Salmon River Kid

by Joseph Dorris

  “Better not. I’ll plan on it on the way back. It’ll be dark before I make the Shearers’, and I’m feeling like a storm is coming in.”

  They watched as Hunt rode off upstream, his extra mount trailing, snowshoes lashed on top.

  At the cabin, Samuel quickly ripped open his mother’s letter and began reading aloud:

  My Dear Charles and Son, Samuel,

  I am very sorry to inform you that my mother has passed away. She passed very quietly last evening, the—

  Samuel dropped the letter, unable to read any further. A stinging jumped to his eyes as he recalled his last memory of his grandma, standing with his mother, holding his little sister, waving good-bye as his father and he rode out of the farmyard.

  His father picked up the letter and read silently.

  A numbing sadness enveloped Samuel. He could not shake his thoughts. “We should have been there, Pa.” He could not imagine his grandma being gone.

  “I’m sorry, son.” Samuel felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. “Maybe we should just head home.”

  Samuel sat silently for a minute. “Does Ma say we should?”

  “No. She did not say much, just that everyone misses us.” Charles shook his head. “Samuel, your ma has always believed in me—in us. The way I see it, now more than ever, we owe it to her to hit big at Warren’s.”

  “We owe it to Grandma as well, don’t we?”

  Samuel now considered going to the Strombacks’. It was near time, but he wanted to get to bedrock to see if there was any gold. He didn’t know what he would do if there wasn’t.

  This day the sun shone warmly, and he decided to try washing some more gravel. He dug until he finally hit rock. He scraped off an area and filled a couple of buckets with gravel. Together he and his father routed the trickle of water into the flume and on into the sluice.

  Samuel watched the gravel slowly wash down through the sluice. As the water cleared, winking in the sun in the black sand was a small, flattened nugget. It appeared brighter and warmer than the sun. He picked it out and held it up. “What do you think, Pa?”

  “Well, that’s mighty encouraging.” Charles took it and rubbed it between his fingers. “All we gotta do is find another thousand or so, and we’ll have an ounce.”

  Samuel studied the pit. The amount of overburden they still needed to remove was nearly overwhelming. “At least we know it’s down here,” he said. “All you gotta do is clean it off.”

  “All I gotta do?”

  “Been meaning to head downriver to the Strombacks’, Pa. I promised them I’d be there by now.”

  “Well, I guess you’re right.” Charles pushed his hat back. “Now that’s good planning. You’ll be getting back about the time I have all this cleared off and the water starts running good.”

  “Just promise to wait. I wanna see the gold.”

  That night, Samuel wrote his mother, trying to cheer her and his uncle Jake. He told her of hunting in the canyon. He wrote about how beautiful the land was, how full of wildlife, that the cabin they were in had plenty of sunshine, that if a garden were planted it would yield plenty of truck. A nearby stream provided good water. After rereading it, he found himself marveling at his descriptions. But it’s true. In Iowa you could grow crops. Here you could grow fruit trees, raise cattle, hunt game, fish salmon, cut timber, mine gold, and grow crops. This was good country.

  SLATE CREEK

  Chapter 8

  SAMUEL ROSE BEFORE DAYBREAK and shared some breakfast with his father before leaving. He took the pistol, extra clothes, and his bedroll. He felt strange having the pistol. It was for protection against men, not for hunting. He also took a small amount of gold to send home and for purchasing a few supplies at Slate Creek.

  Samuel’s mind raced. He had dreamed often of Bonnie. He could see her sparkling green eyes, beautiful smile, and, he had to admit, her figure. But now that he was about to see her again, he grew fearful that his dreams had grown beyond reality. Would she even say hello?

  He reached the Strombacks’ ranch late evening. Stars were strung across the sky like frozen specks of light. He had pushed through, not stopping except to briefly water Spooky.

  Roundup came running up, whining and wagging his tail.

  He scratched the dog’s head. At least someone remembers me.

  Heart hammering heavily, he knocked. If Bonnie came to the door, he wouldn’t know what to say. It was Mrs. Stromback.

  “Good evening, ma’am. I’m here to take Mr. Stromback up on his offer to hire out for a few days—if he’ll still take me, that is.”

  She beamed. “We certainly will, Samuel. Now you just get yourself in here.” She called over her shoulder. “Jon, Jon, you’ll never guess. That young man from Christmas, Samuel, is here.”

  “Hey, here you be, lad,” Jon Stromback said, entering the room. “Come in. Come in.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The three children came from their back room, squealing. Josef bounced around, telling Samuel he should see him roping now. The girls stared with their big eyes.

  Bonnie appeared absent. Samuel was disappointed, but he forced himself to not ask after her whereabouts.

  Mrs. Stromback must have guessed. “Bonnie’s away in Lewiston a few more days taking music and piano lessons. She’ll be happy to see you when she returns.”

  Samuel felt crushed. He had taken for granted that she would be here. “I’ll sure be happy to see her as well.” He wondered if he sounded too exuberant.

  “Her mother always wanted her to play the piano and sing,” Mrs. Stromback continued.

  “We’re doin’ our best to oblige her,” Jon Stromback said, “but I think Bonnie’s got more of a liking for ranching.”

  Samuel figured so as well. “She does have a nice voice.”

  “She does,” Mrs. Stromback agreed. “And someday she may take over from Mrs. Henson and play the piano for Sunday service.”

  Samuel remembered the woman. She did not play poorly, but the piano had been out of tune.

  “The night’s long, Samuel. Let’s get you bedded down,” Stromback said. “I’ll get you oriented tomorrow. Mrs. Stromback expects you at breakfast at six sharp.”

  They headed into the night. “It’s good to see you, Samuel. I hope this ranching meets with your favor.”

  “I’m sure it will, sir.” He grabbed up Spooky’s reins.

  They walked a short distance down a wagon track and across a well-built bridge toward the bunkhouse.

  “You can turn your mount out here. Plenty of feed near the fence next to water. He’ll find it.”

  Samuel unsaddled Spooky and brushed him a bit before releasing him. Stromback showed him where to stow his saddle in the tack shed.

  Kerosene lamps caused light to dance within the bunkhouse. Two men were playing cards.

  “This is the new hand I’ve told you about. Name’s Samuel Chambers.”

  “We met at Christmas, but not officially,” the older man said. “Name’s Arthur Shaw. I go by Art.” He rose and shook hands. “Welcome back, Samuel. Going to be good to have someone around not so ugly as this here cuss.”

  The younger man, lanky and with rough face, rose. “Name’s Rex Callahan.” There was no warmth in either his handshake or his greeting.

  “I want you boys to teach him the ropes,” Stromback said. “Samuel’s a farmer turned miner. Now he wants to be a miner turned rancher.”

  Samuel wondered about Stromback’s comment.

  “Art, you might start by riding the perimeter with him. Check to see how the drift fence has held up over winter. Let him get familiar with the land.”

  “I’ll be obliged,” Art answered. “Want him to cut out a mount or use his?”

  “I’d suggest he use the gray.” Stromback eyed Samuel. “Give your horse a few days to strengthen up. T
hat wild grass upriver don’t pack as much punch as the hay and oats we got.”

  After Stromback left, Rex muttered, “And he’s gonna take care of our stock?”

  Samuel did not respond.

  The morning saw Art and Samuel following the drift fence to the northwest. The gray was a four-year-old gelding, a bit jumpy like Spooky sometimes was, and Samuel had to keep a tight rein at first.

  They passed dozens of mules and several horses. “Packers’ stock, mostly,” Art explained. “They winter over here. We watch that they don’t disappear.”

  “What? Do cougars favor them?”

  “Some, but mostly Indians favor them. Not so much the mules, though they might take one and eat it. Mostly we gotta watch the horses. The Nez Perce are quite fond of ’em. They’re friendly to us at the present, but Indians can be fickle. They get a notion to do somethin’, they just up and do it. And stealin’ horses is born in their blood.”

  “They come here often?” Samuel wondered if he would see any. They moved slowly uphill across the withered grass.

  “Often enough.” Art paused and swept his arm. “This was their land until ’63. Most of them still consider it so.”

  “So there’ll be trouble?”

  “Maybe. When gold was found hereabouts, some early folks like Mr. Stromback offered to buy the land from the Indians. So far the Nez Perce have honored that purchase, and Stromback and others treat them well. Not so much some of the newer settlers.”

  Samuel shook his head. “Then the mining camps were on Indian land?”

  “That’s mostly why the government renegotiated the treaty. Once gold was found, you couldn’t keep the miners out. So they redrew the boundaries. Not all the Nez Perce agreed to that and still consider this their land.”

  Art eased his mount to the edge of a rocky draw they had come upon and scanned its length.

  “This draw is about as far north as the cattle will wander, and usual there’s at least a couple that get into trouble down there. I don’t see any, though.”

  Art pointed back uphill toward some grazing horses. “Ever see horses like them?”

  “Appaloosas, right?” Samuel noticed the spotted rumps and remembered Bonnie saying that Stromback had some.

  “Yep, Mr. Stromback traded for them. They’re beautiful animals.” He glanced around. “Beautiful country too. I come out here mining up at Florence. Found out I could make a steadier livin’ ranchin’.” He turned his horse downhill. “Hoping to get my own ranch someday. But I’ll be okay if I don’t. Mr. Stromback’s a good man. He treats us well. When I get a little extra pay, I go into town. That’s good enough for me.”

  Samuel raised his eyes.

  “Not Slate Creek if that’s what you’re a thinkin’. And never Washington. Too civilized.” He nudged his horse over some rocks. “Nope, I go to Florence or Lewiston. That’s where the women are.”

  They returned to the lower fields, and Art angled for the creek.

  “Might as well check for ice. We’ve had to chop ice nearly every day, twice a day, all winter. I sure won’t miss doing that.”

  “I had my fair share of chopping ice upriver near our cabin.”

  “This has been the coldest winter anyone can remember. We lost some stock a couple weeks back when we had an ice storm. Some animals slid off a bluff into the river.”

  Samuel cringed at the thought.

  Rex came riding in from the east, and they talked. Most of the packers’ mules and horses were to the east, up higher toward the timber.

  “I saw some cougar sign,” Rex explained. “Might have to get the Osmund hands and try to bring the stock down a bit.”

  “As usual,” Art replied. “Don’t know why them mules can’t figure the grass turns green down here first.”

  They brought in a wagon next to a crib and loaded hay. Samuel welcomed the work. He felt good as he stabbed the hay and swung it onto the wagon. With Art slowly driving the team, he and Rex pitched it off, some along each side, the cattle stringing along behind and pausing to feed.

  “Might be the last we’ll be pitchin’ hay, boy, now that it’s startin’ to green a bit,” Rex explained.

  Later, when they returned to the ranch house, Samuel found Josef outside, practicing roping on the mounted steer horns.

  He looked up, grinning. “Want to try, Mr. Chambers?”

  “Sure, Josef.” Samuel took the rope and began shaking out the loop. “You can call me Samuel.”

  “Okay, Samuel.” He watched, eyes big. Samuel carefully swung the loop but missed. He didn’t miss the look on Rex’s face.

  “Ha,” Josef said. “Let me show you.” He ran to get the rope, Roundup chasing after, getting in his way. “Down, Roundup,” Josef scolded and then coiled and threw the rope, dropping the loop neatly over the wooden steer. “That’s how it’s done.”

  Samuel tried again—his second try was successful.

  After a few days, Stromback decided to move the steers and heifers off the lower fields to make room for the cows that would calve. The men began pushing the cattle downriver toward the creek and some upper range.

  Rex rode by, trying to rope a heifer.

  Art laughed and addressed Samuel. “Don’t have to rope ’em. All you gotta do is herd ’em.” He spurred his horse and cut off the heifer, forcing it to swerve toward the creek. “She’s all yours, Rex,” he hollered.

  “Come on, Samuel, fan out. We need to funnel ’em toward the creek crossing and that gap.” Art pointed and then started moving toward the bunched yearlings, clucking at them, slapping with his coiled rope. “If they try to break past you, try to cut ’em off without leaving too big a gap around the outside.”

  Samuel followed, beating his arm, calling to the cattle, “Git! Git along!” Three steers watched him approach, splay legged. His gray hesitated. Samuel tried to nudge him forward, but the horse balked. The gray knew to give the steers time to decide. The animals turned and scampered toward the group moving toward the creek. Smart horse, Samuel realized. After that, he knew to let the animal do the work.

  Keeping them boxed in from his side, Art hooted and called, forcing them across the creek toward a narrow opening. Samuel saw that they would turn toward the river and moved in that direction to cut them off. Art had given them enough room, and they turned past him, heading upstream. Closing in, the two swept them toward the gap. As the yearlings moved past, they dismounted and pulled poles across the opening. The animals turned up across the shoulder of a barren hillside, now separated from the cows by the creek that cut through the steep ravine.

  Rex came up, herding another couple of steers, swinging his rope.

  They quickly pulled the poles, but the steers veered away.

  “Let’s get out of his way,” Art said, remounting and heading down creek.

  Rex rode past, driving the steers back past them and on up the hillside.

  “Kinda a strange man, don’t you think, Samuel?”

  “He works hard.” But Samuel thought he was trying to show off.

  “I don’t want to butt in where it’s not my business,” continued Art, “but you’d be wise to watch out for him. He’s got this crazy notion that he and Bonnie have somethin’ goin’, but I know for a fact Bonnie won’t have nothin’ to do with him.” Art swung down and reached for the poles again.

  “I appreciate the news,” Samuel managed. He helped Art slide the poles back into place.

  “Don’t know why he’s still headin’ uphill.” Art laughed. “Come on, Samuel, we got some cows to feed.”

  Chapter 9

  WITH SOME GRASS beginning to green, the cows insisted on wandering, and the men were occupied with trying to keep them on the lower fields for when they would begin calving. This day, Art and Samuel drove a couple back up out of a gully.

  “Don’t know why they always insist on going do
wn there,” Art muttered.

  Samuel was learning that the only thing predictable about cattle was their stupidity. If they could find trouble, they would. Whenever he noticed any were missing, he figured they would be in the most treacherous spot around, and that was where he usually found them.

  Samuel was surprised at how far the animals wandered from the ranch. “At least they don’t go to the top of this mountain,” he remarked to Art.

  “Oh, I’ve found them close—all the way to the timber, but thank God, they don’t keep going. They’d be in Florence.” Art laughed. “That drift fence we keep working on above us is pretty good. When they hit it, they usually follow it back down.”

  They paused to look back on the barren hillsides below them. Cattle were bunched near a draw. Art gazed west across the river. “Might be a storm brewing—they’re clumping together, probably sensing it.”

  Samuel glanced up. The sky was clear, but he felt dampness in the air.

  The storm Art had anticipated moved in from the northwest the following morning. Scudding clouds moved in with a steady drizzle, but the temperature dropped, and it quickly turned to sleet and then heavy, wet snow. The wind picked up, howling downriver, driving the snow.

  Dinner was quiet.

  “We sure could lose some more stock in this one,” Stromback muttered. “When it breaks, I want us out checking on the animals. They’ve been stressed from the last bout. Won’t take much to put some more of them under.”

  “Nothing we could have done about that, Mr. Stromback,” Art said quietly.

  “I’m not blaming anyone. Worst winter since I been here,” Stromback said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have had you push those yearlings off the flats yet. I thought spring was here. We better try to push them back. Spread a lot of hay. Maybe they’ll remember where the feed is.”

  They woke to howling winds and driving snow. The northwest sides of the trees and buildings were crusted with thick ice. Deep drifts extended on the leeward sides.

  The men clustered about the breakfast table, watching the light come to the sky, considering their options. The snow had weakened, but the wind continued. Over a foot of snow lay on the level, and in places it had drifted to three and four feet. They rode out into the weather, intending to drive the stock back toward the flats. Samuel rode with Stromback. Art and Rex rode the opposite direction to check on packers’ stock.