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

by Louis L'Amour

  There was the Sailor Swede, Coyle the gambler, Harran who had been a trapper, and Seagrave, the only one of us who had done well in the gold fields.

  Fleming had crossed the Plains seven times, he said, and Sheedy had kept a store in the gold country, and there was me, Johnny Banta, born in a west-bound wagon and now going to the States for the first time.

  We rode with Fleming at point, the Sailor and Coyle on one flank, Harran and Seagrave on the other, and bringing up the rear were Sheedy and myself. In the middle of our group were our nine pack animals, three of them belonging to me.

  We crossed the Divide short of noon, and when we crossed it was nothing like the Sierras, just a rise in an almost flat area…although it was high up, more than seven thousand feet where we crossed over. We found the Sweetwater and rode along it, riding loose in the saddle and ready for trouble, for we had been lucky so far and were worried by it.

  We stopped for the night in a hollow among the low hills near the Sweetwater and Fleming got down from his saddle and turned his eyes on me. “You’ll cook tonight,” he said.

  “I’ll not,” I told him straight. “Three times this week I’ve cooked and no complaint. We’re seven here, so we share and share alike.”

  Coyle had begun a fire, and he looked up, mildly amused but interested. I think he had been expecting this.

  “You talking back to me?” Fleming stared at me, but I’d been stared at before.

  “Telling you,” I said, “and not only for today. It’s turn and turn about.”

  Fleming put down the pack he held in his hands and looked at me. “I don’t want to give you a whuppin’, so do as you’re told.”

  “Anywhere we go,” I said, “I’ll make tracks as big as you.”

  Coyle’s pleasant voice intervened. “The boy’s right. From the beginning he’s done his share, and more than his share.”

  “You buttin’ in?” Fleming was a man ready for trouble. He had an arrogant way about him that raised my hackles, but he was unsure of Coyle, who might be a man to leave alone.

  “Trying to save your life,” Coyle replied quietly, and from the way Fleming took it I knew he figured it was a threat from Coyle himself.

  “I’ll cook,” Sheedy interrupted hastily. “I don’t mind.”

  Sheedy cooked, and I almost wished I had, it was that bad, but I rustled wood for the fire before finding a place to bed down with a natural hammock of earth to give me shelter from the wind, and from bullets, if it came to that. With my hunting knife I cut blocks of sod and forted up a little.

  “You expectin’ a fight?” Harran asked me. “Ever’ night you build yourself a hole to hide in. How long you gonna keep it up?”

  “Until we’re in St. Louis,” I said, and meant it.

  —

  Coyle awakened me two hours before dawn to take over the sentry duty, and I slid out of my blankets and rolled them up for traveling.

  “All quiet,” Coyle told me, and then he went to his blankets for a little sleep before daybreak.

  It was almighty still…the sky was touched up with stars, and along the Sweetwater the trees and brush were a black snake winding among the low hills. This was almost the hour when Indians liked to attack…in the gray hour of first dawn.

  Trouble was shaping for me among my own crowd, but it was trouble I would have to handle my own way, and I was set for it, believe me. None of this bunch knew anything of me, and I was almighty sure they had let me join up because I had horses and they needed pack animals. Horses, those days, were bringing a fair price and hard to come by even when a man had the money. And maybe because Fleming figured me for a camp flunky.

  Fleming was a bullying man. He had wide shoulders and was muscled like a wrestler, and he liked to throw his weight around. Harran was of the same stripe, dark and surly with an ingrown streak of meanness in him. Sheedy…well, Sheedy was living in Fleming’s shadow. Figuring Fleming for the strong man, Sheedy latched onto him for the trip.

  Maybe I was young, but I was taking no pushing around. If they wanted to drive this hoss they’d best get set for trouble.

  There was gray in the sky now. Individual trees were standing out now, and the grass moved under the long wind. My rifle lay easy in my hands and I kept my head turning, trying to see everywhere at once. That rifle was a Deane, Adams & Deane five-shot revolving-cylinder rifle. An Englishman who was on his uppers in Frisco had sold it to me, and I’d never seen a faster-shooting gun.

  There was dew on the grass, and suddenly I saw a gray streak in the grass…a difference, but it was there. Reaching down, I picked up a stone and chucked it back into the middle of camp and it hit near Fleming’s foot. He sat up and I lifted my rifle and pointed into the grass where the streak stopped; somebody was crawling there, and had brushed the dew from the grass as he moved. There was no taking aim, I just squeezed off my shot into the head of that wide streak.

  There was a sharp movement there, and then the Sioux came out of the gray morning, running low and running fast. My second shot went wide, the Sioux was moving too fast, but my third, held low down, dropped an Indian in his tracks. On the other side of camp a rifle opened fire and then still another from beside me. Sudden as it had begun, the attack stopped.

  Only the grass moved, rippling under the gray skies, and leaves of the aspen whispered and chattered along the hillside. Fleming crawled over to me. “How many did you see?” he asked.

  Reloading my Deane, Adams I laid out five extra paper cartridges on a flat rock. If I got that many shots during the next rush I’d be mighty lucky.

  “Maybe four,” I said, “but if they’re like Modocs there might be fifty out there.”

  “You fought Modocs?” Fleming glanced at me.

  “These here are Sioux,” I said, “maybe they’re different.”

  With my Bowie I dug out under my body and got deeper into the ground. The others were doing the same, settling down for

  VERSION TWO

  When we came up the valley of the Sweetwater the frost was white on the lowlands and upon the far slope of the mountains the aspens were clouded gold. At nineteen I was the youngest of the lot, although for seven years past I had done a man’s work, and proud of it.

  Only there was a searching in me, for I had found nothing I wanted very much, nor any place I cared to stop, but the softness of my face was only the softness of being young, not of anything inside me, for when a boy is left alone at twelve he becomes a man or he becomes nothing at all.

  Yet it was a hard land in which I’d come to manhood, and the way I had found had never been easy, and with the hardness this gave me there was a truculence, too, for I had some of the urge to prove myself that is in every boy.

  There were but seven of us, and until a week or two before we had been strangers. A week? It was more than that, but on the trail there is a small sense of time, and only distance by which to measure.

  We were seven armed and belted men riding east from the gold country with St. Louis a long way off. There was the Sailor Swede and Coyle the gambler, there was Harran who had been a trapper and Seagrave who had struck it rich on the Feather River.

  There was Fleming who had crossed the Plains seven times, and Sheedy who had kept a store in the gold country, and there was me, Johnny Banta, born in a west-bound wagon, now going east for the first time.

  We rode with Fleming at point, the Sailor and Coyle on one flank, Harran and Seagrave on the other and bringing up the rear were Sheedy and myself, and in the middle of us were the nine pack horses, three of the nine belonging to me.

  We crossed the Divide short of noon and after that found the Sweetwater starting from the low hills and we rode along it, riding loose in the saddle and ready for trouble, for we’d been lucky this far and were worried by it. Too much good luck is a danger, for a man knows it must change. Back along the Humboldt we’d had a brush with the Pai-ute, but they had no stomach for what we gave them.

  There was a hollow where a creek flowed down to
the Sweetwater and there Fleming got down from his saddle. “We’ll stop the night here,” he said, and turned his eyes on me. I’d no liking for the man and knew what was coming before he opened his lips to speak. “You’ll cook tonight,” he said.

  “I’ll not,” I told him straight. “Three times this week I’ve cooked and no complaint. We’ve seven here, so we share and share alike.”

  Coyle looked up from the fire where he was poking sticks into the new flame. He looked interested, and mildly amused.

  “You talking back to me?” Fleming stared at me, but I’d been stared at before.

  “Telling you,” I said, “and not only for now. It’s turn and turn about.”

  Fleming put down the pack he held in his hands and looked across the camp at me. “Now look, boy, I don’t want to give you a whuppin’, so do as you’re told.”

  “Anywhere we go,” I said, “I’ll make tracks as big as you.”

  Coyle’s pleasant voice intervened. “The boy’s right. From the beginning he’s done his share and more than his share.”

  “You buttin’ in?” Fleming was ready for trouble but he was unsure of Coyle. He might be a man to leave alone; a gambler had to be tough to live.

  “Trying to save your life,” Coyle replied quietly, and from the way Fleming looked at him I knew Fleming was taking it for a warning and a threat.

  “I’ll cook,” Sheedy interrupted hastily. “I don’t mind.”

  Sheedy cooked, and I wished I had, it was that poor to eat, but I rustled wood for the fire and found a place to bed down with a natural hammock of earth to give me protection from the wind or bullets. With my hunting knife I cut sod and forted up a little.

  “You expectin’ a fight, kid?” Harran asked me. “Ever’ night you build yourself a little hole to hide in. How long you gonna keep it up?”

  “Until we’re in St. Louis,” I said, and meant it.

  That night there was talk around the fire but little was said to me and none of it by Fleming. He had me marked for trouble, that much I knew, but it was no different than it had always been for me.

  —

  At daybreak I was out and around before any of them, and had killed a white-tailed deer, an easy shot at a hundred yards, and I was skinning him out when Coyle rode up. “Figured there might be trouble,” he said. “I came running.”

  “Thanks.” Rising from beside the deer, I gathered the hide around the best cuts. “Seemed a chance for some fresh meat, and as for trouble, I’m likely to find as much of that in camp as away from it.”

  “Fleming won’t rest.”

  We rode back toward camp, riding side by each, and I said to Coyle, “He’ll have you marked….It will be trouble for you if you’re seen with me.”

  “I’ll accept that,” he said, “and Seagrave will too, I think.”

  “Ah,” I said, “now there’s a thing. He’s carrying plenty, I’ve an idea. Fleming has been watching him.”

  We rode on, but there was a difference now, for the unity that had been with us was gone; we were drawing apart. Coyle and Seagrave took flank together, and it might have seemed an accident, although Sailor Swede merely took the place alongside Harran and we rode east along the Sweetwater.

  Our nooning was near a grassy bank, outcropped with ledges, and we built our fire close under the bank, of buffalo chips and a few scattered sticks.

  We made coffee there and chewed on some jerky and gave ourselves talk about the trail behind and what lay ahead. This was Sioux country, and I’d heard a sight about the Sioux from my folks before they died, and from others in California. The Sioux were a lot of Indian…every one a fighting man from the high timber. At that, everything might have gone all right if Harran hadn’t found that squaw.

  —

  She was young and she was walking. She was also a mighty pretty girl of maybe seventeen or a year younger. Hard to tell the age of an Indian.

  She was carrying a small pack on her back and she came on us as we sat there eating, but the only one who saw her right then was me and I could see she was alone and scared, so I said nothing at all. Then Harran went down to the creek and the next thing we hear a fight.

  All of us went down and Harran had caught him a squaw, and he was grinning. He looked around at Fleming and said, “Lookit here. Lookit what I found.”

  “Leave her alone,” I said.

  Harran looked at me like he hadn’t heard me or couldn’t understand, but Fleming knew, all right.

  “Why, now,” Fleming said, “finders is keepers. Ain’t that right?” He looked around. “I reckon we found her, and we’ll keep her, and if you want to leave her alone, Banta, you do just that. Fact of the matter is, we’ll see that you do.”

  “Let her go,” I said. “This is Sioux country. That’s a Sioux squaw. You want to get us all killed?”

  Nobody had said anything, although I had an idea that Coyle

  VERSION THREE

  When we came up the valley of the Sweetwater the frost was white on the lowlands and upon the far slope of the mountains the aspens were clouded gold. At nineteen I was the youngest of the lot, although for seven years I had done a man’s work, and proud of it.

  Only there was a searching in me, for I belonged nowhere and had found nothing that I wanted very much, nor any place I cared to call home. It was a hard land in which I had come alone to manhood, and the way I found for myself was never easy. When a boy takes a man’s place he is expected to be a man, and not a boy, so it was stand up to a man’s work and a man’s responsibilities, and that I did, although it caused me some bad times and some difficult hours.

  There were seven of us riding east, seven who until a few days before had been strangers to one another. We were still strangers, although we rode together, shared our grub and our watchfulness, our awareness of danger.

  East of us, hundreds of miles away, was St. Louis…a distance not to be measured in miles but in hours of danger, for the land we rode through was the land of the Indian who wanted no such interlopers as we.

  We were seven armed and belted men, riding with rifles across our saddles. There was the Sailor Swede, Coyle the gambler, Harran, who had been a trapper, and there was Seagrave, the only one of us who had done well in the gold fields.

  Fleming had crossed the Plains seven times, and Sheedy had kept a store in the gold country, and of course, and last of all, there was me, Johnny Banta, born in a west-bound wagon and now going to the States for the first time.

  We rode armed for trouble, with Fleming at point, the Sailor and Coyle upon one flank, Harran and Seagrave on the other. Bringing up the rear were Sheedy and myself. In our midst were our nine pack animals, three of them belonging to me.

  We crossed the Divide just short of noon, and it was nothing akin to the Sierras, which is a fine, tall range, but only a long roll in almost flat land…although it was nigh to eight thousand feet, they said, where we crossed over.

  The Sweetwater was where we expected it would be and for the night we camped in a hollow among sand hills. Getting down from his saddle Fleming turned his eyes upon me. “You’ll cook tonight,” he said.

  “I’ll not.” I told him straight out. “Three times this week I’ve cooked and no complaint, but we’re seven here, so we share and share alike. I’ll be flunky to no man.”

  Coyle had begun a fire, and there was a sparking interest and some amusement in his eyes when he looked up. He was a pleasant man but a cynical one who derived a wry pleasure from many a thing that would get most men’s nerves on edge. But this, I believe, he had been expecting.

  “You talking back to me?” Fleming stared at me, but I’d been stared at before when I was more of a boy than I was now.

  “Not talking back,” I said, “but telling you. From this point on it will be turn and turn about.”

  Fleming put down the pack he had taken from the horse and looked at me. “If you don’t want a whuppin’, you do as you’re told.”

  Now, I was not as big a man as Flemin
g by forty pounds, nor as tall by inches, but there is a time for all things, and one thing I’d learned was, not to be put upon.

  “Anywhere we go,” I said, “I’ll make tracks as big as you.”

  “The boy’s right.” Coyle spoke casually, working his fire to build a bed of coals. “He’s done his share and more.”

  “You buttin’ in?” Fleming was a big man and one with an arrogant way about him that raised my hackles, but he was not too sure of Coyle, who might be a man to leave alone.

  “Trying to save your life,” Coyle told him, but Fleming took it as a threat from Coyle and not a warning.

  “I’ll cook,” Sheedy spoke hastily. “I don’t mind.”

  Sheedy cooked, and it was that bad I almost wished I’d not forced the situation, but I rustled wood for the fire before choosing a place to bed down beside a hammock of earth and grass that gave me some extra shelter from the wind, or might, if need be, stop a bullet. With my hunting knife I cut blocks of sod and forted up a mite, being of cautious nature and not my first time in Indian country.

  “You scared?” Harran looked at me with a look in his eyes I cared little for. “Ever’ night you build yourself a hole to hide in. How long you gonna keep it up?”

  “Until St. Louis,” I said, and meant it.

  Trouble was shaping among my own crowd, for it was Fleming considered himself our leader, knowing the Plains as he did, and Fleming was a bullying man. Harran was like him, and Sheedy a shadow for Fleming in all he did. None of this lot knew anything of me, and I’d been thinking the only reason I was invited along was because they had need of my horses, for horses at that time were hard to come by.

  It was curiosity taking me east, and maybe something more, for it was in me to find a place for myself and as yet I’d had none. There was nothing behind me but drifting and working, wherever a job could be had. A time or two I’d tried panning gold, with no amount of luck, but I’d saved a bit, bought myself some horses, and done some packing for other owners of claims who worked deep in the hills.