Above him a million stars glittered. Bats scurried about, chasing insects, and the meadows were lit by myriad fireflies.
Abraham James was quite pleased with himself as he surveyed his summer camp up on the plateau. The cool May weather on the highland suited him, and there was something grand about the ponderosa pines.
Elizabeth had gone to the pond to do laundry, dragging James and David with her and leaving him in a rare moment of solitude.
He imagined Page Springs would be nice about now. The prickly pear would be blossoming, with beautiful yellow and fuchsia flowers, and the grackles no doubt were still singing the sun up as it rose over the calm waters of the creek.
But it would grow warmer every day, and the older Abraham got, the more he hated the heat.
He was contemplating his day’s chores when he saw the wagon approach. He recognized Bear Howard at the reigns and waved him over. This was the third time Howard had come by since talking to Margaret at her cabin at Indian Gardens.
“Hello, sir!” shouted Abraham.
Howard pulled the mules to a stop and nodded. Diggy stood unconcerned, while Bagga eyed a patch of green grass a few paces away.
“You coming or going?” asked Abraham.
“Goin’. Finished my business in Flag this morning, and now I’m on my way back to the rim.”
“And when you going to see my girl again?” he asked.
Howard scratched his bearded chin. “I suppose I’ll be down there in a day or two. You good here? Need anything?”
Abraham sighed. “I don’t think so—but thank you for asking.”
Howard raised his reigns, preparing to go, when Abraham said, “I could use one thing.”
Howard stared expectantly until Abraham said, “I’d like to walk down to see Margaret from time to time, and I’d like to do it without my whole brood, but the valley is too far for me to walk in a day. And I noticed you’re not at your cabin on the West Fork often. Do you think I could bed down there when I’m heading to the Thompson place?”
Howard didn’t much like company and tried to think of a way out of the request.
Abraham added, “When she was at Indian Gardens I could make it, but the valley is another six miles downstream.”
Howard thought of Margaret, and his Nancy floated before his eyes for a moment. Finally, he said, “Sure. I’m barely there. Treat it like it’s your place.”
Abraham reached into a bag by his side, pulled out a loaf of bread and handed it to Howard. “Take this, my wife baked it this morning.”
Howard’s sour mien mellowed a bit. “I enjoyed the last loaf. Thank you.”
With that he snapped the reigns, and he was off.
Two western bluebirds chased a jay through the branches of a juniper, screeching playfully, until a terrifying cry burst through the window of a log cabin, shattering the morning.
Suddenly the birds were dead silent.
The cry came again, now rising to a wail.
My son, Frankie, wanted the entire world to know even six-month-olds had bad days.
I emerged from the door of our cabin down in the valley, the infant clutched in my arms. We called the place Camp Kitchen. It sat at the mouth of Oak Creek Canyon, on a rise that overlooked a bend in the creek.
I bounced the infant, trying my best to distract him.
“Come on, Frankie,” I pleaded. “Be a good boy.”
Jim exited the cabin and sat on a log, staring at me and the infant. He sighed, “Do you think we’ll ever get a good night’s sleep again?”
I was exhausted and red-eyed, but entirely enamored with the little man.
I said, “I sure hope so—but he’s such a little miracle that I’ll go without sleep for now.”
Jim moved to my side and snuggled against the boy. He smelled his head, and the baby´s scent soothed him like no other. I don’t know how, but from what I could see, the smell of his child and the sound of the baby´s cries had banished his demons.
Jim no longer seemed to drift through echoes of the war, or even of the dark night by the lagoon. Now he simply took in life through Frank’s eyes—fresh eyes.
I spied Howard on the trail, heading our way.
“Your father sends greetings,” he said to me when he got closer.
“Well, thank you for checking on him, Mr. Howard,” I replied. “And we have a letter for you!”
“I’ll get it,” said Jim and disappeared into the cabin.
By the time he returned, Frankie had begun to cry again.
Howard gaped at the infant, aghast.
“I guess it’s been a while since I been near a baby,” he said.
“Ain’t he precious?” I asked.
It seemed Mr. Howard thought it safest not to reply and open the letter from his daughter, Mattie Purtymun, instead.
Slowly, his face relaxed, and there was a tear on one cheek when he glanced up. “Looks like I’m a grandpa again,” he said. “My Mattie had her third child—another boy! Named Albert!”
Jim stepped over and shook his hand, and I hugged him, which momentarily silenced the baby.
He read a little further and then beamed. “She also says as soon as she gets back on her feet she’ll be heading this way.”
“That’s great news!” said Jim. “If you want to write a reply, I’ll post it when I go to Camp Verde next.”
“Sooner the better,” said Howard, full of rare smiles.
“And something else you’ll be happy to hear,” said Jim. “Wilson has moved on. It’ll mean I’m split between Indian Gardens and Camp Kitchen, but I know he rubbed you wrong, so I’m letting you know.”
Howard grinned. “Second best news I heard all day.”
The next few weeks flew by for Howard. Hunting brought in enough cash to cover what few financial requirements he had, but he had no incentive to do more than he needed. He didn’t like excessive killing. His trail from the rim into to Oak Creek was complete, and the fence on his Kingdom only occasionally needed repair, so he had some time on his hands.
His mules had grown fat from lack of activity, and Shadow was fidgety—ready for an adventure. Howard was restless, too. At sixty-four, he was still in great shape, so he decided to explore.
With a pack full of dried meat, rope, and a loaf of Abraham’s bread, he set out to the remote corners of the plateau on Shadow´s back.
For days they would wander into the countless ravines and draws, losing sight of the sun in the deep canyons. He followed the West Fork all the way back to its source, twelve miles upstream from the confluence with Oak Creek.
From Jerome, where he sold venison, he explored Sycamore Canyon, where the Spanish supposedly once searched for riches.
On one of his explorations, he decided to return to Itzel Canyon. He had to tie up Shadow and lower himself from tree to tree, down the steep drop.
He returned to the dark spot where the water trickled out under a large boulder and stared at the flow.
His gaze fell upon a small gold nugget.
He picked it up. It was round, and flat, like a coin, but if there ever had been any imprints on it they had long been polished smooth. It felt warm to his touch. Tingling, almost.
He stuck it in his vest pocket and descended to the confluence with the West Fork.
Chapter Forty-five
The burning tingle had been subtle at first. From the moment Howard found the gold piece, he had developed a penchant for fondling it when he hiked. After a few days he noticed a red spot on his palm, and before the week was out it had advanced into a rash—and soon it bloomed into a blister.
But still he couldn’t leave the piece of gold alone.
He toyed with it one morning as he rode along in his wagon, up on the plateau, after dropping off some venison in Flagstaff. The primitive road he followed wound its way through tall pines whose upper branches whispered in the wind. The meadows lining the track abounded in May flowers, and birds swooped low over the few alpine ponds he passed, hunting for inse
cts.
He thought about how his worries had all faded away: His children would join him soon, he had found a new home here, and he was slowly coming to the conclusion that nobody was looking for him—the mess in California forgotten.
Yet there was still a nagging in the back of his mind, and he suspected it came from the gold nugget. No matter where he explored, he felt a tug to go back to that place where he had picked it up.
He looped out of his way a bit—‘bout an hour, he thought—to visit Abraham James and his wife, Elizabeth.
When he arrived at their summer camp, the two were sitting by a fire outside their wall tent. They stood formally and greeted him as he pulled the mules to a halt. Howard lifted several jars of honey and some ribbons.
“Hello folks,” he said, “check this out. I’m getting stocked up for when Mattie arrives. I suppose she’s a little old for ribbons, but I didn’t know what else to get.”
He shrugged, “The boys’ll like the honey.”
Abraham talked Howard off his wagon, and he sat on an unoccupied wooden chair by the fire while Elizabeth poured him a cup of coffee.
Howard nodded thanks.
Abraham tossed a small log on the fire. “The boys are off somewhere—they’ll be sad they missed you.”
Howard appeared lost in his coffee as he blew on it and then carefully took a sip. Eventually he raised his head and glanced at Elizabeth. He said, “Ma’am, the only thing better’n your coffee is your bread.”
Mrs. James smiled graciously. Abraham said, “And thank you for letting me use your cabin. It’s come in handy twice now.”
Howard bowed his head slightly and gazed into the fire. In his hand he caressed the gold piece, trying to keep it away from the raw blister in his palm.
“What’s that?” asked Abraham.
Suddenly Howard became suspicious. Why? He didn’t know. He had no reason to be weary of Abraham and hadn’t thought much about the gold traces he had found in Itzel Canyon.
But suddenly he didn’t want to share what he did know.
“Just a relic from my gold rush days in California,” he said.
“Can I see it?” asked Abraham.
Howard handed it over, reluctantly, but as soon as he did, he felt better—as if a weight had been taken off his chest. He thought of the nagging that had repeatedly encouraged him to return to the dark spot and was glad to be done with it.
“Keep it,” he said.
Abraham’s face lit up as he gazed at the gold. “I believe I will,” he said.
A few days later, Howard left the Thompson place in the valley—Camp Kitchen—dragging his feet as he made his way upstream. He’d only visited for a few minutes. Upon arriving, Thompson immediately handed him a letter from Mattie, and Howard tore open the envelope right away.
“Oh, how I’ve waited for this letter,” he called out.
But Mattie wrote that she would not be coming—at least not yet. “It seems she doesn’t have the money to equip a wagon and make the journey,” he said sadly. “And my older boy, Jesse, isn’t any better off.”
Howard sensed his years descend on him, and for the first time felt old. He knew he could make money, and now wished he’d been working to that end. Had he known she needed money he would have been more industrious.
Thompson sat beside him. “That’s too bad. Could we help?”
“I’ll be fine,” said Howard and said his goodbyes to promptly head out the door.
Halfway to his place at the mouth of the West Fork, he came across Abraham who was staring up at some of the towering rock spires along the creek. “You know,” he said, “I used to look at these rocks and a name would just pop into my head. Like it was pre-ordained. But now I don’t hear the names anymore.”
Howard scratched his beard. “Well, what do you hear?”
Howard noticed for the first time that the white-haired man was gaunt, and his gaze seemed unfocused.
Abraham spoke in a whisper. “It’s like there’s a place out there that’s calling me. It beckons constantly.”
Howard glanced at Abraham´s clutched hand. “Maybe you should have one of your boys accompany you when you come down to visit,” he said.
“Nonsense,” said Abraham. “I’ll be fine.”
Over the next few days Howard roamed his Kingdom, checking fences and tending to his animals. But there came a day that he rose, grabbed a shovel and rope, and walked to the steep slope that descended into Itzel Canyon.
Before long, he stood before the dark indentation where the water trickled out of the talus slope.
He stared long and hard, and eventually he began to dig.
So busy was he that he didn’t notice the sky darkening.
When the downpour hit, he decided to call it a day. He leaned the shovel against the hole for when he returned, and descended.
At a small pond near the exit from Itzel Canyon, he washed his face and forearms. Then he drank deeply.
It was a six-mile walk to his cabin from here. He set out at a good pace. The sandstone was shimmering with small puddles from the rain, and the temperature had dropped sharply.
About halfway, he saw something on the canyon floor ahead. He approached closer, and was horrified to discover it was a body, lying face-down, half immersed in a puddle.
He hurriedly turned it over. It was Abraham. The man was pale and shivering and unconscious. His hand was clasped tightly, and when Howard inspected it he saw behind the pale white fingers, the entire palm was raw.
He tried to grab the gold piece, but even in his weak condition, Abraham wouldn’t surrender it.
Howard hefted the old man over his shoulders and onto his back, and slowly marched back to his cabin. The entire way he feared the man would die; Abraham James was in rough condition. He coughed and hacked, and his body burned with fever.
At his cabin, Howard stripped Abraham out of his wet clothes and helped him put on some dry garments. Then he heated some stew and fed him, and then put him to bed.
Abraham´s skin had a terrible pallor.
Once he had fallen asleep, Howard took the gold piece out of his grip and wrapped the blistered hand in a bandage. Then he quickly hopped on Shadow and hoofed it to Camp Kitchen.
Before the night was halfway over Margaret and her husband were standing over Abraham.
But it did no good. For two days Abraham shivered and coughed in feverish fits, and on the morning of the third day he died.
Chapter Forty-six
1882
Howard crouched before the dark hole in the wall. With a focused gaze, he attempted to bore through the rock with his eyes and see what he was up against. He hated that he again craved gold. But he needed money to help his children make the journey—otherwise he might never see them again. In California, he was still a wanted me, so he couldn’t go to them.
He’d dug in about five feet—enough to realize he was excavating a tunnel—and then dragged out what rubble he could. The shaft seemed to naturally lead upward, at about a forty-five-degree angle.
It was messy work. Dark, dank mud and sticks and rocks had all cemented together into a conglomerate. Jagged slabs of rock tumbled between his legs as he pulled them free. Water trickled through the mix, making for slippery footwork.
He brought a candle in to see better, but the constant dripping soon extinguished the flame. Tight quarters prevented using the long-handled shovel too, so he scraped and clawed his way upward with bare hands.
There wasn’t enough water leaking through to run a sluice, but he managed to collect a wooden bucket full and kept it at the tunnel entrance.
He peered up at the hole. “What’s your story?” he called into the dark.
The debris he had unearthed lay piled by the shaft entrance. In the daylight, he could see it had a coating of gold dust. It might not look like much to someone unschooled in prospecting, but there was enough there that he wanted to run all of it through a sluice and filter out the gold.
But for that
he needed water.
He picked up a fist-sized boulder that he’d knocked free, dipped it in the bucket to wash off any dirt—or gold dust—and then inspected it.
Black. Porous. Round. River-worn. Basalt.
Not what he would have expected. Why would there be river-worn stones way up here? He dunked it underwater again, to make sure no gold dust clung to it. And then tossed it down the canyon.
He repeated this process with a dozen other rocks: black basalt, flat, yellow slabs of sandstone, and chunks of white limestone. A small pile of mud and pebbles remained on the ground before the shaft, and Howard picked some of it up with the shovel, and in a few scoops, moved it all to a big mound about ten feet away.
This was his slag pile. And his real dilemma.
Ideally, he would process the pile right where it lay, creating a trough and using water to filter out the gold. Then, he could simply hike out with a bag of gold. But without water he had to contend with what could amount to a lot of mud and rock.
Through spring, and into summer, Howard worked on the shaft, slowly penetrating deeper. He hoped for a good monsoon season, which would begin in a month or so. His plan involved funneling rainwater from the rim into a wooden trough, and shoveling his slag pile into the trough, while the water flowed, so the mud and lighter elements could be washed away.
He glanced up at the cliff behind him, at a black line of desert varnish stretched from a break in the basalt cap. The blackened sandstone indicated where water flowed a few times a year, and he proudly surveyed his wooden trough at its base.
Now all he had to do was wait for the rains.
But Howard wasn’t good at waiting. So, he built a little cabin up on the rim, about a quarter mile from his tunnel, to pass the time. It was small with a dirt floor, a wood stove and a single bunk.
He continued to hunt and used the proceeds to purchase more lumber and nails.
Above Itzel Canyon, he erected a platform with a strong pulley which he could use to lower down gear—and possibly haul up buckets of slag. He still had no easy way to get to the plateau from the tunnel. In fact, when he did place an object in the bucket, he had to wait until the next time he was up top, after ascending via his Oak Creek Canyon trail, to pull it up.
The Sirens of Oak Creek Page 24
