A journey of at least six hours.
He had ruled out using the West Fork, as tempting as it appeared. Itzel Canyon was too steep, so he would have to cart the slag down to the confluence first. His mules would never fit through the long, water-filled tunnel, either.
If he couldn’t process the gold in Itzel Canyon, he would rather have the slag up in his Kingdom anyway. That way he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone coming upon the big pile of gold-bearing rock and mud before he processed it.
His best option was still using the rains to filter out the gold, and as July stretched into August he did everything he could to be ready.
“Seems the monsoon rains are gonna just pass us by this year,” said Lockett, a few weeks later, as he helped Howard unload an elk carcass from his wagon.
Howard raised his head and checked the sky.
“I suppose you’re right,” he sighed.
Howard caught Lockett’s eye. “I need to drum up some cash, Lockett. Can you take any more venison?”
Lockett scratched his head. “Bear, I got a lot of hungry men here, and they need to eat—but, the railway is moving on and soon there’ll be no more work. Already, half of the men here are idle.”
Howard looked away. “Well, I got no work for them.”
The merchant stepped around a small rail cart.
“Wish I could pay you in small gauge rail,” he said, chuckling.
Howard eyed him. “What do you mean by that?”
Lockett nodded at the dock where several piles of the steel runners were stacked up. “When they first put a railway through, they run it in small gauge. Then when they catch up with the large rail, they tear the original rail up. I thought I was smart buying it all up cheap, but now I’m stuck with it.”
As Lockett walked away, Howard stared at the pile of narrow-gauge rails for a good minute. Then he found Lockett by his register and made a proposition.
“I need three miles of narrow-gauge line, and a crew to lay them down—say for five days. How many elk would that cost me?”
Lockett ran through the calculations in his mind. “I could use eight elk—four next week, and four a week after that—but that would only cover the crew for four days.”
Howard nodded. “That’s fine. I’ll cut and limb my own ties and have the path layed out when they arrive.”
“I can get them there in three days,” said Lockett, “that enough time?”
Howard grinned, life flowing through his veins again. He’d get his family out here one way or another.
“It’s gonna have to be,” he said and shook hands.
Locket kicked the cart. “I’ll even throw in the little wagon here.”
By the time Lockett’s men showed up, Howard had made his preparations.
“This way, boys!” he shouted when he saw their wagon.
Starting at his little cabin, he had plotted a course southwest through the meadows and clearings in the pines for a mile up to the rim overlooking the Verde Valley, and then east for two miles where it met up with his burro trail down into Oak Creek Canyon.
The last stretch followed the ancient path along the rim.
He told everyone involved he was planning on hauling timber.
He still wasn’t sure if he would bring the slag down to Oak Creek, but between the rail line and his burro trail, if he wanted to, he now he had a way to do it.
Chapter Forty-seven
1884
The dancing limbs of an ocotillo were waving at Howard as he ascended the trail up Itzel Canyon. On their tips, bright red flowers bursted forth.
He stopped and took off his hat to wipe his brow.
A few cicadas were welcoming the warm temperatures, rapidly clicking their mating songs. The entire length of the high cliffs above rippled with heat waves. There were ocotillos there, too, and tall, flowering agaves as well.
He glanced around the small canyon, realizing that spring had slipped into summer. He hadn´t even noticed.
These days, he spent a lot of time inside the tunnel.
At the shaft entrance he found his tools untouched. A small miner’s pick. A lantern, this one protected from the water. One bucket to collect water, and another for rocks of interest.
His slag pile had grown ten feet high, and he agonized about whether to haul it up, or wait some more for the rains to arrive.
They were overdue. Again.
Howard crouched to enter the tunnel and began climbing up. He had carved out a narrow passage of about twenty feet. At the end, he lay down on his side and tied the lantern to a tightly wedged limb.
Then he started to pry loose a few more rocks with the pick.
For the next hour he dug and prodded his way forward and up another foot. His boots slipped repeatedly in the slick mud. There seemed to be more water seeping through from above than usual.
He wrenched free another stone, then used his fingers to dig free the soil and pebbles.
And that’s when he found another treasure.
A warm buzz spread on his fingertips as he fondled the small flat disc.
He slid out of the shaft, fingers clutched around his find.
He dunked the object in the water bucket, then held it up in to the light.
Gold. A coin, he thought, although one he’d never seen the likes of before. A skull was imprinted on one side, an eagle on the other.
He stared back at the shaft and asked, “What are you doing in there?”
Over the next few weeks he discovered more coins and collected them in a bucket. One afternoon he emerged from the tunnel with a whole handful. He washed them out and added them to the bucket.
He glanced at the sky and noticed the first thunderclouds of the season. Their rumbling black underbellies floated above him, menacing but full of promise.
A good downpour would be his chance to try the trough.
But the sky only threatened to break, then cleared, and soon he climbed back into the tunnel, taking his bucket of coins with him.
He climbed up into the shaft, now about twenty-five feet long, and tied off the lantern. In the dim light, a shiny black object reflected at him. He reached for it.
His fingers encountered a Mayan dagger.
Grabbing it tightly in both hands, he yanked it out.
The bottom half of the jade shaft was broken off, but the fluted edge was intact.
A giant thunderclap resounded through the canyon. It shook the plateau, and for a moment he thought someone had set off dynamite.
The earth above him shifted.
He scrambled down the chute and into Itzel Canyon. Chain lightning was spread across the sky, and water was dropping in massive sheets.
From all around a deluge descended. He had prayed for water, but not this much all at once.
As he watched, helplessly, a waterfall formed over his trough, and its growing torrent soon smashed the wooden construction to pieces.
He had started towards it, but a nearby crack of lightning had him scurrying for cover under a boulder. Within a minute there was no trace of the trough.
The deluge was growing still, and Howard had to retreat into the tunnel. He crawled up into the dimly lit shaft.
He gripped the walls of the chute, scrambling as high as he could.
When he reached the lantern, he realized that he’d been tightly gripping the obsidian blade all this time, and it had cut deeply into his palm.
His blood mixed with the mud and water and flowed out below him.
The storm had washed everything away: the slag pile, the trough, even his tools by the mouth of the tunnel. All Howard had left was a bucket full of coins, a Mayan dagger, a lantern, and his miner’s pick.
He grabbed a handful of coins and let them fall through his fingers. The familiar warmth radiated from them, and the flesh around his fingers began to ache.
He dropped them back in the bucket.
What to do with these? He asked himself. He glanced up the cliff and was relieved to see that the p
latform with the pulley seemed intact. The long rope was dangling at the base of the cliff where the trough had once lain.
He tied the bucket to the end of the rope, but knew he’d have to wait until he was on top to haul it up.
He thought of the long walk it would take to get back to Oak Creek Canyon—via the West Fork—and then use his burro trail to get on top of the plateau. It was a journey of at least six hours. It bothered him. His gold would be sitting in the bucket, unguarded, the entire time.
He didn’t like it. There was nobody around, but still. He didn’t like it. He glanced at the steep, pine-clad slope which he occasionally descended. He’d left several permanent ropes attached but had never attempted to go up that way.
“No time like the present,” he said and headed toward the slope.
Over the next hour Howard scrambled and clawed his way, obliquely, to the top. The ropes helped, but his feet slid out from under him repeatedly on the slippery pine needles.
He crawled up the last fifty feet, scraped and angry.
At the platform, he hauled up the bucket.
When he held it in his hands he stopped and surveyed the surrounding woods, slowly, suddenly paranoid as he walked the short distance to his little cabin.
He carried the bucket inside, and in the middle of the room he dug down three feet and buried it. Then he refilled the hole, patted down the dirt and swept away any evidence.
Mr. Howard looked as nervous as a sheep on shearing day. He sat uncomfortably, almost jumping out of his chair when Frank—four years old by now—charged past him carrying a big stick.
“You give me that!” I shouted as I snatched the stick.
“Sticks stay outside,” I added as I tossed it out the door.
Frank disappeared with a BANG as the screen door slammed.
Jim was making almost as much noise, pounding on a stove pipe that was sagging down from the roof.
I could tell it was all a little too much for old Bear, considering how reclusive he was. His eyes darted around the room as if he was looking for an avenue of escape.
I wished I could have offered him a reprieve, but I also needed to free up my hands.
“Could you please take Lizzie for a minute?” I asked.
He did. Still unable to refuse any request I made. Still unable to see anything but his beloved wife when he stared into my eyes.
It was a weakness I tried not to take advantage of, but I didn’t think holding an infant was such a burden. In fact, I knew it was good for his soul.
“I’ll be done with this in a minute, Bear,” said Jim. Mr. Howard had tried to discourage the nickname, to no avail.
“I suppose I can handle this,” said Howard, reluctantly. “But I’d rather help with the stovepipe.”
“I’ll take her back soon,” I said when I passed him next. “I just wanted to add a few carrots to my stew.”
There was a knock on the door, and Jim turned to Mr. Howard. “Heads up—Mr. Wilson is back. I know you don’t like him much. I wish I could’a said no when he came searching for work, but the truth is I could use a hand with the new baby and all.”
Mr. Howard grumbled and took in Wilson’s white-haired visage when the door opened. The man had aged some in the last few years, and he scowled when he entered the room.
“You still hidin’ secrets up on your Kingdom?” he asked.
Howard glared back. “You sure do enjoy pestering people, Mr. Wilson. I’m surprised you’re still alive.”
Wilson smirked. “Well, the devil takes care of his own.”
I didn’t like the talk of the devil so close to the baby, and Mr. Howard handed him over the instant I glanced his way. I got a quick glimpse of his palms and said, “Oh, those look horrible—let me get a salve to put on them.”
“Don’t worry yourself,” said Howard, covering them. Jim stepped over and handed Mr. Howard a letter. He said, “We got this yesterday—I was hoping you’d stop by soon.”
Howard tore it open, and a moment later shouted.
“She’s done it! She’s coming out!”
Jim slapped a hand on the taller man’s broad shoulder, and then shook his hand and said, “That’s great news!”
Mr. Howard winced, and I grabbed his hand and raised it for a closer inspection. The palms and fingertips were all raw and blistered. “Father’s hand was like that when he passed,” I said. “I hope it’s not a sign of sickness.”
Wilson glanced at the blisters. “I suppose you got them blisters huntin’ deer?”
Mr. Howard shook his head. “Nope, putting in fence posts.”
Wilson scoffed, showing no doubt he didn’t believe it.
Later the same day, Howard stood on the platform looking down into Itzel Canyon. He thought of all the work he’d done preparing to haul the slag pile up and away. All wasted effort.
At least he still had the gold coins. And there might be more.
But now he had Wilson to contend with, and he didn’t think for a minute the man wouldn’t come snooping around. The years hadn’t treated the Arkansas bear hunter well, thought Howard, he looked desperate now. Hungrier.
He surveyed the platform. It seemed like a sign that was pointing straight down at his shaft. He grabbed a crowbar and began tearing it apart.
When he had removed all the nails and stacked up the boards, he hauled the wooden planks a quarter mile to his little cabin, and there he stacked them against each other on the floor. Through the night, working by lanternlight, he continued. Howard eventually carried all the boards into the cabin, and before morning the structure sported a solid wooden floor.
He thought of the bucket of gold coins buried underneath, and when he finally walked away from the cabin the next morning, he felt secure that they would be there when he needed them.
Chapter Forty-eight
The fear of Wilson stumbling upon his tunnel had Howard up early the next day. An hour after sunrise he was crawling up the chute, clutching his miner’s pick.
In the back of his mind he wondered if the gold dust from his slag pile may have found its way into pockets in the rocks during its flow toward the West Fork. Most likely that flood had washed it halfway to Oak Creek, he thought with regret.
His fingers probed the darkness, nervously hoping they might encounter a coin, or whatever else the mysterious shaft might contain.
And then he pulled a large stone out, and the tunnel shifted.
The ceiling above him dropped, rocks and boulders all falling at once on his legs, and below him.
He tried to grab something for support, but suddenly it all fell away. He slid down, but rocks and gravel buried him, an unbearable weight pinning him down.
Suddenly a cold shock hit him. Water.
From above, enormous amounts of water began to flow through the chute, turning the gravel into mud. Everything was moving. He choked and gagged on the sludge, reliving the nightmare that had plagued him for years—since his days back in California on his horse ranch.
Just as he thought he was about to die, the flood of mud spat him out at the bottom of the chute. It washed him fifty feet down the canyon, where he now lay, choking and coughing.
It took him a while to regain his senses, and even then, he wasn’t sure what had happened.
Eventually he stood and stumbled up the canyon to the chute.
When he stared up into it, he saw a circle of blue light winking at him from the other end.
The water had punched a hole into the top of the chute and washed it clean, and he easily scrambled up it and into a small box canyon with high walls above. The canyon naturally funneled everything down toward the top of the chute, and around the new hole in the top the ground was covered with algae and debris—like a bathtub ring.
A natural plug, he thought.
The water must have built up over the plugged chute, until he finally excavated it away.
Howard looked around. The far end of the canyon ended at a steep cliff. Below, a pile of charred trunk
s hugged the wall.
To the left, a Sinaguan ruin lay tucked in a corner. Old bowls and pots stood along the wall by a circle of stones where the previous occupants likely kept their fire.
Against the wall by the ruin, a metal object caught Howard’s attention.
He walked to it and picked up a Spanish helmet. He marveled at it for a moment, then noticed above it, tucked into an alcove where rain and sunshine couldn’t reach it, was an old, leather-bound journal.
He carefully retrieved the book and opened it.
The spidery text written inside was in Spanish.
Howard read a few lines, then quickly shut the book.
He tucked it under his arm, took one last look around the canyon, then disappeared down into the chute.
Chapter Forty-nine
Act III
1885
(June)
Howard was napping by the creek’s bank while his family prepared a meal. The river trickled by, dragonflies buzzing above its reflective, liquid-white surface. Islands of grass dotted the water, and on their shaded sides, swarms of newly hatched mosquitoes hovered.
The summer heat had arrived, and with it, a drop in water level. The constant rumble of the cascading flow was still there, but it had mellowed, and Howard had mellowed along with it.
The highwater mark was clearly visible in a line of debris: rotten leaves, spiderwebs, sticks and chunks of bark. Moss-covered rocks, normally submerged, now baked in the sun.
He slept like a baby, only occasionally waking long enough to hear the voices of the others. Then he would smile and drift off again, a part of him fearful that he was in a dream which would end. But it wasn’t a dream. They were all there—his family—having safely completed the journey from California.
The Sirens of Oak Creek Page 25
