He had salted the fish but knew the heat would still spoil them if he didn’t make good time crossing the valley. He was on the trail before sunrise, picking his way downstream, accompanied by a cacophony of bird song as the day began.
He was used to the solitude of his cabin and felt exposed when he emerged from the high walls of the canyon into the open desert.
He headed west with his horse and mule, onto a plain where all the tall cottonwoods and sycamores disappeared. Instead Thompson and his pack animals now wound their way through mesquite and creosote bushes amongst stunted piñon pines and junipers. The sun was on their backs, and their shadows wobbled ahead of them, as they left the red rock canyons.
A road runner high-stepped ahead of them and disappeared into a thicket of catclaw. The grass was dried out and brittle, but underneath green shoots were preparing to take over.
Prickly pear cactus thrived and sprawled all over.
The sun slowly crept higher, and early in the afternoon they sighted Oak Creek again. It meandered southwest out of the canyon, rambling through the valley, and finally they crossed paths again at a place called Page Springs.
Here they stopped for the night. Howard took off his boots and rubbed his tired feet. They had walked about fifteen miles—about half the distance to Camp Verde.
The flow of water relaxed him, and the openness of the land seemed refreshing. He checked the fish, and they appeared unspoiled. He set the panniers in the soft shade by the creek.
In the canyon, the high cliffs cut the sun from view long before the sky was swept with color. But here he had a great open panorama. He sat on the bank of the creek, keeping to the shadows, and eventually watched the sky fill with vibrant reds and oranges and purples.
The magnificence of the sunset made him reminisce about his time on the Colorado River, where he’d often ended the day watching the setting sun reflecting in the water.
In 1868, when he was twenty-six, he’d left Texas on a cattle drive, heading for California. As fate would have it, they bumped into some Mormons in Utah who bought all their stock.
Here, Thompson heard stories about gold along the Colorado river. He set out to explore the waterway, covering hundreds of miles. Eventually he built a raft and went into the ferry business, transporting people up and down the river.
During this time on the water, he met the James family.
Abraham James was a cattle rancher from Missouri. He was straight and tall with a dignified mustache and, as his name suggested, seemed like a character right out of the Bible.
He had a whole brood of children—seven in total.
When Abraham surveyed a landscape, he always acted like he was the first to ever see it, proclaiming the benefits of the land, and more than likely, what it should be named. Thompson loved to hear him tell stories, especially around a fire late at night.
Over time, they became friends, and whenever he passed by Abraham would insist he spend the night.
Abraham’s youngest daughter, Margaret, was six at the time, and developed a friendship with Thompson. Often, they would sit on the banks of the Colorado, telling stories, and speculating about the nature of the world around them. Their favorite game was identifying shapes in clouds.
Thompson lay back on the bank of Oak Creek and stared up at the dark blue sky and identified a fleet of sharp-edged clouds—cumulus ships—drifting through the cerulean sea.
There was one that reminded him of young Margaret, sitting on a log.
On an impulse, he took out a pencil and piece of paper and started to write a letter. He wanted to tell the Jameses about the special place he had found.
It had been almost ten years since he had left the James family, and he wondered what Margaret was like now.
The next day, he reached the fort and sold his supplies. Before he left, he posted the letter to the James family.
Over the next year, Thompson made monthly trips to Camp Verde. Several mines had opened in Jerome, and he sold to the miners, too. On one of his trips to Camp Verde, he received a letter from Abraham James, informing him that he would be coming to the area with his family to survey the land.
They arrived in the Spring of 1878.
He tried to talk Abraham into moving into Oak Creek Canyon, but the older man preferred open spaces. He settled along the creek in Page Springs, by the cool, clear water, where he liked to sit under the ancient sycamores and listen to the grackles frolicking in the reeds.
Abraham had married off his oldest four children, but still had with him two boys, James and David, and Margaret.
For ten years now, Thompson had been missing the trading of stories with Abraham James about the old days on the Colorado, and he was thrilled that the day had finally come when he rode up to the James family camp in the Verde Valley.
When I heard the rider approach, I went for father’s rifle. All my life I’ve worried about my safety. Father would trust anyone, and it fell on me to discern whom to let into our house—and whom to send packing. I had learned to shoot at a young age, and soon after caught on that having a gun handy was prudent, too.
I grabbed the Winchester, worked the lever-action to load a bullet in the chamber, and leveled the gun with the rider in the sights. “Hold it right there!” I shouted.
He stopped and raised his hands. Glanced around.
“I’m not looking for trouble,” the man replied.
He sat astride his horse, in the blaring sun, and he squinted at me as I was standing in the shade of a sycamore.
“I’m here to see Mr. Abraham James!” he yelled.
Suddenly, I recognized him. Jim Thompson. I lowered the gun and stepped into the light. “I bet you are.”
He gave me a strange stare, a question on his lips, as if he didn’t dare assume I was the young girl he’d known ten years ago. And I, in turn, wondered how accurate my assessment of him from a child´s perspective had been. It seemed the days of our friendship were far in my past.
I stared back boldly, sizing him up. At first, I thought he looked the same. No older, except for some wrinkles around his eyes. But as I peered at him, sitting uncomfortably on his horse, I could see a weariness about him. Maybe it had always been there, and I’d just missed it as a young girl.
He nudged his horse toward me.
“Hi, Margaret,” he whispered.
When he was close, I grabbed the bridle and looked up at him.
“Hi, Jim,” I said.
He sat there, speechless, his eyes meeting mine, drifting away, and then returning. I was used to men visiting father who hadn’t seen a woman in a while and recognized the delayed speech—and an inability to meet my stare.
So I teased him. “Well, are you gonna just sit there all day?”
He shook himself. Laughed. And slid out of the saddle and awkwardly shook my hand.
“Father is by the creek,” I said and turned to lead him there.
But before we got there, I stopped and asked, “You been watching clouds without me, Jim?”
He blushed. “I saw your face in one just yesterday—although, to be honest, the face I imagined was much younger.”
“No, sir,” I said, a bit defiantly, “I am no longer that little girl.”
We didn’t talk much after that, but between us was now an unspoken acknowledgement that things had changed.
Abraham James and his wife watched the two. Margaret was close to marrying age, and there weren’t many suitable bachelors in the Verde Valley. Thompson had been a good friend of the family when they lived on the Colorado River, and they were glad to be reacquainted.
After several months of these visits it became obvious that Margaret and Thompson were in love. They agreed to be wed, the next spring, when the James family planned to travel through Oak Creek Canyon, to spend the summer months on the plateau.
Chapter Forty
1879
Howard hefted a jug of whiskey and took a long pull off it. He sat on a rise, lying against a flat rock, while
he observed his horses below. On his lap, his rifle was ready.
About a mile away, a large flock of sheep was ambling towards him, nibbling up the wildflowers in their path. The spring rains had kept the dust down and Howard could clearly see several Hispanic sheepherders walking behind the animals.
In the fresh morning air, he could hear their whistles.
And then the sadness overcame him once again. He cast his eyes over another field of blossoming spring flowers, and remembered Nancy saying, “Nothin’ lasts.”
He took another swig of whiskey.
The sheepherders must’ve spotted him, because they veered north, away from his property.
“And stay away,” he muttered and downed another good gulp of whiskey. Soon he tilted his head back and eventually slipped into a dream.
And in the dream, he relived the rush of ’49. He was thirty-two, digging and mucking in a dark hole, always armed, always checking over his shoulder. There were so many desperate men, and if any even suspected you’d struck pay dirt they would jump your claim without hesitation.
He had only made it through because of his partner, Willie.
In the dream, Howard stood at the bottom of a shaft, covered with dirt, and Willie was staring down at him, grinning like a schoolboy. Willie had a mop of black hair and hailed from Dublin. He had a way of seeing the positive in everything situation, no matter how bad.
“You look good, Bear,” he said. “The dirt suits you.”
Howard stood a solid foot higher than Willie, with a full beard and a shaggy black mane of hair. The moment they’d met, Willie had begun calling him ‘Bear’. When he later learned that Howard had actually hunted bears, the nickname seemed all the more appropriate.
Both men were the same age and determined to make their fortunes in the California gold mines, but several years of hard work had shown no profit. And any money they had tucked away was now spent.
“You see China, yet, Bear?” Willie asked Howard.
Howard cursed. “I bet I’m close,” he said and tugged the rope, indicating another bucket was ready to be hauled up. Willie pulled it up while Howard climbed their rickety ladder.
Minutes later, Howard was squinting in the sunlight as both men dug through the pail. Initially, they’d found traces of gold, and had sunk this shaft, hoping it was a good vein, but the last few weeks had shown little promise.
Willie poured some of the muck into a pan, added a little water, and swished the mix around until all that was left were the heavier rocks and pebbles.
The men inspected them closely.
Howard shook his head, and Willie tossed the rubble to the ground.
“Nothin’,” said Howard. “I think we should give up on this hole. There ain’t nothin’ down there.”
Willie sat and rubbed his stubbly chin. “Sure, Bear—I think we should be on our way. There are better ways to spend my life than muckin’ out some dark hole. We need a new plan.”
Howard sighed. “If I wasn’t so damn hungry I’d just walk away.”
Willie stared at the hills around them. “There’s got to be a few deer out there. Why don’t you hunt one for us?” he asked. “You said you hunt.”
Howard nodded somberly. “I can. I should’a gone out before, but it seemed like we were hot on the tail of some gold.”
Now Willie put on his best smile. “Then we’re in business. You know how much they charge for a meal in the food tents? I think they’ll pay you a lot of money for a deer.”
Howard scratched his unruly hair, which was full of dust and clumps of mud. His beard needed a trim, too.
“I reckon if there are deer out there I can find ‘em.”
Willie began rubbing his hands together. “Soon we’ll make our fortune—we’re gonna be as happy as a schoolmarm at detention.”
Over the coming week Howard scoured the hills around them. Most of the game had been killed by other miners, or had cleared out, and he was forced to search further and further away.
He did kill a racoon, and a porcupine, and as desperate as the miners were, they happily purchased what meager meat there was—but it only brought in a little money.
When he finally returned with a buck one day, Willie was ready with a butcher knife. Howard had gutted the deer but left it to Willie to skin and butcher it. Willie found it hard to contain his hunger, and the first thing he did was skewer a big strip of tenderloin and lay it suspended over the fire.
He offered the first bite to Howard, who refused.
“You take it, Willie,” he said, “I ate a good portion of the liver yesterday, after I gutted it.”
Willie wrapped the choice cuts in brown paper and brought them straight to the food tents where they were instantly purchased.
“I’m gonna sell everything I can,” he said. “The rest I’ll cook up in a stew.”
“Good,” said Howard, “don’t take anything for granted ’cause game is scarce—it seems I’m not the first to try my hand at hunting around here.”
“Wish we had a horse,” said Willie, “then you could cover some distance and maybe find a place that isn’t hunted out.”
Howard smiled. “Don’t you worry about that, I can walk a fair distance. Let’s just fill our bellies and see where that takes us.”
The next day Howard was out hunting again. Luck was on his side and he bagged a doe within a mile of their camp.
Willie butchered the doe, and quickly sold off the venison.
Hopeful, Howard rode out again the next morning. But this time it seemed the game had just vanished.
“There are plenty of bear around,” Howard told Willie, “but they’re skittish. I’ve found their dens, but they roam far and sometimes don’t return to a particular den for weeks.”
Willie paced around. “Well, I can’t do anything here while I’m waiting. Why don’t you set me up in one of those dens and I’ll just wait for the bear?”
A dark sense of foreboding swept over Howard as he thought over Willie’s plan. “I don’t like it,” he said. “You’re no hunter.”
Willie laughed. “These are black bear, not grizzlies—I think I can handle one if you leave me armed.”
So when Howard headed for the hills again, Willie accompanied him. In a damp cave about five miles from their camp, Howard left Willie with a pistol—a Colt .45 with six rounds—and some dried jerky. The cave was small, ten feet square and four feet high.
“Don’t light a fire, just wait,” said Howard.
Then he walked away, feeling uncertain. It was no easy thing to just lie someplace, in the dark, waiting for a bear to come around.
The bear would most likely smell Willie, but he might get close enough for Willie to get off a shot. Howard was tempted to switch weapons, and give his friend the rifle, but he knew he’d have little chance of hitting a deer at any distance with the pistol.
It wasn´t until few days later that Howard returned to the cave. Miles away, he’d killed a large buck, and he decided to butcher it and pack just the meat out, rather than try to transport the carcass back.
“Right about now, a horse wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” he thought.
That night he’d smoked some of the venison, so he could fill his belly, and have some jerky as provisions.
He now had sixty pounds of meat in his pack, and he grunted when he set it down outside the cave and called out. “Willie, you in there?”
An ominous silence greeted him.
He unslung his rifle, cocked it, and entered the cave.
Willie’s body lay in the corner. He’d been torn up by the bear. Howard moaned. There was a lot of blood. He wondered if Willie had gotten a shot off.
He checked the Colt, which Willie still gripped in his hand, and discovered the cylinder held all six bullets still.
He sat next to his friend and cried. He’d never felt so alone.
By the cave entrance, he could see the bear’s tracks leading away. Howard glanced at the prints and said, “You may not be at fault
here, but I’m gonna kill you anyway.”
He sat Willie’s body up in a corner of the cave.
“I’ll be back real soon,” he said, sobbing, “you sit tight until then.”
He stepped outside, shouldered his pack, and hiked the five miles to the food tents. He sold all the meat he had—except the smoked jerky.
Then he grabbed a shovel and returned to the bear den.
Howard once again crouched by Willie’s body, and now he was filled with rage. Earlier the death of his friend had seemed unreal, but now the certainty had set in.
He was alone. His partner killed.
He thought of the bear.
It would return, eventually, of that he was sure.
He dragged Willie’s body out of the cave and buried it about a half-mile away, then returned.
He laid down his one thin blanket, and then he waited.
Over the coming days he barely moved.
He slowly chewed his smoked venison and over time he took on the appearance of an animal.
He didn’t think about days or hours or minutes.
At night he shivered but lit no fire.
When he eventually ran out of jerky he simply ignored his hunger.
And when the bear finally did return, a part of Howard had all but forgotten about it. Like it was some mythical animal that he wasn’t sure he still believed in.
He fumbled for his rifle in the dark.
The sun had set, and in the gloom of early evening Howard could barely make out the creature as it stood in the entrance sniffing.
The bear was hesitant, and it swayed slightly.
And then it looked right at Howard and growled.
Slowly, Howard raised his gun and fired. But the bear moved, and the bullet hit its shoulder.
The animal roared in pain and charged at him.
Howard went to shoot again, but his rifle misfired.
He pulled out his knife, but the bear was upon him and they went down together with a thud.
Their cries mingled with the oncoming night.
The Sirens of Oak Creek Page 19