Volume 1: Unfinished Manuscripts, Mysterious Stories, and Lost Notes from One of the World's Most Popular Novelists

by Louis L'Amour

  “That will be due to you, sir.”

  “In part, perhaps. The education I have given here is different. Many believe it is severe, but life is not mild. Many believe I have concentrated too much on some aspects, but I do not think so. Here we try to build character first—self-respect, independence of spirit, self-reliance—and to offer the equipment for survival and for citizenship.”

  Mister Elias got to his feet. “No one has been told of your going and I would prefer you to tell no one. You will ride Ambrose, my Irish stallion; he is now yours. Your clothing has been packed, you have a bill of sale for the stallion, and your money is here. You will find on your saddle a new rifle and a brace of pistols. You are to go as if on a business dealing for me. You are not to come back.”

  Miles remembered how he had gotten to his feet. He looked across the table at Mister Elias with a lump in his throat. “Thank you, sir. Thank you for everything. You have been more than a father to me, and I shall try to follow your advice.”

  Elias held out his hand, and Miles suddenly realized that it was the first time they had ever touched. Then the boy turned toward the door.

  “Miles?” Something in Elias’s voice had turned cold. “I send you away in hopes that by being apart each of you may grow naturally, and my grandson will live out his days. But I would do you no favor to leave you unwarned. If ever you and Will meet again, do not think of what I have done for you, but simply protect yourself. You are my son also, in my feelings if not in blood.”

  And now what Mister Elias had feared had come to pass. They were together again…and the Army had ordered him here, and the Army would not permit him to leave.

  Already battle had been joined, mildly so far, but joined nonetheless.

  There was only one thing to do. Avoid Will. Avoid Hallett, avoid Adam Couch, avoid anyone or anything that led to him or was close to him.

  Avoid Laura.

  CHAPTER 6

  During the days that followed there was little time for thinking of Will Rounce, nor of Laura McCrae. Oddly though, it was the girl in the forest to whom his thoughts reverted again and again; the mystery of her presence there and her sudden disappearance haunted him.

  Not less did he wonder about the peculiar reactions of both Will and Laura to his mention of Moore’s Lalla Rookh. Certainly, there was nothing in the contents of the book that could create such an effect. It was simply a rather charming and romantic love poem with some interesting overtones.

  However, it was Mister Elias’s admonition that remained most in his mind, and he took care to avoid any further meeting with Will Rounce. For the moment Miles’ duties were more than sufficient to keep him busy, and it would not be long before he would again be going west, and this time with a party of Cherokees. Once west he would contrive that he not come east again, one way or another.

  How could a man dedicated to pushing the Cherokees from their land still remain a friend to the McCraes? Especially when that man was an avowed enemy of Tsali’s?

  More and more he found himself puzzled by Will’s presence here at all. What had become of Rounceville? Mister Elias must certainly have divided among his three grandchildren a sizable fortune, if all had survived until his death. Will would have been a fool to leave a going business in a community where he could assume the mantle of his grandfather’s prestige and be immediately a personage of some importance, in every sense.

  What had happened?

  —

  As the weeks passed, bitterness increased among the Cherokees who remained in the mountains at the corner of Georgia, North Carolina, and Tennessee. The Treaty of New Echota, signed by fewer than five hundred of a tribe of more than sixteen thousand, required the Cherokees to surrender their lands in Georgia and move to Indian country beyond the Mississippi.

  The Cherokee Nation was to be given five million dollars, an equal amount of land in the new Indian Territory, an educational fund of half a million dollars, and compensation for abandoned property in the East. But there was open talk of bribery, and the known fact that many of the Cherokees present at the treaty signing had been made drunk and were in no condition to know what they were signing. The situation was made even more complex by the passions involved, passions that led to several of those in favor of the treaty having been assassinated and what amounted to a Cherokee government in exile being established over the state line in Tennessee.

  Reports of a gold discovery in the Cherokee country increased the cupidity of those politicians who were exerting pressure on Washington and Atlanta, but the rougher element were not inclined to wait upon the Removal. Rushing in, they tore down Cherokee fences, ruined their crops, and defiled the pure waters of their streams. Ignoring both the tribal government and the federal treaties, the state of Georgia passed laws extending her jurisdiction over the Cherokee country, and even went so far as to forbid any Cherokee to hold office in the tribe, or any white man to live in Cherokee territory without swearing allegiance to the state of Georgia. The Georgia Legislature, eager to preserve the gold for the white man, even made it illegal for any Cherokee to dig for gold on his own land.

  Rarely, Miles Tolan thought, had the legislative right been so abused. It was at a time when throughout the United States there was strong sympathy for the Greeks in their war for Independence, yet only a few went so far as to speak out for the Cherokees in their own land.

  Detachments of soldiers were sent out to scour the fields and the mountains with rifle and bayonet, to search every cabin hidden away in the coves of the hills or the deeper valleys, and to seize and bring in Cherokees wherever found. From dawn to dusk they were in the field, rounding up the Indians and escorting them to stockades, where they were concentrated prior to their movement westward. It was cruel work, and few in the Army liked it.

  Resistance was rare. The Cherokees had been worn out by the long struggle to keep their hills and by the continual inroads of white men seeking gold, stealing stock, or merely searching out land they wished to claim. More than once the people had scarcely been moved from their cabins before looters had them in flames.

  In all of this, Miles Tolan was a part. He had been given a job to do and he did it, acting with speed, efficiency, and with whatever kindness was possible. With care, he managed to avoid the parties of looters, or bands he suspected might be directed by Will Rounce.

  —

  In the fifth week he again met Laura McCrae.

  They recognized each other at the same instant, and she rode up to him at once. “Have you seen Will?” He thought there was a note of anxiety in her tone. “He has not been to Brignole.”

  He hesitated, and despite himself he was worried, worried for this quiet, attractive girl who seemed to have placed her faith in Will Rounce. “No,” he said finally, “I haven’t seen him…but then I have been very busy.”

  “My father is worried. We have received orders to vacate.”

  Miles glanced down at the reins in his hands. “It is the law,” he said. “All Cherokees must move.”

  “We won’t be forced to.” He thought there was a shadow of doubt in her voice. “Will assured us we had no reason to worry.”

  “I think he was wrong.” He heard himself speak the words almost without volition. “I don’t believe it is a good policy but I do believe you will be forced to move. No word has been given to me to provide for any exceptions…and there are other factors to be considered.”

  “Will is very close to the governor,” she replied, “and to Colonel White. He told us just to stay where we were, that everything would be all right.”

  “He has given you false hope.”

  She was not convinced. “I do not know what you think is wrong, but I assure you, you are mistaken. Will is a fine man, a very fine man. My father admires him very much, and so does James.”

  “And John Ross?”

  “No,” she admitted, “I do not believe they like each other.”

  “And Tsali?”

  “Tsali?” She was s
urprised. “Why, Tsali is nobody. Just an old mountain farmer.”

  “But a Cherokee,” Miles interposed, “Tsali told me to tell Will that he was his enemy. And the men whom I stopped from looting that farm were under Will’s orders.”

  “I do not believe that. Oh,” she added quickly, “he may claim some of the land now that people are forced to leave, the same as many others. But he would not allow such things as you saw there. I know he wouldn’t.”

  Miles did not like the way the conversation was tending, and gathered his reins. “My only advice to you is to place your trust in no one concerned with this movement. Listen to Ross if you will. He is trying to do something.”

  “That is strange talk from a soldier,” Laura said, “advising me to place no faith in anyone concerned with the movement.”

  “A soldier does what he is told, but that does not mean he does not have his own opinions. I only know that what has to be done, will be done, so far as I can arrange it, without hardship to those involved.” He spoke stiffly, feeling an antagonism from her he could not quite understand. Unless she was resenting his attitude toward Will Rounce. “I believe no one is in any position now to promise anything, and I have no faith in Will’s promises.”

  “You hate him, don’t you?”

  “No,” he said honestly, “I do not hate him. I really do not even dislike him. I simply do not trust him, and my lack of trust is based on past experience.”

  “I think you hate him more than you suspect because he was always better than you in everything you two did.”

  Miles laughed. “Did Will tell you that? Well, sometimes I know he was better than I. He could jump farther and higher than I could, but he could not run or walk as far. He was always a little better in shooting at targets, but I usually came in with the most game. I just think Will was born lacking some other quality the majority of us have.”

  There was no warmth in her eyes. “I do not like you, Lieutenant Tolan. I believe you have no right to talk of Will that way. Someday he may thrash you for it.”

  Miles chuckled. “He may, at that.” Then he added more gently, “But it will take some doing.”

  Both were prepared to ride on, yet neither moved. The sun dappled the trail with leaf shadow, and somewhere off under the trees they could hear birds scratching and rustling among the leaves.

  “Miss McCrae,” he asked suddenly, “did Will ever tell you what happened to Rounceville?”

  “No. So far as I can recall he’s never mentioned it. When you appeared he did tell me something of your early life there.”

  “It should have been his. I believe Mister Elias had planned it so, and he was a man who thought things through. Often I’ve wondered what happened to Phineas Cronkite, our teacher.”

  “Will never discusses it.” Her curiosity was aroused. “What was it like?”

  “Mister Elias…he was Will’s grandfather…was a man of original mind. I never did hear how he started it all, except that the first time he came through the valley where he built Rounceville he was a wagon-peddler. He traded with the Indians, fought them on occasion, then bought cattle, horses, and hogs. When the country began to settle up he was the main source of supply, and he invested in shoemaking, tanning, and a blacksmith shop. It developed for thirty years until he owned an entire community, and had put by a good bit of money.”

  “Will told me you left when you were seventeen.”

  “By invitation. I mean, Mister Elias educated me, cared for me, and at seventeen I was old enough to fend for myself.”

  “What did you do then?” Laura asked curiously.

  “Saw some country…went down the river to New Orleans…joined up with the Missouri Fur Company.”

  “You were a trapper?”

  “Trapper, hunter, trader. I came back to St. Louis and then made a trip over the Santa Fe Trail to the Spanish settlements there. I did pretty well.”

  Laura watched his eyes curiously. “You’re a strange man, Lieutenant. I don’t quite know what to think of you.”

  “We’re all much alike.” He made a move to start again, and said, “You could tell me something, however….”

  “What?”

  “Who is the Beloved Woman?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Laura had evaded his question—that was Miles’ first thought upon opening his eyes. He lay very still with his hands clasped behind his head, knowing it was time to get up, yet wanting to think.

  It was Sunday morning, he was without orders, and for this one brief day he was once again his own man.

  For more than a week he had been hearing references to the Beloved Woman, and his curiosity had been excited. She was without a doubt a personage of some importance, but to questions asked of the Cherokees he received only evasive replies, replies that had whetted his interest. In general he had found the Cherokees a courteous people, and usually willing to explain any of their own customs that aroused interest.

  Among the Georgians themselves he found few who knew anything about the Cherokees, and most of them doubted they were interesting. Here and there he found a degree of sympathy for their plight, but these people felt that decisions had been based upon much that had gone on before their time—and seemed less aware of the role played by a few self-seekers and politicians who wanted the vote. There was also a hard core of people who saw the Cherokees prospering and believed it was something in the land they owned rather than their own energy that brought them such prosperity. These shiftless ones wished to drive the Cherokees from the land so that they might have it.

  There was also, deep-seated within all peoples, the desire to seek out anything different from themselves and destroy it. That desire was not exhibiting itself for the first time, nor would it be for the last. It was blind, unreasoning hatred of all that was different.

  Miles sat up in bed, then swung his feet to the floor, staring irritably across the room. He wanted a transfer. He wanted to get out of this situation, to get away from what was happening here. Uncle Elias had done much to shape his thinking, and had fostered within him, among other things, an appreciation for industrious people; and now, everywhere his eyes turned, he saw clear evidence of the sort of work he understood best.

  No craftsman, whether blacksmith, weaver, carpenter, or leather-worker, had been allowed to live among the Cherokees unless he had taken Cherokee youths as apprentices. No missionary was allowed in the territory of the Cherokees unless he also conducted a school. All he could learn of this people indicated a keen appreciation of the necessity for change and the best way to go about it. True, some had taken to drink, and there were laggards among them, but they were few. Fewer, Miles reluctantly admitted, than among his own people.

  As he shaved, bathed, and dressed, Miles grew annoyed with himself for pondering a problem beyond his control. What could he, Lieutenant Miles Tolan, do? He had authority, but limited authority only. He was subject to orders from his government, from any superior officer, and, it seemed, from Will Rounce. At least, that is, if they came via Colonel White.

  Already, Miles knew he had overstepped his orders to a degree. Wherever possible he was careful to inflict no additional hardship upon the Cherokees who were to be moved. Fortunately, the rank and file of the Army were men from the frontier or farms, and they understood what had been done here and how much work it entailed. As a result they had little but sympathy for the Indian.

  Only yesterday a man had struck an old Cherokee with a whip, and Miles had coolly walked his horse between them as the Indian got to his feet. The man had attempted to walk around Miles’ horse, but seemingly without a glance at him, Miles kept his horse between them. And the Cherokee, seeing his chance, walked away.

  Angrily, the white man demanded, “What’s the matter? You sidin’ with these Injuns?”

  “What?” Miles Tolan asked as if noticing the man for the first time. “You were speaking to me?”

  Disconcerted, the man protested, “I was givin’ that Injun what he had comin’ whe
n you come between us.”

  “I did?” Miles had looked astonished. “Why, I didn’t even see you!” Confidentially, Miles leaned toward him. “They give us a lot to do, these days. Riding all the time, rounding up these Indians. I must have fallen asleep in the saddle.”

  He rode on, Sergeant Turpenning following. Turpenning had said nothing, for he was a man who held his ideas inside his head, and rarely ventured opinions unless asked a direct question. Sergeant Turpenning was forty-two years old, with thirty of those years spent on the frontier and most of them in the Army. He was a man who knew his place, but he also had his own ideas about the Indians, for he had fought them.

  COMMENTS: Although I remember some work being done on this novel in the early 1970s, I believe the majority of the material you have just read was created between 1958 and 1960. Trail of Tears was considered a potential move toward more “serious” work, both the first time (the late 1950s) Louis tried to break out of writing Westerns, and during his more calculated, and more successful, attempt in the 1970s.

  Dad often joked that if a novel was written about the nineteenth century and set west of the Mississippi, it was labeled a Western and deemed inconsequential by the critics, yet if it was set east of the Mississippi, it might be thought of as a historical novel, and be taken more seriously.

  Not only is Trail of Tears set firmly in the historical novel territory of the East, but its time period is earlier than most consider appropriate for a traditional Western. Better yet, it deals with themes and moments in history that both Easterners and Westerners would consider highly significant culturally and historically.

  Prior to its completion, Louis wrote a proposal in order to sell this book. It was offered to both a publisher and a movie studio, though, ultimately, he did not conclude either deal. Hardcover publishers were a quandary for Louis. They got books reviewed. They got respect. They earned you a bit of extra money if your book sold well, because they cost more…but they also took part of your paperback earnings (for having promoted the book, and for brokering the deal), they weren’t really available at a price appropriate for the common man (something Louis cared about deeply), and they wanted a piece of the movie rights. With the exception of critical recognition, for a popular writer like Louis L’Amour there weren’t many advantages in those days to publishing in hardcover.