The Sirens of Oak Creek

by Robert Louis DeMayo

  “Fire!” she screamed at the children and began barking orders to get buckets and water while she grabbed a blanket and rushed towards the flames from the lantern that were licking at the side of the cabin.

  “Let it burn!” shouted Wilson, his crazed eyes reflecting the red flames as he slowly raised his gun, pointing it at her.

  But then he caught a movement out of the side of his eye.

  On the other side of the clearing, maybe a hundred yards away, a silver grizzly was staring him down

  Wilson put a fresh round in the chamber, turned, and stared through the sites. Aiming for the heart, he focused, trembling as he perceived the size of the bear, and its menacing and scarred body.

  And only at last minute did it dawn on him that he wasn’t holding his Sharps.

  The realization shook him. This was a much smaller gun.

  Suddenly the bear charged, and Wilson fired prematurely, now panicked; the bullet sank into the bear’s right shoulder, high and away from the heart.

  The grizzly bellowed and roared but continued.

  Wilson stepped away from the cabin, where Margaret and the children gawked, horrified, the buckets of water suspended.

  By the time he jacked another bullet into the chamber, took a knee, and got off another shot, the bear had closed three-quarters of the distance.

  This time the bear went down.

  But a moment later, when it painfully got back on all fours and fixed its eyes on his tormentor, Wilson’s courage failed.

  He sensed in his heart that even with his Sharps, this bear could not be killed.

  He turned and ran. And the bear limped after him, injured, but full of fury.

  They disappeared into the night.

  Moments later, two more shots rang out.

  And then the night was shattered by the scream of a man, drowned out by the roar of a bear.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Sunrise found me laying on a carpet of green moss, listening to the birds. I didn’t even think about where I was until I heard the horse snort.

  And then everything rushed back at once as I discovered I was sprawled on the rock in the lagoon, naked, and severely injured.

  Margaret rode up to the clearing, Shadow tethered behind her mount. She quickly slid out of the saddle and hurried to my side.

  “Heavens,” she said, “what happened to you?”

  I tried to speak but could only moan as she tenderly rolled me on my side and examined my wounds.

  “You’ve been shot—three times,” she said. “Your calf, your thigh, and your shoulder.”

  I nodded, shaking, and she continued. “Small caliber, it seems. The bullets went clean through your leg. I don’t know about the shoulder. I think we should get you down to Camp Kitchen, so I can fetch a doctor.”

  I closed my eyes in accordance. She retrieved a thin blanket from the saddlebag and covered me with it.

  With her help, I limped over to Shadow and climbed up into the saddle. My faithful old friend watched me with his warm eyes, and his gait was soft as he carried me down the canyon trail.

  When we approached the West Fork confluence, a shock went through me as I remembered Pa in the cave. I stared into the West Fork, and tried to steer Shadow that way, but Margaret sidled up to me and grabbed the reins. “We’ll get you sorted,” said Margaret, “and then Jim will lead a search party to find your Pa.”

  But around the next bend we came across him. He was lying on his side along the trail. My heart almost stopped for fear he was dead.

  But then he sat up, and when he saw me he lifted himself off the ground and stumbled toward Shadow. “I was tryin’ to make it to your place,” he mumbled. “Must’a fell asleep.”

  His hat was missing, and his hair caked in dried blood and an orange powder.

  He reached around my waist and hugged me, and I felt him sob. He was still out of it, and Margaret slid out of her saddle and persuaded Pa into riding.

  She walked alongside us. We were moving slowly.

  We passed our new cabin. One of the outside walls had been blackened by fire, but luckily someone had gotten a hand on it before it claimed the cabin.

  Stephen and Jesse were cleaning up the mess, tearing away the bark that had blackened and stuffing fresh moss into the cracks between logs. They both looked a little guilty. When Stephen saw me, he rushed to my side.

  “Will she be alright?” asked my husband in a worried tone.

  “I think she’s gonna be fine,” said Margaret. “But she needs doctoring.”

  Frankie stepped close to Shadow, touching me tenderly. I saw my brother Jesse whisper to Stephen, who nodded.

  Stephen quickly saddled two more horses, one for himself, and another horse so Margaret could ride. He also handed Margaret some of my clothes.

  It took a few painful minutes for Margaret to help me into the clothes, and the men looked away modestly until I once again sat in Shadow´s saddle.

  “I’ll watch the kids,” said Jesse, “and you can leave Frankie here for another night.”

  Margaret nodded thanks and clutched little Lizzie to her chest when they departed. “I’ll be back for you soon, Frankie,” she said, “you be a good boy.”

  When we were in sight of Camp Kitchen, I was surprised to see Mr. Thompson riding out to see us.

  “I was halfway to Page Springs when I had a bad feeling about leaving you,” he said. “Thought I was being superstitious until I got closer and saw the smoke.”

  “Well, I sure am glad you did,” said Margaret.

  The Thompsons helped get me and Pa inside their cabin, and then they looked after our wounds. Margaret heated some water and washed us, and then Jim did the stitching.

  Jim used a sewing needle and coarse thread to run a few stitches through the back of Pa’s head, and then addressed the bullet holes in my legs.

  He wouldn’t close the shoulder wound for fear the slug was still in there, and dispatched Stephen to fetch a doctor that now resided in nearby Cottonwood.

  Pa was restless after his head had been bandaged but wouldn’t budge until the next day when Doc Smith pulled the slug out of me and stated I’d be fine.

  Then he seemed desperate to find Wilson.

  “That man is gonna pay for his deeds,” he said bitterly.

  I lay back, still puzzled. A deep tiredness came over me and I drifted into a trouble-free sleep.

  Four armed men set off the next day, on horseback, to find Wilson. They began at the Thompson-Purtymun cabin, where he was last seen. Jesse rode up and down the creek, looking for any tracks of either man or bear. Stephen checked on Bear’s cabin, and the mouth of the West Fork. And Thompson and Howard stopped by Indian Gardens and grabbed Wilson’s hunting dog and put scent to him.

  Howard held one of Wilson’s socks—a decrepit thing they found inside—in front of the blood hound, and he immediately put his nose down and began running circles around the yard. Eventually he picked up the trail, sounded off loudly, and darted down toward the valley.

  The hound never slowed, the mixture of his owner’s scent and that of a bear too much to resist, but the two men kept up easily on horseback.

  Howard’s head was bandaged with a white cloth which showed a red stain in the back. He seethed with anger. Margaret had tried to talk him into resting, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

  And Thompson was in a fury. He didn’t know if he could control himself when they finally found Wilson.

  The man had apparently tried to torch the cabin while his wife and children were inside. He still had no idea what had happened between him and Mattie—but he would answer for it.

  Soon the trail spilled onto a narrow little gorge that ran steeply into the plateau after a few rugged miles.

  “That there canyon is a dead end,” said Thompson.

  Howard nodded gravely. The dog had gotten deep into the canyon, and before long they had to dismount and proceed on foot.

  It wouldn’t stop barking during the thirty minutes it to
ok them to access the steep shelf where he sounded from.

  And then they found Wilson, face down in a puddle.

  It appeared he had drowned.

  But when they turned him over they revealed a grueling fate. Claw and bite marks crisscrossed his face and chest, and his boots had just about been chewed off him.

  Howard glanced at the scuffed ground and determined that Wilson had tried to climb a tree to get away. He nodded at a nearby juniper with a broken limb.

  “Looks like he tried to get up that juniper and the bear dragged him down by his boot.”

  At the base of the tree sat the compact leather pack that Wilson had worn in the tunnel.

  “We should bury him here, under some rocks,” Thompson said. “We can come back later with horses to haul him out.”

  Thompson was hefting a slab of sandstone as Howard grabbed the pack and shouldered it. “I got something I need to do.”

  Thompson gave him a strange glance, then continued to dig a makeshift grave.

  Howard spat on the ground near Wilson’s body.

  “Why bury him at all?” he asked coldly.

  Thompson set down the rock he was carrying.

  “I think it’s the Christian thing to do. And it’ll keep the scavengers away,” he said.

  “Seems a little late for that,” Howard said and walked away.

  Later that afternoon Howard stood in the cave once again, resting on the side of the dry mound with the offerings. He’d ridden Shadow as far as he could into the West Fork—all the way to the flooded tunnel—then tied her to a young cottonwood by the creek.

  At the tunnel´s entrance, he emptied the contents of the small backpack onto the pile of bones. He paused momentarily and picked up one of the gold coins, but as soon as he felt that familiar heat he quickly dropped it.

  Then he collected stones to wall up the tunnel. It seemed someone had done it before, seeing as there was a stack of rocks just to the side of the entrance.

  He scrambled down to the base of the chute and he grabbed a long-handled shovel that was still resting there from his earlier excavations.

  Then he went back to the cave and over the next hour, he slowly fortified the concealing barrier he had built with sand and dirt. When there was no trace of the tunnel visible, he began to relax.

  But he wasn’t done. He retreated to the circle of stones by the ruin and kindled a fire. When the flames were crackling, he opened his pack and took out the Spanish journal.

  He flipped it open one last time, scanning the pages, but soon snapped it shut—and then tossed it on the fire.

  As the yellowed pages took flame, he returned to the cave and walked into the small recess where the bear claw necklace hung on a peg. He took it down and returned to the fire.

  He stared long at the necklace before dropping it on the flames as well.

  When he left the exit chute to the hidden canyon he knew he’d never return.

  Within a few weeks I was mostly healed and ready to return to my cabin where my husband and children waited. I don’t know if I’ll ever explain what happened in that terrible cave.

  Or how I ended up at the peaceful lagoon.

  Maybe there are just some things beyond understanding.

  But I know I still love this canyon—Oak Creek Canyon—even after the ineffable events of that evening.

  And what family doesn’t have a few secrets?

  Our secret surfaces once a month under the full moon, when gentle singing accompanies the flow of water through the canyon.

  None of us ever spoke about the events of that year. Pa tightened up, and only got emotional if I ever mentioned the cave. Margaret hushed me and whispered, “I’m just glad we’re done with all that.”

  And Stephen, my husband?

  Well, I never did tell him either. He just thought old man Wilson went a little crazy.

  I guess it’s just as well. There are some things best left to the women.

  BOOK FOUR

  THE NEW AGERS

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Act I

  1987

  (July)

  I love being up on the plateau in the summer. A cool, whispering breeze tumbles off the flanks of the San Francisco Peaks and stirs up the stately ponderosa pines, swaying them gloriously, and making the sweltering temps down in the valley seem like a distant memory.

  Everything is out in the open. There are no secrets.

  I try to get up here—Flagstaff—whenever I can, especially in the summer when the all-powerful sun seems to hover right over my house down in the valley in Rimrock. I’d been visiting friends in Flag when my editor, Tim, called and asked me to write about two lectures in Sedona.

  I hated to leave the coolness, but I agreed to the assignments.

  For four years I had attended Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, graduating in 1981 with a degree in Journalism. I would have gladly stayed there if my great aunt, old Saan, hadn’t left me her little cottage along Wet Beaver Creek in Rimrock—fifty miles away, and three thousand feet lower in elevation.

  It’s not much, but the house is paid for; and it sits on the edge of the creek under the shade of a line of towering cottonwoods. A half-mile up the creek is a sinkhole that’s surrounded by old ruins.

  Over the last six years I’ve tried my hands at a few things, but none of them stuck. At twenty-eight, I doubt I’m the young woman my mother Sarah wanted me to be. But she died so young—and her illness set in so quickly—that maybe she didn’t have much time to think about how her half-breed daughter would fare in life after her passing.

  All I know is I don’t seem to fit in anywhere. I liked karate but dropped it after I got my purple belt—couldn’t keep to the schedule. Tried painting, only to discover I was color-blind to red-green. And I’ve hiked just about every trail in the Verde Valley, only to find none ever led to where I really wanted to go.

  But journalism has somehow clung to me—I guess I’m lucky that my former classmate Tim works at the Red Rock News and likes me, or at least used to. He knows the type of stories I lean towards. I like sniffing out facts—searching for the truth. It’s the one challenge my spirit seems to rise to. What’s the story behind that myth? Or how could things have really happened like that?

  Once, when I was drunk, I made the mistake of telling Tim that my mother used to call me Am Bear, a play on my name: Amber.

  Since that day, that’s all he’s ever called me.

  “Come on, Am Bear, just get me the story” he would say, and then add: “And please, leave your cynicism at home for this one. Our readers aren’t all pessimists like you.”

  And I would snap back, “You can fluff it up as much as you want after I hand it in.”

  Now, as I leave Flagstaff, heading south to Oak Creek Canyon and Sedona, I watch the pure blue sky beyond the pines.

  Not a cloud in sight.

  No, that’s not quite true. On the distant horizon, to the southwest, I can see the first monsoon clouds building up. They’re still a way off, but soon the rains will come, and the pine and juniper forests of the high desert and even the ponderosas on the plateau will sigh with relief.

  On the outskirts of town, I pass a hitchhiker sitting on the guardrail. He’s hoping someone using the on-ramp will take him East on I-40. The kid looks skinny, about twenty-one, wearing faded tie-string pants and ratty sneakers. He’s eating tuna fish out of a can with chopsticks.

  I’m surprised he’s not wearing a crystal necklace.

  I give him a look, and I think to myself: This is what’s wrong with Sedona these days. The NEW AGE—I’m sick of it. I didn’t mind the spiritual aspect of it, but then the eclectic mix of beliefs grew to draw in astrologists, UFO enthusiasts, and others that channeled angels or “masters”. Aarg!

  At first it was just a few psychics and tarot readers, catering to tourists, but then the whole Harmonic Convergence thing began.

  All this craziness started in 1971, when a guy named Tony Shearer wrote a book ca
lled Lord of the Dawn. In his book, he predicted that an exceptional alignment of the planets in our solar system—something called a grand trine—would lead to a massive shift in the earth’s energy from warlike to peaceful.

  So on August 16th and 17th, 1987, six planets—Mars, Venus, Mercury, Neptune, Jupiter and Uranus—as well as the sun and the moon, would come into alignment.

  The Harmonic Convergence, a synchronized meditation event, was scheduled to happen at the same time, because Shearer was positive that the celestial line-up would inspire everyone to gather at sacred sites around the world.

  And it’s all set to transpire now. Well, in less than two weeks, but to be honest, I’m more excited about the coming rain.

  It’s been damn hot down in the valley.

  As I slowly wend my way through the switchbacks down from the rim into Oak Creek Canyon, I wish the psychics had never found Sedona. I think of old Saan and wonder what she would have thought of the New Age.

  Most likely, she’d have laughed at the tourists coming to see psychics and get tarot card readings, all the while adhering to her own superstitions.

  And yes, she had her share of secrets, too.

  When I was young she used to regale me with stories of hidden places, and brave young women who fought legendary battles, but as I got older she claimed she couldn’t remember them.

  I had a memory like an owl, and pestered her for years for more details, but aside from cryptic hints, she remained silent.

  She was Indeh, or Apache, as most know them—as was my mother. But she always swore her stories had nothing to do with her tribe. They were about places, not people.

  “What matters most is where an event occurs, not when, or who stumbles through the story,” she would say.

  Still, whenever she told a tale, I saw a tinge of pride in her eyes, and I felt the characters were kin. And as I grew, I developed a passion for local legends.

  The creek trickles by alongside me as I drive. This late into summer, there’s barely any water left, but it still calls invitingly through my open window.