The Sirens of Oak Creek

by Robert Louis DeMayo

  Despite the assurance from Cush, he sensed that someone was watching him.

  But the birds in the trees along the creek sang peacefully, and he wanted to shake the dread that lurked deep in his gut. He tried to take in his surroundings and wipe away the uneasiness.

  It was mid-day. Bright patches of sunlight lit the sand along the brook, contrasting sharply with the deep green shadows that lurked under the manzanita and scrub oak.

  In the brush along the way, a covey of quail crooned and clucked to one another.

  A yellow butterfly floated past.

  He exhaled and nudged his horse forward.

  Beyond a tight bend through which they had to lead the horses, the trail swung to the right and ran through a grove of cottonwoods. Here they could ride side by side, and Cush reigned back until he was next to Thompson.

  Cush said, “That wily General Crook promised the Injuns that once they learnt the white man’s ways they could return—but mark my words, they won’t make it back in a hundred years.”

  Thompson scratched his head. “What’s to stop them from just sneaking back?” he asked. “Camp Verde isn’t all that far away from here.”

  Cush looked away and shook his head. “They ain’t in Camp Verde no more. Last winter they was marched one-hundred-and-eighty miles to the southeast reservation.”

  Thompson could detect that Cush was holding something back and asked, “And how did that go?”

  Cush spat out to get rid of the memory of that awful, bitter march. His mind was flooded with images of the freezing, stunned wretches, wrapped in thin blankets, barely aware of anything but their misery, and a fierce determination to survive.

  But all he said was, “There was about fifteen hundred Apache when they set out. ‘Bout two hundred died on the way—mostly the very young and elderly.”

  The two men rode on in silence.

  Thompson stole a glance at Cush’s uniform. In ’61 Thompson had joined the Southern Army when Texas had seceded from the Union, and although fifteen years had passed, he still hesitated at the sight of a bluecoat.

  His military career had been a short one—all done before he’d turned twenty-one. A few months in, he’d been hospitalized in Georgia with a musket ball in his shoulder, and after that he´d spent the remainder of the war in a prison camp in Illinois.

  “So, these captives will be marched all that way, too?” asked Thompson. His mind swam with memories of his own forced marches: the poke of a bayonet in the small of his back, his cold, worn clothes hanging off him like rags, and the stale, half-rotten food that wasn’t fit for animals.

  Cush broke through his reverie.

  “At least it´s springtime,” he said. “They won’t have to deal with the cold.”

  No, thought Thompson, only with exile.

  A little while later Cush pulled out his pistol and fired twice in the air. The repercussion shook the quiet canyon, echoing around the bend, and a dozen birds fled, flapping wildly.

  “Let ‘em know we’re close,” said Cush.

  They came to a cleared area beside the creek. Here, a dozen soldiers surrounded a group of bound men who knelt in the dirt.

  Beyond stood several wickiups and a small field with the withered stalks of last year’s corn.

  A captain saluted Cush and said, “We will all ride to Camp Verde together, and after, I can spare five men to accompany you to San Carlos.”

  “That’ll be fine,” said Cush.

  Cush nodded at Thompson. “This here is Mr. J.J. Thompson—he’s here to look at the land.”

  Thompson squirmed uncomfortably, realizing that this was his moment. Would he really be staying behind when everyone left?

  He glanced at the tall sycamores that lined the water, and the bare red rock slopes that led to the distant rim of the canyon far ahead of them. The further you got from the creek, the more desolate the land became. It was now about noon, and in the heat and the silence and the glare he gazed upon the clifflands. Anything beyond the creek seemed to be a sinister wasteland.

  Yet where he stood was lushness all around. There were tall trees and grass and plenty of shade. The drainages showed signs of recent rain, and the air tasted sweet. In the cool shadows where they sat astride their horses a trace of the morning mist lingered, and there was a general happiness that seemed to spawn from the fluttering of the numerous birds.

  Thompson knew in his heart that he would stay.

  Not because he found it perfect, but because this was both a place of intoxicating beauty and one of savage desolation.

  It seemed to suit him, and the thought of living here fascinated him infinitely.

  “So, you’re certain this is the last of the Injuns?” asked Thompson while staring at the prisoners in the dirt. All were gazing at the ground and seemed resigned to their fate.

  Thompson’s heart went out to them, and in a heartbeat, he thought of all the friends he’d known and lost in that sad war. He’d seen too much killing, and death—all at the hands of men wearing the same blue uniforms.

  He shifted his eyes away, unable to bear the sight of the unfortunate Apaches.

  But the bluecoats who surrounded him also looked worn down from their past. Most had begun their military career in the Civil War, and most had witnessed too many battles.

  The captain bore a scar on his neck—reputedly from Vicksburg. He seemed to take no pleasure in hunting the Apaches.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” said the captain. “We’ve been up and down this canyon—it’s empty. Hopefully, now, we can have some peace.”

  The captain nodded to a soldier who began rousing the captives. “Everybody up!” he shouted.

  Their arms were bound, and they were tied to each other, as they awkwardly stood.

  The soldiers all mounted up and the bulk of them started down the trail ahead of the captives. Then the Apaches too shuffled along, followed by a half-dozen soldiers, including Cush.

  He whistled and waved as he rode off, shouting, “Good luck!” over his shoulder.

  Thompson stood watching the soldiers depart until long after they’d gone from sight. He’d wished one of them had remained behind; a little conversation would lighten my mood, he thought.

  Behind him he heard footsteps and his blood ran cold. Turning swiftly, he saw nothing. He froze and opened his ears, and eventually discerned the racket was caused by two little gray mice that darted through the dead leaves.

  His horse sensed his nervousness and stepped in place.

  He calmed her. “Easy, girl,” he said. “It’s just you and me.”

  He slid out of his saddle and began unloading his saddlebags. He only had supplies for a few days: a bedroll, some smoked meat, a few potatoes, one jug of water and another of whiskey.

  His plan was to go to the new settlement of Flagstaff for provisions if he approved of the land.

  After tying the horse to a low limb of a cottonwood, he grabbed the jug of whiskey and walked toward the creek. On the way he passed the field where the Apaches had tended to their crops the previous fall. Withered vines of beans and squash twined around the corn stalks.

  And then in the soft soil he saw footprints.

  Instinct made him look up and survey the edges of his clearing.

  But he was alone.

  He stared at the tracks again. So fresh. So recent.

  He felt the presence of others.

  He glanced at the wickiups. I should search them, he thought.

  At the entrance to one of the shelters he paused, and his courage failed him there.

  He backed away, and instead took a strong pull off the jug.

  All around him lay scattered evidence that he was in someone else’s home. He inspected a smoldering fire by the creek and could see the remnants of their last meal, and woven mats where they relaxed through the hot part of the day.

  It seemed inconceivable that they were simply gone now.

  In the back of his mind he could hear sporadic gunshots and cannons bellow
ing thunder, but he knew they were not real sounds. Just echoes that flared up whenever he began to feel despair.

  And the sight of the bound men had done just that.

  He tilted the jug back again and drained a good amount.

  The high cliffs around him began to spin.

  “And why shouldn’t I stay here!” he shouted at the crags around him. “Do I not get to be happy some day?”

  His face flushed red as he took another swig.

  The sounds of battle surrounded him now, no longer in the background.

  He slid down the bank, over the slick unbroken sandstone, to the water’s edge and took off his boots. The water flowing over his bare feet calmed him, somewhat, but didn’t slow his drinking.

  When the high cliffs eclipsed the sun and cast him in shadow he glanced around furtively. He knew he should climb the bank and throw some wood on that fire.

  But instead he steadily drank, and watched the gloom thicken.

  Late in the night, Thompson woke. One leg lay immersed in the creek, and the rest of him was sprawled on a smooth red rock bank.

  The jug of whiskey leaned against him—empty.

  He dragged himself ashore.

  He tried to stand and discovered he was still drunk.

  The stars above tilted and slanted, and within seconds he fell to the ground again.

  He lay on his side, staring at the creek that shimmered dimly in the starlight.

  Sleep pulled him away, but just before he lost consciousness, his eyes focused, and he realized in the shadows across the creek, an old, white-haired Apache sat there watching him.

  Thompson blinked twice, trying to see better, but then the world spun, and he passed out again.

  Sharp rays of yellow sunshine woke him the next morning, filtering through the foliage, warming his body. It was mid-morning, and he guessed he’d somehow slept on the red-banded sandstone bank of the creek for just about twelve hours.

  He was groggy, and had a headache from all the whiskey, but his biggest difficulty was his vision.

  At first, he lay there listening to the birds, and the trickle of water, but when he tried to open his eyes he found he could barely squint.

  The world seemed awash in bright light that reflected like a million diamonds off the countless, tiny rapids in the water.

  He focused his bleary vision on an olive cluster of mistletoe dangling from a branch of juniper next to him. When he managed to open one eye just a little, he looked upstream, where pale filaments of gossamer were ballooning over the creek—spiderwebs, riding the wind.

  His mind felt overrun with cobwebs, and he tried to piece together the previous day: the ride up the canyon; the arrival and seeing the prisoners; the soldiers leaving and the solitude he was left with.

  Suddenly, he remembered seeing the old Apache across the river. Whether it had been real, a dream, or a drunken hallucination, he didn’t know.

  He glanced in that direction and was startled to see four mule deer standing in the spot, watching him from the cool shadows.

  They were all female, and two were smaller and looked to be only a few months old. They observed him, seemingly unafraid, bobbing their heads, the fawns wide-eyed and unblinking.

  He sat up and took in every detail: the large black-tipped ears, the fur blowing in the breeze, the long sturdy legs and split-hooved feet.

  And the black-tipped tails twitching behind them.

  After the sudden surprise, they relaxed and eventually ignored him. They were surrounded on three sides by sugar sumac, and soon their delicate snouts were nibbling on the sweet leaves.

  So intoxicating was the sight to Thompson, that when the deer moved upstream, he followed them.

  They seemed in no particular hurry as they browsed their way upriver, and Thompson was content to meander with them, splashing through the water when he had to.

  Always twenty feet behind them, never much more.

  He wondered why they showed no fear. Surely the Apaches must have hunted them.

  After two hours, pangs of hunger alerted him that he was getting too far from his supplies. He’d been walking in a dream-like state, aware only of the animals among the beautiful flowing sandstone, and the stately sycamores, and the buffeting, pleasant breeze that accompanied the cascading waters.

  And when he lifted his head to see where he was, he found the deer grazing in a grassy glade where the water deepened, and a large flat rock sat in the middle.

  Here, he crouched and listened to the forest around him.

  And despite his hunger, he didn’t walk back to his camp until the afternoon was half gone.

  But when he finally turned to go, there was a new determination in his eyes.

  He knew he would make this magical canyon his home.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  1878

  Howard rode up to a small cabin about a mile from his ranch. His daughter, Mattie, sat on the porch with her one-year-old son, Emory, hugging him in a warm blanket. From a shed that stood fifty feet away, accordion music drifted to the house.

  “Hey, Pa!” she shouted. “Come hold this little rascal for me.”

  Howard dismounted and tied his horse to a rail.

  “Come here, son,” he said and accepted the baby.

  “You just sit here, Pa, and let me do a couple quick things.”

  The infant was just about asleep and didn’t stir when he was handed over. In the house, Mattie scurried around, cleaned up a few dishes, tossed a log in the wood stove, and washed out a few diapers.

  When she returned, Howard nodded at the shed.

  “Seems like Stephen is chipper this morning,” he said.

  She frowned. Her husband, Stephen Purtymun, spent too much time in the shed these days. “Well, I’m guessin’ he’s got his new still up and runnin’. I won’t let him hold Emory when he’s been drinkin’, so I’m glad you came by—'cause I needed a break.”

  A half-mile off, a cloud of dust floated toward them. Mattie peered at it and saw a large herd of sheep moving south.

  “Them Mexican sheep herders are takin’ over more and more of this valley,” she said. “What’re we gonna do? Nobody seems to care that they’re gobblin’ up all the good grazin’ land.”

  Howard shook his head. “Don’t know.”

  Mattie seated herself and took the infant back.

  When he was snuggled up close to her, she offered him a breast which he eagerly accepted.

  And as they both settled down, she began to hum a melody.

  Howard listened with a dumbfounded expression. He knew the tune. It sparked a deep memory. But he couldn’t recollect how. It was like remembering being in love, but not knowing with whom.

  He stared at her for a full minute before he asked, “Where did you learn that song?”

  Mattie giggled happily. “You taught it to me!”

  “Me? “exclaimed Howard. “I don’t think so—but it sure does sound familiar.”

  “Well, it should,” she stated. “Remember when you came back from one of your jaunts about two years ago? I’m not sure where you went, but you were hummin’ that song when you got back. You didn’t actually teach it to me—guess I just picked it up.”

  The ride back from Oak Creek had seemed like a dream to Howard, and the memory of it was even more surreal. His heart had softened following his plunge in the deep pool at the peaceful clearing, and the easy-going glow that resided in his soul grew larger over the coming days.

  He had been humming the melodious song of the crying woman without even noticing it, drifting across endless flat plains and through hills and canyons, never feeling the harsh sun or the bite of the wind.

  His mind had surrendered to a golden glowing.

  Apparently he had continued to hum the melody after he’d returned. It didn’t surprise him that his mind had clung to it. He would never forget the vision that had beset him while he floated in the quiet pool.

  He thought sadly how over time the lovely song of the
canyon had faded from his mind, and in that distance his nightmares had returned.

  “I wish I could get back to that place,” he said.

  “I never asked at the time—but where’d you go?”

  Howard glanced east. “I must‘a ridden five hundred miles. Went all the way to Flagstaff, then down into a canyon south of there.”

  Then he told her about his journey—everything but the vision in the quiet lagoon. Still, there was a new light surfacing in Howard’s eyes when he spoke of Oak Creek Canyon, and Mattie wanted to know more about it.

  “Do you think you’ll ever go back?” she asked.

  He sighed and then met my eyes. “I sure would like to.”

  * * *

  “Settle down,” said Thompson, encouraging his horse to take it slower. He walked alongside her, holding her harness. He glanced back at a mule, tethered behind her. Both animals were loaded with hay and firewood in what seemed to Thompson a herculean amount of work. If one of them tripped and broke a leg, all his efforts would have been in vain.

  He was on his way to Camp Verde, on the other side of the valley. Despite trying to be frugal, the simple fact was he needed money if he were to build a cabin, and that meant venturing out of his canyon.

  So, he’d taken a chance and invested the last of his cash in a mule to help deliver whatever he could harvest. He also had to clear the land, so he could build a shelter. Any trees unsuitable for a cabin he’d chopped into firewood, and he’d taken a scythe to the grass in several clearings and collected the hay to sell it.

  When he delivered his first load of hay and firewood to Camp Verde, he discovered the soldiers there were unhappy with their meager diet. The creek was full of trout, he thought, and he decided to make a living of fishing as well.

  Now that the snow had melted the trout were hungry. There was still a chill in the canyon, a lingering taste of winter, and the insects hadn’t emerged yet. At nearly every cast a trout took his bait and within several days he had the saddlebags filled with fish.