Salmon River Kid

by Joseph Dorris

  Chapter 51

  EARLY MORNING, Samuel and Chen were on the trail again, moving rapidly along the shoulder of the divide. The trail continued to cut down into the draws and then climb back up to the broken plateaus. The prairie stretched on, empty, except for an occasional shrub or cottonwood.

  Late afternoon, the trail cut downward along a broadly flowing stream and continued along its bottom.

  “Must be getting close,” Samuel observed. “This stream has to empty into the Clearwater. Lewiston will be a few miles downstream.”

  By evening, they had reached the Clearwater, a rapidly flowing river, crystal clear, reflecting its namesake.

  They turned downriver and, just outside Lewiston, left the trail to camp. Chen told Samuel no one would be able to meet him until the next morning. Samuel worried all night that someone might discover them. The gold had grown heavier with each mile they grew closer to the town. He checked Art’s rifle.

  Before daylight, Charles was back on the trail, intending to make up time. There was little sense in continuing to berate himself for guessing wrong. The sooner he reached Slate Creek, the sooner he would get some information. Surely, Samuel would have stopped there. He certainly would not pass up the chance to visit Bonnie. But then Charles recalled that the ranch hand, Rex, had taken an interest in Bonnie. His anger flared when he recalled the beating Samuel had taken. If Rex was at the ranch, it could be Charles would be the last man on earth Rex would see.

  The trail soon dropped down alongside a creek, which Charles figured must be a tributary of Slate Creek. Should be named crooked creek. Hardly a section ran straight for fifty yards. It reminded him of the brush-choked and timber-filled creeks near Warren’s. If men had not kept the trail clear, he wouldn’t have made a single mile.

  He could not keep his mind off Samuel, nor off the men pursuing him. Maybe they had not caught him. Samuel was good at watching his back trail and keeping an eye out for danger. Unaware, he found himself pushing the sorrel. This was a brutal trail. The animal was beginning to flag. Charles eased up. He had to reach Jon Stromback’s ranch.

  He tried to keep his head—tried to study the country and to watch for the men. Even though he believed they were on the main river trail, he could still be wrong. He caught himself hoping, almost believing, that Samuel was just ahead of him on this same trail, that around the next bend he would catch sight of him.

  The creek began bearing west, dropping steeply in elevation as it drained toward the Salmon River. Charles thought he recognized the Salmon River gorge and peered ahead for signs of Stromback’s ranch.

  Late afternoon he reached the ranch, nearly exhausted from the ride.

  Soon he sat at dinner with the Strombacks and Art, everyone talking at once, everyone sharing what they knew. Yesterday, Samuel had come up from the river to borrow a couple of horses and to get some clothing. Charles swallowed hard. He was two full days behind.

  A couple of men from Slate Creek had gone upstream looking for Dudgin and Smith. Art and Jon went to the stone hut, but some Chinese had already taken care of matters. They brought Spooky and the mule back to the ranch. Seeing no sign of Dudgin and Smith or Morton, people figured they had left the country or just disappeared for a while, something they were becoming good at doing. Charles felt more optimistic that Samuel had made it.

  He retired to the bunkhouse with Art.

  “You got a fine son, Mr. Chambers,” Art told him. “I don’t know how you look on the Chinamen, but for Samuel to do what he’s doing speaks a lot.”

  Charles wanted to disagree. The first thought he had when he began piecing things together was how foolish Samuel had been. Now he was uncertain what to think. All he knew was that Samuel was still out there.

  At early light, Charles was on the trail, riding a bay horse that Stromback had loaned him. Lewiston was about ninety miles away. If his calculations were correct, and if Samuel hadn’t taken another trail or been delayed, he should now be returning, maybe nearing halfway back. He might intercept him tomorrow. But he feared Samuel might have taken a cutoff or tried to avoid the trail, particularly if he believed he was still being pursued.

  A few people had been about at White Bird, but none had seen the boys or any suspicious riders. White Bird would have been the most likely area for someone to spot them. Few people would cut across the Camas Prairie, and numerous trails crisscrossed it, making it easy for someone like Samuel who didn’t want to be seen—to disappear. But for certain, Samuel would return to Warren’s.

  Charles climbed out of the Salmon River gorge. The slopes were largely barren and grassy with scattered brush. Elderberry and blackberry thickets choked the draws. Cottonwoods and mountain ash grew in the deeper, watered draws. Pines and firs lined the rim, at first as spotty clumps reaching into the bottoms of some of the north- and west-facing draws, now forming an unbroken forest reaching to the ridge tops. Much like the French Creek trail, the trail wound back and forth along the spine of a ridge, at first crossing empty, grassy slopes and then entering scattered clumps of pines.

  Despite his nagging concern for Samuel, Charles paused to gaze back down toward the Salmon, a silver ribbon winking in the sun. Beautiful country. Soft morning light cast long shadows from the ridges and filled the side canyons with purple shadows. The pines were a deep, somber blue green. He scanned the ridges from the river upward toward the east. Wrinkled and folded fingers ran from shadowed draws and ascended into the light of the early morning.

  All day Charles pushed steadily across the prairie, finally stopping at dusk. While he made some dinner, his thoughts returned to Samuel and the Chinese boy. “Chen.” He said his name. He wondered about Samuel. True, Chen and his uncle had probably saved Samuel’s life, but Charles recognized that the friendship that had grown between the two boys bridged a gap. Both were in a strange land, and both were trying to fit into a man’s world but were not quite there. Samuel treated Chen as an equal. Charles realized that in this regard, Samuel was more a man than he was. Now he could only hope they were coming his direction, returning from Lewiston. He tried not to think the worst, that scum were possibly still pursuing them, desiring only revenge because Samuel had helped someone whom they did not find worthy of helping.

  At morning light, Samuel and Chen rode into Lewiston. Samuel had no idea where he was heading, and Chen took the lead. As they rode, people turned to watch.

  It was the largest city that Samuel had ever been in. The streets were choked with wagons and buggies. Shops of all kinds lined the streets. Several brick buildings rose two or more floors on either side of the street. There were hotels, saloons, mercantile stores, butchers, liveries, and blacksmith shops. There were even a couple of churches and a school. Samuel felt odd. This was the most civilization he had seen in his entire life.

  Several docks ran into the Clearwater River and into the Snake. Huge boats, steam billowing from their stacks, moved on the water. Several were tethered, and men moved rapidly about them, loading or unloading cargo.

  Samuel began noticing what seemed to be hundreds of Chinese. He realized he had entered a section of the city where everyone was Chinese. All the shops were Chinese, with brightly colored Chinese signs. The area was like a hundredfold version of Mann’s store. Chen greeted several Chinese, asking questions but clearly showing caution. Finally, he entered a shop near one of the wharfs. Samuel waited outside with the horses. Several Chinese gathered around, making him feel increasingly uncomfortable. He guessed that they knew what he was packing. He kept Art’s rifle at the ready. If they attacked him, at least one of them was going to die before he did.

  At length, a couple of men emerged with Chen, and they removed the bags. Samuel felt an incredible relief. Sometime later, Chen returned, nodding. “All good, Sam.” He grinned more than Samuel had ever seen.

  Chen visited other shops. He loaded his and Samuel’s horses with several bundles of goods.


  “We sell back in Warren’s,” Chen explained.

  Samuel was torn between leaving and staying longer. He loved the excitement of the city. He wanted to shop for clothes, despite the fact that he had no money. He wondered where Lilly might be—how surprised she would be to see him. He discarded the thought.

  “We can go now,” Chen told him.

  “I wish I could stay and get a hot bath and new clothes,” Samuel replied. But every minute he was away from his father, he was being eaten alive by not being able to let him know that he was okay.

  They headed out of Lewiston, figuring on making as many miles as possible before night. Even Chen knew they would be an easy target because of the goods they carried. Only when darkness descended and they had traveled far back out onto the prairie did they stop to camp.

  Chapter 52

  EARLY MORNING, Samuel and Chen were on the trail again, pushing across the Camas Prairie toward the Salmon River.

  “We’re making good miles, Chen. Possibly we could make Slate Creek by tonight. Another three days after that and we’ll be back at Warren’s.”

  Chen smiled. “I will be happy.”

  They traveled quickly much of the day. The weather warmed. Grass rippled in waves across the prairie. The early-August heat had turned it to amber and gold. Once Samuel thought he saw a hunting party of Indians on the horizon, a mile or more distant. He could see the purple shadows of the Salmon River gorge growing wider and deeper. Shortly, they would be on the rim.

  By late afternoon, the trail began winding down into a deep ravine. Nearing the bottom, they reached a dense thicket of cottonwoods lining a stream.

  Samuel’s thoughts were on reaching Slate Creek and Bonnie, and he failed to hear the brush snapping as Dudgin and Smith emerged from a brushy draw. Smith had his rifle aimed at Samuel’s middle.

  Clumsily, Samuel tried to bring up Art’s rifle.

  “Butt first. Hand it to me, boy.” Dudgin snarled. “Buy this with the gold at Lewiston?”

  Samuel knew he would be foolish to try anything. He handed the rifle over. Dudgin checked it and then aimed it back at Samuel.

  “Figure this is a fair trade for my pistol at the bottom of the river. At least for now.” Dudgin laughed. “Have a nice trip, boy?”

  “Shy of you almost killing us and losing the gold … other than that, you might say it was peachy.” Samuel’s heart was hammering. He remembered Dudgin’s words. Frantically he tried to think of something. “How about you?”

  “What the hell, Chambers,” Dudgin spat. “That supposed to be funny? You didn’t lose all the gold.”

  “Then how about you telling me where it’s at so I can go get it?” Samuel pressed the issue.

  “Figurin’ by the amount of time you been disappeared, you already dropped it off in Lewiston.”

  “We been there but on other business.” He patted the full pack. “I assure you, the gold’s in the river.”

  “You’re a lyin’ bastard, shirttail,” Smith spat. “We been all over this country. Been to Slate Creek. We woulda known. But I’m done wastin’ my breath on ya.”

  Samuel saw hatred burning in the man’s eyes.

  Dudgin kept Art’s rifle jammed in Samuel’s ribs while Smith pulled Chen from the mare, driving him into the dirt and tying his hands behind his back.

  “Your turn, shirttail,” Smith snarled at him. “Or you can get down and make it easy on yourself.”

  Samuel briefly considered spurring the gray down the trail. He knew he could outrun these men, but he hesitated. They would kill Chen. He dismounted.

  Smith trussed Samuel’s arms up behind his back, pulling the rope hard, cutting into his wrists. Samuel winced, feeling the bite. He remembered the time before and immediately began struggling to loosen his bonds.

  Dudgin ripped off the packs, tore them apart, and pulled out some of the supplies. He cursed and scattered the goods into the brush.

  Smith searched Chen, finally pulling some papers from his boot. “What I thought.” He opened them. Samuel could see the Chinese writing.

  “So you lost the gold, shirttail?” He waved the papers in front of Samuel’s nose. “I’ve seen these before. Chinese gold receipts.”

  Samuel eyed the papers. “Don’t know about those. Never seen ’em.”

  “Ask your friend,” Smith spat. His eyes narrowed. “You’re going to wish you’d never climbed out of that river.” He kicked Chen. Chen buckled to his knees. “Bastard, Chinaman. That gold belonged to us—to Americans—not to you, you yellow-skinned heathen.”

  Dudgin leaned into Samuel’s face, his breath even worse than it was a year ago. “That was stolen gold. Morton had papers that proved it,” he growled. “I warned you what would happen if you messed with them Chinamen, boy.”

  “Get them back onto their mounts, Ramey. We got some business to attend.” Dudgin kept his rifle tight on Samuel.

  Samuel frantically tried to think of something. “If you got business with me, I reckon it can be dealt with right here.”

  “Get movin’.” Smith pulled his horse in behind Chen and Samuel, blocking their trail downstream.

  Dudgin led out.

  Samuel was becoming frantic. He glanced at Chen. Chen’s eyes were desperate. Samuel tried to keep calm, tried to think of something. Nothing was coming to him. His throat was dry.

  Suddenly he spurred the gray up the side of the trail, nearly unseating himself.

  “What the hell, kid,” Smith spat. “One more trick like that, and you’re coyote bait.”

  Samuel knew he would soon be coyote bait just the same.

  At first light, Charles broke his small camp, and stood briefly studying the expanse of the windswept prairie before him. He swung into the saddle and headed northwest. He had decided if he did not find the boys by the end of the day, he would return to Warren’s. This was a big country. They could be anywhere. Maybe dead. But Charles felt otherwise. In his mind’s eye, he had seen them riding toward him for so long that it was not possible. They’re alive, he told himself.

  The vast Camas Prairie spread before him, its deep grasses rippling in the wind. White clouds were beginning to build in the heat of the day. If a man didn’t want to be seen crossing this prairie, he wouldn’t be, Charles told himself.

  By midafternoon, the trail began winding down into a bowl, dropping into shadowed, tree-covered draws that descended back to the northeast toward the Clearwater. The Snake lay far to the west, its gorge hidden by low rolling hills.

  He reached the bottom, studied the trail where it began ascending, and noticed a side canyon with a trickle of water emerging from it. Scuffed horse prints led into it. Alarm washed him. Other hoofprints told the story. He cursed to himself and frantically searched the area. He found some discarded Chinese silk lying behind some shrubs. It had to be Samuel and Chen. They would be packing some goods back to Warren’s.

  Pulling his rifle, he checked it and then spurred the bay up through the brush lining the broad gully.

  No fresh tracks had emerged from the draw, only entered it. Throat dry, Charles pushed the bay forward. He could see a smattering of cottonwoods up ahead. The tracks were evenly spaced, indicating that the four horses he followed were not being pushed. The boys were being led up this draw, away from the main trail for only one reason, he believed.

  Samuel and Chen were boxed in between Dudgin and Smith and had no choice but to follow up the creek until they had gone about a mile. Dudgin paused where a ragged cottonwood stood in the draw, its heavy limbs twisting upward. Smith began rigging a loop into the end of his rope, eyeing the limb.

  A shock of icy cold flooded Samuel.

  Smith casually tossed the rope over the limb.

  “Chinaman first,” Dudgin sneered. “You can watch what you did for your friend, boy.”

  “Now, wait a minute, Mr. Dudgi
n,” Samuel pleaded. “He doesn’t deserve this. He has a right to the gold. He’s American born. Born in California.”

  Smith hesitated and then continued fixing the rope, placing it about Chen’s neck. “He’s still a yellow heathen. It warn’t his gold anyhow. Even if he was just the mule, he knew what he was doin’ by helping those yellow thieves.” He tightened the rope.

  Chen closed his eyes.

  “Stop! If you want gold … I got gold,” Samuel blurted. “I got a lot of gold.”

  Dudgin and Smith paused.

  Dudgin eyed him. “I’m listenin’, kid.”

  Samuel glanced at Chen. “The Chinese who were with us, Chen doesn’t know … I found their gold still tied to a log.”

  Chen’s face showed disbelief then anger. “How did—”

  “Shut up, Chinaboy,” Dudgin spat. “Keep talkin’.”

  “While you were scouting the bank, I found it.” Samuel nodded toward Chen. “I buried it without him knowing. I can take you there.”

  Swallowing hard, Charles eased his horse along the creek, angling up the bank to where he could see ahead. Cutting across the bend of the creek along the bench, he came out to a point where he spotted the men and Samuel below. Chen sat astride a white mare with a rope about his neck. He was out of time. Quietly and quickly, Charles slipped from the bay and scrambled to where he lay prone. One man held a rifle—Dudgin, he figured. He was covering Samuel, forcing his son to watch Smith execute his friend. He did not know for certain if they planned to kill Samuel or not. Briefly, he considered calling out, but he thought of Chen. He would die. This was Samuel’s friend—Chinese or not. He aimed past his son’s head toward Dudgin and took and held his breath. He did not intend simply to wound the man.

  Samuel saw a black hole open in Dudgin’s chest, accompanied by the report from a rifle. A red spray blew outward from it as Dudgin’s rifle fired, slamming a round into the dirt. He pitched forward slowly, eyes fixed on Samuel, disbelieving. He hit with a thud and crumpled onto his side in the dirt, blood flowing from his mouth.