Slate Creek

by Wallace J. Swenson

Simon wiped his dust-dry lips with the back of his hand. “You’d think with that much water half a mile away, I’d feel it. I’ve never been so dry.”

  “No moisture in the air. That fact caused the folks on the Oregon Trail a lot of bother. The wagons shrinked up so bad they’d fall apart, lit’rally. And away from the river, water’s scarce, so they couldn’t afford to pour it on the wheels to keep the spokes tight. You kin understand why folks ain’t bothered to stop here.”

  “But my Indian friend, Walks Fast, says it’s a lot different just a little north.”

  “ ’Tis. For green anyway, but wait till you spend a winter there. Nope. Folks’s wise to keep on goin’, far as I’m concerned.”

  They camped by the river and Simon wondered again how it could be so dry with a stream that large flowing past a hundred yards away. The next day repeated the previous; the sun, hot as a bread-ready oven, burned through his cotton shirt. At midday, Simon tied his horse to the back of the wagon, then climbed onto the seat with Malm. Now, late afternoon, he was half-asleep, lethargic in the scorching heat.

  A nudge in the ribs startled him: “What?”

  “Eagle Rock.” Malm nodded toward half a dozen buildings, conspicuous in the sagebrush, and a sturdy-looking truss bridge. “And Taylor’s Crossing.”

  Since leaving Portneuf Valley they’d passed several small-settler holdings: cabins and low-lying sheds, but this was the first that looked permanent. Half an hour later Malm pulled up alongside Buck’s wagon.

  Buck eased himself upright from his spot in the shade of the wagon. “Good to see you made it. I been here almost two hours.”

  “He raised his prices yet?” Malm asked.

  “Nope, still four-fifty.”

  “I gather we’re stayin’ the night.”

  “Figgered we could. Finley has a couple horses you might want to take a squint at. Both of ’em look pretty good.”

  “Finley’s a horse trader,” Malm said to Simon. “He got any mules, Buck?”

  “Couple. They look kinda rank though.”

  “Well, let’s get across.”

  Malm headed his team toward an impossibly narrow bridge. A man who had been standing at the approach walked toward the wagon.

  “How you doin’, Bill?”

  “Whoa,” Malm ordered. “Stayin’ outta jail. You still holdin’ us up ta cross Matt’s two-bit bridge?”

  “Four-fifty for the wagon and four bits each for the saddle horse and pack mule. Course you kin always go around.” The man winked.

  Simon dug a dollar out of his pocket and handed it to Malm, who passed it on to the gatekeeper along with a five-dollar bill. Two twenty-five cent pieces came spinning back, glinting in the late sun.

  The horses moved deliberately onto the corded surface. The hollow drumroll of their hooves sounded a dirge-like complement to the bridge’s unnerving creaks and groans as it took the weight of the wagon. Forty feet below, the huge river squeezed through a crack in the black lava-rock that Simon guessed to be not much wider than the horses and wagon. The vertical sides stood ominously sheer and tombstone smooth. Simon resisted the urge to jump off the wagon and run.

  “Easy boys, easy,” Malm murmured softly.

  Simon caught the quick glance Malm gave him. The quiet, calm demeanor of the teamster dispelled for a moment some of Simon’s panic. He tried a smile, and knew he hadn’t brought it off when Malm chuckled.

  “Tends to rattle you the first time.”

  Upstream, the four-hundred-foot-wide river cascaded over a series of descending ridges, then narrowed sharply to pass under them. Simon thought for a moment how deep the water had to be, but dismissed that terrifying image and turned to counting the pairs of horses as they crossed to the other side. Just the wheel pair now . . . and . . . there, the front wheels jolted as they dropped off the edge and onto solid ground. His sigh of relief brought another chuckle from Malm.

  “Hup. Step out now, git up.” The wagon climbed the gentle rise from the edge of the river to a fair-sized parking spot.

  “If you hurry, you can run back and ride over with Buck.”

  “I don’t think so. That’s got to be the longest hundred feet I’ve ever traveled. How’d they span that cut? The sides are perfectly straight up and down.”

  “They did it in the winter when the river froze. It does that around here, thick enough to carry a wagon and team.”

  Simon turned in his seat and watched Buck move across the bridge and hurry his team up the slight slope.

  CHAPTER 6

  Early the next morning, Simon stepped forward and took Malm’s offered hand.

  “Been a real pleasure, young feller. I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for, and don’t let that ambush at Mound Springs hound ya. It wasn’t your fault.” The openness of Malm’s face tightened Simon’s chest and made it hard for him to swallow.

  “I agree with Bill,” Buck said from his wagon seat. “You saved at least one of us, if not both. I think you’ll do well, and the way you cook, you’ll make someone a good wife.”

  “Thanks.” Heat climbed the back of Simon’s neck. “I really appreciate your help. Maybe we’ll see you again.”

  “Like to think so,” Malm said. “They’s more and more folks movin’ ’round up there. There’s a small settlement where that big river you’re looking for crosses your map. Could be I’ll freight some in there one day.” Malm grabbed the edge of the driver’s box and clambered up the wheel. “Watch that new mule. He sets his ears back, you get outta the way.”

  “He’ll be all right. Have a good trip.” Simon raised his hand.

  “Haw, git up now. Git.” Malm slapped the jerk line and the team, once again eight strong, moved the wagon out and away.

  Simon watched until his new friends disappeared in the dusty distance.

  His new mule had cost him one hundred and fifty dollars, the packsaddle twenty-five more. Malicious thoughts about the Corinne storekeeper’s advice to buy the animal here were allayed when he recalled Bill Malm’s quiet voice.

  “Expensive animal, but I’d say we got the best of the deal, Spud. Some good company and someone to explain the country for me.”

  He looked toward his horse and the two mules, standing in the meager shade of a juniper tree. Sonuvabitch, ears turned toward him, shifted his weight, and fluttered his lip. The new mule, ears turned away indifferently, stood as far away as his halter rope would allow.

  Simon approached the new mule. “Let’s get on the road, boys.” He took hold of the halter and had taken three steps toward Sonuvabitch when his arm jerked straight and he nearly fell down. He turned to glare at the mule. “Damn it, don’t start.” He pulled harder. The mule leaned away. “You gonna make it difficult, aren’t you?”

  The mule raised its head, its ears half-back, and looked down its nose. Simon tugged again, and the animal set its feet. Ears now flattened, the mule’s wide-open eyes gleamed a defiant white.

  “We’ll do it the hard way, then,” Simon muttered to himself.

  Simon led his horse out of the shade, grabbed the tag end of the mule’s rope, and reached up to secure it to his saddle horn. He’d made one turn around it when the mule exploded.

  The rope whipped out of Simon’s hands, and the mule went into a frenzy of jumping, bucking, and braying. He took two long hops, then sprang three feet into the air to come down again stiff-legged. Spud shot out of the shade, barking and snapping at the mule’s flailing feet.

  “Get outta there before you get kicked,” Simon hollered.

  The mule, with four or five lunging bounds, circled the horse. Shaking his head, he rolled mad eyes at the trailing rope. Another soaring leap, another earth-shaking return, and his purpose was realized: the first strap broke, and off came the three-gallon can of coal-oil. Then, in quick succession, nearly everything on his back landed on the ground. And then he stopped, packsaddle slung under his belly; pots, pans, groceries, and blankets strewn in the dusty paddock. The mule looked at Simon, shook his hea
d once, and raised his upper lip in a long coughing bray.

  “Looks like he’s got your number.”

  Simon hadn’t noticed Finley walk up. “Contrary son of a bitch.”

  “Ain’t they all? He’s packed before, else he wouldn’t know how to unpack like that.” The trader chuckled.

  Finley’s humor rankled. Simon turned to face the horse trader. “Did you know he was gonna be like that?”

  “Sure. They all will till you teach ’em it ain’t worth it.”

  Simon’s puff of exasperation seemed to set Finley’s grin even tighter. “All right. How do I teach him?”

  “A twitch.”

  Simon knew his ignorance was the source of amusement, and that made his inadequacy even more irritating. “Okay, what’s a twitch?”

  Finley reached into his back pocket and took out a fifteen-inch piece of braided leather. Then he picked up a short stick and sauntered over to the mule, which now stood quietly, apparently quite contented. “Come here and I’ll show you something.”

  Simon walked over.

  Finley put his arm around the mule’s head and hauled it down. “Get over to the other side and do the same.”

  Simon wrapped his arm around the sweaty ears and clasped his hands under the jaw.

  Finley let go, and almost too quickly for Simon to see, grabbed the mule’s upper lip and threw a loop around it with the leather thong. One twist, and he had the stick in another loop that allowed him to pinch the mule’s lip by turning his hand.

  “He so much a’ moves a muscle, just give this a twitch.” He twisted the loop a little.

  The mule’s eyelids fluttered, and Simon felt a surge of sympathy. It must have showed.

  “You don’t need to be mean about it,” Finley said. “Just let him know you can hurt him if you want to. Now, you get hold of this.”

  Simon slipped his fingers around the stick as Finley relaxed his grip.

  “Okay, start to walk away, and if he hesitates give ’em a little encouragement.”

  Simon started to move and the mule followed.

  “See there? He’s ornery, but he’s also smart. I’ll let you have that persuader for a buck.”

  Two hours later Simon had everything re-packed except for a half-gallon can of molasses, smashed flat by the recalcitrant mule. Tied head to tail, the short pack train started west toward the distant butte that shimmered dizzily in the mid-July heat of the high desert.

  The dreaded black rock he expected did not materialize. The ground rose gently as he rode away from the river, and then turned into rolling hills, sagebrush covered and baked bone-dry in the sun. The well-pounded, dusty, dirt road had Simon constantly reaching for his canteen. Tracks, fresh and numerous, suggested a well-used route, but looking ahead into the haze, he couldn’t see any signs of movement, not even a dust cloud.

  Several hours of monotonous plodding brought them to the first of the three buttes on his map. A great pimple on the desert floor, it poked its decapitated peak into the sky, blackened slopes littered with chunks and pebbles of broken rocks. The third butte, a brooding monster several times bigger than the first, appeared in the haze. It didn’t seem that far away, but Simon had learned estimating distances in the vastness of the high desert could be a humbling exercise. His eyes squinted to slits, he glanced at the sun, and reined his horse to a stop.

  “To hell with it, Spud, I’ve had enough.” Simon swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. “We’re staying right here tonight.”

  Simon pulled the saddle off his horse, relieved the mules of their burdens, and then hobbled all three. They were in the middle of nothing; no movement in the air to relieve the oppressive heat or drive off the persistent flies that swarmed around their heads: a sagebrush Sargasso. Small tufts of leathery grass tempted the animals, and they started foraging. Simon dumped his saddle under a scrubby juniper tree and sat beside it.

  “You’d think it would be cooler, Spud. Look around, mountains in every direction, some with patches of snow, and it’s gotta be a hundred degrees here.” Simon doffed his hat and inspected the soaked sweatband. He took in a deep breath, and puffing his cheeks, exhaled with a long sigh. Scooting around, he leaned back on the saddle, one arm cocked under his head, and shut his eyes.

  He woke with a start. A charge of panic shot through him as he sat up straight, and looked for the mules. Gone. He scrambled to his feet and was relieved to see the dog.

  “Where’s the horse?”

  The dog cocked its head and pricked his ears.

  “Horse. Where’s the horse?”

  Spud turned two circles, and answered with a questioning low bark.

  “Go git ’em,” Simon said hopefully.

  Spud spun around and disappeared into the brush. Simon headed in the same general direction, listening, and before he’d gone a hundred yards he heard the bray of an annoyed mule. The sound came from the north, and he carried on to find the horse and mules standing knee deep in the grass at the back of a natural corral, protected on three sides by rugged lava-rock walls eight feet tall. Spud waited at the opening, his tail pumping proudly.

  “I’ll be damned. Good boy, Spud. I don’t reckon they’ll be leaving this. Wonder where the moisture’s coming from? C’mon, let’s git back to our stuff.”

  When the last flash of crimson disappeared on the western horizon, the temperature started to drop noticeably. Two hours later, his supper of hardtack and beans put away, the evening promised perfection, except for one thing: he was alone. The thought struck him as the individual shapes of the sagebrush blended into one dark shadow and the stars took on clarity seen only in the high country. In the last bit of light, he scampered around for several armloads of dry sagebrush, and built a small fire. The flame’s friendly flicker eased the melancholy, and as the fire burned down, his mind drifted back to Nebraska and Sar—He shut her name off, along with the thought. Pulling his blanket up to his hips, he rolled over on his side and willed himself to sleep; the wet that flowed into one ear did not exist.

  The next morning they were up and away by sunup. The heat on his back felt good, even though he knew it would be merciless later on. They had been moving about two hours when Sonuvabitch raised his head and brayed. His partner followed suit and both animals picked up their pace, nearly pushing Simon off the road. A small grove of trees appeared, and soon he was standing on the caved-in banks of a creek. Only about three feet wide and barely moving, it was, nonetheless, water in the desert. They hurried down to the shallow stream and drank long and deep.

  Simon got out his map and finally understood what one strange line meant. It started somewhere near where he was but it looked like where it ended had to be a pass to the north. That meant it couldn’t be a stream unless it ran uphill. But here it was—he stood on its bank. At last had something to navigate by. But where did it end? It couldn’t simply disappear into the desert. Or maybe it did. Mulling the thought over, he started refilling the water bags.

  They moved past the big butte, and as the late afternoon monotony demanded a stop for the day, they rounded a bluff. Simon saw what he had hoped to see: the long valley heading north into the high mountains. He reined his horse.

  “There it is, Spud. Look at ’em, two miles high and as far as you can see. That’s where we’re going, boy.”

  Excitement held sleep at bay that evening as Simon imagined the meadows and running water he knew must be in abundance up there. He studied the map again. Seeing nothing new did not dampen the enthusiasm generated by simply looking at it.

  The next day they traveled up the valley, always close to water now. That evening they camped by a small stream with high mountains on either side. The air felt definitely cooler. The fourth day they climbed, nothing severe, just steadily rising, and the pass Walks Fast had marked on the map also marked their campsite.

  Morning sunrise came late, the sun blocked by the high mountains. Simon treated himself to a cup of coffee, and as he sat and drank, he studied
the valley below. Treeless undulating hills ran to the left, towering snowcapped peaks on the right. The valley extended north and the river he sought came in from the left. His destination almost in sight, a thrill surged through him and he stood.

  “Almost home, Spud.”

  Home. His broad smile withered as Sarah’s image drifted into focus.

  CHAPTER 7

  Smoke meant one thing: people. The blue haze hung over a small collection of cabins, a larger building with a porch, and a blacksmith shop. Several plots of ground, lined with organized rows of green, had several people working in them. His long days on the road made him anxious to see someone. He stopped in front of the porch and dismounted. Three men sat on a long bench to one side of the door.

  “Good day to you,” Simon said cheerfully. “Does this place have a proper name?”

  “Spring Creek. This place is Holverson’s. Proper enough for you?” The speaker, a squat, ugly man sitting farthest from the door, spit a ropey brown stream into the dirt at Simon’s feet.

  “Now that was downright rude, Toad.” The man sitting to his right leaned over and jostled the spitter.

  “Maybe,” Toad said.

  “Prospectin’?” the jostler asked.

  “Yeah, a little . . . I guess.”

  The third man eyed him closely. “You from back east?”

  “I guess you could say so. Why?”

  “Thought so. Jist curious.”

  Simon tied his horse to the hitch rail, and started for the door.

  “Best not be leaving that fancy Winchester where Toad can get his hands on it.” It was the third man. He winked.

  “Bullshit. I wouldn’t steal it,” Toad said.

  “Not now you won’t.” The third man nodded toward the rifle and then looked directly at Simon.

  Simon walked over and drew the long-barreled rifle from the scabbard. “I appreciate that, sir,” he said to the third man.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Simon pointed at the ground by the horse. “Spud, stay there.”

  Toad muttered something to Simon’s benefactor, who simply smiled back, and then leaned against the rough log wall.