Slate Creek

by Wallace J. Swenson

  The residual now swirled around the outside edge of the pan bottom, and he raised the front edge just slightly as he swished the water over the thin layer of fine grit. Then, a flash. Even without direct sunlight, the unmistakable color of raw gold blinked into reality. A streak, like the tail of a comet, lay across the top edge of the black sand. He sat back on the soggy bank and stared at what he’d found.

  The next morning, Simon didn’t wait to eat breakfast. After a half-cup of tepid, bitter coffee had shuddered down his throat, he headed for the south end of the valley. Spud padded along behind, and soon they stood over the two-foot-deep hole he’d left. Anxiously, he scraped three samples out of the water-filled bottom and dumped them off the tip of his shovel and into his pan. Five minutes later he stared, transfixed, as the same glorious, bright-yellow stripe revealed itself with the last tipped swirl. He grabbed his shovel and moved upstream some more. He dug five more holes, each showing more and more color, each one closer to the narrow causeway at the end of the valley.

  As the sun dropped below the western ridge, he started another hole just below the two granite boulders straddling the creek. He stomped the blade of his shovel into the rocky bank. When he stooped to lift it, his vision blurred, and he staggered back, nearly falling over. He straightened up and shook his head, confused. “What in hell?” He looked at Spud.

  A pulsating pressure-sensation filled his ears as he stepped away from the creek and sat. The dog came over, poked its nose under his arm, and nuzzled his hand. “You’re hungry aren’t you? Ol’ Tay told me this could happen. C’mon, let’s go back to camp.” He left the shovel and pan on the bank and started home.

  The walk back seemed longer than usual, and Simon sagged onto the bench in front of the cabin. His back protested as he pulled off the gum boots. Next he peeled off his soggy socks and grimaced at the white, wrinkled skin. Massaging one foot, he looked at Spud, who patiently waited for Simon to be done with his strange human antics. “All right, I’ll find us something to eat.” Simon shuffled into the cabin, Spud on his heels. “Whatever happened to you rustling up something on your own? Getting lazy?” He took a couple of cans off the shelf and grabbed half a loaf of soda bread from the table. “Come on then, let’s eat.”

  As Simon finished washing his plate and fork, early evening dropped on them like a cool blanket. Spud lay on his side, just out of range of popping sparks, all four legs extended in the posture of security. His tail twitched with excitement as dog dreams played out behind his closed eyes. Simon poured a cup of coffee and settled down on the oat bag full of wood shavings and sawdust he’d put together. It was big enough to keep his rear-end off the cold ground and support his back as well. Most nights Spud slept on it.

  The first stars winked at him, and he flexed his tired and sore shoulder muscles. The picture of Tay’s cabin came to mind and he was swept back to Fort Laramie.

  “Gold. It’ll make a man act real strange,” Tay had said. “Never had a partner because of that. It’s one of the things that’ll make you hate prospecting.”

  Buell’s memory slipped into the firelight and hunkered down on his heels, semi-relaxed and wary like he always was. A sigh escaped Simon, surprising him. I wonder what Buell’s doing? He wanted to do this, to look for gold. I bet he went to the place Tay told us about in the Black Hills. I hope he doesn’t run into trouble. Listen to me. Buell and trouble. They’re the same thing. Wish they’d all come over to visit. Tay and Walks Fast, and may be Amos too. They’d be surprised at what I’ve done, bet on it. And Lori. Is the hotel running good with her in charge? Not much doubt about that, she was smart . . . and tough. Not like Sar . . . Sarah, so soft and gentle.

  He closed his eyes to see her lying on a blanket beside him, and admired her silky brown hair, wispy tendrils inviting a gentle breeze to tarry. He breathed deeply of the lavender on her creamy skin, and his heart pounded at the stir he felt.

  He instinctively looked around. Met with the silence of the night, he slipped back to his reverie, safe to continue.

  Her breasts rise and fall as she breathes, and his hand slides up her side to lie, tentative, on her belly. Then, he stirs the cream of her bare skin, so warm and supple.

  Would she wake up?

  He pinched her flesh, gently at first, so resilient, so full of life. He squeezes harder. His breathing becomes shallow and quick as the intensity of his desire pulses through his body. Sarah. Eyes closed tight, he strains against himself to reach her . . . to feel her . . . to know her. Then he is set free, and only the stars bare witness as the pleasure of his own making is spent, his mind having deceived him to meet his needs.

  Sated but unsatisfied, he stared into the night sky, searching for order in the chaos.

  The next morning, Simon sat on his bench and waited for the sun to rise above the ridge. The cool air lifted the steam off his coffee. He blew on the scalding brew, carefully took a sip, and leaned back against the wall. As he gazed absently at the trees across the meadow, the streak of fine gold he’d seen the day before hung on the edge of his mind. The thrill he’d experienced shot through him again. He’d experienced it before when he’d seen for the first time a pistol Buell had acquired. Strictly forbidden to both of them, just two years later Buell had used the revolver to kill a man. Many times since Simon had pondered the meaning of such personal signs. Where did they come from? And why? It was as though forbidden things are sought for that very reason. But forbidden by whom, and to what end? Simon shifted his shoulders to get more comfortable, then closed his eyes and listened to the silence.

  A couple of hours later than usual, Simon trudged to the site of the previous day’s excitement. The pan lay where he’d left it, and even viewed from five feet up, the gold was blatant. He sat beside it and carefully scraped the fine dust into a clean peach can. Then, with his shovel on his shoulder, he turned and climbed the trail past the pool behind the twin rocks.

  A hundred yards above, he started another test hole. He had to dig down nearly four feet to reach the bedrock. The bottom stayed dry, and he soon had a pan full of sand and gravel. A few minutes later he chucked the final dregs of black sand into the creek and stood. Nothing, not even the fine specks he found down by his cabin. Simon took off his hat and scratched his head.

  An hour later and fifty feet up, another three-foot-deep hole produced nothing but a tired back. Simon moved to a spot below the first disappointment and continued to work through the day. By late afternoon, almost evening, he’d worked his way back to the pool. He waded in until the water threatened the tops of his gum boots. When he tromped on the shovel it sank only halfway down to meet the rough grinding feel of solid rock. Surprised, he scooped what he could out of the water and looked at the load. The light gray clay on the tip of the blade made his heart skip.

  He dumped the fist-sized dab of aggregate into his pan, and scooped out another sample. At the edge of the creek, he panned it out, then puffed his cheeks in exasperation—nothing. The twin granite boulders were only twenty-five feet away. Slowly he waded back to the middle of the stream, and then moved downstream toward the quartz-streaked granite. He gasped as the icy water flooded down his right leg. He stood still as the boot filled. “Shit.”

  He took another seven steps toward the rocks and stopped to stand in thigh-deep water. He slid the shovel down the smooth side of the boulder and stepped down. The blade went all the way in, and he levered the handle back to bring up the sample. The shovelhead disappeared as the disturbed bottom fouled the water. He raised the load, careful to not lose too much as it came up. Simon nearly fell over as a bean-sized nugget glinted in the failing light.

  Stuck in the mud on the tip of the blade, it winked as Simon’s tired arms trembled. His feet no longer cold, he edged to the bank, and carefully put the shovel down. Spud sniffed it once as Simon climbed out of the creek and then sat down to look at his master. Simon sagged onto the bank, boots squishing water, and plucked the cold piece of gold out of the mud. Shaped like the sole
of his boot, its weight surprised him. He bounced it in his palm. “There it is, boy. Stuck behind those two big rocks.”

  He stuck the nugget in his mouth when his feet reminded him of the water temperature. The ache in them had started to climb into his hips. Cocking his knee, he pulled off one boot, then the other, and dumped them out. Next came the socks. The warm rocks in the back brought instant relief to his bare feet, and he sat for a few minutes to admire the treasure he spit into his hand. Finally, he got up and scraped the mud off the tip of his shovel into the pan.

  Squatting on a rock, he expertly reduced the small sample to half a cup of sand, and with a final swirl, he tipped back the pan. There, all lined up in the bottom, at least a dozen small pieces of gold gleamed back at him. Not specks, or flakes, but tiny irregular lumps of yellow. Simon nearly dropped the whole thing into the creek.

  June 13, 1874. Found gold in pool by twin rocks. Water is so cold I can’t work very long. I’m of two minds about finding it.

  Early the next morning, Simon stood by the pool and studied the bank. He’d tried to work in the water, but after only five minutes or so, he couldn’t feel his feet. His hands ached so much, he had trouble working the shovel. It became obvious that the pool would have to be drained if he was going to see what was in the bottom.

  The opposite bank rose steeply and looked to be solid rock. It didn’t appear like the digging would be a whole lot easier where he stood. Several impressive chunks of granite poked out of the ground, the rest of the bank composed of a jumble of rocks and dirt. He sat and shook the few nuggets out of the peach can. The biggest stood proud above the rest, and he picked it up. Hefted in his hand, he thought it might weigh as much as a twenty-dollar gold piece. He figured the rest of the nuggets combined weighed about twice as much, maybe a bit less. That meant he’d dug almost fifty dollars’ worth of gold in the same number of minutes. Simon puffed his cheeks when he finished a mental calculation.

  He chuckled out loud and looked at his dog. “Whoa, Mr. Steele. You’re dreaming with your eyes open. Spud, come over here and bite me on the leg.” The dog raised his head and studied Simon for a minute, then lay back down. “That’s all you think of it? Hell, dog, we could be rich as Midas.” This time, the dog didn’t even lift his head. Instead, he raised his eyebrows and sighed. Simon looked at the dog, and then at the small pile of gold in the palm of his hand. The gleam held him for a long time before he dumped the nuggets back into the can. The big one hit the bottom with a solid clank. “C’mon, let’s go get the horse. I’ve got some digging to do.”

  A little later, Simon stood downstream to study the massive boulders, trying to visualize how deep the water was beyond them. He gritted his teeth when he realized how much he’d have to dig to drain the pool, then picked a spot in the creek-side trail about half way up to the bottom of the forbidding rocks. The first strike of his pick rewarded him with a display of sparks as steel struck solid rock. Memories of digging in the hillside for his cabin flooded back.

  He moved to the right and swung again. This time he penetrated the ground and heaved a sigh. By late afternoon it looked like he might be able to accomplish what he wanted. The trench he’d dug was by no means straight; it wrapped around two large boulders, one of which he’d tried to move using the horse. She’d struggled for only a minute or so before Simon stopped her, took off the makeshift harness, and tied her up.

  For four days, he picked at the cobbled ground, sometimes making such progress that it seemed easy, but mostly, a foot gained meant an hour with the pick, the busted-up soil scraped out with his bare hands. The last few feet were the hardest, the rock packed tight against the shoulder of one of the twin rocks. Early in the afternoon of the fourth day, water started to seep through. He re-doubled his efforts on an irregular piece of granite, probing and prying with his pick. Then the rock shifted, the trickle became a torrent, and the pool drained in a matter of minutes. He glanced at the sun, then back at the creek, which still flowed through the emptied backwater. Simon bent to his second task.

  With rocks and some of the meager soil, he created a diversion upstream that carried most of the water along the trailside edge of the now-empty pool. By the time he’d finished building the barrier, his back was so stiff he had difficulty standing up straight. With the sun still well above the ridge, he reluctantly put his shovel down and started for the cabin. He led the horse, his back too sore to ride.

  When Spud barked softly, Simon stopped. The dog caught up and stood beside him. “What’d you hear? You see something?” The dog’s hackles were up, and his tail arched stiffly over his back. His nose, nostrils flared, pointed directly toward the cabin, some three hundred yards away. “I don’t see anything.” Simon’s skin crawled. He lowered the lever on his rifle, then raised it again, leaving the hammer at full cock. “C’mon, Spud. Let’s go slow.”

  They’d walked about fifty yards when his horse nickered. From the direction of the cabin a horse answered. Shortly, a husky man appeared by the fireplace and raised his hand in greeting. Simon picked up his pace.

  “Howdy,” the man said as Simon approached.

  “Howdy yourself.”

  The visitor flipped back his vest to reveal, attached to his shirtfront, a silver circle with a star inside. “My name is Hess. I’m the deputy U.S. marshal in these parts. Your name Steele?”

  Simon lowered the hammer on his rifle. “It is. Simon.” He shook the offered hand. “Make yourself at home while I put my horse away.”

  The marshal nodded, then offered the dog the back of his fingers. Spud approached warily and sniffed. “Seems friendly enough.”

  “Usually is. Depends on something only he knows about.” Simon smiled and headed left for the corral.

  The marshal had taken a seat on the bench, and as Simon came into view, he stood. “Nice place you have here.”

  “It’s home.” Simon leaned the rifle against the cabin wall. “I can offer you a cup of this morning’s coffee, or we can wait till I brew some for supper. You will stay for supper, won’t you?”

  “If you’re offering. I don’t want to impose.”

  “No imposition, I guarantee. I don’t see much company up here.”

  “Mind if my horse joins yours in the corral, then?”

  “Not at all. Go put him away, and I’ll rustle up something to eat.”

  The marshal disappeared behind the spruce tree on the right, then came back with the biggest and blackest horse Simon had ever seen. Its rump displayed a bluish sheen in the full sun.

  An hour later Simon put two skillets on the rough split-log table.

  “You eat pretty good for being stuck back here in the sticks.” Hess pointed at the steaming dishes.

  “Just had supplies delivered. We eat good for a month or so, then it’s back to beans, corn fritters, and ham.” Simon saw the question in the marshal’s eyes. “That’s half-baked potatoes, sliced and fried with an onion and some smoked sausage. My ma used to make that with bacon when I was little, except she’d pour whipped eggs over the top and cook it another minute or two. I sure miss eggs. I make a pepper sauce instead. Dig in.”

  The marshal scooped a mound of gold-edged potatoes onto his plate. “What do you mean half-baked?” He reached for the gravy skillet.

  “I lay spuds in the ashes at the edge of the fire. They cook about halfway before the fire dies down. Makes an easy meal, and they’ll keep like that for days.”

  “That’s pretty clever. So, what’re ya doing up here anyhow? Prospecting?”

  “Not originally. I came for the peace and quiet.”

  “You got that.” Hess looked around at the empty meadow.

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “I talked to Holverson last fall, before he met with his . . . demise. Told me a young man showed him a map and asked for some directions. Two and two makes you. I try to get out here twice a year.” He pointed at his plate with his fork. “That’s good.”

  “Glad you like it.” Simon
looked pointedly at the marshal. “I’ve been up here a year now.”

  “Yeah, well, last year was kinda hectic. Challis is growing fast, and we got some hard cases working the Helena Road.” Hess put his fork down. “Bushwhackers like the one you shot down on the Utah border.”

  Simon swallowed hard. “I thought that’s why you were here. Am I in trouble for that?”

  “Could have been till I heard more about you. The next time I saw Bill Malm, I asked about you.” Hess picked up his fork again and dug into his meal.

  Simon did the same. “How is he?”

  “He’s fine. Still running back and forth. Anyhow, he told me where you’d come from and roughly where you were headed. It’s my job to keep up with trouble, and a man carrying four thousand dollars in cash attracts a lot of attention, good and bad.”

  “The banker in Cheyenne told the law about my business?”

  “Nope, your associate, Amos McCaffrey, did. Wired a fella in Ogden and asked him to keep an eye on you. That fella told us. You got some good friends.” Hess chewed for a few seconds. “I didn’t know about it till you were already gone. I’m a field deputy, so I don’t stay in an office much. I expect that news is why you had your visitor. That store clerk in Corinne is in jail for his part. Seems he’s fingered several travelers.”

  “So how did the clerk find out?”

  “Don’t suppose we’ll ever know.”

  Simon put his fork down and rubbed his face with his hand. “Someone said you was looking for me. It’s been in the back of my mind, and I’m pleased to have it cleared up.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Fella named Reed.”

  “Justin Reed?”