Bendigo Shafter (1979) Read online

  If you expect me to be sorry, you will be mistaken. They tried to beat me at my own game, cards. When that failed they tried to shoot me down without warning.

  Stacy Follett is another thing. Without him they could not have lived as long as they had. He is a dangerous man.

  I think so.

  What is there to do? Be careful. I have always been that.

  You are a brave man, Morrell.

  A man does what he has to do. A brave man? What men call a hero, Shafter, is merely a man who is seen doing what a brave man does as a matter of course.

  He turned away. Let me get my pipe and well walk up the street. Have you finished Plutarch?

  No.

  Take your time with him. He is worth it. He pulled the door shut behind him. You are luckier than you know. I mean in the books you have to read. People who come west cannot bring much, so they try to bring the best, and from all I hear Major Macken chose wisely.

  I envy you, starting out like this. A mind, like a home, is furnished by its owner, so if one's life is cold and bare he can blame none but himself. You have a chance to select from some pretty elegant furnishings.

  He changed the subject suddenly. Shafter, you could do something for me.

  Surprised, I just looked at him. He seemed so complete, so in need of nothing. I speak of Ninon. If Stacy Follett should be luckier than I think he will be, take care of her.

  She's going to be a beautiful woman, Shafter, and a rarely talented one. She'll not be content here for long. She has too much inside her crying for expression. Whatever she comes to be, her life won't be lived quietly. She has too much passion and fire and ambition in her.

  But she's only a child.

  He shrugged. How long is a girl a child? She is a child, and then one morning you wake up and she's a woman and a dozen different people of whom you recognize none.

  Being here may be good for her. It may give her time to discover herself, to find out who she is.

  You're talking nonsense, Shafter, and you know it. Nobody is anybody until they make themselves somebody. But it won't take Ninon long. I know her and the stuff she came from.

  We ate that night at Cain's house, and Ruth and Bud were there. We talked that night of many things, of books and boots and mysteries, of haunts and swords and far-off places where temples were and gods once walked with men.

  Lenny Sampson came in with his pa and listened wide-eyed while Morrell told the story of Ulysses and the Cyclops, and the one about Theseus and the Minotaur, and Aeneas and the founding of Rome.

  It was good talk, and the room was warm and pleasant, and when it was over Ninon sang a couple of songs, and we drank coffee. When the youngsters had gone off to bed Cain, Morrell, Sampson, and I, we sat and talked of the town.

  You must have a town marshal, Morrell said. You will have violent men coming among the peaceful ones, and if there is no law there will be trouble.

  How about you for the job? Cain asked.

  No. Morrell spoke positively. I am well known. I do not want to bring my troubles on your town. I will stay, if you will have me, but not as marshal.

  Bendigo is the one for the job, Sampson said. He has judgment, and be can use a gun if need be.

  I will not be here, I said. Webb? Morrell asked.

  No, Cain said. There is trouble in the man. I like him, but he is dangerous.

  We talked of that, and of a city government, and for the first time we thought of elections and the drawing up of municipal regulations.

  There was also the matter of land. Nobody had claimed anything except for two mining claims by Webb and Stuart, over on Rock Creek. Nobody, that is, but Ruth Macken.

  She had staked out the bench on which her house stood, which comprised several acres as well as a corner of meadow that lay beyond some trees. That meadow was not one in which we had run our stock, being more visible from her house than from the town, yet there were at least fifty acres in it, and it was well watered.

  We began to think of garden plots, for there would be vegetables to be grown, and a place to sow wheat. Cain and John Sampson and I had agreed to work together, but now I would be gone. A subtle change had taken place in their relationship to me, one that even I had scarcely noticed. Since I had been hunting and providing so much of the meat for the settlement, they now accepted me as an equal.

  There was to be a town council, and we discussed among ourselves whom we should choose for mayor. Sampson and I suggested Cain, but he refused. John Sampson was the man, Cain said, and we finally agreed when it came to a vote we would nominate him ... or Cain would.

  For several days the work went forward. Cain and I built the stone wall of our mill halfway up as planned, then began the use of timbers. By the end of the week we had it ready for roofing.

  Neely Stuart was working on his gold claim. Croft had been adding to his house, making it tighter against the cold. He had scouted a small field where he planned to plant vegetables and grain when spring came.

  Neely was gone much of the time, and at first he had success. Each night he returned to talk of his gold, and then he began to speak of it less, but to walk with more of a swagger. He did manage to let us know he was doing well, and several times he made small purchases at Ruth Macken's and paid in gold.

  Webb worked occasionally on his claim but helped more with the gathering of fuel, the hunting, and the scouting. We never hunted alone ... each time a man went out, somebody went with him.

  Several times Webb and I hunted, and I let him get the best of the shots. He was careful with a gun, a good shot and he wasted no ammunition. We talked little, but I felt that he liked me as much as he liked anyone. Several times he made comments about Foss ... the boy was lazy, he said. He needed a good whipping from some boy half his size to teach him a thing or two. To all this I made no comment.

  From Plutarch I moved on to Locke's Essay on Human Understanding. It had been a book much read by the founders, of our country, and it was different from anything I had read until then. Twice, groups of Mormons stopped by, and each time we gave them shelter and provided them with supplies, for which they paid. We saw nothing of Stacy Follett, and when I scouted his old observation post I found no sign of him there. No doubt once discovered he was wily enough to move away. Christmas was upon us then, and we forgot about him ... at least most of us did.

  It had been our custom ever since arriving to hold a service on Sunday. Usually, it was a simple, friendly affair with Cain or John Sampson reading from the Bible and Tom Croft leading us in hymn singing. We had a few fair to middling voices amongst us, and we liked the singing. And then Moses Finnerly came to town. He was a tall, thin man with haggard features and hollow eyes, sharp eyes that missed nothing at all. He had two men with him, a short, stocky man with a bland, open lace and eyes that revealed nothing but seemed merry enough at first sight. The other was a big, heavy man with fat jowls and a coarse, rough way about him. They came riding up the trail one Saturday forenoon and rode right to Cain's. They had them a tent, and they set it up right off, and then Moses Finnerly came to see Cain.

  We had just reared a timber into place, one of the crossbeams of the mill, and we were catching our breath. Webb, wearing a pistol, had walked over to stand with us as the three riders came up the trail.

  My rifle was handy, and as always I was wearing a six-gun. In that country nobody went unarmed from sunup to sundown ... not if he planned to live out his years.

  How do you do, gentlemen? I am the Reverend Moses Finnerly. These gentlemen are accompanying me. May I present Brother Joseph Pappin? And Brother Ollie Trotter?

  Howdy, Webb said. I'm Webb. These are the Shafter brothers.

  Pleased, the Reverend Finnerly said, pleased, indeed. We understood you had a settlement here and thought it behooved us to bring you God's word.

  We have God's word, Webb replied, each house has a Bible. Of a Sunday we have readings.

  Ah? Of course, of course. But the Bible, sir, must be interpreted. The L
ord's word must not be profaned, but given from the lips of one ordained to the task.

  Get down, Cain said, get down, gentlemen. We have little enough here, but we will share with you.

  Little? Ollie Trotter looked around. I heard tell this was a gold camp.

  Cain smiled. I believe some mining did take place some years back. We've only just settled, and we're planning to farm and trade.

  For a moment disappointment seemed to show in their faces, but who am I to judge? The hour was nearing noon, and it was the logical place to stop.

  It was a natural thing for a man to notice. Their horses had come far, were not good stock, and they were traveling almighty light. If they'd been anything but men of God I would have guessed they left wherever they'd been in a hurry.

  Webb watched them go, then spat. I don't cotton to 'em, Ben, he said. That Finnerly's got him a mean eye.

  They joined us at table, and I didn't cotton to them either, or to the way their eyes followed Lorna about. Moses Finnerly sat back and looked up at her as she passed. Have you been saved, young woman? Have you been offered the mercy of the Lord?

  Cain turned half around but before he could speak, I did. She has never been lost, Reverend. She doesn't need saving.

  He turned hard eyes toward mine. The Lord will judge, he said.

  You are right, Reverend. He will judge us all.

  He did not like that very much, nor did he like me, but the feeling was mutual, and I did not mind. I am a man who has respect for the ministers of the Lord, but it has been my short experience that some of them need their own best services. We Shafters have always leaned toward a gentle and forgiving Christ, but unless I missed my guess, Moses Finnerly had in him the spirit of a witch burner.

  He asked the blessing, and a long-winded one it was, and personally I favored men of God who could say what they had to say briefly when I was hungry. Also there was more in his praying of what God forbade than what he forgave.

  The big house, Finnerly said, after a bit. The one on the bench ... whose is it?

  The Widow Macken lives there, Helen said, a fine woman.

  I doubt it not, Finnerly replied.

  As though she had been called for, at that moment she knocked, and I saw a flicker of irritation cross Cain's face. At our call, she stepped in, Ninon beside her.

  We got to our feet, all but Ollie Trotter. Cain introduced them, and I could fairly see their mouths water. Moses Finnerly said, Widow Macken, we are travelers without a place to put our heads. You have a large house. Can you provide?

  She looked at him directly, a cool, measuring look, and then she smiled. My cabin is not as large as it seems, and all too small for three of us.

  Three?

  My son. I am afraid you must look elsewhere, Parson, but it has been a custom for those who come to our town to provide for themselves. We will share our food, although we have little; our homes are small.

  We need but little, Brother Joseph Pappin said, a corner away from the wind.

  She did not smile this time. Please do not think me callous, but my home has no room for men, and you should understand that a woman, almost alone, could not offer you a place.

  He did not like it, but he bowed. Of course. I did not think. You spoke of a son ...

  He is quite young.

  She sat down, and Helen brought her coffee, and conversation began again. Ruth Macken was no fool, and she had liked their unctuous manner no more than Webb and I. After a moment she turned to them. Have you come far?

  Too far, Mrs. Macken. Yet not too far if we can bring the word of God to you who reside here.

  You come from the west?

  Finnerly ignored the question and started to speak of God and his works, and I sat there sipping coffee and thinking about the Devil quoting Scripture to his own ends, which was unjust of me for I knew not the men, nor what lay behind them. They might be good men. Yet even as I told myself that I did not believe it.

  We will hold services tomorrow, the Reverend Finnerly said, and would be pleased if you would attend.

  We shall be glad to hear you, Cain replied. We have done our own preaching until now. He got to his feet. The hour is late. If you wish to bed down here upon the floor, gentlemen, you are welcome. I am sorry we have so little to offer.

  They exchanged a look. Isn't there an empty house? Or one with fewer people? We are very tired and ...

  There's Drake Morrell's, I suggested, moved by I know not what deviltry.

  Finnerly cringed as if stabbed. Morrell? Is he here? You shelter such a man within this village? Suddenly his voice rose. Drake Morrell is a murderer. An evil, evil man!

  He has lived quietly among us, John Sampson said. We find no fault in the man.

  He is a gambler, a murderer, and a defiler of women! Finnerly shouted.

  I have found him a gentleman, Ruth Macken replied, and I believe him to be a man of honor.

  Finnerly turned sharply and started to speak, but perhaps it was something in Cain's attitude or mine that decided him against it. He controlled himself, but his eyes were narrow and mean. He will hang! he said savagely. There is no place for him and his land.

  Turning abruptly, he stalked from the room followed by Pappin and Trotter.

  Ruth Macken spoke, as I started to close the door. Leave it open for just a minute, Mr. Shafter. I believe we need some fresh air in here, after that.

  He should be ashamed of himself, Helen said. I like Mr. Morrell.

  To preach the word of Christ, Sampson said dryly, a man should have a little forgiveness in him. I nave no doubt Mr. Morrell has had his difficulties, but so have we.

  John, Cain said, I have been thinking about the north forty. Why don't we sow oats? I've seen some wild oats growing around, and I think it would do well, and well have stock to feed.

  Lorna, Ruth Macken, and Helen settled down to making paper ornaments for a Christmas tree, and as Cain talked to John he worked at making nails. Opening my book, I began to read, and from time to time I would look up from Locke and listen to the soft rumble of conversation in the room, the quiet crackling of the flames, and the sound of working hands. It was an evening like many another, one of those evenings I was to treasure in the long years to come. Fortunately, I knew it then.

  Reading what John Locke had to say on knowledge and judgment made me think again of Drake Morrell and our discussion with the Reverend Finnerly.

  It was like the sudden flight of the bird that warned me of Stacy Follett's presence in the brush. I did not know for a certainty that anything was there. On the evidence of the bird's sudden flight I merely presumed it a possibility. With Drake Morrell we had only his present conduct and his risking his life to aid two children by which to judge him, so I would accept him as the kind of man he appeared to be while reserving judgment until there was more evidence.

  Looking up again from my book, I watched those in the room with me and was lonely within myself, for there was in me a great reaching outward, a desire to be and to become. I looked upon Cain and John Sampson and thought of Ethan Sackett, each in his own way a man, and a complete man, or so it seemed.

  Ethan was the hunter and the mountain man, as much a part of the mountains and the wilderness as any wolf, beaver, or deer. My brother Cain, the master craftsman, turning the steel in his hand, striking surely and honestly, and when the striking was finished he would have created a tool. And John Sampson, a kindly man, secure within himself, a God-fearing man who was tolerant, forgiving, yet strong. And I?

  I had been given certain flesh and certain brains susceptible of shaping, and the shaping was mine to do. Of course, I would be influenced by heredity, by the world in which I lived, and by the contacts, abrasive or otherwise, but still and all, the shaping was in my hands.

  What kind of man was I to be? What sort of thing must I do to become that man?

  Chapter 13

  Christmas Eve was clear and cold. There had been a light snow earlier in the day, covering some of the bare pl
aces left by the chinook or blown away by the winds.

  The Reverend Moses Finnerly and his two friends had turned to, and with help from Neely Stuart had built a half-dugout cabin in the side of a knoll not far from the town.

  Ethan, Webb, and I had put in a lot of time hunting, and had brought in meat for the Christmas tables. Ollie Trotter proved a good hunter, too, and brought in an elk and a deer. So there was meat in plenty for the holiday.

  Working every moment we could spare, Cain, Sampson, and I had roofed the mill, added a big fireplace, and we would use it for meetings, socials, and such until spring came when the mill went into operation, and we could afford to build a school. The school would be the church, too, until we could build one.

  Drake Morrell took part in everything. He worked with us on the mill, trimming logs of their branches, stacking brush, and gathering firewood so we who were good with tools could work

  Shortly after the Reverend Finnerly arrived, I mentioned him to Morrell. He gave me a kind of amused look. I am not surprised that he doesn't like me, and he has reason.

  What happened?

  He shrugged. You haven't seen it yet, Bendigo, but sometimes I take a drink too much, and when I do I am apt to be unpleasant. Oh, I don't mean violent! Nothing like that. But sarcastic sometimes, and inclined to prick balloons that are better left to float away.

  Moses Finnerly, he added, is everything I don't like. He is to my thinking narrow, bigoted, and basically mean. He puts on a pious manner, preaches a kind of so-called Christianity with which I have never been in sympathy.

  He's a gospel shouter of the fire-and-brimstone school. Everybody is hell-bound but him, and their only chance of being saved is by him.

  Well, that was my opinion, too, but I didn't say so. I just asked, What about Pappin and Trotter?

  Ollie Trotter? He's a bad man. Finnerly got him away from a lynch mob so he stays with him. He's a dry-gulching murderer, a horse thief, and a troublemaker. He's good with a gun, but you'll wait a long time before he faces anybody with one.

  Since Finnerly saved his neck he claims to be a changed man, but I don't believe it. Not for one minute.