Bendigo Shafter

by Louis L'Amour

  After the dishes were cleared I moved to one side and opened my Blackstone, although not much in the mood for reading. I was thinking about Joe ... one of the many who died somewhere out there.

  They had looked, but there was small time for looking. Just to exist in this country took hard work and there was little time for idling, or for anything that had not to do with the business of living. And these men had to keep horses ready for the stages that came along, had to prepare food for the passengers, had to change horses and get in hay, and all the while stay alert for Indians.

  Chapter 22

  I rode out before daylight, determined to get my bearings and some useful information.

  “Cattle?” The blacksmith looked up from his work. “We’ve had a killing winter, man. You’ll be lucky to find any for sale, but ride over yonder,” he said, pointing with his tongs, “and talk to Ben Snipes. He knows ever’ cow crittur in the Klickitat Valley by its first name. Tell him Ike Lancaster sent you.”

  When I rode up to the house a stocky man of some five feet eight inches, weighing about one seventy or a bit better, came to the door. He was wearing a white shirt and suspenders, his sleeves rolled up.

  “I’m Bendigo Shafter, and I’m up from the South Pass country to buy cattle. Ike Lancaster said you could help me.”

  “Get down and come in.” He turned to an Indian boy who had come up. “Charlie, put the gentleman’s horses in the corral, will you?”

  He turned toward the door. “We’re just setting down to supper. Will you join us?”

  After supper he pushed back in his chair and lit his pipe. “We’ve had a rough winter, so there’s not much stock around. I’ve got a few head of steers.”

  “I want breeding stock.”

  “Figured you would.” He drew on his pipe. “Fellow over on the creek has a few head ... have you got cash money?”

  “I have.”

  “Then you can buy. He needs money. I don’t, and if I had the stock I wouldn’t sell. This winter was bad but it’s only one winter, and this is cattle country. This fellow I speak of, he’s running scared.

  “I’d say he had about sixty, seventy head that pulled through the winter. Young stuff, mostly, and at least one good bull. He wants to sell and get out.”

  “Why don’t you buy his stock?”

  Ben Snipes chuckled. “I’m short of cash money myself. I’m going to sell the steers for beef and borrow to buy cattle. That sixty head wouldn’t be a patch on what I want, so make your own deal.” He grinned at me. “I don’t figure you plan to pay much, do you?”

  “I’ll pay what I have to. From what I hear all this stock is in bad shape, and I’ll be taking a risk moving it out of here, but if I take it slow I think I can make it.”

  “All right.” He took up a tablet and drew a map on it. “This man has a good place over there, but the winter scared him, and scared his wife worse. He’ll sell cheap.”

  “How about horses? I’ll need a few.”

  “Buy from the Indians, but be careful. They are shrewd traders and they’ll skin you out of your eyeteeth if you aren’t carefiil. They’ve got a lot of horses, good, tough stock, mountain bred and used to cold, and they make fine horses for working stock.”

  It was a good time to listen, for despite the killing winter they had been through, I sensed that Ben Snipes was a good cattleman, a man who knew what he was about, and a man to learn from.

  Ben Snipes was right, of course. The man he told me of was in an itch to get out, but I had nothing to say about buying, not at first.

  When I stopped by Tellegen’s house he asked me to light and set, as was custom in the western lands, so I sat up to table with him, and we talked of the hard times, of the rough winter, and of the chance for good grass, come spring.

  “I am going to buy some cattle,” I told him frankly, “but I’m looking for somebody who wants to sell cheap. I’ve got cash money, but the folks I represent are poor and they have little enough to do with.”

  “I’ll sell you mine for ten dollars a head,” he said, putting down his cup.

  I shook my head sadly. “More than I can afford. You see, all this stock up here is in poor shape after the winter they’ve been through, and it is not yet really spring. We’ll have some more bad weather, and some of the stock around here won’t last the time until grass grows.

  “I’d have to take very slow drives. They can’t stand much, and finding grass is going to be a hard thing to do. If I started out of here with a hundred head I doubt if I’d get to the river with sixty. That raises my price per head by a good deal.”

  They were good people, but neither of them was cut out for this country, or this life. She was eager to be out of it, and deep down, so was he. I knew they were going to sell those cattle, and sell them cheap, because it might be a couple of years before anybody came along again with gold to pay for cattle.

  We had ridden around over his place. Snow still lay upon the land, his stacks of hay were about gone, his cattle were skin and bones ... but they were Durhams, young stuff mostly, and had good conformation and their eyes looked clear, bright, and healthy. Our count showed fifty-two head including one good bull and one young one coming on.

  “This is good country,” I said. “A man would ride far to find better country than the Klickitat. I am sorry I hit it just after a bad winter. I’d better ride back down to Oregon and buy there.”

  “I might cut my price,” he said, at last.

  When I made my deal it was for five dollars a head, and I hired an Indian boy he had working for him to help me. The boy was about fourteen, I’d guess, a Umatilla Indian from the eastern Oregon country.

  My buying the cattle would have put him out of a job, but I needed the help. Tellegen told me he was a good, trustworthy boy. “Won’t sleep on the ranch,” he added. “Come night he takes to the hills.”

  That didn’t disturb me, as we would have hills to take to wherever we were. He agreed to hire on, then began to look worried, and as we moved the cattle eastward at a slow walk, I got the idea something was on his mind.

  We made only five miles that first day, but I had located a pretty fair patch of grazing where the snow had blown away, and I wanted to make it that far. We broke the ice for the cattle to drink, then turned them on the grass.

  They were not trail broken by a long shot, but were far too tired to give me any trouble. Also, the grass I had found them, while poor enough, was sufficient to keep them busy.

  When I started to cook, that boy started to fidget, and finally I asked him straight out what was bothering him. It took awhile to get the story from him but finally I did.

  It was his grandfather. The old man was living in a cave about three miles back, and the boy had gone each night to take him food. He wanted food for him now.

  “Bring him down to camp,” I said. “We’ll take him with us.”

  So I had two Indians and had made a better deal than I knew.

  Uruwishi was old ... I never could guess how old, and his time for death was near. He had sung his song to the Great Spirit, but there was strength in him still, and despite the fact that he had prepared his way, he lingered on, as he told me, to see Short Bull, his grandson, grow strong.

  The Umatilla were a small tribe, but its warriors had been brave, great trackers and hunters, he assured me, but Short Bull still had much to learn.

  Now I’d always had a feeling for Indian ways, although I’d had little enough to do with them. Ruth Macken knew Indians and their tongues, and she had often told me of their ways, as had Ethan Sackett.

  Now, seated beside the fire, I told the old man of my plans. “The cattle are poor,” I said, “the winter has been hard, and the man who sold them to me did not expect to see them come even this far.

  “My people need the cattle to raise other cattle, and if they are hungry, to eat. I must get them to Wyoming, and it is many suns.” Uruwishi talked to his grandson and then Short Bull turned to me. “My grandfather asks where yo
u will cross the great river?”

  I shrugged. I had been giving that a good deal of thought. Near The Dalles might be the easiest place, but I had thought little of that and planned to use a ferry if need be, no matter what the expense.

  Uruwishi spoke long and Short Bull explained. “You must cross at Umatilla Landing, east of here,” he said, speaking slowly. “There is grass, and by the time your wo-haws get to the Landing they will be stronger.”

  “Grass? Where?”

  The old man drew in the dust. We were near Golden’s place, and east of us he drew several creeks flowing into the Columbia, or creeks that we must cross if we went east along the north side.

  “Rock Creek,” Short Bull said, “beyond it Pine ... Alder here. There is grass.” He looked up from the drawing. “There are also men there who have cattle. They do not like strangers. They are bold men, and fierce.”

  “I’ll be passing through,” I said. “I hope they’ll not mind.” They looked at me but they said nothing, although the old man was grim. Short Bull listened to him, then turned to me. There was a kind of wry amusement in his dark eyes. “Uruwishi says he is an old man. It is his time to die ... but is it yours?”

  “If the grass is good, we will drive that way,” I told them, “and I do not think it is my time to die ... or yours. Anyway,” I told Uruwishi, “you cannot die now. You have hired on to ride to Wyoming with me.”

  He chuckled a little, then put out his pipe and went to his bed. Short Bull was with the cattle, and I remained by the fire trying to think things out. No news from home worried me ... there should have been a letter somewhere along the line.

  I wanted to hear how our town was getting along, but I also wanted to hear from Ninon. Somehow she stayed in my thoughts even when I tried to forget her.

  Also, I needed help with these cattle. They were tired and hungry. Once they got fed up they’d be a handful. And I needed horses, needed them the worst way.

  We drove a slow five miles or a shade better on the second day, reached Rock Creek, and forded it before bedding down. There was good grass in the meadows not far from the creek, and the cattle were willing to stop.

  Short Bull pointed toward the mountains to the north. “There is Horse Heaven,” he said.

  “There are horses there?”

  “Many ... and Indians.”

  “Your people?”

  He shrugged. “My people are few, and not there. They are Yaldma.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “I do.”

  “Could you trade for horses? Or get them to come to me here?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe so.”

  “Try,” I said.

  He spoke long to his grandfather and the old man talked a little, and then Short Bull rode away and I remained in camp with old Uruwishi.

  The night was a long one. I lingered by the fire until it was dark, then rode out around my cattle. They were a small bunch and clustered pretty well together, so there was little riding to do. These cattle were used to people and not as scary as some cattle I’d known, so part of the time to rest my horse, I walked.

  After midnight the old man came out to me, although I’d not planned for it. He shook his head and waved me to camp, so I went on in, drank a cup of coffee and lay down, not figuring on sleep. Next thing I knew it was daylight and the old man was shaking me awake.

  “Men come,” he whispered.

  Tugging on my boots, I got up and slung my gun to my hip.

  There were three of them. For a moment they drew up and looked at my cattle, then came on up to camp. Uruwishi had disappeared.

  I stood there waiting for them, me in my old run-down boots, my pants hanging over them, and a beat-up old hat on my head. They came on up, looked at me, then looked sharply around, “My name is Shelde.” He spoke with an arrogance that told me he figured the name meant something. “Norman Shelde.”

  “Howdy,” I replied. “I’m Bendigo Shafter.”

  “You’re on my range.”

  “Passin” through,” I said, “bound for Umatilla Landing.”

  “Like hell. Nobody passes through here. Your damned worn-out cows will infect my stock. You turn right around and drive them out of here.”

  “My stock are in poor shape because they had a bad winter over near Ben Snipes’ place.” I paused. “I don’t figure on driving them a foot farther than need be, and my way lies straight on.”

  One of them started to speak up but Norman Shelde stopped him. “You a friend of Ben Snipes?”

  “I know him.”

  “You buy them cattle from him?”

  “Read the brand,” I said. “You know whose brand that is.”

  “You talk mighty big for a man alone.”

  “I’m not alone,” I said. “I’ve got a Colt and a Henry, and they’ve come a far piece with me.”

  One of the riders started to edge his horse to one side, and I said, “Mr. Shelde, you tell that man to keep his horse still, and if he can’t, to get off him. I’d not like to think he was tryin’ to flank me.”

  Shelde didn’t know what to make of me. I was nowhere as scared as he figured I should be, and it worried him. He had to believe I had an ace up my sleeve somewhere, but all I had was a six-shooter that I’d learned how to use, and would use if they pushed me to it.

  “Where you takin’ them cattle?” Shelde demanded. “South Pass,” I said.

  “Alone?”

  “If need be.”

  The heavyset man who had been trying to edge over until I spoke to him spoke up. “How do we know you didn’t steal them?”

  “You can accuse me,” I said, “but when you do you’d better not do it unless you have a gun in your hand.”

  One of them pointed to a white stick well beyond the fire. “If you’re so much on the shoot,” he said, “let’s see you hit that.”

  “When I take my gun out,” I replied, “I won’t be shooting at no stick. I’m not a trouble-hunting man, but I never stepped away from any, either.”

  Shelde reined his horse around. “You heard me,” he said roughly, “you’re on my range. You got to get off.”

  “And you heard me,” I said, “I’m driving right through.” I pointed with my left hand. “I’m pulling out of here in about an hour, and I’m riding due east with my Henry across my saddle bows.

  “You can stand clear and let us through or you can object. I figured I might have trouble with you folks so I brought along a shovel and a Bible.”

  They didn’t like it, but neither did they feel inclined to call my hand. That heavyset one was fairly itching to try it, but he wasn’t sure. They all carried rifles in their hands, and I had only a gun in a holster, and they knew nothing about me getting into action fast. That was something only two or three men did know.

  They’d come out there to scare somebody, but when I didn’t scare they were no longer so sure of themselves.

  “We told you,” Shelde said as he rode off, and I let him have the last word. I’d nothing to prove to anybody. Maybe I was young but I’d already learned a few things, and one of them was that if you throw your weight around somebody is going to call your hand ... and he might be a whole sight tougher and meaner than you.

  These past few months I’d seen a few tough men go to meet their maker unexpected. I’d seen Webb in action, and the man he’d killed hadn’t expected to die.

  The way I saw it, if you asked for it you were going to get it.

  Chapter 23

  When they had gone old Uruwishi came out of the brush with his old Hawken rifle. I’d no idea where he’d been, but all the while the old coot had been lying back there with one of those men in his sights. It gave me a good feeling to know he was around.

  He might have years behind him, but those hard old eyes could look down a rifle barrel as well as any young warrior whose first scalp was not dry.

  We held our place, letting the cattle graze and waiting for Short Bull. He would find us, but I hated to move on leaving him
to ride into trouble unaware of it.

  Yet he was gone less time than expected, for he met four Yakimas on the south side of the mountain where they had gathered after a hunt. They had horses, and they were ready to trade. It had been a hard winter, and there was hunger in the lodges, so we talked, fed them, drank coffee, and they smoked. In the end I drove a close bargain. I was to get six horses for two steers and forty dollars. Many an Indian pony had been sold for ten dollars, but times were bad and these were to be especially good stock.

  I sent Uruwishi along to pick them out and remained alone with the cattle.

  Before they pulled out we shifted the cattle to a meadow several miles further along, with two of the Yakimas to help. We watered them, bedded them down, and then the Indians rode away.

  With my horses and rifle I pulled back atop a small knoll. The cattle were fifty to sixty feet lower down and contented to be resting and grazing. My lookout gave me a good view over the country around so I could see anybody who might come up on me.

  Building a small fire, I put on a coffeepot and settled down with a rock at my back and a view of the stock. Nothing was going to come up behind me with those horses of mine feeding nearby ... they’d warn me in time. Nonetheless, from time to time I took a careful look around.

  One time I picked up a little dust, maybe a half mile off, but whoever it was seemed content to look. I made no attempt to conceal my fire. Anybody with half a mind could see that I had good cover, and anybody coming up on me would be in view for a good quarter of a mile or further.

  Several times during the long evening I dozed a little, knowing the rest would do me good, and when night came I tightened my cinch, mounted up and rode down the slope, and began my riding around the cattle.

  They were a small bunch, so it was no problem, and I generally stayed back a little. Whenever I closed in I sang to them.

  After a while they got up, took their stretch and grazed a bit, then lay down again. I drank coffee, added fuel to the fire to keep it smoldering, then went back to the cattle. About daybreak when the cattle were up I loaded up and moved out, trusting to the Indians to follow, for there was little enough time for the long drive ahead. With any kind of luck I hoped to buy more cattle as we moved along, for much of what we had to go through was cattle country.