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

by Louis L'Amour

  Leaning back against a rock, his rifle across his knees, he studied the country before him while he considered the travelers he had seen the day before. For hours their presence and probable destination had been nagging at his consciousness, yet he dared not let his mind wander in a country so dangerous.

  Two men, obviously women of some importance, traveling with an escort of British soldiers and Indians, but traveling away from any known British fort.

  He had back-trailed them for a short distance in order to establish the hoofprints of their horses clearly in his mind. Now he knew he would know those prints wherever he saw them. All the horses had been freshly shod, evidently with this trip in mind.

  Had he been less close to the cabin of Artemus Lint he might have followed them to see what he could learn; at the same time he knew how risky that might be, for the Mohawks were shrewd and cunning woodsmen and it would not be long before they would become aware of his presence. It was just as well he had let them go. Yet their presence disturbed him.

  He broke off a corner of the journey cake Mady Lint had given him and then a piece of jerky. He slowly chewed the venison, enjoying its flavor. The place where he sat was a hundred feet or more above the floor of the forest, and he could see the breaks in the mass of trees that indicated where streams flowed, and here and there a meadow. In one of them he could see a deer feeding.

  The leaves of the hardwoods had long been gone, but their gray branches intertwined to shield the forest floor below that canopy of boughs. There was a scattering of evergreens, too, mostly pine.

  A slow, lazy hour passed during which he rested, dozing in the warm sun and storing energy for the long drive ahead. Such relatively safe places as that where he now sat were few and opportunities for rest were rare.

  When he had rested for a little more than an hour, Vanderdyke started along the slope, then into the deeper woods. Once under cover he crouched near a huge old deadfall and listened. If anybody had seen or heard him they would come along, hunting him. He remained unmoving, all his senses alert. After a brief time, when he heard no sound, he continued on.

  The way he had chosen would take him south and east across the mountains and into Virginia. The nearer he came to the mountain passes, the closer he would come to trouble.

  Although there were those who still spoke of the New World, Europeans had been settled along the eastern seaboard for more than one hundred and fifty years. The British colonies expanded slowly but persistently, and those who pushed to the farthest frontiers, building homes in the outer wilderness, developed a sense of independence and self-sufficiency that left them impatient with rulings from the mother country or by the governors of the Colonies appointed from England, rulings that often had little to do with living conditions on the frontier.

  Far more important than the ruling powers in the Colonies to the man on the frontier were the Indians. The problem of the Indian was present and immediate, and they met sometimes in friendship, often in hostility. There was right and wrong on both sides—both white man and Indian had liars, boasters, and outright villains numbered among them; they also had good men, trying hard to achieve a natural and easy relationship.

  No two peoples ever met less likely to understand one another than the white man and the Indian, and in those beginning years patterns of behavior were established that were to persist down the years.

  Vanderdyke, who had lived with both peoples, had from his first day on the frontier recognized the difficulty. The basic conceptions and beliefs of the two peoples were totally dissimilar.

  The word “Indian” is as loose a term as “European.” There were Indians who differed as much as would a Finn and an Italian. The Indian was thought to be a stone-age man, but there were stories of greater civilizations to the west and south, civilizations that some white men, with their obsession with architecture and written language, might have to take more seriously.

  Although the nature of some tribes was often seen as stoical, the better one knew the Indian the more one learned to recognize emotion and expression. He was volatile, demonstrative, and had a fine sense of drama. His code of chivalry, while different from that of the white man, was just as demanding in its way…and, in all likelihood, the Indian was more faithful to it.

  But only some had anything like the white man’s feelings or traditions regarding the ownership of land. An Indian rarely thought of owning land in the usual sense of the term. Certain areas were regarded by him as his hunting grounds, but much depended on the tribe or nation being strong enough to protect such an area. These areas were often expanded by war, or were severely contracted in the same way. The concepts of formal boundaries and absolute possession were an alien way of thinking to an Indian.

  When the white man first appeared among them, whether on the first landings or elsewhere in the country, he was generally looked down upon by the Indian. Both peoples were guilty of this, and in this they were quite similar.

  The Europeans’ knowledge of the proper way, the Indian way, of doing things was either slight or nonexistent. These failures were seen as weakness and ignorance. Of course, the white men had weapons that were superior in certain ways, and their tools were even better. Yet in other cases European equipment lacked much. For traveling rivers and streams the canoe was superior to the cumbersome boat; for life upon the prairies the tipi was superior to any tent the white man owned.

  But few Indians understood the source of the white man’s equipment, the technological progress that it indicated. Few understood that even the greatest cities in the Americas were but frontier outposts to the civilization of Europe. And, as much as alliances with the American tribes had been useful to the white men, the larger the white population grew, the more self-sufficient it became and the less it needed the Indian. The days in which the red man could assume superiority over the whites were dwindling rapidly.

  —

  Vanderdyke came to the path for which he had been watching. He glanced both ways, then at the trace itself.

  No tracks…nothing less than weeks old, at least. This was an ancient path, made first by buffalo or perhaps even the hairy elephants of even older times. Vanderdyke, who knew a little of many things, knew such creatures had existed, and they had been described to him by Indians. No doubt those Indians had never seen the creatures, but they had been told of them, and had shown Vanderdyke some salt licks where the bones and tusks were to be found.

  Vanderdyke had killed his first buffalo between the Great and Little Kanawha when he was much younger, and was tolerably familiar with the country into which he was now going. There were various Indian trails, all of them former buffalo paths, and of them two of the most important led one to the head of the James, another to the head of the Potomac.

  Before him the valley he had been following narrowed to a ravine, from which a small stream issued. He squatted under a rhododendron and studied the opposite slope with care, then the slope right below him. There was a scattering of growth, much of it only bare branches now. Atop the opposite ridge he could see a little snow blowing. The wind was picking up, and if wise he would be tucked into a new camp well before sundown.

  A fallen log had left a bare space beyond it where there was no snow and he walked that way, reaching a cluster of pines where he stopped again to look around. Although he had heard no sound, he was uneasy…perhaps because he heard no sound.

  He was about to start on again when he caught a movement from the tail of his eye, and instantly held himself still.

  There was nothing to be seen, yet the movement had been on the hillside not two hundred yards off. Even as he looked a chunk of snow fell from a branch, disturbed by something that had passed.

  He brought up his carbine, holding it ready in his hands. When he caught the movement again, it was slight. A shoulder, or what appeared to be a shoulder.

  He waited. Suddenly down the slope he caught another movement. This was the back of an Indian, a Mohawk he suspected, who had just moved in
to sight. He was on Vanderdyke’s side of the trail, less than fifty yards away. Both Indians were watching or waiting for something that was coming along the creek bed below.

  This part of the country was, so far as he was aware, claimed by no one. The Shawnees had moved away, the Delawares had been here, but now it lay empty, although hunted over by several tribes.

  Three Indians appeared suddenly in the creek bottom. Even as his eyes caught them, he saw another Mohawk high on the ridge behind them. Obviously an ambush, and the three Indians in the creek bed below were the quarry.

  He stood up suddenly and stepped from the trees, knowing the movement would be observed. The Indians looked up and he waved his arms. There was no need to shout.

  As instantly as he waved he had stepped back into the trees. When he looked again the three Indians in the creek were gone.

  Turning swiftly, he darted along the slope, escaping to a farther clump of pines, knowing his own life was at stake now. From below he heard a shot, then another one. He saw an Indian cross over the ridge, getting away. In all there had been at least five of the attackers, and only three Indians in the creek. Yet the attackers had no desire to close with their enemies.

  Vanderdyke doubted if the Mohawks had seen him, for their attention had been concentrated on their quarry, but he dared take no chances.

  Five against three? Vanderdyke was almost sorry he had warned them, for if the three were fighters it might have been a battle worth seeing.

  That men might have been killed down below did not distress him overly much. They had been lying in wait to take advantage of the travelers and got no more than they’d expected to deliver. Men of the wilderness knew that death was always with them, at their elbow forever. Men killed and were killed, just as with the other creatures of the forest. He had heard it said that only man killed without need, but that was untrue. Those who said such things had never seen a henhouse after it had been invaded by a weasel. The blood of one chicken might satisfy his hunger, but it was rare he left any chicken alive.

  Long since, he had come to terms with life and knew that when death came he would meet it as might any bear, wolf, or other wild creature.

  The Indian, of whatever tribe, was a wise fighter. He fought when he believed he could win, and if he could win without risk to himself, so much the better. He was none the less brave because he would kill without warning, for if challenged to fight he would almost always do so. His standards were simply different than those of most white men; there was no more treachery in him, nor no less.

  Now the three Indians he had warned came into an open place and stood still, so he stepped from the trees and did likewise. He recognized them for what they were…Kickapoos.

  A small tribe, but one noted for fierceness in battle. Now he knew why the attackers had not wished to continue when their surprise failed.

  The Kickapoos had been relentless in their resistance to all efforts by white men to win them over. They had fought the French consistently, had been attacked by the Sioux from the west and the Iroquois from the east, and had resisted both. They had raided Iroquois towns as far east as Niagara, for they were noted also for their wandering. The name “Kickapoo” was derived from an Algonquian term, Kiwigapawa, meaning “he who moves about,” or “he who wanders.”

  His rifle was loaded and ready but he wanted no trouble. “They were Mohawks,” he said. “It was a trap.”

  “Kickapoo no white man friend,” one of them said. “Why you do this signal?”

  “The Kickapoos are great warriors,” Vanderdyke replied. “I would not see you killed without a fight.”

  “You are Vanderdyke.”

  He was not surprised. He had spent much time with other tribes; his description might have gone from village to village, from tribe to tribe.

  “I am Vanderdyke.”

  “You go?”

  He gestured with his free hand. “Beyond the mountains. I go to warm myself at the fires of wisdom.”

  “You find wisdom there?” One of them sneered.

  He shrugged. “As it is with you, some are wise, some are not.”

  “You have much enemy.”

  He smiled grimly. “The Kickapoo has many enemies, too. A man is known by his enemies,” he added, “and some enemies of mine are your enemies also.”

  “The French?”

  He shrugged again. “I do not know the French. They are not my enemies. The Iroquois are. I do not seek enemies,” he added. “I wish to be no man’s enemy. I am content to live in the forest, and to hunt.”

  He lifted his left hand, palm toward them. “Now I go. I am your friend.”

  “We do not ask for friend.”

  Vanderdyke smiled again. “I did not ask for friend, either. I say I am friend to Kickapoo.”

  A step backward put him under the trees, another step and he was gone. They stood still, looking after him, and he left them with no sound, going as a ghost goes, fading into nothing.

  COMMENTS: Below are some of Louis’s notes on a story about the Vanderdyke character. It is likely, however, that these notes were written years earlier. The story you have just read seems to be aimed in a different, more sophisticated direction. As with a number of other entries in this book, it is written in a form much like a motion-picture treatment with a fairly thin “mid-century Hollywood” plot and characterizations. Whether he was at one time considering “Vanderdyke” as a motion-picture sale or not, this treatment is just the earliest sketch, the bare bones of an idea, which had not yet developed to the stage where the villain’s motivations were completely explored or explained.

  VANDERDYKE learns of a mysterious enemy he has among the British forces; strange to him, the man obviously has power and influence, is a strong, dangerous man. The man is notorious for his cruelty. His position is uncertain. Although not an officer, he is seemingly obeyed by other officers. The sources of his power are not obvious.

  Later, VANDERDYKE visits Gov. Patrick Henry and meets a young girl there who is a guest at a neighboring estate, but often in the Henry home.

  VANDERDYKE hears the man who is his enemy spoken of in most flattering terms, but expresses his own feelings frankly. The girl listens to him and is obviously intrigued by his words, or by him.

  A wealthy woman and her daughter are also present, and announce their intention of going to visit a relative near the frontier. VANDERDYKE advises against it, but they are indifferent to his words and plan their trip. They have a guide and a young man who is going with them; the latter is very condescending to VANDERDYKE.

  He leaves on a further mission and in the woods encounters the wealthy woman, her daughter, and the two young men, one of them an acquaintance of VANDERDYKE’s, as well as a party of Indians accompanying them. The guide invites him to accompany them, but insists they go to an Indian village a short distance off where there will be food. They arrive at the village and find it deserted, so at the guide’s insistence proceed onward to a stockade, where they find all gone but a lone priest and an Indian boy. They advise the party to escape while they can, but the wealthy woman insists she is too tired to go on, and their guide has assured them there is no danger.

  Suddenly a band of Indians led by white men descend upon them; they are taken prisoner, with the exception of VANDERDYKE, who has mysteriously vanished. The leader of the attackers is furious with the guide, but when by questioning he discovers who the woman is, he is somewhat appeased.

  When a company of British soldiers invade the area the Indians and bandits mysteriously disappear. Leading this group is VANDERDYKE’s enemy, who, posing as the rescuer, is very affable and pleasant. He entertains them all very graciously, and the only skeptic is Van’s friend, who sees the whole affair as something of a charade. Yet neither the woman nor her daughter will believe him, and he warns them to say nothing to their guide. The woman does so, however, and the young man is taken prisoner, taken away from them as a “troublemaker.” The Enemy then suggests that he will be unable to get
them through the Indians around them without help, and he will need from each of them some identification so he can prove to the British they are indeed prisoners. They provide the identification.

  Shortly after the renegades and Indians are seen near the stockade by the young man, and the Enemy makes preparations to move out.

  The woman and her daughter are convinced VANDERDYKE is the cause of all their misfortune and the girl then says she has seen him near the stockade, talking to the young man.

  The other young girl, who had been traveling with them, but who had remained very much in the background, has very little to say, and is not present when a plot is laid to seize VANDERDYKE. Using the girl as bait, they do catch him, and for the first time he comes face to face with his enemy.

  VANDERDYKE is to be tortured by the Indians and here the woman and her daughter object. She is refused, and when she angrily objects again, the Enemy knocks her down with a blow from the flat of his hand.

  Furious, the daughter threatens what will happen when help comes, and he tells them no help is coming, that he has used the objects they gave him to prove they were dead, and no hope is held out for them.

  Horrified, they hear him tell them that when he is through with them they will be given to the Indians, traded into the far west, and if ever found again, they will not be recognized, that the savages have their own way of dealing with such cases.

  VANDERDYKE and his friend are to be tortured then burned at the stake.

  The other girl gets into the cache of whiskey left at the fort (its presence known to her only through a drunken renegade’s babbling) and when the Indians are drunk, she liberates VANDERDYKE, and he takes them away with him.

  Under the stockade there is a secret cache of powder, also, and in leaving, he explodes it.

  An attempt to stop him is made by the Enemy and there is a fierce hand-to-hand fight which arouses the Indians and renegades, but VANDERDYKE’S FRIENDS have arrived also, and they escape at last.