“Then she can stay where she is?”
“Can stay? I’d insist,” Amos said. “Was that what was worryin’ ya?”
“I wasn’t sure, and we didn’t want to take advantage.” Zahn forced a sheepish smile.
“Well, consider it done, for hell sakes. She’s part of this place.” Amos reached over and slapped Zahn on the arm. “Tell her she’s welcome.”
“Thanks, Amos. You, too, Simon,” Lori said from the doorway. “I’ve been listening, couldn’t help myself.”
“Well, you’re sure welcome. Damn, the things folks worry about,” Amos said with a chuckle. “So, when ya gotta leave?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll drive the team to Cheyenne, and catch a supply train to the tie yard. It’s about fifty miles west. The ties are cut in the mountains a little to the south.”
“And you been stewin’ about this for two weeks?” Amos rolled his eyes.
“We’re an independent couple,” Lori said.
“Well, I am too, but what’s friends for? No, we’re glad to have ya. And we’ll take good care of her while yer gone, Zahn. You can count on it.”
Zahn left McCaffrey’s ranch early the next morning. Breakfast was a quiet affair.
CHAPTER 17
Simon lay still, listening to the morning. Memories of lying awake in the quiet of the sod house back home drifted in and out of his consciousness. Recalling the simpler time of his youth made what he was doing now seem so complicated.
This morning was like several he had spent over the past week or so, awake for no reason, and tired. Buell had not completely gotten over their last argument, and the demands of the business continued to grow. More and more hunters, gamblers, and people just seeking the excitement of the West visited the ranch, and the mental stress of keeping everyone satisfied had started to take its toll.
He heard the saloon doors open and shut, then the sound of several people moving around the stable, presumably getting horses ready for an early-morning excursion. Probably the party from New York City. Arrogant and demanding, they were due to leave Monday, three days hence. Wide awake now, Simon heard the group mount up and leave.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. Buell was a mound of blankets in the bed across the room; not even his head showed. Simon could hear his quiet snoring. Spud raised his head, then got to his feet, and stretched. The dog watched, his gaze steady, anticipation in his eyes as Simon got up and dressed.
Stepping out onto the porch, Simon looked east and judged the sun had another half hour or so before rising. He walked around the side of the house and toward the barn. The crests of the low hills to the northeast were tinged with gold as the sun lit them. Suddenly, he felt a powerful urge to walk into the mountains. He strode quickly to the end of the barn and stood, heart pounding, to stare off into the distance. The presence he felt was almost palpable, the hair on the back of his neck rose, and his nostrils flared as he brought every sense to bear on the strange feeling. Whatever it was, it now held him spellbound. He had no sense of how long he stood immobile, watching.
“What’n hell ya doin’?”
Buell’s sudden appearance startled Simon, and his sharp intake of breath snapped his eyes into focus. His body relaxed so suddenly, he felt weak.
“You okay? I’ve been standin’ here for over a minute and you weren’t breathin’.”
“I . . . I don’t know. I came out to take a leak, and felt something pulling me out there.” Simon pointed a shaky finger toward the hills. His hand came back, and covered his mouth.
“I heard ya go out.”
“That was really an odd feeling. I mean, I almost took off walking.”
“Don’t get too upset about it,” Buell said. He sounded reassuring. “I’ve done that dozens a times.”
“Ya have?” Simon smiled weakly.
“Sure. Ain’t never told nobody, but it’s what made me go out and sit in the prairie back home. Woke up on the riverbank once, and it was mornin’. I remember leaving the livery, but that’s all. Scared the hell outta me the first time I did that.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t know. I think it’s like a dream, only in these kind, you move around.”
“Like walking in your sleep?”
“Not really. It comes on me when I’m awake, and then I just drift away. Sometimes . . . I don’t know . . . it’s like daydreaming, ya know, just thinkin’ about stuff. But then something seems to take over. I quit worryin’ ’bout it.”
“I don’t like it.” Simon shook his head, and then he shuddered.
“Don’t blame ya. But ain’t much ya kin do about it, I don’t think. Let’s go get some breakfast.”
They walked around the front of the barn and crossed the road to the saloon. The place was still quiet.
The following Monday, Simon made a trip to the fort. After he’d finished his business at the sutler’s store and picked up some mail, he decided to see if Walks Fast was home. He sat his horse until the old Indian emerged from the tepee.
“Come in.” Walks Fast held the flap open and waited.
After they were seated and had waited the customary minute or two, Simon spoke. “I’ve had a strange . . . can’t call it a dream, but I felt something wanted me to see, or hear some . . . I can’t describe it.” Simon shook his head in frustration. “It happened three days ago.”
“Were you lifted from sleep?”
“If you mean, was I sleeping, no. I was outside.”
“Not all spirits work when we sleep. We have day spirits too. Day spirits tell a man when he is wrong. Day spirit is gentle and doesn’t make much noise. You had a night spirit visit in the daytime.”
“You mean I was daydreaming?”
“Not the same. Daydreams are lazy, and come when you’re not worried. Night spirits come when a man has many problems. It comes to help the day spirit.”
“Why did I feel I needed to walk into the hills?”
“Night spirit is strongest when a man is still. Your night spirits want you to go to a quiet place, and take the truth.”
“But it almost felt like something had hold of me.”
“Spirits are very strong. They can stop a storm, and heal a broken body. It is easy for a spirit to carry you into the mountains.”
Walks Fast looked at Simon, and the gentleness in his face made Simon feel warm. “But I didn’t hear anything. I felt like going, but that’s all. I have a hard time saying this, but shouldn’t I hear something?”
“When a night spirit works in the day, it, too, is quiet like the day spirit. Simon must listen close to hear. You should go to the mountains. Soon. Go alone and listen. A strong spirit waits for you.”
“Where?”
“It will show you.” The old man nodded his head and smiled.
As Simon started to get up, Walks Fast reached over, and put his palm on Simon’s chest. He held the brown, wrinkled hand hard against his body for a moment, then nodded again. “Very strong. Heart of mother,” he said and dropped his hand to his lap.
Amos laughed out loud when he heard about Walks Fast’s advice of the day before. “You’re an educated man, Simon. This spirit talk is bullshit.”
“I know what I felt, Amos.”
“Everybody goes through that once in a while. Same as knowin’ something bad’s gonna happen. It never does. Phooey. But hell, ya want to take off fer a few days and chase an elk or deer, go right ahead. Lord knows ya earned it. Don’t think mucha you goin’ alone though.”
“Neither do I,” Buell said.
“It’s not that I don’t want you along. Walks Fast said I should go alone.”
“Well, at least take Spud,” Buell said.
“All right. I’ll take the dog. Now I’m gonna go.”
They left the saloon and walked across to the barn. Simon’s horse stood ready, saddlebags bulging, his Winchester rifle riding in the scabbard. Simon climbed on the horse, and with a whistle to the dog, rode past the saloon. McCaffrey’s ra
nch was soon out of sight.
Without thinking about it, he followed the river toward the fort, then, when he came to the creek that ran past Tay’s dugout, he turned toward the mountains. The old prospector’s horse was gone, and the cabin looked vacant, so he rode on by, and was soon three miles up the valley. The creek forked and the horse went right. Simon remembered the canyon to the left was where Zahn and the men had cut the timber for the little houses. He remembered, too, his walk out of the canyon after his horse had been killed.
“Wonder if I could find that place again?” he said out loud.
The sound of his own voice made him aware that he had no idea where he was and could not remember anything about the ride, except for the quick once-over of Tay’s cabin. He stopped the horse and looked around. The willows along the creek had the look of something prepared to meet the coming cold. Their bright summer lushness had given way to a dull gray-green look of hardiness, the result of the first frost over a month ago.
The aspens looked scruffy. Blotches of dulled red and orange still spotted the hillside, with the occasional defiant splash of brilliant color from a sheltered copse. The dark green of the timber higher up had a forbidding appearance, a warning to stay in the shelter of the lowlands. His horse edged toward the creek, and Simon let him drink. The water was clear as the air. Simon got off and knelt beside the stream, cupped hands lifting the sweet, ice-cold refreshment to his lips.
Simon continued climbing slowly, and after passing several low outcrops of rock, he came to an abrupt narrows, impassable, the creek cutting through the naked rock. Again, he let his horse have his head, and they climbed above the creek to the left, into the trees. An hour or so later, they emerged into a two-hundred-acre oval-shaped meadow. Near the far end, a rock slide had created a small lake of about two acres in size. To his left a stream, barely a foot wide, sprang out of the hillside from under a hundred-foot-high sheer rock outcrop. The gentle hiss of the breeze in the treetops rose to a peaceful sigh for a moment, then subsided to a silence so complete, Simon could hear the horse’s heartbeat. An overwhelming sense of tranquility settled on him that took his breath.
Then anxiety seized him, and the stillness turned frightening. He looked around for the dog and couldn’t see him. Turning in the saddle to search behind, the trees leaned over him, threatening to cut off the sky. He kicked his horse in the flanks and bolted into the sunlight, the sound of squeaking leather and hooves in the dirt reassuring. After a hundred yards he stopped and looked back. Spud trotted out of the trees and sat. Simon looked at the gently panting dog, content to sit in the shade, and wait for his master to show him what to do. Simon felt like an irrational fool and with a sheepish chuckle called, “C’mon, Spud, let’s find a place to spend the night.”
After looking the meadow over, Simon decided to camp next to the rock outcrop. The rest of the meadow, though beautiful to look at, turned out to be damp and soggy. He left his unsaddled horse to roam, hobbles slowing his gait to ungainly half hops. With his hatchet in hand, Simon cut short pine boughs for a bed and dragged some deadwood out of the trees. He felt well prepared for the night that fell suddenly, and for the solitude he knew this place offered.
The dusk of evening turned into darkness. The firmament, a cathedral with the ultimate vaulted ceiling, soared from the buttresses of the mountainsides to arch through infinity and back again. Even though perforated countless times by points of light, the mystery of darkness still dominated the awesome depths of the black sky. Simon scanned the heavens, and his gaze settled on the reassuring “W” of Cassiopeia. At that moment he felt at home, and at peace.
Slowly, Simon’s unconscious self took leave of the nether places. He pushed through the gauze his mind had spent the night weaving, his dreams reluctant to fade. He became aware of a rhythmic whisper somewhere near his head. That’d be Spud, his breathing even and sonorous, nose burrowed in the warmth of his own belly. The creek carried on the same soothing conversation that had put him to sleep. It murmured as it broke around the rocks strewn in the streambed, the cadence perfectly even and steady. He lay still for a few more minutes, then opened his eyes. The eastern horizon was ablaze, the mountaintops stretching to their fullest height to protect their shadows from the morning sun’s exuberance.
He threw back the blankets, and stood. Goose pimples proudly formed ranks as he gazed across the frosted meadow. The cold, calm air of the magnificent mountain morning condensed his breath. Absorbing the sheer serenity of the scene, he thought of a church without walls, a sanctuary, passive, begging to be left in peace. Simon realized he had slept all night, undisturbed by dreams, the first such night in a long time. He reached down and rubbed Spud’s ears; the dog’s tail wagged a message of pleasure.
Simon fussed over the dead fire for a few minutes and brought it back to life. If he could gauge by the fringe of ice nature had applied along the creek side, the temperature had dropped to about twenty-five degrees. After filling his coffee pan, Simon sat cross-legged by the fire, and waited for the water to boil.
With a flare, the sun cracked a peek over the far mountain, and Simon watched in wonder as it slipped free of the horizon and beamed in triumph on its reclaimed realm. He closed his eyes, and held his face up to the sun. A subtle but unmistakable change flashed through his body. His chest felt full, his skin charged with sensitivity. A diaphanous veil filled his vision. It radiated white light, tinged with gold, undulating like a wheat field in a breeze.
His parents’ faces appeared in the shimmering mist, side by side, silent, but approving. A barely perceptible humming sound moved around in his head. Then, in quick succession, images flashed through his mind: his brother Abel, Miss Everett, Sheriff Staker, and all the good people he had known. Each scene brought with it the faint smell of rain-dampened earth, and each one left his heart lighter. Sarah! A fleeting glimpse, the wisp of a smile, and then gone again.
The warmth of the sun matched the heat of his emotions as he felt a purging of his heart, the blackness changing to brilliant light. At last, he felt complete again, and tears welled up to overflowing. At that instant, Simon understood what the old Indian had tried to tell him. His spirit, alive and waiting, had simply needed to be fed. He drank fully of the glorious power that flowed from the radiance around him. His cheeks now wet, Simon leaned forward, bowed his head in submission, and wept without shame.
The experience unsettled him, but not in a negative sense, and the tears he shed were those of relief and release. After a while, Spud, whining his concern, poked his muzzle under Simon’s arm, and forced him to raise his head. The sun, now higher, had cleared all signs of frost from the meadow, and he and the dog had breakfast. Basking in the warmth of the sun, he spent the rest of the morning reading.
During the summer, he had received a book of poetry by a man named Wordsworth. It was from Carlisle, but there had been no indication of who’d sent it. Simon absorbed The Prelude and was astonished by the poem’s appropriateness. After reading it four times, he lay down on his blankets, now hot from the sun, and slept the sleep of the sated.
Simon explored the fringes of the meadow in the afternoon and saw fresh elk and deer sign. He located his horse, settled in on the far side of the meadow. He checked the hobbles. A leisurely meal, eaten as the sun had set, finished the day, and darkness had again turned the trees black against the sky. The fire burned low, and the Milky Way stretched its band of cosmic confusion across the heavens, and the stars drew near as he looked, settling, to hover just out of reach.
He put another piece of pine on the shimmering embers, and yellow tongues of fire licked hungrily at the feast of dry wood. Staring vacantly, images, real and surreal, formed and transformed while he watched, mesmerized. Peace and tranquility surrounded him as he sat with the dog, until, feeling sleepy, he banked the fire, took off his boots and lay down.
“The calm existence that is mine when I am worthy of myself.” The seeds that were the poet’s words, rode the wafting currents of twil
ight sleep, swept back and forth across the fields of Simon’s subconscious, searching for a suitable place to land and take root. Sleep took him.
An unearthly sound, a nerve-shattering scream, jerked Simon awake. Eyes wide open before his brain was ready, the blackness he faced struck him rigid with fear for an instant. Then, Spud stood, and a low rumble warned of a dog ready to fight. The keening screech came again, and this time he knew what it was, a night-hunting owl.
“It’s okay, Spud,” he murmured, relief slowing his heart. “Just a screech owl looking for something to eat.”
The dog circled in his nest a few times, grumbled once, and lay down. The owl tested the nerves of the ground dwellers again, and a few seconds later, Simon caught a glimpse of the bird’s dark shape against the stars as it descended on silent wings. A high-pitched squeal ended abruptly as an unwary rodent died. Silence reigned once more, and he drifted back to sleep.
After breakfast the next morning, he was of two minds. It felt wonderful to face a day with nothing more important to do than gather enough wood for the campfire. But, he knew there were things at home that needed doing, changes that had to be made, and he was eager to get back. As he cleaned his coffee pan in the tiny stream, he scanned the secluded meadow for the hundredth time, basking in the quiet.
“We can always come back, can’t we, Spud?” he said, his decision made.
The dog raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment, and sleepily dozed off again. Simon smiled and stood. It only took a few minutes to pack his saddlebags, and he soon had the horse standing by the dead fire ring.
They slowly picked their way along the game trails as they descended into the valley. With the sun cut off by the big trees, the air remained chilly, and Simon was ready to get out of the shade. Spud had disappeared again, searching dark, secluded places, catching scents he’d never smelled. Soon, more and more low bushes and aspen trees appeared, and Simon knew they were nearing the edge of the dense forest. Still, the transition from dark to light occurred abruptly.
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