“Appreciate ya stepping in there, young man. These animals are my livelihood, and I don’t want ’em mistreated.”
“I hate to see any animal get beat. Are you Mr. Olsen?”
“That’s right. Folks call me Jack.”
“I’ve got a place off the river about two days upstream. Man at the store said you pack supplies for miners and such.”
“That I do.” Olsen turned to the muleskinner. “There, now shift the saddle to the center of his back. Good grief, Whiff, you can see how wrong you have it, can’t you?”
The stumpy man tugged at the contraption until Olsen nodded his head.
“Now cinch ’em up again.” Olsen shook his head, then turned back to Simon.
“I need some supplies,” Simon said. “Fairly soon. Probably two mules.”
“How soon’s fairly? If Whiff here can get cracking, I’ll have a couple free by the end of the week. I’ve got twenty-one going into the basin about then. I can add yours to the string. Exactly where are you?”
“Do you know the hot springs about a day’s ride west of Spring Creek?”
“I do.” Olsen looked at the mule when it grunted. “That’s tight enough, Whiff. Take him inside and start loading those sacks of feed. I’ll be right there.” He handed the rope to the man. Whiff gave Simon a dirty look as he turned toward the barn.
“The first stream that comes into the river from the south just past there is my valley,” Simon continued.
“I know exactly where you’re talking about. That’s called Slate Creek. Fella named Red Larsen worked up there a ways. I was told he’d moved on.”
“Do you know where he was from?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“I found his body. Someone killed him.”
“Be damned.” Olsen’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I don’t think I caught your name.”
“I’m Simon Steele. I built a cabin about seven miles up that canyon.”
“Prospecting?”
“No. And there isn’t a real good answer for your next question. I needed a place to think, and someone told me it was quiet there.”
Olson looked at him with a wry lopsided grin. “Some days I could see myself doin’ that. Were they right?”
“That they were.” Simon returned the smile. “How much will it cost me for the two mules?”
“It’s three days to Red’s place. Or where he was.” Olsen shook his head and grimaced. “Two dollars a day for a driver, cuz he’ll have to leave the main train and come back directly. And four a day for each mule. Reckon that’s sixty dollars. I’ll load ’em heavy as I think’s safe, and charge you for another if need be.”
“Two will do it. I’ve been supplied every couple of months or so. Keeps things fresh and gives me a chance to talk to somebody.”
“You say you’ve been supplied like you aren’t now.”
“Yeah, the man who packed for me killed Mr. Larsen, and tried to do me in. My dog took him on, and chewed him up pretty good.”
“Justin Reed.”
“The same.”
“I’ll be damned. Things kinda go kerplunk when the parts all settle into place. He came into town several days ago, all tore up. Said a—”
“Yeah, I talked to your sheriff already. He told me.”
“Wondered where he was going with his string, and I didn’t buy that badger story for a minute. Not a man to trifle with, though.” Olsen shook his head slowly. “This is hard country, and ya know something—I hate it.” He paused for a few seconds. “Anyhow,” he shrugged dismissal with his shoulders, “you have Sutton at the mercantile put your name on your stuff, and I’ll pick it up there. That’ll be sixty dollars, gold, extra if it’s green.”
Simon handed him the three coins. “How do I handle my next order?”
“When do you want it?”
“Say the first week in September. And another the end of October.”
“Make your arrangements at Sutton’s, and I’ll check with him. Pay the skinner for my mules when he delivers. Same price. Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Steele.” Olsen put out his hand.
“Likewise.” Simon winced as the callused fingers crushed down on his own. “C’mon, Spud, let’s go to the store.”
For the next two days Simon enjoyed sleeping well past sunup in a clean-sheeted bed, eating whatever struck his fancy, and generally doing nothing. Spud had taken up with a wiry terrier at the stable, but true to his canine code, never left the premises—the bitch stayed at his place. Simon explored the town during the day, and during the evening visited every saloon. There were six. He’d even managed to win sixty-one dollars in a poker game.
About two in the afternoon of his fifth day in town, he was sitting on a chair in front of the hotel, burping radishes. He reckoned he’d eaten about a dozen of the fiery red tubers with his lunch. He covered his mouth again, and chin down, let go another burst. Spud raised his eyebrows, and his look of disgust could not have been more apparent if he were human. Simon chuckled at him. “Can’t help it. I haven’t had those in forever. Ma used to grow ’em. You don’t like it, you can always go see your new friend.” He tilted his chair back against the wall and folded his hands across his taut stomach.
Some minutes later, he was in that same position with his eyes shut when he heard, “Welcome to Challis, Mr. Steele.” His chair thumped forward with a jolt, and his eyes popped open. Standing in the street was Marshal Hess’s black gelding, now gray with dust and sweat.
“Hello, Marshal. Been waiting to see you.”
“Well, here I am. Come on down to the constable’s office.” He gigged his horse and walked it away.
Simon got up and followed.
Half an hour later, Hess rocked back in his chair. “The bastard. I’m afraid I’d have shot him.”
“Should have done,” added Hart. “Save us the problem.”
“I don’t ever want to do that again,” Simon replied, “but I read Mr. Larsen’s letters, and I know Reed was there in his camp. And he said he’d never been in the valley before. When Mr. Olsen told me the man’s name was Red Larsen, the Lemuel in the letters I read and the ‘LL’ carved in the stock made sense. I don’t think there’s much doubt.”
“I don’t either,” Hess said, “and I’m gonna look for Reed, me and a lot of folks. If he’s around, I’ll get word, and we’ll see what he has to say. I take it you’re willing to charge him with ransacking your place?”
“I am.”
“And throwing down on you like that is assault and attempted robbery. Are you missing anything? Money?”
“No,” Simon said quietly.
“Well, that’s enough to get me started. If I were you, I’d be watchin’ for a while, though. When we run him down, I’ll let you know. Either personal, or I’ll send you a note with your supplies. You’re going back in there aren’t you?” It didn’t sound like a question.
Simon nodded. “Yeah, I miss it already. Way too noisy here.”
That evening, his last in town, Simon stayed downstairs after supper. Men in calf-high leather boots and wearing coarse cotton trousers with heavy gloves stuffed in the back pockets crowed the saloon. Teamsters. Not seeing a place at a table, Simon went to the bar and ordered a brandy. The young bartender, with a flourish and a wide smile, poured the drink, then set it on the bar. Before Simon had a chance to pick it up, the powerful scent of lilac and sweat wafted over him and he turned to face the woman standing at his elbow.
“I see you drink brandy. Don’t get many here that order that stuff.” She stood real close to him.
Her low, husky voice made him swallow hard. It had been a long time since he’d been this close to a woman, and he didn’t quite know what to look at first. Her dark-green dress creased tight around a thickening waist. Cut low, it offered her bosom to him, pushed up to overflow the ruffles and lace that tried to contain it all. He stared.
His gaze went to her red hair. Pulled back tightly in a bun, it made the sides of her head look b
urnished, almost ready to burst into flame. There was still light streaming through the front windows, and it played on a few of the gossamer strands of errant hair on the back of her neck, like spider webs drifting on a breeze. Then he saw her eyes. A startling, almost unreal green, and clear as a winter night, they looked calmly back.
“I . . . uh, you are. . . . I. D-damn, you’re pretty.” His face caught fire and he silently cussed his ineptitude. Some things never change.
“Thank you,” she said, and even though he didn’t think it possible, she moved closer yet. “You’re different from what I usually see in here. You passing through, or looking to stay?” She canted her head ever so slightly, the corners of her painted mouth turned up. Then she fluttered her eyelashes, just like Sarah used to do, and Simon forgot how to speak. He swallowed hard again. Her calm eyes flashed delight, and the curled corners of her lips turned into a beaming smile. “I’d say you’ve been away for a while. Say, prospecting in the hills?” She laid her hand on his and it felt as hot as a campfire rock.
“Uh . . . right. I . . . we, that is, me and my dog, we come for supplies and to see the law.”
“Ooo, the law. Sounds exciting.” Somehow, she could make her lower lip quiver and she did it just then . . . when she said “exciting.”
Simon felt himself stir and fought the urge to look down. He glanced at the door and wished for an instant that he was on the other side of it.
“You going to drink alone?” she asked. “Alone” brought another quiver, and another rise. The image of Sarah started to fade.
“Uh, no, of course not. What can I get you?”
“I like what you’re drinking. But it would taste so much better if we were somewhere quiet.”
For lack of a reasonable response, Simon glanced around the room. His eyes came back to hers. They appeared calm again, almost calculating.
“We won’t find it here, I’m afraid,” she said. “But I know where.” Quiver.
The bartender handed him the bottle, and his eyebrows shot up and back down so quickly and slightly that Simon almost missed it. Who was that meant for? Simon smiled stupidly and turned to leave.
A medium-sized man, feet set well apart with his hands planted on his hips, blocked his way. “And where do you think you’re going with Martha?”
The smell of whiskey assaulted Simon. Martha. He’d stood there like a dolt and never introduced himself. Martha. It suited her. He looked at her for a second, and then back at the intruder. “We’re going someplace quiet.” The steadiness of his voice surprised him.
“I’ve driven four days to see her,” the man almost shouted. “And I reckon that gives me some kind of claim.”
Good sign, thought Simon, he’s talking louder than he needs to. Buell said that people did that when they weren’t sure of themselves. Why was he feeling so calm? The man looked tough as an axle nut. “That’s what you think,” said Simon, “and you’re entitled to that. I see it different.”
Awareness rippled across the room as heads turned and eyes lifted off hands full of cards. The squawk of several chairs being pushed back grated on the silence as occupants stood to get a better look at the upcoming melee.
“Well, if you like that thought, think about this one. You’re gonna have to go through me, cuz I ain’t gonna let you around.” The man’s hands left his hips and bunched into fists.
Simon looked him over for a pistol or a knife. He saw neither. His calmness remained a mystery as he glanced at Martha. She stood a single step away, somehow managing to seem completely neutral. Then he saw a slight change in her eyes. Excitement? He didn’t think it was fear or worry. He studied them and then it struck him. Inviting.
Simon picked a spot just to the left of the man’s sternum and imagined the rapidly beating heart beneath. Then, he looked at the man’s face and the tiny beads of sweat that had formed on his brow and upper lip. The teamster’s eyes would not settle on any single spot, and had taken on an apprehensive look.
“Are you sure?” Simon asked quietly.
A tongue’s quick pass across dry lips, and a shift in the man’s weight was all Simon needed to see. With his fist bunched, he rotated his shoulder, leaned into his straightening arm, and planted the blow exactly where he’d been looking only seconds before.
The man’s face contorted in pain as the sound of a breaking rib snapped around the saloon. A collective grunt filled the room as every man there felt the pain. Clutching his heart, the man sank to his knees for a few seconds, then sat on his haunches and finally fell over on his back. The color drained from his face and short jerky gasps of breath came from him as his face started to turn a grayish-blue.
The saloon owner rushed around the end of the bar and knelt beside the man. He put his ear to the quivering chest. “He ain’t getting no air and his heart sounds all floppy.” He lifted the man into a semi-sitting position, his arms around his chest, and shook him once, then twice, and suddenly the man gasped. And gasped again, and then started to breathe rapidly. Gritted teeth and tightly closed eyes attested to the pain he felt in his chest.
“You gonna be okay?” the owner asked.
“He’ll be all right,” an onlooker said. “Let his freight-wagon mouth overload his buckboard ass, that’s all.” Several loud laughs dispelled the tension, and the noise in the saloon picked up again. Two men hoisted their fallen comrade off the floor, and sat him in a chair, his shoulders and head slumped over the tabletop.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone that calm before, mister,” Martha said.
“I don’t understand it either. You ready to go somewhere?”
“If you promise not to be that quick with me.” Quiver.
Simon took her arm and together they went upstairs . . . where it was quiet.
An hour later Simon lay on his back and pondered why sin had such a sweet taste. Martha was gone, and so was over half the bottle of brandy and twenty dollars. He suffered that vague feeling of disappointment he always felt after being with a woman, and he envisioned his father, serious as a snake’s bite, droning on and on about what he had just done, and why he shouldn’t do it. His mother had always put it in a positive light: Sarah was a good girl, and when they were together proper, she would make a good wife. The connotation of “good” and “proper” had not been lost on him then, and he thought about it now.
Martha enjoyed her job, had been light, cheerful and . . . he looked for the right word . . . diligent. Yeah, that said it, diligent. And she’d made him feel good. There, that word again, but in a different context, and his mother would no doubt point out he could not say anything about “proper.”
And then there’d been the short fight. He’d always avoided confrontations, hated it when men started throwing fists, and busting up furniture. He remembered one fight at Fort Laramie where every table in the saloon had been smashed flat. This time there had been something in his head that refused to consider backing down. He’d simply picked a spot, and waited for the man to give him a reason to punch him there. Something else he could thank Reed for? It would be wonderful to be back in the valley, and enjoying the peace and solitude he’d come for. With an image of the meadow, still and calm, in his head, the soothing sound of the breeze in the twin spruce trees carried Simon off to sleep.
CHAPTER 29
He’d only been back home three days when the packer showed up. Spud, as usual, heard him coming fifteen minutes before Simon could pick any sign. A man on horseback led two mules slowly up the valley, and nearly passed by the cabin.
“Hey, we’re over here!” Simon shouted from the shade of the spruce. The man’s head snapped upright, spotted him, and turned toward the cabin.
It was Whiff. “Thought you’d be by the gawdamn creek.” He swung out of his saddle. “Where do you want this stuff?”
“Uh . . . I . . . we can put it by the cabin. Don’t you want to sit a spell first? That’s a long—”
“I want to get it off and get the hell out. Gives me the ji
vers being back in here.” He still had the lead rope in his hand, and gave it a tug as he headed for the cabin. The mules followed, their heads down in resignation.
Taken somewhat aback, Simon asked. “You’re gonna stay the night, aren’t ya?”
“Nope,” Whiff said over his shoulder. “Sooner I’m across that river with the sun in my face the better.”
Fifteen minutes later, packsaddles empty, the mules patiently stood. One shook vigorously.
“Mr. Sutton says I’m s’posed to bring back a list,” Whiff said. “For next time.”
“I haven’t made one yet. I thought you’d camp here overnight.”
Whiff puffed out his breath. “Well, I ain’t.” He glanced down the valley and then up at the sun. “Write it down then.”
Minutes later, Simon printed the last entry on the list, folded the paper, and handed it to Whiff. The packer stuck it in his shirt pocket, and climbed into his saddle.
“When can I expect to see you again?” Simon asked.
“Olsen said five weeks.” Whiff sawed on the reins and turned toward the creek. With a kick to the horse’s flanks, he led the mules into the sun, and was gone without another word.
Simon shook his head. “That’s got to be the most unfriendly cuss I’ve ever met.”
August’s suffocating heat drove Simon out of the cabin and into the open air to sleep. The kettle and knife still hung in the tree where he’d left them a month before. The sight of them when he’d gone for water that evening had put Red Socks on his mind. And then the Indian was there, standing just at the edge of the firelight. Simon scrambled to his feet, momentarily panicked, until he saw Spud, standing immediately behind the man.
“Damn, Red Socks, scare the hell out of me.”
The man stepped into the light, a smile on his face. Peace, he signed.
“Good to see you too.” Simon returned the hand signal. “Sit?” He pointed to the ground. Spud saw the finger, too, and head down, walked over and sat down submissively. “I didn’t mean you, dog.” He stooped to stroke the dog’s head.
Red Socks walked up to the low fire. He carried the kettle, the pair of socks visible over the edge. He put the pot on the ground, took the butcher knife from inside his leather shirt, and laid it down as well. Thank you, he said with a sweep of his hands.
Slate Creek Page 23
