Slate Creek

by Wallace J. Swenson

  “Whoa.” Simon slacked up on the halter rope and the horse jerked back.

  “Oh, God, what am I doing?”

  The horse stood still and her chest bellowed in and out, her eyes blinking slowly.

  Simon stroked her neck. “I’m sorry, girl. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  With shoulders slumped, he went into the dugout and slipped the loops free of the rock. The mare’s head hung low as he led her into the corral and slipped the collar off. She ignored the oats Simon poured on the ground.

  That evening, Simon stared into the flickering red and yellow of the fire, his spirit as beaten as his body.

  “What are we gonna do, dog? I don’t think that rock is gonna move, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let that poor horse kill herself trying to move it. Already wasted one animal without thinking, and it isn’t going to happen again.”

  Simon got up and walked into the dugout. The intruding rock, shaped like a mountain peak, mocked him in the flickering light.

  “Stopped me cold. Probably hooked up in hell aren’t you? Just when I had it going right you have to show up. Been hiding there forever, waiting for some poor pilgrim like me. Well, I’m not done yet. We’ll see who wins this one, you sonuvabitch.”

  Simon spit on the rock and turned back to the campfire.

  September 16, 1873. Getting harder and harder. Nearly killed the horse working a big rock. Missed my birthday.

  It was over an hour to sunup when Simon stepped into the dugout to confront the immutable rock. He grasped the edge of the cold granite and tugged, then kicked the dirt wall.

  “Shit!” He wasted another kick, then picked up a rock, and stepped to the front of the dugout directly in line with the left side of his nemesis. Turning, he started to pace. “One, two, three,” he counted off until he set the rock down where his fourteenth step landed, picked up another one, and marked out the relocated square on the hillside. With his lips set in a firm line, he grabbed his pick and started chipping away at the new dig; over nine feet of virgin soil, another ten or twelve days of brutal hard work. After six or seven furious strokes with the pick, he threw down the tool and sat on the pile of dirt. The first tear took him by surprise.

  “I’m sorry, Spud,” Simon said. He wrapped his arm around his dog’s neck when the animal came over to him, whining. He leaned his face into the dog’s furry scruff and Simon’s sobs of frustration shook them both.

  For a week, Simon worked from early light until he could no longer see. Twice his heart had sunk with the sight of another spike of granite sticking out of the ground, and twice his horse had forced it free. Yesterday, the clouds had moved in, and today he felt the cold when he stopped to rest.

  Dogged, he kept at it until finally, he set the point of his shovel in the ground and rested his foot on it. “We’ve done it, boy. That’s the last shovelful.” Simon slumped to the ground, pulled the cork on the water bag, and drank deeply. “I can get the foundation rocks set in the next couple days, and then we’ll start to shift logs into place.” He glanced up at the heavy clouds. “We’re gonna make it, Spud, I can feel it.”

  September 25, 1873. Finished hole today. Hit a big rock and had to move over. Getting colder.

  CHAPTER 13

  The logs fell into place one after another; one level became two, two became three, and long before he thought it possible, Simon was contemplating the fourth tier. He’d used three poles resting atop the wall to ramp the third log into place, but his body was rapidly succumbing to the ravages of long hours of brutal hard work and poor sleep. Twice today, he’d lifted until a dazzling display of bright spots behind his eyes blazed a warning.

  “Looks like we try my rope sling idea, Spud.”

  Simon and the mare dragged a log to the base of the three-pole ramp. Then, inside the walls, he drove two big nails into the bottom log of the front, one on the right side, the other on the left. With the rope tied off to the left-side nail, he threw the rope over the wall. Outside, he looped it under the log and threw the end back inside the cabin. Now, by pulling on the rope, he could draw the loop closed and roll the end of the log up the ramp. To let the horse do the work, he stuffed the rope under the wall and tied the end to her collar.

  “Looks like a spider’s web, Spud.” Simon chuckled and took hold of the horse’s halter. She leaned gently into the strain as he urged her forward.

  “Gittup,” he said quietly.

  The rope tightened and the loop started to close, dragging the left-hand end of the log up the ramp.

  “It’s gonna work, Spud. You see that? It’s gonna work like I thought.” He released the strain on the halter. “Whoa, now.” Simon patted the horse on the neck. “Stand still, girl.” He stroked her again and then walked to the angled log, one end now halfway up the ramp.

  He’d cut four poles to use as props and laid them along either side of the ramp. He picked up a short one. With one end jammed against the log, he dug out a shallow divot in the ground for the other and set the short pole in place. He eased the horse back and the prop held the log solidly.

  His spirits soaring, he leaped over the low wall and tied off the other rope. Soon, he stood by the horse, looking back at his spider’s web, and eased the horse forward, his heart racing. The log slipped up the ramp and was soon three-quarters of the way to the top.

  “Slick as butter, Spud.”

  Simon selected a longer prop and wedged it against the canted log. Five minutes later he’d dragged the left end of the log all the way to the top of the wall and propped it up. Switching ropes again, he eased the horse away, and the right-hand end of the log rose to the top and stopped. The first log of the fourth tier was safely perched atop the low wall.

  “That’s it, Spud. Can you believe it? We’re gonna have this done in no time.”

  Simon put his shoulder into the log and slid it along the side wall. Back and forth, first one end, then the other, he maneuvered the log to the back, then rolled it into place, the notches matching perfectly as the timber settled with a thud. The mare was learning, as was Simon, and each log went up a little easier. Once the prop slipped, and the timber came back down the ramp, both man and horse scrambling to get out of its way. After that, Simon tied off the rope on the free end as he switched back and forth.

  Day three came and went, then four and five. Simon’s body slowly began to break down. Leg cramps shot him out of bed in the middle of the night, and his stomach rebelled at the fare of cold ham and mouthfuls of raw cornmeal that sufficed for supper. Finally, on the eighth day, the thirty-second log settled into place and Simon collapsed against the end of the cabin, his muscles trembling with fatigue and excitement. Spud came over and sat beside him, his paw on Simon’s leg.

  “There it is, Spud. No door or window, but we got our house. The roof’ll seem easy after the walls. And tonight, I’m gonna have a hot bath and we’re gonna cook us something real good for supper.” Simon leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes.

  The grouse he’d killed by the creek looked a little tough. On his way back from his bath, he’d come up on five of them. They’d stood, unafraid, black eyes watching stupidly, and he’d whacked two of them with a stick. They were smaller than the prairie chickens he remembered from home, but he’d never been able to get within a hundred feet of those. The dog watched intently as Simon cut the second bird up and rolled it in the cornmeal. With the biggest skillet full of meat, he set the heavy lid on and covered it with red-hot embers. He peeled four potatoes from the sack Reed had brought and sliced them into the second pan. He winced as spatters of bacon grease lit on the backs of his hands. He looked over at the finished walls of his cabin and smiled.

  “Wish Pa could see that. And Tay . . . and Sarah.” The knife poised motionless over the potato as her image floated into focus. He studied her face for a moment. Then, with a deep sigh, he finished the potato, sprinkled on some salt, and put the lid on.

  The aroma of coffee blended with the spicy scent of burning pin
e and set Simon’s mind adrift. Relaxed and at ease for the first time in weeks, he glanced at the saddlebags lying by the spruce tree. He went to them and came back with Sarah’s letter to sit a bit by the fire. The envelope showed the effects of countless inspections, and he carefully extracted the single sheet of paper. He put it to his nose and imagined, then read it again.

  July 14, 1872

  Dear Simon,

  I take pen in hand with some trepidation. I knew one day your letter would come, and I have thought often about what I would do. Even now I can feel the panic. I am in school studying to be a teacher. It is so satisfying. I know now what Miss Everett felt. I so look forward to a room full of my own students. I have come to terms with what happened in the past, and I am much relieved that you know the truth. At times it seems so long ago and faded, yet at other times, some of the memories are very fresh and still very much alive.

  Please understand that I am happy, both with my life and with what I am doing. If you wish me happiness, wish me success here. Sometimes I weep when I think of what could have been. The beauty of our time together comes clear in my dreams, and I wish for things that seem denied. For now, dear Simon, you must leave us as we are, knowing some things cannot be changed except with time. And knowing those things to be true, I hope you understand why I cry.

  Sarah

  Simon dropped his hands into his lap and shut his eyes against the sting.

  The morning dawned cool and cloudy, a heavy, gray canopy misting the treetops. Simon heated up some of the previous night’s potatoes, and with that and a fried slice of ham, he settled next to the fire and studied the angular structure on the hillside. “Got to admit, I had my doubts a time or two, Spud, but there it is.”

  He chewed and admired his new home, a twelve-foot rust-brown square, set in the hard-won hole. It was during many sleepless nights that he’d worked out the details of how he was going to build the roof, and he felt ready. He speared the last piece of ham on his plate, put the dish down, and got to his feet.

  Simon slipped the collar in place and led the horse to the three extra-long poles that would go on top to create the roof supports. The extra length would allow him to fashion a porch cover. Frivolous, he knew, but he couldn’t resist the urge to do it just the same.

  He led the horse out of the corral. “C’mon, girl, just a little bit more.” With the rope double looped around the end of the log, Simon tied the free ends to the collar and took hold of the halter. Together he and the horse stepped off, out of the trees, and toward the new cabin.

  The fiery cold shock of a huge snowflake snapped his head to one side and he put his hand to the spot where it had hit him. He looked up to see the entire sky descending on him; countless individual pieces of white, each followed by another in an endless stream. In a matter of seconds, the ground was white, and complete silence fell over the camp. Spud hunkered down under the trees, and the horse, her head down, ears drooping, waited for a command. Simon, dumbstruck, saw his visible world close in to nothing. A tremor of panic chilled his body. The snow came down at an incredible rate, huge globs of white that weren’t flakes at all, more like clumps of cotton, and they all fell at precisely the same angle.

  Shoulders hunched against the onslaught, he shook off the snow, lifted the horse’s head, and started toward the cabin again. The log slid easily over the fresh fall, and Simon started up the slope to the right of the dugout. Without warning, the mare slipped, then lunged forward to catch herself. Caught in the back by the horse’s shoulder, Simon went sprawling into the space between the log wall and the hole he’d dug. His head smacked hard against the timber and he fetched up on the bottom with a jolt.

  “Oh, damn, hurts,” he muttered and tasted blood.

  The logs pressed against his back and shoulders. The side of his face pressed into the dirt at the bottom of the hole. He sucked in as much air as his compressed lungs would allow and choked on something. He retched, and the spasm wedged him even tighter. With his left hand, he tried to push away from the bottom, while scratching with his other for some purchase on the rough bark. He barely moved. His head pounded, and he could feel every beat of his heart.

  “Spud,” he tried to shout, and retched again.

  He pushed down harder and kicked his legs as high as he could, hoping against hope that he could catch the top of the wall with his toe. Bright spots appeared. He closed his eyes tightly against them, and struggled harder. Then a narrow halo of blackness gathered around the bright spots and started to grow thicker. The cluster of spots became smaller and smaller, until there was nothing but black. Simon heard someone screaming, “Spuuuud!”

  Damp and cold, he lay on his stomach, an angular rock caving in the ribs on his right side. He made one feeble attempt to move, and his will slipped away into the distance and he drifted. The vague sense of daylight came to him once, along with the feeling that he was under shelter. But again, he couldn’t make sense of any of it, and sank back into his hazy sanctuary.

  Hands touched his arm, and strong fingers tested and probed. They went to his head and gently pressured a sore spot, then felt along his jawline. He willed his eyes open, and the glare of white snapped them shut. The hands left him as the person rose, and then stepped over him. He forced his eyes open again and caught a glimpse of someone’s lower leg. Ankle-deep in snow, it was sheathed in a red wool sock. With a shuddering gasp, Simon passed back to the other side, once again comfortable on his bed of stone.

  Weight pressed down on him, and he resisted with a shrug. A spasm of pain blasted his eyes open. The weight shifted and Simon felt warm breath on his cheek.

  “Spud?” The dog nuzzled his jaw, and another sharp pain shot through his head. “Sit down, boy. Sit.” Simon moved his arms and felt the rock under his chest. “Oh, shit,” he moaned.

  Gathering his arms under him, he pushed away from the ground and rolled to his side. He was lying under the edge of the canvas that covered his supplies, and a soft, white-haired animal skin lay over his torso and legs. Simon eased himself into a sitting position and tried to get up. His vision faded to black for a moment, and he sat back down. Snow had been tromped down around his bed for a short distance, and that small area gave way to an unbroken field of white, nearly three feet of snow rounding every surface. The trees bent low under the weight of huge mounds piled on the branches. Halfway to his cabin, an almost smokeless fire burned.

  His back stiffened and he searched left and right. For what? Tracks? Some sign he wasn’t alone. Reed? Nothing greeted him but the brilliant, stark white. His right hand had two fingers with severely torn nails. I fell into the hole by the wall. The horse? Peering intently though the covered trees, he located her, safe in the corral. With a shudder, the memory of being trapped came to him, and he bowed his head and shut his eyes against the sight.

  Red—I saw red socks. He remembered the Indian’s ministrations, and Simon struggled to his feet to search the forest behind him, almost panicked. Nothing moved, not a bird, not a squirrel—nothing. A snap from the fire drew his attention, and he turned to look. Suspended low and well away from the glowing coals were two birds. Skewered on willow branches, they beckoned to his stomach. It grumbled a response.

  He devoured the first bird with barely a pause for breath, tossing the stripped bones to the dog, who snapped them up. Simon reached for the second bird, and then stopped.

  “How did that Indian get past you?”

  Spud gobbled a couple more bites, swallowed, and sat down. He cocked his head and waited.

  “Well, how?” Simon studied the dog. “Is that where you’ve been going every day since we got here? Huh? Is that why you turn up your nose at my fritters from time to time? You raise hell when Reed shows up, and he’s a white man. Some guard you are.”

  The dog cocked his head the other way and licked his chops.

  “And that’s all you got to say? You’re hungry?”

  Simon lifted the rock off the butt end of the roasting stick and gingerly
pulled a leg off the bird. Sucking generous amounts of cold air around the steaming meat, he bit a piece off and savored the greasy morsel.

  October 5, 1873? Had an accident but someone helped me. I think it was an Indian. All’s well.

  CHAPTER 14

  Simon woke the next day to clear skies, and by noon the forest around him hissed constantly as branches slipped their loads of snow. After a struggle, he managed to get up the slope by the cabin. It was apparent the horse couldn’t work in such conditions, so Simon spent the day staring at the fire and listening to the snow flop to the ground. For three days, he sat in the wet snow. The sun shone bright, but without a lot of heat. Slowly, the soggy blanket of snow deteriorated to leave only patches in the shade, and the pristine white changed to glistening brown. Simon wished the snow were back.

  On the fourth day, the morning showed a meadow of frosty white, and Simon tried several times to burrow deeper into his bed. Finally, he gave up and threw back the buffalo hide cover. Clouds of steam puffed out with every breath, and he hurried to get his boots on. The ground was rough and uneven with frozen mud. He looked up at the sky and felt the presence of winter.

  “We’re not ready, dog. We got a lot of things to do, and building that cabin is not one of them.”

  Simon coaxed the fire back to life and went to the water bucket to fill the coffeepot. It was nearly solid ice. With a sigh, he clomped to the creek to fill it.

  He considered his situation over a breakfast of bacon and oatmeal mush. Finished, he went to the raft of long poles he’d cut his roof materials from and selected six short and one long. Cut to the right lengths, he fashioned a tent frame, lashed together with wire, and sank the ends into the frosty ground. There was more than enough canvas to cover the structure and the supplies, and he set about arranging the tough cloth over the frame. By noon, he’d finished that task, picked up his ax, and led the horse down the meadow to a patch of dead timber. The sound of the first chop echoed through the valley, followed for the rest of the day by the same steady beat. The sun dropped and with it, the temperature. Simon dragged one full-length tree into camp, ate a hurried meal, and went to bed.