountain man, pa. I’ll bet he’s got a canoe full of furs.”

  “Ah? Now, suh, that I admire! A man bold enough to face westward, to dare the redskin of the plains, to challenge the distance and the mountains. Suh, the first drink is on me. Set down, suh!”

  Linus leaned his rifle against the bar and watched the colonel take down a pewter cup and a brown earthenware jug.

  “No pepper, no rattlesnake heads in this whiskey, suh. Just pure grain and the sweet kiss of malt, and water from the springs of Bourbon County, Kentucky. Finest spring water this side of heaven, suh. We call the whiskey bourbon, after the county.”

  Linus ignored the cup and reached for the jug, turning it easily over his bent elbow, and let the liquor flow down his throat. The men at the card table stopped their game to watch in open-mouthed admiration.

  At last Linus paused for breath. “Yes, sir! You’re right. That there’s real sippin’ whiskey.”

  “Springs of Bourbon County, m’boy! You can’t make good whiskey without pure water, and this here’s the best. Limestone water, she is. Limestone cuts all the impurities out, leaves nothing but the pure and sparkling. Drink up, suh!”

  “Pa,” the girl suggested tentatively, “him bein’ a trapper and all, d’you suppose he’d know what that varmint is we’ve got?”

  “Well, now, Dora, he might at that. Suh”—he watched Linus Rawlings’ Adam’s apple bob with the whiskey—“we cotched some kind of a cave-dwellin’ critter like no man in these parts ever seen before. Be mighty interestin’ if you could tell us what it be.”

  “Don’t know much about cave-dwellin’ varmints.” The whiskey had reached his brain and Linus turned his head slowly. “Of course, I’ve seen a few varmints in my time, and I might—”

  “It’s just yonder”—Dora pointed toward the inner cave—“and you can bring the jug.” She smiled invitingly, holding out a hand for his. “I’ll show you.”

  There was just a hint of something more than a varmint to be found in that inner cave; and she was, Linus told himself, a likely filly.

  Torchlight flickered from the walls. She passed her torch to him and, taking another from a small pile, lighted it. This cave
was smaller, and Linus heard a distant roaring sound as of water running.

  “Do you know any sweet-talkin’ girls in Pittsburgh?”

  “Nary a one—not yet, anyway.”

  “Pa an’ me, we figure to winter here.”

  She was closer now, her hip touched his…was that an accident?

  “I’ll be at the Duquesne House if it ain’t burned down.” He held the torch to one side and looked down at her. She was mighty young, but she was rounded in all the right places, and there was nothing so young about that look in her eyes. “Are you sure you’ve got a varmint back here?”

  “We keep him in the hole yonder.”

  She indicated what seemed to be a pit at the end of the cave, a hole perhaps six feet square. “You’ll have to look mighty close, dark like it is.”

  She held his arm as if for protection, keeping her body close to him, hanging back just a little. He lifted his torch and bent forward. “Where—?”

  In that instant of incredible realization he felt the girl’s grip on his arm suddenly tighten, jerking downward and forward, and a leg was thrust sharply between his legs. Off-balance, he started to fall forward toward the blackness of the pit, gripping the torch in one hand, the jug in the other.

  As she tripped him and he went forward, her hand jerked free. He did not see the knife, but he felt the bite of the blade; he was already falling, and the knife ripped only buckskin and a little hide…and then he was toppling into the awful blackness of the pit.

  Even as he fell, he caught one glimpse of her, and saw the expression of ugly lust on her face. The torch struck the water an instant before he did, hissed sharply, and then he hit the water in utter blackness. It was incredibly cold…and he went down, down, down into roaring, abysmal night.

  “He’s seen the varmint, pa!”

  Hawkins, who had been facing the passage with a double-barreled pistol in his hand, turned swiftly. “All right, lay into it! We’ve got other fish to fry. Down to the island!”

  Instantly all of them turned to stripping the cave and carrying whatever was worth keeping down to the dugouts.

  “That was nicely done, Dora,” Hawkins said, putting a hand on her shoulder.