Bendigo Shafter (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Read online

  THEY WERE STRANGERS DRAWN TOGETHER BY WAGONS MOVING WESTWARD…

  * * *

  HUDDLED IN THE middle of the wilderness they discovered the mutual heartache, joy, and pride of building a community. Young Bendigo Shafter, a beautiful army widow, a mountain man, a mysterious gambler—together they survived the brutal Wyoming winter, marauding Indians, outlaws, and vicious predators. As his town grew, Bendigo sought his greatest challenges, the dangers of a cattle drive, the temptations of New York City, a pilgrimage to the Indians’ sacred Medicine Wheel, and, most of all, the love of the beautiful child-woman, Ninon.

  BENDIGO SHAFTER

  * * *

  LOUIS L’AMOUR’S GIANT novel of the men and women who carved a nation’s destiny out of a rugged frontier.

  Bendigo Shafter is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1979 by Louis & Katherine L’Amour Trust

  “War Party” by Louis L’Amour copyright © 1975 by Louis & Katherine L’Amour Trust

  Postscript by Beau L’Amour copyright © 2017 by Beau L’Amour

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  BANTAM and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Originally published in the United States by E. P. Dutton, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, in 1979.

  ISBN 9780425286081

  Ebook ISBN 9780425286128

  Cover art: Ken Laager

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1_r1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map

  Author’s Note

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part 2

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Part 3

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  What Is Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures?

  Postscript

  War Party

  Dedication

  Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour

  About Louis L’Amour

  Detail left

  Detail right

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  * * *

  THE TOWN IN my story is fictional, the locale is not. In the area there were three settlements, now ghost towns, or practically so. There were Miner’s Delight, South Pass City, and Atlantic City, the latter so called because of its location on the Atlantic side of the Continental Divide. The site of the town in the story is actually close to that of Miner’s Delight, but not identical. The inhabitants of the town are fictional, although similar characters made the westward trek.

  The first woman ever elected to public office in the United States was Esther Hobart Morris, in 1870. She was elected Justice of the Peace, but bears no relationship to the Ruth Macken of my story. The Honorable William H. Bright pushed through the legislature the bill that gave women the franchise in Wyoming. This was in 1869.

  The Medicine Wheel lies at the northern edge of the Big Horn Mountains of Wyoming at an elevation of 10,000 feet. Who its builders were, we do not know; its purposes were obviously astronomical, and a somewhat similar Wheel in Canada has been dated at 2500 B.C. Similar structures were built in many parts of the world at about that time.

  When I first visited the area some 35 years ago the central cairn was much larger than at present. Vandals have carried away stones for some stupid reason of their own. Indians to whom I talked at the time knew nothing of its origin, merely saying it had been built by “the people who went before.”

  On the relatively flat top of Medicine Mountain there are numerous holes, and stones dropped into these holes may be heard to fall for a considerable distance. There are numerous caves in the area and it has been suggested the entire mountain may be hollow.

  One thing seems apparent: The Medicine Wheel, although considered a sacred place by many tribes, was actually built before any of the historical tribes arrived in the area.

  PART 1

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  WHERE THE WAGONS stopped we built our homes, making the cabins tight against the winter’s coming. Here in this place we would build our town, here we would create something new.

  We would space our buildings, lay out our streets and dig wells to provide water for our people. The idea of it filled me with a heartwarming excitement such as I had not known before.

  Was it this feeling of creating something new that held my brother Cain to his forge throughout the long hours? He knew the steel he turned in his hands, knew the weight of the hammer and where to strike, knew by the glow of the iron what its temperature would be; even the leap of the sparks had a message for his experience.

  He knew when to heat and when to strike and when to dip the iron into the water; yet when is the point at which a group of strangers becomes a community? What it is that forges the will of a people?

  This I did not know, nor had I books to advise me, nor any experience to judge a matter of this kind. We who now were alien, strangers drawn together by wagons moving westward, must learn to work together, to fuse our interests, and to become as one. This we must do if we were to survive and become a town.

  No settlement lay nearer than Fort Bridger, more than a hundred miles to the southwest…or so we had heard.

  All about us was Indian country and we were few.

  There were seven men to do the building, two boys to guard our stock, and thirteen women and children to gather wood and buffalo chips for the fires of the nights to come, and kindling against a time of snow.

  Only now did we realize that we were strangers, and each looked upon the other with distant eyes, judging and being judged, uneasy and causing uneasiness, for here we had elected to make our stand, and we knew not the temper of those with whom we stood.

  It was Ruth Macken, but lately become a widow, who led the move to stop while supplies remained to us, and we who stood beside her were those who favored her decision and joined with her in stopping.

  My father had been a Bible-reading man and named his sons from the Book. Four of our brothers had gone the way of flesh, and of the boys only we two remained. Cain, a wedded man with two children, and I, Bendigo Shafter, eighte
en and a man with hands to work.

  Our sister was with us. Lorna was a pretty sixteen, named for a cousin in Wales.

  “You will build for the Widow Macken,” Cain said to me. “Her Bud is a man for his twelve years, but young for the lifting of logs and the notching.”

  So I went up the hill through the frost of the morning, pausing when I reached the bench where their cabin would stand. A fair place it was, with a cold spring spilling its water down to the meadow where our oxen and horses grazed upon the brown grass of autumn. Tall pines, sentinel straight, made a park of the bench, and upon the steep slope behind there was a good stand of timber.

  The view from the bench was a fine one, and I stood to look upon it, filling myself with the quiet morning and the beauty of the long valley below the Beaver Rim.

  “You have an eye for beauty, Mr. Shafter,” Ruth Macken said to me, and I kept my eyes from her, feeling the flush and the heat climbing my neck as it forever did when a pretty woman spoke to me. “It is a good thing in a man.”

  “It works a magic,” I said, “to look upon distance.”

  “Some people can’t abide it. Bigness makes them feel small instead of offering a challenge, but I am glad my Bud will grow to manhood here. A big country can breed big men.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I glanced about the bench. “I have come to build you a cabin, then.”

  “Build it so when spring comes I can add a long room on the south, for when the wagons roll again I shall open a trading post.”

  She turned to Bud, who had come up the slope from the meadow. “You will help Mr. Shafter and learn from him. It is not every man who can build a house.”

  Ruth Macken had a way of making a man feel large in his tracks, so what could I do but better than my best?

  The morning chill spoke of winter coming, yet I notched each log with care and trimmed them with smooth, even blows.

  There is a knowledge in the muscles of a workman that goes beyond the mind, a skill that lies in the flesh and the fiber, and my hands and heart held a love for the wood, the good wood whose fresh chips fell cleanly to the left and the right.

  Yet as I worked my thoughts worried over the problem of our town. We were ill-prepared for winter, although our sudden decision to stop left us better off than had we pushed on to the westward.

  Going on would have been simple, for travel is an escape, and as long as our wagons moved our decisions could be postponed. When one moves, one is locked in the treadmill of travel, and all decisions must await a destination. By choosing to stop we had brought our refuge tumbling about us, and our problems could no longer be avoided.

  The promised land is always a distant land, aglow with golden fire. It is a land one never attains, for once attained one faces fulfillment and the knowledge that whatever a land may promise, it may also demand a payment of courage and strength.

  To destroy is easy, to build is hard. To scoff is also easy, but to go on in the face of scoffing and to do what is right is the way of a man.

  Neely Stuart already regretted the stopping and spoke of continuing on to California in the spring, and Tom Croft, who listened to Neely, was a man who never knew whether the course he had taken was the right one. So he was always open to persuasion. Nor was his Mary of a different mind.

  Even Webb talked of going on when spring should again bring grass to the hills, yet he had been the first to break off from the wagon train and follow Ruth Macken in her decision. He was a discontented, irritable man, always impatient for change, yet he was also strong and resolute and would stand up in an emergency. He had a son, an arrogant, disagreeable boy named Foss…short for Foster.

  John Sampson, my brother Cain, and I were for staying on, which left only Ethan Sackett, a single man who had been guide for the wagon train but had chosen to leave it when we did.

  “What has he to do with us?” Webb demanded, when I wondered aloud if Sackett would stay on. “He’s a drifter, not one of us.”

  “He chose to stay with us, and that makes him one of us.”

  “He chose to stay because of Mrs. Macken. Would he have come with us had it not been for her? I say he does not belong here.”

  It was our first night around the fire, the first after leaving the wagon train, and we huddled close to the flames for there was an autumn chill in the night. The truth was we were all a little frightened at what we had done, and our nerves were on edge because of it.

  “He won’t be with us long,” Neely Stuart said. “His kind have no stability. He is more like an Indian than a white man.”

  “Who among us,” John Sampson asked mildly, “has wintered in this country? I think before the winter is gone we shall be glad he is among us.”

  “We could have been miles from here,” Stuart complained. “We were fools to stop.”

  “Mrs. Macken,” I told them, “will open a store, come spring.”

  “To sell what?” Stuart scoffed. “And to whom?”

  “She will sell boots and clothing she and her husband packed against that purpose and vegetables we ourselves will raise. Whenever possible she will accept goods in payment, goods to be sold again.”

  “A silly woman’s dream!”

  “There might be good trade with the wagon trains,” Webb admitted, “but no matter. When it is warm again I shall move on.”

  “I shall stay.”

  It was the calm voice of my brother, to whom all men listened. Until then he had remained silent, watching the leap of the flames and thinking his thoughts.

  Cain’s face was square, massive, and might have been hewn from oak. His body was also square, but large and powerful. He moved easily, as one who is in complete command of himself and his every muscle. He was not a man given to talking, speaking only when his mind was made up, not as many men do who shape their thoughts as they speak.

  “I shall open my smithy and a shop for the mending of guns. I believe the Widow Macken knows what she is about.”

  “Stay on if you wish,” Stuart said defensively. “I shall not.” Yet his tone had weakened before the weight of my brother’s decision.

  “I shall leave with the first grass,” Tom Croft said. “The wilderness and the thought of Indians distresses my wife.”

  The sickness of disappointment lay upon me, for if they left our strength would be pared to nothing, and we must also go. We were too few as it was, and if we were attacked by Indians our chances would be slight.

  This valley we had chosen lay upon a highroad for the Shoshone, but it was traveled by the Sioux as well and occasionally by the Ute or Blackfeet. Our presence invited trouble.

  On the morning I went up the slope to build for the Widow Macken. There was a fringe of ice along the stream’s edge, and the meadow was white with frost. My breath showed in a cloud, and the bodies of the cattle steamed as they worked, hauling down the logs after I felled the trees.

  The morning air sang with the hum of axes, a fresh and lovely sound on a chill morning. Looking down from the bench to where the town would lie, I could see my brother pacing off the limits of his cabin site.

  The blade of the double-bitted axe sank deep, and chips as large as a man’s palm fell into the needles under foot. From time to time I paused to listen to the squirrels, scolding from the pines nearby, yet the pauses were few for the time was short. There is a pleasure in working with the hands and muscles, a pleasure in the use of good tools, and I gloried in the grip of my hands upon the axe and the smell of honest sweat and fresh pine wood.

  When I went up the slope with Bud beside me, I chose the trees with care, choosing not only for size and straightness, but to leave the forest as it was, to give the trees room to grow taller and thicker.

  “Trees are a crop, Bud Macken,” I said, “to be taken only with care and a thought for the forest.”

  “But there are lots of trees,” he protested.

  “A forest is a living thing like a human body,” I told him, “each part dependent on all the other parts. A forest need
s its birds, its beaver…all its animals and plants. The forest gives shelter to the birds, but they repay the debt with the insects they eat, the droppings they leave, the seeds they carry off to plant elsewhere. The beaver builds dams for himself, but the dams keep water on the land, and although the beaver cut trees to use and to eat, their ponds provide water for trees during the hot, dry months.”

  For a moment I held still. “Listen,” I whispered, “and you can hear the forest breathe.”

  This was a lesson my father had taught me, that we only borrowed from the land, and borrowed with discretion and a thought for the years to come.

  He taught us that to live in the wilderness one must live with it. Live from it, but allow it to live also. Such was my intention now, and so I explained to Bud Macken my reasons for choosing trees as I did.

  What I had received from my father and Cain, this I would pass on to Bud and perhaps someday to sons of my own, for a bee that gathers honey must pass the honey on to those who can best use it. Yet it was little enough that I had to teach and much I had to learn.

  When I had felled my third tree, I put Bud to trimming the limbs, watching him first to be sure he knew the use of an axe, for this was no country in which to be left without a foot. I was beginning the fourth tree when Ethan Sackett rode up the hill to draw rein beside me.