The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 (26 page)

Scott gathered the guns, then the mules and the horses. He left one horse for the wounded man. “You do what you like, but don't cross my trail again. Not ever.”

 

The mules made a nice picture ahead of the big Conestoga wagon, and on the seat Scott Miles sat beside his wife. She was not only a very pretty woman, this Laura Hance Miles, but, as he had discovered, a useful one.

He was, he admitted, very much in love, a richer and more exciting love than he had ever experienced. There would always be a place in his heart for Mary, but this woman was one to walk beside a man, not behind him. She had shown it since the first day they were two together, a team, working toward a common end. It was what he had wanted.

There had been a time, he remembered, when he had believed a man could never get close to a woman like this. But that had been a long time ago.

And Bill had been right. It was necessary to like somebody, too.

War Party

We buried Pa on a sidehill out west of camp, buried him high up so his ghost could look down the trail he'd planned to travel.

We piled the grave high with rocks because of the coyotes, and we dug the grave deep, and some of it I dug myself, and Mr. Sampson helped, and some others.

Folks in the wagon train figured Ma would turn back, but they hadn't known Ma so long as I had. Once she set her mind to something she wasn't about to quit.

She was a young woman and pretty, but there was strength in her. She was a lone woman with two children, but she was of no mind to turn back. She'd come through the Little Crow massacre in Minnesota and she knew what trouble was. Yet it was like her that she put it up to me.

“Bud,” she said, when we were alone, “we can turn back, but we've nobody there who cares about us, and it's of you and Jeanie that I'm thinking. If we go west you will have to be the man of the house, and you'll have to work hard to make up for Pa.”

“We'll go west,” I said. A boy those days took it for granted that he had work to do, and the men couldn't do it all. No boy ever thought of himself as only twelve or thirteen or whatever he was, being anxious to prove himself a man, and take a man's place and responsibilities.

Ryerson and his wife were going back. She was a complaining woman and he was a man who was always ailing when there was work to be done. Four or five wagons were turning back, folks with their tails betwixt their legs running for the shelter of towns where their own littleness wouldn't stand out so plain.

When a body crossed the Mississippi and left the settlements behind, something happened to him. The world seemed to bust wide open, and suddenly the horizons spread out and a man wasn't cramped anymore. The pinched-up villages and the narrowness of towns, all that was gone.
The horizons simply exploded and rolled back into enormous distance, with nothing around but prairie and sky.

Some folks couldn't stand it. They'd cringe into themselves and start hunting excuses to go back where they came from. This was a big country needing big men and women to live in it, and there was no place out here for the frightened or the mean.

The prairie and sky had a way of trimming folks down to size, or changing them to giants to whom nothing seemed impossible. Men who had cut a wide swath back in the States found themselves nothing out here. They were folks who were used to doing a lot of talking who suddenly found that no one was listening anymore, and things that seemed mighty important back home, like family and money, they amounted to nothing alongside character and courage.

There was John Sampson from our town. He was a man used to being told to do things, used to looking up to wealth and power, but when he crossed the Mississippi he began to lift his head and look around. He squared his shoulders, put more crack to his whip, and began to make his own tracks in the land.

Pa was always strong, an independent man given to reading at night from one of the four or five books we had, to speaking up on matters of principle and to straight shooting with a rifle. Pa had fought the Comanche and lived with the Sioux, but he wasn't strong enough to last more than two days with a Kiowa arrow through his lung. But he died knowing Ma had stood by the rear wheel and shot the Kiowa whose arrow it was.

Right then I knew that neither Indians nor country was going to get the better of Ma. Shooting that Kiowa was the first time Ma had shot anything but some chicken-killing varmint—which she'd done time to time when Pa was away from home.

Only Ma wouldn't let Jeanie and me call it home. “We came here from Illinois,” she said, “but we're going home now.”

“But, Ma,” I protested, “I thought home was where we came from?”

“Home is where we're going now,” Ma said, “and we'll know it when we find it. Now that Pa is gone we'll have to build that home ourselves.”

She had a way of saying “home” so it sounded like a rare and wonderful place and kept Jeanie and me looking always at the horizon, just knowing it was over there, waiting for us to see it. She had given us the dream, and even Jeanie, who was only six, she had it too.

She might tell us that home was where we were going, but I knew home was where Ma was, a warm and friendly place with biscuits on the table and fresh-made butter. We wouldn't have a real home until Ma was there and we had a fire going. Only I'd build the fire.

Mr. Buchanan, who was captain of the wagon train, came to us with Tryon Burt, who was guide. “We'll help you,” Mr. Buchanan said. “I know you'll be wanting to go back, and—”

“But we are not going back.” Ma smiled at them. “And don't be afraid we'll be a burden. I know you have troubles of your own, and we will manage very well.”

Mr. Buchanan looked uncomfortable, like he was trying to think of the right thing to say. “Now, see here,” he protested, “we started this trip with a rule. There has to be a man with every wagon.”

Ma put her hand on my shoulder. “I have my man. Bud is almost thirteen and accepts responsibility. I could ask for no better man.”

Ryerson came up. He was thin, stooped in the shoulder, and whenever he looked at Ma there was a greasy look to his eyes that I didn't like. He was a man who looked dirty even when he'd just washed in the creek. “You come along with me, ma'am,” he said. “I'll take good care of you.”

“Mr. Ryerson”—Ma looked him right in the eye—“you have a wife who can use better care than she's getting, and I have my son.”

“He's nothin' but a boy.”

“You are turning back, are you not? My son is going on. I believe that should indicate who is more the man. It is neither size nor age that makes a man, Mr. Ryerson, but something he has inside. My son has it.”

Ryerson might have said something unpleasant only Tryon Burt was standing there wishing he would, so he just looked ugly and hustled off.

“I'd like to say you could come,” Mr. Buchanan said, “but the boy couldn't stand up to a man's work.”

Ma smiled at him, chin up, the way she had. “I do not believe in gambling, Mr. Buchanan, but I'll wager a good Ballard rifle there isn't a man in camp who could follow a child all day, running when it runs, squatting when it squats, bending when it bends, and wrestling when it wrestles and not be played out long before the child is.”

“You may be right, ma'am, but a rule is a rule.”

“We are in Indian country, Mr. Buchanan. If you are killed a week from now, I suppose your wife must return to the States?”

“That's different! Nobody could turn back from there!”

“Then,” Ma said sweetly, “it seems a rule is only a rule within certain limits, and if I recall correctly no such limit was designated in the articles of travel. Whatever limits there were, Mr. Buchanan, must have been passed sometime before the Indian attack that killed my husband.”

“I can drive the wagon, and so can Ma,” I said. “For the past two days I've been driving, and nobody said anything until Pa died.”

Mr. Buchanan didn't know what to say, but a body could see he didn't like it. Nor did he like a woman who talked up to him the way Ma did.

Tryon Burt spoke up. “Let the boy drive. I've watched this youngster, and he'll do. He has better judgment than most men in the outfit, and he stands up to his work. If need be, I'll help.”

Mr. Buchanan turned around and walked off with his back stiff the way it is when he's mad. Ma looked at Burt, and she said, “Thank you, Mr. Burt. That was nice of you.”

Try Burt, he got all red around the gills and took off like somebody had put a bur under his saddle.

Come morning our wagon was the second one ready to take its place in line, with both horses saddled and tied behind the wagon, and me standing beside the off ox.

Any direction a man wanted to look there was nothing but grass and sky, only sometimes there'd be a buffalo wallow or a gopher hole. We made eleven miles the first day after Pa was buried, sixteen the next, then nineteen, thirteen and twenty-one. At no time did the country change. On the sixth day after Pa died I killed a buffalo.

It was a young bull, but a big one, and I spotted him coming up out of a draw and was off my horse and bellied down in the grass before Try Burt realized there was game in sight. That bull came up from the draw and stopped there, staring at the wagon train, which was a half-mile off. Setting a sight behind his left shoulder I took a long breath, took in the trigger slack, then squeezed off my shot so gentle-like the gun jumped in my hands before I was ready for it.

The bull took a step back like something had surprised him, and I jacked another shell into the chamber and was sighting on him again when he went down on his knees and rolled over on his side.

“You got him, Bud!” Burt was more excited than me. “That was shootin'!”

Try got down and showed me how to skin the bull, and lent me a hand. Then we cut out a lot of fresh meat and toted it back to the wagons.

Ma was at the fire when we came up, a wisp of brown hair alongside her cheek and her face flushed from the heat of the fire, looking as pretty as a bay pony.

“Bud killed his first buffalo,” Burt told her, looking at Ma like he could eat her with a spoon.

“Why, Bud! That's wonderful!” Her eyes started to dance with a kind of mischief in them, and she said, “Bud, why don't you take a piece of that meat along to Mr. Buchanan and the others?”

With Burt to help, we cut the meat into eighteen pieces and distributed it around the wagons. It wasn't much, but it was the first fresh meat in a couple of weeks.

John Sampson squeezed my shoulder and said, “Seems to me you and your ma are folks to travel with. This outfit needs some hunters.”

Each night I staked out that buffalo hide, and each day I worked at curing it before rolling it up to pack on the wagon. Believe you me, I was some proud of that buffalo hide. Biggest thing I'd shot until then was a cottontail rabbit back in Illinois, where we lived when I was born. Try Burt told folks about that shot. “Two hundred yards,” he'd say, “right through the heart.”

Only it wasn't more than a hundred and fifty yards the way I figured, and Pa used to make me pace off distances, so I'd learn to judge right. But I was nobody to argue with Try Burt telling a story—besides, two hundred yards makes an awful lot better sound than one hundred and fifty.

After supper the menfolks would gather to talk plans. The season was late, and we weren't making the time we ought if we hoped to beat the snow through the passes of the Sierras. When they talked I was there because I was the man of my wagon, but nobody paid me no mind. Mr. Buchanan, he acted like he didn't see me, but John Sampson would not, and Try Burt always smiled at me.

Several spoke up for turning back, but Mr. Buchanan said he knew of an outfit that made it through later than this. One thing was sure. Our wagon wasn't turning back. Like Ma said, home was somewhere ahead of us, and back in the States we'd have no money and nobody to turn to, nor any relatives, anywhere. It was the three of us.

“We're going on,” I said at one of these talks. “We don't figure to turn back for anything.”

Webb gave me a glance full of contempt. “You'll go where the rest of us go. You an' your ma would play hob gettin' by on your own.”

Next day it rained, dawn to dark it fairly poured, and we were lucky to make six miles. Day after that, with the wagon wheels sinking into the prairie and the rain still falling, we camped just two miles from where we started in the morning.

Nobody talked much around the fires, and what was said was apt to be short and irritable. Most of these folks had put all they owned into the outfits they had, and if they turned back now they'd have nothing to live on and nothing left to make a fresh start. Except a few like Mr. Buchanan, who was well off.

“It doesn't have to be California,” Ma said once. “What most of us want is land, not gold.”

“This here is Indian country,” John Sampson said, “and a sight too open for me. I'd like a valley in the hills, with running water close by.”

“There will be valleys and meadows,” Ma replied, stirring the stew she was making, “and tall trees near running streams, and tall grass growing in the meadows, and there will be game in the forest and on the grassy plains, and places for homes.”

“And where will we find all that?” Webb's tone was slighting.

“West,” Ma said, “over against the mountains.”

“I suppose you've been there?” Webb scoffed.

“No, Mr. Webb, I haven't been there, but I've been told of it. The land is there, and we will have some of it, my children and I, and we will stay through the winter, and in the spring we will plant our crops.”

“Easy to say.”

“This is Sioux country to the north,” Burt said. “We'll be lucky to get through without a fight. There was a war party of thirty or thirty-five passed this way a couple of days ago.”

“Sioux?”

“Uh-huh—no women or children along, and I found where some war paint rubbed off on the brush.”

“Maybe,” Mr. Buchanan suggested, “we'd better turn south a mite.”

“It is late in the season,” Ma replied, “and the straightest way is the best way now.”

“No use to worry,” White interrupted; “those Indians went on by. They won't likely know we're around.”

“They were riding southeast,” Ma said, “and their home is in the north, so when they return they'll be riding northwest. There is no way they can miss our trail.”

“Then we'd best turn back,” White said.

“Don't look like we'd make it this year, anyway,” a woman said; “the season is late.”

That started the argument, and some were for turning back and some wanted to push on, and finally White said they should push on, but travel fast.