Part 2

Down went the head until a geyser of water shot up and a strangled cry emerged. Cameron yanked the poll up a second time. The apology was offered in wheezing syllables. Cameron released his grip, sprang up and watched for further aggressiveness. Emory was in no condition to do added damage. His mouth and eyes were plugged and plastered; not until some kind one thrust him through the crowd to his brothers could he find his bearings.

Cameron was not in much better shape. The governor’s eyes beamed. “Looks like you were an alligator from some Louisiana swamp. I’ve seen much fighting but your style is most entertaining and least sanguine.”

It furnished a moment’s diversion in a dreary day and put the people in higher humor as they plowed off to their respective wagons. Follett pointed to the creek. “Reckon you’d best hunt out a quiet spot and take a swim, Tom.”

From the wagon’s seat came a bitter voice. “You bully! Do you think a fight settles anything? Shame for such a disgraceful scene! If it were me I’d be hiding my face!”

Cameron met Susan’s disapproving eyes and slapped a hand to his countenance, wiping off some of the mud. “Ain’t it hid?” he asked. “Durned if I don’t think so.”

“Shame on you! If I were a man I’d----”

“Be fightin’ too,” finished Tom grimly. “That’s the best thing you an’ I do.”

“Susie, git back in that wagon,” ordered Old Man Follett. “When it comes time for womenfolk to mix in men’s doin’s I’ll say so.” He watched his daughter’s head disappear and turned with a pessimistic gesture. “Waal, now, whar are we? All the best land gone hereabouts. Another week’s journey in this cussed weather an’ no prospect then of hittin’ the right place. I’m an old fool.”

Tom picketed his horse and waded through the rain. The creek left the wagons and dropped over a rock declivity to the river. At the mouth was a kind of cove with the rain fog curtaining it from the houses. Cameron stripped and washed his buckskin suit. A half hour later he was in the street again, wringing wet but at least clean. There was a stove in the store he had first entered, and toward this he moved.

“Hey, pardner, wait a minute.”

He turned upon a figure sloshing through the mud. When the man was nearer, Cameron saw it to be the same individual he had met in the store arguing with the woman; tall, loose-jointed, stubble-faced and with a chaw of tobacco bulging in one jaw.

“Have some? Waal, say, I see you’re from the wagon train. Reckon you’ll be lookin’ fer land. Mebbe Abernethy’s done told you it’s harder pickin’ than it used to be? Shore it is. You’ll be travelin’ plumb past Chemeketa--mebbe even as fur as the Calapooia range, afore you find anything onless yore real lucky. I’m an old-timer hyar, and I know a smart leetle valley that ain’t on the main traveled way. ’Tain’t but two days’ travel from hyar, to’rd the Cascades. Fine red-shot soil. Grow anything. Injuns thar, but a decent show of spunk’ll keep ’em humble.”

“How is it you’re not on this piece?”

“I’m fer Californy as soon as I c’n get a grub stake. That cussed woman won’t trust me fer a nickel’s wuth of anything, and I’m busted. Was aimin’ to claim a section o’ that land--it’s two sections big about--but I’ll give you the location for twenty dollars cash, and ef that ain’t cheap as dirt then old Sam Warner’s Injun-crooked.”

The street echoed with shouting, the mud gurgled and splashed. Once more a stream of profanity, and then the Emory boys rode by. Hank Emory leaned in the saddle as he passed and stared at Cameron with his bloodshot little eyes, then at the tall old-timer. In a moment they were out of sight, the report of their progress still coming back.

“Mebbe you’d figger me not wuth my word,” put in Warner. “Waal, there’s George Abernethy now with his bumbershoot.”

The staid governor picked his way down the muddy thoroughfare. Warner raised an arm. “George, I’m talkin’ turkey to this young feller and I’d like yore say-so about me.”

Abernethy clapped Cameron on the back. “It’s our young fighter, isn’t it? Well, whatever Sam Warner tells you is so. There’s just one exception I make.”

“What mought that be, George?” asked Warner, shifting his chaw.

“When you are drunk you’re of no use to anybody.” And into a shop Abernethy turned, smiling.

“That’s right, that’s right, but I’m sober’n a judge right now. Just wish I had four bits fer a drink.”

Cameron made a swift decision. “Come into the store and show me the location. If it sounds good I’ll pay twenty for it.”

One hour later Cameron, dried and warmed, came out of the place possessing a rough chart of the hidden valley southeast of Oregon City. It was, according to Warner, not hard to find, but only off the beaten track of incoming settlers and hitherto undiscovered by them. A bowl of meadow and beaver dam land two sections in extent, roughly, and just big enough for two preemptions. Cameron’s and Follett’s. Cameron bent through the interminable drizzle to the camp. Night fell suddenly without the transition of twilight. A ring of fires swayed and guttered in the chilly gusts of wind. Old Man Follett still hung over his own blaze; Mrs. Follett and Susan were inside.

“Reckon our troubles are mostly over,” announced Cameron and shoved the map at the elder. “Hyars movin’ orders. We’ll start out first thing at daylight. Let the rest travel another week if they want. We’ll be settled in two days.”

* * * * *

They were up before dawn, groping through the rolling mist and shivering at the raw touch of clothes and harness. It still rained; the wind came in gusts from the river. Follett fumbled around the oxen with no single word of greeting. His heart had utterly deserted him. The womenfolk were within the sodden shelter of the wagon. In this fashion they pulled out of the silent ring and rolled down the main street, hubs deep in the mire. Cameron, rolling loosely in the saddle, felt his horse rise beneath him in fright. Up through the clammy wall shuffled a nondescript character, bowed against the elements.

“Reckoned you’d be startin’ real early.” It was Warner, and his tongue formed words clumsily. “I’m a durned fool. Got on a spree last night an’ sort of emptied myself of words. When I sobered I remember tellin’ three fellers about this little valley. Location an’ everything. Three brash young fellers, as I recolleck, one of ’em purty heavy o’ shoulder an’ black-haired.”

Cameron sat rigid. Treachery? What had Hank Emory done now? Only a fool would have slept so soundly through the night while any chance of crooked work were possible. He thwacked a hand against his thigh in self-anger. Warner spoke again.

“I’d hand back that twenty dollars, but she’s plumb spent on grub. Funny now, how these fellers picked me up on the street and loaded me with rum. It shore looks like a deliberate job. But how’d they know I knew of any place? Waal, you travel on. I’m goin’ after my hawsses. Reckon I’ll guide you to that place and ef thar’s trouble we’ll have it out somehow. I ain’t goin’ to have you fooled out o’ that location.”

He disappeared, leaving Cameron to forge along with the wagon. The Emory boys, then, had paid sharp heed to Warner when they passed him the previous day. The bully’s fertile, restless mind had noted the evident seriousness between the old-timer and Cameron; with the cunning of some Blackfoot spy he had found the rest by use of alcohol. Cameron knew he would stop at nothing, that he would bend heaven and earth to forestall the Folletts after suffering the check to his vanity. There was trouble ahead. The weary rider swung his hand to the cartridge belt. The oxen struggled up the narrow trail to the summit of the cliff while the sheeting thunder of Wallamet Falls enveloped the whole party. Warner galloped into view, his long visage set in a bilious line. “Bear off to left at the next trail!” he shouted. “Short cut. She’ll be a leetle rough goin’ but I jest now heard that them three fellers pulled out ahead of us. We got to overtake ’em.”

All that had gone before was ease and comfort compared to this new route. Warner said it was an Indian trail. It was scarcely that. The oxen lumbered and plunged through the up-growing scrub bushes--salal, ironwood, grape and hazel--while the wagon top shook torrents of water from the fir boughs. They came to a hill and slid down side-wise with locked wheels, mud flying high. They fought across a swollen creek, the wagon and team drifting a hundred yards downstream before striking bottom. On the far side another dark forest engulfed them. Even the long-enduring Mrs. Follett cried out for fire and rest at this unprecedented misery.

But a kind of madness seemed to sway the men. They had gone beyond strict reason and traveled with that bitter decision which comes in company with desperate circumstances. The rain had numbed them beyond feeling; no situation had power to discourage them more than they already had been discouraged. Follett swung the bull whip and cursed at rare intervals. Cameron’s sandy mustache drooped low; the man himself shivered with a queer kind of ague. He had not been dry for seven days on end, nor had slept under any shelter, nor eaten anything save jerked venison and chicory coffee.

Warner shoved them relentlessly. It was he who knew the fords, the trails, the easier grades. Noon came in this incessant downpour, but they kept their path. The women passed out lumps of pemmican. Cameron took his from Susan with a hand that shook like an aspen leaf in the wind.

“Tom, what on earth ails you? You’re sick.”

Warner said. “Tech o’ chill. Sun’ll dry him out.”

“Sun! My Godfrey!” bawled Follett. “Does the sun ever shine in this country?”

They plunged into another creek, entered another forest, climbed and descended another hill. So ended that first bleak day which darkened and disappeared, leaving the fog and rain in undisputed mastery while the wind whipped through the tree tops and snapped branches all during the night. There was little sleep to be had. Before the first gray light they were in motion, following the monotonous winding of the road until, that mid-afternoon, the trees vanished; the rain died to intermittent showers and, far above, the sun struggled to pierce the clouds. Warner got from his horse and went to all fours, searching the ground. “Hyars whar the main road and the short cut come in. Lord cuss me ef them three fellers ain’t ahead o’ us! Fresh hoof prints, ’bout two or three hours old.”

Follett snapped the bull whip, and the wagon went on, ponderous, creaking. “Up that thar hill!” said Warner and they climbed until they were lost in the mists. Stumps and logs ended. A green, lush orchard grass sprang beneath their feet at the summit like the nap on some massive carpet. “Down thar in the pocket,” pointed the guide, “is the land. But hyars hoof prints ag’in. Them rascals air ahead of us shore enough. Ef they’ve staked corners I reckon we’re beat. That’s all’s necessary.”

Cameron mused. “If they’ve only been hyar an hour or two I doubt they’d stake corners. They ain’t possessed with that much patience.”

Doubt swayed the guide. He bit morosely into his tobacco. “But thar on the land. That’s plenty. Possession’s all ten p’ints o’ the law, by gee. I’d be willin’ to drive ’em off, but that’d git to Oregon City in no time and whar’d you be in law? I reckon we’ve lost the race. Waal, you foller me down the valley a week or so and I’ll find you some land.”

Cameron shook his head and stared at the billowing mist. Out of that pall emerged a dull echo of voices. “There they are,” he murmured. “But they ain’t the kind to set in one place very long. It ain’t in their blood.” He turned to Follett. “Reckon I’ll deal a hand in this game. We’re a-goin’ to scrap fer what we want. Drive yore wagon down the hillside ontil you strike the fog line. Jest let ’em see the wheels movin’ and hear the team grunt. Then we’ll keep goin’ on around the rim until we strike a draw somewhars and drop out o’ sight.”

“What fer?” inquired Warner with a dubious expression.

“Strategy,” replied Cameron. Follett spoke to the team and set the brakes. Down the wagon slid, with the younger man trotting in advance. As they descended, the fog thinned, and the ground below came into view until Cameron drew up his horse in plain sight of a gleaming green bowl’s bottom with a creek brawling through it, half hidden by alders. By these alders flamed a fire. There were the Emorys.

Cameron wheeled his horse back into the fog and motioned for Follett to turn. The movement put the whole group out of sight once more, but the screaming brakes echoed from one side of the bowl to the other, as did Cameron’s suddenly raised voice. “Beyond the draw!” he called. “We’re on the wrong side of the hill! Into that big clearin’!”

Back to them came Hank Emory’s exultant shout. “Go on,” directed Cameron in a lower tone. “Let ’em shout. They’ll be doin’ some figgerin’ in a while.”

And so they were. Hank Emory watched the wagon snake back to the fog-hidden upper regions until there was left only the intermittent sight of a wheel rolling mysteriously, independently along, or the queer spectacle of eight dismembered oxen legs trampling forward. Then these signs too were lost. But the noise was plain enough, receding toward a not far distant head of the valley where another low pass apparently gave entrance into another stretch of open land. Emory heard Cameron’s “Beyond the draw!” and muttered a doubtful curse into his beard. “Whar’s that fool goin’ now? This are the place.”

“Mebbe it ain’t the only good land in these parts,” offered one of the brothers.

“Or mebbe that drunk fool give us wrong directions arter all,” added the other.

Hank trudged a ring around the circle, growing more savage of temper at each pace. “Ef I thought so I’d kill him.” He cocked his head forward, but the wagon was seemingly quite far off, crawling over the pass, and he stared at the blank white wall with a growing ugliness. “Sakes, I ain’t no cussed farmer! Ain’t doin’ us any good hyar ef they didn’t mean to settle it fust. That old fool said this war the only good spot in the hull country.”

A quiet suddenly descended; the booming of the wagon wheels no longer blended echoes with the clattering brook. One lone shout wafted back and that was all. Hank Emory halted dead in his tracks. “I ain’t to be fooled!” he burst out. “Durned ef I’ll be given the haw haw. Git yore horse, we’re goin’ after ’em.”

“What fer? Most likely they’ll be squattin’ on a piece afore we c’n stop ’em.”

“Then we’ll drive ’em off! Didn’t I say I’d get square fer that drubbin’--an’ fer bein’ used by that china-faced girl?” The trio tore away from the blaze; hoofs drummed in the sodden earth; the report trembled and vanished.

It all happened swiftly. At one time they were about the fire; next instant they were gone. The flame leaped and swayed, the creek worried and foamed at the gravel banks. Then, without sound or warning Cameron and Warner slipped through the befogged alders to the fire. Warner’s face relaxed. “I reckon that’s what you mought call playin’ tag. They’re off an’ we’re on. Ef they ain’t staked corners we’re in lawful possession. I’ll mosey out and drive somethin’ in the corners ef thar ain’t nothin’ now, which will natcherly do it up brown fer us.” He galloped away.

On another corner of the compass echoed the wagon again, not far off and coming rapidly to the urge of the bull whip. Cameron sang out, “Straight ahead. Come along.” At intervals he repeated it to give Follett his bearings. In five minutes the vehicle dropped into view like some pioneer chariot descending from the skies, and lumbered up to the fire. Follett jammed on the brakes. “It’s gettin’ lighter, seems to me. Sun’s tryin’ to git through. Susie--maw--come out an’ git warm! Hyars a fire, and it ain’t rainin’ fer a minute at least.”

Once more the drumming of hoofs trembled through the mist. The trio were flying back. Tom Cameron slipped his revolver around and got from his horse. “Not yet. Back in the wagon, Susie. Thar’s apt to be a stray bullet or so in the next minute.”

“Tom--there’s no need of spilt blood. I’d rather give in and try another place.”

“Our own land? I give up nawthin’ to those sports.”

“Right,” agreed Follett, crawling from the wagon seat. “It’s time to git shet o’ that pack o’ trouble. Git me the buffler gun, Susie.”

There was a snorting of horses, a violent oath, and Hank Emory came to view as of old, his animal rearing wildly at the bit’s yank and sliding to a halt. The other two brothers trailed behind. The elder bully jumped from the saddle and stood before Cameron with his red-rimmed eyes growing bloodshot. “My land, Methodist, and I’ll tell ye to git off sudden.” He was shaking his head like an angry, uncertain bear.

“First come first served,” countered Tom.

“Which is us.”

“I guess not. Wa’n’t no sight of you when we came. Moreover we paid fair for the location.” Then he took a bold shot. “If you wanted it why didn’t you stick--why didn’t you mark the corners?”

“Hey?” shouted Emory. “Tryin’ to make a fool out of me, you ginger-bread dandy? I ain’t traipsin’ around lookin’ fer corners to mark. We war here fust and that settles it. You’ll go, and you’ll take yore friends to boot. Fool me? I guess not! Clear out!”

Cameron inclined his ear to some not-far-off sound. “When you stepped over that draw you abandoned this piece o’ land, leavin’ it unmarked. Whoever reached it next had fair claim to it. That’s us. Moreover we’ve got stakes out now on a couple corners for good measure. That settles it as far as preemption goes. We’re in possession lawfully and aim to stay.” As he finished, Warner arrived and slid from his horse. “Found one nice little pile o’ rocks nigh to the summit and jest considered it as one of our corners. No sign of anything else. She’s yours lawfully.”

But Cameron had no attention for him. His eyes were upon Hank Emory, whose red lids squinted under the sudden rising fury. The black head dropped in unison with the gun arm. The brothers spread out fanwise.

“Ho!” yelled Follett and brought up the buffalo weapon. He was far too slow. Emory’s pistol was in the air, breast-high, when Cameron shot. There was no answering bullet; the leader of this boisterous group, bereft of his animal vitality, of his huge voice and scowl, fell like a sack of meal, with never a single word to announce his passing--a faint look of surprise on his face. The brothers stood irresolute, guns half out, covered by Warner and Follett. From the wagon Susan looked compassionately down at the dead man. “Tom, Tom--I’ll be forever sorry!”

“No need to be. It’s been a long time brewin’, and somebody had to end it. ’Twas now or later; me or somebody else; this quarrel or another quarrel. The man was made for a sudden death.” He motioned to the remaining pair. “Pick him up and take him away. Reckon you’ll find it inconvenient to come back.”

They did as told, hoisting the body into the saddle and, supporting it between them, rode away into the mists.

As if by prearrangement the mists were suddenly shot with a gleaming light; a crack in the eternal fog widened and through it came a swift, momentary shaft of the winter’s sun. It flashed down on the heavy grass with all the verdant brilliance of an April day, twinkled in the brawling creek, sparkled in the drenched tree tops. That short bit of heat set the whole rolling valley to steaming and from the earth came a yeasty, humid, pungent smell. Follett turned his mild eyes up along the expanse of meadow with such an expression of confidence as had not been there since spring in Missouri. “Waal, hyar’s land good enough. And thar’s the sun.”

“Worth fightin’ for I guess,” stated Cameron a little dourly, and turned to Susan. “I been waitin’ for you to change yore mind back to where it used to be. If it’s the same story as it was yesterday I guess I’ll jest leave you folks and mosey along to Californy with the rest.”

“Why, Tom, are you blind?” Whereupon he grinned like a schoolboy and turned to the fire with a gesture of ambition. “Jest about, I guess. Well, dad, let’s get started on the cabin. It’d best be a double affair. Two families take up a lot o’ room.”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 7, 1925 issue of _Western Story Magazine_.]