by Steve Frazee
“It’s still three mules,” Eddie said.
The drive did not start as easily as Eddie had thought it would. The mules gave them the devil’s own time about being driven from the valley. It was long after sunup when the herd was at last lined out. Hildreth had helped round up the mules. Now he rode close to Eddie and said, “Good luck, boy.” He went back and dismounted where Mrs. Hildreth was standing.
Eddie had told her good-by before he saddled up. It did not seem to be enough now. He waved and Hildreth must have known it was for his wife, not him. Mrs. Hildreth waved back. It was still not enough. Leaving, Eddie knew that he had been too late trying to express his feelings for the Hildreths. There had been too much acceptance on his part and no giving at all. Sure, he had earned his way. He meant to earn his way wherever he went. He had worked hard for Sam Hildreth.
But that much the Hildreths could have bought from someone else. Someone like Sonoma, who was going to stay the winter with them.
Eddie knew that if he had worked ten times as hard as he had, there was still some failure in his relationship with the Hildreths, something he had refused to give them.
Now it was too late.
The mules kicked dust on Eddie. They bit at each other and kicked and grunted. They started with a rush, then settled down to their own pace. Dust devils spun along the lower edges of the hills. Winter was in the air.
The buildings in the valley were flattened and lonely-looking when Eddie turned. The Hildreths had gone inside. Eddie saw the dogs cross the yard and disappear.
Four or five big stripers broke from the herd and started somewhere on a caper of their own. Eddie was slow to move. Flint came pounding through the dust on his wicked little Mexican pony and went after the erring mules.
Dust rolled between Eddie and his last long look at the valley. He was alone with the realization that there is no going back to recapture thoughts unsaid, to do things left undone.
Flint came riding back. “If you’re going to earn your keep, stop gawking around and pay attention to things!”
Eddie knew he had left home.
CHAPTER FIVE
SALT-BURNED and whipped to darkness by the long desert winds, Eddie came into the valley of the Great Salt Lake on a cold, clear day. His willingness to work and his taciturnity had earned him a measure of respect from Jeremy, although the man was careful not to admit it in words. It was enough for Eddie to know that he had done his job well; he expected nothing more than his bargained payment.
No one rushed either to buy the mules or to trade for them. It was winter. Unperturbed, Jeremy camped on the Jordan River and settled down to wait until spring, when the market for his mules would be much better.
After a restless two weeks Eddie said, “I’m going to take my three mules and try some of the settlements south of here.”
Jeremy considered the idea for a time. “Might be worth a try. Take three of mine too and see what kind of business you can do.” And then he gave Eddie some advice. “You’re young. These Mormons are hard traders. Don’t let ’em get ahead of you.”
Alone, Eddie went south to Spanish Fork. It was a straggling town with a street as wide as any in Salt Lake. He did not get any satisfactory offers for his mules there, so he scouted the country roundabout. It seemed that hay was more in demand than mules, which seemed strange because he saw no lack of hay anywhere.
Bishop Southcott, a bearded, portly man with twinkling eyes, explained the situation. “Along toward spring we run pretty short of hay, son. We’ve been so busy building canals and ditches that we don’t have time to cut and store it, as we will later on.”
The bishop himself had a dozen stacks of hay, four of the largest ones grouped close to his house and outbuildings. Along about spring he must make himself some money, Eddie figured. Still, it was darned strange that hay should be short in the fertile bottoms.
Eddie inquired around. Everyone told him that indeed the bishop spoke the truth: later on the shortage of hay caused no end of trouble. Of course it wouldn’t always be that way. Eddie thought it over; he didn’t want to appear overanxious to trade off the mules. In time he went to Bishop Southcott, who had shown some interest in the mules, and offered to trade them for six stacks of hay.
The bishop laughed heartily. “You’re asking for solid gold in place of those mules, Eddie.” He shook his head. “Six stacks of hay! I’ll say you’re a real trader, son.”
Eddie knew he was on the right track, so he tried to act like Jeremy. “I wouldn’t have no way to haul it to anyone who wanted to buy it, anyway.” He started to walk away.
The bishop had five sons. They all watched their father.
“Now if you were to suggest something reasonable,” Bishop Southcott said, “we might get along. Say, about two stacks of hay for — ”
“No way for me to haul it.” Eddie kept walking.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” one of the bishop’s sons said. “If Pa was foolish enough to trade you hay, there’s plenty of folks willing to pay you for it right in the stacks.”
“That’s a fact,” the bishop said. “Come into the house, Eddie, and we’ll have some buttermilk and talk about it.”
In the end Eddie traded the six mules for four stacks of hay, he himself to pick the four stacks, with the agreement that he could choose only one of the group close to the house. He ate dinner with the Southcotts. They were a fine, religious family and they showed high respect for the father, Eddie thought.
He delivered the mules that afternoon, and then he rode out into the valley to talk to some of the people who had first told him about the shortage of hay. Some of them said that they figured the spring was not going to be as severe as previous ones, that they did not intend to buy hay until they actually needed it.
Others said they had no money, or that they had already made arrangements to buy hay from neighbors.
The demand for hay had vanished suddenly. Eddie went back to his camp on the edge of town.
Billy Bodega was sitting there under a cottonwood, picking his teeth with a splinter. Eddie knew him by sight, a man who had a shack at the lower end of the street, where he gambled with Indians and Gentiles. Bodega was a dark, curly-headed man with a wide grin and sharp brown eyes.
He said, “Find any buyers for the hay?”
Eddie gave him a bitter look. “How’d you know?”
“Everyone does. More Saints than you’d think sneak into my place for a little game now and then.”
Eddie sat down on a stump. He needed advice and he needed help, but he wasn’t going to ask for either.
“All these places were settled by congregations,” Bodega said. “They saw you coming with those mules, particularly after Southcott passed on the word.” He watched Eddie steadily. “You’ve been hoodwinked.”
Eddie knew it. He was in a rage against himself for being a fool. Worst of all, he had allowed himself to be cheated out of the three mules Jeremy had entrusted to him for sale or trade. “You wouldn’t think a bishop would do that. A bishop of a church!”
“We did worse than that to the Mormons back in Illinois and Missouri, Eddie.”
“Not me! I didn’t do anything to them!”
“You’re still a Gentile out here,” Bodega said. “Were all of them your mules?”
“Three of them.” Eddie got up and looked at his pistol, checking the loads.
“Don’t be a fool. You haven’t a chance of getting them back. You’d better go on home and — Where’d you come from, by the way?”
“Clear across the salt desert.” Freezing, thirsting, choking on dust. “Is Southcott really a bishop?”
Bodega nodded. He watched Eddie narrowly. “He’s the big power around here. Put the pistol away and go home.”
“I’ll leave when I have the mules.”
Bodega made a quick judgment. For a gambler, he appeared startled. “I believe you mean that. How old are you?”
Eddie didn’t answer. After a time he put hi
s pistol away and began to cook supper.
Bodega was alone in his shack the next morning. “I’d like an empty whisky bottle, Bodega.”
“Sure.” Bodega glanced around with a pained expression at the disorder of the room. Behind the curtain of a corner shelf he found a quart bottle with about three drinks in it. He drank the whisky in one long motion, put the cork in the neck, and gave the bottle to Eddie, who started out.
“What are you going to put in it?” Bodega asked.
“Coal oil.”
“Don’t be fool enough to buy it at the store.”
Eddie stopped and turned around.
“I’ve about run out my usefulness here,” Bodega said. “I was about to move on anyway.” He grinned, lights sparkling in his brown eyes. “Fill it from the lamp there.” He began to throw personal items into saddlebags. “Mind if I watch the performance?”
“It ain’t your business.”
“If I had stuck to my own business, I’d still be reading law in my father’s office in Pennsylvania. Ever been back there, Eddie?”
Eddie corked the bottle and wiped his hands on his pants. “No.”
“I found it dull. Just hold up there a minute or two and I’ll be with you.”
They rode out together to Bishop Southcott’s house. Eddie said, “This ain’t none of your business, Bodega.”
“It sure isn’t,” Bodega answered cheerfully.
• • •
The bishop came from the house with two of his sons. He stroked his beard and his eyes twinkled up at Eddie. “Did you find some hay buyers, son?”
“Decided to keep the hay myself,” Eddie said.
The bishop was at once puzzled and wary. The humor left his eyes and he looked at his sons.
Eddie nodded toward the four stacks of hay close to the buildings. “That one on the northeast corner is mine.”
The bishop said, “Yes — ”
“I’ve come after it.”
Eddie rode over and tossed the bottle of coal oil against the base of the stack. He got down and drew his pistol and with a careful shot smashed the bottle. He pulled a tarred rag from his saddlebags and lit it.
The bishop and his sons came on the run. “Have you gone crazy?” Southcott shouted.
“My stack of hay.”
“You can’t burn it! Good Lord, boy, this close to my house and all — ”
“You traded me the stack of hay. You said it was mine.”
One of the bishop’s sons started back toward the house. Eddie fired into the ground ahead of him. “Come back here.” The youth obeyed.
The tarred rag was catching fully now. Eddie dropped it and picked it up with a stick.
“You’re nothing but a Gentile thug!” the bishop raged.
“You’re a bishop,” Eddie said. “You ought to know better than to cheat. Put the mules out in the lane before this rag burns away.”
“I will not!”
Eddie walked closer to the stack of hay.
“You’d better do it, Southcott,” Bodega said. “He’s not bluffing.”
The bishop gave Bodega the edge of his anger. “You gambling son of satan, I’ll remember you for this!”
“Yes, sir,” Bodega answered, “but you’d better get the mules out of the barn first.”
The bishop watched Eddie’s bitter, steady expression. “You young criminal!”
Part of the burning rag dropped to the ground. Eddie walked closer to the stack and Southcott watched the wind laying the black smoke directly toward his buildings. He began to shout at his sons to drive the mules out of the barn.
He was standing in the yard with his fist raised and his beard jerking to his wrathful curses as Eddie and Bodega drove the six mules away.
Bodega was laughing, but after a time he stopped and looked at Eddie strangely. They went at a fast clip back toward the road to Salt Lake. Bodega asked, “What’s the matter, didn’t you get any fun out of it?”
“I didn’t go there for fun. I went there to get the mules.”
“You’re a strange kid, Eddie.” Bodega shook his head. “No, you’re not a kid.”
They rode with little rest until they reached Jeremy’s camp on the Jordan. The trader said, “No good down that way, huh?”
“No good,” Eddie answered.
Two weeks later he traded his three mules for gold and a stout gray horse to a man in a wagon train that had stopped to winter in the valley. With Bodega and Pete Cleveland, a former soldier of the Mormon battalion who had not found life in Deseret to his liking, Eddie set out to go to New Mexico Territory.
Jeremy Flint was sorry to see Eddie leave, although he did not say so. He asked, “What’ll I tell the Hildreths?”
“Nothing. I’ll write ’em.” Eddie intended to, but he never did; the years separated the layers of his intentions. He rode away with Bodega and Cleveland and before he had gone a hundred yards he knew how much he liked Jeremy Flint.
Eddie looked back. Flint was standing beside a mule, watching the three riders. Eddie raised his hand. Jeremy gave him a small wave in return and then stooped to raise the foreleg of the mule.
Pete Cleveland was as reckless and full of laughter as Bodega. They made a long holiday of a trip that was a grim trail to most men. Eddie liked to hear their laughter but he never knew how to join them in it, and he fretted silently because they were never in a hurry. He himself was in a great hurry to get to New Mexico, because he hoped to find something there, although he did not know what it was.
Whatever it was, he did not find it. Once more, when he parted with Bodega and Cleveland a week after reaching Santa Fe, he knew he had liked them, too.
CHAPTER SIX
IN 1870 there was little outward resemblance in Ed Cushman to the boy who had ridden away from Ruby Valley. He had wandered far. He had been touched briefly by the Civil War. He had rubbed shoulders with all kinds of men and learned the general patterns of their natures, and he had been suspicious of them all the time.
He was riding now on the highlands of the Arkansas Valley with a pack horse and six steers that he had wintered in the warm Greenhorn country. The snow was melting where he rode but the mountains on his left were still deep in winter.
Some thirty miles ahead was the camp of Victory. Before the war the gulch had been barely touched but since last summer it had been renamed and was going strong, according to Cushman’s information. He had heard that a hard core of about twenty-five miners had stayed in the camp all winter, fighting snow and cold and pneumonia and frozen ground. By now they should be hungry enough to pay well for fresh beef.
There were ranches in the valley, set on the lee side of hills where great grass bottoms flowed down from the mountains. The cattle on them seemed to have wintered well enough, but unless things had changed since the war, Cushman knew the ranchers were not particularly interested in driving through the snow to isolated mining camps.
He stopped at none of the ranches, but grazed his steers in late afternoon close to the river, where the sun had uncovered rich pockets of last year’s grass. He was in no great hurry, confident that he was the first man up the river with beef.
At twenty-eight Ed Cushman was a rangy, big-boned man whose gray eyes looked coldly on the world. In moments of relaxation, which came only when there was no other human being near, his expression sometimes took on a puzzled, brooding look, as if he didn’t know what it was he sought. It wasn’t wealth, he knew, because twice he had been quite close to riches before they faded away like wind on the desert; but there had been no real satisfaction even when the prospects seemed assured.
He had no desire for power, for that meant close and continual residence with other men. Once he had been a deputy sheriff in a New Mexico cattle town, and although he had performed as he was supposed to do, risking his life when called upon to do so, taking a wound that had left one lower arm slightly crooked, and killing two men in the name of the law, he had been thoroughly disgusted with the office and had quit it after
three months.
He didn’t know what he wanted from life, except that there was some drive in him that told him if he kept going long enough and far enough, he might some day find an answer to the loneliness that had grown in him.
He made his camp beside the cold Arkansas, putting himself between his animals and the easy passage up a gulch to the high west bank of the river. The bent brown grasses of last fall were thick enough for the horses and steers to forage all night if they cared to.
For a while after dark he sat beside his small fire, listening to the endless movement of the water on worn rocks. He thought of the Hildreths; their faces were hazy in his memory, but he could recall clearly the kind of people they had been and how, too late, he had understood their qualities. Even in the matter of going-away gifts, Hildreth had been wise and kind.
If he had made the gifts all at one stroke, Cushman would have been forced to expressions of gratitude that would have embarrassed him; but Hildreth had spread out his kindness day by day, so that each part was accepted easily, and that was the way he had treated Cushman in all things. Looking back, one could understand the whole. Sam Hildreth had been a rare man in that he did not want appreciation. Cushman had never met another like him.
Long ago, Cushman thought … damnation to long ago; there must be something waiting on ahead. He rose and put out the fire and stood looking into the darkness across the river, knowing that the next day would be another lonely searching for something unknown, on top of thousands of other days just like it.
He heard the man coming in the bitter reaches of the cold night, a clumsy man who left his horse on the high bank and came thumping down toward the camp. Bright moonlight was striking a cold sheen on the river and making queer shadows on the cliffs across the water.
Cushman got out of his blankets and stood in the shadows with his rifle.
The man, squat and bearded, stumbled into the camp before he knew he was upon it. He stood there in a stupid pose, peering around uncertainly. “Hey! Anyone here?”