Bendigo Shafter

by Louis L'Amour

  “Well, well.” The tone was cool, amused, somewhat taunting.

  The crowd parted a little and there stood the big blond man who had tried to cut my herd back on the trail. “You? Runnin’ for office? What office?”

  “Marshal.” I grinned at him. “And I want your vote.”

  “You do, do you? Well, you got a nerve.” He jerked his head at me. “I tried to cut his herd back on the Oregon Trail, but he stood me back in fine shape. Sure, Shafter, I’ll vote for you for marshal. I think you’d make a damn’ good one. You didn’t crawl, you didn’t stampede, and you were ready to back what you said.”

  He gave me a hard, taunting grin. “I may have to kill you some time, but I’ll vote for you for marshal. You’ve got sand and you’ve got judgment.”

  He turned his back on me and walked away toward Dad Jenn’s saloon.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Filleen said quietly, “there you have it.” He held out his hand to me. “I’ll go along with Colly Benson. There isn’t a tougher hand around than him.”

  After a few more visits we walked back up the slope to Cain’s place. It had gone off rather well. I’d never done any electioneering before, but I liked people, liked meeting them and listening to them, and I wanted to save our town.

  What Henry Stratton had said rankled, but there was much truth in it. What trade we had would disappear when the railroad came in, far to the south of us. There would be a little trade with trappers, prospectors, and the like, but not enough for a town. The soil was sparse and the season short.

  Why had we built a town at all? Because we needed it. We needed a refuge, and we needed a home and something to believe in. A town can be more than one thing to men. It can be a process of education as well as a place to live and make a living. But to build anything and to make it last calls for discipline, the inner discipline that a man provides for himself and the cooperative discipline that men give to each other.

  Slackness, license, and ethical laxity meant death to any town, to any civilization, and it was here, in some of these latecomers. Cain was building, Filleen was also, and John Sampson ... no doubt some of the others whom I did not know. Neely in his way, and Tom Croft in his, but Moses Finnerly, Pappin, and Trotter were leeches, contributing nothing, building nothing, but striving to fatten off the work of better men.

  They were empty people, who believed they were the wise ones, who would ride on from town to town until finally they were suddenly old and worn with no place to go ... if they lived so long. To such men death or prison was a kindness, for in the passing of time there came increased bitterness and usually a realization, too late, of the vanished years and the opportunities.

  It was good to be back, even with the changes that had come. Lorna had changed, too. A lovely girl always, she was truly beautiful now in a quiet way, and I ached for her. I knew something and guessed more of the dreams she had, dreams that could never be in our town, for they were dreams of a wider, richer life somewhere in a settled community. Lorna wanted children, a husband, church on Sunday, the shade of trees, the beauty of flowers, singing at her work. She was one of the good ones who would rear strong sons who would walk their way in pride of home, of country, and of pleasure in their families.

  “What do you think will happen down there, John?” Helen asked. “I mean when we go to vote.”

  “Nothing. They are too sure of themselves. They believe we are frightened.”

  Did John Sampson believe that? Or was he reassuring Helen and Lorna?

  We talked idly of the old days on the trail, of the long westward marching, and what we had planned. Tom Croft was there, and he sat listening, the old dream returning to his eyes. “Maybe we should go on,” he said, “the soil is thin here.” He turned his eyes to me. “What did you see of the western lands, Ben?”

  So I told them of the desert, of the parched and lonely miles, of the haunted nights and the Indians, but of the Grand Ronde also, and the green lands of Oregon. “It’s a good country, Tom. A better country for you than this.”

  “What have we done here, then?” he asked.

  “I’ve grown up,” I said, “and I think all of us have, a little. Sometimes we have the dream but we are not ourselves ready for the dream. We have to grow to meet it.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “and during the long nights riding west or the long days around the cattle I thought about it. At first I thought only of this town, of this place, and then little by little I began to wonder if this was not just a staging area for us, a place to live and grow in.”

  “Well,” John Sampson said simply, “I’ve grown. I’ve changed. But I doubt if my life will ever be so simple again.”

  We sat there drinking coffee and watching the people come into the streets below. “I think well go down to town,” I said. “Here comes Ruth Macken.”

  She was in her Sunday best, and so was Bud. John was dressed in his old black suit, and Cain emerged from behind an adjoining room wearing fresh overalls, polished boots, and a hat. I rarely saw him wear a hat, for he worked bareheaded, and he was usually working.

  Tom got up and took his hat. “Mary will be back. She’ll join us.”

  Neely got up. He had said little for the past hour, but he looked at us. “I wish Webb was here,” he said. “He’s the only one.”

  “And Ethan,” I said.

  “Aren’t you going to count me?” It was Drake Morrell. “How are you, Bendigo? It’s good to have you back.”

  He looked taut and worried. It took me a moment or so to see that was it, but it was there. He caught my look, then shrugged. “Things do not always go well, Ben. Sometimes things happen to a man ... or he lets them happen.”

  “Well, come along.”

  The poll was at Filleen’s Livery Stable. We walked along together, making quite a group.

  On the porch in front of the saloon, raised three steps above the street, stood a man who could only be Dad Jenn. He was looking up the street at us. Moses Finnerly was on the steps, and beside him and a step lower was Pappin.

  Several men idled about ... too casually, I thought. “Be careful, Cain,” I said. “They are ready for us.”

  “I’ll let you call the turn, Ben,” Morrell said. “I’m right with you.”

  “Helen,” I said quietly, “you and the other women get back and to our right, so we can keep the fire away from you. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Ben.”

  Ruth Macken spoke quietly. “I’ll stand closer, Bendigo. I brought my pistol.”

  “Howdy, folks!” Finnerly was smiling. “Good to see you all together like this! First time in quite a while.”

  “We take our voting seriously, Mr. Finnerly,” John said.

  “Of course! Of course! Too bad about that. You got down the hill just too late. We’ve closed the boxes.”

  “You can open them again,” John said quietly. “We intend to vote.”

  “Sorry about that.” Trotter suddenly appeared, a shotgun in his hands. “We’ve closed the polls.” He smiled at me. “I’ve been elected.”

  “Counted the ballots, Ollie?” I asked gently. “Even that?”

  “Well, not exactly.” He grinned. “But we’ll count ’em.”

  “We’ll all count them together,” I said, “after we have voted.”

  The other toughs were moving in, grinning unpleasantly. They believed they had us.

  “Boys,” I said, “you all know Drake Morrell, here. Drake’s with me in this.”

  Suddenly Webb appeared on the porch, emerging from the saloon. His face was flushed, and he had been drinking, but there was still that lean, dark face, the straight hard brows. And he wore a gun.

  When he looked at me he was smiling; it was a sardonic smile, a strange smile.

  “I told them, Ben,” he said cryptically, “but they wouldn’t listen.”

  “Drake,” I said calmly, “when the shooting starts, kill Pappin. Get five bullets into him, Drake.

  “Cain, you, John, Neely, and Tom,
you cut loose into that bunch over there.” With my left hand I indicated the toughs.

  “What about me?” Trotter demanded. “Ain’t I in this?”

  I laughed at him. “Ollie, I wouldn’t let anybody have you but me, I’m taking you and the Reverend there, I’m taking you myself.”

  And I drew my gun.

  They were not expecting it. We were still talking, and then it was there, in my hand. Now there’s nobody can draw so fast you don’t see it. That sort of stuff is told in stories for children, but there are men who can draw very fast ... and when you take them off guard it is easy. There’s such a thing as reaction time; it takes an instant for a thing to register on the mind, then the hand has to move. I was still talking, and they hadn’t thought I’d do it, not with the women present. And my gun was on the Reverend.

  Now I didn’t believe an old sinner such as I knew him to be would have all that trust in the Lord. And he didn’t. I saw his face turn kind of gray.

  Webb chuckled. “See what I mean? You ain’t gonna steal a march on Ben.” He looked over at me. “Where do I come in, Ben? Looks like you’ve taken the play.”

  “Take anyone you choose, Webb. I never doubted you’d be here when the going got rough. You know you always were.”

  “I was, wasn’t I? All right, I’m here. What’ll it be, boys?”

  Dad Jenn had not moved nor spoken, but he did then. “Why, I guess we go on with the election. Isn’t that what you want, Mr. Shafter?”

  “It is,” I said.

  “And move easy, boys,” Dad Jenn said quietly, “that gent back there in the barn loft door might not know what you’re fixin’ to do.”

  It was Ethan Sackett. He was up there, and he had a rifle in his hand.

  Dad thought I’d planned it that way. He looked over at me. “You never miss a trick, do you?”

  But we almost did. So much had happened, it had all been so close to shooting, so near to death. Dad Jenn set the ballot box out on the porch and we dropped in our votes, still wary, edgy, but nevertheless quite sure it was all over.

  Drake Morrell voted and then stepped back where he could look on, as Ethan was doing. I was there, my gun hoistered again, not really expecting anything.

  Suddenly someone spoke and I felt a cold shot of fear go up my spine. “Cain Shafter? Can I speak to you a moment?” It was Foss Webb.

  Chapter 28

  He wore boots with his pants tucked in, a vest, and a gun hanging low. His hair was long under his beat up old hat and the down on his face was soft. His eyes were staring, glassy. He was frightened but trying to look bold and confident.

  He had seen nothing of what had happened. He had not even heard that I was running for marshal in Cain’s place. Somewhere he had been hiding out, working up his nerve for what they had planned.

  “Foss!” Pappin spoke sharply, but I do not believe Foss even heard him. He was intent on doing what he had been thinking of, and he wanted to do it boldly and right.

  “Cain Shafter, I come to to ...!”

  His hand came out of his vest with the hideout gun, and Cain’s hand dropped to cover Foss’s gun hand.

  Even I, his brother, had not known Cain was that sudden. He was always so quiet, so deliberate, so easy sure in his ways. His hand dropped, covered Foss’s, and squeezed.

  “What is it, Foss?” he said gently. “What do you want, boy?”

  Foss screamed. His face went white, and his weak mouth twisted, and Cain released his grip, the gun fell from the broken fingers.

  Cain glanced over at Webb. “I am sorry, Webb,” he said. “The boy was going to kill me.”

  Webb came down the steps and walked up to Foss. “Boy,” he said, “what were you thinkin’ of? Cain’s our friend!”

  Nobody else moved. Cain touched Foss’s arm, and Foss winced away from him. “I’m sorry, Foss. I didn’t intend to squeeze so hard. Maybe you scared me.”

  Webb put his arm over Foss’s shoulders. “Come on, son. We’d better go look at that hand.”

  They went away then, and we saw the ballot box emptied and the votes counted. John Sampson won by fifteen votes, I won by eight, and Ruth Macken by one. Folks just weren’t used to the idea of a woman holding office.

  Colly Benson came out of the saloon with a beer in his hand. He looked over at me, grinning. “I don’t think I’ll try an’ shoot you,” he said, “somehow or other you’d come up holdin’ aces!”

  “Thanks, Colly. You had me worried.” He laughed. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  When we walked back up the hill Bud Macken looked at me. “Who are you going to arrest first?” he asked. “Nobody ... I hope.”

  “But what they did to Mr. Stuart!” he protested. “They stole from him, robbed him!”

  “We’d have to prove it, Bud, but I don’t think we’ll have to.” Lorna poured coffee, and we sat around the table. Ethan came up to the house and squatted on his heels against the wall.

  “What’s the next move?” Neely asked.

  “We do what we should have done before,” Sampson said. “We will draw up a list of ordinances, keep them few and simple, just enough to keep an orderly town.

  “It will have to be pretty much on our own say-so because it’s a long way to any other authority, but there’s none of us wants anything but peace and quiet with a chance to work.”

  “Seen a couple of buffalo over east of here, Bendigo. Like to have you ride out with me,” Ethan suggested.

  “Let’s see what Moses Finnerly and Trotter will do.”

  “What do you think?” Croft wanted to know.

  “I think they’ll pull out. They already have some of Neely’s gold, and they may figure they’d better take it and run before that investigation I promised can get started.”

  “Or they may make a fight of it,” Drake Morrell said. “Ollie Trotter liked being the power around here. He was careful where he stepped, but when he thought he could get away with it, he stepped hard.” “Drake, do you know Henry Stratton?” I asked.

  “Yes, I do. Eastern man, cattle buyer, rancher, and what not. I believe he’s invested in the Union Pacific, too.”

  “We had a talk last night. He says that towns grow according to their natural advantages, and that ours has none. It has only the gold and the trail, and the gold doesn’t amount to much, and the trail will gradually peter out when the railroad goes through.”

  “He is right, of course,” John Sampson said. “I have been thinking of it. In fact, Cain and I have talked about it. So far we have all done rather well, trading with the movers, and we’ve lived by hunting, and our planting has been successful only because we’ve had good seasons, but now is the time to think about the future.”

  “My mine will help,” Neely said. “I think the reason they wanted to get me to sign it over was because they had found something special.”

  “That’s possible,” Morrell said, “but that’s but one resource. We’ll need more.”

  We talked it around, but when all was said and done it boiled down to running cattle on the range and perhaps getting a contract to cut ties for the railroad. They would need them, and we were close to the Wind Rivers and a good supply of timber. I think when everybody scattered out to their homes we’d decided to pull in our horns, spend as little as possible, and begin planning for a move.

  When I walked outside with Ruth Macken I looked up the hill at her house. “I’d hate to see it empty,” I said, “I really worked on that floor.”

  “Nothing is wasted,” she said, “you learned a lot in doing it, and had the satisfaction of seeing your work completed and pleasing to others.”

  “Maybe that’s all there is,” I said.

  It was quiet in the town. Just before sundown I took a walk down the street, and there were few people around. Filleen sat before his livery stable, whittling. Rumson, who was agent for the stage line, was sitting with him.

  I went into the saloon. It was a simple room with a bar along one side and a half dozen tables. There was a
barrel with a spigot, several rows of bottles on the back bar, and some tin cups and glasses. On one of the tables there was a deck of cards, scattered as if from recent play.

  Dad Jenn was behind the bar. A man named Bob Harvey who had recently come over the plains with a dozen head of Holstein milk cows and a bull, was sitting at a table with a beer.

  Dad’s eyes were cool and measuring, very wise old eyes in the face of a man not that old. I suspected he had worked the end-of-tracks Hell Towns as the tracks moved west and there was little he had not seen.

  “I don’t know you, Mr. Jenn, so take no oflense at what I am to say. Serve good whiskey and good beer, no knockout drops, no house-operated games. The first man who gets robbed in here, unless you can show it was done by an outsider, and the place gets closed. Run it clean and you stay open ... all right?” “Fair enough,” he said. “It’s easier for me.” He leaned his heavy arms on the bar and looked out at the street. “Heard stories about you,” he said. “You’ve made a name for yourself with that gun.”

  “It is a name I do not want,” I replied. “For this town I want only peace, good business, and a chance to become something. Perhaps it won’t make it... many western towns do not ... but let’s give it a chance.” He nodded his heavy head.

  “We’re going to set up a meeting of the town council,” I told him, “and we will want you there.”

  “Me? I figured you folks knew what you was about and wouldn’t have use for me.”

  “We think we know what we’re about, but you’re one of the town’s businessmen. We would appreciate your ideas. From what I understand, Mr. Jenn, you’ve had experience with towns before this one.”

  He chuckled. “If you’re pleased to call them that. Most of them were towns only as long as the end of the tracks was there.” He straightened up. “I’ll come to your meeting, Mr. Shafter, and gladly.”

  I made the rounds, stopping to talk to people, shaking hands. I needed to know them, judge their potential for trouble or for support, and to learn from them as well.

  My ideas, such as they were, had been shaped by experience, by listening to more experienced men talk at home and around the west-moving campfires, and by reading Blackstone, Plutarch, and Locke.