Salmon River Kid

by Joseph Dorris

  Dudgin and Smith were not following. Charles reasoned that they had quit trying to outguess Samuel and had taken the French Creek trail, knowing that Samuel would eventually head up the Salmon River toward Lewiston and betting they would catch him. His son had been smart. He now had a large lead. If Samuel pushed hard, he might be able to keep ahead of them all the way to Lewiston.

  Charles rode until he could no longer see the trail and was in danger of missing sign. He camped for the night and lay watching the night sky, thinking. None of the trip had turned out as he had hoped. He had been away from home far too long—over a year. He wondered how Elizabeth would look, and his nephew and nieces—how they would have grown.

  He had been a fool for chasing O’Riley’s gold—it had been nothing but a rainbow. He had not expected to get rich, but he had believed he would find it and be able to sell it for some good money. Samuel, more than he, had made something of it. He had never seen such determination in a kid—in a man. He smiled to himself, recalling how day after day Samuel headed into the mountains, searching for the ledge. He tried to remember if he had ever told him how proud he was of what he had accomplished. He could not remember. “God, get me back my son,” he whispered. “Let him hear from me how proud of him I am. Get us both back to Iowa safely, and soon.”

  Chapter 50

  THE COOL OF THE MORNING woke Samuel. Chen was sitting up, shivering. Hardly a hint of light showed. Stars still studded the western sky.

  “Maybe it is okay to get help,” Chen stated.

  “Yes. This is Slate Creek.” Samuel sat up. “I’ll cross the river and walk to the ranch. You stay with the gold. Stay hidden. Don’t take a chance on moving at all.”

  “You do the talking?” Chen kidded.

  Samuel studied the far shore, making certain no one was around. He stuffed his foot wrappings into his trousers and tied them all around his neck. The rapids were directly downstream of him—too close for comfort. He walked upstream a short distance before wading in and then, swimming, allowed the current to help push him across.

  On the far side, he checked if he could look back across and see where their log and the gold were hidden. It was still too dark. Even if a portion of the log was visible, unless someone knew where to look or what to look for, no one could see it.

  He slipped into his trousers and wrapped his feet. He headed downstream, following the trail where it had partially been cut into the cliff. The cliff on the opposite shore came steeply into the water. The river piled against it, churning white for a couple hundred yards. He was thankful he was not trying to go farther on the river.

  Some buildings came into his view, spread across the bench above the river. Samuel kept to the river and out of sight until he reached the creek. He turned up it, heading for the Strombacks’ ranch.

  No one seemed to be up. That was good. He worried about Roundup barking to greet him. He headed toward the bunkhouse and spotted Art walking toward the tack shed. He hissed. Art glanced in his direction, startled. Samuel held his finger to his lips.

  Art stared at him. “What in tarnation? Is that really you, Samuel?”

  Samuel nodded. He moved to the side of the building out of sight of the ranch house and beckoned to Art. About the same time, Roundup came around the corner all wiggly, recognizing Samuel. He whined but thankfully did not bark.

  Art followed. “What in blazes is going on?”

  “I need your help.” Samuel explained what had happened. “I’m here to borrow a couple mounts from Mr. Stromback.”

  “And some clothes, I hope.” Art looked him up and down. “You’ve been through some kind of hay mower, for sure. You look about like you did when Rex manhandled you.”

  “You heard I ran into him again?”

  “Yep. You saved his hide. But you don’t have nothin’ to worry you about him anymore.”

  Samuel felt cold. “He dead?”

  “Nope, nothing like that. He’s left the country.”

  Samuel thought of Bonnie, and an emptiness filled him. He was also leaving the country—if he survived. At least Bonnie might now have a chance at finding someone better than Rex.

  “He came back and told Mr. Stromback what happened up at Warren’s. Stromback asked how you were. Then Rex told him how you pulled him out from under that tree. That was why he was moving on. He said you were a better man than he could ever be.”

  Samuel didn’t say anything for a moment. “I think Rex could be a good man. You also said so. Just … ” He’s so dumb, Samuel thought. There was nothing else to say.

  “Art, if it ain’t too much, I’d not like Bonnie or the Strombacks to know I’ve been here.”

  “Kinda hard to have two missing horses not be noticed.”

  “Then let Mr. Stromback know after I’ve left, but ask him not to say anything. I don’t think anyone would understand my going on to Lewiston with Chen.”

  “I can’t understand it, either, but then you always were friends with those Chinamen. Just keep in mind that friendship just about got you killed. And you better plan on stopping on your return.”

  “I promise,” Samuel said.

  “I should go with you.”

  Samuel shook his head. “Been hard enough for me to come here and borrow stock. Chen wouldn’t want it. Besides, I’m thinking we have nothing to worry about. Dudgin and Smith figure we’re dead.”

  Art studied Samuel. “I’m guessing you won’t listen to reason anyhow. Seems you’re intent on seeing this through your own way.”

  Samuel nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Probably if you don’t want to be spotted, you should head down to the creek. Give me a few minutes and I’ll bring you a couple mounts.”

  Samuel returned to the creek and waited. After what seemed too long, Art came toward him, leading two horses.

  Art threw him some clothes, including a hat. “The boots might be a bit big. Borrow these until you can get something proper. There’s some for Chen as well.” He handed Samuel another package. “Some grub for you. I had a little problem getting it, though. Mrs. Stromback was fixin’ breakfast. She might be guessing something’s up.”

  “Mighty obliged.” Samuel began dressing, shoving the hat on first, thankful to have one again.

  “I brought you the gray you rode when you were here working. The white mare is for Chen. She’s gentle.”

  Samuel swung up onto the gray and thanked Art. “I should be back in about five days, if I got my distances figured correct and we don’t run into any further problems.”

  “I’d keep my eyes peeled for Dudgin and Smith just in case.”

  “I reckon so.”

  “Got one more thing for you, Samuel.” Art offered him his rifle and a cartridge belt. “Carry this in case of trouble.”

  “I-I can’t,” Samuel protested.

  “You might be needin’ it more than I will. This gives you a chance of evenin’ things up if you do find more trouble, which you seem to have a knack for.” He handed it up. “I just use it for varmints anyway. You just bring it back in one piece is all.”

  Samuel’s eyes misted. “Mighty obliged, Art.”

  “Good. Now I best get back up to the ranch. I believe Mr. Stromback and I’ll be heading upstream to see if we can’t find some skunks. At least we can go bury the dead and round up Spooky. We’ll send word to your father.”

  “Thank you kindly.”

  Samuel rode back toward the river. He still might be able to get back to Chen and be on the way before people noticed them.

  Continuing upstream to where he had crossed, Samuel picketed the stock, stowed his new clothes and Art’s rifle, and swam back to Chen. Samuel saw the relief on Chen’s face change to concern as he surveyed his lack of clothing.

  “No good?” Chen asked.

  “Across the river,” Samuel explained. He pointed toward the horses
.

  Chen shook his head. “You have horse? I see horse.”

  Samuel grinned. “Yes. They are on loan. I have a friend here.”

  “What if they take gold?”

  Samuel understood Chen’s lack of trust. “Not all white men are foreign devils.” He could say nothing else. “Come on. We got one last swim and then we’re done with this river.”

  Chen grinned broadly.

  They climbed down to the river and loosened the log. Pushing it back into the water, they swam across. They quickly loaded the horses and were soon on the trail beyond Slate Creek.

  “I think we’ll be okay, Chen. I think Dudgin and Smith think we’re dead.”

  They skirted White Bird, carefully concealing themselves. Samuel had no way of knowing how far Morton had spread the word. He knew there were many who did not care for the Chinese, and if someone thought they were carrying gold, especially stolen gold, they would make easy targets.

  They climbed out of the Salmon River canyon and continued north along the rim before cutting west of Mount Idaho and veering northwest toward Lewiston. Samuel knew the Salmon River bent back on itself, flowing to the southwest until it emptied into the Snake. The trail cut north of the bend and angled toward the junction of the Clearwater with the Snake River and Lewiston.

  This was high plains. Rolling windswept grasslands stretched in all directions, in places cut by deep draws. Only a small purple ridge marked the mountains along the Salmon River toward the southwest. This was also Nez Perce country, and Samuel kept watch for Nez Perce hunting parties. This was not a place to be caught in the open, either by men or by the weather.

  Camas Prairie, he remembered. It was named for the camas bulbs the Indians dug for food. He recalled Mr. Hunt telling him of expressmen crossing the prairie who had to evade highwaymen intent on stealing the gold they carried, much as he was now doing.

  Here the wind raced unabated. The thunderheads piled in the distance, lightning crackling from their black bellies. Birds were lifted in the wind, fighting to keep from being driven back to earth. Maybe someday this would all be ranches and farms, but not in Samuel’s lifetime, he decided. Now it was empty, desolate, rolling hills and prairie.

  “Hope we can reach the protection of a valley with trees before this hits,” Samuel commented, pointing toward the approaching storm.

  Chen hurried his white mare along.

  A vast, deep basin opened before them. A few pines clung to the far side, edging several deep, shadowed draws. The trail traversed back and forth until it reached the bottom. They paused to water the horses from a rapidly flowing stream and then resumed following the trail, climbing back up onto the windswept prairie. The stream flowed northeast, which meant it emptied into the Clearwater River. Only a gentle rise to the west now separated them from the Snake River canyon.

  The thunderstorm hit about the time they climbed out of the valley. They continued on, fighting the wind-driven rain until they reached another cutbank. They pulled to the leeside and rested, pulling their shirts over their heads, trying to protect themselves from the heavy, pelting rain.

  When it eased, Samuel mounted and turned back toward the trail. “We can’t get any wetter. Let’s find a camping spot and try to dry out.”

  They continued along the trail until it dipped into another small valley. Cottonwoods rimmed the valley floor, where another stream felt its way eastward. They moved downstream until well out of sight of the trail.

  Samuel chanced a fire. Most travelers would have stopped at the first of the rain. It was not likely they would be by at this time of evening. He set Art’s rifle within easy reach. The rain had chilled the air. By dark, they had begun to dry out and warm some. They ate some of the food Art had given them and turned in for the night. Coyotes broke the stillness.

  Early morning, Charles was again on the trail, climbing out of French Creek. As the sun climbed and the heat intensified, he topped out onto some lush meadows and small lakes. The two sets of prints remained strong, leading before him—a horse and a mule. The trail pitched steeply downward toward the Salmon. By midmorning, he passed the sawmill George Shearer had built, and shortly he reached Frederick Shearer’s yard.

  After an initial warm greeting, Frederick and Susan Shearer listened, concern etching their faces.

  “No sign of Samuel or that Chinese boy,” Frederick said. “We sure would have helped them some. Didn’t see any men this way who were out of the ordinary. ’Course, this time of the year, if they weren’t carrying much, they’d likely just swim the river. Are you sure Samuel wouldn’t have gone across the wire bridge and up to Florence? That’s the route the Chinese pack trains all take.”

  Charles shook his head. “He and the Chinese boy were spotted at Ruby, as were the three men following them. Samuel’s tracks were as clear as day when I was coming down Elk Creek trail.”

  “Well, I guess the boys could have swum the river.”

  Charles did not think Samuel would chance swimming the river if they had a heavy load of gold. He guessed Samuel somehow borrowed the ferry, but he said nothing.

  “I don’t know why they wouldn’t come fetch me,” Frederick lamented. “I coulda sent George with ’em. I’d send him with you, ’cept he’s up to Slate Creek for a few days.”

  “I’m guessing the Chinese boy would not allow it. The trip was not Samuel’s idea. He’s just helping.”

  “Yes, that may be. Those Chinamen sure are distrusting souls.”

  For good reason, Charles thought.

  “You all come on in and get a quick bite afore you head out,” Susan Shearer insisted.

  “I’ll trade out mounts for you, if you’d like, Charles. Don’t know how far you gotta go before you find Samuel, but your horse will be awaitin’ you when you get back.”

  “Much obliged,” Charles said. “If Samuel shows up, keep him here, and that Chinese boy as well, until I can get here.”

  With a meal and a new horse, a fine sorrel, Charles headed out. He considered other routes Samuel might take. Shearer’s suggestion that the Chinese would go through Florence had him thinking that Samuel might take one of the trails up that direction. It would not be much farther, and the old trail, similar to the Elk Creek trail coming down to Shearers’ ferry, would be less traveled.

  Charles checked the trail nearest the Shearers’. It showed little use. He rode downstream to the next trail, the one where they had jumped Finney and Culler last winter. He was less certain about the tracks. It seemed there had been recent use. On a hunch, he checked the cabin. Signs showed that someone had recently been there, and Charles knew that it was Samuel. He felt more confident that the boys had used the trail. They would especially do so if they were traveling during the day, which they almost had to do.

  He hoped he could make it to Florence by dark and turned up, following the tracks, the sorrel horse laboring to carry him upward, climbing out of the Salmon River canyon. Similar to the French Creek trail, the Florence trail climbed over five thousand feet in elevation before leveling. The country spreading beyond, mountain upon mountain, and the canyons below, cut and tortured, became mesmerizing. Charles decided no man on earth would have ever entered this labyrinth of mountains and canyons had gold not been discovered.

  He reached a summit where a ridge ran due north. A trail followed its crown, but Florence lay to the northeast. He studied the trail, but the tracks gave no clue. Each trail showed similar use. Possibly, the trail going north was just a miner’s trail. He turned down the Florence trail. If Samuel had taken the spur trail, he would eventually come out at Slate Creek. At Florence, Charles could at least ask about the Chinese pack train.

  He rode steadily and soon reached where the trail forked to the west and would continue past the Bullion Mine and drop down to the wire bridge. He stayed to the northeast and reached some played-out placers, and by evening, the town of Florence. T
he sight sobered him. Of the two gold camps, Warren’s was clearly more vibrant. Here, several buildings were abandoned and deteriorating. The most robust businesses seemed to be the several saloons and obvious brothels that lined the main street. Charles decided that the town might show more commerce in the daylight.

  The more numerous Chinese also caught his attention. They appeared to outnumber the whites nearly three to one, and their section of town seemed lively and booming.

  He paused at one of the busiest saloons and talked with the owner. No one had seen the boys come through. Although Charles figured Samuel would keep from sight, a nagging feeling bothered him. If they had not come this direction and instead had followed the main river trail, their pursuers might have caught up to them. He tried to calm himself.

  He asked around about anyone seeing Ben Morton and two other riders. He tried to describe Dudgin and Smith. No one had seen anyone matching the description, at least not recently. He asked about the Chinese pack train. It had come through three days ago. As far as anyone knew, it had not met with any trouble.

  Charles felt uncomfortable with taking a hotel room and instead continued on the trail another mile toward Slate Creek before he camped. He dared not continue farther. The sorrel had done well, but it needed rest.

  The night was quiet, except for the gurgle of the creek near which he camped. He heard coyotes yapping from somewhere up a nearby draw. Nearly always Samuel had been with him while he was camped along some trail. They had often wondered about the coyotes, how a couple seemed to sound like a dozen. Now he half expected Samuel to show up for coffee. He recalled last winter when they were going to Slate Creek for Christmas. Samuel should now be many miles north, perhaps even returning from Lewiston. Charles took solace in the thought. He should meet him on his return trip near Slate Creek—possibly tomorrow.