Slate Creek

by Wallace J. Swenson

  The Indian smiled, pointed to his chest, then at Simon, and made the peace sign.

  “That I understand. We are at peace. I understand.” Simon nodded his head and smiled as brightly as he could. He made the food-to-mouth sign with his right hand. Another lesson remembered.

  Red Socks shook his head and pointed up the valley. He put the first and second fingers of his right hand up and thrust it away from him, then put both hands out in front of his body, palms down, and crossed the right over the left with a wrist movement. He held up three fingers, then pointed at the ground in front of him.

  Simon shook his head.

  Red Socks smiled and turned away toward the meadow.

  “It’s nice to know you’re around, Red Socks. I owe you a lot.”

  The Indian looked over his shoulder, raised his hand, and disappeared into the trees.

  “What do you think of that, dog? I finally got to meet your friend. Now I’ve got to try to remember all the signs he made. Weren’t that many.” He made four or five to set them in his mind. “The peace one he knew, and I knew the teepee sign. He seemed to be saying it was all right for my teepee to be here. Wished he’d stayed a bit longer. Couldn’t talk much, but he’s sure a lot better company than you.” Simon ruffled the dog’s ears. “You know what I mean.”

  For the rest of the day, he paused often and searched the meadow and tree line. That evening Simon thought for a long time before he wrote in his journal.

  July 4, 1874. Somehow fitting that I feel free on this day. Met the Indian who watches me. I find he is a friend. Fear and ignorance sleep well together.

  CHAPTER 24

  The sixteen-inch-long half-round piece of wood split with a satisfying pop, and Simon stooped to set the other half of the block. His ax flashed over his shoulder, struck, and two more pieces of firewood fell to the ground. He picked up the four wedges and stacked them. Movement caught his eye, and he stepped out of the shade to look farther down the valley. A small dust pall hung over Reed and three mules as they moved up the trail. Simon stuck the ax in the top of the chopping block and grabbed his shirt. He stood waiting when the pack train arrived.

  Reed knocked the powder off of his hat and stuck his hand out. “How ya keeping, Simon?”

  Simon grasped the offered hand. “Just fine. If it’s hot up here, what’s it like down below?”

  “Same, only more.”

  “Sit.” Simon pointed to a spot in the shade.

  “I got to get me a drink first.” He headed for the water bucket sitting in the shade of the cabin’s roof overhang. The metal dipper hung on a nail in the wall. He filled the bowl, drank it, and then filled it again. “What in hell did you do to that bucket? Looks like you’ve been hauling rocks in it.”

  “Uh . . . matter of fact, that’s exactly it. Used it when I carried the rocks to set the chimney in the roof.” The heat of the lie flared in his face.

  “Huh, hadn’t noticed that before.” Reed glanced at the bucket again and re-hung the dipper. “Let’s get the mules unloaded. Got a surprise for you.”

  Simon glanced at the three sweaty animals, grateful for the change of subject. “Surprise?”

  “Yeah, c’mon.” Reed walked to the lead mule. “Just off-load the panniers. All that stuff is going upriver.” He started on the straps and ropes that held the load in place.

  Together they lifted the pack off the mule and set it down. The second mule’s load came off in pieces: a sack of rice, a box of canned peaches, and all the rest of the things needed to keep a man supplied. With every item, Simon would look at Reed, who’d shake his head. The third mule was nearly unloaded when Reed unstrapped a square wooden box.

  “There it is.” He handed it to Simon.

  Simon hefted it. “What is it?”

  “Your glass.”

  “Already? I thought—”

  “I did too, but I found it in Salmon City. Place is growing. That will cost you though.”

  “Don’t care.” Simon studied the box, thin slats for the top and bottom attached using tiny nails to an inch-thick frame. “Looks sturdy enough.”

  “Guess we’ll find out. That’s fourteen dollars’ worth right there.”

  “Damn, they are proud of it, aren’t they.”

  “Back east that would cost you maybe a tenth of that, give or take. It’s been through a lot of hands.”

  “Well, fourteen dollars or no, it’s going in tomorrow. I’ve grown to hate that cabin. Even the dog won’t stay in there.”

  “Where is he?” Reed looked around the camp.

  “Off somewhere. He does it all the time. He’ll be back.”

  “Can I help you move that inside?”

  “Sure. I don’t leave anything edible in the tent anymore.”

  “The wolverine been back?”

  “Not a sign. But I don’t doubt he’s around.”

  The two men huffed as they brought the supplies inside, then sat in the shade of the cabin. Reed built a smoke and blew a cloud into the air.

  “Red Socks finally made a show,” Simon said.

  “Here?”

  “Right over there by the woodpile. Scared the hell out of me.” He paused, expecting Reed to say something bad about the Indian.

  “Well, go on. He just showed up and said hello?”

  “That was a problem. I’m not sure what he said. Tay showed me a few signs, but I’d forgotten them. I finally remembered the sign for friend or peace. I did that one, and it seemed to please him.”

  “Can you remember the rest?”

  “He touched his knife handle and then did this.” Simon went through the motions.

  “He said thanks. Anything else?”

  Simon showed him the two-fingers-to-the-sky move and the two-handed sign that came after it.

  “He’s told you he’s going, but he’ll be back here. Did he hold up any fingers before he pointed at the ground?”

  “Yeah, now that you mention it. Three.”

  “He said he’ll be back in three months.”

  “He also made the teepee sign. I knew that one. Then he signed like—” Simon pantomimed grasping a pole and tamping the ground once. He followed that with the peace sign.

  “Means your place here is safe. And if you believe that, let me recalculate your supply bill. What else?”

  “Almost forgot his first ones. He touched his chest with his right thumb, like this.” Simon did it. “Next he crossed his forefingers in front of himself before pointing them at the ground. Then he pointed at me.”

  “He said you have a good camp. Remember any more?”

  “Nope, that’s all, and then he left. I offered him food, but he didn’t seem to want any. Just turned around and walked away.”

  “That’s not like a stinking Indian. They always want something. Have you noticed anything missing?”

  “Of course not. I told you before, he could have done near anything this last year and hasn’t. I think you’re wrong about this man, dammit. Maybe you know more than I do about Indians in general, but I know this one, and he means no harm.”

  “All right. You don’t need to get hot about it. I’m speaking from experience. You trust one, you’re asking for trouble.”

  Simon’s face got hot and he opened his mouth to speak.

  Reed put up his hand. “Okay, okay, we’ll leave it. But I’d sooner have no friends at all than a—”

  “Just drop it, Justin.”

  Reed puffed on his cigarette and stared out across the meadow.

  At the moment, Simon didn’t much like the muleskinner. Maybe being alone out here was better than having people come by all the time. He wondered where Spud had got off to. Probably looking for a chipmunk or a marmot. Maybe Red Socks didn’t leave, and he’s with him. What did they do together?

  “Sorry. I just can’t abide the bastards.”

  “Huh? Oh, I . . . well, I’m just . . . my experience has been different than yours. I’ve known three, and one is the salt of the earth. And Red Soc
ks has been nothing but good to me.”

  “And the third?” Reed raised his eyebrows

  “All right, I admit, he wasn’t so good. Matter of fact, he was bad enough to get himself killed in the worst way. But he was a half-breed.”

  “You make my point.” Reed looked satisfied. “What else have you been up to?”

  “Had another visitor. The law.”

  Reed looked at his cigarette, then flicked it toward the fireplace. “That so?”

  “Yep. Said he was passing through and decided to stop.”

  “Likely. Passing through a dead-end valley?” He spit at the fireplace and then looked back. His face had developed an agitated twitch.

  “No. He was going up the river.” Simon paused for a few seconds.

  Reed pursed his lips, then shrugged. “And?”

  “Said he did that once or twice a year. That killing I did in seventy-three? He said that’s taken care of. He found Bill Malm and talked to him. And guess what else? He knows my friend Buell. Had occasion to talk to him a time or two. He’s over around Boise City, I think. I wonder where Spud got off to.” Simon looked out over the meadow.

  Reed leaned forward. “When was that marshal here?”

  “Oh, hell, I don’t know. What day is this?”

  “Today’s July eleven.”

  “I suppose it’s been three, maybe four, weeks.” Simon paused. “I could look it up.”

  “How’s that?”

  “What? You mean look it up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I keep a journal. You know, about stuff that happens, and things you think about. I write once or twice a week.”

  “Do you write about me?”

  “Well, sure. Not a lot happens up here, Justin. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Did you tell the law I come up here?”

  “I guess I did.”

  “He say anything about me?”

  “He knew who you were.”

  “His name Arch Hess?”

  “Didn’t say his first name, but yeah, Hess. So, you know him?”

  “I know of him. I told you, Simon, I don’t talk to the law unless they’re real adamant about it. What I do and where I go is my business. I’d just as soon you didn’t mention my name to folks, if it’s all the same.”

  “Well, sure, Justin. It was casual as all get-out. Not like he was looking for you.”

  “That’s the way they operate. Gather information about everybody. I don’t like ’em.” Reed pulled his tobacco out and started another smoke.

  Simon watched for a minute, then scanned the meadow again. Where was the dog?

  “So, what else you been up to?”

  “Not a lot. Cutting wood for this winter. I discovered last year that it’s a lot more work than a man might think. I’m going to keep at it off and on all summer.”

  “I thought you’d have looked upstream for some more gold sign.”

  “Naw. I panned a few spots, but there was never any more than what we found when you were here.”

  “Huh, you seemed raring to go last time.”

  “I suppose I was, but after I dug a couple holes, the adventure wore off. That’s damn hard work.”

  “Did you get a look up by the hot springs?”

  “No, never got that far.”

  Reed puffed a cloud of smoke into the air and studied Simon closely.

  Simon knew a blush had started to rise on his face. “I wonder where that dog is. Not like him to miss a meal.” He stood up and started for the fireplace. “You hungry?”

  “I thought you’d quit eating. Hell yes, I’m hungry. I can recommend that sausage I brought in. German fella in Challis makes it.” Reed stood, walked to the corner of the cabin, and looked up the valley.

  Simon’s gaze followed, and a twinge of panic jangled his nerves when he saw the gold-pan, pick and shovel stowed in the shadows between the cabin wall and the dug-out bank. Reed’s feet were inches away. He cussed himself for not pushing them farther back into the cavity.

  “I’ll peel spuds if you want,” Reed said as he looked back at Simon.

  “That would be good. Yeah, you can peel. You saw where I keep them.”

  Reed stepped away from the corner and went into the cabin.

  An hour later Simon put the pan of spuds and sausage on the table. Reed had been right. He’d tasted a small piece of the spicy meat as it cooked, and he was ready to have some more.

  “That sure smells good.” Reed scooped his plate full.

  Simon emptied the rest of the skillet onto his plate, then carried the pan to the fireplace. “Coffee?”

  “You bet. Thanks.”

  Simon picked up the pot and headed for the table. He almost dropped it when he saw the dog. He’d caught only a glimpse of him, but there was no doubt.

  “Spud!”

  “What?” Reed asked around a mouthful of sausage.

  Simon dropped the pot on the table and took off running across the meadow. Spud lay on his side in the grass and raised his head as Simon approached.

  “W-what’s happened to you?” The hair on the dog’s chest was matted with dark blood. Simon knelt beside him, and carefully raised a front leg. The animal whined and tried to pull away. “Let me see, Spud. Let me look at it.”

  “What’s wrong?” Reed asked from twenty feet away.

  “He’s been hurt. I can’t see where.” Simon put his face closer to the dog’s chest and lifted the leg a little more. Fresh blood seeped through the hair.

  “Let me look,” Reed said. As he put out his hand, the dog growled and tried to lift his head.

  “Leave him alone. He doesn’t like you.”

  Simon put one arm under the dog’s hindquarters and the other under his chest and stood. He hurried as fast as he dared back to the cabin, his gait stiff-legged with the weight.

  “Get the horse blanket off the corral, Justin. Put it by the tent.”

  Simon laid the dog on it and hurried into the cabin. He came out with a clean shirt, and grabbed the water bucket and dipper. He poured water over the bloody hair and wiped it away.

  “I bet that Indian shot him. Looks like an arrow wound to me.” Reed stood well back from the tent.

  “It’s a long cut, maybe two.” Simon poured some more water over the wound and parted the hair. “Right there.” He pointed. “About four or five inches long. And there are two.”

  Reed came closer and looked. “Looks like a cat got him. If it was a bear he’d have lost his shoulder. Or maybe your wolverine’s back.”

  “Will he be all right?”

  “Depends on how much blood he’s lost. The wound isn’t that bad, but he’s been moving and making it bleed. I don’t know. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “Can we put anything on it? Do you have some salve or something?”

  “I’ve heard of people sprinkling flour on a bad cut. Or maybe some liniment. I don’t think it heals, but it seems to keep the festering down. He won’t like it.”

  The satisfied tone in Reed’s voice almost made Simon stand and run him out of camp. He stroked the dog’s shoulder for a moment, and bit the inside of his lip. “Go get it, please. I’ve got to try something.”

  CHAPTER 25

  After a hurried early morning breakfast, Reed left, the farewell perfunctory. The liniment must have really stung, because the dog howled when he’d poured some over the gashes. Simon had done it only once, and covered the wounds with a cloth cut from the legs of long underwear. He then spent the night in the tent with Spud.

  For the next three days the dog simply lay on the blanket and panted. It made Simon heartsick to touch the fevered head. He tried to get the dog to drink, but Spud would barely open his eyes. Water dribbled on his muzzle and ran off, untasted.

  The morning of the fourth day, Simon was brought from a fitful sleep by movement in the tent. He sat up and saw Spud try to rise.

  “Lie still, boy. You’re too weak to be moving around.” Simon knelt by his friend.
>
  Spud would not be kept down. With a soft whine, he turned onto his stomach and got his legs under his chest, then, after two attempts with Simon trying to help, managed to stand. Tail down and his ears drooping, he looked at Simon.

  “What do you want? Are you ready to eat? Shit! Water.”

  Simon came back into the tent with his biggest skillet, full to the brim. He set it down and Spud, moaning as he lowered his head, drank for a full minute, paused for a bit, then drank some more. He lay back down, feet extended, and looked up.

  “That’s what you needed, ain’t it? Now rest and maybe you’ll eat a little later.” A thrill shot through him as Spud’s tail lifted one time in a languid wag.

  July 9, 1874. Spud was wounded. Down for five days. Feels better tonight. Reed was here. I’m kind of glad he’s gone.

  Spud left the tent the next morning, and slowly moved across the camp to his favorite bush to lift his leg. Simon stood beside the table until the dog, finished, moved over to his usual spot by the fireplace and lay down. There he watched closely while Simon cooked two slices of ham and then fried two skillets full of pan bread. He offered the dog a piece of meat. Spud ate it in two gulps and eyed the remaining one. Simon forked half of it over and the dog ate it. Half a skillet of pan bread followed, and he put up his hand. “You better stop, or you’re going to get sick. I ain’t gonna let you starve. Not after what you went through.”

  For the next few days, Simon made the dog stay in camp in the morning while he went down the valley and cut timber. In the afternoon, Simon sweated over the bow saw while the dog lay in the shade, watching. By the middle of the next week, he followed Simon to the creek for a bucket of water. On the way back, Simon let the dog lead, and his heart sang as the dog’s tail wagged.

  Simon stood a piece of wood on end and stepped back. The early afternoon sun glinted on the finely honed bit of the big ax as it flashed into the pine. He had cut a lot of wood over the past week, and it felt good to see the size of the stack. His tongue stuck in his mouth, and his lips felt crusty dry, so he stuck the ax in the chopping block and walked over to the cabin. Spud followed him with his eyes, but remained in the shade of the spruce tree.