And do nothing—a sentiment that Nancy would laugh at.
“That rocker will be covered with dust before you ever use it,” she’d say. And she had been right.
He lowered his head and choked back a sob.
He snapped the watch shut and put it back in his pocket.
She’d been dead fifteen years now, after only six together.
So, why does it still feel like it just happened? he asked himself. Why does my heart ache so much when I take in these spring flowers?
But he knew why. He had married Nancy Cline in 1855, on a beautiful spring morning. She was sixteen and he thirty-eight. She had marveled at the flowers, lambent morning sunlight warming her face, and said nature had provided for them.
“Better hurry and start the ceremony before they are gone,” she had replied. “Nothin’ lasts.”
In their short time together, before she passed, she bore him two children: Jesse and Martha.
After Nancy’s death the children had been sent to the Santa Clara Mission, and for three years he’d drifted around the ranch like a ghost.
When he got them back he didn’t let them out of his sight for a month, following them like a shadow. He taught them to cook and sew and do laundry, as well as ride and shoot.
He didn’t stop until he felt they could survive on their own.
Nobody would ever take them away again.
Mattie—as Nancy had always called her—took to riding bareback on a black mare he gave her for her fourteenth birthday. She named her Shadow. And more than one person had told him his raven-haired daughter looked like an Injun when she raced by.
One afternoon two surveyors saw her charging past and were so taken that they named a nearby massif after her: Mattie Mountain.
Jesse was a pretty good shot, and not a bad tracker. He was a quiet young lad who kept to himself. He didn’t hunt with the anger that used to drive me, thought Howard, but that’s good.
For a moment his mind drifted back to the gold rush in forty-nine. He saw himself shirtless, covered in dirt and blood, a dead bear lying at his feet. A group of men stood in a circle around him, staring.
He shook his head to bring himself back to the present.
Now his kids were grown. They didn’t need him anymore: Mattie was eighteen, and Jesse twenty.
He stood, taking a moment to extend himself to his full seven feet. Howard was a bear of a man with a full beard and unruly black hair. He slapped the dust off his pants, wrestled his black hat in place, and grabbed the rifle.
He surveyed the flowers again, one last time, before walking to the barn with a determined stride that was also long and graceful.
He saddled his horse, stowed a good supply of bacon, beans and dried meat in one saddlebag, and coffee, pot and sugar in the other, and tied his bedroll on.
Then he climbed into the saddle.
The sun was low in the sky by the time he left his ranch. He aimed his horse east, into the darkness.
His son Jesse would take care of things while he was away. Jesse had gotten used to his father´s sudden disappearances, especially in the spring.
Mattie was more unforgiving. Like always, he hoped to sneak off without her noticing. “Where you runnin’ to, Pa?” she would ask, demanding in a voice that left him feeling guilty
And what could he say? That he still missed their mother? That only the smell of danger from time to time made him forget her loss? His children were truly the only important thing in his life, and yet, occasionally he had to leave them.
He needed to taste that freedom which has no memory.
He knew he wouldn’t make it far today. For now, he would take the old Spanish Trail east over the mountains, toward the Mojave Desert.
When the full moon rose in the sky ahead of him he wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t been particularly aware of the moon’s cycle, but now as he saw it greeting him, he knew he’d felt it.
Over the coming days, he pushed east. He wasn’t sure of his destination. He just rode. Head down, always east.
It was April, and the Mojave was bursting forth in color from all the wildflowers. Howard knew this would be a short-lived springtime: the Mojave Desert was the driest in America, sitting in the rain shadow of the mountains he’d just passed through. After the spring rains, not much moisture made it here from the coast.
But the weather held out, and it didn’t get too hot.
He followed the Whipple Trail, blazed by Captain Amiel Whipple in 1853. The trail was seldom used, and at times the track petered out, and he simply aimed at the rising sun each morning.
On day four Fort Mojave came into view on a mesa ahead, but he skirted it, dropping down into an arroyo.
He had no desire for company.
He enjoyed his solitude, and he continued to drift east, ascending the jagged peaks of the western wall of the Arizona Territory, until he stood beneath the mighty pines on the Colorado Plateau.
One night he camped beneath a towering ponderosa, on the edge of an alpine meadow, and woke to the ground shaking from a herd of elk thundering past.
He figured there had to be a hundred of them.
But he had plenty of food, so he just let them pass.
A day´s ride further, he came across a few pioneer families trying to make a stand in the newly-named Flagstaff, but he still yearned for isolation, so he turned south until he reached the southern edge of the Colorado Plateau.
Here he stopped, and set up camp, on a spot that felt like the edge of the world. He exhaled and sat heavily to survey the stunning landscape at his feet: deep canyons of layered sandstone descending in faded reds and oranges and yellows, eventually bottoming out in a narrow valley.
Two tassel-eared squirrels were chasing each other up and down the red and black bark of an enormous pine tree. The early morning sun glinted off their fur as they tirelessly pursued each other.
Howard chuckled, almost spilling the coffee out of his tin cup.
Goodness, he thought, can’t remember the last time I laughed.
He observed a stately, lone elk that passed by, the buck barely paying him any attention.
He enjoyed wandering around in this isolated land. The previous day, a short way along the plateau’s edge, he had discovered the carcass of a mule deer that had perished during the winter.
The lonely impulse that had set him on the road was beginning to soften, and he was glad to be exploring—leaving a trail instead of following a path.
Nancy had always claimed that what was behind, or ahead of us, were small matters. What she thought important was what lay within us each day when we opened our eyes.
He leaned back and pondered her words. He didn’t know if he could consider his past or his future as tiny matters, but he would try to greet each day with fresh eyes. He took a deep breath and glanced around him.
The snow had only recently melted, and the forest lay in disarray: broken limbs and numerous small branches cluttered the ground, and damp, decaying leaves were fading into the soil.
An old raven perched on a branch above him and gurgled and clucked from time to time as he watched the valley below. The wind racing up the cliffs greeted the raven, ruffling his feathers.
Howard heard steps and reached for his gun, but then an old prospector came into view, heading right towards him.
The man slowly ambled along, head down, limping slightly, following the ancient trail that skirted the rim. He was leading a burro loaded with picks, shovels and other mining gear.
Howard lowered the gun. The old-timer stopped and raised his head. They stared at each other. A gust of wind blew through.
“Howdy. Come sit,” Howard eventually said. “Have a coffee.”
The man nodded, a bit distrustful. “As a rule, I don’t hanker to company,” he said, then sniffed, “but that coffee sure do smell good.”
Howard poured him some in a cup which the old guy handed over. The men silently sipped their coffees while watching the valley as the sun rose hig
her above the far rim. From below the warm smell of sage floated up to them.
Howard asked, “Where you headin’?”
The old man shook his head. “I’m heading home, that’s where—I’m done with this place.”
Howard surveyed the landscape of vermillion buttes and mesas below, and then the swaying pines towering above them.
“I kinda like it here,” he said.
The man squinted at Howard, weighing him.
“You ever hear of Cliff Haines?” he asked.
Howard shook his head.
“Wish I hadn’t,” said the prospector. “He came across an old Spanish mine in this area, about twenty years ago. The Lost Coconino, they called it. Worked it with a small crew for about five years before the Injuns killed ‘em all.”
The man stared at a pile of provisions that Howard had unloaded from his saddlebags.
“I’m on my way back to Tucson, but I’m out of supplies,” he said. “If you set me up with a little jerky I’ll give you a lead.”
Howard laughed sadly, glad he’d left the obsession for gold behind him. “No, I’ve got no use for mines.”
He looked over the old prospector´s emaciated frame and reached over to grab a wrapped bundle from the provisions pile.
“Take some bacon nonetheless,” he said.
The old man snatched it, his hunger surfacing.
“Thank you kindly—that’s about the only act of kindness I seen in years.”
After he had stowed it, the prospector stood to leave, but some internal code prevented him from just walking away.
“You might not care about that mine,” he said, “but I feel bound to tell you about it. It sits in a box canyon, a good ways southeast of Williams, in this area. Two years ago, a guy named John Squires rediscovered it. He resumed operations there, but the next year everyone he’d left working the mine was killed by Injuns, except Squires, who died in a gunfight in Taos.”
Howard chuckled. “Sounds like that mine´s bad luck,” said Howard. “And you’re surprised I don’t want to know about it?”
“You shouldn’t shrug it off—there’s a fortune in that mine.”
“I’m not tryin’ to be sardonic,” interrupted Howard, “but like I said, I’m not interested.”
“Wish I’d had that kind of smarts all those years ago,” said the prospector, chuckling sadly. “I’ve wasted the last good years of my life searchin’ for it, and never came close. They say the box canyon has a hidden entrance and I never could find it.”
Howard gave him a blank stare, and the old miner shrugged.
“Anyways,” he said as he painfully stood. “I gotta be on my way. Much obliged for the bacon.”
Howard nodded and watched him shuffle along with his mule.
Several days later Howard decided to explore a deep ravine that had been carved into the plateau´s edge to the east—Oak Creek Canyon, the old prospector had called it. There was still a chill in the air on the plateau, but once he descended, following a gentle brook, the weather seemed milder.
A footpath ran along the creek, and Howard casually followed it on his horse. Huge cliffs soon rose up all around him, and the pines clustered close.
Down in Oak Creek Canyon, spring had already gained a foothold. Luxuriant green shoots were sprouting up in sunny patches along the creek, and there was a profound sense of life—new life—returning!
The intoxicating scent of the earth, and the vegetation that clustered along the water, accompanied them as they dropped even lower in elevation.
Birds sang out, and the wind—now gentle and soothing—swayed the branches of sycamores and cottonwoods.
He was irresolute, like he no longer controlled where he was going. The breeze and the swaying wildflowers he passed made him feel like he was floating along as he let the horse lead the way.
When they reached a lush clearing where the water lazily wove its way through the high grass, he dismounted and tied the horse’s lead to a sapling. There was something about this place that gripped him.
Hundreds of small piles of rocks covered the ground. Some looked ancient, with thick moss obscuring them. Lizards clung to the rocks here and there, twitching their heads at him as he passed.
A handful of rainwater had gathered in a cavity on one of the larger rocks. In the shadows it was dark and for a moment Howard thought it was blood.
In the dirt he could see the heart-shaped hoofprints of a young deer, next to the fingerlike toes of a racoon, but no human footprints.
Walking deeper into the quiet glade, he saw ahead there was a clearing where the water pooled around a large flat rock. The rock was moss-covered and could be reached by hopping across several stones protruding from the water.
Behind the flat rock stood a tall, flat-sided sandstone pillar with what looked like an ornament. Upon closer inspection, Howard found it to be a swirling petroglyph that had been etched into the stone. Moss covered the lower part of the rock and obscured some pictographs.
Howard stepped from rock to rock until he was standing on the flat rock in the middle of the pool. The water below seemed impossibly deep.
He took off his boots and socks and stuck his feet in the cool, clear water.
Nancy drifted through his mind, and he thought how much she would have loved the place. It was a question he asked himself often when he was out in the country. What would Nancy think of this?
And it always saddened him. If only she’d lived longer, and they could have spent more time together. The years since her passing had been difficult.
He thought of the burdens he carried with him—the fodder of his nightmares—and they suddenly seemed unsustainable.
The water swirled around his feet.
And he found himself crying, sobbing, choking on all the loss, the killing, the greed, the senseless destruction he’d experienced. In that quiet place, it all flowed out of him until all that was left was the husk of a man. A man who had once loved. A man who had once felt alive and vibrant.
And then a great calm overcame him.
A sense of acceptance.
He stared down into the water, its surface as smooth as a mirror. Something glowing seemed to be floating below him.
And then without even realizing he had leaned forward, he plunged into the water, and sank.
He didn’t feel a need for air as he descended.
Just an acceptance.
And as he sank, water swirling around him, his mind filled with the sad sobs of a young woman crying.
In his mind he could see her. She was dressed in buckskins and sat on that flat rock, her feet also in the water.
Why she cried he didn’t know, but her sorrow moved him, and his heart ached.
And then the woman’s demeanor changed, and she began to sing.
His heart picked up with the song, stirring like it had suddenly found a lost current. In his vision, the forest around the singer responded, moving in unison to her melody.
Every single thing in this canyon, he thought, is conscious.
He opened his eyes, underwater still.
He glanced up at the sky above, eggshell blue. The sun’s sharp rays plunged down at him, fragmenting into a million vibrant lights.
And then he felt the urgent need to breathe.
He flayed his arms and legs and ascended, gasping as he broke the water´s surface.
A blue heron stood as still as marble twenty feet away, but its eyes watched him from across the lagoon.
The wind had stopped completely.
He sat in silence for a long time. Finally, he left the rock. He walked back to his horse, climbed into the saddle, and turned the mare upstream.
When they reached the plateau, Howard paused and looked over the canyon.
He could still feel that connection to the land that had flowed with the song. His body still breathed with it.
He was tempted to remain there for a few days, but he was suddenly missing his kids. It had been long enough, and he decided
to head back west.
Over the next few weeks he slowly drifted back to California, but the entire time the crying woman’s song played softly in his head.
Chapter Thirty-eight
A line of six horses trod along Oak Creek, heading upstream. The brook trickled strongly with snowmelt coming off the plateau, and the cottonwood branches were tipped with light green buds.
The first riders were dressed in blue Union uniforms, the man in the lead sporting sergeant stripes, but the last was a civilian. They were rendezvousing with another group of men.
John James Thompson, the civilian, hailed from Londonderry, Ireland. He had left his home at age eleven and within a year had made his way to America. What was left of his youth he had spent in Texas. He was now thirty-four, with dark red hair and a scraggly beard.
Thompson sat astride a dun-colored mount, wondering if he’d been wise to accompany the soldiers. In a few hours they would be escorting a group of Apache prisoners to the reservation, leaving him to himself.
He had initially thought it a good opportunity to be one of the first settlers to see the land in the Arizona territory. Now that the last of the natives were being forcibly removed, the area was opening up.
Three years earlier, General George Crook had rounded up most of the Apache and Yavapai in the Verde Valley south of the plateau´s rim and marched them to a reservation near Camp Verde. Now the bluecoats were about to collect the last renegade band in the area; a group of about twenty that had been captured a few days earlier.
The sergeant, a man with a handlebar mustache named Cush, had assured him that by the end of the day, there would be no Apaches left in Oak Creek Canyon.
“We’ll have them on their way to San Carlos before you know it,” Cush had said. “Then you’ll have all this to yourself—or at least your hundred-and-sixty acres if you manage to homestead it.”
Thompson wasn’t so sure. There were still plenty of savages out there, and raids were common elsewhere in the territory. His two decades in America had taught him that the lands west of the Mississippi could be a dangerous place.
He glanced above at the sky, which was a deep royal blue, dark and infinite, and then let his gaze fall on the high, color-banded crags that lined the creek.
The Sirens of Oak Creek Page 17