Slate Creek

by Wallace J. Swenson

  “Come on, ninny. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I was cussing the stovepipe.” Simon picked up his rifle. “C’mon.”

  The dog got up and slowly crossed to the cabin. Simon ruffled his ears and finally the dog’s tail responded.

  “Good boy.”

  They set out across the meadow, angling away from the path to the water hole and into undisturbed landscape. It was cold, and the powdery snow tired his legs quickly, but it felt good to be out of the dingy cabin and away from the irritation of stovepipe assembly.

  He didn’t have to cross the creek; from fifty yards away, he could see the rolled-up hide was gone. He scanned the forest, and then chuckled to himself. “As if he was going to wait for me.”

  His face felt stiff when he wrinkled his brow and his ears burned, so he pulled the hood of his coat over his head. It felt good. He had half a dozen jobs that needed to be done, and they sat on his mind like a toothache, but he couldn’t face going back to camp just yet. The perpetual cloud of steam over the hot springs caught his attention, and he started up the creek. About a quarter of a mile up the valley, dozens of hoofprints pockmarked the snow by the creek, and he started across the meadow toward the trees on the other side. The trail forked several times, each new path reducing the numbers of prints in the snow, until he was on a single fresh track that led into the trees. He levered a shell into the chamber and dropped the hammer.

  “Can you stay behind me, Spud?”

  The dog looked up at him and wagged his tail. It didn’t look as if he aimed to oblige.

  “Stay there.” Simon pointed at the ground.

  Spud sat and Simon turned toward the trees. After several steps he looked back. The dog stood where he’d left him, but his posture showed a dog ready to hunt something.

  “You stay,” Simon commanded in his gruffest voice and stepped into the trees.

  The snow there reached almost to his knees. The tracks followed the bottom of a draw that angled up as he followed. He’d gone about a hundred yards, the snow getting deeper as he climbed, until the tracks turned abruptly right and into a four-foot drift, the top notched by the deer’s underside. The sign disappeared around a rock outcrop. Simon stood thigh deep in the snow for a moment, heaved a sigh, and turned around.

  The dog stood patiently until Simon reached him, then he jumped up and put his paws on Simon’s chest.

  “You’re a good dog. I like having you along, and if you’ll mind like that, you can come.” He pushed the dog back to the ground. “It’s going to be harder to get a deer than I thought. They can go through stuff I can’t. That one jumped a drift, landed in three feet of snow, and just climbed right up the side of the hill. I’ll have to think about how we’re gonna catch them out in the open.” He stepped around the dog and started back down the track. “Let’s get home.”

  The last section of pipe snapped together without a hitch. Simon jammed three of them together, shoved the top through the roof, and settled the bottom onto the stove. Outside, he stuck the remaining four feet on top, and fastened four pieces of wire through holes he’d punched in the pipe. He tied the ends to four chunks of rock in the roof. Then he nearly froze his hands trying to arrange some flat rocks around the pipe to separate the metal from the wood of the roof. He daubed the cracks between the rocks and the pipe with mud he’d collected from the hot springs. When he was through, he stood inside and couldn’t see any light around the pipe.

  An hour later, the stove radiated enough heat to drive Simon out of the cabin. He stood by the tent and watched the trail of thin blue smoke climb straight up into the clear air. He remembered the many times he’d visited his friend, Tay, back at Fort Laramie, and had seen the same sight.

  “You might not know it, old man, but I learned a lot just being around you. Now let’s see if I can duplicate that door you built for your place.”

  Simon went into the tent and came out carrying an armload of boards.

  The provisions arranged along the new shelves weren’t as many as he would have liked. He needed more meat. It had been a week since he’d tracked the deer into the trees. As he’d closed up cracks in the walls, built and hung a door, and started on his table, he’d thought a lot about a way to get close enough to shoot one. Twice he’d gone back to the animal’s watering place and seen plenty of tracks, but no deer. They obviously visited at night. Simon decided to do the same.

  Canvas covered his back from the top of his head to the floor. With a piece of rope, he fastened the cloth around his shoulders and hunkered down. Peering around both sides, he checked to see if the heavy cloth completely covered his dark coat. Satisfied, he took off the cover and his coat, then sat and wrapped the barrel of his Winchester with a long strip of canvas.

  The frigid air stiffened the hairs in his nose, and the snow crunched dryly under his feet. Spud had wanted to go, and Simon heard him scratching at the door as he angled off across the meadow. The stark white of the winter night, stripped of all color by the false light of the bleak moon, offered no encouragement. He wasted no time crossing to the stand of willows upstream from the water hole. The deer tracks, a clearly visible dark line, meandered very little across the flat ground. Simon knelt down, tucked the hem of his buffalo coat under his knees, and pulled the canvas around his shoulders. He leaned the barrel of his rifle against his chest. Settled back on his heels, he began his vigil.

  An hour later a tingle started in his right calf and soon worked its way to his foot. Simon shifted his weight to his left leg, and tried to massage some blood back into the pinched limb. It didn’t do any good. He concentrated on the tree line, willing something to move. The minutes jammed against each other as his sense of time slowed.

  A sting, like a bug bite, attacked the skin between his shoulder blades, and he tried to ignore it. The itch intensified. Finally, he pushed his arm from under the canvas, leaned his rifle against the willows, and reached over his shoulder to scratch. He couldn’t get to the offending spot, and a cramp developed in his extended arm. Simon grabbed the seizing muscle, struggled to his feet, and fell face-first into the snow, his left leg useless.

  “Sonuvabitch.”

  Simon rolled to his right side and sat up, glancing at the deer trail as he did so. Nothing. He rubbed his leg and banged the heel of his boot into the ground. Suddenly he stopped, and held his leg steady, grimacing. The sole of his foot felt raw in his boot. Gradually, the pain subsided as the blood flowed back into the tortured leg. Then the cold overwhelmed the need to let the leg recover completely. He struggled to his feet, picked up his rifle, and limped back across the meadow.

  As he approached the cabin, the ragged growl from the other side of the door took some of the disappointment out of his wasted night. “Spud.” Simon dropped the canvas by the wall. The growl stopped, Simon pushed the door open, and entered the blackness of the cabin. “At least I know nothing can sneak up on me with you here.” He chucked the dog under the chin, and pushed the door shut. Darkness engulfed him, and he swallowed a tiny surge of panic as he felt his way to the supply of splinters that lay beside the stove. Hurriedly he lifted the lid, lit one splinter on the coals, and transferred the flame to a candle. The soft glow pushed back the gloom, and Simon shrugged out of his coat and sat on his new bench.

  “Got skunked, Spud. I have no idea when those critters might come to drink. I thought with a full moon they’d be down before midnight. It’s so cold out there, I think a fella might freeze if he weren’t careful.”

  The dog laid his head on Simon’s leg, and Simon put his hand on the warm muzzle. “Do dogs worry, Spud? Or are you just trusting old Simon to get us through? I’ve thought about that a lot. How much do you know?”

  Spud shoved his nose into Simon’s belly and made a huffing sound.

  “You know I’m talking to you, but what do you make of it? I think you’re just happy to be right here. And if we was someplace else, you’d be happy there, too, wouldn’t you?” The dog wagged his tail. “Are you the smarter one?”


  Simon pulled off his boots and shuffled across the dirt floor. He still had no bed and knelt down by the heavy buffalo robe. “I’ll try again in a few days.”

  November 16, 1873. Tried to get a deer today. Not easy. Cabin is snug and infernally dark. It is cold here.

  He carefully stowed the book and went to his bed. Dreading the darkness, he shut his eyes before blowing out the candle and lay down. The luxury of the soft robe soon transported him out of the cabin’s black confines and into the diffused light of the dreamer. In the night, Simon sensed a presence, and his consciousness lifted just enough to deny it, then sank back again into sound sleep.

  It was morning. Light streamed through the cracks in the door and assaulted his one eye, opened in a trial slit. He sat up with a start, both eyes now focused on the glinting lines. Throwing back his covers, he got up, shuffled to the door, and pulled it open. The sun stood well above the eastern crags, and he squinted against its brilliance. Spud pushed past his legs and headed straight for the tent. Once there, he turned around and barked.

  Simon frowned at the noise, ran his tongue over his teeth, and grimaced. After another glance at the dog, he went back inside to encourage a fire in the stove. Spud came back in, looked directly at Simon, and left again. A minute later he was back, looking.

  “All right, I’m coming.” Simon pulled on his boots and followed the dog outside.

  Spud went to the tent again and pawed at the front, his tail wagging. Simon threw the flap back and his jaw dropped. Three pieces of meat lay stacked on the ground in a low pyramid. Two hindquarters of some large animal lay with a second piece, the front part of a smaller beast. Tied to the small piece was a leather thong, the twitch from Taylor’s Crossing.

  Spud went inside the tent to sniff at the meat and Simon turned around to search the tree line across the meadow for a minute. The hair on the back of his neck bristled.

  “C’mon, Spud.” Simon returned to the cabin and finished getting dressed. He moved the meat into the cabin, then grabbed his rifle and went outside. It wasn’t long before he found the tracks he sought. They ran into the trees and headed north. He followed.

  Simon strode along, placing his feet precisely in the evenly spaced footprints of his elusive visitor. Spud followed close behind. The trail made a straight line toward a rock bluff over half a mile away. The heat rose under the heavy buffalo coat, and he wondered if he should have worn it. As he hurried, his breath came more quickly, pushing clouds of white ahead of his face. The dog came up on his heels, tried to pass, and nearly took Simon off his feet. He stopped.

  “Stay back there, Spud. I don’t want you in front. Understand?” Simon pointed at the ground.

  The dog’s tail drooped, then he sat.

  “That’s where I want you. There.” Simon pointed again and turned. He walked about thirty feet and looked over his shoulder. Spud got up and started to follow.

  The tracks angled off to the right long before he reached the rock bluff. “He knows where he’s going, Spud.” Simon knew from tracking the elk that angling to the left and over the bluff meant a trip back when you came to the sheer cliff at the other side. He shifted his rifle to his other hand and hurried on.

  He’d been walking steadily for over an hour when the trail suddenly veered left up a draw. He stopped and studied the trees on either side. Moving more slowly, he followed. The footprints were spaced closer together now, a man walking more carefully. Why? He stopped and looked around at the dog, uneasy. Spud looked back, apparently undisturbed, and sat. “Should we follow him, boy?” Simon found himself whispering.

  The dog cocked his head.

  “I mean, do you think we can catch him?” This time he spoke out loud, somewhat embarrassed.

  Spud let out a soft woof and stood.

  Simon turned and started off again. The draw curved to the right and rose steeply. The closely spaced tracks wove a careful thread through the rocky bottom of the ravine. Once his quarry had fallen, the Indian’s foot slid down the face of an inclined rock, and two handprints were clearly visible where he’d pushed himself upright. The sight of the tumble made Simon smile, and he felt slightly superior for a moment. It also explained why the Indian was traveling more slowly, and how much danger must lie just beneath the snow.

  Then the draw opened up and leveled off into a three-acre meadow visible through the trees. Simon hurried to the edge and stopped inside the tree line. The track led straight across for about a hundred yards to disappear into a steep slope of jumbled rock. He tried to find a track in the broken surface of the scree, scanning it all the way to the top. And there stood the Indian.

  Simon swallowed hard and almost choked. “There he is, Spud,” he whispered hoarsely and glanced down at his dog. “We’ll never catch him up there.”

  Spud was watching too, his tail swinging slowly from side to side.

  Simon stared at the figure on the rocks. He couldn’t tell how old he was, but he could see the man wasn’t very big. He wore a gray animal-skin cape across his shoulders, his head covered by a brown fur hat. He held a bow in his left hand. Simon wanted to step into the open, but his feet wouldn’t shift. This was the man who’d saved his life and now brought him food when he couldn’t shoot it himself. But this was also an Indian, a godless, murdering savage. Wasn’t that what Reed called them, or something like that? For several minutes he studied the Indian, who never moved. He couldn’t tell if the man was looking at him or not.

  Slowly Simon moved into the open and the Indian raised a hand. Simon suppressed the urge to wave back. With his hand hoisted head high and palm out, the Indian didn’t wave; he just held it there. Then he lowered it sharply toward his body, turned, and in three strides, disappeared from view. Simon caught a glimpse of red and stared at the spot where the Indian had slipped from sight. A lump formed in his throat, and it confused him. Kneeling down, he ruffled Spud’s ears and looked in his face. “Do you think he’s my friend, boy?” The soft brown eyes gazed back as Simon stood. “I think I might want him to be.” Simon looked again at the top of the rockslide, then turned, and started the trip back home.

  November 18, 1873. Indian left me meat. God bless the godless.

  Tracked him but could not get close. He waved.

  CHAPTER 19

  It wasn’t the size of the cabin, more the closeness of the walls. He knew that made no sense even as he thought it. He scowled at the rough logs, their coarseness dimly lit by the feeble glow of the single candle on the rough table. He wasn’t using the oil lamp. He’d calculated he’d run out of oil in eight weeks if he burned the lamp only four hours a day. He’d tried to leave the door open, but his wood consumption rose dramatically as the frigid air rushed into the warm interior. Better to be in the dark than in the cold. He’d shut the light out again. That had been a month ago. His journal told him it was January the tenth. At least that’s what it said. He’d stopped writing every day. Did it really matter what day it was?

  The dog had taken to sleeping in the tent. Once in a while he came in during the day, and he went with Simon whenever he left camp, but Simon thought he wasn’t as friendly as before. Leastwise, that’s how it seemed. He scowled at the feeble flame of the candle. “To hell with it. I’ve got to get out,” he muttered as he got up from the table.

  He shrugged into his coat and pulled his hood up over his head. With a tap of his finger, he snuffed the candle, and then pulled the door open. The bitter cold stabbed him instantly, and he slapped his mittened hand over his mouth. The frigid air had been with him for over a week. He had no idea how cold it was, but when he spit, the saliva would crackle in the air. It had never been this cold in either Wyoming or Nebraska, and he’d seen minus thirty in both of those places.

  “Spud, you coming?” He pulled the cover off his rifle and leaned the stiff canvas case against the cabin wall. A few seconds later, the dog poked his head under the tent flap, looked left and right, and then pushed out into the clear.

  “Keeping
all right, are you?”

  The dog stretched, then walked over, his tail wagging slowly.

  Simon reached down and held the dog’s muzzle. “This is getting monotonous, ain’t it?”

  He stepped onto the snowshoes and kicked into the straps. Then they walked between the twin spruces and headed up the canyon. By now, he was somewhat used to the shoes, his rocking, side-to-side gait getting better and better every time he wore them.

  He recalled the first time he’d tried them on. Two feet of accumulated snow had been covered overnight with another foot of fresh fall, and he needed water. He’d slogged ten steps though the fresh powder, every other one breaking through the crust of the original two feet and sinking him up to his crotch. He turned back to get the snowshoes.

  At first, it seemed easy. He took one step, then carefully followed with the trailing foot, swinging it wide enough to clear the other shoe. One more step, pause, bring the trailing one up. He’d taken about six steps like that when, confidence building, he quickened his pace a little. One step, next step. One step, next step, one step, and the next step landed on his forward snowshoe. Momentum being what it is, he frantically tried to raise his impeded foot and crashed facedown in the snow.

  Spud promptly jumped into the middle of his back, happy to join in the game. He swore and hollered for a full minute before he got the dog to understand he wasn’t in the mood to play. By then, he’d packed enough snow down his neck to chase him back to the cabin to dry out. The trip to the creek postponed, he’d made due with flat and tasteless meltwater.

  Simon chuckled and turned to find the dog. He was about twenty feet back. Several hunts had taught him that there was where he belonged, and he rarely got closer. As he approached the hot springs, he saw the steam had covered the surrounding trees and brush in frost. His horse stood out dark against it. She raised her head and tipped her ears toward them. The long hair of her winter coat dulled the sleek hide. Simon headed toward her. She stood her ground until he was about fifty feet away, then turned and bolted toward the trees to disappear into the darkness under the rock overhang. Simon was glad to see her, and pleased to see she looked healthy.