Slate Creek

by Wallace J. Swenson

“Leave it where it is.”

  Toad gave him another menacing look, and slowly stood straight, still clutching his side. “Wasn’t s’posed to be no shooting,” he mumbled.

  “Get him up.” Simon pointed at Reed with his rifle.

  Simon puffed out his breath and started breathing through his mouth as the man’s body odor wafted past. Toad grabbed Reed by the arm, heaved back, and got him on his feet.

  “Now, let’s go find your horses, and you can get out of here.”

  “That’s it? Just leave?” Toad looked suspicious.

  “That’s right. Just get out of here. You want to come back and try to get around that dog, well then, I guess you will. He smelled you from a mile upwind.”

  “He needs doctoring.” Toad nodded his head at Reed.

  “I’m not one. He reaped what he sowed. Now move.”

  Simon got his horse and followed the two men as they struggled the quarter-mile to their mounts. Simon relieved Toad of an old musket strapped to his saddle, and then dug the two small linen sacks of gold out of Reed’s saddlebags.

  “Nobody to bring my supplies in now, so I’ll be coming to Challis in a month or so. And when I get there, the first thing I’m gonna do is tell the law about this. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get clear of there before I show up. I see you again, I’ll shoot you. Understood?”

  Toad didn’t answer, and Reed simply sat astride his horse, a bloody kerchief pressed against his face. Stoic, he looked straight ahead.

  Simon mounted his horse, and with his rifle trained on their backs, followed them for a mile past the cabin. He watched until they disappeared from sight, then went back to his camp.

  He pulled open the cabin door. “Shit.” The shelves were on the floor, his table overturned, a leg broken off. They’d cut the bed rails clean through with the ax, and had tipped the stove over, ashes and soot everywhere. The thoroughness of the destruction indicated they had taken some kind of pleasure in ransacking his home. “Shoulda killed ’em. Dirty bastards.” Simon pushed the toe of his boot through a pile of cornmeal dumped on the dirt floor, the sack shredded. They’d poured molasses over a torn bag of flour, then coal oil on top of that.

  Suddenly a pang of panic surged through him and he frantically searched for his saddlebags. They were under the buffalo robe, emptied of everything. Pawing through the pile of clothes in the corner, he found what he was looking for, Sarah’s letter. Half of it. Cursing the dim light, he searched some more and finally laid his hand on the other half. It lay crumpled up and ground into the floor, saturated in lamp oil, ruined.

  He hurried outside to the oat-sack cushion. Safe under it he found his journal. Slowly, he turned and shuffled back to the cabin where he sagged onto his bench. With his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and let his head droop. Reed’s pistol, pointed at his chest, filled his mind, and he started to shake. His stomach revolted and he puked on his shoes.

  July 18, 1874. Reed and another man came to rob and maybe kill me. Spud took care of Reed, I shot the other. Nobody dead. Cabin ransacked. I thought he was a friend.

  CHAPTER 27

  Simon woke to light stealing through the new window. Though not very bright, the moon infused the room with life and drove the dreaded blackness from the cabin. The events of the previous day wouldn’t let him sleep. This was at least the third time his eyes had suddenly opened. Night sweat dampened his body, and he threw back the single blanket. He relaxed a little in the cool air.

  Reed’s betrayal confused him. He remembered well the feelings he’d had when he, Buell, and Jake had sat around the makeshift cracker-barrel table in Jake’s father’s saloon storeroom. Breaking wind and making crude jokes, they’d talked about things that help turn boys into young men. Some of the information later proved valid and useful, but mostly it was the naïve eagerly taking instruction from the ignorant.

  They told secrets, feelings they had about themselves they felt they couldn’t face, but had to. And shared triumphs as well, most small, but large to a boy’s limited experience. They were free to bare their souls, free to admit failings, free to admit silly dreams. Free, because they were friends, those young men. Men that he . . . loved? Was that too intimate a word? It didn’t seem so, lying there in the dark, alone. He suffered no embarrassment for it.

  He loved Sarah too . . . and his family . . . Uncle John. And he felt he could have loved Justin for exactly the same reasons. He’d helped and listened and was loyal. But now the thought of allowing someone close had new meaning; it contained new dangers that were not part of the equation before. Reed had destroyed something . . . something Simon had taken for granted. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but that something was gone.

  He lay still for a while, then got out of bed. Outside, the half-moon added mystery to the darkness, offering glimpses of things not fully revealed. The gray-white rectangle of the tent glowed dimly against the dark boughs of the spruce tree, and just beyond, Simon saw Spud. He sat on his haunches, nose pointed downstream. Stepping gingerly in his bare feet, Simon made his way to him.

  “What you doing, boy? I don’t think they’ll be back. And you’re the reason.” Simon squatted by his dog and stroked his head. “They know you’re watching.”

  Simon sat with his dog until the chill in the air drove him back to the cabin. One more look before he pulled the door shut revealed the dog, patiently sitting, watching, and waiting.

  Repairing the damage to the cabin turned out to be a lot easier than he’d planned. Probably because he’d already built the things once, he thought. The full week he’d cut firewood when Spud had been laid up took the urgency out of that perpetual task. He worked at a leisurely pace, enjoying the process of using his hands to create something useful. The days passed quickly and before long, Spud resumed sleeping in the tent or by the fireplace at night. What he’d salvaged, he’d returned to the new shelves or stored away otherwise, and Simon got back to enjoying his valley.

  Early in the evening, he’d shot a large rabbit he’d caught drinking at the creek. She’d sprinted away in plenty of time, but her curiosity had gotten to her and she’d stopped for one last look. Her last anything. The rabbit had died instantly, but he suffered the same pangs of regret that he felt every time he killed something. Now she lay in pieces, nestled flat in the black skillet, turning a golden brown and making his mouth water. He shook a double handful of ground coffee into the blue-speckled pot and waited for the foam to rise. He knocked it back with a cup of cold water, then went back to tending the cooking rabbit.

  Later, with his plate and fork washed and put away, Simon stuffed his knife into the scabbard, went into the cabin, and got his journal. Settling down by the fire, he opened the cover. Before he could turn toward the middle of the book, the first entry caught his eye. July 24, 1873. One year? Today was the twenty-fourth, wasn’t it? He quickly recalled the last five days and confirmed the date mentally.

  In the fading light, he looked around his home. Home. Fort Laramie, in the five years he’d lived there, had never taken on that mantle. Sure, there were times in the hotel when, sitting around a table with his friends, it felt like it, but it never really measured up. And it wasn’t a hotel, he chided himself; it was a whorehouse.

  But this was home. Why? He took in the squat form of the cabin. Building it had nearly cost him his life. He had his soul tied up in the cabin and in the meadow with the winding stream. It was his meadow. In the dimmest of starlight, he could point out every feature, and walk sure-footed to the creek for water. The twin trees, one on either side of the campfire, towered above him. They were the reason he’d stopped at this spot. They had somehow beckoned and he had responded. A perfect pair, they offered each other protection, and grew strong and tall because of it.

  He laid the journal aside and looked into the fire. A pair. Sarah and him. She’d make this place perfect. He imagined her sitting by his side, her soft brown hair catching the flicker of firelight, her creamy skin aglow in the quarter-m
oon. Then the reality of such an idea dawned on him and he chuckled. “Can you imagine Sarah in that dingy hut we call home?” He flicked a twig at the dog. “I know you never met her, but think of Lori dressed for church. That was Sarah all the time.” He sighed, then picked up his journal again.

  July 24, 1874. One year. Melancholy tonight. Cabin is back in shape. Feels like I’m home here. I’m going to town soon.

  The next morning Simon took inventory and made a list of the things he’d need. Reed and Toad had destroyed all they could, short of burning the place down. And he thought they’d have done that if not for the smoke alerting him to their presence. But they had managed to do a lot. He studied the long list. He didn’t have a lot of time.

  While he was restoring everything in the cabin, he’d found a spare kettle and a knife. He remembered the kettle coming in on a load, but the knife came as a surprise. He sat looking at the two utensils and thinking of his Indian friend. “C’mon, Spud, let’s take a walk.”

  The dog got up, stretched, and followed Simon toward the open spot in the trees across the meadow. Simon carried the kettle with the knife inside in one hand and his rifle in the other. A pair of red socks poked out of his front pants pocket.

  He hung the pot on a branch of the same tree used to deliver his last present, put the socks in with the knife, then crossed the creek again, and headed upstream. He wanted to see if his work had done what he’d wanted it to do. A perfect day for a walk, a light breeze frustrating the heat, and billowing white clouds lifting their skirts to reveal patches of startling blue. Insects darted past, their high-pitched hum telling the world how busy and important they were.

  Across the meadow, in a tree containing hundreds of handy perches, four crows struggled to sit on a single branch. Their raucous argument, annoying in any other setting, made Simon stop and smile. “Just like Axel and Abe,” he muttered as he continued upstream. He pictured his younger brothers at suppertime, banging elbows over an imaginary boundary line on the kitchen table. Both knew where the line should be, and each encroached on the other. They’d squabble and argue until his mother settled the issue with a wooden spoon, one whack apiece. They’d grudgingly shift a little bit, then sit and glare at each other. Simon glanced up at the crows again, now spread out on other branches, each busily fluffing feathers. He wondered which one had the spoon.

  He stood at the edge of the pool and stared into the water. The mud he’d stirred up removing the dam had settled evenly on the bottom, and even knowing where to look, he couldn’t see the trench by the twin rocks. The dry, sun-baked ground where he’d filled the diversion looked as natural as the trail above. He was tempted to continue his walk up the canyon, but a look at the clouds gathering over the ridges gave him pause. Some to the southwest were developing dark bottoms, their tops taking on a fuzzy, ill-defined appearance. He tucked his rifle into the crook of his arm, and picked his way down the slope. Moving past the twin rocks, over rubble splashed wet by the rushing water, he soon found himself at the head of the meadow.

  A low rumble of thunder bounced back and forth between the high walls of the canyon. Simon looked back just in time to see a jagged line split the air between the dark clouds and the ridge below. A few seconds later the air split with a crackling pop as the sound reached him. He angled off toward the hot springs, his steps hurried. By the time he’d reached the hillside, the blue-gray curtain of the approaching storm blocked his sight of the defile. “C’mon, Spud, let’s go see why the mare liked this place.” He took off at a run toward the high rock wall.

  Under the boughs of the trees that circled the clearing, he heard the rain hit. A heavy swishing sound filtered down through the greenery with a fine mist. He stepped closer to the trunk of the biggest pine. A brilliant burst of light illuminated the cove, followed immediately by an ear-splitting crash. Spud shied and forced his way behind Simon’s legs. A strange smell filled the air, one he’d never experienced before, and the hair on his body stood on end.

  Another brilliant strobe of pure white light stopped a million raindrops in midair. The flash revealed a low opening in the shadow of the rock overhang, directly across the clearing. The terrific clap of thunder that followed made Simon jump, and he sprinted away from the tree, across the clearing, and into the black hole. He reached the cave at the same instant as the dog and together they sprawled into the interior. Scrambling on his hands and knees, he kept his head down and turned to face the opening. The dead still air had a sweet smell. He sniffed. Spicy sweet, tinged with the smell of old dust. Simon glanced up and sensed more than saw that the cave was rather spacious. Though it was dark and a little unsettling, at least he was out of the rain and away from the storm. He peered toward the opening.

  The clearing outside was now a shallow puddle of dancing water, the ferocious downpour creating a spray that blurred the view. Trembling like an aspen leaf, Spud crowded close, leaning so hard that Simon nearly toppled over. Putting his hand out to steady himself, Simon felt a dry stick of wood, then several of them. Turning to look more closely, another flash of lightning lit the interior of the cave.

  “Ohhhh, shit!” Simon wailed, his voice cracking in fear. The split second of light was more than enough to reveal a partially exposed rack of ribs, and a man’s skull. Patches of long hair clung to the face, dry skin drawn tight across his cheeks. Another flash lit the cave, and Simon saw the far wall. He was there in a single bound. Looking back in horror, he crouched and waited for the next burst of electricity. When it came, the bones of a full-grown human lay loosely together along the rock wall. Pieces of tattered clothes partially covered the remains. His heart gradually slowed as he got his breath under control. Again, nature’s light show lit the interior and revealed the dog, standing over the bones. “Spud, get over here!”

  The dog came to sit beside him. Simon inspected the cave in the revealing flashes of light. The ceiling above his head would allow him to stand. Along the back wall, some ten feet away, he made out a bed. Immediately to his right stood a rough table and a bench, the top crowded with cans and various-sized boxes. Most of the cartons appeared to have been attacked by rodents. His gaze returned to the man. Just beyond the top of the head lie a floppy felt hat. That and the face hair made him a white man.

  Transfixed by the eerie sight in the lightning flashes, Simon stared for several minutes. The strokes occurred less and less frequently as the thunderstorm moved down the valley. Finally he glanced outside at the still pool of water in the clearing. He stooped to exit the cave through the four-foot opening.

  The air outside smelled so fresh it surprised him. He breathed to clear the cave smell out of his nose, then turned to look at the entrance. “How did I not see that opening?” He recalled the two times he’d been in the clearing, and it came to him. It both instances, the horse had backed up against the end of the enclosure. The first time he hadn’t approached her; the second time, he’d been too busy not getting kicked to look behind her.

  He knew he had to go back in there. That was a white man, and white men were buried, not left to be scattered by animals . . . like that damnable wolverine. But moving around in there without some light never got beyond the thought stage. Simon retrieved his rifle and headed for the cabin.

  The next morning, Simon strapped his pick and shovel to the horse and stuffed his rifle into the scabbard. He carefully put the lamp chimney in one saddlebag and the fuel bowl in another, then climbed aboard. Twenty minutes later, he stood in front of the cave, gathering his courage. Should he dig the grave first or first go get the . . . what? Bones? The body? He let his breath out with a puff and stooped to enter.

  The flare of the match took his sight for a moment, then it returned as he put the chimney on and adjusted the wick. In the glow of the lamp, it became apparent the man had lived in the cave for some time. He moved over to the bed, and touched the soft hides of his covers. A long wool overcoat lay folded across the foot of the narrow bunk. His brief assessment the day before had been corr
ect; the rodents had chewed open everything made of paper or cloth. White flour spilled from a large bag by the table, mixing with the thick layer of fine dirt on the floor. He picked up a can of tomatoes and looked for rust. Finding none, he checked another one, this time applesauce, and found signs on one end. He cracked a piece of sugar off a partially used cone, still dry as could be. The jumble on the table held his attention for several more seconds, and then he sighed, turning slowly to face his task.

  The unsteady light gave the corpse a sickly yellow cast. It looked rotten, and Simon’s stomach turned. He swallowed hard and knelt down. The man’s right arm was pinned under his back, the left extended. Unable to see the lower part of the right leg, he swung the lamp closer. It was gone from the knee down. The left one was intact and the foot had a shoe on it, the toe turned up by the curling sole. With no excuse left, he moved the lamp back past the exposed ribs, and shined his light on the head. Vacant eye sockets with incongruous eyebrows stared back at him. The dry skin of the lips drew tight across a mouth that had few teeth. Tufts of reddish-brown hair clung to the man’s chin and hung in patches on his head. Simon swallowed hard again, then went over to the bed for the tanned elk hide. He laid it on the floor beside the man. Gingerly, he tried to pick up the leg by grabbing hold of the tattered clothes. He lifted, and the rotten threads gave way, dumping the bones back onto the floor.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Simon muttered. He puffed through pursed lips, subconsciously blowing the foulness away. The shoe now lay on its side, disconnected from the leg. He took hold of the shoe top with two fingers and delivered the gruesome package to the hide. Next, he picked up the two bones of the lower leg, one in each hand. The thighbones were easy. Then he tried to move the pelvis. It came away, dragging a section of the backbone. Simon bolted for the opening.

  Outside, he gulped huge mouthfuls of fresh air as he struggled hard to keep his breakfast down. He rushed over to the hot spring and held his hands in the warm water, willing away the corruption he felt. Emotionally drained, he slumped sideways and sat on the damp ground. Spud sat beside him, gazing intently.