Slate Creek

by Wallace J. Swenson

  The ache that had been moving up in Simon’s throat breached as a sodden sob, his shoulders convulsing. He knew he was letting the dog down in the most terrible way. His head dropped, his spirit failing rapidly, while the motionless dog shimmered in his tear-filled eyes. He turned in the trail, picked up one of his mittens, then searched till he found the other one. Sniffing against a streaming nose, he leaned on his rifle, and started the long journey to his cabin.

  He took a shuffling step, then another . . . then stopped. The ties to his friend lying on the cold ground had drawn tight, and he could go no farther. Four steps back, and he was beside his dog again, using his rifle as a crutch to lower himself to the ground. The excruciating pain in his leg locked his jaws tight. He shifted to get as close as he could to the dog, and Spud struggled to get up. Simon gently pushed him back down.

  It was only a mile. Surely, he could get them home if only he’d try. Maybe they could get to the hot springs and rest there. His dog deserved that much. He’d try. He’d rest for a little, and then he’d try. Yeah, that’s what he’d do.

  With unsteady hands, he draped as much of his coattails as he could across the dog. The cold rose through his buttocks, and soon the pain in his leg faded to a dull throb, then to nothing. Holding the coat snug under his neck, he leaned forward with shoulders hunched, and relaxed. Slow and ever so sure, the cold gripped more tightly. Pretty soon, he’d get up and go. Pretty soon, but not quite now, just a few more minutes . . . a few more minutes as his sight darkened and he sank closer to the edge of nothing.

  Strangely warm and comfortable, he looked deep into the shimmering depths of his new realm. Pretty soon? The question floated, feather-light and drifting, at the farthest reach of his consciousness. “Noooo,” someone replied, half whisper, half moan. Then, with a barely audible sigh, he put his hand on the dog’s chest, and settled down to wait awhile with his friend.

  CHAPTER 32

  Suddenly, he was being swept aloft, lifted gently by strong hands. Relaxed and without fear, he went willingly. He knew where he was going; his ma had told him this was what happened. What do they look like, the angels? He tried to open his eyes, but they were stuck shut. He tried again. Why wouldn’t they open? Was there a reason he couldn’t see them? Maybe soon he would . . . or maybe not. Cold as steel, fear stabbed into him.

  If not angels, what? Oh, God! He tried to fight, but his arms refused to respond. When he opened his mouth to scream, his terrified protest came out muted as the mewing of a newborn kitten. Thoughts of his dog flooded over everything, and he struggled to see him. Suddenly, in the brilliant flash that is pure truth, he knew his friend was dead.

  Savaged and abandoned, Spud lay in a vast white wasteland where the only color was his prone form, splashed in brilliant red, and Simon knew he deserved what was coming. His whole being collapsed in on itself, and at last, his brain retreated into the total darkness that shields it from madness and dropped over the edge.

  Slowly he drifted free of the abyss. His first conscious thought was of seeing light. It came through a small window. It looked like his window. Reed had thought him crazy when he’d spent fourteen dollars on it. But Reed didn’t know what Simon knew. That aside, there it was, letting the sunlight stream in. His window? Was he home? The sudden swirl of conflict made his head ache, and he drifted back to the place where it didn’t.

  And back again, his mouth so dry he could barely move his tongue. He had to have some water soon. He stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, and let his eyes become accustomed to the light. Without moving his head, he looked around at what he could see of the room. The hides over the door were in place. He was in a cabin, and it was winter. There was his rifle, leaning against the table.

  Slowly, he moved his head. It hurt to do so. Why? Then he saw what he was looking for, the water bucket. Had he left it full? He hoped so. What did he mean, had he left it full? Why was he lying in bed in the daylight? He flexed the muscles in his right leg, ready to throw away the heavy robe and was rewarded by a sharp pain. The attack! The wolverine had bitten him. Spud! The scene by the creek overwhelmed him, and he sank back in his bed, panting.

  How did I get home? Oh, Lord, how is my leg? Motionless, he considered how he was going to get up. He did a mental and muscular search of his body, twitching his toes and flexing his ankles. They seemed to work okay. His hands worked, too, but the right one had a couple of fingers that didn’t look so good, purple and swollen. Everything seemed to function all right, although he was stiff as a piece of whang-leather and sore almost everywhere. Slowly, he started to uncover, the heavy robes damp next to his body. The air in the hut was cool but not really too bad. He gritted his teeth and raised his head, grunting at the pain.

  Then, clear and distinct, he heard something outside. It assaulted his fragile sense of security. Something or someone was at the door. Disappointment swept over him like a damp cloud. His head sank back onto the beaver pelt pillow. Eyes closed so tight his eyebrows met, he raged silently at the injustice. He was defenseless. Then he thought, no! He had Red Socks’s knife! He was sure of it. He carried it in his pants pocket.

  He fumbled under the covers, cursing the heavy robe. Finally he found it and gripped it as he waited for the door to open and the hides to be swept back. How fast could he strike? Fast enough? He sucked in a deep gulp of air—he’d stopped breathing in an attempt to be silent. Then he feigned unconsciousness. The door opened and the rustle of the stiff hides as they parted sent fear rushing through his body.

  “Sadee’.”

  A single word, its meaning unknown, sent a thrill through him. “Red Socks?” His own voice was unrecognizable, a harsh rasp, and then something wet and warm swept across his face. He jerked his head off the pillow and there was Spud, struggling to get closer. Simon looked into the mellow brown eyes of his dog and knew there was goodness in the world.

  His father’s words, spoken so long ago, came rushing back. “Compared to the soul, the pain of the flesh is trivial.” Not understood then, the meaning now struck him deep, hard, and true. He’d betrayed a creature that had never let him down, and now he’d been given another chance. He knew that was something not guaranteed in life. His scalp tingled with sheer pleasure as the warm smooth tongue made another swipe across his face. Spud’s tail wagged furiously, his butt moving in time with it.

  Suddenly the dog sat down, and Simon levered himself up on his elbow. The Indian moved quickly to his side and pushed him down on the bed, shaking his head. Simon persisted, and ignoring the pain, swung his legs from under the robes and sat up dizzily on the edge of the bed. He took the dog’s head in his hands, and his tears splashed with abandon on his friend’s muzzle. How had Red Socks managed to save them? Then he noticed that Spud wouldn’t put his left paw down. Held aloft, it was wrapped in something.

  Convulsive sobs racked Simon’s body as he held his beloved dog, and he sent a prayer of thanks flying out the fourteen-dollar window. Both he and the dog were thankful for each other. For different reasons, to be sure, but sitting together again, safe and alive, the reasons didn’t seem to matter much.

  Red Socks stayed with Simon, and took care of both him and the dog. Spud’s left front paw was a mangled, weeping mess at first, but somehow it healed with whatever the Indian put on it. The same wet mixture,—it looked exactly like fresh cow plop—went on Simon’s legs. The first time Simon looked at the wounds, he despaired. Red and puffy, heat rose from the long slashes and the bluish-gray teeth marks.

  Red Socks brought two deer to the cabin in one day. He cut up the liver, heart, and kidneys and heated a few pieces slightly by holding them over the fire in the stove. It was all Simon could do to keep the offering down. Red Socks insisted, signing “eat” over and over again.

  After four days, Simon managed to make it to the table where Red Socks unwrapped his leg and rubbed the inflamed flesh with snow. Three days of similar treatment, and the shiny, tight appearance disappeared, and for the first time since he�
�d been bitten, he drained his bladder outside instead of in a pickle jar.

  At the end of the tenth day, he took the bandage off, and left it off, the scabs exposed. The crusty accretions itched like a hundred mosquito bites, and with his peeling fingers, Simon scratched while Red Socks nodded his head and laughed.

  Spud was not faring as well. A piece of bone stuck out where one of his toes had been. It refused to heal, and as soon as Red Socks took off the bandage, Spud was at the wound with tongue and teeth. After some discussion, the vast majority of which Simon didn’t understand, Red Socks simply took off the leather wrap, and left it off. Simon could barely restrain himself as the dog whimpered and chewed at the offending spot.

  Three days later, when Simon looked at the foot, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The bone was gone. The wound that remained was deep, but a healthy pink. Red Socks looked too, signed “good” and said, “Sadee’.” Simon figured it either meant “dog” or it was a name the Indian had given Spud.

  Then Red Socks was gone. They had finished breakfast, and the Indian started signing and talking in his music-like language. Some of it, Simon caught. Most of it he didn’t, but he knew Red Socks had to leave and would be gone until spring. The overhead sweep of his hands told Simon three moons would pass. April.

  January 13, 1875. Dog and I wounded. Red Socks came and is now gone. Wolverine is dead and I am glad to be alive.

  CHAPTER 33

  Winter had been slow to release its hold on the valley. The extra five weeks of frozen mud, snow flurries, and cold nights brought its rewards as well. The deer remained low, and Simon had managed to kill three, one a two-hundred-pound buck. They were also spared the ravages of the flood that had nearly drowned them the year before. As it was, Simon, fed up with the cold, sat on his bench in the bright sun and dozed, once again enjoying the valley like he knew he could. Spud lay on a small scrap of canvas beside the door.

  Simon’s right leg still itched, and two fingers of his right hand tingled when they got cold, but physically, he’d healed. He still limped a little, but he thought that was more out of habit than anything. On the other hand, Spud refused to put his left paw on the ground except when he got up. Simon could see nothing wrong with it, but it slowed the dog considerably. He hoped that in time, he’d start to use it.

  He thought he heard the dog grumble, but didn’t want to open his eyes. The sun felt wonderful, and today he was actually warm all over. He shifted his back a little bit and tried to drift away again. The second time Spud left no doubt, and he opened one eye to look. Spud’s head was up, muzzle pointed downstream. Simon watched him for a minute, then shut his eyes again.

  Spud barked, and Simon was wide awake in a heartbeat, just in time to see the dog scramble to his feet. With his hand on the rifle barrel, Simon jumped up and followed the dog past the spruce trees to stand on the edge of the meadow. Shading his eyes with one hand, he studied the trees at the north end of the valley. Was something or someone there? The dog certainly seemed to think so, because the deep growl continued in his throat as they both stared.

  Then, Simon caught a glimpse of movement well to the left of the trail. He moved back until he stood behind the spruces. “C’mere Spud.” He patted his thigh. Who would be avoiding the open? Was it Red Socks? His scalp relaxed a little with the thought, and he unconsciously loosened his grip on the gun. Then a man on horseback appeared, clearly visible as he moved out of the striped shadow, and into a bright clearing . . . it wasn’t Red Socks! He rode across the open, too far away to recognize, and then he was gone again, lost in the trees. Simon waited and watched. In another few minutes, the rider had to move around the rocky knob that marked the end of the meadow.

  Then his elusive visitor rode into sight, only now he moved at a run, spurring his horse back into the trees. This man was deliberately staying out of sight. Simon glanced over at the cabin’s chimney. Nothing showed from the morning fire, and he breathed easier. He focused on the next clearing, and was rewarded when the man moved into it and stopped.

  The man wore dark clothes and a dark hat. His horse was either a black with winter-white hair or a maybe a gray; hard to tell because it stood with its rump in the hatched shadow of the leafless aspens. He seemed to be looking right at the cabin, and Simon’s eyes watered as he stared back. Then the man nudged the horse in the withers and moved into the clearing.

  Simon’s lungs seized in mid-breath. The shadow on the horse’s rump defied the sun, and remained intact as they rode out of the trees. There could be only one horse like that. Buell’s Appaloosa! Could it be true? Simon stared, unable to move as the beautiful animal picked up the pace, and loped directly toward him. At two hundred yards, there was no doubt. Simon stepped into the open and yelled as loud as he could, “Buellll!” The horse surged into a full gallop, dirt flying behind; the man leaned over his neck, hat in hand. Simon reached down and caught hold of Spud’s scruff.

  Buell’s arrival was pure Buell. Thundering down on them, the horse leaned back on all four legs in a lock-kneed slide. Buell bailed off the horse before it had stopped, to land on his feet, light as a feather.

  “Found ya,” the grinning man said. He reached out.

  Simon took the four steps needed to cross to him and grasped the outstretched hand. He pumped it, then took hold of it with his other hand, and continued to shake. He could not take his eyes off of his friend’s face. Still yanking up and down on Buell’s hand, Simon realized what he was doing and let go.

  Buell punched him on the shoulder, then looked down at the dog. “It seems he remembers me. Hey, Spud?” He offered his hand and Spud ignored it, sniffing his leg instead. “Checkin’ on who I been with I guess.” Buell looked back at Simon and smiled again. “Well hell, ya gonna say something or what?”

  “I guess I’m speechless.” Simon’s eyes blinked rapidly as he searched for something witty to say. Nothing would come.

  “Okay.” Buell scratched his whiskers. “Got some coffee?”

  “Yeah, sure. C’mon.” Simon, relieved of the moment, turned toward the cabin. “Damn, Buell, I ain’t never been so surprised.”

  As they walked past the spruce, Buell suddenly stopped and stared. “What’n hell happened to your door. It’s all shot to shit.”

  “Yeah, it is. Buffalo rifle from across the meadow there. By that big rock.”

  “Why ya limpin’? And what happened to the dog’s foot? Damn, Simon, the marshal said ya come up here for the solitude.”

  “Shit, I’ve been shot at, chewed on, hunted, and drowned . . . damn near struck by lightning . . . trapped head-down in a hole till an Indian found me. And that’s just what comes to mind easy.”

  Buell chuckled. “I see you got yer speech back. I might add, it ain’t as purty as it used to be.”

  “Well, you ain’t either. What the hell’d ya do to your head?” Simon laid his hand on Buell’s shoulder and squeezed. “Sure good to see ya, Buell.”

  “Yeah, it is that.”

  “Pull your gear off that horse, and put him in with mine. Corral’s just through there.” Simon pointed at a path into the trees. “I’ll get that coffee going.” He watched as Buell started to untie his bedroll, then turned and walked toward the cabin. He didn’t limp.

  That evening, Simon didn’t spare the wood. The fire snapped and popped as it devoured the pile of tinder he’d stacked on. He didn’t want to go in, and Buell seemed to feel the same way. Besides, it wasn’t all that cool anyway. Simon learned that Buell had not gone to the Black Hills. He’d started to, but had met a man coming out of there who was going to the gold fields in Idaho Territory. Buell’d simply turned around and rode with him. They wound up in the Boise Basin. Exactly what he’d done there, Simon hadn’t yet learned. Buell hadn’t changed much in that respect.

  When asked about home, Buell admitted he hadn’t kept in touch as much as he knew was decent. He’d sent three or four telegrams when the whiskey melancholy got the best of him, but never stayed around to get an answer.
He’d written one long letter—long by Buell’s standards meant maybe a full page. Then he admitted that it was still in his saddlebags. Finally he said, “That’s enough about me. I want to know what in hell got in yer craw to come out here and live like a damn hermit.”

  The question caught Simon off guard. Surely, Buell remembered the disaster in the saloon at Fort Laramie. The gruesome image of the bartender’s brains, hair, and blood all over the back mirror still made him half-sick. Simon had killed him, but Buell had erased the evidence with a single shot to Twiggs’s head from the fully charged .44. His own words flashed back to him, “I’ve become just like you.” That’s what he’d said and then watched as Buell simply turned around and walked out. So long ago but so fresh. “I don’t like to think about that,” he muttered. The air around the campfire seemed to suddenly cool.

  “What?” Buell chucked a wood chip into the fire.

  “Twiggs.” Simon was having a hard time staying calm.

  “Oh, Twiggs. Whatever happened after that? Damn, I thought you’d really stepped in the deep stuff that night. Did the army swallow it? They think I did it?”

  “Yeah, they did. The provost . . . what was his name? Van Eyke, Van Dyke, something like that. He concluded it was self-defense.”

  “Sonuvabitch. I never did like him. And it was self-defense.”

  “Then why did you just leave like that?”

  “That or sit in an army jail for six weeks while they figger it out. No thanks. The Black Hills seemed like a good idea right then.”