Slate Creek

by Wallace J. Swenson

  “I don’t need to keep it level. First I’ll lean two or three poles against the top tier of logs. Then I’ll work one end at a time, prop the high end up with a notched-end pole.”

  “You know, it might work.”

  “I think so, too. I’ve gone over it a hundred times in my head.”

  “And you have to get your dugout finished and level before you start. I’ve got my doubts.”

  “I’ve done some figuring, and I can have the hole finished in two weeks. It’s about the first of September isn’t it?”

  “It is the first.”

  “Can I count on good weather in September?”

  “You can’t count on anything up here. It could snow tomorrow.”

  “But it doesn’t usually, does it? Snow in September?”

  “Not much if it does. You can figger on September, but we usually get a freeze. It’ll snow in October, guaranteed, give us a short break after, we call it Indian summer, and then five months of deep snow and cold. But nothing surprises me anymore.”

  “I think I can get it done.”

  “Not one to interfere, but you have the option of coming out with me if you want.”

  “Naw, we’ll stay.”

  That evening, Reed leaned back against the stack of logs, put aside the stick he was whittling on, and built a cigarette. The dog watched every move, and when Reed leaned forward to fetch a light from the fire, Spud growled.

  “Spud! What in hell gets into you sometimes?” Simon shoved the dog in the shoulder. “Now shut up and lie there.” Simon got up and stepped around the fire to Reed. “Let me have your plate.”

  “He never has taken to me.”

  “It isn’t you. He’s been nervous since we got here.” Simon dropped their plates and forks into the dishpan heating by the fire.

  “Might be the full moon too.”

  “Could be. Lots of stuff moves around up here when the moon is bright. I’ve had Indian visitors.”

  “You have? Did you see ’em or just some sign?”

  “Neither and both. I saw something move the other side of the meadow. Saw it two or three times. We went over to see, and I watched birds get flushed and heard squirrels make a racket upstream. I never did actually see anybody, but I’m sure someone was there.”

  “That’s not a good thing.”

  “The Indian who told me about this place said there were people here who lived high in the mountains and hunted the sheep.”

  “Sheepeaters, Dogeaters, Snakes, Blackfeet. Call ’em what you want to, they’re Indians, and I don’t like ’em, none of ’em. They’re diseased, ignorant, and heathen. I’ll shoot every one I see.”

  “Shoot ’em!”

  “I would and figger I was doing you a favor.”

  “Well, you never met Walks Fast. He’s as smart as either one of us and saved my life. I damn near died in the snow but for him.”

  “Maybe the rare exception. Makes me all the more sure you should come out with me tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think I fear them. I left a knife and a pair of socks over there to tell them I mean no harm.”

  “A knife! Good Lord man, you’re asking for it.”

  “If they wanted what I have here, I think they would have taken it by now. They haven’t. Matter of fact, they haven’t even taken the knife. It’s still stuck in the tree.”

  “You wake up dead one morning, don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  Simon slapped his hand over his mouth.

  “You know what I mean, dammit.” Reed tossed his cigarette butt into the fire.

  “I’m sorry. Just struck me funny.” Simon swallowed hard and clamped his lips together.

  “Well, it isn’t.”

  “I know it.” Simon paused, a silent apology. “I also had a run-in with what Walks Fast called a Devil Bear.”

  “You’re having all kinds of bad visitors. He means a wolverine. That is one nasty creature. It’ll take on a bear and make it turn tail. Did you see it?”

  “Nope. I—he was digging—I killed a young deer and—”

  “At this time of the year?”

  “I know that now. I buried it, and the wolverine dug it up. Do they stink? The wolverines I mean?”

  “Something terrible, and they deliberately put it on everything. Miserable beast, and you’re in his territory. He isn’t going to like that.”

  Simon shrugged his shoulders and leaned forward to catch hold of the coffeepot. “Want some more of this?”

  “Sure, never turn down a cup of coffee. Never can be sure when you’ll see your next one.”

  “That’s strange you say that. I had a friend—a Texas trail boss—who used to say exactly the same thing.” Simon poured both cups full.

  The air settled in on them, cool, still, and full of the fragrance of the mountains. The silence of the evening fell on their conversation. Simon watched Reed carve on a long, narrow piece of wood, shaping perfect little diamonds; one after another, each attached to the next. The full moon opened the forest with its deceptive light, tantalizing the imagination with distorted details and fabricated images. Spirits roamed at will, as delusive as they were real.

  The next morning Simon pointed across the meadow with his coffee cup. “It’s to the right of the largest boulder on the far bank of the creek. The tree kind of stands by itself in that clear spot.”

  “I can see the tree, but I’m telling you, there’s no red sock on it.”

  “It was there yesterday, dammit.” Simon shaded his eyes and studied the spot.

  Reed drained his cup and set it down. “Let’s go see.”

  The knife was gone, the scar in the tree fresh. A chill scrambled up Simon’s back and lifted his neck hair. Reed puffed out a breath of air.

  “Well, you can see where it was,” Simon said.

  “I didn’t doubt it was there. I just don’t like the thought of a stinking Indian prowling around my bed at night.”

  “It is kinda . . . I don’t know. Uncomfortable?”

  “It’s more than that. Unless you have a powerful reason to stay up here, I’d seriously consider spending the winter in Challis or Salmon.”

  “For some reason, I don’t fear them. I want to stay.”

  “Must be something real powerful holding you here. I’d hate to see you get killed, Simon.”

  That was the first time he’d called Simon by his first name, and it jarred him for a split second. “I don’t know about powerful, but I feel at home here, more than I have in a long time.”

  “Well, I’m on my way. Offer still stands, regardless.”

  They walked back across the meadow, and Reed saddled his horse. A few minutes later, he tossed Simon a salute and led the mules north. “See you in the spring. I hope.”

  I hope so too, Simon thought. He watched a few minutes and saw a puff of blue-white smoke waft over Reed’s shoulder; a leisurely cigarette to see him out of the meadow.

  CHAPTER 12

  Simon admired the new six-foot crosscut saw, its perfectly even teeth long and menacing. “Got everything we need now, Spud.” He touched the tip of one tooth and yanked back in surprise. “I hope I can keep it as sharp as that.” He put it back with the other new supplies.

  His start that morning had been delayed by Reed’s departure, but he felt completely relaxed and unhurried, almost lighthearted. The midmorning sun warmed his back as he worked on the rear wall of the dugout. Spud lay in the sun, sprawled on his side, feet extended, a dog in bliss.

  Simon stooped to shift a large rock that he’d worked loose with his pick. He couldn’t get a firm grip on it, and when he tried to lift one side to roll it out of the hole, the weight of the rock surprised him.

  “Huh. Guess I’ll find out how the horse reacts to being used like a mule.”

  He’d anticipated using her and had made a makeshift collar out of four strands of rope, tied in a circle, and wrapped in a long strip of canvas. He slipped the hoop over the horse’s head, and led her out of the corral. With
the rope tied around the rock, he fastened the loose end to the collar, and tugged on her halter. The mare moved forward until she felt the resistance, then stopped with a snort.

  “C’mon girl, lean into it.” Simon increased pressure on the halter, and the horse jerked her head up. “I know it’s not what you’re used to, but you’re going to learn. Come on now.”

  She flattened her ears and rolled her eyes. Simon tugged again. The mare leaned forward and the rope tightened. Simon gave the halter another gentle tug and she leaned more. The rock moved, and Spud barked at it.

  “Good girl . . . c’mon, pull.”

  Simon kept pressure on the lead rope and she took a step, leaned into the weight, then took another step, and another, and dragged the rock out of the hillside. She turned to look at what had been holding her back, and fluttered her lips.

  “See there, you can do it.” Simon backed her up a step and untied the rope.

  Four more times that day Simon used the horse to drag an oversized rock free. Each time she proved more willing and savvy. When the sun dropped below the ridge, he led the horse into her corral, took off the collar, and poured half a gallon of oats onto a piece of canvas. She started to snuffle through them as soon as he stepped out of the way; the dual-purpose snorts showing her pleasure and blowing away the dust. He walked back to the campfire.

  “I need some hot water, Spud.” Simon put his shirt on, grabbed the bar of brown soap, and headed for the hot springs.

  Simon stood on the edge of the bathing pool and shook his head. “Will you look at that?” He could see the silt-blurred mosaic of rocks on the bottom of the pool. “I guess I wasn’t patient enough, Spud.”

  He sat, undressed, and then climbed into the pool. After a furtive look around, his hands held low in front, he knelt and eased himself into the warm water. Crouching on the bottom, he shut his eyes and let his arms dangle beside his hips.

  He sighed with pleasure as the warm water loosened some of the grime. Spud let out a bark, and Simon looked up at the dog standing on the edge of the pool. “Oh, boy, you have no idea. I think I’m going to spend the night here.” He reached for the soap and shifted his weight, straightened one leg, then the other, and sat on the semi-smooth bottom.

  A full hour later Simon strode back to camp, naked except for his shoes. He dumped his filthy clothes in a heap and found fresh ones in one of the panniers. Shivering, he donned the clean clothes, then knelt by the fire ring and teased a flame from the waiting coals.

  “Next time I’ll bring a towel, that’s for sure. But that was worth it. I never imagined it would be this good, Spud. I have a house well on its way, plenty to eat, and now a hot bath whenever I want it. I can see why Walks Fast wanted me to come here.”

  Simon took his time making supper and set his meal on an improvised table made up of sawn sections of log and two of the boards Reed had packed in. The irregular ridge to the west stood in sharp silhouette as the coral glow on the horizon faded to a uniform dusty rose. He picked up his dishes, dropped them into the dishpan, and washed them. A trip to the creek for a bucket of water saw the last of the faltering light, and he sat down on the ground, his back against a rock he’d dragged in. Several bright points of light pulsed in the clear night sky, and he completely relaxed for the first time since he’d arrived in the valley.

  September 6, 1873. I think I have found my peace. My body and spirit feel clean tonight. Work goes well.

  The next morning Simon lay with his arms folded across his chest, both hands tucked close to his body. Only vaguely aware of the sounds or smell of morning as yet, his sense of feeling focused on the top of his head. It was cold. He slipped a little lower into his nest and pulled the covers tighter around his ears. It didn’t help, his slumber permanently interrupted for the day. He opened one eye a fraction and peered across camp at ground level. The reason for his cold head became apparent and stark—frost covered everything. Simon let loose his grip on the covers, thought about his options for a minute or two, and sat up. A thin wisp of smoke lifted from the last remnant of wood on the outside edge of the campfire.

  “Wish Buell was here. He could make coffee.”

  Spud uncurled, stood, and stretched.

  “And aren’t you a sight? You’re covered in frost.”

  The dog padded over to him and he dusted the icy powder from the dog’s shoulder.

  Simon pushed the two blankets down, stood up, and fetched his pants and shirt from under the dew cover. Boots stomped on, he soon had a fire going, and the coffeepot set to boil. The meadow displayed a sparkling mixture of green, red, and yellow, the vibrancy of fall muted by the white promise of winter. At the far end of the valley, a cloud of steam marked the location of the springs.

  The dog sat patiently as Simon made them something to eat, then they both wolfed it down and went to work. The sunlight, advancing down the western slope, banished the frost as it invaded, and as Simon swung his pick, he felt its first warm caress. Ten minutes with the pick, ten more moving the rocks, and another fifteen with the shovel completed a cycle of excavating. By noon, Simon’s spirits were high, and after a short meal of corn cakes and cold ham, he got back to digging.

  After nine days of steady progress, each starting with a frosty morning, followed by a glorious, sunny day, he’d finished half of what he wanted to dig. Simon dropped his shovel, leaned his hands against the ever-higher wall, and arched his back before turning to look at his dog, sound asleep in the dirt. “Time for a break, you lazy slug.”

  He shuffled out of the hole to stand in front of the dugout, and took a long drink from the water bag. He hoped the blue sky was a promise of more fair weather. Even though his muscles burned with exertion, it was a good feeling.

  “At this rate we’ll have this done in another week, eh, dog?” Spud thumped his tail in agreement.

  Simon stretched once more before entering the cut and grabbing his pick. He aimed at the spot where he’d stopped working, centered two-thirds of the way up the wall, and struck. The pick shot a brilliant spark out of the dirt and the head wrenched viciously sideways. A shock coursed through the handle and shot all the way to his neck.

  “Damn!”

  He took a shorter grip on the handle and poked at the shallow hole in the dirt. He hit solid rock. With tentative pecks, he cleared away at the dirt around the first strike, and found more rock. Two feet to the right, he finally found the curve in the boulder.

  “Got a big one, Spud.”

  He continued to pick around the rock, and the left side only served to raise his anxiety. With dirt up to his knees, he exposed enough of the obstacle to at last reveal its apparent size, five feet wide and almost as tall. Simon moved the entire pile of dirt he’d knocked loose and stepped back to gauge his challenge. He shook his head. The left side of the rock face was flat and inclined about thirty degrees, the top sloped sharply back and down into the hillside.

  “Looks like we get to see how much the horse has learned, eh boy?”

  Simon led the mare out of the corral and slipped the collar over her head. He uncoiled a hundred-foot length of rope and fashioned a loop in one end. With his pick, he cleared away the dirt behind the rock until he could get a firm grip on the top, then slipped the loop over the rough peak. With his heels set, he hauled hard on the rope. It held. Playing out the entire length, he tied the rope to the crude harness and urged the horse to slowly take up the slack. Taut, the rope began to stretch, and the horse leaned into the resistance. Further and further she leaned, the collar turning her sideways. Trembling with exertion, she shifted her hind feet and lunged forward. The rope jerked her back and sideways.

  “Whoa. Stand easy, girl.” Simon patted the horse on the neck. “Easy.” He walked into the dugout. The rock showed no signs of having been affected by the efforts of the horse.

  “Shit.”

  Simon slipped the rope loose and put the horse back in the corral. The sun sank into the mountain and took his exuberance with it. Perched on one of
the countless rocks in front of the hole, he stared at the obstinate boulder.

  “Right smack in the middle, Spud, can you believe that? I couldn’t have planned that any worse if I knew it was there.”

  The air flashed cool with the setting sun, and a chill rippled through his sweaty body. He stood and examined the rock again, picking at the edges with the point of his shovel. The right-hand curve continued around the back and the left side terminated abruptly.

  “I think it depends on how deep it’s set. What do you think? Reckon we find out tomorrow.”

  Supper was quiet, and his journal entry that evening was short—hit a snag today. Visions of never-ending shafts of rock troubled his sleep.

  Simon worked the dirt and smaller rocks loose from around the boulder. By noon he had over two feet exposed down the back and worked into the late afternoon to clear as much on the sides as he could. The sun was dipping low toward the ridge when he led the mare to the dugout. Both lengths of rope were looped through the collar this time, one on either side of the horse, the four ends tied around the tip of the rock. After evenly adjusting the lengths, he took the horse by the halter and eased her into the ropes. The two strands on either side kept her straight.

  “We have to do this, girl, we just have to.” Simon tugged on the halter and the horse leaned hard, then backed.

  “Again, girl. Haw!” Simon jerked hard on the halter.

  The mare plunged into the load, rear hooves dug into the ground, and she reached forward with her front feet. Dust rose around them and settled on his sweaty body. Clumps of dirt flew from her churning hooves. Simon watched the rock for any sign of movement, the four strands of hemp pulled straight as a drill bit.

  “Haw! Pull, girl! You gotta pull.”

  Belly down, the horse tore the earth, her open mouth blowing gouts of hot, wet air. Simon pulled with all his might on the halter, his eyes squeezed shut against the effort. Suddenly, he heard the horse gasp and she faltered. His eyes snapped open and he looked up at the struggling mare. Her ears lay flat against her head, her neck outstretched.

  “Until their hearts burst if you ask ’em.” Bill Malm’s words flashed into his head.