Novel 1963 - How The West Was Won (v5.0) Read online

  They went by the Erie Canal, by the Wilderness Road, by the Natchez Trace, and strange names came back to awaken strange longings in the ears of listening men, names that made them restless and eager-eyed.

  Men went west along the Overland Trail, the Santa Fe Trail, the Oregon Trail, the Hastings Cut-Off, the Applegate Road. And many of them left their blood upon the land, but where they died others followed and lived.

  Upon the plains they met the Indian, the greatest light cavalryman who ever lived and rode. The Indian lived for warfare and battle. He swept down upon the camps of the white men, and where he defeated them he looted and burned and tortured, returning to his villages laden with plunder. But still the white men came.

  But now there was a difference in their coming, for they brought their women along. They came to stay.

  The young, the old, the middle-aged—none were immune to the dream that drew men to the West. The weak fell by the way, or gave up and went back to their villages and safe streets to huddle frightened with others of their kind, but the strong survived or went down fighting, and those who survived grew even stronger.

  It was a time of exploration, of struggle, of titanic men walking a titanic land. It was an age akin to the Homeric or the Elizabethan, and a man bred to either age would have been at home in the West, and would have talked the language of the men about him.

  Achilles and Jim Bowie had much in common; Sir Francis Drake and John Coulter or Kit Carson would each have understood the other.

  They were men of violence all, strong men of strong emotions, men who lived with strength and skill. Ulysses could have marched beside Jedediah Smith, Crockett could have stormed the walls of Troy. Either would have been at home among the crews of Drake, Hawkins, or Frobisher.

  *

  EVE PRESCOTT STOOD by the rail as the canalboat moved slowly along the dark waters; behind her the strange, musical, poetic names were spoken and their sound stirred her blood.

  They were wonderful, exciting names, each one the symbol of some wild romance. Santa Fe and Taos, Ash Hollow and the Cross Timbers, the Arkansas, Boggy Depot, the Washita…Cottonwood Creek and the South Fork of the Cimarron…there was a magic in their sound.

  The canal banks slid by, sunlight reflected from the staring windows of houses, and then the sudden call would ring out: “Bridge! Bridge! Duck your heads or lose your scalps!”

  The great horns blared; from a voice nearby she caught the strange word Arapahoes; beyond it, other voices, all in their separate conversations, sent words that drifted to her ears in a confused medley that nonetheless made music.

  “I favor the North carbine. Nobody can make a carbine like Simeon North”…“Cheyennes”…“lost his hair”…“Spanish Fork”…“Hal’s patent, by Simeon North”…“percussion rifle? What if you run out of caps? I favor the flint-lock…pick up a flint anywheres”…“Comanches”…“river pirates”… “Texas”…“live off the country”…“fur so thick you wouldn’t believe it”…“thieves everywhere”…“river pirates.”

  The horns sounded.…“Bridge!”…a whip cracked like a pistol from the towpath…“too far south for Sioux”…“down the Ohio”…“never seen again”…“Bridge!” The horns again, blaring, the sound echoing back from the hills.

  Sam came up suddenly beside her. “Hey, ain’t you excited, Eve? I wondered where you’d got to. Think of it, Eve, we’ll build rafts and float down the Ohio. Ain’t that something?”

  “Yes, Sam. Yes, it is.”

  But her thoughts were asking: Would that man she had never seen, that man of whom she dreamed, would he be out there somewhere? In the Ohio country?

  She looked up at Sam, so eager, so ready for the challenge. Suddenly she felt a sharp pang of fear, so sharp she almost cried out. “Be careful, Sam,” she said, almost whispering it. “Oh, be careful!”

  He grinned at her, his eyes dancing. “Careful? What’s there to be careful about?”

  Chapter 3

  *

  EVE PRESCOTT STRAIGHTENED up from the fire and brushed back a lock of her hair. Her face was hot from the flames and she stood back for a minute, listening to the bubbling of the pot.

  The tall trees towered above them, blacker than the night itself, even this night without stars. They were ancient, massive trees…her father, Sam and Zeke could scarcely have reached around the smallest of them with hands joined.

  The wind moved among the branches, and the fire sputtered briefly…out by the riverbank, not twenty yards away, the water rustled mysteriously.

  The bright gaiety and easy talk of the Erie Canal lay far behind them. They had left the canal at its terminus in Buffalo and had paid a few dollars for a decrepit two-wheeled cart which would hold all their goods. Together they had pushed and hauled it nearly three hundred miles to the Ohio, and there rafts had been built—they had built one for themselves, and the Harveys, who were traveling with them, had built one.

  Now the two rafts were tied to trees near the bank, and in the morning they would be gone again, floating the day long down the river that by now seemed endless. It was a strange life, this traveling. Each day was sufficient unto itself, and as long as they traveled there need scarcely be any thought except for today. Everything else was suspended until their journey was finished.

  The fire was a comfort. Even here in this clearing by the river’s edge the distances seemed enormous. Sam and pa were rigging a canvas shelter for the night, and ma was cutting slices from a haunch of venison killed that morning by Sam.

  Eve was beginning to realize what the wilderness could do to a man. For the first time she became aware of a subtle alteration in the attitudes of her parents toward each other. Ma had always been strong, and had stood upon an equal footing with Zebulon, and even at times superseded him in authority. Now she deferred more to pa. Zebulon went about everything—making camp, chopping wood, and all the other camp duties—with a quiet assurance, a forcefulness she had never noticed before. Never before had Eve realized what a tower of strength he was.

  In the wilderness a man grew important, for on his strength others must depend. More than ever she could understand why men loved the wilderness, for it made demands on their strength, on their ingenuity; and they loved the feeling of doing and of accomplishment that the wilderness provided.

  Eve sat down and took up her book, leaning closer to the flames to see the print better. Lilith came up to the fire, and Eve looked up.

  “Lilith…listen to this: ‘Theirs was a poignant parting in the forest. The handsome young backwoodsman carved two hearts on a tree trunk, and then, from ten paces, hurled a knife at the junction of the two hearts—”

  “Junction—what’s that mean?”

  “It’s where the two hearts come together. Now be quiet and listen: ‘His marksmanship was uncanny. Three times he hurled the knife. “That was for luck,” he said the first time, and “that was for love,” after the second. “That was a prayer, a plea for love undying—” ’ ” And then Eve added, dreamily, “Isn’t that beautiful?”

  “I reckon. If anybody ever talks like that.”

  “It’s the sentiment, not the talk.”

  “You don’t make sense, Eve. You want to be a farmer’s wife, but you’ll never find a farmer who’s the kind of man you want. You don’t really want to marry a farmer.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “I don’t want anything to do with farms.” Lilith stared at the fire. “I want silk dresses and fine carriages like those we saw back in Albany.”

  She turned her head to look at Eve. “I want a man to smell good, and I want to go out to eat in fancy places. All I want seems to be back east, yet here we are, going further and further away. But you wait—I’ll have those pretty dresses, and all.”

  “You’re only sixteen, Lil. There’s plenty of time. Besides, it’s the man that counts, not where he lives.”

  “The man you want doesn’t live, never has, and never will.”

  “I don’t believe that, L
il. I just can’t believe it. I know how I feel, and I can’t be the only one who feels this way. I want a man who loves me, not just one who needs a wife to do for him. Somewhere there’s a man who feels as I do.”

  “And you think you’ll find him out west?” Lilith scoffed.

  “Where else? A man who would think like that would be likely to go west, it seems to me. There’d be poetry in him, and that sort of man would incline toward mountains and forest. As far as farming goes, there’s poetry in farming, too. Hard work, of course, but most things worth doing are hard, and a man who plows the earth, plants seed, and watches his crops grow—I think there’s poetry in that. One time I heard a man say that all real strength comes from the earth, and I believe it.”

  “Eve!” Rebecca called. “Watch that stew! Time to put the onions in!”

  Zebulon and Sam came up to the fire. “We must keep a sharp lookout tonight, Sam,” Zebulon said. “There’s talk of river pirates and folks murdered for their goods. With the womenfolks to think of, we’ll have to watch special sharp.”

  “I’ll set the first half of the night, pa. You can set the second half. Those Harveys,” he added, “they sleep too sound for comfort.” He glanced at the trees. “They say where they’re goin’ there’s plains…folks say it’s an altogether different way of livin’. Rich soil they say—deep as a man wants to dig, it’s rich soil.”

  “A man wants to build close to fuel,” Zebulon argued. “What’s he going to burn, come wintertime? You boys never rustled for wood like I done as a youngster. Not that I had far to go, but any distance is too far, come wintertime.”

  He listened to the ring of an axe from the Harvey camp. “Strong boys,” he said. “I wish Eve would set her cap for one of them.”

  “Now, pa,” Sam protested mildly, “you don’t wish nothing of the kind. Those boys aren’t for Eve…nor for Lilith. They’re good enough men, I expect, and good men to work beside, but Eve and Lilith—they’re different. They weren’t cut out to marry with men like those.”

  The two girls had moved away from the fire, and the men could hear water splashing as they bathed near the lean-to.

  “Don’t see no reason why they should be so all-fired different. Your ma’s a sensible woman.”

  “They get it from you,” Sam replied reasonably. “Those stories you’re always a-telling…how you went off to Albany to see those show-folk. I declare, pa, sometimes I think you don’t know your own mind. Take this trip, now. And don’t get me wrong—I was for it. So was ma, for that matter. But don’t you forget you cut loose from a good farm to go west. Now why d’you suppose that was? You’ve got a feeling for different things. You like change, and color, and folks singing, and I see nothing wrong in it. But you marry one of our girls to a Harvey and you’ll break her heart.”

  “You’re talking nonsense,” Zebulon growled, but he was pleased despite himself. “Still…did I ever really tell you about those show-folk? Sam, there was a gal there in a red spangled dress—you never seen the like.”

  Suddenly they heard a man running, and turned as Zeke came up to them, his eyes wide and excited. “Pa…there’s something out on the river. Seemed like I heard a paddle splash.”

  Brutus Harvey had started for the river with a bucket. Now he turned and walked out on the raft to get a better view of the river, away from the glare of the firelight.

  “No honest man would travel the river at this hour of the night,” Zebulon said positively, and went to get his rifle.

  “Can’t see but one man,” Brutus said, just loud enough for them to hear.

  Sam took his rifle and slipped away into the darkness. Already the wilderness had begun to weave its pattern around them, and the ancient instincts, so long dead, were coming back again—the instinct for darkness, to remain concealed until an enemy has revealed himself.

  Harvey and his son Colin walked over from their fire, and there was an assuring competence about them that Sam was quick to appreciate.

  “They tell me it’s a trick of river pirates to lie out of sight in the bottom of a boat until close up,” Harvey said, “and then they jump you.”

  Brutus put down his bucket and crouched down beside the raft’s hut and drew a huge pistol from his belt.

  The canoe came slowly from the darkness, a paddler seated in the stern. The rest of the canoe was covered with sewn deerskins, under it a bulky cargo.

  “Rides low,” Zebulon Prescott whispered to Harvey. “There could be men in her, all right.” Stepping out into the light from the fire, which was some distance behind him, Prescott said, “Just come in slow and easy, stranger, and keep your hands where we can see ’em.”

  Linus Rawlings let the canoe glide under the last impetus of the paddle. In the background he could see women standing, and from the shadows near the trunk of the nearest tree he caught the gleam of a rifle barrel. Another man crouched, scarcely visible, on the nearer raft. They were the only two who acted as a man should.

  Farmers, he thought. If they go on west they’ll lose their hair. Excepting maybe for two of them.

  “Hold your fire,” he said casually. “Name’s Linus Rawlings, hungrier’n sin and peaceful as your Aunt Alice.”

  Harvey walked down to the bank and peered suspiciously at the bundles under the deerhide. “What you got there?”

  “Beaver peltry.” As Harvey stepped closer for a better look, Linus Rawlings’ voice lowered and chilled. “I said beaver pelts.”

  Harvey hesitated, still suspicious, but aware of the implied threat in Rawlings’ tone. “You’re almighty touchy,” he said irritably.

  “Out west,” Linus replied, “you don’t question a man’s word.” Seeing the doubt in Harvey’s eyes, and realizing he was a tenderfoot, he added in a more friendly tone, “We run short on lawyers and notaries west of here, so when a man gives you his word, you believe it. And when a man’s word proves no good, he’s finished…he’ll be trusted by nobody, nor can he do business, anywhere.

  “Result is—” Linus moved the canoe alongside the raft and stepped out of it as he talked—“you call a man a liar and it means shooting.”

  He tied up the canoe, and when he straightened up he saw the girl standing beside the other man. She was slender, but beautifully rounded, and she had a poised, proud way about her that he liked…like a young doe at the edge of a clearing.

  “I never had a chance to look at a beaver pelt, Mr. Rawlings,” Eve said. “Would you show me one of yours?”

  “Well, ma’am, in that case—”

  He knelt on the edge of the raft and loosened the rawhide thongs which bound the deerhide in place, and from beneath it he drew a beaver pelt. The fur was thick, brown and lustrous. When he stood up to hand it to her she realized for the first time how tall he was.

  There was a kind of quizzical good humor in his face that she immediately liked, yet there was coolness and a quiet strength such as she had never seen in anyone before.

  “It’s soft,” Eve said, “real soft.”

  “That’s a prime pelt.”

  “We was afeared you might be a pirate,” Harvey said. “We’ve heard tell of them.”

  “Come up to supper,” Prescott added, “and get acquainted. We would admire to hear talk of the western lands.”

  Eve handed the pelt to Linus, but gently he pushed it back. “It’s a present. You keep it, ma’am.”

  Too surprised to thank him, she held the pelt close against her cheek, watching his lean back as he walked to the fire with her father.

  Lilith moved up beside Eve. “Well!” she whispered. “You wasted no time! Is that the backwoodsman you’ve set your cap for? Likely he’s got a wife and six kids waiting for him back east.”

  Sam came from the shadows and walked to the fire, and Linus glanced at him. “You’ll do. Pays to be careful.”

  Sam flushed with embarrassed pride. “Mister, that’s a fine rifle you’ve got there. Have you been all the way to the shining mountains?”

  “Lived in ’e
m. Been fourteen years from home.”

  He seated himself cross-legged a little back from the firelight and accepted a plate from Rebecca Prescott. The Harveys trooped over, bringing their pots and kettles and placing them around the Prescott fire.

  “That land to the west,” Harvey asked, “is it good farm land?”

  “Hadn’t farming in mind, but some of it is, I reckon. Maybe most of it. Trouble is that folks back east spent two hundred years learning how to pioneer in timber country, and when they first see the plains they call it a desert. It ain’t nothing of the kind. Just a different way of living, that’s all.”

  He cleaned his plate and accepted a refill. Lilith had begun playing “I Wish I was Single” on the accordion, playing softly to keep from disturbing the conversation.

  “You’re traveling late,” Harvey commented.

  “Anxious to reach Pittsburgh. It’s been years since I’ve seen a city, and I aim to whoop it up a mite.”

  “Are those mountains out there as high as they say?” Sam asked.

  “Now, about that—” Linus frowned thoughtfully, emptying his plate—“I can’t rightly say. Jim Bridger and me, we started out one time to climb one of those itty bitty foothills. That was early June. About mid-July we were gettin’ pretty well up toward the actual mountains when we seen a feller with nice white wings and a harp in his hands. ‘Jim,’ I says, ‘I don’t like the way that feller is lookin’ at us.’ Jim, he looked and he said, ‘Neither do I.’ So we skedaddled back down again, and to this day I can’t rightly say how high those mountains are.”

  In the brief silence that followed, Zebulon cleared his throat, but before he could say anything, Rebecca spoke. “Now, Zebulon, you just stop. One liar’s enough.”

  Linus passed his plate to Rebecca, who refilled it without comment, and Linus said, “Thanky, ma’am. That there’s right tasty.”