“But you had a talk with Tay before you left. He said you were upset.”
“Well, hell, yes, I was upset. You should have seen your face. I thought you was gonna die right then and there. Wanted to stay around but . . . well, me and the army, you know.”
Simon sat silent for a long time and stared at the fire.
“You’re thinkin’ something else, aren’t ya? I’ve known ya all my life, Mr. Steele, and I can tell when you’re stewin’. C’mon, spit it out.”
“Do you remember what I said when you . . . shot him again?”
“Nope. I was lookin’ to leave, hurried like.”
“I . . .” Simon stopped.
“If muckin’ out that particular stall is givin’ ya grief, leave it alone.”
“I thought I’d insulted ya,” Simon blurted it out.
“You. Insult me? Not likely.”
“It’s been on my—”
“Then get it off yer mind. We did what we had to do, Simon. That was a rough place, and we damn near got ourselves killed two or three times. We didn’t. Leave it at that.” Buell’s eyes bored in on his own, and his head took that peculiar cant that it did when something dawned on him. “And that’s why you left? Cuz I did?” Buell started to laugh. “Ain’t that a snort. I was goin’ back this summer. Figgered on findin’ a prosperous saloon and hotel keeper. Had a hard time believin’ that marshal when he told me you were up here in one of these canyons. Coulda knocked me over with a skeeter fart.”
“You’ll never know how good that makes me feel, Buell. I thought I’d lost a friend.”
“Humph,” Buell snorted.
“Knowing that sure restores a lot of what I thought I’d lost.”
“Oh, gawd, here it comes. He’s gonna get all damp on me.” Buell rolled his eyes.
“C’mon Buell. I ain’t had nobody to talk about stuff like that since . . . well, you know, since we used to talk at Amos’s place. I thought I’d made a friend when I got here. Name was Reed and he packed in my supplies. Then the lying bastard tried to kill me. Spud knowed he was a polecat. Shoulda listened to the dog.”
“He the one that shot up your place?”
“Yeah, but that was after Spud tore him up some and I’d shot his partner.”
“Damn, Simon, you are a changed man. Ya shot his partner? Dead?”
“No. Took a piece out of his side is all.”
“Where’s the Indian come in?”
“Reed hated him. Actually, Reed hated all Indians. He almost convinced me that they are no good. But he, I call him Red Socks cuz he wears the pair I gave him, he pulled me out of . . . another story. Just say he saved me from suffocating in a hole.” Simon cast a glance at the cabin. “He brought me meat when I was about to starve, saved me and Spud when we got in a fight with a wolverine and would have froze to death for sure. And Reed said the Indian was the bad one.” Simon paused, stared at the fire for a few seconds, then continued. “Walks Fast was right. You know a man when he shows you his heart. I think I found what I needed up here. We should enjoy the best of what’s offered and learn to live with the rest. I always wanted everything to be perfect. Well, things ain’t. And that’s fair, because we’re not either.”
Buell shook his head. “What in hell would’ve happened if you’d actually gone lookin’ for trouble?” He chuckled. “Now, tell me about gettin’ stuck in a hole.”
CHAPTER 34
It was late morning, and Simon sat basking in the sun. They had talked well into the night, and Buell was still in bed. Some things don’t change, he thought. It was wonderful knowing he hadn’t lost his friend. Buell hadn’t been very specific about what he’d been doing personally, and that bothered him a little but . . . Simon shrugged mentally. At least he’d told a lot of stories about what he’d seen and where he’d been.
The Boise Basin sounded a lot like here, only swarming with thousands of people. Should he tell Buell about the twin rocks and the secret they held? He’d admitted that the lure of gold was what drew him to the mountains. Apparently, he’d not found much, or he wasn’t talking about it. Simon gazed across the meadow and tried to imagine a tent city that stretched as far as he could see. It wasn’t a pleasant image. The door opened.
“Mornin’,” Buell said and hurried away.
“ ’Bout time,” he replied without opening his eyes.
A couple of minutes later, Buell returned and sat beside him on the bench. “I can see why you like it here. Did you make coffee yet?”
“Nope, didn’t want a boot in the head. Remember that? The Texans?”
“Yup.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. “Besides that, I thought we agreed it was your job,” Simon said.
Buell continued to stare at the far side of the valley for a bit, then sighed and got up. “Got anything ground?”
“Bag’s on the right-hand end, top shelf. Water bucket’s half full.” Simon leaned back against the wall, looked up at his friend, and grinned. “Deal’s a deal.”
“The deal wasn’t supposed to last forever,” Buell muttered as he walked over to the fireplace and picked up the pot.
Simon shut his eyes and listened to Buell fuss around inside the cabin. He soon came out and set the coffeepot by the fireplace, then put the coffee bag and two cups on the table. In a couple of minutes he’d expertly coaxed the campfire back to life, and put the pot on to boil. He walked back to the bench and sat down.
“There, coffee soon enough. That does bring back memories though. Good ones.”
“It does that,” Simon replied. He recalled their trip across the plains from Carlisle to Fort Laramie. Simon had agreed to cook, but only after Buell had agreed to have a fire and coffee going first.
“What made you pick this spot? I saw several downstream that looked nearly as good.”
“Those two trees.”
Buell looked up at the towering conifers, then back at Simon. “You know what they remind me of?”
“No idea.”
Buell’s eyebrows went up as he cocked one leg on the bench and faced Simon. “Have you thought much about home? I mean, it’s been seven years.”
Simon suspected it wasn’t really home he was referring to. Apparently Buell hadn’t forgotten his promise not to talk about Sarah. “I got a letter from her,” he said quietly. “It didn’t help much.”
“I’m sorry. I thought maybe . . . well, I don’t know what I thought.”
“She more or less told me that she’d reconciled—come to grips, with what had happened. She was teaching college. I suppose that’s what she’s doing now in a school back east somewhere.” Simon felt somehow relieved to be talking about it. “What’s home got to do with those trees?”
“They reminded me of you and her. Soon’s I saw ’em, I thought that. A perfect pair, side by each.”
“I always got the impression you didn’t really like her much.”
“I was jealous, plain and simple. I can admit it now.”
“Jealous? You? Buell Mace didn’t want a girlfriend. Not the Buell Mace I knew.”
“There’s a difference between not wanting and not needing, Simon,” Buell said.
Buell’s face became serious. Simon had only seen that side of his friend once or twice.
Buell went on, “That thought come to me real clear right after the first of the year. I was sittin’ in a saloon, playing cards, and slowly gettin’ drunk again. Fella come in, pissed as a newt, and wanted to fight me. I halfway knew this guy. He worked at the bakery.”
Buell paused, and Simon could see he was recalling the incident. Buell did not talk like this. Always, he’d been reluctant to speak his thoughts. Simon nodded his head slightly.
“That happened a lot, Simon. And I was always glad to show ’em it was a bad mistake. It wasn’t a matter of thinkin’ about it. I’d just let fly at ’em with whatever come to hand. A bottle, beer mug, my fist, hell, I even brained a guy with a piece of foot rail once. But this time, when I stood up to get clea
r of my chair, something suddenly changed. And I mean sudden. Instead of seein’ something I wanted to hurt, I saw something that was hurtin’ already. I didn’t need to do that anymore. Somehow, I knew hurting him wouldn’t make me feel better, Simon. And I realized it never had.” Buell swallowed hard a couple of times.
For the first time ever, Simon saw his friend’s eyes glaze over. “So what happened?”
“I wrestled him to the floor and sat on ’im. I swear it would’ve been better if I’d just shot him. He got so mad, he couldn’t holler. Just puffed air and spit. Pretty soon, three of his friends come over, so I got off and they took him outside. About a week later, I run into the marshal. He told me you was here. I kinda got the feeling that you were looking for some answers too. Right then I decided I needed to see ya again.”
“And this happened when, exactly?”
“Right after the new year, maybe a week or so. And in the middle of the afternoon. That’s why I remember it so clear. I thought, ‘What’s a working feller like him doin’ blind drunk in the middle of the day?’ ”
A shiver sprinted up Simon’s spine and his scalp contracted. “I’d say a demon climbed off your back . . . or was taken off.”
“Yeah, that’s something I’d expect you to say. You still like to talk in riddles and shit like that.” Buell shook his head. “Anyhow, that’s what happened, and here I am.”
“And I’m glad you’re here. You gonna stay awhile?”
“I wanna go home, Simon.”
It was said, simple and clear. Simon didn’t know how to respond. The same thought had slipped into his mind several times since he’d been hurt. But the thought was always transient, banished when he imagined home without Sarah.
“Why don’t we go?” Buell asked.
“That’s simple. Sarah. It ain’t home without her.”
Buell sighed. “And that letter was definite? I mean, she said she didn’t . . . uh, love ya?”
“More or less. I never really read the bottom half. Couldn’t get past the part where she said to leave her alone. And now that’s gone.”
“Gone?” Buell sat up straight.
“Yeah. When those yahoos sacked my place, they ruined the top half of her letter.”
“Can you tell me what she said?”
“Exactly. I read that letter a hundred times. She said, ‘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.’ That’s plain enough.”
“Not to me it ain’t. She was going to school. She cared what you thought, and asked you to wish her happiness. That ain’t sayin’ to leave her alone. Damn, Simon.” Buell frowned.
“You think?” Simon’s heart sped up. “Let me get the bottom half. I’ll let you read it.” He stood. “And you better move that pot unless you want to boil all the water away.”
Buell read the faint writing slowly. The paper looked almost soft in his hands. Simon watched him read it twice.
“Gawdamn, Simon. I ain’t never seen you so wrong about something.”
“All she talks about is stuff that’s past.” Simon was confused. “What could have been. Ain’t that the first sentence?”
“But then she talks about your time together and how beautiful it was. She says for now, you idiot, not forever.” Buell looked down at the paper again. “Things can’t be changed except with time. That’s what she wrote. You dumb shit, she’s saying she needed a little time. You both needed a little time. And why do you think she cries? She misses you and waiting for that time to pass is real hard on her. Gawd, you’re stupid.”
Simon took the letter from his friend and read it again slowly. The faded words distorted to indistinguishable blobs as tears formed. He got up and shuffled over to stand between the spruce trees. How had he missed it? It was so apparent once he read the bottom without the top part to upset him. He turned around.
“Let’s go home, Buell.”
CHAPTER 35
Carlisle now had three crossing streets, boardwalks, and a dozen two-story buildings, two of which had the name “STEELE” incorporated in the sign on the front. The town had grown up north of the railroad tracks, and the first place they stopped was the Mace Transportation and Portage business next door to the train depot. The barn was still there, but another, newer building stood alongside. Simon thought Buell’s father was going to break both their necks as he hugged them collectively. It was all Simon could do to get loose. Yes, Simon’s folks were fine. Yes, the town had grown. Yes, Ruth was well. And yes, Sarah was a schoolteacher and she was here.
Mace had said the school was where it always was, only bigger. A lot bigger, Simon saw, as he walked across the playground. Still the dusty place it always was, his shoes, so carefully tended and brand-new, took on a covering of the fine powder. There were several children playing on a teeter-totter and a swing, but not enough of them to indicate school was in session. Mace had said it wasn’t yet.
Simon’s mouth and throat were so dry, he felt hoarse. He climbed the three steps to the double doors and paused. The celluloid of his collar cut into his jaw, and a trickle of sweat left his armpit and slipped down his side. Then, he grasped the knob and pulled the door open. He’d expected to see one large room. Instead, he stood in a foyer that had desks on either side. A hall ran down the center of the building. There were four doors, two on each side. Three were shut. He headed for the open one.
The scent as he approached the door left no doubt. The lavender perfume drew him into the room, and there she was. She’d heard his footfall and stood, mouth open, staring at him. He could not take another step. Her face, now slightly narrower, and even more beautiful with maturity, was framed in the soft brown hair of memory. The sudden urge to flee surged into his legs. She said nothing. Did she recognize him?
Then she blinked. “Simon?”
He saw her eyes glaze, and his feet were free to move.
“Oh, Simon.” The familiar tilt of her head, the one he’d seen a thousand times in his dreams, drew him across the floor in a rush. She opened her arms and he leaned into them as they closed around his neck. He shut his eyes and pulled her tight to his chest, hardly daring to breathe for fear he’d lose control of the moment. The sob that came from her nearly broke his heart. He held her close until he thought he could speak. Then, slowly, he relaxed his hold until he could see into her eyes.
“Oh Sarah, my Sarah,” Simon murmured, fighting for control of his voice. “At last, I understand why you cried.”
EPILOGUE
Simon left his rifle and cartridges at the “gift tree” and told the woman by the river that his household was free for the taking. He’d considered burning the cabin, but decided to leave it intact. The source of the gold that Simon loaded on his horse the last day was never discussed. His friends at Fort Laramie received promises of future visits, and a reply from his old partner Amos confirmed that Simon’s investments had made him a prosperous man. Sarah and Simon were married in late winter at the biggest wedding in Carlisle’s history. And Buell? Well . . . Buell is another story.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Wallace J. Swenson was born and raised in a small rural town in southeast Idaho. From the very beginning, he lived a life of hard work supported by a strong family. He was taught by example the value of honesty and loyalty, and it is about such that he wrote. His family numbered ten, and though poor in a material sense, he considered himself blessed beyond measure in the spiritual. He resided with his wife of fifty-plus years, Jacquelyn, near where both were born, and close to all their children and grandchildren. He intended to live there the rest of his life and spend that time putting down on paper the dozens of stories that whirled around inside his head. He did just that. Wallace J. Swenson died suddenly in February of 2015. He left a literary legacy of which this book is a small part.
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