The low ceiling of the trading post made the interior seem even darker. The dirt floor felt damp, and the whole place had a musty smell. Simon walked toward the only glimmer of light in the back of the room.
“Whatcha drinkin’?” someone asked.
Simon peered into the gloom to find the man behind the bar. Barely visible in the dim light, a single lamp trimmed to nearly uselessness, he didn’t move. “Nothing, thank you,” Simon replied. He unfolded a piece of paper. “My name is Simon Steele. I’m looking to find a place upriver. I have a map that—”
The man ignored the greeting as he stepped forward. “Prospectin’?” He took the map and spread it flat on the rough plank bar. Scowling, he leaned over the paper, his eyes squinted.
“Well, not really. I just want to find a quiet place I can—”
He shoved the map across the bar. “You could have snow up to your ass in less than ninety days.”
“The Indians can do it.”
Holverson snorted. “Another fella said that exact same thing not two years ago. Said he’d be back in the spring. Never saw him again.”
Simon picked up the paper, and then dug another piece out of his shirt pocket. “I’m going to need some more things. I have two mules, but there were items too heavy to carry from Utah.”
“Utah, ya say.” The stench from his mouth forced Simon back a step. “You come all the way from Utah for some privacy?”
“I come because a friend told me of a place where I think I can be comfortable.”
“Haw, some friend. What you needin’?”
“Some tarpaper, a few pieces of lumber, some oats . . . I have a list.” Simon held up the paper.
“I don’t have anything like that here. Stable can get the oats. Salmon City, ’bout fifty miles downriver, would be the only place for the other stuff. Sure you don’t wanna drink?”
“Uh, no thanks. I’ll go see about the oats.”
Simon felt his hair creep on his neck as he turned to leave the dank confines of the trading post and sighed his relief when he stepped into the bright sunlight and over to his horse.
“Don’t look like that got you much.”
Simon turned to see the third man. “Not really.”
“That’s Holverson. Not the friendliest type if you’re not here to buy his whiskey.”
“My name is Simon Steele.” Simon offered his hand.
“I’m Justin Reed. Welcome to Spring Creek.”
Spud grumbled as Simon took Reed’s hand and Simon bumped the dog with his knee. The man’s grip felt sure, and his eyes looked sincere. “I’m not actually meaning to stay here. I’m looking for a place upriver a ways. You might think it strange, but I want to build a small place back in the mountains, and spend some time alone.”
“Don’t sound strange to me.”
“I’m relieved to hear that.” Simon smiled. “Holverson thought I was insane.”
“He was hoping. Misery loves company.” Reed flashed a wide smile. “Do you know exactly where this place is?”
“I have a rudimentary map. So far it’s been very accurate.”
“I’ll take a look if you like. I’ve spent some time back in there.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Simon jammed his rifle into the scabbard and fished the map out of his pocket.
Reed studied it a moment. “He was very careful about putting the side creeks in. I count ten to the one he has marked. The hot springs are right where he says they are, and near as I can recall, the count to them is right.”
“So how does a man get some supplies brought in?”
“There’s a fella in Salmon named Shoup who supplies a lot of folks around here. Another in a smaller place called Challis. Both are honest as your own mother. You let them know what you need, and arrange some way to get paid, they’ll pack it in.”
“But that presents a problem, doesn’t it?” Simon studied the man. What is it about him? So easy, so . . . what’s the word? Smooth? Spud doesn’t like him.
“You going to be needing those mules once you decide to stay?”
“I . . . maybe . . . well, of course not, obviously.”
“Let me give you an idea, then. I can take you in and trail the mules back out. No doubt in my mind that Shoup would jump at a chance to trade a supply run for them mules, and a good bit besides. You pay the skinner for what he brings in when he gets there.”
Simon’s tongue explored the inside of his lip where he’d just bitten himself.
“You’re thinkin’ pretty smart, eh?” Reed said. “Well, I’ve done the same thing before, several times in fact. I make it my business to take advantage of people’s needs.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Mr. Reed, but . . .”
“Of course you don’t trust me. Why should you? I’m a total stranger in a strange place. But let me put this to you. All you’re risking is a couple mules you admit you’re not gonna need anyhow.”
“And what’s in it for you?” Simon could not believe his own rudeness. He felt the blush rise in his face.
“Guess who the skinner’s gonna be?” Reed smiled and winked. “I’ll get mine, don’t you worry about that.”
Why do I trust this man? Somehow, I know I can. Then it struck him like a double shot of Navy Rum. It’s his confidence . . . he’s totally and supremely confident. Just like Buell, only older. “I think we have ourselves a deal, Mr. Reed.”
“I’m glad. And call me Justin. When were you planning on going upriver?”
“Anytime. Today?”
“No reason why not. Gives us a good head start, and gets us away from the likes of Toad and his friend. I’ll pay for what I eat the next three or four days . . . that’s if you have it to spare.”
“I’ve got plenty. Let’s go.”
“You plan on keeping that dog?”
“I hadn’t given that a thought. Of course I’m keeping him, he’s my best friend.”
“Does he find his own food?”
“He chases rabbits, rodents, and the occasional bird, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m just suggesting you oughta think about how much he eats.”
“He’s coming with me.”
“Just suggesting, that’s all,” Reed said with a smile that Simon thought was a little thin.
Reed gathered up his horse, and ten minutes later they rode out of Spring Creek. Simon couldn’t believe his good luck.
CHAPTER 8
The floor of the river valley narrowed as they rode upriver, until it was only a long rifle-shot wide. Reed swung his horse sideways in the trail. “It’ll be hard to find a wide spot shortly, so I suggest we camp here for tonight.”
“Sounds good to me. I’m about done in anyway.” Simon turned his horse off the trail and toward the trees a short distance away.
After they’d unloaded the mules, Simon dug the hobbles out of his saddlebags.
“Probably be better if we tied up the animals,” Reed said. “More than a few around here who won’t hesitate to take what they see unguarded. Got any rope?”
“Yeah, in the packs.”
He found what he was looking for in the second pannier, stripped off about sixty feet from each end of one coil, and tied the mules. Reed did the same for the horses with rope from another roll.
Thirty minutes later Simon had a fire going and supper heating up in a skillet. He gave the beans a stir. “Wish I had some fresh stuff. I’m tired of canned beans, tomatoes, and peaches.”
“If I understand your intentions, you plan on staying up there awhile. That being the case, you can grow a garden.” Reed leaned back against a large rock.
“I would’ve thought it too cold for that.”
“You’d be surprised. I’ve seen gardens raised by some of the Chinese that are a real sight. Only problem is keeping the critters out of them.”
“My mother always had a garden. I remember I sure hated working in it.”
“That’s because you had other things you thought you
needed to do. Different up here. Two things have to be foremost in your mind if you expect to survive, food and fire. You’ll probably wind up seeing that garden as a pleasure to work. You’re not the first one to come in here and stow themselves away like you intend to. I found two of them dead in the spring, one starved, one dead by his own hand. Couple more just disappeared.”
“You make it sound kind of risky.”
“It is. Come winter, there isn’t anyone gonna come help even if you could get the word out.”
Simon concentrated on the beans for a minute. “You said Chinese? I saw quite a few at the train station in Utah and several at a couple stops between Cheyenne and there. You have some here, too, I gather?”
“Hard to tell how many. I’ve come up on a cabin or a dugout and got a peek inside . . . guaranteed, I wasn’t invited in. I’d find upwards to a dozen of the shifty characters squinting at me from a place barely big enough for two white men.”
“What are they doing up here?”
“Started on the railroads mostly, and now they’ll do anything, and I mean anything. Mostly, they work at gold digging. They’ll go in after we’ve panned a place out and somehow find enough to make it pay. I’ve never seen a white man work half as hard as they do.”
“Huh, interesting,” Simon said. “Here, grab a plate and scoop up some beans. Apologize for the fritters. Sometimes they survive the day intact, sometime they don’t. Today they didn’t.”
Reed settled back with his plate and scooped a spoonful of beans into his mouth. Simon ate his directly out of the pan.
“I’m still curious about your plans,” Reed said. “Don’t mean to pry, but we don’t get many folks up this way who just want to . . . what? Camp out for a year or two? I’d understand if you find it none of my business.”
“Nothing mysterious about it. I had a situation at home in Nebraska that . . . I thought one thing was gonna happen and . . .” Simon studied the beans in the pan for a moment and took a deep breath. “I’m amazed I still can’t talk about it.”
“Sounds like you had a lady problem,” Reed said, his tone even and conciliatory.
“Yeah. The frustrating part is, I didn’t see it as a problem.”
“Doesn’t matter. When it comes to matters of a lady’s heart, what you think you know won’t get you a lot of play.”
“I found that out. Anyhow, I felt it best if I just left, so a friend and I did.”
“A friend? He know where you are?”
“No. We had a . . . uh . . . less than agreeable parting in Wyoming. Not his fault.” Simon’s scalp tightened. “I don’t expect I’ll see him again,” he said quietly.
“So nobody knows you’re here?”
“I guess not, except for an old Indian who told me about this place. Never thought about it. I’ll write when I get settled in. You can mail it for me when I get my supplies.”
“I’d be glad to.” Reed scraped the bottom of the tin dish and corralled the last few beans against the rim. “That was good, thank you.”
Simon didn’t answer immediately, the last of his beans forgotten. It felt good to talk to someone again. How many times had Buell and he done this? “You know, Mr. Reed, you remind me some of my friend. You’re quite a bit older but . . . I don’t know . . . you’re a lot like him.”
“Interesting. Exactly how?”
“That, I can’t put my finger on.” I can’t tell him I think he’s smooth. “Just something that makes me easy around you.”
“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment. Now, I’m gonna check on the livestock, and then get some shut-eye.” He stood and flexed his back. “We’ll make the hot springs tomorrow and I’ll put you in that canyon you’ve got marked the next day. You’re almost there. And call me Justin.”
The mule ahead of Simon broke loose a table-sized rock that then slid about a hundred feet before it started to roll. A low berm three hundred feet farther down the slope shot it into the air to arc lazily for another two hundred feet before smashing to bits in the river channel at the bottom. Simon leaned to the right and shut his eyes as his horse delicately picked her way around the hole the departed rock had left in the trail. Simon felt his horse relax and opened his eyes to look up the narrow trail at Reed’s back. The skinner appeared so nonchalant that Simon felt a rush of shame. They had trailed along the riverbank for part of the morning, and then the canyon had closed in. Reed led the mules up and away from the river to where they were now.
The rest of the day was a succession of heart-stopping climbs along narrow trails, and skidding, half-controlled descents in clouds of dust. The last such descent dropped them into a wide spot by the river. Even in the heat of the day, steam wafted off small pools of water, and the bank displayed a riot of red, orange, and rich browns. The smell left no doubt the water came from Hell. Spud went over and sniffed the nearest pool.
“Here’s your hot springs.” Reed swung out of his saddle. “We made real good time. You surprised me for a first-timer. That trip usually scares the daylights out of people.”
“It wasn’t bad,” Simon lied. “Did you see that big rock you kicked loose?”
“Heard it. Learned early it’s best not to look back.”
Simon got off his horse. “Phew, does it always smell like this, or only in the heat of summer?”
“Always. They say you get used to it. I haven’t.”
“How hot is it?”
Reeds pointed to one crusty-edged pool. “That one will scald you, and quick. If you had an egg, you could cook it. Couple others are just right for washin’ up in. Something I’m gonna do soon’s we get these animals taken care of.”
The nauseating smell of soggy sulfur permeated the camp, and Simon hadn’t slept very well. Therefore, Reed’s shout came as a shock.
“Better wake up before you ride your horse off the bank.” Reed’s mount stood ankle-deep in water with the mules lined up behind. Spud sat on the riverbank, his ears pricked forward. “Some of ’em don’t take to moving water.”
“Guess I was woolgathering.” Simon shook his head.
“Nothing wrong with that, just not here.” Reed’s smile turned the admonishment into a friendly suggestion.
Simon studied the fast-moving water for a few seconds and puffed out his cheeks as he tried to guess the distance to the other side.
“Don’t worry about it,” Reed said. “Looks farther than it is. We’ll be to the other side in two, three minutes. Let your horse make her own way. Just keep her headed generally toward the other side.”
“What if one of them goes down?” Simon nodded at the mules.
“I’ve got the mules. You just stay behind ’em. Not a damn thing anybody can do if one falls. If your horse goes down, try to jump clear . . . upstream. But nobody’s going to fall. We’ll be across before you know it. Let’s go.” Reed turned his horse into the river and the mules followed docilely, the first staying in the wake of Reed’s bigger horse, the second in the wake of the first.
Simon hesitated, and before he knew it, Reed was halfway across, angling right, into the current, and headed for the mouth of a sizable creek. He urged his horse into the fast water, and his fears evaporated as the horse steadily made her way into the river. The dog ran up and down the bank, barking at the departing train. Simon shouted over his shoulder, “C’mon, Spud, get in here.”
The clarity of the water amazed Simon. The rocks on the bottom appeared to be only inches below the surface, their shapes shifting and moving . . . mesmerizing. Then he realized his boots were in the water and the horse had slowed. He looked for Reed, now well upstream, and it became clear Simon would not make the same landing spot as the teamster. His scalp tightened and his heart accelerated. He reined his horse to the right, more into the current. She tossed her head, stumbled with her next step, and turned slightly downstream.
Simon’s uneasiness turned to skin-tingling panic, and he gripped the saddle horn with his free hand and sawed her neck with the reins. The horse stumble
d again, beating the water with her front hooves as she recovered. And then she lunged forward, more downstream than before. Simon looked to Reed, who now stood onshore, looking back.
Reed cupped his hands over his mouth but “-head” was all Simon could understand, and he tried to turn upstream. His horse lunged again, and Simon, now frantic, grabbed the horn with both hands and hung on. With plunging leaps, the horse bore in on the far bank, now below where the creek dumped into the main river, the bank impossibly steep. With a final lunge, she put her front hooves as far up the bank as she could, and gathered her hindquarters under her belly. Simon felt the balance shift and knew they were going over backwards. He kicked his feet free of the stirrups, let loose of the horn, and slipped over her rear, shoving away as hard as he could.
The horse lurched forward, front feet pawing furiously. Her rising rump caught Simon in mid-slide, and he flipped into the air, head down, his arms and legs churning helplessly. The gulp of air he took the instant before he crashed into the icy water exploded from his lungs as he went under. His elbow smashed against a rock, and fire shot up his arm. He gasped, and icy water slammed into his lungs. Clawing at the water, he burst to the surface, sucking desperately for air. His knees banged against an angular boulder. Then he slid over the top of it, to be dunked headfirst into the swirling water on the lee side. Another gulp of the river went down his throat.
His will to live began to fade along with his vision, when, to his great relief, his feet touched firmly on the bottom. Looking toward the bright light, he shoved toward the bank with all his strength. Then he did it again, as he clawed frantically with his hands. And again, until his fingers found a tree root and grasped it in a death grip. He gulped air, his face resting on the rocky shore, and then he retched.
He was only vaguely aware of the dirt and small rocks sliding down the bank and into his face. “Damn, fella, you all right?” Reed said as he came to a stop beside him. The man grabbed Simon’s arm and pulled.
Simon tugged back feebly as he fought to get his knees under him. “I . . . think so.” With Reed pulling, Simon climbed out of the water and into the riverbank. He sank to his knees.
Slate Creek Page 6
