Bendigo Shafter (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 13

  What would a fire be doing in such a place, on such a night? It was not a good place to camp, if my memory served me, but the fire might be further off than I believed.

  After a moment, I walked back to our town. Already the light was out in Cain’s house but I needed my rifle. I tiptoed to the door, opening it softly. There was a rush of warm air…the fire had been banked; only a few tendrils of flame wove a weird dance among the shadows on the wall.

  “What is it, Bendigo?” Lorna sat up, whispering to me.

  “There’s a fire…it’s far out, toward the plains.”

  “A campfire?”

  “It’s in no good place for a camp.” I paused, thinking it over. “It might be a signal.”

  “Who’d be out there?”

  I grinned at her in the half-light. “Sandy Claus. Maybe one of his reindeer broke a leg.”

  “Be serious.” She got up and came to me in her nightgown. “Bendigo, can I go with you?”

  “Who’s going anywhere?”

  “You are. I can tell.”

  “It’s no place for a girl. We don’t know what’s down there…it might be a trap.”

  The thought had not occurred to me before, but now it did, a way to lure a few of us away into what might be just that. Yet it was near the trail, and it might be some woebegone traveler, and this was Christmas Eve.

  I pulled off my boots; I wanted moccasins for this. A man makes less noise in them.

  When I stood up, Lorna was half-dressed. “I’m coming, Bendigo. Now you wait.”

  Well, why not? I was a damned fool to take her but she was a good shot with a rifle, and I might need somebody to stand off and cover me. Still, I didn’t like it.

  She bundled up in a hurry and was ready to go before I was. We slipped out, but before I left I scratched out a little note for Cain and Helen, just in case.

  It was still and cold. The stars hung low in the sky, and the snow sparkled with a million tiny flecks of diamond. We went to the barn for horses, and I almost heard them groan as I reached for a saddle.

  Hurriedly, we saddled up, and again Lorna was ready almost as soon as I was. She had brought her rifle, and she led her horse out and got into the saddle. I was riding the buckskin we had taken from the renegades at the time of their raid.

  Lorna was excited. “Bendigo? What do you think it is?”

  “Might be a trap,” I repeated, “and it might be somebody hurt and in trouble. We’ll not ride right straight up to that fire. You come along easy, now.”

  We rode out of the town and into the scattered trees along the bench, then, holding to partial cover of trees and brush, we rode toward the fire. Several times I paused to study the area, but could see no movement…only the fire, whose size seemed to grow less as we rode nearer. Perhaps from lack of fuel.

  The trees grew fewer, cover less. It was harder to keep out of sight, and still nothing stirred. And then we saw something we had not seen before…a black spot on the snow some fifty yards from the fire.

  “It’s a horse, Bendigo,” Lorna said. “I am sure it’s a horse.”

  “Then there’s a rider close by. It’s a cinch that horse didn’t build the fire.”

  We walked our horses closer, circling wide. It was a horse, all right, and there was a man…or his body…lying near the fire.

  It looked like whoever it was had set fire to a low-growing bush of some kind to get a fire started. It must have flared up about the time we saw it, and then as it died down he had fed sticks into it.

  Sometimes dried leaves and broken twigs will pile up under a bush like that, and in an emergency a man might get something going when he had no strength to rustle materials to build a fire properly.

  “Better warm your hands,” I said, “but go easy. We don’t want to shoot anybody lest we have to.”

  Shoving my own rifle down in its scabbard, I drew a pistol and walked my horse closer and closer.

  The man lay still, unconscious or sleeping. I could see where he had crawled from his horse toward the creek, his trail plain enough in the sprinkling of snow. The fire was doing him little good now, as he was lying on the frozen ground. Most of the snow had been melted or blown from the spot where he lay, and he had evidently passed out trying to get to a deadfall for more fuel.

  I got down from my horse and walked the last few yards.

  It was an Indian, and he had a broken leg.

  Keeping an eye on him, I fed some sticks into the fire, then called to Lorna.

  My movements or the call brought him out of it. He pushed himself up to arm’s length and turned to look at me, and I knew that face.

  It was a face I’d not soon forget. It was the young warrior who had wanted to keep Mae Stuart and kill young Lenny Sampson.

  He grabbed for his rifle and I kicked it out of his hands. “You better forget that,” I said, “you’re in bad shape.”

  There was blood on the front of his quilled hunting shirt, too, so he’d been shot.

  And then I saw why.

  Fastened to his belt was a scalp, a fresh scalp. And it was white man’s hair.

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  HE GLARED AT me, his eyes ugly with hatred. I stood over him with my pistol in my hand, and he was almighty sure I was going to shoot him. As I looked down at him I thought what a lot of trouble I might save if I did.

  Lorna said, “Bendigo, he’s hurt. He’s been shot.”

  “Yes,” I said, “and he’s carrying two fresh scalps, and they aren’t Indian scalps.

  “I’d better keep an eye on him, Lorna. You bring up my horse, will you?”

  She looked at me, long and steadily, but I shook my head. “I’d never shoot a man when he was down,” I said, “but he’d do it to me. Indians don’t feel the same way about things as we do.”

  “They can change.”

  “I think so,” I said. “Lorna, this is the same Indian who had Mae and Lenny.”

  She turned quickly and looked at him again. “You don’t mean it!”

  “Better get those horses. This cold isn’t doing him any good.”

  When I bent over to take his knife and tomahawk he grabbed at me, and I hit him…I hit him hard. “You mind your manners, redskin. I’m just trying to save your hide…although I don’t know why.”

  When Lorna came up with the horses I picked up that Indian and got him aboard my horse. But first I tied his hands, because I didn’t want to see him riding off with that buckskin and maybe grabbing Lorna’s bridle, too.

  It must have hurt when I flopped him into the saddle but he didn’t make a sound, just glared at me. Taking up the reins I started off for home.

  “You keep that rifle handy,” I said to Lorna. “If he acts up…shoot him.”

  I didn’t think she’d do it, although you can never tell about women, but I said it for the effect on the Indian. He might not know the words but he would get the idea.

  I’ve no argument against the Indian. He was a mighty savage man and he fought the way he knew how. Only toward the end was he fighting for country; mostly he fought just to be fighting.

  No Indian could get a wife or be counted a warrior until he had taken a scalp, and Indians were celebrated among themselves for their victories, just as were the knights at King Arthur’s court.

  We went on back to our town, and I woke Cain up. He listened to what I had to say while we got the Indian inside and stretched him out before the fire. Then Lorna went to awaken John Sampson. Between us we set the Indian’s leg and put splints on it. “You’d better keep his hands tied,” I advised. “He doesn’t know what’s going on. So far as he knows we’re getting him well just to kill him.”

  “I wonder where he got those scalps?” Cain asked.

  He glanced at his watch, then looked up. “Merry Christmas, everybody,” he said, “it’s nearly one o’clock.”

  We all answered him and then I looked down at the Indian. “And a Merry Christmas to you, too!”

  He glared at me, th
en spat.

  “Well,” I said, “he’s got nerve. Lorna, you’d better get some sleep. Morning isn’t too far away.”

  John Sampson went back to his cabin to bed, and Cain sat down and lighted his pipe.

  “There hasn’t been any snow,” he said, “and this Indian must have left a trail.”

  Well, we looked at each other, thinking of what might result. This Indian killed two white people, one of them a woman, by the looks of the hair, and they might have friends.

  “You go to bed, Cain. I’ll watch.”

  “All right.” He got up. “I confess I’m tired. But do you keep watch out the window, too.”

  “You don’t look much like Santa Claus,” I said, to the Indian, “and if you bring us any gifts it won’t be what we want.”

  There was some soup Helen had put by the night before, and I warmed it up, and when it was warm, took it and a spoon. “Come on,” I said, “and I’ll feed you.”

  He spat at me, and I just grinned at him. “What’s the matter, brave warrior? Are you scared?”

  He glared at me, then opened his mouth, and I fed him the bowl of soup, spoon by spoon because his hands were tied. When it was finished I said, “You’d better get some sleep, redskin.”

  Fixing myself a cup of coffee, I then went up the ladder to my bed and got the book I was reading. Only this time she had given me two at the same time, and I decided to take both of them down. The first was the Essays of Montaigne. The second was the Travels of William Bartram.

  I wanted to read both of them so bad that I’d started one, then the other, and would read a piece of each. Bartram was a plant-hunter, a naturalist they called him, and he wrote a lot about the Cherokees and Creeks who lived in Tennessee, Carolina, and Georgia, where he wandered about.

  Sitting down there with a cup of coffee beside me, and the two books, I read until almost daybreak. A couple of times I looked up to see that Indian watching me. I figure he’d never seen anybody read before, and even though he said nothing the curiosity was in his eyes.

  It was a strange Christmas morning. We had stockings hung over the fireplace for everybody, but at the last minute before the others came down, Lorna appeared with another stocking to hang over the chimney.

  The Indian had slept little, but he watched her hang it with straight black eyes that revealed little. Then Ann, who was ten, and Bobby, who was just four, came down from the loft and rushed at the stockings.

  There were others for Cain, Helen, Lorna, and myself. Then Lorna took the other stocking down and laid it across the Indian’s lap. He stared at it, then at her.

  Leaning over with my knife I cut the rope that bound his wrists. They must have hurt, for I’d tied him tight for the sleeping hours, but he did not chafe them. He watched us like a cat, opening the things in our stockings.

  There was a carved wooden doll, dressed in clothes Helen and Lorna had made for it, for Ann. There were a half dozen wooden soldiers for Bobby, and two carved wooden Indians. Cain and I, we both worked well at carving, and these were very lifelike. There was some rock candy and popcorn balls, and some odds and ends for the youngsters.

  In my stocking there was a red knitted scarf from Lorna and a new, beautifully made hand-axe from Cain.

  The Indian turned his sock over, then dug into it. The first thing was a chunk of rock candy. He had seen the children eating theirs, so he tasted it, then popped it into his mouth. There were popcorn balls for him, too, an old clasp knife that once belonged to Cain, and a silver button, a small sack of colored beads, a packet of needles—much in demand among Indians—and some more popcorn balls and rock candy. He examined every piece.

  Helen was busy over dinner with Lorna helping. Cain had been outside feeding the stock when suddenly he came to the door for his rifle.

  “Bendigo?”

  When I looked up, he motioned me to join him. Seeing he held his rifle, I picked up mine. Webb was outside the door with Stuart, Croft, and Sampson. They were looking down the valley, and we could see a dark cluster of riders, out in the open and coming on steadily.

  “Who do you think they are?” Webb wondered.

  “I think they’re trailing the Indian,” I said.

  “Indian? What Indian?” Webb demanded. He turned hard eyes on me. “I’ve seen no Indian.”

  “We’ve got one inside. He’s wounded,” I said.

  He stepped to the door and opened it. The Indian was lying down again, his eyes closed. He looked pale and sick. His gifts were clustered close to him.

  “If they want him, let them have him.”

  “No,” I said.

  He looked at me. “Bendigo,” he said, “I think…”

  “Webb,” I said, “we found him wounded, Lorna and I. He had two scalps with him, but he was wounded, helpless, and this is Christmas Day.”

  “Two fresh scalps? I’ll kill him myself.”

  “No, Webb. Let him be.”

  He glared at me. “Damn it, Ben. I like you, but I’ll be double-damned if any murderin’ redskin can come in here…”

  “We brought him in, Webb. In his village we would be safe as long as we stayed in the village. Let’s give him the same thing.”

  “You weren’t very safe this winter! You an’ Mae. I could kill him for that.”

  “That was a camp. I don’t think it figures to be the same thing.”

  The riders came on, a dozen tough men. They pulled up. “Howdy, folks. We’re trailin’ an Indian. A damned murderin’ Indian. He killed two of our folks, an’ we got a bullet into him, and another into his horse.”

  “And we saw some boot tracks and moccasin tracks around where he fell, back yonder. Have you got him?”

  “He’s inside,” Cain replied.

  “Good!” One of them swung down. “Ed, shake out a noose. We’ll stretch rope with him.”

  “No,” Cain said.

  They stared at him. A big, bearded man leaned toward him. “Did I hear you say no?”

  “You did.”

  “You mean you’re protectin’ that thievin’, murderin’ scum?”

  “I don’t know what he did, and if he did it to me, I would probably feel as you do, but we found the Indian dying in the cold. We brought him in. It is Christmas Day, gentlemen, and here he stays.”

  They could not believe it, and I had not expected they would. Few white men, unless they had been long in the west, regarded the Indian as anything but a danger and an obstacle, something to be wiped out, as one would any kind of vermin.

  Most of the military felt different about it, I knew. They had fought the Indian and respected him as a fighting man. The mountain men, who often lived among the Indians, had also come to accept and understand the Indian for the most part.

  “Now, see here!” The speaker was a tight-faced man with high cheekbones and a handlebar mustache. “We come after that Injun an’ we’re goin’ to have him. We can have him give to us, or we can take him.”

  “You gentlemen are a long way from home,” I said, “and this is Christmas. You are welcome to share with us. As for giving up the Indian, we will not, and taking him would not be a simple thing. Some of us might die,” I added, “but you’d go back with some bodies across your saddles.

  “There need be no trouble,” I said, “but this is our town, and any shooting that is done here will be done by us.”

  Webb stepped a pace off to my left. “And that goes for me,” he said.

  Somebody coughed, slightly behind them and to their left, and looking around they saw Ruth Macken, holding a rifle in her hands.

  And then Drake Morrell stepped into view. His coat was back, and anybody could see his six-gun, and almost everybody knew Drake Morrell.

  “This is my town, too, gentlemen,” he said, “and I concur with my friends.”

  Their eyes went left and right. Ethan had stepped out of the barn and was standing there, his rifle in his hands.

  “That redskin murdered our friends,” the bearded man protested, “now you�
��re standin’ up for him. You ain’t heard the last of this.”

  “I expect not,” I replied, “but we will hope we have. We do not want trouble, gentlemen, but you must remember that taking scalps is the Indian’s way of life and you are strangers in the country.

  “We do not condone what he has done and we have ourselves had trouble with this same Indian.” Webb shot me a quick hard look. “Nevertheless, we found him wounded and freezing and we brought him in. If you want him you will have to wait until he leaves here and follow him into his own country.”

  “You’re crazy!” The bearded man stared from one to the other of us. “You’re blind, stinkin’ crazy!”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “but there you have it. Will you join us, gentlemen?”

  “Like hell!” The man with the mustache turned his horse sharply around. “But you ain’t heard the last of this! Not by a damned sight!”

  They turned their mounts and rode off, and we watched them go. Ruth Macken stood until they were out of sight, then came down to us. “What was that about?”

  We told her, and she stepped inside. The Indian was lying on his pallet near the fire. Lorna stood by with a pistol in her hand, and the Indian looked up at us.

  Ruth, who spoke Sioux as good as any Indian, spoke to him. He merely glared at her, so she tried another tongue. Ethan came in behind her. “He’s Shoshone, ma’am,” he said, and then spoke to the Indian. He talked, using sign language, and explained what had happened.

  The Shoshone listened, stared hard at me, then at the others, but made no sound.

  Webb looked down at him. “Is he the one bothered Mae?”

  “He didn’t bother me.” Mae had come in behind him. “He might have, but Ethan and Bendigo fetched me away.”

  “I don’t blame ’em. Hangin’s too good for him,” Webb said bitterly.

  “But you stood by us,” Cain said.

  Webb turned sharply. “Why not?” he said. “What the hell did you expect? This is our town.”

  And that was Webb. A hard, bitter man with none of us knew what behind him, but if there was fear in him we never saw it, and no matter how he might differ with us, which was often and upon many things, he was always there when trouble came, and never the last to show.