Bendigo Shafter (1979) by Louis L'amour

each other, and that's a lot.
    The truth of the matter was that I'd never heard of Emerson, but I said nothing of that. It seemed likely that I'd hear more about him before long. In the meanwhile there was Walden, and I carried it with me when I went up the mountain in the morning. The weather had moderated. It was mild enough to work without a coat. The snow had melted in exposed places, but we all knew that was temporary. It was a fine day for woodcutting, and I went to work early.
    Everybody was talking about the party, but I could hardly wait until lunch time to open the new book. It was a quiet place up there on the ridge, but I was no such fool as to sit in the open reading. I'd found a hiding place behind three towering pines that stood before a hollow in the rock.
    It was not a cave, just a hollow that permitted nobody to approach me except from in front where my position was masked by the trees. I sat there and read, then put the book aside to think of our town, and of me.
    Christmas was only a few weeks away, and spring would follow after. When grass was green would our people remain? Would others come? We wanted others to come, and expected them, but we were a little jealous, too, for now the town was ours, our creation.
    What of me? What of this person I was? What of the man I might become? Most of all I needed what all men need, a destination. I wanted to become something, for in the last analysis it is not what people think of a man but what he thinks of himself.
    It was there, in Thoreau. Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinion. What a man thinks of himself, that is what determines, or rather indicates his fate.
    What I was to do in the world, this I did not know; yet for all my years there had been within me a vague yearning to be something, to hold a responsible place in the world.
    Putting the book away where it would not become damp, I returned to my work and worked hard until almost sundown. Then it was that I saw the wagon.
    It was a large wagon, drawn by six fine, big horses, and there were two outriders, both with rifles. Taking up my rifle, I walked down the hill. Webb was outside, gathering an armful of firewood, and when he saw my gesture he went inside, emerging with his rifle.
    By the time I was standing before Cain's house I knew that all our men were in place and waiting. The wagon was coming into what we called our street.
    The first rider rode out ahead, a stocky, powerfully built man with cold gray-green eyes.
    He held out his hand. We come as friends, he said, to repay the help you offered our brethren. I am Porter Rockwell.
    We knew the name. Rockwell was said to be the leader of the Danites, Brigham's Destroying Angels. It was whispered that these were the men who eliminated those troublesome to the church, and back in Missouri his name had been legend. In Illinois, too, for that matter.
    It was good work, he told us, and we are obliged. I am to speak to Mrs. Macken, in particular.
    Cain came from his house, Ruth Macken and Helen following. Hie wagon pulled up as they emerged, and the driver and the others, for there had been three armed men hidden in the wagon, began to unload.
    There was flour, sugar, coffee, salt, a barrel of pickles, and much else. There were bales of blankets, robes, and clothing to repay Mrs. Macken for those she had so freely given.
    We're beholden, Rockwell said. We have found less of kindness and more of abuse, and had you not gone to the aid of our brethren they would surely have perished.
    The other outrider was Truman Trask. He looked better than before. He was lean, hard, and in fine shape. He was also better dressed.
    When they had unloaded a part of their cargo the rest was taken to Ruth Macken's. Truman and I went up the slope to help the unloading.
    The Prophet has told all his people to trade with you, Porter Rockwell said, if they are nearby and have need.
    Later, I stood beside Rockwell and watched the wagon begin its