Rivers West by Louis L’Amour Page B

indicated the wagon with its tarp, now pulling away. Another was pulling up, and it was unloaded in exactly the same way.
    â€œWell?” I said.
    He glanced at me. “Rifles?”
    â€œOf course. There must have been at least a hundred on that first wagon.”
    â€œSo we can guess, a modest estimate, no less than two hundred rifles aboard—and probably more. That’s a lot of firepower.”
    â€œDid you find Macaire?” I asked.
    â€œNope,” answered Butlin. “He’s not around. At least not yet.”
    We were silent. The second wagon had discharged its cargo and moved away. Now there was only the usual activity around the hull of the dragon boat.
    â€œWhat are you going to do?” Butlin asked.
    There was nothing I could do. Tabitha Majoribanks would not have me aboard, and I certainly would not serve under Macklem. Whatever was to happen would happen soon, for their boat would likely pull out for the West in a day or two.
    â€œNothing,” I said, “but hunt a job.”
    Butlin dropped into a chair and stared thoughtfully out the window. “That’s a fine girl,” he muttered, “a fine, proud girl.”
    Something inside me cringed. I felt a shame come over me. Yes, she was all of that. I remembered the set of her shoulders, the look of her back as she walked away from me. But I knew she had no use for me, and although she was a fine, proud girl, she also had a fine, devil of a temper.
    I said as much. Butlin chuckled. “Would you have it otherwise? If you’re going to have steam in the kettle, you’ve got to have fire in the stove.”
    Through my telescope, I saw a man walk up the gangway, pausing at the rail. It was Colonel Macklem. My fists clenched.
    But fists were not the proper weapon for him. If a man was to tackle Macklem, he must do it with a calm mind, for I knew that man was thinking. He was thinking all the time.
    And every thought was of how to kill you, how to make you suffer.
    Chapter 11
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    A T THE BOAT yard I had no trouble. Boats were building. Men were needed. Timbers were cut in a sawmill, but many needed added shaping, and I was a better than fair hand with ax or adze.
    I was hired on the spot.
    That afternoon, John Dill, my boss, walked over to where I was working and kicked the chips I’d cut from a timber in facing it. The chips were almost uniform in size, and the timber as smooth as if polished.
    â€œYou’re good,” he said quietly. “Have you built boats?”
    â€œI am a shipwright,” I told him. “I have built three schooners, a barkentine, and several brigs, along with a number of fishing craft.”
    â€œI thought so.” He watched me work for a time. “Have you built bridges?”
    â€œSeveral…and barns, as well.”
    â€œWe’ve a steamer to build. One hundred and twenty-five feet overall, main deck, cabin deck and a texas.”
    I leaned on my ax. “You will build it here?”
    â€œI shall. If you’ll have the job, it is yours.”
    â€œYou mean I shall be in charge?”
    â€œI’ve watched you work. You’ll do it. I want the job done by a man who loves his work, who loves the wood he works with and the tools he uses.”
    It was what I wanted. It was what I had come west to do. Now it was here. One hundred and twenty-five feet would make a handsome craft, and once I’d put one in the water I could write my own ticket.
    Why did I hesitate?
    â€œLet me give you my answer tomorrow. I must think of what must be done and what I have to do.”
    â€œWell enough. You know where my office is. Come along when you’ve made up your mind.”
    For a moment longer I waited, thinking, and then once more I went to work, liking the clean, neat strokes of the adze, the way the chips broke away. This was what I had started to do in life, to build, to build boats that would carry the commerce of this wild land, go up its