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

by Louis L'Amour

“You can anticipate another hundred on your way back. We’ll have no gamblers on this train. When a wagon breaks down I want men who can fix it, not bet on how long it’ll take.”

  “You mean you’d turn a man adrift? In Indian country?”

  “We ain’t into Indian country yet, and you got here by yourself, so I guess you can get back.”

  Lilith started to protest, but Aggie was already speaking. “Mr. Morgan, I talked to this man back at Independence. I told him if he got his affairs straightened out and caught up with us that we’d take him on. We’re likely to need a man before this trip is over.”

  “I’m a good man on a horse, captain, and a dead shot,” Cleve said.

  Morgan turned to Lilith, his irritation obvious. “Is that right, Miss Prescott? Did you actually agree to hire this—this gambler?”

  “Miss Clegg spoke of it,” she replied, honestly enough, “and it seemed the thing to do. Besides, Mr. Van Valen has another friend on the train. Gabe French speaks very highly of him.”

  Morgan was surprised, and doubtful. “You know Gabe French?”

  “Of course. As a matter of fact, we did a bit of business together once—transportation, it was. I will confess that Gabe carried most of the load, but our association was mutually satisfactory.”

  Somewhat reassured, Morgan nodded. “All right, then, if that’s what you want.” He rode off toward the head of the wagon train.

  Lilith then turned sharply on Agatha. “Agatha! What’s gotten into you? Are you crazy?”

  “He said he’d do an honest day’s work, and you an’ me have come far enough to know this here is a lot too much for us. I don’t mind rustlin’ buffalo chips an’ drivin’ a team, but takin’ them to water, stakin’ them out, an’ cuttin’ what wood a body can find, that’s too much.”

  “You are right, of course.” Lilith measured Cleve with a cool eye. “One thing I promise you, Agatha. He will do his work. He’ll do it, or I’ll see that he starts riding alone—no matter where we are.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cleve said politely. “As you say, ma’am.”

  Dismounting, he tied his horse to the tailgate and got up on the seat. He picked up the reins and spoke to the mules.

  “Hey, you ain’t had nothing to eat!” Agatha protested.

  “Another time, fair lady,” Cleve replied, keeping a straight face. “My ruthless employer allows no time for such nonsense. Besides, it is time to pull out.”

  Cleve removed his coat and folded it carefully, and Lilith glanced at the immaculate white shirt. It would not be white for long.

  Before them the plains stretched wide and lonely, and the wagons rolled on over the dusty grass. Soon the spring rains would come, and Morgan wanted to have them far enough along so they would be free of the worst of the mud.

  Sitting behind a team of mules on a long day’s march allows time for thinking, and Cleve Van Valen settled down to plan his course of action. Lilith had a gold mine and he wanted it, so the first thing he must do was to win Lilith.

  Yet the last thing for him to do was to seem to want her. She was no fool, and was far too worldly-wise to be easily taken in. No doubt many men had flattered her and lied to her, and she was already suspicious of him. Therefore he must avoid her.

  He must do his job well, but avoid all contact with her in doing it. He must never seem to wish to be close to her, never begin a conversation with her. Also,he must be efficient at what he had to do; if he was not, he might not last long enough with the train to work out his plan.

  The few days of travel while the wagons were getting well out upon the prairie gave him a chance to break himself in to the life. The Cherokee had been of enormous help and, finding Cleve eager to learn, he had packed a lot of instruction into their few days together. Now, with time on his hands Cleve tried to recall everything he’d ever heard that might be useful.

  In the course of his traveling about and being around the frontier towns he had listened to a lot of conversation and had retained much of it, for he had a retentive memory, and he had always been interested in concrete information and facts, and he had listened well.

  Odd fragments of information began to return to him, things remembered from trappers or Indian fighters with whom he had spent long hours, gambling or talking. Fortunately, he had read a good bit, too—among other things, Washington Irving’s Tour on the Prairies and Dr. Gregg’s Commerce of the Prairies. Systematically, he began sifting his memory for whatever he could remember from those books.

  The Big Blue was clear and cold when they made camp at the upper crossing. At that point the river was all of sixty yards wide. There was good grass and there was wood.

  Cleve, who had planned every step he would take upon arriving at camp, swiftly unhitched the mules and stripped them of their harness; then, leaving them tied to the wagon, he got a fire going, using buffalo chips and what sticks lay at hand. Once the fire was ablaze he took the mules to water, then turned them into the rope corral with the other stock to be watched by the night guards. His own horse he picketed near the wagon.

  Taking an axe, he went to the timber along the stream and cut wood for the night fire and for breakfast in the morning.

  Unaccustomed as he was to such work, he found it hard. His hands blistered on the axe, and the blisters broke. During his boyhood he had often hunted or fished in the mountains of Virginia, and all through his early years he had lived an active life of riding, shooting, and fencing. But he had never done any such work as this.

  When he returned to the fire with an armful of wood for morning, Agatha handed him his plate filled with food. His hands felt cramped and stiff, and she noticed the awkward way in which he accepted the plate from her. But he took the plate and walked a few yards away and sat down by himself. Lilith glanced at him curiously, but he appeared not to notice.

  He had almost finished eating when he looked up, to see Roger Morgan beside him.

  “Why’d you keep your horse up?”

  “It seemed to me,” Cleve replied, “that if Indians stampeded our stock I’d look mighty foolish hunting them on foot.”

  Morgan made no reply, but looked at him a moment, then walked over to the fire. Lighting a cigar, he stood there talking to Lilith and Agatha. After a few minutes Agatha came over to Cleve and refilled his cup. He refused another helping of food, although he could easily have eaten it.

  The next morning, awakening early, Cleve rolled out as soon as his eyes were open, and went at once to water his gelding. When he returned, he saddled him and tied him to the wagon wheel. Then he knelt by the fire.

  Stirring it up, he added fuel and put on a kettle with water. It was cold, and by the time he had the fire going he was shaking with chill. He went to the stream, bathed quickly in the cold water, dressed, and returned to the fire to add more fuel. Agatha was up, so he left the fire and went to the corral for the mules.

  By the time the team was harnessed coffee was ready, and Cleve hunkered down near the fire, nursing his cup of coffee in his cold hands.

  Today their position was near the end of the wagon train, for the positions were changed each day, working by rotation. As he finished harnessing the mules, Cleve turned to Lilith. “Would you like to ride my horse? I don’t like him tied to the back of the wagon when we cross that river.”

  “Of course,” she agreed.

  Taking up the lines, he turned the heavy wagon into the column. When the wagon that preceded them was well into the stream, he followed. The mules, he was pleased to see, showed no hesitation at going into the water. It was not deep at the ford, coming scarcely to the wagon bed, but he took no chances and lined up carefully on the wagon ahead and followed with care.

  Agatha, beside him on the seat, commented, “For a gambler, you handle a team right well.”

  “I never drove very much, actually. As a youngster I drove a coach and four a few times.”

  Just then from behind him there came a sharp exclamation, then a scream. He handed the reins to Agath
a and, thinking of Lilith, jumped up on the seat to look around the canvas top. There was another scream, then a frantic splashing in the water, followed by a hoarse shout: “Sarah! My God, Sarah!”

  Looking around, he saw that the wagon following them had gone off into the deeper water beside the ledge tangled itself in the wagon wheels and rolled over. Thrown clear, the woman was splashing in deep water, obviously unable to swim. Cleve peeled off his boots and dove from the seat into the water.

  Coming up, he caught hold of a half-submerged tree and looked around quickly to locate the struggling woman. He was just in time to see Morgan extend the end of his whip to her and pull her to shore. Unnoticed by anyone, Cleve reached the bank and staggered up, dripping with water. Glancing back, he saw Roger Morgan watching him.

  Nobody else seemed to have noticed his futile gesture. But as he started up the bank to rejoin the wagons he slipped and sprawled full length in the mud, and heard a ring of laughter. Looking up angrily, he saw Lilith laughing at him, and even Agatha had a smile on her face.

  He got to his feet and stared down at his clothing. “Don’t try to wipe it off,” Agatha said. “If you wait until it dries, most of it will brush off.”

  He went to the wagon and climbed aboard, taking the reins from Agatha.

  “Well,” she said dryly, “you did more good by falling on your face in the mud than anything else you’ve done.”

  “I felt like a fool.”

  “No woman objects to a man looking the fool once in a while—makes ’em more human, somehow. Oh, I know what you’ve been doing! Don’t think I’m altogether a fool, Cleve Van Valen! Thing is, you did it today. From now on she’ll be on your side.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You wait an’ see,” Agatha said, “and mind what I tell you.”

  Chapter 9

  *

  FIRELIGHT PLAYED SHADOW games on the white wagon-covers, and the people of the camp moved through the ritual steps of the nightly pause as though through some strange, stately ballet performed only for the stars above. Nearby the waters of the Blue chuckled over the stones—this was the Little Blue—and the horses in their rope corral stamped and cropped grass against the demands of the coming day.

  Cleve Van Valen glanced around at the tightly drawn circle of wagons. They were in Indian country now, and there were the usual rumors of war parties. These rumors drew the circle tighter as apprehension grew, and the men were more watchful, sensitive to the slightest noise or to a change in the nightly hum of insects.

  There were those, of course, who scoffed at Indian attacks and who did not fear, who believed death was something that happened to others, and not to them. They had not yet discovered the impartiality of death.

  Carefully, Cleve cleaned his pistol, removing all the dust, adding a drop of oil. Then he checked the loads in the three spare cylinders he carried. This was a wise precaution, he decided. It was not easy to load a cap-and-ball pistol in a hurry; it was much easier simply to switch cylinders, which a man could do on a horse and at a dead run. He was checking the last cylinder when he heard someone approaching.

  It was Morgan. He indicated the pistol. “Gabe French tells me you can use that thing.”

  “When I have to,” Cleve commented. “I’ve grown up with it.”

  “You may have to.” Morgan lowered his voice. “We saw Cheyenne tracks today, and they’re scouting us. No travois trails, so it’s a war party.” Morgan glanced toward the wagons, but Lilith was out of sight. “How are you with a rifle?” he asked.

  “Good. But I don’t have one.”

  “Gabe’s got a Colt revolving rifle. Fires six shots. He said you could use it.”

  “All right.” Cleve looked up. “How did you know they were Cheyennes?”

  “Moccasins…every tribe’s moccasins are different. Other things, too. Different ways of doing things.”

  Reluctantly, Morgan strolled on, making his nightly survey of the camp.

  This was the fifth day since the Big Blue and the events at the crossing, and they had made good time to this point. Seventeen miles the first day, fifteen the next, and the last two days had each been nineteen-mile days. In fact, the last one had been slightly more than nineteen miles. And that, with a wagon train of this size, was good going.

  The grass had been good and so far there had been plenty of water, but all knew that the worst travel lay ahead of them. Cleve, profiting by talk overheard before this trip began, had hung a canvas ground sheet under the wagon and into this he had heaped buffalo chips, chunks of wood, and odds and ends of fuel. There was no shortage of fuel now, but in the days ahead this would not be true, and he intended to be ready before they reached that stretch where most of what was available would already have been burned.

  After a few minutes Lilith came from the wagon to the fire. She had offered to mend a pair of Cleve’s pants and she carried them now. He stood over her for a minute or so, then dropped to a rock beside the fire.

  “I’m overwhelmed at all this attention, Miss Prescott, but I am surprised too.”

  “Surprised?”

  “I had no idea you were so domestic.”

  “My home was a farm in upper New York state. I have often mended trousers for my brothers.”

  “I never had a brother—or a sister.”

  “My sister lives on the Ohio. She married a mountain man—Linus Rawlings. And I have two brothers.”

  “No parents.”

  “They were lost at the falls of the Ohio. That was four, almost five years ago.”

  “I want to confess, Lil,” he said suddenly. “I lied about why I wanted to work for you.”

  “Did you think I didn’t know that?”

  “The real reason is…I’m in love with you.” He stopped her as she was about to speak. “It’s the truth. Since the first time I saw you I’ve known I couldn’t live without you.”

  “I’d not like to be the cause of your death, Mr. Van Valen,” she said lightly.

  “I’m serious. And I’m ready to assume the responsibilities of a faithful husband.”

  “And to assume the responsibilities for my property as well, Mr. Van Valen?”

  “Really? What kind of property?”

  “Gold, Mr. Van Valen. Gold by the ton, from what I understand. Bright, yellow, shiny gold.”

  “Why, I—I had no idea.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you didn’t,” she said mockingly. “It is simply a remarkable coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “Oh, just the fact that when you were back stage settling your bet on how many petticoats I wore, I should receive word of my inheritance.”

  “You knew about the bet?”

  “Of course. And if I could overhear what you were saying, I am sure you could overhear what Mr. Seabury told me. Or am I too suspicious?”

  “I think you are.”

  “Here comes Agatha. Now, if you must propose to somebody, I suggest you get on your knees to her. She has such beautiful hair.”

  Lilith got to her feet, smiling sweetly. “And by the way, Mr. Van Valen—there were six petticoats!”

  Agatha indicated the circle that had gathered about a neighboring fire where they were singing “Home, Sweet Home.” “Listen to ’em. You’d think they was buryin’ somebody.”

  Lilith broke her thread and handed the mended pants to Cleve, then she tossed back her hair and, gathering a fold of her skirt, moved toward the circle. She started to half-speak, half-sing the words of “Raise a Ruckus,” emphasizing its humor and bounce.

  As she reached the chorus in full voice, she moved back toward her own fire, and people drifted over to listen. As she sang she saw the sadness and weariness leaving their faces, and by the second chorus their voices began to join in. Roger Morgan paused outside the circle, watching them and observing the effect of her voice on the others. Over their heads his eyes met those of Cleve, and then he walked away.

  The night was pleasantly cool, the sky clear. After watchi
ng the singers for a few minutes, Cleve slipped away to check his gelding, and then the stock that was encircled by the rope corral.

  It was very still. Far off a coyote serenaded the night with plaintive music. Cleve’s boots crunched in the grass as he walked up to the mules, and they flicked their long ears at his voice. He paused near them, liking the sound of their cropping of the grass. His ears had learned to sort the sounds, to hear only the strange, different ones while being aware of all the others.

  That Lil…she had known all along why he had joined the wagon train. She had seen through him from the beginning, and it was no wonder that she wanted nothing to do with him.

  Some night bird was moving in the bushes, the crickets were singing. He walked a little further, listening to the singing, unable to distinguish the words, but liking the music. Lil’s voice reached out, clear and strong. There was more to her than he had suspected. She had intelligence, and she was shrewd as well—and the two are far from the same thing. Moreover, she had character.

  He considered the future. It was not going to be easy—far from easy, in fact; but she was lovely, and he was not going to mind too much if it took a little longer. After all, what else was there to do on a wagon train?

  Day had not yet come when he rolled out of his blankets and went for the mules. The night guard let him out of the corral with his six charges and he took them at once to water, then to the wagon to harness them. He was snapping a trace chain in place when he heard Morgan talking to Lilith. She had been carrying water from a spring near the river to fill the water barrels.

  “Miss Prescott,” Morgan said, “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh?”

  “Wet or dry, you’re the handsomest woman I ever did see. You’ve got spirit, and a fine, sturdy body—a noble combination. Why, to you child-bearin’ would come easy as rollin’ off a log.”

  “If you leave it to me, Mr. Morgan,” she said dryly, “I’d rather roll off the log.”

  “Ma’am, I’m tellin’ you. You got the build for it, and that’s what I’m lookin’ for. I want you for my wife. I’ve got a cattle outfit just below the Merced, an’ I’ll be settlin’ down there, fit an’ proper.”