Slate Creek

by Wallace J. Swenson

  Spud padded over and sat down, his head cocked.

  “Just talking to the neighbors, boy.” He ruffled the dog’s ears and stood.

  He picked up his ax, and immediately put it down again to stare at the palms of his hands. Two enormous blisters had formed, one in the center of his left hand, the other in the web of his right. Now what? He poked at the soft squishy skin of his left one, thin and vulnerable. He’d had blisters before, but never this big. And he’d always pointed them out to his father who would let him stop for the day. Simon dropped his hands to his sides, his shoulders stooped, and slowly shook his head from side to side. Then he took a deep breath, picked up his ax, and attacked the next tree.

  The left blister burst first, a sudden sticky-wet feeling in the palm of his hand followed by a swing-stopping sting. He glanced at it, clamped his teeth together, and continued. The second one ruptured as he made the final chop and stepped back from the toppling tree. By the time he had the logs separated and clear of branches, his ax handle was slick with blood. He stood and looked at them.

  “It hurts, Spud. And I don’t know what to do.” A hot flash of tense nerves rippled through his head and shoulders.

  Simon sat down again and poured water from the bag over his sticky hands. The blisters were now open wounds with ragged flaps of skin attached to one side. He caught an edge of one and tore the dead flesh away, teeth bared in a grimace as live skin came away with the dead.

  “I can’t do it, boy. I’ve got to have something to cover these.”

  Simon went to his horse, tightened the cinch, and got on.

  A few minutes later, he was at camp with a butcher knife in his hand and a pair of long underwear in his lap. He cut them off at the knee and then cut two loops off the bottoms where his ankles would have gone. Doubling one loop over with a twist, he slipped his left hand into the hole. It made a snug, fingerless glove. He then cut strips from the rest of the leg and wrapped his hands, securing the makeshift protection.

  He breathed an audible sigh as he quit working his hands and settled them on his legs. Spud put his head on his arm and looked up at him. Simon saw the sympathy in his eyes and, with a wince, patted his dog. “I’ll be okay. Wish I had some of Ma’s salve.”

  The next day, pain sapped his strength with every swing of the ax, and he only managed to down one tree. That evening, he went to the creek to soak the bandage-glove off. Crusty and stiff, it stuck to the new flesh, and both arms ached to his shoulder from the cold before the cloth came loose. He managed to open a can of beans for himself, and fed the dog some leftover fritters. His journal entry noted the day he’d missed and today’s date with one word, “tired.” He then collapsed into his bed, asleep in a minute.

  Sarah’s eyes screamed at him to help, her lips somehow silenced. David stood behind her, his whiskered face buried in the creamy skin of her neck, his eyes mocking his cousin’s inability to raise his arms and defend her.

  “Turn her loose, you bastard,” Simon raged.

  “Or what? Nothin’ you kin do without askin’ your pa.”

  “Leave her alone!” Simon could not scream loud enough. His whole being shook with fury as David’s callused hand cupped Sarah’s breast. Simon tried to reach out, but he couldn’t force his hands from his side. Sarah, her face now twisted in fear or shame, suddenly shut her eyes and turned her head away.

  “No! No, noooo.” Simon bolted upright in bed, struggling for breath, his hands trembling with pain. The stars, cold and impersonal, looked down and the black forest offered his tormented brain no solace. Spud whimpered and moved closer to Simon’s legs

  Next morning by the campfire, he slowly opened his partially closed hand. The flesh, red and angry, cracked in places and seeped a little blood. Bad, he thought, but not as raw as the night before.

  “Maybe I ought to keep ’em out in the air. Let ’em dry. What do you think?”

  Spud listened intently and wrinkled his eyebrows, willing but unable to help.

  “Well, I’m not gonna use the ax today. What say we tackle some roof poles with the bucksaw? Might be able to do that.”

  Simon stood and went to the supply pile. He picked up the saw and gripped the handle gingerly, then put it back. “Nope.” He shook his head. “Looks like we have another day off.”

  Simon and the dog relaxed in the shade by the supplies, the midafternoon air warm and nearly still. The mesmerizing sound of unseen flies buzzing back and forth emptied Simon’s head of all useful thoughts. Then Spud jumped to his feet, and Simon’s eyes popped open, his mind instantly alert. The dog stood tensed, his hackles up, his nostrils flared as he tested the air. He was looking at the far side of the meadow.

  “What did you hear?”

  Simon tried to see into the dark shadows. In the shifting light of the active treetops everything moved—yet nothing would claim an identity. A low grumble from Spud’s chest made Simon look even harder. There! Something moved, then stopped, then moved again. Simon concentrated on the place he last saw something change, and Spud’s hackles rose to full height. Simon grabbed a handful of neck fur and winced in pain. Again, move and stop. Tree to tree? A man! One more flicker of movement and then nothing. Simon stared at the last spot until his eyes rebelled in tears. He reached for his Winchester.

  “Now what the hell was that?” Simon stood. “Sit,” he ordered.

  He continued to look across the meadow for several minutes, scanning along the tree line. Then, he started for the far side. “C’mon.” The dog got up and followed, right at his heels.

  He rock-hopped across the creek and into trees where he stopped. Listen. Listen and they will tell you. Walks Fast’s words came to him. He sat at the base of a tree on the thick mat of pine needles. The breathy sigh of the breeze in the treetops slowly tuned his ears to the background noises: the ever-present flies, the steady mumble of the water in the creek, the chatter of a squirrel—an agitated and excited squirrel! Simon jumped to his feet and splashed across the water to look toward the southern end of the meadow. He saw the flicker of movement as several birds took flight near the creek. And then another squirrel took up the alarm. Someone or something was making its way out of the meadow. Should I go look? For what? And do what? A cool dampness settled over him.

  “C’mon, Spud. Let’s get back to camp. Good boy.”

  He looked over his shoulder repeatedly on the way back and glanced at the tree line many times more before the light was gone that evening and he pulled his blanket over his hips. He wrote:

  July 27, 1873. Had someone or something visit today. Hands too sore to work.

  Simon spent three more days treating his hands, and then went back to work with the bucksaw, cutting the rest of the roof poles. It hurt, but with summer half gone, he gritted his teeth against the pain. Twice more over the next three weeks, Simon felt someone, or something, watching, until the last of the trees he needed lay prone. He cut them to the length he needed and notched them to create the lock at the corners, tightening the gaps on the overlapped logs. Laid out side by side, the trimmed lengths were an impressive sight and he felt proud. He’d also built a pole corral with the tall slim trees.

  “Now that wasn’t so tough after all, was it, boy?”

  Spud had just returned from one of his daily adventures. Tired, he had flopped down in the shade and now lifted his tail once in acknowledgment, and shut his eyes again.

  “Humph,” Simon said. “What do you get into out there?” Visiting? With what—or who? I wonder if my ghost is one of those Sheep Indians Walks Fast talked about?

  “Get up, you lazy slug. We’re gonna leave a present for someone.”

  Simon dug around in the panniers for several minutes and came up with a knife and a pair of red wool socks. Then, he found in his saddlebags the short leather “twitch” he’d bought at Taylor’s Bridge. He smooched his lips and the dog got up, slowly. Together they hiked the hundred yards across the meadow and stopped just inside the trees. Simon looked back to make sure he
could see his camp clearly and then swung the knife in an arc and stuck its point deep in a tree. He wrapped the long socks around the hilt, and tied them with the braided leather thong. Stepping back, he looked at his handiwork and smiled. “That’ll get their attention. C’mon.”

  From camp, Simon looked across the meadow, and as he considered his act of good faith, a warm feeling of satisfaction spread through him. The natural beauty of the magnificent setting struck him. He studied the rugged skyline for a few minutes, then dropped his gaze from the jagged crest and back to the forest.

  His euphoria vanished at the sight of the wool socks, a jarring discordance, the unnatural red an affront. His mind filled with a vision of the wasted doe, lying in the shallow hole, the flesh dirt-fouled. And he pictured all the wood left on the forest floor, so much scrap, left as he extracted what he wanted, as he wanted it. He was a white man intruding on the peaceful valley.

  August 19, 1873. Today I left a gift for my unknown visitor. Also, I saw what waste is. I will live here and not disturb my neighbors.

  “I promise,” he muttered to himself as he closed the book.

  CHAPTER 11

  Next morning Simon scrambled out of bed, and looked across the meadow. Against the sun, he couldn’t tell if the red socks were there or not. He set about making breakfast, glancing over from time to time, not wanting to see it, but a little afraid, as well, to find it missing. Today, he was going to start the dugout, and he was anxious to begin.

  He forked the sizzling bacon out of the fat while Spud licked his chops and watched every move. Dropped into the smoking pan, the cornmeal balls gathered little halos of glistening grease bubbles. A few minutes later, he had his plate full and sat back to enjoy his meal—a glance at the forest and a glimpse of red ruined it.

  The shovel point bit into the earth about four inches, and grated to an ankle-jarring halt. Simon pulled the tool back slightly, and tromped down again. A nerve-rattling sound of metal grinding on naked rock stopped him again. He used the shovel point to scrape away the dirt, found an edge, and pried the angular chunk of rock out of the ground. It landed outside the dig with a grudging thud.

  “I guess we have our answer, Spud. This isn’t going to be easy.” Simon reached for the pickax.

  The work was slow, frustrating, and extremely tiring. Sparks flew as he struck unseen rocks, and they were everywhere in the soil. He worked along the front edge of the dig, using the pick to loosen the rocky soil. By noon he had no energy left, and had made only two passes between the two marker rocks. After eating something, he leaned back against the folded canvas he’d propped against a tree, and tried to ignore the incessant tingling in his hands. He dozed off.

  A smell like nothing he’d ever experienced woke him out of a sound sleep. Blowing air out through pursed lips, he shook his head and turned away from the light breeze. It didn’t do any good. Spud, head held high, gathered the information that floated on the wind. He didn’t seem to be upset and continued to sniff.

  Simon got up. “What in hell is that?”

  He stepped out of the shade and looked up the valley. “Phew, that’s worse than any skunk I ever smelled.” He stood for several minutes, and just as he turned to go back into the shade, he caught a glimpse of something dark moving low to the ground. It was there and gone before Simon could make out size, shape, or color. The smell lingered, and took on a slightly more familiar odor—rotten meat.

  “Let’s go take a look, Spud,” Simon said, and reached for his rifle.

  He found the rotten meat, and the source of the other smell. Both were strong. The place where he’d buried the deer was a welter of torn-up ground, scattered bones, and slimy-rotten scraps of flesh. His stomach turned over and his gorge rose.

  “What would want to get at that?” He held his free hand over his nose and breathed through his mouth. Then, he spotted the crushed deer’s head, the top of the skull gone with remnants of the soupy brain still evident. Simon puked.

  The picture of the savaged burial site stayed with him all afternoon as he continued to work on his dugout. Spud stood alert, but showed no sign of hearing or seeing anything unusual. Simon struggled to make progress in the unforgiving ground, but by the end of the day had barely made an impression on the hillside. As tired as he’d been in his life, he threw the shovel down in disgust. That evening he noted his visitor in his journal.

  August 20, 1873. Visited today by some foul animal. Started to dig for my cabin. Very hard work.

  By the end of the fourth day digging, he felt a little happier with his progress. The corners at the back of the hole were now nearly two feet high, and he had accumulated enough large rocks to set a good foundation along one side. He put his shovel down, and walked over to his fire ring. Kneeling, he gently scraped back the ashes, and laid a few wood chips over the invisible coals. A couple of the chips turned brown and started to smoke. He blew a few puffs of air under them, and they burst into flame. Broken branches followed some twigs, and soon his campfire was going. He settled back on his haunches, dusted his hands together—and noticed how absolutely filthy they were. Is my face that dirty? He rolled up a sleeve and winced.

  After a glance to check on the red socks the next morning, he grabbed the pick and shovel and headed up the valley to the hot spring. A survey of the ground below the soggy bank showed him a good spot, and he started digging. By midmorning he had dug a hip-deep hole. Three feet wide and almost five feet long, he’d kept a clean grassy edge by throwing the dirt well clear. He gathered all the rocks with at least a rudimentary flat side and threw them back into the hole. There, he fit them together on the bottom in a crude tile arrangement. By noon, he had his bathtub. He cut a channel in the heavy soil back to the spring, then sat down by the basin to watch it fill. It was a disappointing vigil, the water muddy, and the surface of his bath covered with a red-brown scum of foam. Spud walked over to the edge of the pool, sniffed once, and turned away. Disgusted, Simon rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands and forearms.

  “They look better, but I don’t feel any cleaner. Enough fooling around, Mutt, let’s get back at it.”

  The work on the dugout took on a more methodical pace, and he labored on the vertical face of the back wall. Pulled free with the point of the pick, the earth busted up naturally and exposed the bigger rocks. Those he pitched out by hand, leaving nothing but dirt easily shoveled out of the cut.

  The progress over the next week had Simon in high spirits until, midafternoon one day, Spud suddenly stood and looked down the valley.

  “See something?” Simon leaned his shovel against the side of the hole, and flexed his back. He stepped into the open and looked north. Shortly, he saw what the dog had heard or sensed, a rider . . . no. A rider and two pack animals. He watched for several minutes and finally confirmed what he had hoped.

  “Got company, Spud, and our supplies.”

  The dog grumbled and paced back and forth.

  Reed climbed off his horse. “Well, haven’t we been the busy beaver?”

  “Hello, Mr. Reed.” Simon stuck out his hand.

  Reed eyed the extended hand, then moved to one side before he took it. Simon saw the quick scan and Reed’s moving a little further into the light breeze. “I must look a mess,” Simon said.

  “I’ve seen worse . . . I think.” Reed burst out laughing. “Have you even thought about what you might look like, or smell like?”

  “I guess not.” Simon felt his face getting hot. “It isn’t exactly the Cheyenne Hotel up here.”

  “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to offend. But you are a sight.”

  “That’s all right. In fact, I did see I was gettin’ pretty ripe and tried to make a bath up at the hot springs. Wound up with a pool of muck-water. And bathing in the creek is not an option. It’s colder than the river was, and that damn near froze me.”

  “I got you the mirror and the shaving stuff. You’ll figger something out.”

  “Were you able to find everything I had on the
list?” Simon looked past Reed.

  “Yup, except for the fish hooks and line.” Reed followed Simon to the mules.

  “Where’s Sonuvabitch?” Simon asked.

  “Salmon City, I suppose. Shoup was pleased to have him, and he knows mules.”

  “Ah, some boards . . . good. And the tarpaper.”

  “Let’s get if off of ’em. I expect they’re tired.”

  The two men soon had the mules unloaded and put away in the corral. They walked over to Simon’s digging site.

  “How long’ve you been at that?”

  “Little over a week.” Simon couldn’t suppress a satisfied smile.

  Reed said nothing, and walked over to the raft of logs lying in the sun.

  “Where’d you learn to chop like that?”

  “Watched a Wisconsin timberman. He’d knock out a notch like that in eight strokes. Took me a sight longer. Trick is to keep the ax sharp.”

  “Looks good to me, and I’ve seen plenty.”

  “My pa said ‘If you can’t find time to do it right, when do you think you’ll find time to do it over?’ I took that to heart.”

  “Can you lift one of those by yourself?”

  “One end. Haven’t tried to lift the whole thing. I thought the slope would help me.”

  “It will, except for the front.”

  “I’ve thought about that. If I tie off the rope on the inside, throw the loose end over the top, around the log in a sling, and then back over the top and under the wall, I can—”

  “Whoa, you lost me.”

  Simon hunkered down, smoothed a patch of dirt, and scratched a diagram.

  “I tie one end here.” Simon pointed to the inside of the wall. “Go over the top with the other and loop it under the log. Then, put the rope back over the wall and pull the end back outside, under the wall. When I pull on the loose end, the loop will close and pull the log all the way to the top.”

  “If you could do that and keep it level, you’d have it done. But one man can’t do that.”