Rivers West

by Louis L'Amour

  Yet the linens were fresh, the floors swept, the food excellently prepared.

  Alone in my room, with the doors locked and the hot water that had been brought for me in the tub, I bathed—the first time since leaving Quebec, and only the second since leaving my home in the Gaspé.

  The open papers I’d taken from the pocket of Captain Foulsham were almost illegible. One was a letter, apparently from a brother. I could make out but little of it, as water had blurred the ink and made it run. The brother lived in London and was urging Captain Foulsham to return.

  And I found his address.

  Seated in my room. I wrote to the address of the brother in England. Carefully, I stated just what I had found, and how I had come upon the body of Captain Foulsham. I also related how I had gone through the pockets and retrieved what was there, and the money would be forwarded to him.

  Moreover, I informed him I was quite sure the murderer was either one of the party that had come along from that time to this, or that the murderer at least was known to one or more of them.

  Each I described with care, adding such fragments as might be useful, then I took it upon myself to open the oilskin packet.

  In the packet was an order for the arrest of one Baron Richard Torville, a deserter from the British army, a traitor. There was also information to the effect that Torville had been an agent for certain forces in France against Bonaparte, but that he’d committed a murder and absconded with money that did not belong to him.

  It was a long bill, listing a half-dozen crimes. A picture emerged of a man shrewd, unprincipled, and dangerous, but one with powerful connections. The title by which he was known was itself borrowed without right…there was even doubt about his name. The past of the man was shrouded in mystery.

  There was no physical description.

  Foulsham, an agent for His Majesty’s government, had somehow tracked down and located this man—and Foulsham had been murdered.

  Now I was myself in possession of information that could lead to my death.

  Putting all the papers in the packet, I returned them to my shirt and went down to the common room.

  It was empty.

  In a small study opening off the common room, I found Simon Tate, the proprietor.

  “Sir.” I closed the door. “I have a matter of urgency and secrecy.”

  He picked up his glasses and stared at me, putting down his pen. That he was doubtful was obvious, but taking from my pocket the small stack of gold coins, I placed them on the table.

  “I would like a draft for those, and a receipt.”

  He eyed the money and then me. Briefly, giving only-the barest details, I told him of the body, that Captain Robert Foulsham was a man of importance, and that the money was to be returned to his family and the papers likewise.

  That Tate was a man of affairs was obvious. His questions were few and to the point, and in a matter of minutes I was leaving the study with my receipt tucked away in my wallet and the packet left to go back to England by the next post.

  Yet at the door Tate stopped me. Windbag he might seem when talking at large in the common room, but he was serious now. “This man of whom you speak,” he said quietly, “is a dangerous man. Once a man engages in political intrigue, it can become a way of life. You must ask yourself now, as I am asking, why is he here, in America? Such a man does not only think of escape. You can be sure he has other ideas.”

  He paused, “Mr. Talon, I must speak of this to a friend of mine.”

  This I did not like. Yet I hesitated. “What sort of friend?”

  “You might say that he has the ear of those who matter, Mr. Talon. He is a man who seems of no importance, yet when he speaks, those in power listen.”

  “Very well then.”

  “A moment, Mr. Talon. You have chosen to confide in me, and you have acted…you have acted correctly, I believe. So let us talk, just for a minute.

  “I know too little of affairs in your country, Mr. Talon, but I would assume they are similar to ours. Let us simply say that here the people rule—but to rule is not enough. The people must also be watchful, they must care for their country and its future.

  “There are many self-seekers amongst us, yet many of those are sincere patriots. Our country is growing, but there are many forces, some abroad, some within, that are dangerous to us. You know of the purchase of the Louisiana Territory?”

  “I have heard of it.”

  “Its borders are ill-defined. We have Spain for a neighbor on the south, and we have England on the north. I know that many of the English and most of the Canadians are our friends. But some are not.

  “What we have most to fear, I believe, are those within our own borders who think less of country than of themselves, who are ambitious for money, for power, for land. Some of these men would subvert anything, anything at all, my dear sir, for their own profit. They would even twist the laws of their own country in their desire to acquire wealth or power. Such men are always prepared to listen to a smooth-talking man with a proposal.

  “Are you going to stay among us, Mr. Talon?”

  “I do not know,” I said frankly. “I have come to this country because there seems to be opportunity. I am looking for honest work, success. Money, perhaps. I have heard they are building boats at Pittsburgh. I am a builder.”

  He nodded. “Good! Very good! We need builders, sir. We need them very much, but we need builders who build not only for themselves and for profit—and I certainly believe in profit—but for the future. Are you that kind of a builder, Mr. Talon?”

  I hoped I was. Political matters of which this man spoke had never entered my life or my thinking. Nor had it ever seemed that the government of a people was any part of my consideration. Suddenly, uneasily, I began to realize that it might be…that it was.

  “I hope so, Mr. Tate.”

  “Exactly. You must remember, my friend, that if we leave the governing to others, then others will govern, and possibly not as we would like. In a country such as this, none of us is free of responsibility.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What I am getting at, Mr. Talon, is that you have inadvertently come upon something that may be of great importance, and in which you are already involved. It might be very helpful if you would keep an eye on the situation…tactfully, of course.”

  “I don’t see how I could do that. My immediate concern is to go west and find a job building boats for the western waters. I’m no politician.”

  He studied me for a moment, then shrugged. “So be it. However, young man, you find yourself involved. If what you have told me is true, the murderer of the young officer may be someone very close to you. He may suspect you have or had these papers. He may attempt murder to recover them.

  “It has been said that the guilty flee when no man pursueth, Mr. Talon, but the guilty often suspect others of knowing more than they do. Your own life may be in jeopardy.”

  “I must risk that.”

  “And remember, sir, that whether or not you’re a citizen of the United States, you cannot achieve success if there is turmoil or revolution or war. Good government is everybody’s business.”

  I shrugged. “I know naught of government. I am just a builder.”

  He got to his feet. “I hope you continue to build, Mr. Talon. Good luck to you.”

  When I had closed the door behind me, I stood for a minute, pondering. There was much to what Tate had said. Good government was the responsibility of all. Even me, an alien and a stranger, if I was to make my home here.

  Jambe-de-Bois was waiting outside the inn soaking up the morning sunlight. He squinted up at me, one lid half-lowered. “They left. Rode off down the road.”

  “They?”

  “Macklem and them. He asked about you.”

  Macklem was gone, yet how far had he gone? It was not him so much as the snake-eyed man of whom I thought. Were they a team? Or did they, like Jambe-de-Bois and myself, simply travel together?

  My t
houghts returned to my tools. Perhaps I should get a horse or a mule…or a horse and a mule.

  The tools had grown very heavy, and the distance was far. Yet, if I could reach a river, I could put together my own boat and float down to Pittsburgh or its vicinity. I had only a general idea of where Pittsburgh was.

  I considered my finances and decided we’d walk.

  Then I saw the girl.

  Chapter 4

  *

  SHE WAS YOUNG, she was lovely, and she was riding a spirited chestnut gelding that she handled with superlative ease. Beside her rode two men.

  One was middle aged and stalwart of build, a man with sandy hair now going gray, a broad face, a hard jaw line, and the look about him of a Scotsman.

  The second man was young and good-looking, though not in the most robust way. Both men were armed; both rode good horses.

  They came right up to the inn door, and the girl looked at me, right straight at me. “Young man, may I speak to the host, please?”

  Something in her supercilious manner annoyed me. “You may if you like,” I said quietly. “He’s right inside.”

  Her face flushed ever so slightly—I was not sure whether from embarrassment or anger.

  “Would you call him for me, please?”

  “Of course.” Put that way, how could I refuse?

  Stepping inside the inn, I called out, “Mr. Tate? A lady to see you.”

  He came to the door, and his broad face immediately broke into a smile. “Miss Majoribanks! A pleasure! Would you step down, please? We’ll have a bit of something put on for you.”

  He held up a hand for her, and she stepped down, lightly, gracefully, gathering her skirt as she moved to the door.

  “Have you heard from your brother, Miss Majoribanks?”

  She stopped. “No, Mr. Tate, I have not. That is why I am here.”

  She passed inside, and he followed. Her two companions dismounted, the older one throwing first me a quick glance that seemed to measure me completely and then the same for Jambe-de-Bois. On Jambe, his eyes lingered.

  The younger companion got down also. “If you ask me,” he said to the older man, “this is a fool’s errand. If Charles were alive, he would have returned, and if he is not alive, what good can we do?”

  “He is her brother,” the older man replied stiffly. “She will do what she can, as her father would have done.”

  “I still say it is foolish.”

  “Perhaps, but she will do as she pleases, you know that. And if I were you I’d not try to dissuade her.”

  He shrugged. “I tried, for all the good it did me. She will not listen.”

  They tied their horses and hers to the hitching rail and went inside. I knew not what to do. I had never seen a girl who made me want to look again as this one had.

  Their words I barely heard. I simply knew I had to look upon this girl once more.

  Perhaps she lived not far away, for she was known to Simon Tate. Perhaps she stopped here often. It was a sparsely settled area, with many fields, meadows, and running streams.

  On an impulse, I entered the common room and sat at a table near the window. Tate glanced at me, a little surprised. The lady and her friends sat with their backs to me. I ordered a glass of cider merely for an excuse to look at the girl again.

  She was talking.

  “Mr. Tate, the last we heard from Charles was from St. Louis. He was planning to go up the Missouri—that’s a river out there—with a group of government men, scientists or surveyors or something. That was months ago.”

  “You must understand,” Tate suggested, “that mails are slow, and the expedition may still be safe.”

  “I do understand. The letter was written many weeks before I got it.” She looked directly at him. “Mr. Tate, I believe that letter was purposely delayed.”

  “Purposely?” He was obviously puzzled. “But why? Who would have reason to delay a letter from a young man to his sister?”

  “Because that young man had suddenly come upon information someone did not wish him to have. I know my brother’s seal. His ring is new. The seal had been broken and resealed. In other words, the letter had been read by someone else and forwarded to me only when they decided the contents were innocent enough.”

  “Please, Miss Majoribanks, aren’t you imagining this? I mean, your brother is an ambitious student. He is a naturalist of particular skill…a known man in his field. But he has a way of becoming deeply involved in his work, of losing himself in it. I believe you should have patience.”

  “I know my brother is in serious trouble, Mr. Tate. He may have been murdered or held prisoner. I mean to go west and find out for myself.”

  “Please, please!” Tate protested. “This is all romance. You have no certain knowledge—”

  “But I have! When my brother and I were very young we used to play all kinds of games—war games, capture games, often fighting plots against the Republic…you know how children are. We invented a country, our country. We called it—and I don’t know where my brother got the name—we called it ‘Iggisfeld.’”

  “I understand, but—”

  “You do not understand. Please listen. There was a girl next door whom we both detested. She learned of our game, eavesdropping, I suspect, and she teased us about it. Her name was Pucinara…I mean, it really was. So to us ‘Pucinara’ became a name, our name, for the enemy.”

  “Yes, of course, but I scarcely see—”

  “Please, Mr. Tate, read this.” She handed him a sheet of paper.

  Simon Tate took the paper, and, fortunately for me, he read aloud.

  After a brief account of his health, travels, and general condition, Charles Majoribanks listed a dozen or so plants by their common or botanical names and followed with several butterflies and spiders observed. Then he added, “You will be interested to know that I have come upon a particularly dangerous infection, a form of the Pucinara, which, if left unchecked, will be a grave danger to the Iggisfeld. I must follow this up, and if not prevented, will forward my conclusions to you. You will know those scholars best able to deal with this material.”

  Simon Tate paused when he had finished reading, then reread the message again to himself.

  “So I’ve come to you, Mr. Tate. You are an innkeeper and a cattle dealer, but you are also a man with wide knowledge of affairs. What should we do about this.”

  Tate looked at the message again, then looked at her. “What do you believe it means?”

  “Mr. Tate, the plants and other wild life listed were all known to my brother before he left home. There would be no purpose in his sending me such a list except to lend obscurity to what follows, which is the real message.

  “My brother has come upon some plot, some people he believes are dangerous to the country. This is his way of communicating that information to me. Obviously, he suspected his letter would be opened and read, and he wished it to sound harmless while yet telling us what he wished us to know.”

  Tate stared thoughtfully at the letter.

  “Mr. Tate, the Louisiana Territory once belonged to France. It also belonged to Spain. There are those in both countries who might regret that it has fallen into our hands.

  “There is unrest in Mexico, Mr. Tate, and I know enough of what is happening in New Orleans to know that every loose-footed adventurer in that part of the world is gathering there or in St. Louis or Pittsburgh or Lexington…expecting something to happen.”

  “You seem well informed.”

  She was intelligent, and she was assured. I was surprised to see how assured. Yet as she continued to talk, I could see why she had reason to be.

  “Mr. Tate, you knew my father?”

  “Of course. I respected him very much, a very astute businessman and trader. He made few mistakes.”

  “He made no mistakes. And he made none because he had information, the very best information and much more information than anyone else. He took care to see that his news was not only the latest but the
best.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Mr. Tate, did you ever hear of the Fuggers?”

  “Yes…I believe so. Weren’t they a very old people, merchants of some sort?”

  “They were. Merchants, moneylenders, men who financed trade and even financed Charles V, an emperor and one of the most powerful men of his time.

  “The Fuggers began as simple weavers, Mr. Tate. They were peasants, weaving in their cottages. Then, in the fourteenth century, one of them became a merchant. Within a few years they achieved great wealth, partly because one of them created fustian, a weaving of cotton and linen, but mostly because they gathered information.

  “They were a large family and soon scattered over Europe, but they exchanged their information. Their agents sent them information, their ship captains did likewise. It was the major reason for their wealth and power—they always knew a good deal more than those with whom they dealt.

  “If there was a crop failure in Russia, they knew it. If a ship with valuable cargo sank off the coast of Greece, they were the first to hear of it. They knew what was in surplus and what was likely to be scarce, and they bought or sold accordingly.”

  “But what has this to do with us?”

  “Simply that my father took a leaf from their book. He financed traders among the Indians; he had friends among the soldiers, among the flatboat men, among itinerant preachers. He received letters from all over the country, letters that told him who was going where and what was happening.

  “There was no mystery about it. He wrote letters, he requested answers, he even paid for information. At the time of my father’s death, he had over one hundred correspondents in this country and in Europe.”

  “I see.”

  “You begin to see, Mr. Tate. This correspondence grew too large for my father to handle, so my brother and I helped. We opened the letters, read them, listed the information in ledgers, and passed the most important letters on to my father.

  “Since my father’s death I’ve continued this correspondence. Despite the fact that we no longer live in New York and Boston, the letters have come, and I have maintained contact with all these sources and have helped to operate my father’s business.”