Slate Creek Page 13

  “I got the same problem, boy, and I’m not sure what to do about it. It sounds vicious out there.”

  The dog whined again and scratched at the bottom board. Simon threw back the elk hide he’d wrapped around himself and stood.

  “I think your instincts are right. We got to go out.” He pried loose enough of the boards to do it. The draft through the space ruffled the dog’s hair, and Spud jumped through the hole, out of sight in an instant.

  “Spud!” Simon kneeled to peer into the weak light and saw nothing but swirling snow. Going feet-first through the opening, he ducked outside for a moment, and immediately came back in. He found the buffalo coat and put it on. It was the first time he’d worn it, and the instant warmth surprised him. Through the hole again, not so easily this time in the bulky wrap, he turned his back to the wind, and it pushed him to the lee side of one of the twin spruces. Hurriedly, he fumbled loose the buttons on his pants.

  Snow had drifted over the downed tent and looked deep enough to keep the whole thing from blowing away. Satisfied, he stepped out of the shelter of the tree and into the wind to check on his meat cache. If it weren’t for the buffeting, he wouldn’t have felt anything; the thick coat blocked the frigid air completely.

  His breath caught in his throat when he peered through the driving snow at the sparse branches of a yellow pine where he’d hung the four elk quarters. They were gone. He started for the tree, and nearly lost his footing as a gust hit him. Regaining his balance, the storm warned once more by an even stronger blast, and he turned toward the cabin. He could barely make it out through the snow.

  Panic shot a surge of paralysis through him and he hollered, “Spud!” He set his tongue against his upper front teeth and issued a piercing whistle. The wind stripped it from his lips and swallowed the sound. “Spuuud!” he screamed.

  He leaned into the wind, and wished he had something to hang on to. Swirls of snow whipped around the cabin, and it slipped in and out of view. He started toward it. Once he fell to his knees, and there he tried to crawl, but the big coat tangled his legs. And then the dog was beside him. “Spud. Am I glad to see you!” He grabbed hold of the dog’s scruff. “Go, Spud. Go in.”

  Just hanging on to something made it much easier, and soon they were in the cabin, the boards replaced. Simon shrugged out of the snow-plastered coat. “First thing we do when this blows out is to string some rope to the toilet. And it looks like I better store a good supply of wood against the front of the cabin. That kinda scared me. How about you?” The dog curled up on his piece of canvas and answered with raised eyebrows and a sigh. “All right, so it didn’t worry you. You didn’t see the tent. We could have been in there when that ridgepole snapped, and then you wouldn’t be so smug.”

  Simon opened a can of beans and broke two squares of hardtack into pieces. They ate and listened in silence, the hammer of the wind beating on the anvil of Simon’s confidence as he wrote in his journal.

  October 29, 1873. Thankful cabin is done. Storm tonight.

  He decided to forgo a drink of water, and climbed under the blankets. His last thoughts were a prayer of thanks for nine days of good weather in October, and a request that the storm be a short one.

  Simon woke to silence, total and complete. His eyes blinked open to white light and Spud standing over him. “Morning, dog.” Simon tasted the sleep in his mouth and dug a knuckle into his right eye. “Quiet, huh?”

  He pushed back the covers and sat up. A small pile of snow graced the northeast corner of the room, and a white line defined all the cracks along the front of the cabin. He shuddered as he reached for his boots.

  The same boards came off, and Spud bounded through the opening. Simon followed a minute later. The roof overhang looked to be a stroke of genius. A three-foot-high drift tapered away from the south corner of the cabin, and the fireplace with its cover had created a drift that completely covered the tent site. The front of the cabin was clear of snow, the ground almost bare. Simon waded through a drift south of one of the spruce trees and stood there to take care of his morning duty. Suddenly, from around a tree and headed straight for him, came an animal. It moved fast and silently in a cloud of snow. A drift exploded out of its way and Simon threw his hands up and fell to one knee. His dog tumbled to a halt a step away, and barked.

  Simon stood. “Damn it, Spud, I peed all over myself.” He shook his hand, then reached down and pulled his wet trouser leg away. “Look,” he shouted. He picked up a handful of snow and with a nod to hygiene, made a couple of perfunctory swipes, one hand against the other, then wiped them dry on his shirtfront.

  He scowled at the dog. “All you see is the fun. We could have been in serious trouble with this blizzard.”

  With his chest to the ground, his rear hoisted to display a wagging tail, Spud uttered a soft huff sound and took off around the tree before Simon could react. The big dog slammed into a drift and burst through the other side, then took off into the meadow, belly down, running as fast as the snow would let him.

  Simon started to chuckle as he headed toward the fireplace. He broke into laughter as he stomped through the snow, and the farther he went, the harder he laughed. Finally, he collapsed in a heap by the fireplace, his spasms of mirth making him choke on his own spit. Spud came up and forced his nose under Simon’s arm, and together they sat in the snow. At that moment, Simon remembered Walks Fast’s counsel: “Listen to the animals and you will learn.” He ruffled the dog’s ears and for the first time since he’d arrived in the White Cloud Mountains, Simon thought he understood why he was where he was.

  Cleared of snow, the fireplace soon crackled with fire and Simon set about making a hot meal. The night in the cabin had been an eye-opener. The sturdy walls that afforded him protection also formed a prison. That thought stirred around in his head as he made up his slapjack batter.

  “We’ll go check on the horse soon as we’re done with breakfast. And then we better dig the meat out of the snow.” A glance at the tree where he’d hung the meat solved the mystery of its sudden disappearance; the branch he’d tied it to was now a short stub. The meat would be buried in the three feet of snow around the tree.

  Simon put his cup down and stood. “Let’s go, boy.” Another cup would have tasted good, but he worried about the horse. Maybe he’d indulge himself when they got back. He paused a moment, and looked at the makeshift canvas rifle scabbard leaning against the cabin wall, then shrugged his shoulders, and headed for the hot springs.

  About a foot of snow covered the meadow and was light enough not to impede his travel overmuch at first. Or so he thought. By the time he’d reached the springs, the pain in his shins had become nearly unbearable. With a sigh of relief, he stepped onto the bare earth by the rust-colored bank and plopped down on a rock. “Learned a lesson there. Next time I’ll try the snowshoes.”

  Spud padded over to the bath basin and sniffed the water. Hoofprints marked the ground all around, and Simon got up to study them. A well-traveled track led up a draw and into the trees. He followed them and soon spotted the horse standing in a clearing under an outcrop of rock just inside the tree line. She whinnied as they approached.

  “Looks like you come through that just fine.” Simon patted the mare’s neck.

  An overreaching cliff of stone explained the lack of snow on the ground. The bare rock wall stretched back into the trees. “Picked a good spot, didn’t you? I guess I won’t have to worry about you at all.”

  The mare fluttered her lips and nudged him.

  “Didn’t bring any oats. You’re on your own till spring. There’s plenty to eat up here, and this is a nice sheltered spot. You’ll be fine.” He stroked her muzzle for a minute or so, and then walked out of the shelter. Clearing the trees, he turned to look back at the rock-sheltered cove.

  “Wished I’d looked around here before I started building that cabin. This’d be a perfect spot to build one, without all the digging. Actually, we could’ve gotten by with a tent. Oh well, that crock’
s busted. Let’s get back to camp.”

  The previously traveled trail made his return trip a lot easier. He stopped and examined a set of deer tracks he’d seen on the way up. It looked like as many as a dozen deer had come out of the trees and gone to the creek for a drink. He looked around for a convenient landmark. Spud barked his impatience from behind.

  “What’s your hurry? It’s all work when we get back. Wish you knew how to carry stuff.” He started homeward again, content that his horse was safe and he, the mare, and Spud were ready for winter.

  CHAPTER 17

  Spud pushed his nose into the back of Simon’s legs, a low growl coming from his throat. Simon nearly stumbled and fell. He stopped in the trail and turned. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Get off me.”

  The dog’s hackles stood at full rise and his nostrils flared as he drew in the scent that was upsetting him. Simon followed the dog’s gaze, his eyes tracing his trail across the snow to the camp a hundred yards away. Nothing moved. He studied the tree line by the cabin and then to the right, across the meadow. He hadn’t checked on the elk hide since he’d hung it up, and now couldn’t make it out because of the snow. He increased his stride and soon had the cabin in sight between the twin spruces. He was nearly to them when the smell came to him. His scalp contracted and his testicles shrank out of harm’s way. The dog crept forward until he stood by Simon’s leg.

  “It’s that animal, Spud. He’s been here. Or he still is.”

  He sought the canvas scabbard and found it before studying the area: the collapsed tent, the cabin, the fireplace. Nothing unusual. One careful step at a time, he edged closer to the rifle. The dog continued with his low rumbling growl, and Simon grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. He was within fifteen feet of the gun when he saw the animal. It stood on an elk haunch just beyond the yellow pine tree. Dark brown with a white chest, the hair on its neck stood up, and a pair of coal black eyes stared at him from under white brows, coolly impassive. Simon, mouth open, licked his lips and cast a sideways glance at the rifle, then looked back at the wolverine. Spud leaned forward and Simon pulled back. The wolverine flashed its teeth and growled.

  Spud tried to twist free and Simon shouted, “Sit. Damn it.” He tightened his grip until the dog whined out loud and obeyed.

  The wolverine climbed over the haunch and moved slowly toward them. Simon stepped back, pulling the dog along. Wolverine forward . . . Simon back. And again. He glanced at the rifle, now even farther away, and mentally cursed his stupidity. The beast slowly turned to show a dingy white stripe that ran from a mangled ear all the way to its tail. It growled again and then shuffled quickly past the scattered meat supply, its body shifting from side to side, headed toward the rocks on the hillside.

  Simon waited until the beast was nearly to the trees before he raced to his rifle. Stripping away the scabbard, he levered a shell into the gun, and slapped it to his cheek, searching over the sights for the dark form. One glimpse and it was gone.

  “You sonuvabitch,” he shouted at the forest. “I get one shot at you and . . .” He looked down at the dog. “Damn it, Spud, when I tell you to sit, I want you to sit.” He cuffed the dog on the head, looked toward the spot where the wolverine had disappeared, and slapped the dog again. “You hear me, you dumb bastard? Did you see its ear? That thing likes to fight.”

  The strength suddenly drained from Simon’s legs and he sat, his back against the cabin wall. Spud, cowering, raised his eyes and immediately lowered them as he caught Simon’s. “I’m sorry. Come here.” Simon patted the ground beside his legs. The dog came over and sat down, eyes still averted. “That thing just scared the shit out of me. I’ve never seen anything so . . . so evil.” He couldn’t control the shake in his voice. “He was daring me to go for the rifle. I know he was.” With a deep sigh, he leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes.

  After a few minutes, the wet seeped through the seat of his pants and he got up. The smell, still strong, grew stronger as he went to see how much of the elk was left. One front shoulder had been torn to shreds, pieces of meat scattered about, the leg bone splintered as though it had been axed. Simon stooped to pick up a hindquarter and jerked his hand back. “The filthy thing. He’s pissed all over it.” He went to another one. “And that one too. Dammit, he’s ruined it all.” Simon shook his head in disgust.

  He moved the rest of his supplies into the cabin, and re-pitched the tent with a new ridgepole. His riding tackle went inside it, along with the oats and his tools. Supper that evening was a quiet affair; the dog avoided Simon, content to lie on the far side of the fireplace, baleful eyes watching every move.

  October 30, 1873. Snowed two feet. Wolverine got my meat.

  We met. It’s an evil thing. I’m worried. Spud is mad at me.

  Closing the book, he looked at the dog again. “I said I was sorry.”

  Spud wrinkled his brow.

  “You could have gotten hurt bad.”

  The dog closed his eyes.

  “Fine. I’m going to bed. You can sleep in the tent.”

  Simon got up and went into the cabin. Five minutes later he had the door boarded shut, and was settled in his bed. Sleep was quick to take him.

  Slowly the naked man moved backward until his shoulders bumped into a plain board wall. His hands up in defense, terror showed in his eyes as he stared at the dark man facing him. Simon felt a surge of pity for the man’s nakedness. Or was it something else?

  “Please, mister, I don’t even know you,” the naked man said, his voice quavering.

  The dark man flashed his teeth and took a quick step forward. “But that didn’t stop you from taking what’s mine,” he said. Simon thought the voice vaguely familiar.

  “I didn’t know. I just stopped and there it was.” The man’s lower body shrank into the wall until only his chest, shoulders, and head showed. “You can have it back.” He dropped the piece of meat he held in his hands and crossed his arms in front of his face.

  “Your mistake, and now you pay me,” the dark man said in a voice that wasn’t quite human.

  Simon tried to shout at the dark man, and wondered why his mouth wouldn’t open. He licked his dust-dry lips.

  The dark man advanced three or four quick steps to stop directly in front of the terrified thief, and reached out a hand. Simon stared in horror as the bare hand turned into a mass of yellow teeth, red chunks of flesh tangled in them, some pieces still quivering with life. Again Simon tried to shout, and the dark beast slowly turned to look at him.

  Lifeless black eyes peered to the center of his brain and warned him to be still. Simon’s will to resist started to fade, and it somehow felt right. He knew it shouldn’t feel good and turned to argue with the barking dog by his side. The dog? Where had he been? The beast slipped in and out of focus as a low guttural snarl came from its striped head, and Simon noticed the horribly torn ear. A piercing wail came from the thief, and the scene snapped sharply into view. Simon stopped breathing as the jaws of the enormous head opened. The yellowed teeth settled around the thief’s head, cutting off the terrified scream.

  “Buell! Don’t!”

  Simon sat in his bed and stared into the darkness, his sweat-soaked body chilled by the cold air. Outside, Spud barked and growled savagely while scratching at the boarded door. Simon threw off the damp cover, crawled on his hands and knees to the front of the room, and tore two boards loose. The dog charged through, then turned to face the door.

  “Oh, Spud. I hope nothing’s out there. I got plenty to deal with in here.”

  He draped his arm around the dog’s neck and stared into the night and the snowy ground lit by a sliver of moon. Hurriedly, he put the boards back and climbed into bed. “Come here, Spud. I think it’s a long time to morning.”

  For what seemed like hours, he listened and drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, dark shadows creating secret places in his mind, places where demons could hide. He watched for them, fearful, ready to flee. Then at last, a
soft glow lit his misty dream world, and a soft female voice whispered, “I’m here, Simon . . . when you need me,” and he sank into the soft bosom of the light.

  CHAPTER 18

  Simon stuck his finger in his mouth, sucked the blood off the cut, and held it to the light that streamed through the doorway. The cut proved to be minor, but it bled profusely. He glared at the offending square of flat metal. Three completed sections of stovepipe lay in the dirt of the cabin floor next to the newly assembled sheet-iron stove. He picked up the sheet of blue-black metal and started to roll the tube needed to connect the pre-bent edges. The other three had gone so easily, and the sides of this one were tantalizingly close to connecting up.

  “Hook, dammit.” He gripped the top of the nearly formed pipe, holding the bottom between his knees. The opposing flanges teased him with several promising clicks, only to slip apart again.

  “Hook.” He pursed his lips and concentrated on the two edges. “And if you cut me again I’ll . . . What the hell you lookin’ at?” Simon glared at the dog. “Go outside.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Go on, git.”

  Spud slunk out the door, and Simon released his hold on the stubborn pipe, jerking his hands out of the way. It flopped open, flat as a pancake, not one bit the worse for wear. Simon slumped against the wall. He stared at the sheet for a while, then reached over for the fifth and last one, and got back to his knees. The tube formed on the first attempt. Simon shook his head slowly, picked up the stubborn one again, then threw it to the floor, got up, and went outside. Spud was lying by the tent and gave him a glance, then closed his eyes again.

  “Let’s go see if that elk hide is still there.”

  The dog raised his head, but made no attempt to get up.