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  SLATE CREEK: JOURNEY TO THE WHITE CLOUDS

  SLATE CREEK: JOURNEY TO THE WHITE CLOUDS

  WALLACE J. SWENSON

  FIVE STAR

  A part of Gale, a Cengage Company

  Copyright © 2017 by Jacquelyn Swenson Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Gale, a Cengage Company.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

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  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Swenson, Wallace J., author.

  Title: Slate Creek : journey to the white clouds / Wallace J. Swenson.

  Description: First edition. | Waterville, Maine : Five Star Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc., [2017] | Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017007821 (print) | LCCN 2017012657 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432834470 (ebook) | ISBN 1432834479 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432834449 (ebook) | ISBN 1432834444 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432834500 (hardcover) | ISBN 1432834509 (hardcover)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3450-0 eISBN-10: 1-43283450-9

  Subjects: LCSH: Self-actualization (Psychology)—Fiction. | GSAFD: Western stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3619.W4557 (ebook) | LCC PS3619.W4557 S58 2017 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017007821

  First Edition. First Printing: July 2017

  This title is available as an e-book.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3450-0 ISBN-10: 1-43283450-9

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  Visit our website– http://www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar/

  Contact Five Star™ Publishing at [email protected]

  Printed in the United States of America

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  SLATE CREEK: JOURNEY TO THE WHITE CLOUDS

  CHAPTER 1

  The long ride from Fort Laramie to intersect with the Chug-water offered a taxing fusion of purgatory and pleasure for Simon Steele. The drinking, gambling, cheating, and deceit that had defined his life at Fort Laramie for five years played over and over in his mind as he rode. Countering his dark thoughts, the freshness of the air, the clarity of the July sky, and the cacophony of nature’s presence eased him along. His dog, Spud, bounded ahead, out of sight for long periods. He’d return with a greeting, only to run off again in search of something new.

  As the day wore on, Simon tried to convince himself he’d left behind forever the dim and seamy nights in the saloon, with the soul-rotting knowledge that, for profit, he’d served the base needs of men. No longer did he need to rationalize his collusion; abrasive grit that had ground his integrity down to his bones. He was, at last, free to find his way again, free to cleanse his soul and to make himself feel whole. But could he?

  His friends and mentors, Tay Prescott and Walks Fast, the first an older frontiersman and prospector, the second a Shoshoni dreamwalker, had both encouraged and foretold his journey and helped plan the way. With Walks Fast’s map in his saddlebag and both men’s words of wisdom ingrained in his head, safe for later reflection, he looked forward to his journey. Pushing through the heat of the high plains in summer, Simon at last spotted the thin blue-gray wisps of smoke that suggested the campground at the Chugwater might be near.

  Three men sat on the ground, well away from the fire. A covered wagon with the tailgate down stood off to the left. Simon studied the camp for a minute, cautious, then nudged his horse forward. Spud arrived well ahead of him, his exuberance and wagging tail making his acquaintance. A dozen or so horses stood on a rope line well back from the camp. Simon’s horse hailed them with a whinny.

  “Climb off and shake the kinks out.” The voice came from the other side of the wagon, and immediately a man in a dirty apron stepped around the end.

  “Thanks.” Simon swung down from the saddle and winced at the tingle in his feet.

  One of the cowboys stood. “Howdy. You’re named Steele.” It was not a question. “You run Amos’s place over at Laramie.”

  “That’s right. First name’s Simon.”

  “I’m Wayne Goodman. I run a few hundred head of cattle here on the Chug.” He stuck out his hand. “This is Vance Hartman and Vernal Carlson.” The two men stood. “That there’s our cook, Prod Boothe.”

  The cowboys’ wide-brimmed floppy hats shaded faces that hadn’t seen a razor in at least a month. The buttoned collars of plain cotton shirts lay hidden behind sweat-stained scarves, dust masks for the drag riders. Vance and Vernal wore wide leather leggings; chaps, big as storm shutters. All three smiled, and Simon shook the offered hands.

  “Nice dog,” Prod said. “Dern near big as a wolf.”

  Spud’s tail wagged when he heard “dog.”

  “Yeah, he likes people. Spent a lot of time at the saloon.” Simon ruffled Spud’s ears.

  “So what brings you down here? Going to Cheyenne?” Wayne nodded toward where they had been sitting, the universal and silent invitation to join them.

  “There and on west.” Simon followed Wayne. “Got an itch to see some new country.”

  “You know, I’ve wanted to do that myself.” The rancher hunkered down on his heels. “I came here in fifty-five from Missouri. Meant to spend the winter, and then carry on to Oregon.” He shrugged. “Never got around to it.”

  “Gonna join us for supper?” Prod asked. “You’re more’n welcome.”

  “That’d be good. I’ve got some canned peaches.”

  “Naw, we got plenty,” Wayne replied. “Pull the saddle off your horse and tie her up with the rest. Always good to have someone new to talk to.”

  The five men perched around the fire on makeshift seats, four old friends and a stranger. As darkness pulled its covers over the face of the prairie, a single coyote expressed his loneliness with a plaintive cry. Soon, several others voiced their sympathies, and the night came alive with the mournful music. The men sat silent, mesmerized by the dance of the flickering fire and the eerie call of the coyotes. Spud grumbled at the noise.

  Wayne cocked his head to the prairie sound. “Things like that are what draws a man out here,” he said. “Evening like this makes the heat of the day tolerable.”

  Simon looked up at the blaze of stars. “It is beautiful. Did this as a kid back home in Nebraska. Herded cows a couple of summers with some Texans.”

  “How in hell did you wind up at Amos’s place?” Prod asked.

  “My best friend and I decided we wanted a change. Just turning eighteen, what did we know? We headed west and found a home there for five years. Amos hired me, hoping I could make him some money, and he hired Buell to make sure he could keep it.”

  “Buell?” Wayne said. “He that tall feller that always sat on the high chair by the stairs?”

  “Yep, that’s Buell.”

  “Now that’s one scary character. I was there the night he near beat that German fella to death. Mind you, he had it coming but, damn, he looked like a herd of cows had walked over him . . . in single file.” He flashed a grin at his partners
.

  “Buell’s different. I grew up with him . . . same school, same friends, same everything, almost. Strange how a man learns different lessons from the same teachers.”

  “I’ve seen that, too. Whatever happened to him? He still there?”

  “Nope. I was told he was up in the Black Hills.”

  “You said you was going on west. Got a spot picked?” Vernal asked.

  “Ever heard of the White Cloud Mountains in Idaho Territory?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “There’s an old Indian at Fort Laramie whose people live there. He said it’s north and west of Fort Hall. He drew me a map.”

  “Been to Fort Hall,” Vance said. “Dirty place. Real sorry bunch of Indians camp out there. Steal your fork halfway to your mouth.”

  “How is the trip from Salt Lake?” Simon asked Vance.

  “No problem really. Lots of folks headed that way, mostly into Montana Territory for the gold. I wound up in a place called Hungry Hollow. They named that one right. Never did anything but wear myself out digging. Come back here.”

  “I was told there was a gold find near where I’m going.”

  “That could be Leesburg. That’s north of Fort Hall. I heard about it after I got back. You don’t go to Salt Lake, you know, ’less you want to. You head north out of Ogden. The Corinne Road runs from Bear River to Alder Gulch. That’s near Virginia City, and close to where I was. Must be a cutoff to Leesburg there somewhere.”

  “The map doesn’t show roads, just rivers, streams, and some prominent mountains.”

  “If the old Indian drew it from memory, probably weren’t no roads. I’d ask as I went along,” Wayne said.

  “Suppose that’s what I’ll do.”

  Silence settled over the group again, as the conversations became private in each man’s head. Lost in thought, they all stared at the fire, content to just sit; now five friends, perched around a campfire.

  The crash of a wooden spoon banging the bottom of a wash pan jolted Simon out of a sound sleep. He sat straight up in bed.

  “Git up, you lazy bunch o’ varmints. I ain’t gonna be the only one earning his keep ’round here.” Prod banged on the pan again. “Git up!”

  “You whack that pan one more time, old man, and you’ll wear it around your neck today,” Vernal said, rolling over on his back.

  “Sure, you kin make threats laying flat on the ground like that. You don’t scare me.”

  Like three half-crippled jacks-in-the-box, the sleepy men sat up in their bedrolls. Using both hands, they all partly untangled their rumpled hair with a quick pass-through, then stuffed wayward tufts past the sweatbands of the hats they jammed on for the day.

  “Mornin’, Simon,” Wayne said. He threw back his cover and stood. “Coffee ready, Prod?”

  “What a stupid question. What in hell you think I do for a livin’?” The cook shook his head and spit in the fire.

  “Now you know why we call him Prod.”

  Simon tugged his second boot on. “I was wondering about that.”

  “I heard that. Well, you don’t have to wonder no more. I don’t like gettin’ up, and I don’t care who knows it.”

  Ten minutes later the four stood at the tailgate of the chuck wagon, silent, one behind the other in line. Prod, very solemn, picked up one plate at a time, loaded it to capacity with bacon and biscuits and gravy, and handed it to a hungry man. Soon they were all busy clearing the plates and emptying coffee cups. The closer they were to done, the wider the grin spread on Prod’s face.

  “That’s about as long as he’s on the prod,” Wayne said, tapping his plate with a fork. “This is what he lives for.”

  “Sure tastes good,” Simon said. “Appreciate this, Mr. Boothe. First-rate breakfast.”

  “Jist get it ate up so’s I can wash the damn dishes. And the name’s Prod.” He wrinkled his forehead in a scowl, but somehow the gruffness didn’t quite carry through.

  Thirty minutes later Simon shook hands all around and swung into the saddle. “Been a real pleasure. You’ve helped me get this trip off to a good start.”

  “Take care of yourself, son,” Prod said.

  “C’mon Spud, let’s get going.”

  Simon touched the brim of his hat, the time-honored salute of friendship, and turned his horse upstream.

  Cheyenne lay an easy two days to the south. A trip to the bank there, and he’d be on his way west to put death and betrayal behind him forever.

  CHAPTER 2

  Simon’s visit two years previous did not prepare him for the sight as he approached Cheyenne from the rolling hills north of town. Many times the size of Fort Laramie, it sprawled over the prairie for almost a mile. Leaving his horse at a nearby stable, he made straight for the huge hotel by the train depot. A hot bath and a clean bed sounded wonderful, but first he had business to transact.

  The familiar hum of a dozen simultaneous conversations and the smell of tobacco, whiskey, and oiled wood stopped Simon at the door. The bar to his left beckoned, and a whore caught his eye to pitch her sale without saying a word. He considered her for a few seconds. More grit, he thought, then turned away to march across the carpeted lobby to the front desk.

  “Could you direct me to the Mercantile Bank?” he asked the clerk. Simon recognized him from the last time he had been there. The imperious attitude was still there.

  “I can,” the man replied. He paused as though waiting for more specific instructions. Then, “Go two streets west and one and a half north. It’s on the right side.”

  “Thank you.” Simon turned and had taken a couple of steps when the clerk spoke again.

  “It’ll be closed now, though.” The man glanced at the clock on the lobby wall, then gave Simon a patently fake smile. “Open at nine.”

  “Right. Thank you.” Simon mentally counted to five.

  The clerk continued to stare through him, and then Simon realized how bad he must look, obviously the most poorly dressed man in the lobby. With five days’ growth of whisker stubble, hands that looked like he’d been playing in a campfire, and dusty clothes he hadn’t taken off in four days, he’d seen cleaner trail bums at Amos’s saloon. He stepped back to the counter. “I’d like a room then.”

  “I think not.” The clerk peered at him over his spectacles.

  Simon forgot to count to five. “And why the hell not? I’ve been on the road for three days, need a bath and a shave and a place to sleep. That’s what a hotel’s for. And you are a hotel, right?” Simon felt thirty pairs of eyes boring into his back, and he could sense the heat rising up his face.

  “We are indeed, sir, but we do not allow animals.”

  Simon resisted the urge to reach across the desk and throttle the obnoxious character. Then he followed the clerk’s eyes to his left. Spud, about four steps away, sat in a small dust storm furiously scratching his neck with a hind foot.

  “I . . . surely you have . . . he wouldn’t . . .”

  With every sputtered utterance, the clerk slowly shook his head. “No exceptions.” He raised triumphant eyebrows.

  Simon gathered up his saddlebags and rifle, and headed across the lobby; muted laughter pushed him out the door. A two-hundred-fifty-pound saloon bouncer could not have been more effective.

  “Snotty sonuvabitch,” he mumbled as he stepped back into the street. He turned toward the stables.

  “Back already?” The liveryman’s genuine smile took the sting out of the hotel encounter.

  “Yeah. Where can I stay and have a place for my dog?”

  “Right here. Got a copper tub, water in the cistern is always warm this time of year. The bunks ain’t got no satin sheets but they’re clean. If you got a razor, I got a mug and soap. Cost you six bits.” The man looked at Spud. “Dog stays for free,” he added, and winked.

  Simon chuckled. “If it wasn’t so outrageous I’d get madder’n hell.”

  “Hotel didn’t like the dog, did they?”

  “Not a bit.”

 
“Mostly that’s Gibson’s fault.”

  “Gibson?”

  “That snooty clerk. Got here about five years ago. Slept right here as a matter of fact. Hobnobbing with the bluenoses has plumb gone to his head.”

  “You mean I coulda stayed there?”

  “Sure. Ladies with them perfumery lap-mutts stay there all the time. It’s up to Gibson.”

  “I never give it a thought about my dog. At Fort Laramie he stayed in the saloon a lot.”

  “I expect if you pushed the matter with the proprietor, you could still stay there. You’re welcome here.”

  “And here I’ll stay. Mostly, I was looking for a bath and you got that. Show me where to put my rifle and bags if you would.”

  “Sure. Last name’s Jaspar, and that’s what folks call me.”

  “I’m Simon Steele. Pleased to meet you.” He shook hands with the man before they entered the dim interior of the barn and walked to the rear.

  “Come on in here.” Jaspar opened a door to a long hallway with four doors in the right wall. He pointed to the first one. “Put your stuff in there. The bath is the last door. Help yourself.”

  Simon went in, dropped his bags on the floor, and sat on the bed. “Not bad, Spud. At least we’re welcome, and that’s worth a lot. You lie down and I’ll go get a bath.”

  The next morning Simon found the Mercantile Bank. A teller directed him to a man sitting at a desk and Simon approached. “Good morning. My name is Simon Steele, and I have a letter of credit I’d like to present.”

  “Mr. Steele. I’m James Pettingill. Please take a seat.” He nodded at a chair in front of the desk. “Let me see the letter.”

  Simon handed it to him.

  “No problem here.” He let a gold chain catch his spectacles when he dropped them. “I know Amos. How would you like me to handle this?”

  “I’m going west, and I want to take cash with me. I’d like three thousand of that in gold and the rest in notes.”

  “If you know where you’re going Mr. Steele, I can certainly write another letter of credit good in any major city west of here. Four thousand is a lot of cash to carry around.”