The Sirens of Oak Creek

by Robert Louis DeMayo

  Lockett escorted him to the door. “Okay, Charley, I hope to see you soon.”

  And so Howard went back to hunting.

  He set up camp at the mouth of the West Fork, just a short way downstream from the quiet lagoon he’d visited four years earlier when he’d plunged into the water. There he began building a cabin, and he hoped to have it completed before winter.

  One morning he followed the creek downstream, about two-thirds of the way to the valley below, but stopped when he saw a small cabin by a recently plowed field.

  The place looked well-tended with stacks of firewood, a smoke shed for drying meat, and even a few newly planted apple trees. Clothes were hanging from a line in the back, and a closer glance confirmed that there were a woman’s garments as well as a man’s.

  There was nobody home at the little place when he came through, and he was glad. The fact that another soul lived in the canyon bothered him and put him in a bad mood.

  He quickly got out of there, heading back up the canyon.

  Sitting on the plateau’s rim, hot, black, porphyritic rock beneath him, Howard let his legs dangle over a drop of several hundred feet. A warm dry wind rushed up at him, smelling of sagebrush and juniper.

  He did most of his hunting up on the plateau, amongst the whispering pines and the racing clouds, the snow-capped San Francisco Peaks in the distance. Lots of mule deer inhabited the area, and he’d come across several large herds of elk. When he killed an animal, it was easier to transport the meat to Flagstaff, too.

  He liked it better up here: the air was clean and fresh, and he was alone with his thoughts. He didn’t have any neighbors and that pleased him more than anything.

  Lockett was always glad to see him. He had started to call him “Bear” after a customer referred to Howard like that. The man had come from California with the railroad and remembered Howard from his days hunting for the forty-niners. He’d never known him personally but said he would never forget the sight of “Bear” Howard returning from the hills.

  “That’s a different guy,” said Howard, hoping to keep his identity shrouded. But Lockett called him Bear, regardless, which only made him want to retreat deeper into the wilderness.

  Through his explorations, Howard found a section of the plateau that extended to the east in a peninsula of land covering about ten square miles. It was bordered on the east by Oak Creek, on the south by the Verde Valley, and to the north by West Fork.

  He called this his Kingdom.

  It will be too cold to remain here year-round, he thought, but until winter is a bit closer I won’t worry about it. He stayed here as much as he could, sleeping in the open by a fire.

  He tossed a pinecone into the abyss and wondered what others would think of his Kingdom. There were meadows up here, and even a few alpine ponds, but it wasn’t the idyllic pastures that most thought of when it came to conventionally beautiful landscapes.

  But he found the place magnificent. It was still wild. Mountain lions and bears, wolves and coyotes called this their home. Along with renegade apaches and outlaws.

  “Hope that keeps the civilized folks scared away,” he said, chuckling.

  Below him the land fell away into intricately eroded red rock canyons, buttes and mesas. It was breathtakingly beautiful, but also desolate once you veered away from the ribbon of light green around the creek, where the willows and cottonwoods were sticking close to the water.

  Mostly he stayed put on the plateau, walking along the rim, staring down at the valley below.

  From time to time he returned to work on his cabin by the West Fork, but that required riding back toward Flagstaff for ten miles, cutting east to the escarpment into Oak Creek Canyon, and then riding down to the West Fork.

  A journey of well over fifteen miles.

  He started to scout for a short cut. He thought about dropping straight into the West Fork from the rim but couldn’t find an easy way down into the canyon that was suitable for Shadow.

  A trail down into Oak Creek Canyon posed similar challenges. When he walked east he could follow a path along the plateau that first gradually led down toward the creek, but then slanted steeply. In just over a mile, the land dropped almost two thousand feet.

  As he scouted this route he decided if he switched back and forth along the steep slopes, his horse could make it. And from the trail’s proposed terminus by the creek, he only had to walk a mile to his cabin.

  Over the coming months he went to work on building this trail, edging it into the steep embankment where needed, and dragging dead wood and debris out of the way. In the end he would build over thirty switchbacks to make the grade gentle enough for Shadow.

  And once the trail was laid out, Howard had Shadow help him build it out. One afternoon he led her all the way down to the creek for the first time. She descended confidently, a basket with rope, a shovel and a pick strapped to her. When they reached the creek, they found a young man sitting in the shade of an ancient cottonwood.

  “That’s quite a trail you’re building,” said Thompson.

  Howard eyed the young guy, a staid expression on his face. He could see the man had been in some kind of scrape, his face bruised and scabbed. “That your cabin down the creek?” he asked.

  The man nodded. “It is—I’m Jim Thompson.”

  They stared at each other while the gurgling creek flowed by.

  Howard didn’t offer his name, but eventually broke the silence, saying, “I guess that makes us neighbors.”

  Howard disliked the idea, but Thompson welcomed it.

  “Well, I’m glad to have someone else around.”

  Shadow stood nearby and started to step nervously. Howard eyed the horse and said, “I guess I should be going.”

  “Don’t go just yet,” Thompson said, “I haven’t talked to anyone besides my Margaret for a while.”

  He scratched his head. “Think you might come by for dinner some time? I know Margaret would like to meet you.”

  Howard shifted uneasily and glanced around, appearing about as restless as his horse. “I suppose I could.”

  Thompson extended his hand. “You come by anytime.”

  The thought of a social engagement made Howard antsy. He would rather face a mountain lion than be civil to strangers. Whether it be a gold rush, or a railroad, men seemed hell-bent willing to kill each other over stupid things—and he no longer wanted a part of their pernicious world.

  He realized if he ever were to expect any peace from his neighbor, he’d have to find a back way into the West Fork. That way I won´t run into him, he thought.

  For a week he traveled up and down the northern rim of his Kingdom. Below, the West Fork wound like a centipede, a labyrinth of red and yellow canyons.

  He could descend near its source, far to the west, but that would make a long, twelve-mile walk to the mouth of the canyon, where it flowed into Oak Creek and his cabin lay.

  But then he spotted a narrow canyon with promise.

  From the rim, he could see that only the first few hundred feet of the canyon looked difficult; there the land dropped steeply. After that a smaller canyon descended more gradually, and where it merged with the West Fork was only six miles from his cabin.

  Not bad, he thought. Now I must find a way down.

  Howard lay on his belly, staring down into a canyon that ended abruptly, right below him, at a towering sandstone cliff. The sun and rain had worn down the rock, and there were few handholds. He was looking for a shelf to which he could descend to because he didn’t have enough rope to drop the full distance.

  One side of the canyon was clad in tall pines. The walls were steep, but somehow the trees had found purchase.

  He stood up and walked along the edge of the plateau. One step too close, and he would tumble into the abyss below his feet. He uncoiled his rope, found the middle, and looped it around a tree. Gripping the rope tightly, he leaned backwards over the edge and descended.

  The pine needles made for slippery foot
ing, and he scratched his way backward through thick clusters of dead limbs. Before he reached the end of the rope, he made sure he was wedged safely behind a pine trunk, then he retracted the rope and slung it around the next tree.

  In this manner, he reached the upper end of the canyon. From there he could easily descend. He coiled up his rope and had shouldered it when he noticed a small seep of water flowing out of a talus slope of lose rock.

  The canyon wall rose sharply before him, but at his feet broken rock and dirt had piled up into a long slope descending to the canyon floor. Directly in front of him, a large rectangular boulder stuck out, and beneath it a dark circle marked the hillside.

  Here, water seeped out, and eventually trickled down the canyon. He inspected it closer, hoping there might be enough water for a drink.

  There was indeed a small pool, but when Howard bent down to drink, something unexpected caught his eye.

  “I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed.

  It was gold. Just a few flecks, but enough to know there could be more.

  He squatted in the shade of a juniper and looked at the dark patch where the water puddled, about twenty feet away.

  “I’ve got no use for you,” he said out loud to the gold flecks.

  But still he didn’t leave.

  And then two red-tailed hawks swooped over his head, so low he could hear their feathers rustling. They reached the bottom of the canyon, banked up and to the left, and then spiraled below him.

  The sight made him think of his wife.

  He walked over and stared at the gold again, then laughed and began his descent of the canyon—Itzel Canyon.

  In a few hours he reached his cabin.

  * * *

  I sat at our table and watched Jim, who cleared the dishes with a somber expression. My arm was in a sling, and there was a red spot on the bandage by my clavicle.

  On a wood stove in the corner, the remnants of our dinner sat in a cast iron skillet.

  “That was mighty fine,” said Jim, trying to lighten the mood. A few months ago, he wanted nothing more than to live out his days in the canyon, with his new bride—me. But the event at the lagoon had changed him.

  Still, it was good to see him trying.

  I nodded, pleased he liked it, but I was still not entirely myself either.

  Suddenly, I heard footsteps in the yard. The mule brayed.

  “Who could that be?” I asked. I grabbed the rifle and cocked it with my good arm. Jim stuck his pistol in his belt, behind his back.

  “Might be old man Howard,” said Jim. “I mentioned I invited him by.” I glanced out the window and scowled. “The one the merchant in Flag calls Bear?”

  Jim nodded, and I added, “Bit late for visitors.”

  A knock on the door.

  Jim answered it, while I had my rifle pointed at the door.

  A white-haired, full-bearded man stood in the dark, trying to peer into the cabin. It wasn’t Howard.

  “My name’s Richard Wilson,” said the stranger and extended his hand. He wore a vest made from bear fur and smelled ripe.

  Jim nodded, and backed up a half-step, but didn’t invite him in. “What can I do for you, Mr. Wilson?”

  Wilson’s eyes landed on me, and he looked me up and down. I kept the rifle pointed at him.

  “Oh, my,” he laughed. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you, ma’am.”

  “Not at all,” I said, “You just tell us what you’re doin’ here.”

  Wilson held up a note and said, “I was passing through Camp Verde and saw that you needed a hand.”

  Jim nodded. “That was a while ago,” he said, but he knew they could use help. “I’ve got crops that need planting, and I want to put on a new roof—are you handy?”

  Wilson laughed. “I can do just about anything. My true calling is bear huntin’, but I do what I can to stay afloat. And I hope to remain in this area for a while, so I’ll take whatever work you got.”

  “Okay,” said Jim. “I’ll set you up in the shed.”

  “Come in,” I said, and after he was seated I closed the door.

  While Jim collected a lamp and a blanket, I spooned some of the dinner onto a plate. “You must be hungry,” I said

  “Why, thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot—you can call me Bear.”

  I raised my hand to my mouth, attempting to cover the giggle that tried to sneak out. “I’m afraid I can’t,” I said. “We already got a Bear living in Oak Creek, and he’s bigger than you.”

  I was, of course, referring to Mr. Howard, but Wilson took my meaning differently. “I know that beast,” he said. “I saw it a few months ago when I was passing though here.”

  I slowly turned and faced him, and Jim froze in his attempt to light the lantern and listened.

  Wilson scratched his unruly beard and pondered the memory.

  He said, “I was camping south of the rim, hoping to reach Camp Verde the next day, when I was awoken in the middle of the night. I tried to get to my rifle, but before I could a large bear tore right through my camp. He was running like the devil.”

  “Was it a grizz?” I asked, hesitantly.

  Wilson nodded. “It sure was. But different from any I’ve ever seen. It was big, and old, and silver in the moonlight. And he had a big scar across his snout.”

  Jim returned with a lit kerosene lamp. “I’ve never seen a bear like that,” he lied. “I bet it was just moving through.”

  “Well, I been chasin’ bears all my life, and I’ll tell you one thing—I’m not leaving until I kill that one.”

  Jim and I exchanged a quick glance. “Let me get you settled,” he said to Wilson. When he opened the door, an owl’s cry filled the night, and all the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Act II

  1880

  (May)

  Jim and I lay on a blanket, a stone’s throw from the creek. Butterflies fluttered about us in dappled splashes of sunshine. It was mid-day, and the coolness of the morning still clung to the quiet meadow we had set out to enjoy.

  A little over a year had passed since the fateful picnic by the lagoon, but the echo of the events of that evening still resounded in each of us. I watched him, concerned.

  You’d think after what I went through that night that I’d be afraid of this place. But I’m not.

  Now it’s Jim I’m concerned about.

  When I first met him, I was just a girl, but even then I could read people. Mother always said I had the gift.

  He was young, and full of dreams and plans, but even then, I could see he was damaged. During the years when he was adventuring on the Colorado he seemed to have fended off his demons—for a while.

  But when he witnessed the Apaches being marched out of Indian Gardens old memories of his time as a prisoner in the war had been stirred up, and the latest events by the lagoon had plunged him even deeper into his internal turmoil.

  I snuck a glance at him, lying by my side.

  His skin was pale, his eyes sunken, and there was a nervousness about him as he watched the canyon walls.

  I snuggled against him, hoping the news I was about to deliver would lighten his mood. Dragonflies and moths buzzed over us in ecstatic confusion.

  The birds had returned with the spring. They chirped and twittered around us, chasing each other. I tried to engage Jim in a game of identifying them.

  “Did you see that oriole?” I asked. The bird darted over us several times in a blur of orange, black and white.

  He glanced up, not really looking, his thoughts turned inward.

  Normally he would have smirked and shrugged.

  “A bird’s a bird,” he would say, and then I would argue that they were each unique, and I would point out the ones that I could identify.

  But today he didn’t take the bait.

  All around us the flowers and shrubs were blooming, the grass under our blanket was of the deepest green, but he didn’t seem to
notice any of this. He stared off, his eyes unfocused.

  And how it broke my heart that he couldn’t savor the beauty of the meadow blanketed in a golden yellow carpet. Goldfields and sunflowers and desert marigolds all lay in bright patches, and the snakeweed and brittlebush were tipped with little buttery flowers.

  Interspersed were purple splashes from the verbena and owl clover, and the orange-red stalks of the desert globemallow.

  Not three feet from Jim’s head, a hummingbird hovered by the bright red flowers of an Arizona firecracker. It was so close that I was sure Jim could feel the vibration of the wings.

  “How ‘bout that one?” I asked, knowing he knew what a hummingbird was.

  But again, he gave it a bland stare.

  I sighed. “Okay, sit up.”

  He did so, stiffly and reluctantly.

  “Look around,” I demanded, firmly but kindly.

  The insects had returned from their winter slumber, and the fresh air was filled with commotion as flycatchers and swallows chased them. In a nearby juniper, filled with fat violet berries, a mockingbird called for its mate, and several mourning doves cooed softly from under the lower limbs.

  And the trees around us swayed, bathing in the breeze and the soft sunshine. It was as if the meadow was breathing. The profusion of life that had returned to our little canyon was simply splendid, and if it hadn’t been for the haunting, overwhelming memories of the night of the silver bear we would have been quite content.

  What I do recollect is like a dream. One moment I was waking up on the flat rock in the lagoon, the next I was listening to a blissful wordless melody as I floated along the creek, chasing it.

  And that song had stayed with me.

  Even now, it soothes me while I observe the chaotic, crazy festival of life that is spring. It flows with me, and I with it.

  I am not alone.

  But Jim, my poor Jim, walked away with something different.

  I didn’t remember seeing him that night. I didn’t remember being shot either.

  But he was the only one there with a gun.