Simon drank three dippers of tepid water, then sat down on the bench to blow a little. Reed’s attitude during the last visit weighed on his mind. And what the marshal had said, or more correctly, not said, added to his unease. His own attitude about the precious metal reinforced his decision not to tell anyone about it, and not try to get explosives to blast the rock. Thousands sought that streak in the naked rock. He could be wealthy, really wealthy. But, lingering in the back of his mind, a danger signal chimed at the oddest of times.
Like now. He was happy. Sure, lonely once in a while, but happy. So did he really need more than he had? Did he want hundreds of others swarming into this beautiful place? Was he being an idealistic dreamer? The thought raised a chuckle as he admired his meadow. So calm and tranquil, it made him drowsy to look at it. It also answered his question. Reed had left without a list of supplies. Did that mean he wasn’t coming back or had he learned in the past year what Simon needed?
Boy, the air was hot. Sweat, running down his spine, tickled and he gingerly scratched his bare back on the rough logs. He glanced over at the sleeping dog. His gaze wandered back to the chopping block and the handle of the ax, stuck in the block, angled out, poised and ready for him. He puffed his cheeks in resignation and stood.
The dark-brown body blended into the shade, and were it not for the shiny eyes, he would have missed it. Stock-still, the wolverine stood in the aspens, and appeared to have its eyes fixed on the sleeping dog. Simon took his eyes off the animal for an instant to gauge the distance to his rifle. It leaned against a small tree by the woodpile. From where he stood, the thirty-five feet to the rifle, and the distance from it to the wolverine, formed a roughly equal triangle.
Simon took off without another thought. Spud woke with a start as Simon thundered by, heavy boots stomping the ground. The rifle came to his shoulder as he turned and he searched for the dark-brown form of his nemesis. The second spruce tree blocked his view, and he sprinted into the open in front of the cabin. A glimpse of the running form drew a snap shot from his Winchester. Shit. Clean miss. He ran toward the spot where the animal had disappeared, racking another cartridge in as he went. Another glimpse and another shot, then, as fast as he could work the lever, another. It was like shooting at a shadow.
For such a short-legged animal, the wolverine moved with startling speed. Simon ran out into the open ground of the meadow and searched the tree line. There! Seventy-five yards away at the edge of the forest, the odd gait of the wolverine, rump swaying from side to side, carried it away. Simon stopped and tried desperately to draw a bead, but his breath came in huge gulps, the rifle muzzle swinging wildly. He fired. Dirt flew behind. He fired again, closer this time. He levered another round and stared down the barrel, his eye burning with sweat. He swiped at it with his thumb and squinted again. The blade settled just over the animal’s back and he pulled the trigger.
The wolverine spun sideways, reached around as though to bite its own rear, then turned sharp right into the trees and disappeared. Got you, you filthy bastard. Simon charged across the distance, never taking his eye off the spot where the animal had turned. Twice, he nearly fell for not looking at the ground, but his discipline brought him unerringly to the spot. A satisfying blotch of blood greeted him. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to throw a charge of delight through Simon’s scalp. He stooped and pinched a bloody leaf. His fingers came away red and slick with dark blood. He stared into the dark shadows for several seconds, then turned to look for the dog.
Limping slightly, Spud walked up and sniffed the spoor.
“There.” Simon held out his bloody fingers to the dog. “That’s what his soul smells like, boy. I put a bullet in him. The blood’s too dark for a lung shot, and there’s not enough for liver or anything vital inside.” Simon stroked the dog’s head. “I want you to stay here. I’m going after him.” Simon pointed toward the cabin. “Go home, Spud. Go on.” Tail down, the dog headed for the cabin. Simon watched for a minute, then turned and stepped into the shade.
He had a hard time finding the next sign, but casting back and forth, he finally did. And the next one. The beast was staying out of the heavy timber and making its way toward the hot springs. Simon hurried his pace. At the first small stream that flowed into the valley floor, Simon found another small spot of blood, smeared on a rock the wolverine had used as a stepping-stone over the rivulet. Encouraged, Simon stepped into the meadow and broke into an easy jog. He was soon within sight of the springs. There, the animal had to cross one of two open spaces: the first, into the draw that sloped up to the right; then the second, past his bathing pool and the trail toward the outcrop of rocks upstream. Simon angled away toward the creek and sat down in the grass fifty yards from the rust-colored hillside. Knees up, he rested his elbows on them, peered down the long barrel, and waited.
Blatant against the dark shadows, the wolverine’s dirty-yellow stripes gave him away. He stopped at the edge of the first opening for the briefest time, then ran full speed up the bottom of the gully. Simon was on him in an instant, the slender blade of the front sight tracking the wide rear-end of the animal as it made a beeline for the trees at the end of the draw. A rush of elation swarmed over Simon, and he blinked furiously as a stinging drop of sweat seeped into his eye.
The fuzzy image cleared and Simon stopped breathing as the animal came to a hillock at the draw’s mouth. He held the sight picture as the beast slowed, then it crested and stopped for a final look back. He squeezed the trigger. The sound, as resounding as a thunderclap, stunned him—the sharp metallic click of a hammer strike. Misfire!
Knowing it was already too late, Simon rammed the lever down and back and fired into the trees. “Dirty piece of shit!” he screamed at the empty view. “You filthy thing. What keeps you alive?” He stood and threw the gun to the ground. Heaving for air, he spun around twice, his hands clasped over his head, then gave the rifle a vicious kick.
July 16, 1874. The beast came by today. I shot it once but rifle wouldn’t fire the second time. Spud is much better.
Sleep would not come to Simon that night, so he got up and fed a few pieces of wood to the fireplace. He sat and stared into the fire as the tongues of orange and yellow painted their pictures like an artist’s brush. The fiery shape of a small squirrel appeared in the side of a piece of wood. Its head dipped in the heat eddies. And then the critter’s tail blossomed for a moment before disappearing, along with the squirrel. He glanced over at the dog. He lay away from the heat, head propped on his front paws, ever alert. The sharp pop of a buried spot of pitch cracked the night, exploding sparks into the air. He watched as they struggled valiantly to remain alive, to enjoy the night for the brief time they existed.
The shiny black eyes of the wolverine appeared in his mind, and a sudden cool sensation swept over his shoulders. He picked up a stick and poked at the coals, incongruously stoking against the warmth of the July night. A shower of tiny embers, excited by the attention, lifted in a crescendo, then shrank back again, and the darkness crept closer around him.
He stared at the fire, searching for . . . what? His back started to ache and he leaned back against a log. Feet outstretched, he folded his arms across his chest and willed his body to relax. The wrinkled face of his old friend, Walks Fast, flickered into form, his sad eyes and furrowed brow dampening the joy of the unexpected visit. The Indian’s long gray hair swirled, then lifted into the air and disappeared as smoke.
The Indian’s lips moved and Simon heard the words of a conversation they’d had at Fort Laramie. “Man is born with all kinds of spirits inside. When a man grows, a good family will push out the bad spirits. The spirit of the Devil Bear is strong in Buell. Devil Bear is a crazy spirit. Sometimes he will bite his own leg in anger.”
“How will we get this thing out of Buell?”
“Maybe that will not happen.”
“What can I do to help? He’s like a brother.”
“Love him like a brother.”
“Can
he ever be rid of this evil?”
“When the Devil Bear dies, his spirit will leave Buell.”
“How do we kill this thing? How do we find it?”
“Walks Fast does not know that, but I think the Devil Bear will find you one day.”
The image of the old Indian faded, then re-formed for a moment, long enough for Simon to see eyes that were no longer sad, but sharp, almost challenging. A chill took him and he glanced into the darkness. Nothing. He reached for another piece of wood and threw it in the fire. Soon, new flames pushed back the edge of night. Spud rose from his place and padded over. His nose found its way under Simon’s arm, and he lay down close to his troubled master.
“I’m beginning to understand, Spud. I think I’m bound for a fight, no choice, win or lose.”
He sensed the unwavering support the dog offered, and the anxiety melted from his mind. Laying his hand on the prone dog’s shoulder, he willed his spirit to search for the one person who always gave him comfort. Soon, Simon, lost in the embrace of Sarah’s memory, dozed off, his dog and the fire sentries protecting him against further intruders.
The next morning he woke to a cloudy sky. A breeze carried the fine ash off of last night’s fire, and the air smelled like rain. He hated the rain; it meant either time in a damp tent or a dark cabin. He hurried his breakfast, then gathered his tools, and marked out the section of logs he’d have to cut to put his window in. He’d soon chiseled two holes through the wall, sufficient to accept the detached bucksaw blade. Half an hour later, the twelve-inch log thumped to the ground, and he peered, voyeur-like, through the hole. Cutting, then chiseling a six-inch notch in the second log took longer, and a grumbling stomach interrupted his work briefly. Late afternoon had brought heavier skies when, at last, he was able to step back and admire his work.
A raindrop that felt as big as his palm struck his sweaty back and made his heart skip a beat. He bolted for the cabin door. An ear-splitting clap of thunder rent the air and rumbled up the valley, the dull boom bouncing off the high ridges, then fading. Spud had instantly headed for the tent and now sat inside it, looking across the camp at Simon. Soon the ground had taken all it could and puddles formed, creating pools for the raindrops to dance on. The rain fell straight down at a furious pace for fifteen minutes, then quit as suddenly as it had started.
Simon stepped out of the cabin, into the cooled air, now thick with moisture. The line of clouds that bred the brief storm marched east, and the sun, low in the sky, lit the luminous green of the meadow. Steam lifted from the wet grass to hang waist-high over the ground; and the rain-washed air above the mist, now crystal clear, gave the trees and bushes on the hillside such definition that each one drew special attention as he stared.
Alone in the world, unobserved, he looked in awe at the rocky crags, the meandering stream, and the lushness of his valley. A feeling of ownership came to him, a responsibility for the pristine, and in that moment he knew he had another job to do.
CHAPTER 26
Simon bent to his task. Shoveling like a machine, he tore at the rocks and dirt of the low dam that diverted the creek. Slowly the trench in front of the big rocks filled, and at last, a small trickle of water came through the breach. He continued to dig, determined to restore the creek bottom, knowing full well the folly. The spring flood would erase any sign of his presence soon enough, but his responsibility for the wound bore heavily on him, and he was going to see it put right. At last, the dike was leveled, and he set to work removing the small diversion ditch by scraping with his shovel point. He filled the shallow depression, and then moved to work below the twin boulders, shifting some rocks by hand.
A vague feeling of another presence settled over his wandering thoughts. He stopped, slowly stood, and waited for some clue. Spud had taken off some time ago, prancing along the creekside, heading for higher ground. He glanced upstream, then started to turn around.
They were atop the rocky outcrop. Reed stood with his arms folded. Toad, squatted beside him, looked every bit his namesake.
At the sight of Toad, Simon’s groin seized. “Uh . . . hello, Justin. Mister—” He chanced a look at his rifle, lying by a small bush at the base of the rocks they were standing on.
“Hello, Simon. Forgot to get your last order, with the dog’s problem and all. Where is the mutt? Didn’t see him in camp.”
“Uh. I guess he’s . . . uh, I don’t really know.” Simon couldn’t resist another look upstream. “In camp? You stopped there?”
“Sure. Wanted to make sure you weren’t napping or something. Right, Toad?”
Toad grimaced. A smile? Or bad stomach?
“Let me gather up my things, and we can go back to the cabin. I’m done here, anyhow.” Simon made a move to step out of the creek.
“Stay right there.” Reed put his hand on his pistol butt. “Done with what? We’ve been watching for forty minutes, and all you’ve done is mess around in the creek bed.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Simon feigned fidgeting in the water with his foot. He shot another glance at the rifle. “Little embarrassed, I guess. Truth is, I’ve been playing in the water.”
“I suspect you’ve been covering something up.” Reed glanced at Toad, who stood. “I think I’ll come and take a closer look.” He started to pick his way down the rocky slope.
Simon assessed his chances of reaching the rifle before Reed did. He looked at it and then up at the ugly man standing alertly on top of the rocks. He dismissed the attempt, and was then amazed and relieved when Reed moved right past the Winchester. Eyes directly on Simon, he never looked down.
Toad stood where he was until Reed reached the bottom, then followed, taking a wider, more gentle, slope to the right. His short legs made his trip over the rough ground a trial.
“We saw all the test holes you’ve dug below. Thought you said you hadn’t looked.” Reed stood eight feet away, facing Simon with Toad a little to Simon’s left and a step behind Reed.
“I didn’t say I hadn’t looked. I said I hadn’t looked much. I didn’t find anything down there.”
“But you did here? Right? Ain’t no sense denying it. We found your little hiding place by the stove. They always hide it in the woodpile, or under the stove, don’t they, Toad?” He grinned at his partner. “Now, I want to know where you got it.” Reed lifted his pistol out of his waistband and leveled it at Simon. Toad took one step forward. “We can do this easy, or I’ll let Toad carve you a little.”
The tongue tip that flicked out between Toad’s cracked lips was an uncommon pink, like a baby’s tongue. It ran across his mouth, then disappeared again as a crooked smile exposed scum-encrusted teeth. His eyes narrowed and he chuckled. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”
Simon’s mind weighed through a dozen options in the space of a heartbeat. Toad didn’t appear to have a pistol, and the knife he alluded to was not visible. Reed’s gun now pointed at Simon’s feet, Reed apparently feeling secure with the distance. Simon glanced at the shovel lying on the ground between them.
“C’mon, spill it, Steele. Ain’t worth getting busted up over.” He raised the barrel of the pistol and the sound of it being cocked made Simon’s throat constrict.
“I . . . I’m . . .” His voice would not steady itself, and he half-choked. “I’ll—”
Propelled off the rocks above, the dog hurtled silently through the air. Spud’s hindquarters caught Toad in the head and his bared teeth clamped onto the side of Reed’s face. The pistol flew from Reed’s hand and landed with a splash in the creek. The unearthly scream from Reed’s mouth stunned Simon into immobility, and the three crashed to the ground. Toad, scrambling to keep his balance, stumbled over the shovel and fell hard, facedown on the rocky path. Reed and the dog landed beside the creek, Reed’s hands flailing at the dog, his legs kicking violently. He continued to scream, the sound piercing, almost painful to the ears.
The unearthly screech shook Simon from his paralysis. He dashed across the trail an
d snatched up his rifle. He turned to see Toad scramble to his feet, snatch a short knife from his boot top, and start toward Reed and the dog. Simon threw the rifle to his shoulder and followed the squat figure for only an instant. As the knife came up to strike, Simon pulled the trigger.
Toad spun around and cried out, his face contorted in pain, his hand clamped to his ribs on the right side. “Ya bastard, ya hit me.” He dropped to his knees, then leaned forward on his hands, gasping for breath.
Simon rushed past him to where Spud was savaging Reed’s face. Reed, on his knees, had his fingers locked in Spud’s lips on both sides of the dog’s jaws. His screams were now groans, pitiable, sobbing groans. Spud growled continuously as he twisted his head from side to side, pulling back all the time.
“Spud! Let him go.” Simon slapped the dog on the rear. “Spud!” He grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and twisted the fur. “Quit it.” The dog let loose and stepped back, hackles raised, still growling.
Reed’s right cheek, a ragged, fat, puffy flap of skin, hung down to his chin, exposing his back teeth. Blood streamed through the fingers he pressed against his face. He hunkered, his eyes on Simon.
He looked perplexed at first, then scared. “Ohhh,” he moaned. “What has he done to me?” He took his hand away from his face and stared at it. Shiny red, the blood ran all the way to his elbow and dripped onto his leg. “I think I might need a doctor.” He said it as simply as asking for another cup of coffee. Reed’s eyes suddenly went blank. Settling back on his butt, he started to rock back and forth.
Simon turned around to face Toad. He, too, sat on his heels, looking back with a venomous glare.
“Get on your feet,” Simon ordered. He worked the lever on the Winchester. “Now!”
The squat man grunted as he struggled to get up. He stood, one hand clamped to his bloodstained side, his wound obviously not as bad as Reed’s. He looked down at his knife and stooped over.
Slate Creek Page 20
