“No. I’ve got a bad feeling. He’s gone, and he isn’t comin’ back. He took the letters he got from his pa.”
“I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”
Simon said nothing for several minutes, then: “Do you think you could run this place for Amos?”
“You mean do your job?” Lori sounded surprised.
“Yeah. I’ve showed ya everything, and I’ve got good books set up.”
“I suppose I could, but you don’t have to leave. You still have lots of friends here, people who care what happens to you.”
“No, Lori. It’s a bad place now. I expect to hear about Sarah soon, and I just want to go back and live a normal life. I feel lost.”
“If that’s what you want, sure, we can talk to Amos. I’ll do what I can.” She put her hand on his and squeezed. “I never thought this would happen.” She got out of the chair and quietly left.
Simon could not concentrate on work that evening, so as soon as it looked like Martindale had the bar under control, he went back to the loneliness of the little house. There he sat in the easy chair and did absolutely nothing. He was asleep in it the next morning when Amos banged on the door. Spud scrambled to his feet, hackles raised.
“Simon, you up?” He rattled the door again. “Simon!”
The dog barked once, then settled into a low menacing growl.
“Spud, be quiet.” Simon winced as his crooked neck punished him. “Yeah, I’m here.” He stood. “Come on in.”
Amos rushed through the door. “Got a letter for ya, from Philadelphia.” He could hardly contain his excitement as he offered the pale brown envelope.
Simon almost snatched the letter from his hand. “You go to the fort already this morning?”
“Yeah. Nothing else to do, so I thought I’d go check.” The lie was blatant.
“Thanks, Amos. Uh . . . I’d like to—”
“Sure, I know. I’ll see ya a little later for breakfast then.” Amos gave him another wide grin and left.
Simon sat back down. He stared at the buff envelope, Sarah’s handwriting painfully familiar. His hand shook as he read his address, and then, turning the letter over, hers on the back. He dug his pocketknife out, carefully slit the top, and removed the single sheet of paper. He unfolded it and began to read.
July 14, 1872
Dear Simon,
I take pen in hand with some trepidation. I knew one day your letter would come, and I have thought often about what I would do. Even now, I can feel the panic. I am in school studying to be a teacher. It is so satisfying. I know now what Miss Everett felt. I so look forward to a room full of my own students. I have come to terms with what happened in the past, and I am much relieved that you know the truth. At times it seems so long ago and faded, yet at other times, some of the memories are very fresh and still very much alive. Please understand that I am happy, both with my life and with what I am doing. If you wish me happiness, wish me success here.
Sometimes I weep when I think of what could have been.
Simon could read no further. His eyes blurred with tears as a sob welled up suddenly and escaped. First Buell, and now this. He couldn’t stand it.
Mental defenses charged to the fore, surging ahead to protect his innermost being. His mind screamed denial: forbid the light of truth a safe haven in which to shine, take that which you know to be real, and bend it to fit the form as you need it to be.
But truth is a resilient creature, and does not die easily. Back and forth, over the ravaged ground of his wounded soul, the keepers of his sanity stomped on the final flickering embers. With the indignation of the wronged appeased, a wave of self-pity swept clear the remains of verity vanquished. Simon wallowed in the soothing embrace of vindication.
“What’s the use?” he muttered to himself, and raised the letter again.
Sometimes I weep when I think of what could have been. The beauty of our time together comes clear in my dreams, and I wish for things that seem denied. For now, dear Simon, you must leave us as we are, knowing some things cannot be changed except with time. And knowing those things to be true, I pray you understand why I cry.
Sarah
Simon refolded the letter, and carefully put it back in the envelope. He dropped it on the table, then grabbed his hat and headed for the stables.
Tay appeared in the doorway and stepped into the bright light of late morning. “Git down, son. I been expectin’ ya.”
Simon got off his horse, and Tay led the animal to the shade by the corral. Simon sat on the familiar bench and waited.
“From the look on yer face, I’d say yer biscuit landed jam-side down.” Tay sat beside him.
“Sarah wrote.”
“And ya didn’t hear what ya wanted?”
“She wants to stay there, and says if I want to make her happy, to leave her alone.”
“Them’s the words?”
“More or less. Nothin’s changed.”
“I’m more used to workin’ with mules and other fellers, so I haven’t studied much on the ladies. What I do know fer some certain is, womenfolk have reasons that reason can’t make no sense of. I want ya to think on that next time ya read that letter . . . and you will.”
“Like I said, nothin’ has changed for me and Sarah.” Simon paused for a bit. “Do ya think Buell will come back?”
“Nope. Fairly certain of it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Cuz he said so.”
“You seen him? Since?”
“He came by in the middle of the night. Told me what happened, and wanted to know a little bit about the Dakotas. Stayed about an hour, then he and that Appaloosa took off again. Tol’ me he’d stay in touch.”
“Where in the Dakotas?”
“Didn’t say exactly. Big place.”
“Did he say when he’d write or something?”
“Simon, he wanted to get lost. I figger he’s done jist that.”
“I want so bad to tell him I’m sorry.”
“Don’t know if he’d accept that or not. What ya said to ’im cut him deep. I’m not so sure what ya have ta say about it would make a diff’rence right now. He knows how ya felt. Said so. Said he could always hide behind something in his head, and you ain’t got something like that. He said he wasn’t sure who the lucky one was. I know that ain’t what ya wanted to hear, but the truth will never choke ya to death like a lie will.”
“You told me once that if I got to the place where I was unhappy, I should leave.”
“Yep. Still think that.”
“Then, I’m gonna. When I thought I was goin’ home, I asked Lori if she would run the place for Amos. Only difference is, I’m going west instead of east.”
“Idaho?”
“I think so. I’m gonna ask Walks Fast about those mountains you mentioned.” Simon touched the rough log wall behind him. “I’ve looked over this place real good several times. I think I could build one like it.”
“I’m sure ya could. I believe a man with a mule, an ax and a shovel kin purdy much land anywhere and make it. I’d add some more to that short list, but keep to the basics and you can move quick and quiet. Ya think you kin pack a mule like I showed ya?”
“I’m sure of it. Pack his back like someone was packing my own, right?”
“Ya got it. Nothin’ as irritatin’ as an unhappy mule. Make yer life sheer hell. But keep ’em fed and dry, and he’ll outlast five horses.”
“Will ya help me find what I need?”
“Nope. Best git where yer goin’ as fast as ya can. That means takin’ the railroad to Salt Lake. Buy yer mule there. And all the other stuff ya need, like a saw, and some candles and somethin’ to cook with. I’ll help ya make a list. Take a good look at Sonuvabitch over there. Find a mule like him. Short, straight back and good solid-lookin’ chest. And look for the one that follows ya ever’where with his ears. Shows he cares what’s goin’ on. One like that will save yer hide one day.” Tay stood up. “Come on in, Simo
n. We’ll make that list fer ya, and we kin jaw a little more. Got a feelin’ it’ll have ta last me a while.”
Simon did not miss the glassy sheen of the old man’s eyes as he beckoned for Simon to follow.
A couple of hours later, Simon rode between the tepees of Walks Fast’s small village. He noticed that the Indians turned their heads as he moved past. He stopped in front of Walks Fast’s lodge, puzzled, and waited.
Soon the old Indian emerged, and held back the flap. “Welcome, Simon.”
“Hello, Walks Fast,” he said as he got off. He turned to look again at a couple of women in front of the next tepee. They looked away.
“They don’t want the bad spirits you carry.”
Simon turned to see Walks Fast looking at him.
“They know about the shooting?”
“Not the shooting they worry about. Village know Shoots Fast has gone. They know he feels pain, and they know Simon put the pain there. Come in. We’ll talk.”
Simon stepped through the opening and into an empty tepee. He waited until Walks Fast pointed to a spot before he sat. The old Shoshoni sat nearby, and both waited for a few minutes before Simon spoke. “I’m leaving here. I’ve decided to go into the mountains of your old home.”
“Taylor told you of the White Cloud Mountains. I know of many reasons why you want to go, but I don’t know which reason makes you go now.”
“Buell isn’t coming back.”
“I know. I saw his spirit last night. He is safe.”
“Do you know why he left?”
“I will miss Buell, and I will miss him if I know his reason or not. His spirit was not happy, and it’s better for him if he is not here.”
Simon took a deep breath. “I killed a man, and it wasn’t necessary. And when I did it, I think I lost something I can never get back.”
“I was told you saw danger.” Walks Fast’s brow furrowed. “It is bad that a man was killed, but he decided that, not you or Buell.”
“Buell tried to stop me, but it was too late. In that moment I realized I was like him, and I said so. I insulted him. Real bad. I wish I could tell him I didn’t mean to.”
“Hard words are like the sting of a wasp. You can make him fly away, but the sting will not. Buell will know you did not mean to hurt, because he is your friend. But now he feels pain, and he needs time for the pain to go away. Why does Simon not go home?”
“I got a letter. The woman I want does not want me.”
“Sarah.”
Simon was taken aback. “You know her name. Did Buell tell you?”
The Indian smiled sadly. “Her spirit is strong, but now it is two. A heart can beat only for one, so now the two spirits fight for her heart. I don’t know which one will win. One of the spirits wants Simon to be near.”
“How do you see these things? I dream too, but none of it makes any sense.”
“White man’s talk made no sense to me when I heard it for the first time. I learned your ways by living your ways. It’s the same with dream walking. A white man is in a hurry to leave the dream. Stay in the dream longer, and you will soon learn what it says.”
Simon recalled the dream he’d had on his trip into the hills. What Walks Fast said almost made sense. But how can a person dream when interruptions disrupt them, or when one dream contradicts another? “Will you tell me where the White Clouds are?”
“I will make you a map. They are not hard to find. Good Indians live in the mountains there. They are sheep hunters, and are of my people a long time before. You won’t find them, so don’t look. They are in the high meadows in summer, and when the snows come, they move to the low valleys, to places that are hard to see. You would make friends if you leave a knife, or a hatchet for them. The Sheepeaters will find you.”
Again the isolation of the mountains came to him, the exposure he’d be subject to. “Do you think I can live there?”
“It’s not going to be easy. The map will show where the earth stays warm all winter. Hot water comes from the mountainside. It smells bad, so your nose will find it for you. It’s a good place for your horses. Build a strong house in case the big bears smell you. Be quiet there, and take time to listen. You can learn much.”
“Am I doing the right thing?”
“You will know truth when you see it. That is all I know.”
“Will you stay here?”
“This is where Walks Fast will die. I must tell you one more thing. Listen well. A bad spirit will go with you, maybe even get there before you. It will hunt you always, and one day you will kill it or it will take you. Fight hard and know you are strong. Now, Simon, go. Do not wait.”
“You mean now, today?”
The Indian leaned forward, and placed the flat of his hand on Simon’s chest. “Do not see night shadows here tomorrow. You must go now, or you will die here like me.”
A surge of heat entered Simon’s body and settled in his chest as he looked down at the wrinkled brown hand. When Walks Fast withdrew it, Simon looked into his eyes and saw what he thought was a look of deep satisfaction. Then Walks Fast closed his eyes, and started a low hum that grew in volume as Simon got up and left. Several Indians stood outside the tepee, watching and nodding their heads. A few wore friendly smiles as he mounted and rode away.
Amos and Lori watched as Simon undid the strap on his saddlebag. Amos handed him an envelope. “Here’s a letter of credit for four thousand dollars, drawn on the Mercantile Bank in Cheyenne. They know me, so you won’t have any trouble. I’d be more’n happy to give it all to ya.”
“I don’t need it, Amos.” Simon pushed the letter into the bag and strapped it up again. “That’s more than enough. I’ll be back one day, and we can settle up. You know what to do if you hear something different.”
“Yeah.”
“Lori, enjoy your new house. I left it nice and clean for you and Zahn. Maybe when he gets back from the hills, he can find something here to keep him busy.” Simon nodded at Amos. “Ya think?”
“Maybe so. We’ll look at it.”
“Will you try to keep in touch, Simon?” Lori asked. “I’m gonna miss you something terrible. I just know it.”
“Can’t promise. I’ve got a lot of soul-searching to do. You folks won’t be forgotten, I can tell ya that.” Simon stepped up on the porch. “Give me a hug, Lori.” He wrapped his arms around her and held tight for a few seconds. “You’re a real sweetheart, and I love you.”
“I love you too, Simon. Be careful wherever you go. We’ll wait to hear.” With eyes brimming, she let her hand slide down his arm, and then raised it to cover her mouth before hurrying into the saloon.
Amos stuck out his hand. “You’ve been a real good partner. Best one I’ve ever had.”
Simon took his hand and gripped it firmly. “I can say the same, Amos. I’ll always appreciate you giving Buell and me a chance. So long.”
He climbed on his horse and whistled. “C’mon, Spud.”
“Ya take care now.”
Simon kicked his horse into an easy lope and was soon across the river and making his way up the gentle slope to the ridge above Fort Laramie. Beyond lay the Chugwater and Cheyenne, Salt Lake City, Fort Hall, and the White Cloud Mountains. Simon could already taste the freedom.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Wallace J. Swenson was born and raised in a small rural town in southeast Idaho. From the very beginning, he lived a life of hard work supported by a strong family. He was taught by example the value of honesty and loyalty, and it is about such that he wrote. His family numbered ten, and though poor in a material sense, he considered himself blessed beyond measure in the spiritual. He resided with his wife of fifty-plus years, Jacquelyn, near where both were born, and close to all their children and grandchildren. He intended to live there the rest of his life and spend that time putting down on paper the dozens of stories that whirled around inside his head. He did just that. Wallace J. Swenson died suddenly in February of 2015. He left a literary legacy of which this b
ook is a small part.
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