Simon looked up just in time to see the storekeeper try to cover a loose grin that said tenderfoot. “So . . . any suggestions?”
“Reckon you could find some room on one o’ these wagons goin’ north. Sometimes the drivers take a little extra on the side . . . kind of a bonus, you might say.”
“And how do I find one of those cooperative drivers?”
“Reckon I could find one . . . for a price.” The loose grin grew tighter.
“Do you think I can find another mule here?”
“Sure, but it’ll cost you a lot more than what you’ll pay to squeeze a dab like that onto a tailgate. ’Sides that, you hook up with a wagon, and you can travel well into the night. You got a full moon for the next five or six days. You travel by yourself . . . well, that can get unhealthy.”
“Meaning what?”
“There’s some that’d sooner take what you got than work for it.” The man looked directly at the new Model 1873 Winchester and the ten green boxes of ammunition Simon had just paid for in new gold coins.
“Okay, find me a ride. What’s the chance of finding one this morning?”
The trader sucked something from between his front teeth, then spit. “Somewheres ’tween none and that bit of bacon.”
Simon led the mule into the stable and started to unload it. Another day wasted.
Eight horses stood in the forecourt next morning, hipshot and heads down. The lead horse craned his neck and looked back as Simon walked out of the stable and up to the rear of the wagon. The sun would not rise for another hour or so.
“Like to use that canvas to bundle it all together.” The teamster looked as capable and tough as the fourteen-foot wagon he drove.
“Sure. I’m afraid I haven’t thought this out very well.”
“Ever’body’s a beginner in the beginnin’, Mr. Steele. Just throw it up here, and we’ll start stacking it on.” He nimbly levered himself onto the tailgate.
Simon threw the canvas up, and together they arranged the stiff cloth.
“Now, heaviest stuff first. Like that folding stove there.”
Thirty minutes later Simon’s goods were safely packed and well-secured to the back of the wagon.
“You can ride up there or on your horse.” The driver pointed to the high seat. “Ever rode a freight wagon?”
“I have,” Simon said. “I’ll ride my horse.”
“Then tie your mule on, and let’s get this rig rollin’.”
The teamster clambered up the five-foot-high wheel and into the driver’s seat. He waited until Simon tied the mule, then he kicked the brake loose and hollered, “Git up!” The horses leaned easily into their collars, and the wagon rolled out of the stable yard. “Now Haw! Haw!” The team turned left onto the road.
Sunrise threatened the steep mountains to the east.
They weren’t alone on the road. Three or four outfits about a half mile in front of them raised a dust pall that hung in the still morning air. Simon urged his horse ahead of the wagon and set his pace to keep him there, Spud padding alongside. For the first time in nearly a week, he was able to take in some of the sights around him. The slopes to the east climbed quickly to form an impressive line of bare-rock mountains that formed a barrier running north and south. The land to the west lay as flat as anything he’d seen in Nebraska. A haze-obscured line of mountains appeared in the distance. To the southwest there was the lake. People had told him it was so salty in places fish couldn’t live in it. And ahead, the land rose gently toward the hills that formed the north end of the valley.
The air warmed as a sultry heat seemed to rise from the ground. Willow and cottonwood trees disclosed the waterways that meandered into the valley from the north and east, and sheep and cattle grazed in abundance. Simon settled into the semiconscious state of a long-distance rider, mind empty of anything important, his body relaxed and in rhythm with the cadence of the horse. Uninterrupted, two hours had slipped by before he knew it. Straightening in his saddle, he stretched, and then reined his horse to the side of the road.
“Wonderin’ when you was gonna wanna stop. ’Nuther mile up there’s a nice stream to water the horses. Meet ya there.” The teamster hollered the last over his shoulder.
A few minutes later Simon tied his horse to the wagon. The driver strode up a well-defined trail, two full canvas buckets sloshing water on his legs. “ ’Preciate it if you’d help me water the horses.”
“Of course.” Simon took one of the buckets.
“You get the offside wheel. They git all the dust so they git first.”
“Never did get your name,” Simon said.
“Bill Malm.”
Simon watched the level in the bucket drop with amazing speed as the horse silently sucked in the water. The five gallons were gone in about two minutes. He went to the creek and soaked his feet getting the bucket full again. Twenty minutes later the lead pair sucked up the last of their water.
“Why not let ’em stand in the water and drink?” Simon asked.
“And spend the afternoon gettin’ the wagon out of the mud?” Malm gave him a knowing smile. “ ’Sides that, they’d drink too much.”
“How much do they need?” Simon looked at his horse.
“Let him drink till he . . . er . . . she, pauses, then git her head up. Now, the mule’s a different story. They seem to know.”
“How often do you water them?”
“Often as I want water myself. When they’s plenty of water, let ’em drink, but they kin go all day if need be, jist like us. Mule longer.” Malm climbed up the wheel and caught hold of the jerk line again. “Take your time. We got nice easy goin’ for the rest o’ the day, and I’ll stop ever’ once in a while and let ’em stand.” He lifted the lines and sent a ripple along them. “Git up now! Lazy galoots, git!”
The rest of the day was a succession of stops, sometimes by a stream, sometimes just by the road for what Malm called “a blow.” The land rose up to meet them as they left the Salt Lake valley behind, still relatively level most of the time, but an occasional rise made the horses lean a little heavier into their collars. The sun had been down for two hours when Malm pulled the team to a halt beside another wagon, parked well off the road.
“Hey, Buck, need some company?” Malm shouted at the wagon.
“Not really, but don’t reckon that’ll change your mind,” someone hollered back.
“You’re right, you ornery ol’ scut.”
“I gather he’s not serious,” Simon said.
“Naw, we’ve been friends for years.” Malm climbed down from the high seat and arched his back. “By gum, it’s a royal pleasure to git off that thing sometimes.”
“Can I help you unharness?”
“That’d be real good of you, Mr. Steele.”
“Simon . . . please.”
“Okay, Simon. Git the feeling you ain’t a complete pilgrim.”
“I’ve worked all my life, and I’ve helped my father do this a lot. Just not eight at a time.”
“Take ’em off just like I put ’em on, two at a time.”
“Need some help, you old cripple?” A man stepped around the parked wagon and hobbled toward them, clearly visible in the bright moonlight. He listed heavily to one side, his left leg bent out at the knee.
“Who’s callin’ who what? Levi, meet Mr. Simon Steele. Simon, this here’s Levi Buck, best teamster on the road.”
“Pleasure.” Levi stuck out his hand.
The strength Simon felt in the grip was frightening. He knew without a doubt that bones would break if the stocky man decided they should.
“Mr. Buck. You been the one just ahead of us all day?”
“Nope, I pulled over about an hour ago. Two rigs passed me since. I went to work this mornin’ when an honest man should. Can’t abide a feller that lays ’round half the mornin’.” Levi shot Malm a grin.
“Had to load Simon’s gear on the tailgate, else you’d be eatin’ my dust.”
“And I supp
ose the Dillard Freight Company knows about the little extra?”
“They didn’t hire it done, so it’s none o’ their dern business, kinda like it ain’t none o’ yours. My outfit, not theirs.”
“Well, let’s git these horses unhooked. Your second swing set looks plumb spent.”
“Just one of ’em. He’s new. Got him along this trip for trainin’.”
The eight sweaty horses soon stood free of their bonds and nosing around in the grass by the creek. One dropped to its knees and then rolled over on its back. Feet folded and held high like a relaxed cat, he shifted his shoulders and rump back and forth, rubbing his back in the earth. And just like a cat, the horse turned over and nimbly got to its feet with agility that surprised Simon.
Thirty minutes later a small fire burned, and Malm dug around in the box he’d taken from under the driver’s seat.
“I’d be happy to cook for us,” Simon said. “I’ve had some experience.”
“I ain’t never been one to turn down an offer like that. I hate cookin’, and some of the stuff ol’ Levi throws together’d make your dog retch.”
Simon peered into the box, then poked around for what he needed. The coffeepot came first, and was soon wafting steam. The two older men settled down on the ground and watched while he fixed them a meal. An hour later, the dishes had been washed and put away, and Simon was more than ready for a good night’s sleep.
His back hurt, from level with his hips to the middle of his shoulders. No matter which way he turned, the dull throb persisted, every heartbeat a thud that reminded him of the long day in the saddle. Unable to relax, he marveled at the beauty of the night sky, the stars clearly visible right down to the horizon. Across the camp, Buck muttered something and rolled over in his bed. Simon tuned to look, the moon so bright he could see the broad red stripes on the teamster’s Hudson Bay blanket. Simon had bought one, a double, twice as long as a normal blanket. He slept on one end, and folded the other over himself. Despite the heat of the day, the night was cool and the weight of the wool felt good. With a low groan, he rolled over on his back again and folded both arms behind his head.
Thud . . . thud, snap! Simon’s scalp grew tight as he unfolded his arms and turned to stare toward the sound. Spud’s head came up and shifted from side to side. Then his ears pricked and he growled, the barely audible throat-rumble private and reassuring. The dog’s nose pointed straight at Malm’s wagon.
Simon rolled slowly to his side and felt around for his rifle, his eyes trained on the dark silhouette of the angular rig. Then the source of the sound appeared, two pairs of legs, moving silently toward the rear of the freighter. His groin tightened and the search for the cold steel of the Winchester became more urgent . . . where was it? He looked to where he was groping, caught the glint of metal in the moonlight, and grabbed. The heft of the rifle calmed him.
His gaze went back to the wagon just in time to see the legs disappear behind the rear wheel. Quietly, he rolled over to his belly, and propping his forearms on his saddle, he aimed the long barrel at the tailgate. “Stay.” He breathed the single word and the dog went silent.
In a semi-crouch, the two men stepped into plain view and stopped. One leaned his head close to the other for a moment, and then started to move to Simon’s left. Long buried memories of a night just like this sprang to life, so fresh and vivid his stomach sickened—an ambush under cover of darkness.
So, too, occurred the chilling thought of what might have happened on that dark riverbank. Tonight would be different. Tonight it would be his decision, his reason to act, now tempered by experience. His will to survive overriding his blind faith in morality. He breathed in short ragged puffs.
Simon’s tightly strung nerves needed no more than the unmistakable double-click of shotgun hammers being drawn back. A flood of resolve willed his hand to rotate the lever of the Winchester down and away, then slap back. The tug on the trigger followed as naturally as blinking, and the rifle blasted brilliant light and thunder across the sleeping camp. The lever ratcheted down and back, and Simon, blinded by the flash, fired again. And again. And again.
“What the deuce is goin’ on?” Malm’s hollered across the camp.
“Somebody was about to shoot us in our beds.” Simon, amazed at the evenness of his reply, stood, rifle at the ready.
“Who?” Malm asked. He rose like a specter in the moonlight, his long johns an eerie white.
“I don’t know. They were over there by the other end of your wagon.”
A horse galloped off to the south.
“Sounds like he’s leavin’ in a hurry,” Malm said.
“You said they.” It was Buck. “That’s one horse.”
“I saw two men. I aimed at the one movin’.”
“Let’s take a look.”
Malm carried a pistol in his hand, and together they walked toward where Simon last saw the man. They found him, a grotesque heap, twisted back on his legs, his pelvis thrust obscenely toward the moon.
Malm leaned over him, then stood up straight. “Hit him twice looks like, both in the chest. Hard to tell for sure.” He picked up the man’s shotgun.
“Let’s see if we know him.” Buck carried a lantern and moved close, casting the yellow light on the face of the dead man. Death stared back, the eyes blank and dull, jaw slack, bloody teeth on display in a mouth open for one last breath.
“That’s the no-count fella that hangs around the commission store,” Malm said. “Where you bought your stuff, Simon. What’s he want with us?”
“Maybe he wasn’t after us.” Buck looked at Malm for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Simon.
“Me?”
“How’d you pay when you bought your pile?” Buck asked
“Uh, I gave him . . . I paid in twenty-dollar gold pieces.” Simon let out an exasperated sigh.
“And I’d guess you fetched ’em out of that belt you wore ’round your belly today,” Buck said.
Simon glanced down at his waist and winced. “Well . . . that was stupid, wasn’t it?”
“That about says it.” Malm sighed. “I expect he sent these boys, or they got wind of it somehow.”
“How’n hell’d you hear ’em?” Buck asked. “I was dead asleep when that rifle of yours scared the shit outta me.”
“I’m so sore from riding, I couldn’t sleep.”
“Well, might be your sore ass saved itself.” Simon nearly missed Buck’s wink.
“What do I do about him?” Simon nodded at the corpse.
“We’ll put some rocks over him, and send a note back to Corinne with someone we meet goin’ that way. I ain’t real sure whether we’re in Idaho Territory yet, or still in Utah. Let them figger it out.”
“Take a look at his shotgun,” Buck said. “It loaded?”
Malm dropped the barrels. “Loaded and cocked. Looks like Simon was right.” Malm shook the shells from the opened gun and snapped it shut. “We’ll leave it here with him.”
The dog sniffed the air near the body. “Leave him alone, Spud,” Simon ordered.
“How’n blazes did you manage to keep that dog quiet?” Malm asked.
“Just told him to be still. Not the first time we’ve been in a scrape.”
“How so?” Buck asked.
“Maybe over coffee one of these evenings. Not now. I’m suddenly plumb wore out, and my back stopped aching. I’m going to bed.”
“Don’t expect I can sleep,” Malm said, “but it’s too early to be up.”
“I’m with Simon,” Buck said. “See you later.”
“C’mon, Spud. Let’s get some sleep.”
After a short but fierce battle, his self-righteous conscience gave way to the reality of pragmatism, and Simon sagged into the deep sleep of the justified.
CHAPTER 5
Next morning, bootheels scratched parallel tracks marking the dead man’s final journey as they dragged him across the road. Well away from the campsite, they covered the body with rocks, and Simon, deep in t
hought, stared down at the crude cairn.
“You had no choice, young fella,” Buck said.
“He’s right,” Malm added. “Man doesn’t come into a sleeping camp with a loaded shotgun ’less he means bad mischief.”
“I coulda hollered at him or—”
“And let him shoot me!” Malm said. “Weren’t just you he was lookin’ at. I was a wagon’s length away.”
“Hadn’t thought about that.”
“You did what a good partner does,” Buck said. “You was lookin’ out for all of us, so don’t be frettin’ about it.” He pointed at the rock pile. “I know that’s a man, but that particular man was bound to get it just like he did. If it weren’t you, it’d be someone else.”
Malm laid his hand on Simon’s shoulder and squeezed. “He’s right, Simon. You didn’t do anything wrong. Now let’s get these rigs on the road.”
By noon, a note giving their names, the place of Mound Springs, and a short description of what had transpired was on its way back to Corinne and the law. Simon didn’t feel all that much better about the whole deal. The very thing he’d left Fort Laramie to avoid had happened. Was trouble going to follow him everywhere?
The day carried them higher, and Simon noted that the temperature didn’t seem to drop. In fact, it seemed hotter, and a steady breeze out of the southwest dried his sweat before it could reach the surface. His skin felt like old sun-bleached tar-paper looked. Simon anticipated the next stop, and Spud had taken refuge under the moving wagon, his tongue hanging out, catching dust like a sticky flytrap. Simon slowed his horse until the wagon drew alongside.
“I know, hotter than the bowels of Hades,” Malm said. “Don’t know what it is about this climb, but it seems to heat up just to vex me.”
“Is there some water along here?”
“Yep, fair-size creek. We’ll stop there and give ’em a good blow. Don’t want to push too hard today; tomorrow we climb to the summit, and that’s hard on ’em.”
“Will Mr. Buck stop there?”
“He’ll most likely just be pullin’ out when we arrive. Reason he left half-hour before we did this mornin’.”
Slate Creek Page 3
