Slate Creek Page 15

  The area around the springs was completely clear of snow, and the horse had eaten everything green. Simon stepped out of the snowshoes and slogged over to inspect the bushes. She’d eaten a lot of the dry leaves, and even stripped some of their bark. He felt satisfied she had plenty to eat. By his bath pool, he knelt and swished his hand in the warm water. He immediately wished he hadn’t. The wet skin flashed cold. “Now that was dumb,” he mumbled. He rubbed his hand on his trouser leg three or four times, then slipped his mitten back on. “C’mon, Spud. Let’s see what it looks like up the creek a little.”

  Away from the spring, the snow took over again and he kicked into the snowshoes. After checking to see where the dog was, he tromped upstream. Lost in the silence, he walked for a time, pumping clouds of breath-steam rhythmically into the still air. He couldn’t see a track of any kind, the snow smooth and pristine. Suddenly, he felt compelled to stop, but it wasn’t a conscious decision or something he actually thought. It was more like he’d sensed the ground had become unsteady. Frozen in place, he snapped his head one way, then the other. He’d never been very far past the springs and looked back to see Spud snuffling after something well over a hundred yards behind. The uneasy feeling still held him immobile as the cool fingers of fear caressed his heart.

  What was it? He looked around some more and saw nothing but smooth, unbroken snow, unmarked by bare rock, tree, or bush. Even the creek was invisible. The cool fingers turned into an icy hand that clamped hard. Where was the water? His emotions jumped from fear to fury. How stupid can one person be? He looked upstream to the narrow defile that marked the end of the valley. The black of wet rock stood stark against the ice on either side of the stream that tumbled down. He tried to trace the path of the creek, but soon lost track of it in the blinding white.

  Willing his breathing to slow, he listened, his hood thrown back, his head cocked sideways. Then he heard it. The faint sound of running water—right under his feet! With a gasp, he lost control of his breathing and his bladder tensed. Swallowing hard, he carefully angled his right snowshoe away and eased his weight onto the other one. As he launched off on his left foot, the snow gave way beneath him, and he flung his body full length on the ground. The sound of water was now clear, and his feet hung over open space.

  He pressed himself into the snow and tried to think. All that came to mind was how quickly his wet hand had frozen at the springs. He imagined his whole body being soaked. At that moment his body shifted, and he knew he was going to fall into the stream. Simon jammed his chin into the snow as hard as he could, dug his hands into the snow, and shut his eyes tightly.

  A violent yank on his hood flashed his eyes open. Spud, teeth locked in the fur of his coat, all four feet dug in, repeatedly jerked back, growling deeply.

  “Oh, God. Pull, boy!”

  The dog rocked back, his head down, and pulled, then again, his head dipping with every effort. All the while a low, steady growl came from deep within. Simon pulled with his hands, and his body moved ever so slightly away from the brink.

  “Pull, Spud. Pull hard.”

  Simon cocked one leg, and the snowshoe dug into something solid. He pushed once, and then again, and his second foot found purchase. A moment later, he turned on his side and scrambled away from the black hole. He flopped on his back, grabbed a handful of neck fur, and pulled the dog to him. Spud managed to give him a lick before Simon buried his face in the frosty hair, and let loose the sob that was about to choke him.

  His journal that night was half a page of closely spaced, carefully printed words.

  January 10, 1874. Today I learned what loyalty means. It is not the province of man alone. My dog pulled me from the grasp of the reaper this afternoon. Sure as soap sets, I would be gone but for his lack of regard for his own life. This creature I took for granted as I took others for granted. Walks Fast was right. Listen to everything. A head held too high will miss the warning from under the feet. Today, I am humbled by a dog.

  The experience at the creek had shaken Simon, and for several days he sat in the darkness of his cabin and brooded. He was not fully aware of when the cold snap broke, just that one day on a trip to his toilet he noticed that winter’s bitter bite had left the air. He went back to the darkness of the log house, gathered up his bed, and took it to the tent. Inside, the extra poles he’d installed held the sides easily against the deep snow. Spud sat on the horse blanket he’d claimed for his bed and watched as his master moved in.

  Simon finally managed to kill a deer. On a trip to the creek for water, he spotted a mature doe. Inexplicably, she’d waited while he went back to the cabin for his rifle. She was old and tough, but welcome.

  Simon and his dog spent the next two months in close company.

  The fifteenth of March brought the first sign that winter’s snowy grip might loosen a bit. Simon pushed back the tent flap and stepped into the morning air. Movement by the fireplace startled him, and he reached for his rifle. A scrawny ground squirrel scrambled to the top of the fireplace windbreak and sank back on its hind legs, its creamy belly exposed.

  Spud came out of the tent and sat by Simon’s leg. The squirrel watched intently for a moment, then scrambled down the back of the logs and raced over the snow to the south spruce tree. There it stopped for a look back, and then disappeared. Simon smiled to himself, went to the fireplace, and started poking around to dredge up some coals. After breakfast, he left a few morsels of fritter on top of the log berm. When he got back from his daily trip to the creek, they were gone.

  March turned to April, and the snow started to shrink. The mornings were still cold, but by afternoon, he could sit comfortably without his coat on the bench in front of the cabin. Simon was doing just that, and scratching at a persistent itch under his left arm. He’d twice used his knife to hack at his beard and hair, and once he’d taken a look in the small shaving mirror. He decided that once was enough. He scratched under his arm again, then leaned back against the rough log wall and shifted from side to side.

  The squirrel he’d been feeding scurried around the fireplace and up on top. There it sat and preened, first one side of its face, then the other. Carefully the tiny paws smoothed the fur, until, apparently satisfied, it gave Simon a glance, and scampered out of sight. For over a minute he stared at the place where the little creature had sat. Then, with an exasperated gasp, he stood. “C’mon dog, let’s go see about a bath.”

  The snow was still solid enough to carry him, and it was not long before they were at the springs. The horse watched them all the way in, and then stepped back into the safety of the trees. The ground around the springs was thoroughly tromped, and it was apparent by the piles of dung at his bath pool that the horse had decided the bath was a convenient place to drink. Simon looked up at the weak sun, and an involuntary shudder passed through him. He paused for a few seconds, scratching through his beard, then sat down and pulled off his boots. A sock he had been meaning to repair let a pale white toe escape into the cool air. It felt rather nice. Next came his shirt and pants, then his long underwear. Holding them up in front of himself, he screwed up his face in disgust and turned his head. He dropped the filthy garment on the ground, and stood a moment, stark naked, and looked around.

  Seconds later, he sank into the warm water while Spud stood on the edge and watched. Simon settled slowly so as not to stir up the fine silt covering the bottom, then leaned back against the end of the pool. He sat, luxuriating in the warm water, until the skin on his fingertips started to pucker. Then he reached for the bar of brown soap and stood. The shock took his breath away. “Good Lord, Spud, it’s cold as a widow’s kiss. Didn’t feel that way when I got in.” He gave the sun an accusing look, and started to apply the soap to his stark white skin. He hurried.

  Settled back in the warm water, he reached up and scratched his scalp through a mat of ropy hair. He looked at his fingers suspiciously, then bent forward, and dunked his head under. Vigorously, he raked his nails over his head for as lon
g as he could hold his breath, then resurfaced, sputtering. Spud barked and ran around to the end of the pool. “Don’t worry.” He grinned at his dog. “I’m not going anywhere.” Simon got hold of the soap again and rubbed the bar through his hair and beard. Then, he ducked under the water once more. With his head wet, there was no getting away from the cold air.

  He scrambled out of the warm water, stood on his pile of dirty clothes, and toweled himself with a meager strip of cotton cloth. He could not control the shivering that overtook his body. Getting his clean underwear over his wet feet proved a struggle, and he fought an even more frustrating battle with the dry socks. With his pants and shirt on, he fumbled with the buttons on his suspenders, then settled for fastening just one side. He shrugged into the heavy coat before he sat down to put on his boots. After sitting a few minutes to wait out the shakes, he wrapped up his dirty pants and underclothes in the equally dirty shirt, and headed for the cabin.

  Back at camp, he was aggressive with the knife, cutting the hair on his head as close as he could. That done, he attacked his beard the same way, then stropped his razor and shaved for the first time in months. It felt wonderful.

  April 24, 1874. Squirrel said I needed a bath. He was right.

  CHAPTER 20

  May brought real warmth to the valley. The creek grew to twice the width he was used to seeing, and the spot on the bank where he usually dipped his bucket lay under two feet of fast-moving, icy water. Bare patches showed in the snow-covered meadow and birds reappeared, flitting from tree to ground and back again. The path from the tent to the cabin turned into one long mudhole, and the floor of the tent developed wet spots that moved Simon from side to side and end to end in search of a dry place. He finally gave up, and on May the tenth, he moved his bed back into the log house. The slightly sloped floor and the shallow trenches he’d dug along the outside of the walls channeled the roof-melt away and left him a firm and dry floor.

  The day after his move, the temperature in the valley rose dramatically. Within four days, there was more bare ground than snow, and the area in front of the cabin actually started to show signs of getting dry. A trip to the creek revealed an even stronger torrent of water, so much so that he dared not get close enough to fill his bucket. That evening he washed his dishes in murky snowmelt, wrote a few lines in his journal, and went to bed.

  His first feeling was of pressure. Not the kind you relieve by moving something off your body, like a heavy robe, or the dog from your legs. More the kind you have a hard time identifying, or even admitting to, a stuffy-head feeling that pervades the whole body. Had he been awake he might have known its cause, but he still hovered on the edge of consciousness. Until the pressure turned into a trembling that came through his bed. That’s what slapped the dark away, and yanked Simon back to the conscious world. His eyes snapped open, his every sense on full alert. He listened.

  A low rumble rose out of the bare earth by his bed, and when he put his hand on the log wall, a vibration resonated with the sound. With a rush he threw back the elk hide and sat up. He fumbled the first match when the growling dog started barking at the door. The second flared to life and he lit the lamp. The rumbling was more pronounced now, punctuated occasionally by a solid shudder that shook dirt from the ceiling. He stuffed his feet into his boots and hurried to the door. Spud rushed through as he pushed it back and ran out, barking frantically. Simon reached around the door jamb and grabbed his gun before stepping into the full moonlight.

  Spud stood in the clear, barking at the eastern side of the meadow. Simon walked toward him. The scene before him was eerily unfamiliar, somehow flat where he expected it not to be. Then he recognized the reflection of the moon, scattered into a million fragments by the rushing water. The meadow had disappeared, replaced by a sea of surging snowmelt. In the marginal light, he saw what had to be trees roll and turn in the water. The rumbling sound came from up the valley. Thudding tremors, almost subliminal, traveled through his feet and up his body to meet the same sound vaguely registering in his ears. He imagined some giant beating on the ground with a monstrous hammer.

  Spud sensed his presence and came back to stand beside him, hard against his leg. “Something upstream let loose, Spud. Thank God I saw signs of that when we first came in here.” The vision of mud marks ten feet up the trees came to him and he shuddered. He moved toward the edge of the moving lake and looked back some thirty yards to his camp. He estimated some eight to ten feet of vertical rise—safe enough. “I wonder how the horse is doing.” He looked into the night and tried to picture how high above the creek the hot springs were. “Guess we’ll find out. C’mon, let’s go cook some coffee. Ain’t no way I’m going to go back to bed.”

  Simon, unable to tolerate the cabin, sat by the campfire and listened to the steady rumble of the water. He’d finally deduced what the heavy thumps were. He imagined one of the cabin-sized boulders strewn along the valley floor being undermined to the point of toppling over. Then, one ponderous turn after another, moving farther downstream ahead of the powerful torrent.

  The first hint of light appeared in the eastern sky as one star after another gave up its life to the coming day. Simon filled his cup again and settled back on the bench. Spud lay in the open door of the cabin, head down, but ears alert. Simon found he could bear the darkness at night and, with the warming weather, he kept the door open to the light of day. The faint gray on the horizon soon turned to a dusty purple, which gave way to a band of red-tinged yellow. His cup had long gone cold by the time the sun flared the rocks high above him and freed itself from the earth’s embrace. “C’mon boy, let’s see if we still have a ride out of here. I don’t feel like breakfast.”

  Three side-canyons disgorged their snow catch, the muddy water joining with the swollen stream coursing down the valley. None flowed at a rate that stopped Simon, but by the time he got within sight of the springs, he was soaked to the knees, and his legs burned from walking in mud. The horse let him know she was all right before he saw her. Her musical call came out of the trees, and she soon followed. She looked no worse for wear, though she’d lost a little weight. He started for her, and as before, at about fifty yards away, she turned back into the trees. This time Simon followed.

  From the nearly dry ground in front of the overhang, Simon peered into the dimness. He could make her out in the very rear of the shallow hideout. “Hello, horse. Remember us?” Simon advanced slowly, his hand extended. The mare fluttered her lips and shook her head. “Come here. I want to look you over.” He turned to the dog. “You sit down.” His hand still out, he took a few more cautious steps. When he was almost within arm’s reach, her left foot shot out. He felt the air of its passing and he jumped back. “What in hell’s wrong with you? You see that, Spud? She damn near got me!” His scalp twitched with a cold flush.

  The horse snorted again and pawed at the ground two or three times. Simon backed away a little, then turned and strode into the sunlight. “Damn, Spud, she sure developed a bellyache. I’m going to leave her alone for now. We’ll come back when I need her, and I’ll have a rope and halter with me. We’ll see who’s the boss then.” Simon had his doubts.

  As he stood in the clear, another rumble vibrated through the ground and Simon turned to head upstream again. He stopped by his bath pool and put his hand in the water. Still nice and warm. Another rumbling thud. He stood up and walked south as fast as the mud would let him. The low rumbling got louder.

  He rounded the point of rocks where Spud had pulled him from certain death, and nearly fell down at the sight before him. The rocky defile, so clean and fresh looking in his mind, was now a roaring cascade. The narrow passage had been torn asunder, the mountainside across the creek ripped away. As though waiting to show off, a squat block of dark gray rock, half the size of his house, slowly parted from the mountain and dropped twenty feet into the roaring water. The ground shook once, and the force of the surging ice water swept the boulder away. Simon looked up the hillside, and then cl
imbed until he crossed a game trail. He stood there and watched in silence as the water rearranged the mountain below him.

  May 14, 1874. Here by the grace of God. Warm today. Creek is in flood.

  For over two weeks the flood ravaged the secluded valley. Then, spent, the water receded, and by the first of June, the creek had shrunk back to near normal. Simon decided it was time to see what was up the valley. He stuffed a piece of meat and a few fritters into a used rice bag, picked up his rifle, and set out. The sun had yet to light the valley floor when he came to the hot springs. The horse stood out in the open, grazing at the new grass by the rusty bank. He stopped and put out his hand. “You going to let me touch you this morning?” The horse raised her head and looked at him coldly. He took a few slow steps forward, and she turned and trotted toward her shelter. Simon smiled at the retreating animal. “It’s gonna happen soon old girl, so get used to the idea.”

  He continued up the valley and soon came to the steep defile. The creek ran as before, sparkling clear water that changed to foaming white as it dashed around and over the rocks. The spring flood had cut away the bank on the far side of the creek, exposing two smooth boulders. Side-by-side and nearly six feet high, they straddled the stream, blocking it like a pair of lopsided breasts. The image of the pale white orb he’d seen as a twelve-year-old blossomed, and Simon enjoyed a mental smile. Water, caught on the upstream side of the twins, formed a small pool that emptied between the granite humps. Simon made his way across the bare rocks of last year’s streambed. He stood on the edge of the pool and studied it. It was hard to tell precisely, but it appeared to be only about three feet deep next to the boulders. The sandy bottom sloped upstream, tapering to the depth of the creek where the base changed from sand to clay. Simon couldn’t resist throwing a couple of rocks into the clear water, then watched Spud dash back and forth across the narrow end and bark at the splashes.