I didn’t think she’d do it, although you can never tell about women, but I said it for the effect on the Indian. He might not know the words but he would get the idea.
I’ve no argument against the Indian. He was a mighty savage man and he fought the way he knew how. Only toward the end was he fighting for country, mostly he fought just to be fighting.
No Indian could get a wife or be counted a warrior until he had taken a scalp, and Indians were celebrated among themselves for their victories, just as were the knights at King Arthur’s court.
We went on back to our town, and I woke Cain up. He listened to what I had to say while we got the Indian inside and stretched him out before the fire. Then Lorna went to awaken John Sampson. Between us we set the Indian’s leg and put splints on it. “You’d better keep his hands tied,” I advised. “He doesn’t know what’s going on. So far as he knows we’re getting him well just to kill him.”
“I wonder where he got those scalps?” Cain asked. He glanced at his watch, then looked up. “Merry Christmas, everybody,” he said, “it’s nearly one o’clock.”
We all answered him and then I looked down at the Indian. “And a Merry Christmas to you, too!” He glared at me, then spat.
“Well,” I said, “he’s got nerve. Lorna, you’d better get some sleep. Morning isn’t too far away.”
John Sampson went back to his cabin to bed, and Cain sat down and lighted his pipe.
“There hasn’t been any snow,” he said, “and this Indian must have left a trail.”
Well, we looked at each other, thinking of what might result. This Indian killed two white people, one of them a woman, by the looks of the hair, and they might have friends. “You go to bed, Cain. I’ll watch.”
“All right.” He got up. “I confess I’m tired. But do you keep watch out the window, too.”
“You don’t look much like Santa Claus,” I said, to the Indian, “and if you bring us any gifts it won’t be what we want.”
There was some soup Helen had put by the night before, and I warmed it up, and when it was warm, took it and a spoon. “Come on,” I said, “and I’ll feed you.”
He spat at me, and I just grinned at him. “What’s the matter, brave warrior? Are you scared?”
He glared at me, then opened his mouth, and I fed him the bowl of soup, spoon by spoon because his hands were tied. When it was finished I said, “You’d better get some sleep, redskin.”
Fixing myself a cup of coffee, I then went up the ladder to my bed and got the book I was reading. Only this time she had given me two at the same time, and I decided to take both of them down. The first was the Essays of Montaigne. The second was the Travels of William Bartram.
I wanted to read both of them so bad that I’d started one, then the other, and would read a piece of each. Bartram was a plant-hunter, a naturalist they called him, and he wrote a lot about the Cherokees and Creeks who lived in Tennessee, Carolina, and Georgia, where he wandered about.
Sitting down there with a cup of coffee beside me, and the two books, I read until almost daybreak. A couple of times I looked up to see that Indian watching me. I figure he’d never seen anybody read before, and even though he said nothing the curiosity was in his eyes.
It was a strange Christmas morning. We had stockings hung over the fireplace for everybody, but at the last minute before the others came down, Lorna appeared with another stocking to hang over the chimney.
The Indian had slept little, but he watched her hang it with straight black eyes that revealed little. Then Ann, who was ten, and Bobby, who was just four, came down from the loft and rushed at the stockings.
There were others for Cain, Helen, Lorna, and myself. Then Lorna took the other stocking down and hid it across the Indian’s lap. He stared at it, then at her.
Leaning over with my knife I cut the rope that bound his wrists. They must have hurt, for I’d tied him tight for the sleeping hours, but he did not chafe them. He watched us like a cat, opening the things in our stockings.
There was a carved wooden doll, dressed in clothes Helen and Lorna had made for it, for Ann. There were a half dozen wooden soldiers for Bobby, and two carved wooden Indians. Cain and I, we both worked well at carving, and these were very lifelike. There was some rock candy and popcorn balls, and some odds and ends for the youngsters.
In my stocking there was a red knitted scarf from Lorna and a new, beautifully made hand-axe from Cain.
The Indian turned his sock over, then dug into it. The first thing was a chunk of rock candy. He had seen the children eating theirs, so he tasted it, then popped it into his mouth. There were popcorn balls for him, too, an old clasp knife that once belonged to Cain, and a silver button, a small sack of colored beads, a packet of needles — much in demand among Indians — and some more popcorn balls and rock candy. He examined every piece.
Helen was busy over dinner with Loma helping. Cain had been outside feeding the stock when suddenly he came to the door for his rifle. “Bendigo?”
When I looked up, he motioned me to join him. Seeing he held his rifle, I picked up mine. Webb was outside the door with Stuart, Croft, and Sampson. They were looking down the valley, and we could see a dark cluster of riders, out in the open and coming on steadily.
“Who do you think they are?” Webb wondered.
“I think they’re trailing the Indian,” I said.
“Indian? What Indian?” Webb demanded. He turned hard eyes on me. “I’ve seen no Indian.”
“We’ve got one inside. He’s wounded,” I said. He stepped to the door and opened it. The Indian was lying down again, his eyes closed. He looked pale and sick. His gifts were clustered close to him. “If they want him, let them have him.”
“No,” I said.
He looked at me. “Bendigo,” he said, “I think ...”
“Webb,” I said, “we found him wounded, Lorna and I. He had two scalps with him, but he was wounded, helpless, and this is Christmas Day.”
“Two fresh scalps? I’ll kill him myself.”
“No, Webb. Let him be.”
He glared at me. “Damn it, Ben. I like you, but I’ll be double-damned if any murderin’ redskin can come in here ...”
“We brought him in, Webb. In his village we would be safe as long as we stayed in the village. Let’s give him the same thing.”
“You weren’t very safe this winter! You an’ Mae. I could kill him for that.”
“That was a camp. I don’t think it figures to be the same thing.”
The riders came on, a dozen tough men. They pulled up.
“Howdy, folks. We’re trailin’ an Indian. A damned murderin’ Indian. He killed two of our folks, an’ we got a bullet into him, and another into his horse.”
“And we saw some boot tracks and moccasin tracks around where he fell, back yonder. Have you got him?”
“He’s inside,” Cain replied.
“Good!” One of them swung down. “Ed, shake out a noose. We’ll stretch rope with him.”
“No,” Cain said.
They stared at him. A big, bearded man leaned toward him. “Did I hear you say no?”
“You did.”
“You mean you’re protectin’ that thievin’, murderin’ scum?”
“I don’t know what he did, and if he did it to me, I would probably feel as you do, but we found the Indian dying in the cold. We brought him in. It is Christmas Day, gentlemen, and here he stays.”
They could not believe it, and I had not expected they would. Few white men, unless they had been long in the west, regarded the Indian as anything but a danger and an obstacle, something to be wiped out, as one would any kind of vermin.
Most of the military felt different about it, I knew. They had fought the Indian and respected him as a fighting man. The mountain men, who often lived among the Indians, had also come to accept and understand the Indian for the most part.
“Now, see here!” The speaker was a tight-faced man with high cheekbones and a h
andlebar mustache. “We come after that Injun an’ we’re goin’ to have him. We can have him give to us, or we can take him.”
“You gentlemen are a long way from home,” I said, “and this is Christmas. You are welcome to share with us. As for giving up the Indian, we will not, and taking him would not be a simple thing. Some of us might die,” I added, “but you’d go back with some bodies across your saddles.
“There need be no trouble,” I said, “but this is our town, and any shooting that is done here will be done by us.”
Webb stepped a pace off to my left. “And that goes for me,” he said.
Somebody coughed, slightly behind them and to their left, and looking around they saw Ruth Macken, holding a rifle in her hands.
And then Drake Morrell stepped into view. His coat was back, and anybody could see his six-gun, and almost everybody knew Drake Morrell.
“This is my town, too, gentlemen,” he said, “and I concur with my friends.”
Their eyes went left and right. Ethan had stepped out of the barn and was standing there, his rifle in his hands.
“That redskin murdered our friends,” the bearded man protested, “now you’re standin’ up for him. You ain’t heard the last of this.”
“I expect not,” I replied, “but we will hope we have. We do not want trouble, gentlemen, but you must remember that taking scalps is the Indian’s way of life and you are strangers in the country.
“We do not condone what he has done and we have ourselves had trouble with this same Indian.” Webb shot me a quick hard look. “Nevertheless, we found him wounded and freezing and we brought him in. If you want him you will have to wait until he leaves here and follow him into his own country.”
“You’re crazy!” The bearded man stared from one to the other of us. “You’re blind, stinkin’ crazy!”
“Perhaps,” I said, “but there you have it. Will you join us, gentlemen?”
“Like hell!” The man with the mustache turned his horse sharply around. “But you ain’t heard the last of this! Not by a damned sight!”
They turned their mounts and rode off, and we watched them go. Ruth Macken stood until they were out of sight, then came down to us. “What was that about?”
We told her, and she stepped inside. The Indian was lying on his pallet near the fire. Lorna stood by with a pistol in her hand, and the Indian looked up at us.
Ruth, who spoke Sioux as good as any Indian, spoke to him. He merely glared at her, so she tried another tongue. Ethan came in behind her. “He’s Shoshone, ma’am,” he said, and then spoke to the Indian. He talked, using sign language, and explained what had happened.
The Shoshone listened, stared hard at me, then at the others, but made no sound.
Webb looked down at him. “Is he the one bothered Mae?”
“He didn’t bother me.” Mae had come in behind him. “He might have, but Ethan and Bendigo fetched me away.”
“I don’t blame ’em. Hangin’s too good for him,” Webb said bitterly.
“But you stood by us,” Cain said.
Webb turned sharply. “Why not?” he said. “What the hell did you expect? This is our town.”
And that was Webb. A hard, bitter man with none of us knew what behind him, but if there was fear in him we never saw it, and no matter how he might differ with us, which was often and upon many things, he was always there when trouble came, and never the last to show.
We stood there on that cold Christmas morning, watching the riders depart, and there was within me a deep satisfaction, for once again we had stood together, strong for what we believed, wrong-headed though it might have been.
Looking about me at Helen, at Ruth Macken and Lorna, and at Mrs. Sampson, who stood bravely in her door, a shotgun behind her which I had not seen until then, I felt that our women would have compared well with those wives of Bavaria of whom Montaigne tells.
When besieged and defeated by the Emperor Conrad III, the gentlewomen were permitted to depart, taking with them only what they could carry and valued most. Those same gentlewomen took upon their backs their husbands and their children, and the Emperor, who had pledged to kill all the men, let them depart out of respect for their courage.
Christmas was a warm, pleasant day, and we passed it quietly, in good talk, the singing of songs, and the eating of good food. Ruth Macken and Bud had us up for supper at her house, and a fine meal she had prepared with Ninon’s help and Bud splitting wood for the fire.
We took the Indian along for we could not leave him, fearing what he might do when we were gone, and he lay on the floor and watched our doings, wondering at us, no doubt, as we should have wondered at some Indian customs and celebrations.
Drake Morrell was with us, quiet this day, and talking little, content to sit alone much of the time and simply watch. No doubt he was, as all of us were, recalling other Christmases in other times, perhaps in his own home, wherever that had been.
He spoke of the south, of Charleston, Atlanta, and of Boston, too. I thought he had lived much in the south, yet there was a bit of an accent at times, a strangeness of tone that caused me to wonder.
We in the west asked no questions of a man. He was taken by the name he gave you, if he chose to give one, and judged by his actions. A man’s affairs were his own.
That day I treasured, for it was the last of one world and the beginning of another. I think, sometimes, that it was the last day of my youth, although I did not know it then.
I should see the New Year gone, but the morning after I should be riding out, a horse between my knees and a gun on my hip, to a faraway place in Oregon where I would buy cattle. I should be on my own then, carrying the gold that was saved by us all, carrying it to make our first venture toward stability and success.
Were they wise to trust me so? And why did they? What had I done to deserve it?
I searched my heart while I studied the horizon, and I knew I must do what must be done. I would be a man riding a man’s way, and into a far country.
PART II
Chapter 15
The night after Christmas was not restful. The Indian lay before our fireplace, and we had no reason to believe him other than an enemy. The scalps he still carried were proof enough that he could kill and had killed.
Nor had he reason to love me, who had struck him down in one of their own lodges, before the old men. He had lost face then, and his only way to redeem himself in his own eyes and possibly theirs was to kill me.
He was our enemy, and the small gifts we had given him he would accept without gratitude. The ethics of the white man are his own, and contrary to what he may believe, are not shared by others. Not in all cases, at least. Each people has it own standards, often similar, yet with notable differences.
Yet we could hope that seeing us among our own would cause him to think and to wonder. We would fight him if we were attacked, we would feed him if he was hungry, we would ask nothing of him but to share this land, so little of which was used.
This captive Indian hated me, but not because I was of a different race, simply because at one moment I had bested him, shamed him before those to whom he had boasted. I did not hate him; but there has never been any hate in me for any man. Those I disliked, I avoided.
What I wanted in the world I felt myself able to get. The problem was simply the one of shaping this raw material that was me, shaping my strength and my thinking into the kind of man I could respect.
“What are we going to do about him?” Tom Croft asked. “How long are you going to keep that Injun?”
“We will take him back to his people,” Cain said. Ethan glanced at him, shrugged, and said, “Easier said than done, but we can surely try.”
“We’d better,” I said. “He’s a danger here.”
“A bullet would serve him better,” Webb said shortly. “I don’t know what you’re thinkin on. He’ll rise some night and murder the lot of you.”
Now that had been in my own thoughts. He was some better
, although his leg had a long way to go. He had been strong physically, and we had fed him well and treated his wound. I know our attitude puzzled him. Maybe he figured we were fattening him for torture, or something. I couldn’t see behind those black eyes whose beliefs, ideas, and impulses were so different from mine.
When a body has been taught from boyhood that any stranger is an enemy he isn’t apt to throw that belief away because of a belly full of grub, a warm fire, and a few geegaws given him.
What scared me was me going away and leaving the family there with that Indian, and Cain the only man. He’d have to sleep, and someday, somehow that Indian would get loose.
“I brought him here,” I said, “and I’ll take him. There’s villages to the north. I’ll take him yonder, build a smoke, and leave him where they can pick him up.”
“Kill him,” Webb said, “he can tell them all about us, now.”
“They know about us,” Sampson replied. “They know our strength and our weakness. We know that one mistake, and all of us can die, and that is our strength.”
“We should never have brought him here,” Neely grumbled. “The Reverend is right. They are a murdering lot of savages, and no mention of them in the Bible.”
“What has that to do with it?” John Sampson asked.
“If there’s no mention of them,” Neely said, “they are animals, not men.”
“I don’t recall any mention of the English, either,” I said mildly. He gave me a mean look, then changed the subject. “We got to think of a school,” he said. “We’ve talked long enough, and now we’ve got a man who can teach in it.”
Cain looked at him and crossed one leg over the other. “Who?” he asked.
“The Reverend. The subject came up, and we asked him if he would, and after some argument, he agreed. As long as he is going to be the preacher here ...”
“Is he?” Cain asked.
“Who else? He’s felt the call. John here, he reads well enough, but he’s no preacher. Not rightly speaking. Moses Finnerly is.”
Nobody said anything for a moment and then Cain asked, “Has Finnerly started his building?”
Bendigo Shafter Page 13