“I know you’ve got gold, Simon, lots of it. I just couldn’t find it all last time.” He stepped back toward the fireplace. As he did so, he lowered the gun from his shoulder but still held it leveled at Simon’s chest.
The face that looked back at Simon made his eyes go wide. What had once been a nice-looking one, almost handsome, was now a red, angry-looking mass of scabbed flesh. His right eye drooped open, and the eyelid didn’t close completely when he blinked. The overly wet socket seeped tears down his cheek. A yellow crust caked the eyelashes.
“Pretty, ain’t it?” Reed said. “Hurts, too.”
Simon said nothing, and watched his tormentor.
“Your dog did what he had to do. I don’t hold him responsible.”
Right. Now you’re my friend again, thought Simon. He watched for the muzzle to drop.
“All I want is enough money to get to Denver or St. Louis and get this fixed. And you have it. If I didn’t think so, you’d be dead now.”
Simon said nothing, and continued to stare at the long rifle.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Reed continued. “You give up your cache, and I shoot you anyway. That’s what’s called a dilemma.”
The strange calmness he’d experienced at the saloon in Challis came to him again. He felt no fear, and for a few seconds he watched Reed’s chest rise and fall as he breathed. The muzzle of the rifle was huge, maybe fifty-caliber, and it didn’t waver. Reed’s bullets had hit the wood by the stove a dozen times, and he imagined what that heavy slug would do to his body. Death would be instant. What could be wrong with that? But what about the dog? Tied up, he didn’t stand a chance.
“Are you crazy, Simon?” the voice he talked to at night asked. “You’re about to die, and you’re worried about a dog.”
Yeah, but he’s my dog. No, he’s my friend, the only one I’ve ever been sure of.
“If you let the dog go, and I see him gone, I’ll do as you say,” Simon finally said.
Reed cocked his head, grimaced, and straightened it up again. It must have hurt because the tears flowed heavily. He lifted his hand and wiped his cheek, but the rifle’s muzzle held rock-steady on Simon’s chest. “You and that damn mutt. Didn’t fool you for a minute, did I? I’d love to gut that sonuvabitch with a dull knife. But I’m a practical man and—”
Reed’s left arm flew backward, and the heavy rifle fell to the ground as the sound of a gunshot smote Simon’s left ear. He spun around to see Whiff lower a short carbine, and start toward him.
“Whiff.” It was all he could get out.
The packer strode toward him, fumbling in his ammunition pouch, alternating glances at the open breech of his rifle and the prone figure of Justin Reed. By the time he’d reached him, Reed’s legs had quit thrashing and he lay still. The Sharpe’s clicked as the lever closed.
Whiff poked Reed’s hip with the muzzle. “Sumbitch is dead as a horse turd,” he muttered.
Simon stepped up beside him and looked at the body. The amount of blood that had spread toward the fireplace made his stomach turn. “Why are you here?”
Whiff screwed up his face. “That’s kind of a dumb question, ain’t it?”
“I mean, how did you know . . . how come you walked through the trees like that? Didn’t just ride up like normal?”
“Oh. Yeah, I see what ya mean. I saw his horse. It’s tied up nearly a mile downstream. There’s enough horse shit around to know he’d been there a day or two. I figgered I’d either find you dead and him in the cabin, ’er vice-versy. Weren’t gonna take no chance. There’s a reward for him. And they don’t care dead or otherwise.”
“A reward? That means the marshal is sure he killed that prospector.”
“Ain’t just that. Little feller at Spring Creek, lives in that house right by the river? He found Toad’s body hanged up in a brush pile. His head was near ’nuf blowed plumb off. That’s when Marshal Hess posted the reward.” He looked at the sky and winced. “Now, I’ll go get the mules and unload.” Moving as fast as his older legs would let him, he shuffled off toward the south.
Simon looked down at Reed again, and then heard a low bark. He turned and hurried into the cabin. Spud pulled at his restraint and tried to jump up.
“Sit still and I’ll get you untied.” Simon worked on the knot. Pulled so tight he couldn’t unfasten it, he reached for his knife and cut the thong. He grabbed the dog by the scruff of his neck and stepped through the door. The growl that came from the dog when he spotted Reed gave Simon a chill. It was a vicious and serious growl. He tightened his grip.
“You leave that alone. You hear me?” He stepped in front of the dog. “No.” When he released his grip, Spud took a couple of steps to the side and sniffed the air. Then he turned to face downstream, and started to grumble.
“I know, boy. That’s Whiff.” Simon went back into the cabin, and came out with a piece of canvas. He threw it across Reed’s body.
Fifteen minutes later, the packer led his two mules between the trees and got off his horse. “I don’t think I can get out of here today.” He pointed at the canvas-covered corpse. “You got a little bigger piece of that? I try to throw his ass on the mule, and all hell’s gonna pay. Look at their ears. They don’t even like being this close.”
“I wish you wouldn’t refer to him that way. Ain’t Christian.”
“That sonuvabitch ain’t either.” Whiff looked at Simon, and then at the rifle Simon had leaned against the cabin. “I see you want the rifle.”
“Not really. I just moved it. You can have it.”
Whiff shook his head. “Yer an odd one, I’ll grant you that.” He led the mules to the woodpile, and tied them up.
Whiff accepted Simon’s invitation to sleep in the cabin, and after arranging his bedroll, he sat and watched Simon make supper.
Whiff struck a match, and lit his pipe. “Ya seem to have two minds, or maybe even three or four, about that yahoo laying across the woodpile.”
“I suppose I see the sense in doing that, but it didn’t seem right,” Simon replied.
“Come mornin’, that bastard’s gonna be stiff as an ax handle. This way, all folded up nice, he’ll hang on that packsaddle like a couple of hundred-pound sacks of feed.”
“Why couldn’t we just bury him, like I did that prospector?”
“Ain’t the way it works. Folks is funny about their pound of flesh. Toad weren’t all that friendly a feller, and he stunk like a July gut-pile, but he was considered one of the town folks. And those town folks want to see the sonuvabitch that killed him all laid out, cold, and still. ’Sides that, I’ve gotta go back and gather up my goods. Ain’t no bother.”
“Sounds like you’re leaving.”
“Gonna make one more trip, son. That carcass out there is my stake. I don’t like this country, not even a little bit. And I don’t like my boss or my job.”
“Appears to me you don’t like mules either.”
“Yer talking about the first time we met, right? That wasn’t about the mule. He just got in the way. I’d just asked Olsen for a bit more money and he said no. You know you pay more for them mules than you do for me?”
Whiff’s furrowed brow and tight lips gave Simon pause. Was this another example of being too quick to judge? How many times had he felt like hitting a horse, or booting Spud in the butt for something a human had done? “I’ve always tried to pay a man what he’s worth.”
“Well, I ain’t suckin’ hind tit no more. Two weeks from now, three at most, I’m gonna be in Tucson, sittin’ in the sun drinkin’ Mexican licker.”
“Was the reward that much?”
“One thousand United States dollars, gold.” Whiff enunciated every word, and then smiled for the first time since Simon had met him.
“That seems a lot.”
“What folks is thinkin’ is, Reed probably killed upwards to a dozen men and maybe even one woman. And the worst part is, he could cuz they trusted him. That makes him a particularly evil man to my way of thi
nking.”
“That does shed a different light on it. Funny how a person sees a situation only as it applies to themselves.”
“Don’t get ya.”
“Reed took advantage of me, and maybe thought about killin’ me, but—”
“But you’re still thinkin’ that maybe he wouldn’t, and that maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.”
“Well, kind of. I—”
“Mind you, it ain’t my part no how, but I think you ought to put that out of yer head. He’d have killed you, sure as spring itches.” Whiff looked at his pipe, took a pull, and fished another stick match out of his shirt pocket.
Simon turned the steaming batch of spuds over in one pan, and poked at the four plump sausages cooking in another. What he didn’t want to talk to Whiff about was the fact that his own turmoil wasn’t caused by Reed’s death. It was about his own acceptance of the experience. It felt almost casual. There was another human being outside, bent across a woodpile for the sake of convenience, and he’d helped drape the body. What was becoming of him? There had to be some loyalty to your own kind.
“That’s startin’ to smell damn good,” Whiff said.
“Uh . . . yeah, it’ll be ready in a few minutes.” Simon hastily turned the potatoes again—just in time.
Ten minutes later Simon sat and stared at his food. He tried but could not make the first bite go down. Whiff, grinning now, and relaxed, speared the two sausages on Simon’s plate and relieved him of his charade.
October 14, 1874. Reed was killed as he would kill me. My thoughts are confused and unworthy of paper.
CHAPTER 31
Whiff would be in Tucson by now. Simon sat at his table looking out at the snow-covered meadow, trying to imagine a hot day. A month had passed since the incident. He thought it significant that, mentally, he referred to it as just that, the incident. Two feet of snow had fallen over the course of three days, and then the temperature had plunged. He’d made one hurried trip to the hot springs to check on the horse, and from then on he’d restricted his outside activity to trips to the creek for water, and out past the woodpile to his toilet.
The window made all the difference in the world, changing the cabin from a mind-suffocating dungeon to a rather pleasant home. Deep snow on the roof kept the heat in and buffered the sound of the wind. He recalled the last winter and how, preoccupied with just keeping warm, he hadn’t had time to think. Now he did, and what he’d thought would be a luxury turned out to be drudgery.
No man can be expected to examine his soul and not wish for a mystic eraser. Tainted by death and betrayal, Simon had journeyed to this valley seeking to restore his spirit. And what had he found, even in this beautiful place? Death and betrayal. He’d become hard, like the granite ridges above him, but without the grandness.
Since the incident, even Sarah had abandoned him. Several times, he’d sought solace in her mental image, and all he could conjure up was a vague figure walking away in the mist. He’d taken Reed for who he was because he didn’t know what he was. How could he? Now he felt hardened against others, suspicious. Had he gained nothing by coming here? He looked down at Spud, sound asleep by the stove, and smiled to himself. If only that was the stuff of men. Without guile or deceit, his dog had total faith that he was the same.
October delivered to November a landscape frozen solid as a splitting wedge. And November kept it that way for December to carry into January. His fresh meat was gone, the last of a small deer boiled with some carrots and parsnips, and the cabin walls had started to lean in on him.
“Let’s go find us a deer, Spud. Or even a hare. I gotta get out of here for a while.” Simon shrugged into his buffalo coat, folded back the overlapping hides that blocked the draft of his bullet-riddled door, and stepped outside. His nose hairs froze with the first breath, and the skin on his face felt stiff. He pulled his rifle out of the scabbard, checked for a shell in the chamber, and strode away from the cabin.
He and the dog had trudged south, well past the frozen lake, and hadn’t seen so much as a crow. It was now afternoon and they were headed back to the cabin. The frigid air sneaked past the fringe of his fur-trimmed hood and he scrunched his shoulders to close the gap. He could hear Spud behind him, snuffling in the grainy snow back some fifteen feet or so. Simon glanced back when the sound stopped to see Spud with his head buried in the snow, his tail arched over his back. Simon trudged on.
They still had well over a mile to go and he was thankful the snow wasn’t so deep he had to wear snowshoes. He detested the damned things on the flat. Here, on the narrow trail, they would have been a real pain in the ass. The weight of the liver and heart in his tote sack was a comfort. It had been nearly two weeks since they’d eaten really fresh meat, and he was looking forward to it. He remembered how lucky he’d been.
When he’d about given up seeing anything, the sleek doe had simply risen from her bed in a willow grove near where he was standing, catching his breath. He put one shot right behind her ear and she’d dropped without a sound. He hated gutting the animals he killed in any event. And the twenty minutes he’d spent getting her innards out had been a trial. Blood up to his elbows, a sticky, miserable mess, he’d nearly froze his hands cleaning them in the powdery snow. He’d stashed the carcass under an outcrop and moved a couple of big rocks to partially cover her, safe enough until he came back in the morning with the horse.
Another jolt of icy air passed his bristled cheek, and chilled the sweat on his neck. He gave another shoulder hunch to cut off the flow. The temperature had dropped when the lackluster sun abandoned them, probably ten or fifteen below zero. He hurried his steps a little and wondered where the dog had gone.
As he approached the twin rocks, the streambed narrowed sharply. He couldn’t see it here, but the creek’s incessant babble rose through the snow. A chill crept through him, and it wasn’t from the cold. This time getting wet would mean dying for sure. He picked his way along the narrow part and breathed a sigh of relief as the creek bottom opened up again, and he could see the steam from the hot springs.
He sensed, rather than heard or saw, the attacking animal. The short hairs on his neck bristled, and his sixth sense seized his groin. The beast hit him in the back with such ferocity, he was momentarily stunned. It leapt onto the meat-filled sack and held on, its hind feet digging into the backs of his legs. The snarling, coughing grunt of his attacker, and the ripping pain in his left leg, cleared his head, snapping him back to reality.
Claws, sharp as an awl, tore his wool pants as they dug in. Then, the smell hit him, and he knew he’d have to fight for his life. The wolverine! The animal had obviously sunk its teeth into the fresh meat, and the taste of blood seemed to fuel the ferocity of the attack.
Simon shook off his mittens, and tore at the rifle’s shoulder strap, trying to free his Winchester and get it around to his chest. Finally, it came loose and he seized the rifle, left hand on the grip, right on the barrel. He jabbed the butt behind his left hip as hard as he could, once, twice, three times. Each blow met solid muscle, and each blow made the wolverine grunt. The fourth strike drove the curved steel butt-plate deep, and a bone snapped. With a snarl, the wolverine let go of the pack and dropped to the ground.
Simon started to turn around. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flat, ugly head with the torn ear. In the time it takes to think it, the animal pressed his attack, boring in as Simon moved. In an instant, it had its yellow teeth clamped on the calf of his leg, missing the bone, but securely set in the flesh. The flash of hot pain nearly took his senses away. Up came the butt of the rifle, and as it came down, a flash of color brought Spud into the fray.
Canine teeth snapped shut on the wolverine’s rear-end and testicles just as the butt of the Winchester crashed down on the beast’s back. The wolverine tore its teeth loose from his leg, and seemed to turn in its skin to face the dog. Powerful jaws clamped down on Spud’s paw, and with a snap of its head, the beast ripped away half of the foot. The tendons pa
rted with a wet snapping sound. With an agonized howl, the dog let go and reared back, but not before another fierce swipe ripped into his neck. Then, both the dog and the beast sat on their haunches, rampant.
The pause in the fight lasted only a second or two, but to Simon’s perception, it seemed to last forever, dreamlike. The Winchester, now a club, rose, Simon gripping the barrel with both hands. It ascended above his head as he stretched to full height and then, descended. Slowly, so slowly it came down, the steel and brass glinting in the late sun, the light scribing a deadly arc that would meet the wolverine.
The back of the steel action crashed down and the hammer spur disappeared into the top of the flat, dark triangular head. A spray of dark blood fanned out, and the sickening, yet satisfying, crunch of live bone being crushed declared the wolverine’s defeat. The beast screamed defiance with one last spitting snarl of rage. The fresh blood flew all over the wounded dog, and the wolverine sagged to the ground, dead.
Simon laid his rifle in the brush and went to the dog. The glistening white of exposed bone in the dog’s paw was an insult. Blood gushed from it and the wound on his neck, staining an ever-widening blotch on the torn-up trail. The dog tried to lick the wounds clean, but failed. As Simon stood looking on helplessly, the pain in his legs reminded him that he, too, was in bad shape.
His leg hurt like hell and threatened to fold when he tried to put his full weight on it. He struggled to look at his wounds around the bulk of his coat, but couldn’t, and in the cold, he didn’t dare take it off. He looked at Spud again. The dog licked his savaged paw furiously, all the time whining softly. A lump grew in Simon’s throat. Suddenly, the dog quit and looked up at him with a stare that seemed to ask a question. Then the dog laid its head down in the snow and closed its eyes. Simon knelt beside him, and gently stroked his friend’s head. Heartbroken, he didn’t know what to do. Could he carry the dog a mile? A terrific stab of pain in his leg answered the question. He trembled with frustration, and his tears froze on his cheeks.
Struggling to his feet, he hobbled to his rifle, then wondered if he should use a cartridge. With the cold settling fast, what little warmth the dog had left was leaking out on the ground. Spud opened his eyes and looked up at him. Did Simon see understanding there, or was it his conscience seeking release? The dog’s mouth opened a little and his tongue moved ever so slightly through his teeth. His tail twitched in one final wag, then his eyes shut again.
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