He was robbed of the rest he badly needed by the slapping canvas, and at the first sign of light he pushed back the flap and looked out. He gasped. The handy berm he’d constructed to dampen the wind had also acted as a perfect snow fence, and the drift it collected filled the receptive “U.”
“Oh, shit!” Simon sat and put on his boots, glancing up with irritation at the wintry scene.
The overcast sky grazed the ridgeline, and ranks of lower clouds marched ahead of the blustering wind. They seemed to pause just long enough to spit snow at him before scurrying out of the valley. He stood before what should have been a dormant campfire, hands on hips. “Just what I need.”
He stomped through the snow to the cabin and got his shovel. Ten minutes later he poked around in the soggy ashes with a stick for a bit, then started throwing the gray sludge out of the fireplace. With splinters he axed off a split block, he coaxed a fire to life, and then sat on a short log in front of the struggling flames to dry his pants. Spud sat beside him, ears perked.
“How can you be so cheerful? This is a mess. First thing we do today is use some of those roof poles and make something I can put over the fire pit at night. This is bullshit.”
All day the flurries continued, and the wind held its strength. Simon worked against the cold by building the cap for his fireplace. With wire, he lashed the skinny poles to three cross-members, and before noon had it finished. After a hurried bite to eat, he set to work sawing block after block of wood; his determined cadence cut the afternoon away. The snow and the wind mocked his efforts. Exhausted, he left the saw halfway through a log as the light failed, and he went to bed cold and hungry.
The morning light didn’t faze him. He slept soundly until the sun was just cracking the ridge. Nature urged him back to consciousness and made him hurry into his boots and out of the tent. He stood at his toilet and let the cold air start to untangle the cobwebs in his brain.
It took several heartbeats for the sight of the animals to register. Simon crouched and forced Spud to lie down. A surge of excitement shot through him as he watched, his hand on the dog’s back. The five tawny cow elk moved slowly through the snow, stopping frequently to raise their noses. They moved in and out of the trees on the far edge of the meadow, following the stream’s meandering path through the valley. Directly across from him, the creek cut back against the hillside, and the five were forced to either climb up into the thick timber, or cross the open ground to the trees on his side of the valley. The lead cow stopped, and the rest bunched up behind her. She puffed her steamy nervousness into the dead calm of the morning.
Simon caught a glimpse of movement back upstream, and he concentrated on the spot. Again, a flicker of motion, and this time Simon was able to track it. Deep in the trees, whatever it was moved stealthily, revealing very little. Simon switched his gaze to the open space where he had left the knife and socks. He stared, barely blinking. Suddenly, a bull elk, his antlers laid back, nose high, burst through the clearing in a single bound. The hair on Simon’s neck rose and Spud started to get up. He pushed down on the dog’s head. Two hundred yards farther on, the big bull came to the waiting cows and stopped.
The lead cow turned, looked at the bull, then, sniffing the air once more, she stepped into the clearing. The other four followed one at a time, then all five hurried, stiff-legged, across the meadow and disappeared into the trees. Simon felt Spud’s urgency again.
“Sit!” He spit the word out and grabbed a handful of hair.
The bull stood and waited, clearly visible in the trees; nose up, his massive head swinging from side to side. On some unseen cue, he stepped out of the trees and trotted across the meadow, looking left and right. When he reached the far side, he snapped his head back, antlers laid on his shoulders, and pushed silently through the aspen trees. Simon stood, shrugged into his suspenders, and buttoned his pants.
“I wonder why they didn’t smell us.” Simon turned his face back and forth to find the breeze and could not detect it. “Should I go after them?”
The dog whined and ran off a short distance to stop and look back.
“I didn’t mean you. I can just imagine how much help you’d be.”
Simon hustled to the tent and got his hat, then picked up a butcher knife from his cooking things and stuck it in his waistband behind his back.
“You stay here, boy.”
Spud spun around twice, and tried to jump up on Simon, tongue out, tail wagging furiously.
“No. You stay. I know you want to go, but you’ll just mess things up.”
Spud’s ears drooped along with his tail, and he sat in front of the tent. His gaze never left Simon’s face.
“Look all you want. You’re not going.”
The dog lay down, put his chin on his front leg, and sighed.
Simon picked up his rifle, jacked a shell into the chamber, slid the cover into place, and lowered the hammer. With one last look at the dog, he headed down the valley.
The small herd had left clear tracks where they’d gone into the aspens. While the five cows had angled down the valley, the bull had climbed into the thicker timber. Simon started to stalk the cows, moving a few yards, careful with his feet and avoiding any branches that might drag against his clothes, then stopping to listen. The silence was so complete, he could hear his breath hissing softly though the hair in his nose.
For over two hours he followed them. Twice he found spots where they’d pawed through the snow and grazed on sparse grass, and once, near the creek, they had stripped willows. About a mile from camp, the meadow narrowed sharply and he approached the restriction. They would either have to come out in the open, or climb the side hill and go over a ridge. So far, the tracks had always taken the easiest route around rocky outcrops, and Simon was convinced they would again take the easy way through the narrows. He slowed his pace even more.
A slight puff of air brushed his cheek, and he turned his face into it. The low branches of the big tree he stood under moved ever so slightly and Simon sniffed the air. There! Pungent, like bad cheese, the smell struck him. They were close. He instinctively ducked with his shoulders hunched and searched side to side with his eyes, head immobile. He saw nothing, but remained still quite awhile. The smell kept coming to him, the intensity the same. Slowly, he moved from the shelter of the tree and made his way to the next one. Another few minutes there, and he moved on. Watching his feet and the space ahead, he followed the scent.
Just as he reached another tree, he saw them. Bedded down in a rough circle, all five cows had their noses pointed to the north, into the gently moving air. Simon’s heart beat so hard, he thought for sure that they’d hear him. He breathed long, slow breaths and waited until he felt calm. Holding the trigger back, he silently cocked his rifle, let go of the trigger, and lowered the hammer until it caught on the sear. His eyes went back to the elk. The five worked rhythmically on their cuds, periodically lifting their heads to test the air. Slowly he raised the rifle, then paused anxiously when his selected target stopped chewing to burp up another cud. Finally, he had the long barrel aimed directly at the cow, her upper neck and head nestled in the “V” of the wide rear sight and the blade of the front sight centered just behind her ear.
The peaceful scene exploded when the gun went off. One moment Simon was concentrating on slowly squeezing the trigger and keeping the sights lined up; the next, four elk were on their feet, bolting in four different directions. One cow came right at him, saw him at the last possible moment, and nearly fell as she dug her front hooves in to turn away. The popping sound of snapping branches faded rapidly.
Simon walked into the small clearing and approached the cow. She had simply turned over on her side, her legs stuck straight out. The brilliant crimson of her life flowed steadily out of the wound at the top of her neck. Simon touched her wide-open eye with his rifle muzzle. Satisfied, he leaned his gun against a tree, and reached for his knife.
The body shape and internal organs of a deer and an e
lk are nearly identical. The only real difference is size, and Simon was learning the hard way that meant a lot. He knew that ideally the animal should be strung up by its front legs or, failing that, laid head up on an incline. Simon’s kill lay on perfectly flat ground, and even getting her paunch open turned into a battle. He could get her turned on her back, but as soon as he let go of her hind leg, she’d flop back onto her side.
With his rifle stuck between her hocks, and a rock stuffed under her hip, he managed to open her up. His wide, long butcher knife proved not to be the best tool for the job, and a vivid memory of his father’s reaction when an errant cut had taken its toll on a heifer’s gut made the work go even slower. By the time Simon had the elk’s innards on the ground, it was well after noon. He’d broken the tip off the knife trying to part the pelvic bone by driving the blade through it with a rock. He had no choice but to go back to camp for another knife, so he decided he’d just as well go get the horse and drag the elk home.
Spud saw him coming and could not resist. He bounded across the meadow, tail high and ears alert. “Good boy. I was afraid you’d give in and come find me.” He ruffled the dog’s ears. “I got one, Spud. Got her cleaned and ready to skin. Let’s get the horse and I’ll show you.”
With a final tug, the hide came free, and Simon spread it out on the woodpile. He couldn’t believe the amount of fat on the animal. It lay in patches. The two on either side of the spine lay four inches thick on the rump. Simon stroked his knife on the stone, then removed the first gleaming white lump and laid it in the snow. The dog walked over and sniffed it. It took Simon an hour to finish, and by then his arms were leaden. He went over to the hide and lifted a corner.
“What am I going to do with that? If I knew how to tan it like the one Red Socks left me, I would.” Simon had decided that hide had come off a goat. He glanced across the frozen ground to the trees on the far side of the valley. “Answered my own question, didn’t I?”
He rolled up the raw hide and packed it across the snow-covered meadow. With a length of rope, he tied the hide well up in the “gift tree” where he’d left the knife and red wool socks before, and went back to camp. The thought of a hurried trip to the hot springs came to him, followed by the thought of standing naked in the cold. The first thought dissipated. He washed his hands and arms, then set about getting a good fire going.
The fact that the meat would be tough did not deter him. He cut a big piece off the elk, then sat by the fire and listened to it sizzle and pop in the skillet. The evening was not as cold as it had been of late and the clouds, thinning that morning, had thickened up again. A glance into the darkness above, totally absent of stars, sent a chill through him. More snow? He lifted the lid off the pan and flipped the meat over. His mouth flooded with saliva. Just outside the light, the four quarters of the elk hung in a tree, and immediately to the left he knew there was a huge stack of wood, more than the three cords he needed. He pulled his coat tighter against the night air and relaxed.
October 21, 1873. Shot a big elk today. I have meat for winter. Wood is cut. I am happy tonight and ready.
CHAPTER 16
With a belly full of fresh meat, and his food and wood supply seen to, Simon slept like he hadn’t in weeks. He woke with a start, the tent fully lit by the daylight, and lay still for a moment and listened. Soon he heard the lip flutter of an anxious horse, followed by the sound of her hooves as she pawed at the ground. He shoved with his feet to dislodge the dog lying against his legs.
“I bet it snowed two feet, Spud. That would get us going, wouldn’t it?”
He tossed the elk hide and wool blankets back and sat up. The tent walls billowed in and out like they were breathing. He stood and opened the tent flap. It was cold, but not as it had been. The sky held a high cover of clouds, and a light breeze explained his tent’s lifelike movement. He pulled his boots on and stepped out of the tent.
Simon thought he’d probably missed sunrise by an hour or so. He stretched hard until a cramp threatened his shoulder, then went over to his fire. Soon, the coffeepot sat gathering heat, and he went to the horse.
“I think I’m going to take her up to the hot springs later today, Spud. There’s lots of willows and shrubs there, and always a little grass showing. I don’t think she’ll leave the easy grazing.”
He fastened a rope to her halter and led her into the snowy meadow. Though tied, the length of the rope gave her plenty of freedom to move around. She immediately went to the creek and drank.
For the first time since he’d arrived, there was nothing going on to make his life difficult, and he enjoyed a leisurely breakfast. His third cup of coffee sat balanced on his knee, and his hand rested on the dog’s shoulder. “I can’t believe the temperature, boy. The rate it’s going, it’ll be almost balmy soon. I wonder how long this can last.”
He took a sip of coffee and studied first the tent, then the unfinished cabin. His eyes moved to the stacked roof poles, all cut and ready, and his thoughts went back to his original plan to build his roof with three supporting rafters, the center one elevated a little to give the roof some pitch. Two of the eight-inch logs lay beside his stack of roof poles, the third on the hillside where he’d left it after his first aborted attempt to build a roof. He glanced at the horse in the meadow and then back at the three logs.
“Why not? I can’t fail if I don’t try.” He drained his cup and got up.
The horse looked up the snowy slope, then at Simon, and snorted. He tugged on the halter rope and she stretched her neck, her feet firmly planted. “Come on. I remember too.” A glance at the gap between the log wall and the dugout sent a shiver through him. “We just have to be careful.”
He tugged again, and the horse took a tentative step up the slope—Simon backed up another step. Slowly, he led the horse up until the log was positioned alongside the cabin. An hour later the first rafter lay in place, the front end jutting out over the ground, and by late afternoon, all three were set. He heel-stomped down the slick hillside to stand in front of the cabin. Spud ran back and forth barking, responding to Simon’s enthusiasm.
“There it is, boy. That’s what I was trying to do the first time. By damn, we might not have to spend the winter in a tent after all.”
It was all Simon could do to resist working on into the evening, but when the sun slipped below the western ridge, the temperature followed it down.
The next morning, sun reflecting off the snow-covered mountains hurt his eyes when he looked at them. The clear sky had drawn all the heat out of the air, and Simon didn’t even check the thickness of the ice on the water bucket. Instead, he just picked it up and headed for the creek.
Standing sideways to the heat, his wet pants leg steaming, he waited for the coffeepot to boil while he studied the stack of poles. He’d cut them in two and angled the ends that would butt together at the peak of his roof. Mentally, he placed a few on the roof and thought for a minute. Two days, maybe a little more. The sound of water hissing to steam as it boiled over brought him back to the morning. He moved the pot off of the coals and dumped in a handful of Arbuckles. “About time we ground some more coffee, boy,” he said, hefting the bag. “Sure will be nice to have the grinder stuck to a wall like it’s supposed to be.”
His breakfast of elk roast and corn cakes lasted him well, and by noon he’d laid ten rows of poles and nailed them in place. Measured with his ax handle, what he had finished was just shy of three feet. Simon stopped only briefly at midday, then kept at it until he couldn’t see to drive a nail.
The next day he worked like a machine, the routine well-honed, no motion wasted. He nailed the last pole in place with the sun still an hour above the horizon. He dropped his hammer by the supplies and found his cup by the fire. A section of firewood provided a makeshift seat, and he sipped at the bitter dregs of the day-old coffee—and winced. The dog came over and sat beside him.
“Got a house with no way in, Spud. Tomorrow we cut the door and shovel the snow out. The
n I can put the stove together and we can . . . Shit!”
The dog’s ears went up at the emphasized word. He looked up at Simon.
“I didn’t leave a place for the chimney. How stupid can you get?” Simon dashed his tepid coffee into the dirty snow. “That’s gonna be a lot of fun, boxing in the hole from underneath.”
The weather held for another six days, and with dogged determination, he stayed with the task. First, he cut the door and shoveled the snow out, then framed the chimney hole, and laid the tarpaper down. At last, he carefully spread the last few shovels full of dirt over the roof and walked down the slope to the front of his new home, Spud right on his heels.
“Well, we have a house.” Simon leaned his shovel against the log wall and went in. Light streamed through the cracks between the logs and down the chimney hole. “Look at all the room. Plenty of space to do the rest of the things we need. First, we got to have a door and some shelves. And then a bed and a table, a bench, and a stool or two.” He turned and waved his arm at the north wall. “Put the shelves there. I think I can split those skinny poles in quarters and chink the walls real tight. Let ’er snow, Spud, let ’er snow.”
He only had to wait sixteen hours. At first, the snow fell lightly, almost gently, but as the morning wore on, it ramped up its intensity as the wind picked up. Straight out of the north it came, the worst kind. Simon managed to get about half of his supplies into the new cabin before the wind made it impossible to walk. The tent justified his fears when it collapsed. Fortunately, it fell right on top of the remaining stuff.
He used the boards meant for building the table, shelves, and the door to close off the hole in the front and cover the chimney opening. The amount of snow sifting through the walls didn’t amount to much, almost none in the rear of the cabin. The wind moaned at the defiant pines standing on either side of the dugout.
Simon dug a lantern out of the pile of supplies and filled it from one of the oil cans. It offered very little heat, but he found the warm glow comforting, so he let it burn. Afternoon turned into early evening, and still the storm lashed them. Spud got up, let out a slow whine, and walked to the door. He looked steadily at Simon.
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