Bendigo Shafter

by Louis L'Amour

  Rifle in hand, I went up the cliff, hung the sling over my shoulder and started to climb.

  It was not easy. It was too dark to see properly despite the snow, and ice had dripped down from above onto the rocks. Slowly, carefully, I worked my way upward.

  I heard the clatter of hoofs some distance off, a shout, then a shot, a yell...

  I kept on climbing, and what seemed a long time later, I topped out on a narrow ledge. Along it I went, hurrying. Once I slipped and almost went over the edge, then pulling myself up, I saw a dark slit in the rock and peered into it. Some distance beyond I could see snow, and edged my way through.

  Where they were now, I did not know, but Indians would not long be fooled. What had Finnerly done? Traded guns or whiskey probably and the promise of a scalp.

  I crossed the clearing at a trot and climbed into a nest of boulders, desperately hoping for shelter. It was growing colder.

  Then I worked my way back into the trees. In the darkness there, I stopped. Indians will rarely attack in the trees as the ambushing party has the advantage. Waiting there in the bitter cold, I thought of the long miles that separated me from home.

  I climbed higher into the rocks and brush. There, on a shoulder of the mountain I found a small wind-hollowed cave. It was no such shelter as I wanted, only a ledge with some overhang above, but as long as the wind did not get around to the east by south I was relatively safe.

  There was broken rock so I built a small wall to protect a corner of the cave. From roots and brush I gathered together the materials for a fire. A pack rat had nested here, or some other creature. In the darkness I could not tell, and there was an old dead tree fallen half across the front of the cave.

  Huddled there, shaking with the cold, I put together a small fire. It might attract some lead but at least I would not freeze, and the chances were I was so high and partially sheltered that they might not see me.

  Far away to the south was our town, far away across the icy miles. They were there now, around their warm fires, sitting down to supper. Cain would be lighting his pipe, and perhaps Ruth and Bud would come down.

  Tonight was Christmas Eve.

  Chapter 35

  The rock floor of the shallow cave was cold. The small fire I permitted myself kept me alive but little more. There was no room to stand in the cave, only to rise on my knees, yet I did so time and again, going through the motions of the teamster’s warning to keep the blood moving. There were no stars. Nor was there any sound. The chances were that the Indians had gone, yet I dared not risk it. From the brief glimpses I had of them they had seemed to be Shoshone, but the Shoshone were friendly to the white man, had even fought beside him.

  All but one. And perhaps his friends. Had Finnerly heard that story? Of course. It was one of the most often told stories in our town, for it had been our first trial of strength against the wilderness.

  Seated by the fire, adding fuel stick by stick, for there was little enough within reach, I contemplated my situation. Bitter as was the cold, it was in my favor. No Indian likes to fight in the cold, or even to move around, and the chances were they had planned for a quick kill and a return to their lodges. What worried me was that my horse would probably return to Cain’s stable and they would send out a search party, ruining the planned Christmas.

  As soon as daylight came I must try to get out of here. I must start back.

  No shots came, no sound. Taking a chance, I built my fire a little larger, and the waves of heat began hitting the back of the cave and reflecting from it.

  Yet too much warmth was a danger. If I fell asleep my fire might go out, my enemies might come. Heavy-lidded and tired I huddled, shivering in the shallow cave.

  Somehow the night passed. Right then I was wishing Santa Claus might come along for I’d relish a ride in a nice warm sleigh that could rise over the tangle of brush and rock that lay between me and home.

  A faint grayness showed along the horizon. I warmed my hands again at the fire, wanned my mitts as well as I could without burning them, and slipped a hot rock into each coat pocket to warm my fingers.

  It was bitter cold. I’d figure it twenty below zero or more, and I was a fair judge. After a man has lived in cold country he learns to tell by the crunch of snow, the cracking of branches, the very feel of the air.

  For a time I crouched in my cave, studying the outside. Nothing stirred ... certainly no wild animal or bird would be out on such a day, and the Indians were just as wise. Flattening against the rock wall, I worked my way out of the cave, momentarily expecting a shot.

  When I crawled up through the rocks to the crest I looked all around. There were no tracks ... nothing.

  Far away to the south I could detect a thin trail of smoke from our town or one of the other settlements that had sprung up in the vicinity:

  I started off at a brisk walk. Here, high on the mountain, the wind had swept much of the snow away, but ahead of me lay deep snow, not crusted enough to bear my weight.

  For an hour I walked, then struck a dim trail that I believed I had traveled before ... months ago. The snow had changed the appearances of things and I could not be sure, but south was my direction.

  A bitter wind was blowing that intensified the cold, so I started down off the crest and into the comparative shelter of the canyon. Several times I paused to stamp my feet, and soon I knew I must rest a little. Exhaustion is the greatest danger in the cold, for the body then has no reserves with which to fight its battle to survive.

  At a turning of the canyon wall I came upon a huge tree that had tumbled from the bank above and lay at a steep angle, its top buried in the canyon snow. The roots still clung to the earth above, and the hollow beneath was sheltered by the snow that had packed itself among the branches and needles of the spruce.

  Scattered about were the remains of dozens of other deadfalls. I had come several miles, but I would be a fool to push on and exhaust myself, so I went under the huge tree, and with the third match had a fire going. I then broke boughs from a living spruce nearby and laid them on the ground until I had a thick carpet.

  Taking my time so as not to grow too warm, I did each thing with care. Soon I had put other branches over part of the face of the opening and had a snug place inside shaped like an Indian teepee, and almost as large as one.

  There was no lack of fuel. Along any such woodland canyon there are always masses of dead timber, old trees that have fallen, other trees killed in blow-downs, and those that have died from insects, disease, or accidents.

  I settled down to wait the storm out. I still had a little food, and there was a cup. In this I boiled water and made tea. Snug in my shelter, I enjoyed my fire, sipped hot tea, and considered how quickly a reasonably civilized man can become primitive. And how fortunate he is if he knows how primitive man survived.

  It is a thing I must remember, that men must always remember, that civilization is a flimsy cloak, and just outside are hunger, thirst, and cold ... waiting.

  They are always there, and in the end, unless man remembers, they will always win.

  Later, much later, I dozed, slept, awakened to add fuel to my fire, then dozed again. Toward evening I brewed another cup of tea, sipping it slowly. In my mind I thought my way over the route I must follow and considered whether I should try now, before the day was over.

  This was a good shelter. I did want to be home for Christmas, but in such cold as I now faced it would be best to wait, conserve my strength, and be careful not to overextend myself. It was always my way to push on, to keep going, yet at this moment it was the wrong way.

  Ethan, Cain, and the others knew me. My horse would probably get back safely and they would worry, yet they knew the country as well as or better than I ... if I were wounded or hurt and down on the ground the cold would kill me before they could reach me, and if not, they knew I would be wise enough to hole up and wait it out.

  I added more spruce boughs to the opening of the shelter, walling off the cold. Soon I gre
w warmer.

  It was going to be a cold evening and a colder night, but now I was safe, I could last it out for days if necessary. I brought my guns closer to the fire ... but not too close. I knew cold would stiffen the action, and I must be ready for anything.

  All through the long night I thought, dozed, listened, and kept my fire going. How many men such as I must have huddled over fires in the bitter cold? Indians, and the men who came before the Indians, perhaps those who built the Medicine Wheel ... The People Who Came Before ... The People Who Had No Iron. Who were they? What were they? Why did they build their shrine in that place? Had it been a place of pilgrimage?

  They must have known this canyon, must have walked the trails I had walked.

  No doubt men who had huddled over just such fires as mine had pondered such questions. Ethan had told me the Hopi religion was one that merited study ... he was not a read man, but one who thought clearly and to the point, and who had perhaps a greater grasp of Indian thinking than anyone I knew.

  The trouble was that he was much like Indians I had known and did not pass on his ideas or discoveries to any chance passerby. The world from which I had sprung was a world excited by an urge to communicate, to tell, exhibit, relate. As soon as an idea came to one, or a discovery was made of whatever kind, it was our way to rush into print or to a platform. The Indian had no such compulsion. Of tales of war and hunting they had no end, and were expected to relate them with drama and excitement to the people of their village, but much knowledge was assumed to be known, whether it was or not.

  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 tree 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 III

  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 m
y 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 showed 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.”