Slate Creek Read online

  “I’m not going any further west than Salt Lake, and I’m taking the train there. I think I’ll be all right with it.”

  “Very well, but I feel I’m doing Amos a disservice. We can put the coins in three belts of fifty coins each. If you can come back in an hour or so, I’ll have it all ready for you.”

  “That’d be good. I’m going to the railroad ticket office and see about the schedule.”

  Two hours later Simon was back at the stable. Spud lay on his belly outside the doors, staring directly at him when Simon rounded the corner.

  “Hey,” Simon said as he walked up. “Ready for a ride?” The dog wagged its tail and followed Simon into the stable.

  “Mr. Steele,” Jaspar greeted him. “Some kinda dog you got there. He didn’t move the entire time you were gone.”

  “I’ve often wondered how long he’d stay after I’ve told him to.”

  “Figger out when you’re leaving?”

  “Yeah. Got the same treatment about my dog that I got from the hotel. They don’t allow them with the passengers. Best they could do was the baggage car, and then he’d have to be tied up. I’m not gonna to do that to him.”

  “So?”

  “I’m going to ride a freight car.” Simon watched for a reaction, but Jaspar appeared noncommittal. Simon continued: “Seems the farther west you go, the more a horse costs.”

  Jaspar’s eyebrows rose. “Whoever told you that is telling you the truth. I can sell you a good horse and saddle for less than a hundred dollars. Cost you nearer two in Salt Lake City.”

  “So I’ve arranged for all three of us to ride in a cattle car. The freight master said there’s space on one with twenty-five goats going to Nevada Territory. I can put my horse in there and sleep in the fodder box.”

  “You ever been around goats?”

  “Never. I don’t think I’ve seen more than one or two in my life.”

  Jaspar shook his head and grinned. “I think you’re making a mistake. They got to be the most cantankerous animal God ever created.”

  “Freight man said they’re in pens.”

  “That’s what he thinks. Damn things can climb trees. I’ve seen it. So expect to have visitors, cuz they’re curious creatures.”

  “If that’s all, I can put up with it for a day.”

  “And a night. Besides that, they stink, especially a billy. I mean they really stink.”

  “Well, it’s either that or schedule for another trip, and he said partially loaded cars are hard to come by. I’ll just have to put up with it.”

  “You’re a real soldier. When you leavin’?”

  “The train’s scheduled to arrive at six-thirty tomorrow morning. They have to switch a few cars that’re going to Denver, and then we’re off.”

  “Do you have something to eat?” Jaspar asked. “I know for a fact, unless they have a reason to stop, that train will go right on through.”

  “Hadn’t thought about that. I’m about out of canned stuff. And water. Suggestions?”

  “Canvas bag. There’ll be water for the stock in the car, but you ain’t gonna wanna be sharing that with a herd of goats.” He wrinkled his nose and grimaced. “Mercantile two streets over.”

  “Watch my dog again?”

  “Sure, nothin’ to that. Leave ’em here for good if you’ve a mind to.”

  “Nope. He’s the only friend I have left. Reckon I’ll keep him.” Simon stroked the dog’s head. “Stay here, Spud. I’ll be back soon.”

  The next morning Simon stood on the loading dock as the car door slid open. His horse stepped back as far as the halter rope would allow. Jaspar had been right about the smell. The assault on his nose was almost physical.

  The freight master chuckled. “Looks like your horse don’t like ’em much.”

  “Good grief, can you blame him?” Simon put his hand to his mouth. “I don’t think I’ve smelled anything quite like that. Sorta rotten sweet.”

  “You kin call it sweet if you like, I guess. Not the word that comes to my mind.” Another chuckle.

  The man stepped onto the car and checked the water trough. “Kelly, wheel three or four cans of water in here.”

  A young man pulled back on the handles of a two-wheeled contraption carrying two ten-gallon cans hooked to the front. He maneuvered the device across the loading dock and into the car. Simon heard the water splash as the cans were dumped.

  “I’d put your horse on now and let him get as settled as possible. Tie his head real good. When the train starts to move, some animals don’t like it at all, so stay out of his way.”

  Simon tugged on the lead, and the animal followed him into the car. With nostrils flared, the horse snorted and rolled his eyes at the herd of goats. Twenty-odd pairs of glassy orbs followed their every move without blinking. Board rails stacked on edge halfway to the ceiling partitioned the back half of the car. Simon led the horse into the shadowed interior.

  “Tie him head on. And like I said, don’t give him any slack.”

  Simon did as he was told, and then stepped back into the fresh air. He hadn’t realized it, but he’d been half-holding his breath, which he expelled with a huff.

  “Reckon you can hold it all the way to Ogden?” the freight agent chided.

  Simon was beginning to have serious doubts.

  “It’ll be a lot better once you get going. You’re lucky you’re in the front.”

  The second load of water cans came up the ramp, and the boy soon had them emptied inside the car. “That about fills them up,” the youngster said to the agent. He turned to Simon. “How ’bout your horse, mister?”

  “I hadn’t thought about that.” Simon shrugged and gave the boy a wan smile.

  “Got an old canvas bucket by the pump,” the young man offered. “It leaks, but it’ll hold water long enough to give him a drink. Want me to get it?”

  “That’d be a big help. Thanks.”

  Simon put his saddlebags, bridle, and horse blanket on the floor, and draped his saddle over the fodder-box rail. The tote sack of food went onto the pile. “C’mon, Spud,” he called toward the door. No dog appeared. “Spud! Come here.” Simon went to the door.

  The dog lay on the dock with a paw over his muzzle, his mournful eyes looking up.

  “Oh, for crying out loud. Get in here.”

  Spud got up and with short, hesitant steps, entered the car. The look in his eyes begged Simon to change his mind, and he stopped just inside the door. Simon pointed to the front of the car. The dog, with an audible sigh, walked the gauntlet of goats, pausing every three or four steps to look back with pleading eye.

  “Bleeeaaat!” Several passengers teased him as he made his way to the head of the car.

  When the dog got there, he paused for one more hopeful look. Then, ears down in defeat, he flopped onto the floor beside the pile of baggage.

  “Good dog.” Simon chuckled and turned back to the door.

  “That should do it,” the agent said. “You only have five short stops between here and Ogden.” The door rumbled sideways to slam shut with a rattling crash, and the railroad man dropped the hasp into place.

  Creeping tentacles of apprehension and excitement rippled under Simon’s scalp.

  CHAPTER 3

  Simon couldn’t remember spending a longer twenty-three hours. The incessant wind created by the slow-moving train carried the nauseating, sweet stink of the goats out of the car, only to be replaced by frequent blasts of acrid coal-smoke. The constant shifting of the floor as the train made its way over the uneven railbed kept his stomach on the verge of coming up and made sound sleep impossible. After banging his head twice while trying to peer through the sides at the passing countryside, he’d given it up to sit on the floor. There he’d wait out the journey, dejected and stoic.

  A few hours after leaving Cheyenne, the train stopped to unhook the extra locomotive that had helped them up the steep grade to Laramie. He managed to doze off once, only to be jerked back by a rumbling growl from Spud
. Two billy-goats, feet propped on the fodder-box rail, sniffed him with interest, their eerie, pale eyes unblinking. He snatched off his hat and swatted the closest one in the face. They both jumped back into their pen and glared at him. The train stopped briefly several more times as a car or two were uncoupled and left behind, or water was taken on.

  There was no doubt they’d arrived in Ogden. The railway yard they’d stopped in contained more cars than he thought existed. It was about twenty minutes before the door opened and he looked down at four men. One wore an official looking Union Pacific cap.

  The agent ran a stubby pencil down a log-sheet, and then looked up. “Says here you have a horse.”

  “That’s right. Do we get off here?” Simon rolled his shoulders to relieve the kinks.

  “Soon’s I arrange a ramp,” the man replied. “Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.” He nodded at three strange-looking men. “These fellas want to take a look at the goats. They’re the owners. Greeks.” The last in response to Simon’s quizzical look at the other men.

  The three men dressed alike in soft-looking shoes that reminded Simon of house slippers, and voluminous trousers, tight at the ankles and held at the waist by a wide sash. White shirts with bloused sleeves were buttoned to the neck and each man wore a bright multicolored waistcoat. Raven-black hair gleamed in the sun, and six piercing eyes returned Simon’s curiosity with friendly but reserved attention.

  Two moved to the railcar, and facing one another, stooped and clasped each other’s hands. The third stepped into the improvised cradle, and before Simon could figure out what they were doing, was standing upright in the car. The man said something Simon couldn’t understand, then climbed over the rail to join the goats on the other side. The three carried on a rapid conversation as the man moved among the animals. He had touched every one of them by the time four men arrived carrying a slatted ramp, which they leaned against the railcar’s door sill.

  “Head your mount toward the door and get out of the way,” the agent said.

  Simon untied his horse and turned it around. When she saw the opening, Simon understood the why of the agent’s instructions. The horse charged for the exit and was headed out the door when she realized the ground was five feet below. Momentum carried her one step down the ramp before she gathered her hind legs under her haunches and jumped. Simon thought for sure she was going to fall, but after three- or four belly-scraping steps, she recovered to stand upright, snorting indignantly. The agent caught her halter rope and tied it to the railcar. Simon soon had the horse saddled and his bags strapped on.

  Half an hour later Simon found the livery stable recommended by a teamster at the rail yard. Three blacksmiths created a horrific din as their work rang the anvils, each with a distinct note. A fine, almost imperceptible veil of dust hung in the air. Behind the barn, an oval corral about a hundred feet long and sixty feet wide held several mules and about a dozen horses. He swung his leg over his saddle and got down.

  A squat man stood just inside the stable doors. He wore a collarless blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a round-crowned felt hat, gray with sweat-grime. The bowler sat slightly cocked on his head, giving him a mischievous air. He was talking to a tall man, apparently a teamster judging by the whip he had slung across his chest. When the teamster nodded and stepped into the street, Simon approached the short man.

  “Good afternoon, are you the owner?”

  “The bank might argue the point. What kin I do for you?”

  “My name is Simon Steele. A driver at the railroad station said you might sell me a mule.”

  “I got a few.” The man shook Simon’s extended hand. “Ferguson.” He openly scanned Simon and Simon’s horse.

  Simon had been sized up before. “I need an animal for packing.”

  “Let’s go take a look.” The stableman turned, grabbed a short length of rope, and headed out the doors and around to the back of the barn.

  Simon looked down at Spud. “You stay here.” The dog sat down by the horse and Simon followed Ferguson around the corner.

  “What do you think about that one over there?” He pointed at an animal standing away from the rest. The mule’s eyelids drooped and its front feet were planted well apart.

  Simon wrinkled his nose as he looked at the mule, and then, shaking his head, turned a grin on the stable owner.

  “Can’t blame a man for trying, now can you?” Ferguson’s eyes twinkled.

  “No, I guess not.” Simon looked at the other mules. They stood clustered together by a water trough to his left, and they all studied him. He walked a dozen paces to the right, put his hat on the corner post, and then walked back to Ferguson. “Get that one with the star on his chest.”

  Ferguson stepped through the rail fence and into the corral. As he headed toward the mule, the animal stood its ground, one ear on Ferguson, the other turned toward Simon. Catching hold of the side of the halter, he led the mule to the gate. “Who taught you mules?” he asked as he pushed through.

  “Good friend of mine in Wyoming.”

  “Well, you picked a good one. Smart and strong. See the way he followed you with his ears? He’s still got an eye on your hat.”

  Simon ran his hand down the mule’s front leg. “How new are his shoes?”

  “About a week. New enough?”

  “How much? And I’ll need a packsaddle.”

  “Hundred and seventy-five, with the saddle.”

  Simon stepped back and looked at the mule. “Well, Sonuvabitch, you got new ownership.”

  “Huh?” Ferguson’s eyebrows shot up.

  “No, no.” Simon put up his hands. “Him.” Simon pointed at the mule. “Sonuvabitch. The man who taught me about them called his that. I thought I’d carry on the tradition.”

  Ferguson laughed and slapped his leg. “Well, if repeating a name is what it takes, he’ll soon learn that.” He attached the halter rope to the mule.

  “I need to know where I can buy some supplies.”

  “What kind? Farming, hunting . . . what?”

  “I’m going to poke around in the mountains north of here, in Idaho Territory.”

  “Know exactly where?”

  “Got a map in my saddlebags. Would you take a look at it?”

  “Sure. Let’s git this mule round front, and I’ll find a packsaddle for you. Mule?” Ferguson said, almost a question, as he gently tugged on the halter rope. The animal followed them around to the front.

  Simon retrieved the map from his saddlebag and spread it.

  “That’s some remote country you got there.” Ferguson drew his stubby finger across the map. “I’d head north out of Corinne on the Montana Road. There’s lots of freight wagons headed up that way to Virginia City and Helena. And a feller named Fairchild found some gold east of Fort Hall, place they call Cariboo. They’re also prospecting some around the Salmon River country, and that’s where you’re headed. See if you can join one of those outfits, at least to Taylor’s Bridge.” Ferguson peered closely at the map again. “I reckon if you was to cross the river there, you’d be able to see those big buttes your friend has marked here. Gotta tell you though, it’s gettin’ late for heading into the mountains. Late May or June would’ve been better.”

  “Too late, you think?”

  “You can’t know that till it is.”

  Simon realized he hadn’t given the time of year much thought, but the sudden scalp tingle lasted only a moment. “Is this Corinne a fair-sized place?”

  “Oh, yeah. Bunch of Gentiles got together to see if they could get the railroad to make it a main stopping place. Ol’ Brigham fixed that and made sure the terminal wound up here. Corinne ain’t a railhead, but it’s where a lot of freight gets loaded for the trip north to Montana. You won’t have any trouble findin’ what you need up there. And bein’ a Gentile myself, I don’t mind if the Mormons don’t see none of your money. You ain’t a Mormon, are you?”

  “No. I’ve heard of ’em, though.”

  “Go
od folks but they’re a clannish lot. Don’t cotton much to outsiders.”

  “How far to Corinne?”

  “Make it in a day if you start early, only ’bout twenty-five miles.”

  “Well, I appreciate all your help, Mr. Ferguson. Could you direct me to a place where me and the dog might spend a night?”

  “Sure. Three cross streets thataway and take a left. Woman named Kearsley runs a bed-n-breakfast place. Know for a fact she has no problem with dogs; hell, she’ll even put up with Chinamen.”

  “That’s what I need. Put my horse up, and I’ll be back in the morning for her and the mule. I’m much obliged.”

  “No problem. I’ll see to your horse.”

  Simon untied his saddlebags and pulled his rifle from the scabbard.

  “C’mon Spud, let’s go find that lady.”

  The ride to Corinne the next day was a pleasant change from the noisy, rough experience of the cattle car. Wagons, twelve-to twenty-foot-long lumbering affairs drawn by as many as ten horses, took the right-of-way. Small carriages, spindly looking in comparison, moved smartly behind matched pairs of high-stepping prancers. Men on horseback filled the spaces in between. Dust hung over the road, carrying the smell of horse sweat and fresh droppings. Simon found all the commotion exhilarating.

  The farms, models of neatness and order, stretched away from the road on either side. More than a few of the houses, some clustered in small communities, stood two stories tall. The fields, now mostly harvested, lay flat and squared off, with irrigation ditches crisscrossing the whole area. Seven hours passed quickly and on July 9th, 1873, he rode into Corinne, Utah Territory.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Shit!” Simon looked at the pile of goods still lying on the ground beside the heavily packed mule. A sixteen-foot square of folded canvas, the three-gallon can of coal oil, a water bucket, two twenty-five-pound sacks of cornmeal, a ten pound bag of sugar, a . . . he shut his eyes in frustration.

  “Ain’t gonna fit. Thought as much when you showed me the list.”