Slate Creek

by Wallace J. Swenson

  “Yup.”

  “What’s he got to do with you, if ya don’t mind my asking?”

  “He delivers my supplies.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Something wrong with that?”

  “Well, I can’t say for sure, but I’d . . . Naw, can’t really say anything other than he seems to avoid me. But a lot of people do that. Nature of my business. Forget I said anything.” Hess pushed his plate away and set his fork on it.

  “He’s had every opportunity to cheat me.”

  “Like I said, forget I said anything. Just a lawman talking.”

  They both sat silent for a few minutes, until Simon finished with his meal and picked up his cup. The night air lay still and almost warm.

  “From the looks of you this afternoon you’re prospecting a little.” The marshal took a pipe out of one shirt pocket and a tobacco pouch from the other.

  “A little. Justin showed me where to look. We found lots of specks, but nothing worth going after. I don’t spend a lot of time at it.”

  “Hmm. So what else does a man do up here all day?”

  “Make things for the cabin. Walk up into the mountains. Cut wood. Always got that to do. Thought about a garden, but there’s too many critters around.”

  “You’re the only one I know around here who’s living alone. I think I’d go crazy.”

  “Once in a while the place leans on me a little.” Simon put his elbows on the table. “Sometimes I wished I had my friend with me. Got an Indian visitor that drops by every now and then.”

  Hess got up and picked a piece of wood out of the fireplace. Soon the pipe was glowing and he sat back down. “A woman?” He winked.

  “I wish. No, he’s a fella about my age, I think. He doesn’t actually drop by, just seems to show up when I need something. Brought me meat last winter when I run out. And when I was building the cabin, I fell between the bank and the log wall and stuck there headfirst. Weren’t for him I’d still be there.”

  “That’s strange. Only Indians up here are the sheep hunters, and they avoid us like we were death walking.”

  “He won’t come close or let me near him. But he’s as close to my friend Buell as I’m going to get.”

  “Buell? Can’t be two men named Buell.”

  Simon leaned forward, his scalp tingling. “Don’t tell me you know him too?”

  “Don’t know him to speak, but I’ve talked to him. Did he work for Amos as well?”

  “Yeah. I’ve known him all my life. We had a disagreement at Fort Laramie, and I suppose that’s why I’m up here alone. Is he wanted by the law?”

  “Let’s just say we’ve had reason to talk, and he’s clean as far as I know.”

  “So you know where he is.” Simon stood up and moved over to the fireplace.

  “Can’t never be sure. Last time I saw him was this spring, over in the Boise Basin. Idaho City.”

  “Any chance of you seeing him again?”

  “Hard to tell.”

  Simon stared at the pulsing embers. Buell’s presence was strong, and a wave of melancholy swept over him. “If you see him, tell him . . . tell him I . . . I’m fine and living up here with my dog. Yeah, tell him that.”

  “Sure will. Sounds like you miss him.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Marshal Hess left the next morning before the sun was up. Simon cleaned up the breakfast dishes and set them on the table. He put a piece of ham and some fritters in the cornmeal sack and dropped that in his empty water bucket. Then he put a plate over the seven fritters left in the skillet, and put the skillet on the table as well. “You ready to go see what’s in that hole?” he said to Spud.

  The dog was nearly out of sight before Simon rode away from the cabin, his water bucket banging his leg. Twenty minutes later, he tied the horse to a small tree and hiked up the trail to the empty pool. The diversion appeared to be working as he’d hoped, the entire stream bypassing the two boulders. He pulled on his gum boots and walked through the mud to the middle of the streambed. Almost to the face of the rocks, he stopped and sank his blade about four feet to the right of the spot where he’d dug before. The grinding crunch told him he’d hit solid rock just as his foot met the muddy bottom.

  He leaned back on the handle, scooped the shovelful into his pan, and squished his way to the running water in the diversion. A few minutes later, he washed the last of a barren sample into the creek and stood. Not a sign of gold. He looked back at the pool bottom, puzzled. The first sample had been taken closer to the trailside bank and right up against the boulders, so he went back into the mud and dug another hole closer to the rocks. Nothing. For the next two hours he dug around in the muck, washing pan after pan of rock, mud, and coarse gravel.

  Panting with exertion, he climbed onto the bank again and dumped the sample into his pan. He groaned as he squatted, his knees protesting. Slowly, his tired arms swirled the aggregate as he washed and scraped. Half-heartedly, he tipped the back pan, already committed to calling it a day and going home.

  The bottom of the pan flashed alive. Dozens of nuggets winked back at him, four of them the same size as the first one he’d found. His hands trembled as he carefully collected the treasure and dropped the nuggets, one at a time, into the can. Spud sat beside him and watched intently. “It’s up against the rock, boy. I’m going to dig a trench all the way across the bed and see what’s down there.”

  Simon spent the rest of the day mucking out a long narrow hole. It soon became apparent that the bedrock followed the bottom of the pool to within about three feet of the rocks. There it rose up, brow-like, to drop off again to form the bottom of his trench. It was a natural trap for anything washing down the mountain. By day’s end, he had the overburden removed, thrown upstream, and along the trailside to create a dam until no water at all ran into his works. Mud-covered to his waist, he stepped out of the hole and stretched his tired back. With reins in hand, he slowly walked the horse to the hot springs. There, with a deep sigh, he sank into his bath, clothes and all.

  The next morning he arrived at his dig before sunup. He stepped into the bottom of the hole and started to fill his water bucket with the wet gravel, sand, and clay. His shovel scraped along the bottom as he scooped the last shovelful needed to fill the bucket. Hauling the bucket using both hands, he fell twice getting it to the creek. He wouldn’t fill it so full next time. He loaded his pan and started to wash it in the creek. Eager to see, he hurried the process by scraping off over half of the ore in his pan. The second wash went just as fast, and he swirled the water rapidly around the outside edge, then tipped it up.

  The gold was everywhere. Simon plopped down in the mud, the pan in his lap, and stared. Spud charged up the trail and sat on the other side of the diversion, his head tilted sideways. “I found it, boy. I wish Tay could see this. It’s how he described his Black Hills find, except I don’t have to worry about someone coming along and raising my hair.” He got off his butt and finished panning the black sand, picking out nuggets as he went. Spud left to find something more interesting to do.

  Simon scooped and washed all day. Some pans yielded much more than others, but they all contained enough to scrape into his peach can. When he quit at the end of the day, his back wouldn’t straighten completely. Back at the cabin, he ate cold spuds and some sausage to save cooking and washing up. When he finally sagged onto his woodchip-stuffed bag, he figured he’d worked almost fourteen hours. Bone weary, he looked at his journal three times that evening before he relented and opened it.

  June 20, 1874. Found the glory hole. Panned a peach can a quarter full today. The work is very hard.

  The closer Simon got to the far side of the creek bottom, the more gold he found. By the end of the fourth day, he understood why prospectors built sluice boxes. Digging was the easy part; stooping over the creek with thirty pounds of sand and gravel in a pan was taking a toll on his back and knees. Back in camp later that afternoon, he’d looked at
his supply of boards. He didn’t have enough to make a box, and going to Challis to order some boards would raise questions with Reed. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him. Of course he did. After all, Reed was his friend . . . but. He remembered what Tay had said about trusting as he stared at the big nugget he’d retrieved from the doubled-up bean bag. He’d switched to a sack after he dropped the peach can once.

  The nugget weighed over two ounces and had a piece of quartz imbedded in one end. Forty dollars’ worth, in one piece, and he had dozens of them. Not all as big, for sure—this one was a prize—but still, he was rich. He’d fashioned a crude balance and weighed twenty-one gold eagles against the nuggets he’d panned in one day. Close as he could figure, he was panning over three hundred dollars a day. How many men could ever dream of such a thing?

  Warily he looked into the shadows around the camp as his hand clapped shut on the chunk of yellow. He put it back in the sack and hurried into the cabin. There he stuffed the sack into one of the several cavities he’d dug under the cabin walls. With the dirt packed down and smoothed with a few swipes of his hand, no one would ever know it was there. He’d buried two smaller sacks under the wood by the stove. If someone came looking, he thought that’s where they’d look. At least, it was where he would have looked.

  June 24, 1874. I am rich beyond any dream. And cursed that I have no one to share it with. Tay was right.

  For a week Simon dug and panned, and the treasure kept building in the hiding places in his cabin. Nearing the end of the trench, he stopped to look at the brazen sun. Sweat stung his eyes, and he wiped his brow with a damp sleeve. The bedrock here rose sharply into the mountainside. The last few buckets had yielded very little, and a slight surge of panic rippled his scalp. Was that the end? All he was going to get? A measly two hundred ounces or so? He looked around for the dog. Where had he run off to again?

  He turned his shovel over and dragged the point across the rugged granite of the trench bottom. All the loose material was gone, and he dropped to his knees. The damp soil clinging to the naked rock wouldn’t allow a close examination, so he climbed out of the hole with the bucket. Returning with it full, he poured the clear water on the sloping granite, brushing the loose dirt away as he did. He caught sight of a yellow glint, but lost it immediately as the mud ran down the rock. He sloshed more water and saw it again.

  Carefully he dribbled the water from the bucket onto the site, and the gold sprang into full view. A narrow vein made a ragged and crooked line in the rock, disappearing under his knees. He moved back and washed more dirt away. The thin line continued another two feet, then tapered to nothing in the granite.

  His heart pounded in his ears as he scrambled out of the hole to get another bucket of water. Soon the shiny yellow trace lay exposed. It climbed the slope of the trench for over ten feet, then ended, tapering off as it had behind him. He’d found the source. Pounded and eroded away by the annual floods, the heavier pieces had been trapped in the trench, while the lighter flakes and specks spilled over the twin rocks and into the creek below. Could he bust it up with his pick?

  Simon swung the heavy tool as hard as he could. The point glanced sideways and he nearly lost his grip. He chipped at the rock all afternoon, but made little progress. Finally, he dropped the tool and leaned against the bare rock of the boulder. His bucket held about thirty pounds of gold-streaked granite and quartz.

  He’d need powder or some of the new dynamite to blast the rock loose. And getting that was going to tell a lot of tales in town. He glanced at the sun, now nearly at the ridge, and threw his pick out of the hole. After lifting the bucket to the edge, he stood and looked first at the dig, then downstream at the lush green valley. Would it be worth it? He wished Tay were there. He’d know what to do. With a sharp whistle for the dog, Simon climbed on the horse and rode back to camp, deep in thought.

  Simon didn’t sleep that night. Instead, thinking and measuring his choices, he’d tossed in his bed till dawn. Then, sitting on the bench in front of his cabin waiting for sunrise, he’d made a decision. Relaxed and content for the first time in a month, he reached down and stroked Spud’s ears while appreciating the sight that spread out before him.

  To tell anyone about the gold find would ruin what he’d worked so hard to establish. He had more than enough money to do whatever he wanted, now or in the future. He had no idea how much his investment in the roadhouse might be worth, and Amos would have it ready when he wanted it. He had several thousands of dollars’ worth of gold stashed in the cabin walls and in the wood by the stove. That, and he still had the lion’s share of the money he’d left Cheyenne with.

  It felt good to sit and listen to the casual voices of summer in the valley, the exuberant chatter of the rushing creek against the monotone drone of a bumblebee scouting wildflowers. A crow, way down the canyon, did his best to start an argument. Young squirrels in the tall spruce chased each other through the boughs; and his horse, head down, browsed the meadow, her tail swishing constantly at the flies. Spud moved to his favorite place by the woodpile and stretched out to wait for the sun to drive him into the shade.

  Simon leaned his head back against the rough wood and looked toward the edge of the clearing. The countless leaves of the aspen trees shimmered in the breathless breeze, flashing light and dark. At first, the organized chaos of the dappled shadows offered no form or substance. Then, slowly, as he examined small pockets of calm, he found the images he sought.

  A spotted Appaloosa horse appeared, so strangely colored, its tail flying as Buell urged him on, pounding across the prairie. Then he stood in front of the sod house where he’d been born, and where his character had been shaped. His mother looked out the door, her smile of encouragement so familiar. He recognized the laugh that dwelt in her eyes, waiting to be set free at precisely the moment it would do the most good.

  He sensed the strength being offered and looked deeper into the mystery of the dancing leaves. Even as he watched, his thoughts changed to desire, and his heart raced as the memory of Sarah’s lilting call came to him. Oh, the sweet sound. He breathed deeply, hoping to catch her scent. And he searched, so hard he searched, but she would not show herself, and soon the dappled dance took the last few faltering steps, and stopped. He shut his eyes and concentrated on his breathing until his heart quit aching.

  When he opened them a few minutes later, Spud stood before him, head cocked, his ears turned forward, questioning. “Go back to sleep, dog. I’ve been visiting spirits, and they’ve gone home.” Spud wagged his tail and walked back to his bed, where he followed his tail for three turns until, satisfied with his nest, he lay down again, asleep in a matter of seconds. Simon smiled at his dog, stood, and stretched in the warm sun. Life was good.

  He’d cut wood yesterday, unhurried, a steady eight or nine hours of work. Today he needed to cut up the four logs that he’d dragged back to camp. Saw in hand, he walked over to the crossbucks. The blade, sharp from the last time he’d used it, pulled smooth and even through the dry wood, and soon the heady aroma of pine tar hung in the air. An eighteen-inch-long round fell off as the saw finished the cut, and he straightened his back, arching against tense muscles, his torso wet with sweat.

  The sight of the Indian, standing only fifteen feet away, startled Simon so badly he stumbled back three steps. The movement took him out of easy reach of his rifle. The Indian’s eyes followed his own to the Winchester leaning against a tree. Simon glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping dog, then looked back to the native. He tried frantically to remember a little bit of the sign language Tay had shown him and drew a blank. Simon swallowed hard and stared at the man.

  His visitor stood a couple of inches shorter than he, about five and a half feet tall. Dressed in tan leather, he wore flat moccasins whose tops wrapped around his ankles. Simon could see no red stockings. Set deep in a round face, the man’s dark eyes stared back. Shiny black hair, braided and tied, draped on either side of his head to hang down on his wide chest.
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br />   A chill ratcheted up Simon’s back when the Indian moved. The man, his face impassive, put his right hand in front of his body and touched his chest with an extended thumb. Then Simon remembered. He clasped his hands in front of his belly, the back of his left hand down. Peace. The Indian broke into a bright smile, repeated his first sign, and then held his hands in front with index fingers crossed. Then he pointed both fingers at the ground and then at Simon. Simon could do nothing but smile back and make the peace sign again. He felt like an idiot.

  The Indian touched a beaded sheath at his hip, and Simon’s neck hair rose. The native held up his hand, palm out. Then he lifted a knife part way out of the scabbard, and Simon recognized it. The man shoved it back in place, then, with both hands held out in front, palms down, he pushed them out and down. Again, he smiled.

  “I take that as a thank you.” Simon’s own voice gave him a start. “I don’t know how to say you’re welcome.” Simon pointed at the knife, nodded his head, and smiled widely.

  The Indian’s gaze shifted past him and Simon glanced over his shoulder. There stood Spud, his tail moving slowly back and forth.

  The Indian pointed at the dog and made the peace sign.

  “Yeah, I thought as much. He likes you too.” Simon pointed at the dog, then at Red Socks—it had to be Red Socks. He smiled and nodded his head.

  The Indian pointed at Simon, closed his right hand into a fist, and then dropped it a few inches.

  “You want me to get down? Sit?” He grimaced in frustration and shook his head.

  With his fingers laced, the Indian formed a tent-like shape with his hands.

  “Teepee. I remember that.” Simon put his hands together in like fashion and pointed at his cabin.

  Red Socks nodded. He pointed at Simon again and shaped his hands like he was grasping an imaginary fence post, then moved his hands briskly toward the ground as though he were setting it in the earth. He then signed peace.

  Simon shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t get you.” He made the peace sign again and puffed his cheeks in exasperation.