“You’re welcome, friend.” Simon nodded his head and pointed at the things. He pointed at the ground again. “Sit.”
Red Socks sank to the ground in one graceful movement, legs folding almost mechanically.
Simon sat as well. “Coffee?” He held out his cup.
Red Socks nodded. Simon got back up, went into the cabin, and brought out another cup. He filled it from the pot by the fire, then went to the table for a piece of sugar cone. The Indian took the cup, and grinned widely as Simon offered him the sugar. Red Socks dropped the entire piece, enough for six cups of coffee, into the dark liquid, and watched it dissolve.
Simon stared, fascinated. “I guess if you don’t get it often, it’s a real treat when you do.”
Red Socks swirled the coffee in the cup for a few seconds and then took a sip. “Hmmm. Tsaa’n,” he said. Satisfaction lit his round face.
“San?” Simon thought he’d heard a soft “T” sound, but wasn’t sure.
“Tsaa’n,” Red Socks said again, and smacked his lips deliberately.
“Tsaa’n,” Simon repeated. “You mean it’s good, don’t you?”
“Mmm,” Red Socks grunted and smiled broadly.
Simon and his visitor lapsed into a comfortable silence, both occasionally looking at each other and nodding. He wondered if he should offer him some food. There was so much he wanted to ask this friendly man, and tried, but two attempts led to frustration for both of them. Simon resorted to feeding Red Socks coffee and as much sugar as he wanted. The Indian seemed content to simply sit in the moonlight and watch the embers of the cooking fire slowly die.
After what must have been two hours or a little more, Red Socks stood. Simon, caught off guard, dumped half a cup of cold coffee on his foot as he followed suit. Red Socks laughed out loud. Simon had wondered if Indians did that. Red Socks reached inside his shirt and took out a leather packet. He pointed at the kettle, then presented his gift. Simon accepted a soft-tanned scabbard whose shape said it held a knife. The pale yellow of a bone handle was barely visible, set deep in the safety of the leather sleeve, and he could feel the blade.
“Thank you, Red Socks.” Simon stuffed the knife into his waistband, and made the sweeping sign of appreciation with his hands.
Red Socks pointed again at the kettle and did the same. With that, he took hold of the handle, and walked toward the spruce. He paused by the tree for a moment to pick up a three-foot bow and a leather sack that contained what looked like a dozen or so arrows. Simon had not noticed them before.
“Come again. It’s good to see you,” Simon called at the quickly disappearing figure.
The Indian didn’t pause or turn, and vanished into the dark forest.
“Well, that was interesting, wasn’t it, Spud? Course, I think you and him have done that before, haven’t you?” Simon sat by the fire ring and threw a few small pieces of wood on the embers. After smoking for a minute, they burst into flame, and he slowly pulled his new knife out of its scabbard. The gentle curve of the horn handle continued into the blade, a piece of intricately chipped, reddish-brown flint. The countless concave marks that covered the surface reflected the flickering light of the fire, and came alive in his hand. As he stared at it, a lump formed in his throat. He looked into the darkness. “And they call you a savage,” he murmured.
The next morning Simon sat up in his bed by the tent and looked across the camp. He’d dreamt again of Buell and the many nights they’d spent sitting around a fire, silent, content with each other’s company, with no need to speak. He picked up the leather scabbard that lay beside him. In daylight, the blade had lost some of its magic, but the work, the incredibly fine detail, was now even more apparent. He touched his thumb to the edge and was rewarded with a stinging nick in the skin. He licked his finger, put the blade away, and got up.
August simmered down to a slightly cooler September. He’d made three forays into the higher country just to enjoy the air, but, for the most part, the never-ending task of cutting firewood made the days pass quickly. Late one afternoon while they were at the creek, Spud let him know someone was coming. As he walked back across the meadow toward the cabin, he saw Whiff and two mules swing into view. It had to be Whiff; the short torso wobbled from side to side as he dozed in the saddle. It was a wonder he didn’t fall off and break his neck. Again, Simon had to shout at him or he’d have walked all the way to the hot springs. “Hey!”
Simon knew that even with the full moon, Whiff couldn’t possibly ride out immediately. He decided to make the best of a bad situation. “Hello, Whiff,” he said as the rider stopped his horse between the spruces. “Nice to see you.”
The packer ran a hand across the lower half of his face, then dug a knuckle in his eye. “I hate this country. Either freezing your ass off or fryin’ your damn brains in the sun.”
“It is hot.”
“Ain’t just the heat. No matter which way I’m going, the dust from these gawdamn mules is all over me.” He hawked in his throat and spit a brown gob on the ground. “And the gawdamn bugs, everywhere . . . in yer mouth, ears, up yer nose. Sonsabitches have followed me for fifteen miles.” He swung off his horse and swatted at the gnats that swarmed his head. “Jesus wept, drive a man crazy.”
“Lead the animals into the shade,” Simon said. “The bugs like it out here in the meadow grass.”
With the reins in one hand and the lead rope in the other, Whiff led the mules and his horse toward the cabin. Simon hoped the animals would cooperate, because it looked like the unhappy packer was ready to explode in exasperation.
Half an hour later the packs were empty and off the mules. Staked in the meadow by the creek, the tired animals looked content. Whiff sat on the bench in front of the cabin, and sullenly watched Simon cut up a rabbit.
“How in hell do you manage to keep your head, stuck up here?” Whiff said after a while.
“It was hard at first, but now I kinda look forward to the solitude.”
“That ain’t what I’m talking about. The winters. And the gawdamn snow. It must get ten feet deep up here.”
“Actually no. Three or maybe four, but not ten. I’ll grant you the cold, though.” Simon dropped the last piece of meat into the cornmeal, flipped it over a couple of times, and put it the frying pan. “It’s really quite beautiful up here. The blue of the sky in dead winter will make you look twice.”
“Wish I was back in Arizona,” Whiff said.
And that was the end of the exchange. Simon watched the rabbit cook while Whiff smoked his pipe. He’d hoped for some conversation during supper, but Whiff silently ate more than his share of the rabbit and pan bread, then unrolled his bed by one of the spruces and lay down.
Breakfast the next morning was a repeat of the evening meal. Finished, Whiff handed him the bill, and Simon scanned the items. He dug the correct amount out of his shirt pocket, and handed it over along with a folded piece of paper. “That’s what I want next time.”
“Olsen wants you to pay in advance. So does the storekeeper.”
“How so? Neither of them mentioned that.”
“Next trip might be late, and it might be in another gawdamn snowstorm. They ain’t gonna risk their asses unless they’s paid for it. Neither give a farmer’s fart about me, mind ya, but the mules or a bag of Arbuckles, that’s different. Sonsabitches.”
Simon puffed his cheeks. “Well, how much do I pay? I don’t know what that’s gonna cost.”
“Sixty dollars for the mules and sixty-five for the supplies, same as you paid just now. Sutton said he’d get square in the spring, or if we’re lucky, a trip in November. More likely the sonuvabitch is hoping ya freeze to death.”
Simon shook his head. “Just a minute then. I’ll get it.”
“And . . . uh, they want gold.”
When Simon came out of the cabin, he counted out the coins, and then offered Whiff a piece of paper. “If you don’t mind, sign that, or put your mark on it. It’s a receipt.”
Whiff
chuffed, then took the paper and pencil, and laboriously wrote his name, holding the paper against his saddle. He handed it back to Simon, and climbed on his horse. With a rough gig to the animals’ ribs, he led the mules to the center of the meadow, and trotted north. The sound of the packer’s voice, cussing the swarm of gnats that followed, faded to silence as he disappeared from view.
Simon watched him out of sight, thinking. Whiff was one of those people who wasn’t going to be happy anywhere. And they blamed their unhappiness on whomever or whatever happened to be at hand when the inevitable daily calamity befell them, the logic of the situation be damned.
September 2, 1874. Packer visited again. Ordered supplies. I am looking forward to winter. Experience has banished my fear.
CHAPTER 30
Simon was at a loss. Whiff had been gone a week, and for the first time since he’d been a boy, he had absolutely nothing to do. The pot of coffee was gone by midmorning, and after a trip to the bathing pool, he’d messed around camp all day. Now, in the late afternoon, he sat on his bench and basked in the golden splendor of fall. The aspens and willows were in full flair, and the grass in the meadow had taken on a subdued gray-green color. The day before he’d heard a flock of geese raucously discussing plans for winter in warmer climes.
When the sun sank below the ridge, he stood and stretched, then went inside to find his supper while he had plenty of light. He unhooked a hanging ham, and cut a slice. The aroma made his mouth water. For doing nothing, he found he was hungry and cut another one. An hour later, his belly full of corn fritters with red gravy, ham, and green beans, he leaned back and watched dusk turn into dark. The night air turned cool, and he pitched three pieces of wood on the fire. As he waited for them to catch, he went to his saddlebags and got out his journal. Opening it, the remaining piece of Sarah’s letter fell into his lap and his heart sped up as he looked at the frayed thread to his past. A wave of melancholy swept over him, and he visualized her.
He held the half-sheet of paper in his hand and thought about the piece that was lost. Over the past year, he’d memorized the words of the first half, and silently recited the letter’s contents from the beginning. He spoke the last sentence out loud.
“Please understand that I am happy, both with my life and with what I am doing. If you wish me happiness, wish me success here.”
As always, his eyes brimmed with tears as he heard the finality of her words.
“Wish me success here.”
She had no time for him. There it was again, plain as day. His heart ached for her as the peace and calm of his wonderful valley settled around him. Despite the tranquility, he felt so unhappy he wanted to cry.
It was the sixth of October, a Tuesday, and he was kind of expecting Whiff to arrive. Both times before he’d come on a Tuesday, and he didn’t want to leave camp and miss seeing the packer. Be just like the man to turn around and go back. The first snow of winter fell during the night. Just a dusting, but the warning was clear. Simon spent the day in camp, frequently looking down the valley. Wednesday came and went and Simon stewed.
Sunday morning Simon busied himself splitting stove wood into kindling. Spud lay by the fireplace and watched. “I expect they’re just real busy. And that little skiff of snow ain’t gonna make any difference.” Taking a short grip on the ax handle, he lifted the blade and dropped it. A slim shaft of wood split off the piece of pine. “They’ll be along. Besides that, if darn it comes to damn it, we can always go to town ourselves.” He glanced at the dull gray sky. “If it don’t snow, that is.” He adjusted the chunk of wood, dropped the ax again, and another piece of kindling fell on the ground. His spine told him that he’d knelt over the splitting block long enough. He dropped the ax-bit into the top of the block and rocked back on his heels to stretch.
Just then, Spud stood up, ears erect, and sniffed the air. “What do you hear?” Simon stood and followed the dog’s gaze. “That’s ol’ Whiff, ain’t it?” He stepped into the open and stared at the gap in the trees that marked the trail half a mile away. Concentration made his eyes water, and he squinted the tears out, brushing them away with the back of his hand. They watched for fifteen minutes, the dog pacing back and forth, and saw nothing. Finally, Spud grumbled, and went back to the fireplace to lie down again. “You hear an elk or something?” Simon took a last look, and went back to the chopping block.
For the rest of the day, he cast glances down the valley and across the meadow at the trees. Instead of sleeping soundly like he usually did, that night he left the cabin every hour or so. Each time, he found Spud sitting by the spruce tree, alert. Something was out there. What, Simon could only sense, but the dog knew.
The next morning he stoked the fire for breakfast. He cussed when he went to fill his coffeepot. The disruption of his daily routine the day before had left the water bucket unfilled. With a sigh, he picked it up and opened the door. Instead of turning right toward his toilet as he usually did, he turned left toward the path to the creek. An odd, solid “thunk” sound confused him for the second it took for the dull but unmistakable report of a big rifle to reach his ears. He snapped his head around in time to see the wisp of white smoke in the trees across the meadow. His breath stuck in his throat as he turned on his heel and ducked. “Get back here, Spud,” he shouted and charged back into the cabin. The dog scurried in, and turned around to bark furiously at the open door.
“Did you see him?” Simon reached out and pulled the door shut. Just as he stepped back, splinters flew from the inside and another booming report reached him. “Gawdamn, get out of the way, Spud.” Simon moved to one side of the door. His breathing was quick and his heart pounded. Who could that be? And how close did he come with that first shot? Where the hell was he?
Another neat round hole appeared in the door, this one lower down, and the bullet smacked into the back wall as more fractured wood scattered on the floor. Safe enough behind the thick log walls, he thought. Just stay away from the door . . . and the window. Oh, shit, I hope he don’t hit that. He reached down and tugged absently on Spud’s ear.
Several minutes passed, maybe as many as twenty, and his nerves started to settle a little. Then another bullet flew through the door and into the stack of wood beside the stove. Four-inch wedges flew off the pile like so much tinder. His attacker was apparently shooting one of the plains hunting rifles his customers at Fort Laramie had used to kill buffalo. They had told him that it could shoot over half a mile. Simon felt trapped. For the rest of the day, randomly timed shots continued to perforate the door. He counted twenty-three holes. Just before dark, the last shot struck the outside wall. Simon spent the night sitting up, wrapped in a buffalo robe with his rifle in his lap.
The next day was a repeat of the first, and by midafternoon he realized he’d been dozing when the sound of another heavy bullet ripping through the door snapped his head upright. He stared dumbly at the riddled door for a moment, then counted the bullet holes again. His anger rose as he recognized his helplessness. His attention went to the window. At least that was intact. Stupid thought. He shuddered as he remembered sitting like this with only an oil lamp.
Then a question popped into his head and raised his eyebrows. Why hadn’t this bastard shot his window out? One more slim chance that a bullet might find a soft mark inside the cabin. He looked at the pocked door again. The answer! All the holes were in the left two-thirds. He wasn’t shooting the window because he couldn’t see it. Simon visualized his cabin from across the meadow and immediately thought of the four-foot-high rock upstream from where he drew water. From there, the fireplace and the tent frame were out of sight, as was the window side of his house. He was shooting from the rock, and it was over four hundred yards away. That made a sure shot impossible.
Simon swallowed hard. He stood and faced the door. Next shot, he’d bust out and turn right. The shooter would never be able to reload and fire before he was in the cover of the trees. Then they’d see who hunted whom. “Sonuvabitch,” he muttered
, “you’re in my valley.”
He waited. A sweat bead formed between his shoulders, and he felt it start to crawl down his back. Sweat? It was by no means warm in the cabin. Scared then? Hell, yes. How long had it been since the last shot? Over an hour, more like two. He had to get out of there. Fatigue was starting to make him dizzy. Maybe, if he suddenly appeared, he could catch the shooter unprepared. All he needed was a couple of seconds, just two, and he’d be out of sight.
The dog. He wouldn’t know what to do, and like as not, would take off after whoever was shooting. Across that meadow, he wouldn’t stand a chance. “Spud, you’re going to have to stay in here awhile.” He tied a piece of leather around the dog’s neck and tugged hard to make sure it wouldn’t slip, then tied him to the bed. Spud struggled against it. “Sit,” Simon said. The dog sat and started to whine.
Simon didn’t have to lift the latch; it was gone, blasted to smithereens. He took a deep breath, gripped his rifle, and pushed open the door. His left foot hit the ground as he rushed out and started to the right.
“Don’t move!” Reed’s voice shouted. He stood by the fireplace, the heavy gun pointed right at Simon’s face. “Don’t!” he screamed again.
Simon stood paralyzed. Then furious. Then dismayed.
“I knew you’d figger it out. And you’ve got that gawdamn dog tied up, don’t ya?” Reed chuckled. “We’ll do it my way this time. Drop the rifle.” When Simon did so, Reed stepped away from the fireplace so he could see inside the cabin. He smiled. “Now, step over to the door and push it shut, real slow.”
Simon did as he was told, and as the door swung shut, Spud started to growl. Then Simon heard the protest strangle as the collar pulled tight. He kicked the door shut, and was relieved to hear Spud whine.
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