Slowly the night dragged away, and with daybreak I decided to move. In all this snow there was no chance of my fire getting away, so I left it to burn out in case I had suddenly to return.
Turning south I went down to the vague trail and started walking steadily, calculating my time.
My mind was made up not to overdo it. Cold dulls the brain, yet I fastened there the thought that I must not try too hard, do too much. It was the exhausted who were killed by the cold, and even with the town close by, I must not risk trying too much distance. The air was cold, but not, I believed, as cold as the day before.
The trail was curving downward, and there was no wind. Several times I stopped when I saw small bits of moss or bark that had been sheltered from the snow beneath a rock or log. These bits I stuffed into my pocket where the heat of my body would dry out what moisture they contained. If I stopped to build a fire I wanted to be ready.
The creek below offered an easier path, but of that I was wary. The ice would be frozen thick, yet there are occasionally warm springs beneath the ice which, coming up from the creek bottom, cause the ice to be thin…a step through into the water beneath would be all a man would need in this cold. Before he could build a fire and dry himself he would be dead.
I could see the smoke from several of the settlements now, and the thought of a warm room and warm food pulled me onward.
Suddenly I caught a flicker of movement. My hand went inside my shirt to my pistol.
Three riders and a spare horse.
A hand lifted and waved…they had seen me. It was Ethan, Webb, and Stacy Follett.
“You all right?” Webb demanded.
“Well,” I said, “I’m almighty cold, but most of all I’m figuring you boys ate all the Christmas dinner.”
Stiffly, on the second attempt, I climbed into the saddle. “Anybody ride out of town a couple of days ago? Maybe three men?”
Webb turned sharply around in his saddle. “Three men? Well, three men rode out of town this morning, cold as it was. Looked like they were headed for the railroad.”
“It was Moses Finnerly an’ that bunch,” Ethan said, “they took off.”
PART 3
* * *
CHAPTER 36
* * *
THE MAN WHO looked back at me from the mirror was a man I was only coming to know. The transformation had been gradual, but outwardly the result seemed to have been achieved.
My worn buckskins and shotgun chaps I had left in Cheyenne, and there I had bought a new suit of hand-me-downs.
“When you can,” Stratton advised, “get rid of them. Nobody wears creased pants for they obviously came off the shelf. You’ve got the money, so go to my tailor…you have his name and address…buy several suits.
“Remember this: In New York you are known to no one so they must judge by appearances. If you look like a gentleman and conduct yourself as one they will accept you without question. The town is full of sharps of one kind or another, male and female, and they like the smell of money, so be careful.
“I have written to my attorney there, and he will call upon you. If you need advice, go to him. The Fifth Avenue is the hotel now. There are other good ones, of course, and you will find fewer western people there than at the Hoffman House or the St. Nicholas, but the Fifth Avenue is where you should stay.
“Don’t expect much from your writing. They pay very little for such work, although it will open some doors for you, and it will give you identity. There are many writers in New York, but only a few are making a living. On the other hand, if you wish to read for the law, there is no better firm in the city.”
“I haven’t that intention,” I replied. “I want to visit New York, and probably New Orleans. Then I shall return here.”
“To Cheyenne? The town is growing, but so is Denver. You could do worse than to invest in either town.”
And now I was in New York, looking into the mirror in my room in the Fifth Avenue Hotel. The man who looked back at me from the mirror was different, somehow, yet it was me. Six feet two inches, weight one hundred and ninety, tanned by sun and wind, wearing a carefully tailored dark suit, a white shirt and tie, Bendigo Shafter.
“You are a long way from the Beaver Rim, Bendigo,” I told myself, “a long way.”
Yet there was a reminder of the South Pass behind my belt. I had left much behind, but not my pistol. Straightening my tie again and taking up my coat and hat, I went out into the hall. I was walking toward my second ride on an elevator, an object of which the hotel management was exceedingly proud. It was said to be the first hotel elevator in the world. I had ridden up on it, but not down…what if it fell?
Two other men got on with me, accompanied by two girls who were giggling with excitement. I guessed it was their first ride, too.
When I reached the corridor, I glanced around. Lighted by gaslight, which I was also seeing for the first time, it shone with marble and polished wood, glittered with crystal.
A tall, fine-looking man with gray sideburns approached me. “Mr. Shafter? I am John Stryker. Mr. Stratton suggested I call upon you here, and when I saw you I knew at once you were the man I was looking for.”
“Yes, sir. I was about to have dinner, sir. Would you join me?”
“On the contrary. You shall be my guest.”
Over dinner we talked, and as we talked Stryker indicated various people who were dining or passing through the room. Some of the names I remembered from my careful reading of what newspapers had come my way.
“Stratton told me something of your…your adventures. He also mentioned your age, but you seem older.”
“I am older,” I replied. “On the frontier every boy wishes only to be a man. One is eager to be given responsibility and to be worthy of it. So if you do your job and act the part they accept you as you are. It is the willingness to accept responsibility, I think, that is the measure of a man.”
“What about your town?” Stryker asked.
“Right now it is doing well. We’ve some cattle, and there’s still business from the wagon trains, and then, of course, there’s the mining. There’s considerable gold there, but personally I doubt if the finds will prove to be extensive.”
“I doubt if I would know gold if I saw it. Not in its native state.”
I smiled at him. “I can show you some. Right now, in fact.”
Reaching into my vest pocket I took out a nugget about as big as the end of my thumb. “There…that’s raw gold, right from a stream bed.”
His face flushed, and he stared at the nugget. “Really?” He picked it up and turned it slowly in his fingers. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Not unless you have too much of it,” I told him, smiling, “and it isn’t that easy to get.”
A man had stopped near our table, and he was staring at the nugget. “Say there! May I see that?”
Stryker glanced up. “Yes, of course. How do you do, Mr. Greeley.” He turned to me. “Bendigo Shafter…Horace Greeley.”
This was the editor of the Tribune. Everybody along the Overland Trail knew of his famous ride with stage driver Hank Monk.
He was a man of about five feet ten inches, stout, with a partly bald head and white hair. He was dressed in a black suit, white vest, and a black tie that was slightly askew. He took up the nugget in his fingers, turning it to catch the light, and peering at it through his spectacles. “Yes, yes. Very nice. Very nice, indeed. Where did you get it, young man?”
“From a mining claim of mine in the new Territory of Wyoming. You know the country, sir. In South Pass.”
“Yes, yes of course. Indeed I know the country. Not much of a pass, though, just a great big wide open prairie.”
He sat down abruptly. “Shafter, you say? Yes, that’s the name…Bendigo Shafter.” He looked at me again. “I read a piece of yours. Something about a mountain lion.”
“You read it, sir? But I…”
“I know…I know. I am interested in things western, and my friend showe
d it to me. Very interesting. Very interesting.”
“You’re a famous man out west, sir,” I said, without smiling. “Everybody tells the story of your ride with Hank Monk.”
“Monk? That stage driver? Was that his name? Oh, yes! Of course. Hank Monk. I should have known better than to ride with a man like that, and when I was in a hurry, too.”
“But he got you there, Mr. Greeley.”
Greeley chuckled. “Yes…yes, he did.” He peered at me over his glasses. “Visiting in New York?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He struck it rich in the mines, Mr. Greeley. He was just showing me what raw gold looks like.”
“Hmm. Not much of it as pretty as that. Come and see me, young man. Come and see me. You write well, but what is more important, you think well…don’t clutter up your work with a lot of nonsense.”
He moved off, walking awkwardly.
“By the way,” Stryker said, “are you interested in the theater? There’s a new play opening…or I should say an old play in a new production.”
“Yes, I am interested.” I was thinking of something else. “I believe I shall be going to New Orleans soon.”
“If there is any way in which I can be of service…? Mr. Stratton was very emphatic, and if I fail to see anything or do anything you wish to do, I think he’ll have my scalp.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve been seeing the town and learning about it, too.” I looked down at my hands. Had they grown a little whiter already? Or was it my imagination? And had I grown softer? “Yes, I’d enjoy the play. What is it called?”
“Fashion…it was written twenty-five or thirty years ago…one of the first successes by an American, I think.”
I was listening, but I was watching the people, wondering about them, enjoying the pageant they made. And then suddenly I was not enjoying it any longer.
My glass was in my fingers, and I almost dropped it, then placed it carefully upon the table. “Stryker,” I said, “that group over there? Do you know them, by any chance?”
He glanced the way I was directing my attention. “The girl is Ninon Vauvert…she’s from that play…the new one I was mentioning. The younger woman is in the play also, but the other fellow…I am sorry for her. She’s in bad, bad company.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Jake McCaleb, or that, at least, is the name he uses here. He’s been a riverboat gambler and several worse things. He’s a dangerous man, Shafter, and I’d leave him alone.”
“I know her.”
“You know her? Ninon Vauvert? How could you? She’s an actress…from New Orleans. She joined the show there and she’s playing the part of the maid…it’s a good part…in the play.”
“Will you wait for me? I am going to speak to her.”
“Be careful then. There’ve been a lot of stories told about the man, and they say his enemies don’t last long. The police know all about him but have never been able to get enough for a case against him.”
I’d been only half listening. Ninon was no longer a child. She was young, beautiful…but a woman.
I wended my way among the tables, and as I drew near, her eyes turned toward me. For a moment she sat perfectly still, her eyes widening. Then she came swiftly to her feet.
“Ben! Oh, Ben! Is it you?” Her fingers clutched both my sleeves.
“It has been a long time.”
The other two were on their feet. McCaleb was speaking. “Do you know this man?”
“Know him? Of course, I know him! Ben, sit down, won’t you? We’ve so much to talk about.”
McCaleb’s face was growing red. “Ninon, haven’t you forgotten…?”
She turned swiftly. “I have forgotten nothing. I told you I was not interested. Now I am telling you again.” She looked down at the other man. “Come along, Charles. You will want to know Ben. He’s…”
McCaleb came around the table. He moved swiftly and easily, and he seemed unhurried. He stepped in front of me. “You were not invited, my friend. Now I suggest you go…alone.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said, smiling at him, and taking Ninon’s elbow I guided her through the tables toward where Stryker waited.
When we were seated, I glanced back. McCaleb was settling his bill. Then he turned toward us, and I knew trouble when I saw it, but this was no barroom. It was one of the most elegant dining rooms in the city.
He was standing over us then. One of my boots slipped from under the table. “Look here, you…” His hand grasped my collar.
Hooking one toe behind his heel, I stood up suddenly, jerking the foot toward me. My standing up suddenly was all that was needed. He tried a quick step back as my toe jerked, and he fell, hitting the floor with a crash.
“Oh,” I said, “you’d better watch it there. Here, let me help you.” Before he could gather himself I leaned over as if to help him up, taking him by the shoulders to lift. My knee came up sharply and collided with his chin, knocking his head back as though it were on a hinge. Then I picked him up, made a show of brushing him off, and to the waiter and the captain who came over, I said, “I am afraid this gentleman is a little under the weather. I suspect you’d better call a cab for him.”
Smiling, I pushed him gently into their hands and sat down.
He was groggy, shaken by his fall but knocked almost unconscious by the smash from my knee.
As he was taken slowly from the dining room I sat down. “Poor fellow!” I said, “I am afraid he has had one too many.”
Ninon was looking at me, her eyes dancing. “Oh, how I wish I could have done that! That man has been bothering me for days, and everyone seems to be afraid of him. But how did you do it?”
“I was just trying to help him, you know. He seemed a bit unsteady, and well…”
The headwaiter came over to our table. “I am sorry if that man caused any trouble. You shan’t be seeing him in here again.”
“It was no trouble,” I said. “He seemed upset about something.”
Stryker was puzzled. “What did happen? When you got up he fell over, and then you helped him up, but I can’t believe the fall hurt him as much as he seemed to be hurt.”
“Don’t let it worry you. He will be all right in the morning.”
Stryker shook his head. “It will not be that simple. Jake McCaleb is a bad man, Shafter. He’ll have some of his shoulder-strikers after you. They are a rough lot…some of that Bowery crowd. You’ve made a dangerous enemy.”
“Ben”—Ninon put her hand on my arm—“how is everybody? Your brother? Mr. Sampson? Ruth? Lorna?”
“They are all well. In fact, Lorna is here with me. She wasn’t feeling quite well this evening so she stayed in her room. But I thought you were in New Orleans?”
“I was…then I was offered this part…I am playing Millinette…my aunt wouldn’t hear of it at first, but I was so eager to do it and she knew I’d not been contented. So finally she agreed and she came with me.”
“She’s here?”
“Well, it’s only for a few weeks. You know, most plays don’t run over a week, and two or three weeks is exceptional. When the play closes, I may do something else.” Her eyes met mine. “I have been offered several parts.”
“Mr. Shafter is something of a writer. Did you know that, Miss Vauvert?”
She was startled. “A writer? You, Ben? Somehow I never imagined you as a writer.”
I shrugged, embarrassed. “I am not, really. Just some things about the Indians, the wild animals, and the life out there.”
We talked, and she listened as I told her of my cattle drive from Oregon, carefully ignoring the gun trouble. It was nothing I cared to discuss, and I was hoping all that was in the past.
“You have a ranch, then?”
“Not yet, although I am running some cattle. Just before I left I bought sixty head from a man driving west who decided he’d had enough. I have a few mining claims, and I had been working one of them. I’m afraid, Ninon, that when the trail is no longer
used our town will die.”
“Oh, no!”
“We live in a changing time, and the railroads are going to affect all our lives. Anyway, our town did what it was supposed to do. It kept us through a bad winter, it gave us breathing time to take stock of what we really wished to do. I know I learned a lot there, from Ruth, from Cain, from Ethan, and from John Sampson. Yes, and from Webb.”
“He always seemed so dark and morose. He would have made a wonderful Cassius.”
“For his looks, yes. But if he had wanted to kill Caesar he would have done it alone, not with a crowd to share the blame. But he had depths of loyalty none of us realized.”
Stryker got up. “I am going to leave you two alone. Remember, Shafter, if there’s anything I can do, call on me.”
“Thanks.”
“And good night, Miss Vauvert.”
For a moment we looked at each other, and I hadn’t an idea what to say. I simply said the most obvious thing. “You’re beautiful!”
She laughed at me, then she stopped laughing. “Ben, I’ve missed you! And strangely enough, I’ve missed your mountains. As long as I’ve been away I find my eyes lifting toward the hills and then looking around for Indians.”
“They are there. That’s one reason I cannot be away too long. Some think it will be another bloody year on the plains, as it was in ’65.”
“I hope not. Ben, what’s going to become of them? Of the Indians, I mean?”
“Just what would happen to us in the same circumstances, and what has happened all the way across the world, I suppose. Some will go further and further back into the hills until they can go no further, some will fall by the way, but a good many will move out into this new world, and they will do well. The Indian is a Stone Age man, actually, but there is no question as to his basic intelligence. I’ve seen rifles Indians have repaired, and they were done as well as by any gunsmith who had grown up in the trade.”
Bendigo Shafter (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 28