Slate Creek

by Wallace J. Swenson

  It could have been the cold or his sore muscles or the dog searching for a warmer spot, but Simon woke the next morning tired and irritable. He knelt by the fire ring and puffed at the tiny flame in the smoky pile of wood chips. His mood matched the frosty scene, and the fire’s reluctance to gather strength added to his ire.

  Suddenly Simon stood. “What the hell am I doing here?”

  He picked up a short length of wood and threw it into the fire. Ashes, sparks, and bits of charred wood flew and the small flame went out.

  “Damn it!” A well-placed kick scattered what was left of the morning fire. “C’mon, let’s get to work.” Simon scowled at the piece of timber lying fifteen feet away.

  The new and sharp crosscut saw soon reduced the log to short lengths. The steady work wore off his irritation, and he heaved a sigh when he finished. He ran his arm over his brow.

  “I think I’ll cut all the splitting blocks we’ll need before we chop any up. Let’s get something to eat, Spud, and then see if we can’t be back here by noon with another log.”

  He was, and had that one cut up and another one back in camp before it was too dark to see. The pile of blocks had grown to an impressive heap by the end of the second day. He sat by the fire and admired his work.

  “Seems I remember Pa said a family needed between three and four cords of wood for a winter. Never occurred to me when I was cutting wood with him back home that I’d be doing it for myself one day. I wonder if I’ll need more or less. What do you think?” He thumped the dog on the side. “I bought it for the hotel, ten cords at the time, but we were heating—well, there isn’t any comparison. And looks like we’ll be spending the winter in the tent. I wonder if it’ll snow enough to cover us. Maybe I better put some more supports under the canvas.”

  Simon got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. Four by four by eight is a cord. The logs are twelve inches average diameter, five four-foot lengths per log and I need thirty-two lengths. Simon screwed his face up and, with his eyes shut, finished the mental arithmetic. “We have to cut about twenty trees for the three cords we’re going to need, and it looks like we can do two a day.” Simon looked up at the sky. The cold clear air sharpened the stars, the waning moon a stark mosaic of white and gray. He remembered sitting in the prairie with Buell, sharing young-boy talk of living in the mountains and fighting Indians. The dog looked up at Simon’s chuckle. “I got what I wanted. Just wish he were here with me. What was it Ma always said, ‘Wish for a shower, live with the rainstorm.’ ”

  Simon opened his journal and sat thinking for a few minutes before he wrote.

  October 11, 1873. Today I have doubts. I pray for good weather. I miss Buell.

  Simon swigged the last bit of coffee and dashed the dregs into the glowing embers. Then he laid down two of his freshly won blocks on the outside of the fire and went to bed.

  For the next three days Simon cut, swamped, and blocked timber. The third day the wind picked up and clouds settled in. Fearing the worst, he increased his efforts. On the fourth day, the force of the gale grew so strong that Simon didn’t dare cut a tree, but stayed in camp, splitting wood. As quickly as it arrived, the bad weather moved on, without developing so much as a short snow flurry.

  Simon led the horse north toward the timber and smiled at the clear sky. By the time he’d dropped the first tree, he was so warm his coat had come off, and he rolled up his sleeves. Wood chips flew from the log, and the cut separating the heavy trunk from the skinny top was nearly done when Spud barked. Simon put down his ax and followed the dog’s gaze north.

  “I don’t see anything, boy.” Simon looked up the mountainside and then south, up the valley.

  The dog “woofed” and continued to look north. He ears switched from tipped forward—listening—to back—warning, his tail curled up defiantly.

  “You seem sure. I’ll take a breather, and we’ll watch for a few minutes.”

  The dog looked up at him, and then sat, his nose pointed down the valley. Less than fifteen minutes later, Simon caught a glimpse of movement, and then the pack train crossed the creek and moved into plain sight. The dog stood, and his hackles rose.

  “It’s Reed, Spud. I’ll be damned, he’s made another trip.”

  Simon picked up his ax, finished chopping the top off the log, and tied the rope around the butt. He arrived in camp well ahead of the packer.

  Reed rode in his shirtsleeves, and the horse and mules were well lathered when he swung out of his saddle.

  “Wondered what I’d find.” He nodded at the tent. “Figgered that storm would’ve slowed you done a mite.”

  “Hell of a story,” Simon said. “Let’s get the mules unloaded, and we can talk. Sure good to see you.” He stuck out his hand. “Didn’t think I’d see a white man till spring. I’m sick of the snow and even sicker of the mud. And then that last mess blew through, and I thought for sure I was going to be stuck. Got knocked into the hole by the horse and . . . sorry. Guess I’m talking a lot.”

  Reed chuckled and let go of Simon’s hand. “Thought I’d give you one more chance to get out of here. This is that late summer I told you about. Could last two or three weeks, or four or five days. Like you said, let’s get the mules unloaded.”

  Reed held up a long, dark-brown, woolly coat. “If you don’t want this I’ll take it back with me. And those too.” He pointed at a bundle. The curved ends of a pair of snowshoes poked out from between the folds of a heavy buffalo robe. “It’s up to you.”

  “No, I’ll keep ’em. I really appreciate it.”

  “I thought you might end up in a tent, and looks like I’m right. You’re going to be glad you have the robe.”

  “So you don’t think I’ll be able to finish the cabin?”

  “Nope, and neither do you. I haven’t known you long, but I know you’re one who thinks things out. Have you calculated how much more time you need to cut your wood?”

  “Six more days.”

  “See what I mean? Calculated.” Reed pointed at the cabin. “And there. You have to put up at least three rafters, cut and frame a doorway and make a door for it, and then put the roof on. And that means the poles and the tarpaper with enough dirt over it to keep the first blizzard from taking it to the Salmon River. How long for one man to do all that?”

  “I was thinking—”

  “I know what you’re thinking, but I can’t stay even two days. I’m not prepared to live here all winter, and you’re not prepared to have a visitor for that long. I’ll stick around tomorrow, but the day after that, I’ve got to leave.”

  “Yeah, I guess I knew that.” Simon pitched a twig he’d been fiddling with toward the cabin.

  “Have you seen any elk yet? That storm should have given them the hint.”

  “I have. Twice, a group has moved past me. I guess they’re headed toward the river.”

  “Might want to think about knocking one down with the next snow.”

  “Will it keep?”

  “Oh, yeah. All you have to worry about is keeping the vermin out of it.”

  “Vermin? You mean worms and such?”

  “I mean your wolverine friend, and bears and cats and wolves.”

  “There’re wolves up here? And bears?”

  “Sure.”

  “What kind of cats?”

  “Bobcats and mountain cats.”

  “I haven’t heard anything, and I know what a wolf sounds like. Wyoming was full of them.”

  “They won’t be where you are unless they have no choice. All but the bobcats get out of the high country in the winter. It’s easier hunting and not so much snow. Why can’t you take a lesson from them?”

  “Because I’m here to find something.”

  Reed’s manner changed; where before, he’d been looking right at him, the packer now averted his eyes. “Everybody’s looking for something,” Reed said, and walked toward the dugout. “Let’s go take a look at your cabin.”

  “I fell in there,” said Simon. He
pointed to the space outside the left wall.

  “Tight fit,” Reed replied with a grin.

  “I fell in head first.”

  Reed’s grin evaporated. “How far back?”

  “Almost to the rear. I couldn’t get out.”

  “Then how come you’re standing here?”

  “Remember those red socks I told you about?”

  “Stuck to the tree?”

  “Yup. I woke up the next day, near as I can tell, to someone feeling my arms. To see if they were broke, I suppose. I was on my belly.” Simon reached up and pushed on his ribs. “Lying on a rock.” He chuckled. “Kind of funny now. Anyhow, all I could see was snow and somebody’s legs from the knees down. That somebody was wearing red socks.”

  “You’re joshing me.”

  “Nope, gospel. That Indian pulled me out of the hole and took care of me at least overnight. Left me under an animal skin of some kind, fixed a fire, and cooked two birds.”

  “Did you see him again?”

  “Nope. I didn’t actually see him the first time, just the socks, and then I guess I passed out again for a while. He saved my life. I know that.”

  “Do you think they’re watching all the time?”

  “I don’t know. I think Spud knows them though. He didn’t make a sound while that Indian was in camp.”

  “You’re crazy. You can’t trust a damn Indian, I’m telling you.”

  “I don’t see where trust comes into it, Justin. I was in no position to make a decision, but I’m sure glad he was there.”

  Reed wiped his chin with his hand and gazed narrowly at Simon. “I’ll say it one more time, and then I’ll let it be. An Indian will cut your throat just to see the color of your blood. Either you are the luckiest man I know, or you have some powerful spirit looking after you.”

  “I think a little of both. Now, let me get some supper going.” Simon nodded downstream. “Then you can tell me what’s happening down there.”

  After supper, the two of them sat beside the fire. Simon’s ears and the back of his neck were cold in spite of the rapidly burning logs right in front of him. He reached his hands out to the heat and rubbed them together.

  “Has that wolverine been back to visit since he tore up your burial site?” Reed’s face reflected the ruddy glow of the fire.

  “Nope. Maybe we scared him enough he’ll stay away.”

  “That’s a laugh. An old boar can have a range of fifty square miles. He’s just busy raising hell somewhere else.”

  “Are they so tough that a .44 won’t settle their breakfast?”

  “You know, I’m not sure. I’ve heard of trappers who’ve caught the same one twice. One day they’d find just a leg in the trap, and the next day a thoroughly agitated wolverine with just three. So yeah, they’re tough, and mean.”

  “But why bother me?”

  “Maybe just because you’re here, and this is his territory. Hell, I don’t know. Ask him next time he visits.” Reed spit in the fire. “You are one bull-headed Swede.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Might make a suggestion about your campfire here.”

  “Sure.”

  “Build a wide U-shaped berm of logs about four feet high. Leave a space or two in the bottom for air to come through and face the opening toward your tent. Leave enough room so the logs won’t catch fire. It’ll save on your wood and push the heat into your tent.”

  “Okay, I can do that. Anything else you can suggest?”

  “A hundred things, but I’d be sure to forget the important ones. You’re going to learn some lessons. Put your water bucket next to the fire. Hang your meat high. Never leave your rifle in the tent with you at night. A south wind means a weather change in the next couple of days. Eat fat, lots of it, and drink often. The air up here is dry as an old bone. Snowshoes are slow but safe, so wear them.”

  “I don’t know how to use them.”

  “Then be prepared to kiss the ground a few times till you learn. You’ll be tempted to leave them home, but the first time you find yourself ass-deep in snow, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

  “It all makes sense, except the rifle in the tent.”

  “You take a warm gun outside when it’s twenty-five below zero, you’ll soon discover where your wet breath settled during the night.”

  Simon reached over and ruffled Spud’s ears. He realized that Reed was doing his best to shake his resolve, and maybe for a good purpose. But exactly why? Simon had lived through winters before, bad ones. One had nearly killed him and his family, so he wasn’t afraid of the snow and the isolation. As a matter of fact, the isolation held a strange appeal. “How are things down below? Any news worth repeating?”

  “Not a lot. I don’t pay any attention to politics and even less to social affairs. Challis is growing and so is Salmon. Holverson got robbed and murdered.”

  “When?” Simon jerked back the stick he’d been poking in the fire.

  “About a month ago. That reminds me, a U.S. marshal is looking for you.”

  “The law? Looking for me? And you’re just now mentioning it?”

  “Don’t have much use for the law.”

  “Well, what did he want?”

  “You. I didn’t talk to him, just heard some stuff in Challis. Seems you killed a man down on the Utah border and then sent a note confessing. You didn’t do something as dumb as that, did you? Sorry, but that’s how I see it.”

  “I did. He came into our camp, armed and ready to shoot. I shot him first.”

  “That’s all well and good, but why tell the law?”

  “Because—because I don’t want them chasing me.”

  “Well, you went about that the wrong way. He’s asking for Simon Steele. Good Lord, man, you signed your real name?”

  “Of course. It was self-defense.”

  Reed shook his head and sighed. “Well, you’re safe up here. With Holverson dead, the only other person who knows where you are is me, and like I said, I don’t put much store in the law.”

  “You can tell him I’m here. I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “I’m not about to go looking for the law. He finds you, fine, but he’s not going to get any help from me.”

  The next morning their breath billowed white as they stomped their feet and waited for the fire to build.

  “Make the best use of me that you can,” Reed said. “I’ll stay the day.”

  “Well, we can either put the rafters on the cabin and a few roof poles, or we can cut firewood. What do you think?”

  “Not going to make a commitment one way or the other. You know what I think about you staying up here. You’re not going to find what you’re looking for if you’re froze in your bed.”

  Simon felt a flush of—something: chagrin, embarrassment, irritation. Could have even been anger. The feeling was gone before he could analyze it.

  “Let’s cut wood.”

  “Suits me.”

  Simon fastened the extra handle onto the six-foot crosscut saw and the sharp tool made short work of the dry twelve-inch logs. Soon, the first tree came crashing through the limbs of its neighbors. Simon chopped off the few side branches, and they bucked the timber into a twenty-foot log. They cut down eight more, and Reed dragged the first one back to camp as Simon started swamping the others. By noon, they had all nine back in camp, and spent the afternoon sawing the logs into blocks, stopping only long enough to sharpen the saw.

  “It’s amazing how much two men can do,” Simon said. He felt the fire in his shoulders, and his hands wouldn’t completely straighten out.

  “You got some bottom. I haven’t worked that hard in years. You might make it, Simon. You just might make it.”

  Simon’s face flushed. “The trees are easy work compared to digging that hole.”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought about that. And I see you don’t wear gloves. How in hell can your hands take it?”

  “They didn’t at first, but I can’t work with gloves. I sure appreciat
e your help today. Maybe—”

  “Nope. Feel the breeze? Out of the south, and look at the clouds.”

  The long wispy mare’s tails swooped across the sky, thickening over the ridge at the upper end of the valley.

  “Those clouds are attached to something,” Reed said, “and I’m not sticking around to see what. Make up a list of what you want in the spring, and I’ll be out of here early in the morning.” Reed flexed his back muscles, pulled off his gloves, and started to build a smoke. “I’d give us two days,” he said, looking up at the sky. “Two at most.”

  The next morning Simon waved as Reed rode off into the gloom of the early light. If Reed waved, he didn’t see it. He went over to the campfire and hunkered down. Lying on the ground was one of Reed’s carefully carved sticks. Simon picked it up and admired its symmetry.

  CHAPTER 15

  Reed had been right. Simon was on his way back to camp with his last log two days later when the first pellets of grainy snow hit his face. He ducked his head into it and urged the horse on. By the time he’d reached home, the ground was covered and the wind was blowing steadily.

  “This might be it, Spud. I expect we’ll know by morning.” Simon took the collar off the horse and fed her.

  He and Reed had cut the logs for his fire berm and, ignoring the snow flurries, Simon set to work notching and setting the four-foot logs into the arc Reed had suggested. By nightfall, he’d finished the fire shelter, and the effect on the fire he built within its confines was apparent. A steady wind blew through the treetops behind the tent, and the three walls of the berm dampened the swirls that whipped closer to the ground. Sitting in the tent opening, Simon felt the fire’s radiance. “Let ’er snow, Spud, we’re snug as a cottontail in here.” He sopped the grease off his plate with a piece of soda bread, took a big bite, and handed the rest to the dog. He reached inside for his journal.

  October 19, 1873. Snow started, maybe winter is here. I’m not ready. Tired.