Samuel visited Dr. Sears. After the first couple of days of leaving the bandages tightly binding his ribs, they had come loose. He had grown accustomed to removing them and then replacing them, tightening them again for support.
“Guess my ribs weren’t busted.”
“Probably were, Samuel.” He massaged Samuel’s ribs and checked his jaw and eye. “Good to see your eye looks okay. The bruising is nearly gone.”
He poked him some more. “Ah, to be young again. You youngsters heal up mighty fast.”
“Thanks, Dr. Sears.” Samuel jumped off the table, pulled his shirt back on, and refitted his suspenders.
At Scott Alexander’s they asked to settle their bill. Scott showed the numbers to his father. His father nodded, and Scott measured out some of the gold, returning some. At first Samuel thought they had made money, but Scott had simply returned some spending money. They still had an unpaid balance.
“I have some things you can deliver if you wish, Sam,” Scott suggested.
“Thank you. Pa and I have some settling up to do at the claim, but I’ll be glad to do some packing.”
They rode in silence back to the cabin. Samuel walked to the Sweet Mary. The catch basin was nearly dry.
He helped fix some dinner.
“The O’Riley’s a good mine, son,” Charles said. “It’s got a lot of gold.”
“I know, but like so many have said, it may cost as much to get it out as what’s in it.”
Charles shook his head. “Not with a good crew, a good mining engineer, and some serious work. It could make someone a good living.”
Samuel felt comforted by his father’s assessment.
“I regret to say it, son. We still have some debts to pay. We have nothing to go home on.”
Samuel had figured as much. Together they had spent over a year nearly killing themselves or getting killed, chasing one dream after another, and still had nothing to show for it.
“It’s okay, Pa. Like you always said, we can make it without the money. It sure would have been nice for once to try making it with some.”
“I don’t regret trying,” Charles said. “I don’t regret bringing you out here anymore, either. We did our best. You’ve learned a lot. To blazes, like Mr. Hinley says, you’re the only man he knows who made three strikes in a season.”
Charles spread his hands and glanced down the meadow before continuing.
“I reckon I got to admit this: I figure you’re your own man now. I know Bonnie might be spoke for, although if I find that Rex bastard she’ll be in need of another man, but you haven’t said anything lately about Miss Lilly.”
Samuel could not speak. He knew the implications of what his father said. Slowly, he shook his head. “I said good-bye to Miss Lilly a few days ago, Pa, before I ran into Rex. She’s left Washington and gone to Lewiston. But I never forgot what you told me.” Samuel smiled. “Can’t say I wasn’t mighty tempted, but the cart’s still where it belongs.”
His father laughed. “Not entirely what I was getting at, but it’s good to hear you say that.” He studied his son. “I believe Miss Lilly is a good person. You aren’t the same youngster you were a summer ago, that’s all.”
“Thank you.” Samuel studied his father. “I’m still going home, Pa. We have a future ahead of us in Iowa. Ma needs us.”
“Thank you, son,” Charles said quietly, handing him a plate of venison and potatoes.
Inexplicably, Samuel remembered the quartz ledge where he had found the grave and met the Sheepeater Indians.
“Pa, we didn’t get back to the ledge across the South Fork. You think we should? Maybe we should stake it and sell it?”
“No time for that now. Something I’ve learned since coming into this country—for every rainbow you chase down, there’s two more springing up somewhere else. The harder and faster I’ve worked to pin them down, the harder and faster the others spring up. I reckon I know when I’m done. Most important now is our family. Best we just stay here and get this hearing over and head out.”
Samuel nodded. “I just owed it to you to say it again. I’m ready to head out as well.” But deep down, Samuel was not. He would always wonder what was beyond the next ridge—what the next ledge looked like. He ached to know what was beyond the South Fork. He wondered about the Sheepeaters.
He took the arrow down from the wall and fingered its tip. “I’ll always wonder why the man gave this to me.”
“Perhaps he thought someone would recognize it. The Indians paint their arrows differently so they know whose arrow made the kill.”
Samuel nearly dropped the arrow. His father was right. It could have been meant as a message to the boy’s father or to someone who knew something about the grave. He swallowed hard. If only he had shown the arrow to others, perhaps someone would have recognized it.
“He kept repeating ‘Dugumbaa’naa Buih-nee’ and pointing at my eyes. Maybe the boy’s father had blue eyes like mine. He would have recognized the arrow.”
Charles shook his head. “Another mystery, Samuel.” He laughed. “Another one I’ll have to add to my list to ask the Lord when I get there. You can too.”
Samuel held the arrow up, further eyeing it and thinking about its mystery.
Charles watched. “Won’t be likely we’ll ever be back here, son. We might as well take a gander,” he said quietly. “How about we head out tomorrow? Won’t have the hearing for a while. Maybe Mr. Williams will show when we get back.”
“You sure?” His father had just talked about chasing useless rainbows and never-to-be-solved mysteries. Samuel felt strangely elated and somewhat scared. He wondered what he would find going back to the grave. Could he walk away from the gold again?
“When we get back, I might rustle up a few days of work somewhere,” Charles said. “Think you can do some packing?”
“Mr. Alexander has already asked me.”
“Good, that should give us enough traveling money.”
STORY OF THE GRAVE
Chapter 42
EARLY MORNING SAW them on the trail moving past the Chinese huts, heading toward the summit above Warren’s. By late afternoon, they reached the South Fork, wide and placid, reflecting green from the trees along the shores, sparkling where the sun caught the ripples. They forded the river, picking their way across the scrubbed gravel bottom. Several large salmon scooted past, moving upstream.
Climbing the far shore, Samuel took the lead, riding upstream and then turning up along the East Fork, where he located the old trail, appearing much as before, only fainter.
They soon reached the Sheepeater camp. It also appeared much as before, although the poles on the shelters were more barren, and the brush and few hides had further deteriorated. The shelters were but shadowy skeletons among the cottonwoods.
“I can see why they call them the ghost Indians,” Charles said. “Doesn’t appear to me they’ve been here for quite some time.”
“Could be they know there are settlers downriver from here and are avoiding them.”
Samuel located the dim trail upstream of the old shelters and found where it traversed up out of the canyon. Almost invisible in places, he gave up trying to follow it and headed toward the head of the gorge, where he remembered the saddle to be. Occasionally he found he was on the trail, and then it again disappeared.
“Unless you know where you’re going in this country, Samuel, I’m pretty sure no one is going to find this spot. Certainly not by following this trail.”
“Hasn’t been much used.” Samuel paused to look back. “It has to come out near the saddle, though.” He pointed upward.
They climbed to a small bowl just below the saddle. A trickle of water emerged from beneath a boulder field and ran across before disappearing into the gorge beyond.
“This is where I camped last year,” Samuel said, pulling up and di
smounting. “Above here there’s no water until you cross over and drop down into the lake.”
They stripped the gear from the animals and hobbled them. The country to the west appeared as beautiful as Samuel remembered. The summit above Warren’s camp was blocked from sight—they were too far east—but he recognized the other ridges piled one upon the other, receding into the purple shadows that marked the South Fork canyon.
Samuel built a fire against the evening chill and began frying up some venison with some salt pork for fat. The sun shone yellow orange on the rocks above, reminding him of the time he first saw this country. On that trip, he believed he had been the first white man to ever set foot here—until he found the grave.
They woke to a morning chill. The rising sun lit the western ridges in brilliant light. Charles fixed some breakfast. Samuel quickly rose, dressed, and stooped to help him.
“Coffee?” Charles poured a cup.
Samuel held it to his face, allowing the steam to bathe him in its warmth before taking a sip.
“Mighty fine, Pa. Thanks.”
“You get to do tonight’s meal.”
“A deal.”
When they returned to the trail, Samuel had even more difficulty following it. He remembered it had traversed up the grassy slope above the basin, but he could no longer see any trace. He led out and began a long traverse the horses and mule could manage. Shortly, he rediscovered the trail. Without use, the lengthening grass and brush had hidden it.
They reached the saddle, and as before, Samuel paused, taking in the splendor. “What do you think of this view, Pa?”
They sat a moment. In every direction, gray crags rose, etched in the morning light, some carpeted in thick timber, others jagged—rocky pinnacles, ragged fingers jutting into the pale blue sky. A breeze kicked across the saddle, rippling the late-July grass, causing Samuel to pull his coat more tightly around himself against the mountain chill.
“This land could grow on a man,” his father replied. “Too bad you can’t farm it.”
Samuel shrugged. His father was right. This country was too high for farming or grazing. For sure, no one would ever build a cabin here. He studied the ridges fading into the distance and dropping into the shadows of a myriad of canyons. Somewhere beyond lived the Indians called the Sheepeaters.
He headed in the direction of the ledge and soon came out where they could look down on the shallow lake. Several cow elk stood near the outlet, watching them as they came into view. The elk turned quickly, their hooves thudding in the damp soil as they strode up over a grassy knoll into thick timber beyond.
“Good game country,” his father remarked.
“I got a ptarmigan down near the lake last time,” Samuel said. “No fish, though. I’m pretty sure it freezes to the bottom during winter.”
They dropped down into the lake and skirted the shore toward the rock outcrops at its head. Samuel’s heart quickened as he recalled the details, everything familiar once more. He recognized the quartz veins and spotted the rust marks left on them by the oxidizing minerals.
He turned Spooky up along the flank and crossed the ridge into the next basin. Now his heart raced. He could not help but recall the Sheepeater father and his son. He glanced toward the trees, half expecting to see them. A chill raced down his back.
He reached the rock outcrop and remembered the broken white quartz, some pieces stained red and yellow.
“That’s the pile of ore, Pa.” He pointed to the mound, partially overgrown by grass. “You can see where they worked the face.”
“I can. They worked at it quite a while. It goes in a ways.”
“Wait until you see the gold.” Samuel felt his voice getting away from him as he dismounted. Until he saw gold in the rocks again, he had a scary feeling that all of this would turn out to be a dream that over time had become bigger than the truth. It had been almost a year since he had been here. He grabbed a chunk of quartz and studied it closely. Nothing. Feeling a slight panic, he examined another piece. Specks of bright yellow shone among spots of blackened silver. “Here, Pa.” He tossed the piece to his father.
“This is rich,” Charles muttered. He glanced at the outcrop and then peered back the direction from which they had come. “I can see it would be difficult developing this. Probably the best a man could do would be to come in here and mine for a while and then pack it out to Warren’s by mule train.”
Samuel felt torn. He wanted gold but not from here. Here, he felt unwelcome.
“Come on, Pa,” he said. “I’ll show you the grave.”
He led his father up onto the bench and showed him the rusted pick and shovel and the fire ring. He pointed out the grave, exactly as he remembered it, a crude pile of stones and a weathered piece of wood that at one time must have been a cross.
“The man had to have been buried by whites. Indians don’t bury their dead,” Samuel said.
His father picked up the piece of wood that had been the crossbar and examined it. “Too bad they didn’t carve in the person’s name.” He retrieved a short length of rope from his pack, laid open a few strands, and refit the cross member, once more forming a cross. “Might last another year or two.”
Samuel wondered why last year it had not occurred to him to do the same when he had discovered the grave, but he recalled that was also when he had spotted the Sheepeater man and boy. He glanced toward the spot under the tree. An eerie feeling returned. Only the empty alpine hillside, wind whispering through the grass, answered his gaze.
“So where’d you meet the Indians?”
“They were under that tree over there when I first saw them.” Samuel pointed. “I was scared at first, but then realized they must have been watching me for a while. The man had a really strong-looking horn bow, but he didn’t have an arrow ready. I also noticed he wore a white man’s knife. He could have killed me had he wanted. Instead, he just stood up and raised his hand.
“He kept motioning at me and saying, ‘Dugumbaa’naa Buih-nee.’ Something like that. I pointed at myself and told him my name. I’m pretty sure he told me his and the boy’s names, but I don’t remember them now. I remember ‘Dugumbaa’naa Buih-nee’ because he said it so often. I figured the boy was five or six, and I’m pretty sure he was part white.”
“A half-breed?”
Samuel nodded. “I gave them some of the ptarmigan I shot, and that’s when the man gave me the arrow. He also looked at my eyes really close, maybe because they’re blue and Indians’ eyes aren’t. He kept pointing to the sky and repeating ‘Dugumbaa’naa Buih-nee’ and pointing at the boy. That’s when I realized the boy was part white. Maybe it’s his father who’s buried here.” Samuel waved toward the grave.
“Anyway, the Indian pointed toward the canyon and beckoned me, wanting me to follow. I guessed that’s where they live. Maybe he was telling me to go away. Maybe he gave me the arrow to tell me to go away.”
“Pretty mysterious country, this is,” Charles said.
“I didn’t say anything to anyone—except to you. Of course, Mr. Hinley knows about the gold, but he has no idea where I found it.”
“Probably a good idea not to say anything. Even if we can’t develop this property, a person could probably work out several tons of good ore and pack it out of here.” Charles shook his head. “It’s ironic we spend over a year in this country, and the day we decide to leave, we find a good-paying mine.”
“I’m sorry.”
His father laughed. “I could have checked it out as soon as we got back after you had told me. I just figured the O’Riley was a better bet, being close in and all. Never know how things for sure will turn out.”
Samuel was silent.
“Time to head home, son. We’ve been gone too long. At least in Iowa we can eat what we grow. Funny what life can send your direction. Come on, let’s load some of this ore.”
They packed the bags and loaded about three hundred pounds onto Molly. They strapped an additional hundred pounds onto both Spooky and Buster and turned back toward the ridge they had come down. Gaining the summit, they paused a moment, looking back toward the hidden ledge.
Samuel took in the view, studying the crags and the heavy timber; he noticed movement near some trees by the head of a gulch.
“Someone’s there, Pa.” He pointed. Already he knew it was an Indian. His heart quickened. He thought it was the man and boy again.
A man had emerged from the timber, leading a heavily packed pony.
“Let’s visit.” Charles turned down the ridge toward the Indian.
Samuel had no choice but to follow. “What if he has a gun?”
“Look at his pack. He’s a trader, Samuel.”
Charles rode down toward him, raising his hand, and greeted him.
The man waited patiently, watching, and raised his hand in reply. He appeared elderly. Dressed in a fringed buckskin shirt with breechcloth and leggings, his nearly white braided hair fell to both sides of his shoulders. A lock of hair in the middle of his forehead was chopped short. His deep-set eyes held steady; wrinkles of age deeply creased his face. He closely studied Samuel, making him feel uneasy.
“Trade?” his father asked.
The man nodded and walked back along Molly, patting the bags, a puzzled look on his face.
Charles dismounted. “Here,” he said, pulling out his tobacco pouch and pipe, motioning to the Indian. “Fetch the cups and the coffee, Samuel. We can trade those.”
The man’s eyes lit up. He began pulling apart his wares and spread them on the ground.
Charles opened his tobacco pouch, prepared and lit his pipe, and offered it to the Indian. The Indian took it and smoked it, grinning. Samuel noticed he was minus a few teeth.
“My name is Chambers.” Charles pointed to himself and then to Samuel. “This is my son, Samuel.”
The man seemed to understand. “Broken Blade.” He tapped his chest.
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