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

by Louis L'Amour

  Yet the thought aroused amused irritation. What kind of a child was he to be irritated because she ignored him? He had been loved by women, and he had been hated by them, and once a girl had even tried to kill him, but none had ever been indifferent to him.

  Was it that which disturbed him? Or was it the thought of losing a chance at all that gold?

  She had cost him a hundred dollars because of one petticoat, and he intended to have his own back. So he told himself—and he lied in his teeth. He was going to try to marry Lilith Prescott, not because he loved her or even liked her type, but simply because he had failed at everything else and was looking for a soft spot to light before he got too old. And when a man faced up to such a decision it was not a very nice thing.

  But how in God’s world could he find one girl in a place as wide as the open West? Even such a girl as Lilith Prescott?

  Find her he must. In his pocket he carried three twenty-dollar gold pieces, and he owned the horse he rode. He had a pistol in his belt holster, and a few clothes wrapped in a blanket behind his saddle. He had no rifle, no experience with the frontier, and nothing to warrant his going west.

  He had suddenly, on a mere whim, tied his future to this girl with her legacy; yet what else could he have done?

  He was not even sure she had come this way—only that she had quit her job and disappeared into thin air. But coming on the heels of the legacy, it was a likely supposition. Around Independence and its neighboring area, gathered the people who were moving westward in their wagons and on horseback. There they gathered, arranged themselves into wagon trains, repaired equipment, and generally prepared for the long journey ahead of them.

  Suddenly Van Valen topped out on a rise and drew up in amazement. Before him, the wide plain stretched toward the river, and in the center of that plain was a town with lights ablaze, although it was past midnight. But it was not the town that surprised him, nor even the fact that it was lighted at this late hour—it was the campfires around.

  Even the low hills had their encampments, and it seemed as if there must be a campfire for every star in the sky. Wherever he looked, the night was sparkling with their lights, flickering, inviting.

  Since he was a child he had heard tales of men who went west, and talk of others who planned to go, but never in his wildest imaginings had he dreamed of such an exodus as this appeared to be. They must have been gathering here for weeks. Undoubtedly a few venturesome souls had already headed out across the prairie that lay to the west, but still several days away.

  It was an hour later when he rode up to Bob Weston’s blacksmith shop. There were other smiths in town, but this was the largest and most active, and it was a focal point for travelers planning to go west. Both a place of rendezvous and the place for the organization of wagon trains, it was always crowded. Here he would begin his inquiries.

  A dozen anvils were clanging under the blows of hammers, the forges glowed with their fire, and the soot-darkened faces of the smiths reflected the red of the fire on their faces and bodies. At least twenty smiths were working, hammering out shoes for horses, shoeing them, or doing bits of ironwork for wagons. And this was the middle of the night!

  A wagon rolled by, a woman on the seat holding a crying child, a man walking beside the wagon carrying an ox goad. But they were going west.

  Suddenly a hand grasped his stirrup. “You, is it? You’re going west?” It was Gabe French.

  “Thinking about it. How about you?”

  “Pulling out tomorrow with the Roger Morgan Company, and I’ll have four wagons. If you want to come along, see me before you join up. I could use an extra hand.”

  “I’ll look around.”

  Gabe French lifted a hand and hurried away with his odd, bandy-legged walk. Cleve looked after him. “He’s the one who will make it, boy,” he said to his horse. “When you and I are still broke, he will own half of California.”

  Under a torchlight across the street a man was operating a three-card monte layout. Cleve looked closer. It was Canada Bill.

  Riding on along the street, he watched wagons loading and pulling out on the prairie. Wherever he turned his attention there was activity, and there was talk. Never in his life had he seen so many men talking and using the identical words so often. It was talk of the trail, of the best wagons, of oxen, horses, or mules. There was speculation about Indians, about forts being established. They were rapt, excited…they were men involved in a colossal binge, a gigantic migration, and West was the magic word. It was the “Open Sesame” to fantastic futures.

  Turning his mount, he started back. He was dead-tired and had best find a place to bed down, and Colonel Noland’s inn was just up the street.

  Then, just as he was again nearing the clangor of Bob Weston’s blacksmith shop, he saw her.

  She was deep in conversation with a tall, powerfully built man who was examining some whips laid out for sale on a table just outside the door of the blacksmith shop.

  Drawing rein in the deep shadow near a building, he listened. The man was speaking. “You got a wagon, I suppose?”

  “I can get one,” Lilith replied.

  “And a team?”

  “Whatever I need, I’ll get.”

  “You’re married?”

  “I am single, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Travelin’ alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not on my wagon train. A woman alone an’ single, that puts deviltry into men. Gets ’em all worked up, an’ believe me, on these trains they’re wild enough already.”

  “I shall keep to myself, Mr. Morgan, and I can take care of myself. After all,” she added dryly, “any problem that is likely to arise will be one I have handled before.”

  “No doubt. But a woman of your sort? One day you’d find yourself in trouble and there’d be hell to pay just figurin’ out who.”

  Lilith’s face went white. She caught up one of the whips and, taking a quick step back, she unfurled the whip in a business-like manner. “Now,” she said icily, “you repeat that, Mr. Morgan, and you’ll get the horse-whipping you deserve.”

  Morgan laughed, but there was respect in his eyes. “Well, now. I like a woman with spirit, and I’d no right to speak as I did. I have an idea you’ll do to take along.” He took the whip from her hand. “This is the whip I’ll want,” he said, and tossed a coin on the counter.

  Then he turned to Lilith again. “There’s a woman named Clegg—Aggie Clegg. You might try getting her to join you, or vice versa. I’d be glad to take the two of you.”

  Cleve waited in the shadows until Lilith started away, then followed at a discreet distance. She walked with a purpose that indicated she knew where the Clegg woman could be found.

  At the end of the street she turned toward several wagons standing on the prairie’s edge. By torchlight a woman was loading a heavy crate into the back of a wagon.

  When Cleve came within earshot he heard the woman saying, “Well, I don’t know. I’d been hoping to make the trip with a husband, and almost caught me one last week.”

  “They tell me there are forty men to every woman in California. Look, Miss Clegg, I’d be willing to pay you.”

  “I don’t want money, I want a man.” Looking at Lil, she added, “You’ll need one, too, before this trip’s over.”

  Gently, Cleve touched a heel to his horse and walked him forward. They looked up at the sound.

  “Good evening, ladies, a very good evening to you. Miss Prescott? Cleve Van Valen, at your service. At your command, if you will, from here to California.”

  “Thanks,” Lilith replied brusquely. “Whatever it is you’re offering, we don’t need.”

  Agatha Clegg wiped her hands on the front of her apron. “Speak for yourself, honey. Like I said, before this trip is over—”

  Cleve interrupted. “Perhaps you do not understand, Miss Prescott. I—”

  “I understand, all right. And I know a tinhorn when I see one.”

  “I’m offering an hone
st day’s work for an honest day’s pay.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Van Valen.”

  Cleve turned to the older woman. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Clegg. And I’ve never seen a woman with more beautiful hair…naturally, I worry, because what a prize it would be, hanging from the mane of an Indian pony.” Glancing at Lilith, he said seriously, “I hope you realize what you are doing, Miss Prescott. Two lovely ladies, alone in the wilderness, and who will protect you? When Indians attack, each man is busy protecting his own, and they can’t be blamed for thinking of their families first.” He lifted his hat. “Good evening, ma’am. Or should I say good morning?”

  Turning his horse, he rode away between the wagons, and Lilith looked after him, half irritated, half amused.

  “Gosh!” said Aggie. “Nobody ever said that to me before.”

  “What?”

  “That I had beautiful hair.” Self-consciously, she put a hand to her hair, then she said to Lilith, “You know, I’ve a hunch you’ll draw men like fish to bait. Maybe I can catch one as he swims by.” She thrust out a hand. “All right, Miss Whatever-Your-Name-Is, you’ve got a partner.”

  “The name is Lilith Prescott,” she said, “and don’t think I won’t carry my weight. I grew up on a farm in northern New York state.”

  “I’d never have guessed it.” Agatha looked at her thoughtfully. “It’s a wonder a fine-looking girl like you isn’t married.”

  “I haven’t been looking,” Lilith replied stiffly. “When I find the right man, I’ll marry, but I’m in no hurry.”

  Cleve rode back toward town, not at all displeased with the situation. He had a feeling that he had sowed seed on fertile ground.

  From time to time he drew up to listen to some of the conversations about him, worried for the first time about his own inadequacy for the venture that lay before him. He had handled teams, and there had been a time or two when he had done some physical work, but those times had been few.

  These men about him were all manner of men, from all professions and trades, and of every nationality. There were Germans, Swiss, French, Poles, Swedes, Norwegians, and Spaniards. In short, there was every conceivable kind of man, with all sorts and kinds of wagons.

  A tall man in a stovepipe hat with mutton-chop whiskers stopped him. “Sir, would you have a light? I’ve spent my last match.”

  Cleve provided the light. “Are you among the pioneers?” he asked, though he realized how foolish the question must seem at this place and time.

  “Lawyer, sir. Attorney-at-law, and westward bound. Gold, sir. I am after gold, but I shall not mine for it. I shall wait for them to bring it to me.”

  “You’re a gambler? Or are you planning to open a saloon?”

  “Neither, sir. As I said, I am a lawyer, and where there are men and gold there will be litigation, and where there is litigation, lawyers will be needed. I have no doubt, sir, that I shall become rich.”

  Cleve rode on. Lawyer he might be, but with that nose he had without doubt seen the inside of many a saloon. Cleve rode to the Noland House and was fortunate enough to find an empty bed, although it was still warm from the body of the last man, who was undoubtedly now preparing to start west with a wagon train. Four trains were leaving that morning.

  At breakfast the following morning in Noland’s dining room he heard that the Morgan train had gone. The first day they would scarcely move more than eight to ten miles, just enough to break in the teams and get them used to the work. They might even stop short of that, for it was customary to make the first day or two easy, until the stock became broken to the trail.

  Twice during the morning men came trying to buy Cleve’s horse, but he refused to sell. Later, after he had sat around the hotel listening and keeping his eyes open for a small game which failed to materialize, he went out and laid in some modest supplies. He bought a coffee pot, some pemmican, and, from an old Missourian, some cold flour.

  He had never heard of cold flour, but the Missourian merely chuckled. “Lots of folks hain’t heard of it,” he said. “Mexicans, they use it. You just take some corn and grind her up good after it’s parched. Then you add a mite of sugar and cinnamon. Man can live a month on a half-bushel of it, and tasty, too. A feller just mixes a bit of it into water and drinks it down.”

  He bought a gutta-percha poncho, against possible rainstorms, a couple of blankets, and a ground sheet. He added a canteen, and a hundred cartridges for his pistol.

  The provision stores were crowded with men buying, planning, asking advice of the storekeepers and of others—of anyone, in fact, who had time to listen.

  “Butter?” Cleve overheard a man saying. “Why, butter’s no problem at all. Boil it…boil it well, and skim it off until it’s clear like oil, then you put it in tin canisters and solder it up. Even down Texas way where she gets mighty hot, that butter will keep.

  “Vegetables? Sure, you can have them too. You get them desiccated vegetables like the army uses. They’re pressed down and heated into cakes as solid as a rock. A chunk of it no bigger than a woman’s fist will make a pot for four, five men. I et ’em with the army out Utah way when we went out to keep an eye on Brigham an’ his Saints. Tasty, that’s what they are, an’ they stick to your ribs.”

  He found a supply of his cigars at Noland’s and laid in a stock. It was the one luxury he was to permit himself. His was a small outfit, but he had little money, and wanted to keep a few dollars for a stake in case somebody started a game on the way west.

  His horse had been ridden but little, and no great distance for some time, and would need breaking in to the trail. He mounted up and started west.

  He had no plans to catch up to the wagons for a while. He wanted to be far enough away from the settlements so it would be impractical for Roger Morgan to order him to return.

  Roger Morgan had a reputation. He was known as a fine wagonmaster, one of the few who organized such trains, for the usual procedure was to elect a captain from among the pioneers themselves, and to depose him if he failed to lead and command as he should. Morgan had been over the trail several times, and functioned both as a guide and as a wagonmaster. He was known as a hard man, who permitted no nonsense on his trains and was prepared to handle any difficulties that arose.

  There were scattered settlements and ranch houses for some distance west of both Independence and Leavenworth, and they were pleased to welcome a visitor. People were hungry for news of the world, and they wanted to know what was happening in the outfitting towns like Independence.

  An easy talker, polite but never forward, Cleve Van Valen found a ready audience for his accounts of what was happening in St. Louis and Cincinnati, and in Independence itself. He took his time, often riding only a few miles a day, stopping on the way at ranches to share the home cooking, and with it all, he asked questions.

  He was too wise in the ways of gambling not to realize his handicap in going into an area where he must play the other fellow’s game, something no gambler believed in doing. During long sessions over card tables and around frontier gambling houses and on the river boats he had heard much talk of Indian fighting, of life on the plains and in the mountains, and the result was that he understood what he was facing. Now he made further inquiries from the settlers along the frontier. He wanted to fit in when he caught up with the wagons, to prove valuable to Lilith Prescott and the wagon train.

  A Cherokee he met west of Leavenworth was riding to join a party of hunters, and Cleve rode along with him. The Cherokee, who had once owned a plantation and slaves in Georgia before being forced to move west during the Indian removal, explained to him about the Kiowa, the Arapahoe, and the Cheyenne Indians he would meet further west. These, in contrast to the Cherokees, Choctaws, Chickasaws, Creeks, and Seminoles, were wild Indians, given to raiding, horse-thieving, and scalp-hunting.

  “They will stampede your stock if they can,” the Cherokee explained, “driving it off to round up later. And any man caught out away from the train will be
killed—be sure of that.”

  After three days’ riding together, they parted on the bank of a small stream, and the Cherokee pointed out the wagon road west. Turning his mount, Cleve Van Valen rode away. He crossed the stream, emerged from the brush on the far side, and started his horse up the long grassy slope.

  The air was very clear…no clouds were in the sky. It was pleasant, not too warm, and his horse walked easily through the tall grass. On top of the hill, with the wagon road below him and some distance off, Cleve drew up.

  As far as the eye could see, there rolled the endless grass. Far off, two dark objects grazing upon the grass would be buffalo. He drew the fresh air deep into his lungs, and it was like drinking a long draught of cold, clear water. Nothing moved out there, nothing but the wind and the low grass that bent before it. Yes…it was a man’s country.

  His gelding pricked its ears at the distance, stamping an impatient foot at the delay.

  All through the day he rode across the miles of grass, and when he camped that night it was in the willows near a stream. At daybreak he was up, and for the first time he made coffee and mixed a little cold flour with water and drank it. Then he started on.

  The wagons were drawn up for a “nooning” near a river when he came near to them. They were not far beyond Vermilion Creek and were headed for a camp on the upper crossing of the Big Blue.

  Almost the first wagon he saw was that belonging to Agatha Clegg and Lilith Prescott. The big man sitting his mount alongside their fire could be none other than Roger Morgan, who turned his head to look as Cleve cantered up.

  Cleve removed his hat with a graceful sweep. “Ladies,” he began, “I—”

  “I thought,” Lilith interrupted dryly, “that we had seen the last of you.”

  “Frankly, I was worried. I couldn’t bear to think of you making the trip alone and without help. If anything had happened to you I could never have forgiven myself.”

  “You rode a hundred miles alone?” Morgan asked.

  “I’ll take your word for the distance. I was so filled with anticipation that I scarcely noticed.”