Canyon of Death Read online

Canyon of Death

  (A Short Story from the American Frontier – 1800s)

  by Richard Puz

  E-Book Edition

  Published by East 74th Street Press*Washington at SmashWords

  Electronic Adaptation by LesDenton.com

  Copyright 2011 by Richard Puz

  This E-Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your copy. Thanks for respecting the hard work of the author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the expressed written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9852779-0-1

  Dedicated to the love of my life ~

  Table of Contents

  Canyon of Death

  Author's Notes

  From the Author

  Other Books for Your Review

  Canyon of Death

  1852

  Oregon Trail

  Wyoming Territory

  More than a month had passed since the four men departed from Fort Laramie. Their two heavy-loaded wagons were filled with sought-after supplies, destined to be sold to miners in the California gold fields.

  Josiah led his small party down a narrow valley and onto a broad plain. In the distance, he saw an unusual stack of rocks, perhaps four feet high.

  “That’s the frontier mail drop,” Lem called, from the driver’s seat of the lead wagon.

  “Hell, it’s probably the ‘parting of the ways,’” Hemp shouted, as he drove the second wagon.

  Riding by his side, his brother, Vince, observed, “It’s a great way to leave messages for others. I can see where it would lift the spirits of folks coming upon it.”

  Josiah dismounted and lifted the top rock. Below, was a gaggle of messages written on odd scraps of paper. “The top one says, ‘you have arrived at the parting of the ways,’” he told the others. Everyone cheered. It was another milestone, on their long overland journey to California.

  Hemp let out a chuckle as the group gathered around to peer at the fork in the trail, and at wagon ruts running in two directions. “Keep going straight and south, and you come to Fort Bridger in about a week’s time; and, from there, the Mormon Trail leads to the Great Salt Lake. Go west, and you’re on the Sublette Cutoff, which saves maybe seven days of travel despite poor water and steep mountain grades. At the end of it, go northwest and you’ll find that you’re at Fort Hall in less than a week, and, beyond, the trails to Oregon or California.”

  Josiah was half-listening as he read through other messages. Most notes were addressed to friends and relatives. “Say, here’s one that’s really interesting,” Josiah said, suddenly very excited. “It says another big gold strike has been found in California, north of some place called Mount Shasta Butte on the flats of . . .” He stopped, puzzling how to pronounce the tricky name. “It’s called E-rek-a or U-ra-ka. Maybe it’s Y-rek-a. Any of you fellows ever hear of such a strange name? Vince, take a look at this note and see if you can say it?”

  “I can’t do any better than you, brother—it must be Y-ri-ka.”

  “Lem, you ever heard of this gold-mining area?”

  “Nope, spent my time prospecting in the hills south of Sacramento.”

  Hemp said, “Well, I traveled to California with the third expedition of Lieutenant John Fremont. While camped on the Sacramento River, I was part of a troop that was sent north to explore. We followed the big river up to its source, which is the biggest doggone mountain I’ve ever seen, called Shasta Butte. I reckon it’s the tallest mountain in the whole U.S. of A. You can see it from any direction for days, as, the top is always covered with snow and ice.”

  “So, like the note says, Yreka must be north of the mountain, but I reckon it’s still in California,” Josiah reasoned. “Would that be a better place to peddle our trading goods rather than Sacramento?” Josiah looked at Lem. “What say you, pardn’r?”

  “I have no idea where this gold-mining camp is. But, I know two things—finding color draws miners to a new prospecting area, like bees to honey, wherever it is. And secondly, prospectors will be itching to spend their newly found gold dust and nuggets. I’ve seen it happen many times. Sounds like just the right bunch of customers for our loaded wagons.”

  “It sure does.” Vince added. “Let’s try it. Hemp, you got any ideas on how we get there?”

  “That I do. On the expedition, we come upon a fellow by the name of Jessie Applegate, who lives in Oregon. He was leading a group of riders and exploring a new route that leads westbound travelers to Oregon Territory from the south. Once we get clear of this shortcut, we’ll head northwest to Fort Hall. The California Trail begins there and follows the Humboldt River for nearly four hundred miles until it ends at a basin. The Applegate Trail hives off from there, going northwest through the lava buttes and desert wastelands.

  “Before I left soldiering, I traced the latest army maps of the western territories. These days, there are several variations of the Applegate Trail. One travels to the north face of Mount Shasta Butte.”

  “Well, boys, are we agreed that Yreka is our destination?” Josiah asked. Seeing the nods, he said, “It’s decided. Off we go. Wagons, ho!”

  * * *

  The land had become an unending line of north-south mountains, covered with sage, scrub grass, and cactus. The cutoff took them through several narrow, rock-strewn gorges, and Josiah’s party again found themselves in such a gorge.

  The men were hot and tired, while the days dragged on, and the trail dust ate into their souls. The mule teams were double-harnessed to pull each wagon up the steepest grades. Going downhill was hellish. Besides the doubled teams trying to control the pace, a large log was tied to both rear wheels, providing a drag brake. When one wagon was successfully at the bottom, the effort was repeated for the second. The work was hard, tedious, and dangerous, but it was the only way to control the heavy wagons on the steep slopes.

  Coming to still another abandoned relic, Vince exclaimed, “Good God Almighty, folks must not know what they’re getting into coming along this stretch. Otherwise, they’d have made better preparations for water. These relics are downright eerie.”

  Lem added, “Folks overload their wagons with possessions. Then they come to the steep mountain trails, and their animals are plumb worn-out. Mix that together with little water, and you have a recipe for death.

  Josiah exited the ravine, looked down into a deep parallel canyon, and suddenly reined in. “Vince, come look at this.”

  Unbelievably, a large herd of grazing cattle spread out in the broad bottom of the boulder-strewn arroyo, feeding on scrub grass. To one side, drovers were camped, with thin lines of smoke rising in straight lines from several campfires.

  “Why, there must be seven or eight hundred cows down there,” Vince exclaimed.

  “I reckon you’re right,” Josiah agreed.

  Driving the lead wagon, Lem reined in and stared down at the astonishing site. “That looks like trouble to me.”

  With a quizzical expression, Josiah asked, “What kind of trouble? It looks peaceful enough.”

  Lem didn’t answer—he simply pointed toward circling turkey buzzards and then to a gulley, farther up the valley. “Take a look with your spyglass. What’
re them things stacked up that look like cord wood?” he asked.

  Lifting his glass, Josiah gasped. “My God, you’re right. There must be over a dozen bodies down there, and they’re sure dead. What in the name of Jehoshaphat has happened here?” He handed the glass to Vince.

  A man came out of a makeshift tent and stumbled, as he walked unsteadily toward a campfire. Turning, he saw the group on the ridge and waved his hat. Shouting, he said, “Hello, we need help.”

  Another man appeared beside him, and looked up. He began waving his arms enthusiastically, until he lost his footing and slipped down a slope. With a great effort, he got to his knees and then collapsed.

  Good God in heaven, what’s happening down there? Josiah wondered, tightly reining his agitated horse.

  The first man shouted again, “Men dying all around us down here, and we have no medicine.”

  Vince yelled, “What ails you folks?”

  “Fact is—we don’t really know what’s got us down. Those of us left don’t have the strength to bury our comrades. Will you please help us?”

  “Reckon it’s that sickness we talked about weeks ago—the ‘golden showers,’” Lem said, in a quiet voice to his companions.

  Another man emerged, this time from the largest canvass tent.

  “Howdy,” he shouted, cupping his hands. “Me name is Mayor James Henry Sparks, and we’re from Arkansas Territory. Our party is the California Emigrating Company, and I’m the mayor of Forth Smith. We’re headed west to sell the cattle, and me men are going to seek their fortunes in the gold fields.”

  “I’m going down there,” Josiah said, turning to look at his party, now clustered on the rim of the small canyon.

  “Better not, son,” Lem cautioned.

  “I’ve got to—they need our help.”

  “Don’t be a damn fool,” Hemp cautioned. “If their ailment is what I’m figuring, we’re only seeing the walking dead down there. I’ve know it by various names, but the one that describes it the best is ‘killer.’”

  “You fellows stay up here on the trail, but I’m going down to see if we can help. Do you have any advice on how I best approach them?”

  “Boy, I’m a telling you, you’re likely risking death if’n you mingle with them,” Hemp cautioned.

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Sure, let’s be on our way and move down the trail.”

  “We can’t do that,” Josiah snapped. “Any other thoughts?”

  Lem, the old timer, took off his hat and wiped his forehead. Looking at the young man, he cautioned, “Stay away from anyone with any signs of the sickness. From what I’ve heard, the ailment may spread by just touching their gear and caring for them. And for God’s sake, don’t eat or drink anything.”

  Hemp added, “And that pile of dead in the canyon, they look like the welcoming folks for the grim reaper. Anyone touching and burying the dead is probably asking for the same fate.”

  “What are you saying?” Vince asked. “You don’t mean that they shouldn’t have a decent Christian burial, do you?”

  “Yes, what are you saying?” Josiah added.

  “Like Lem says, don’t touch anything,” Hemp responded. “That away, you may stay alive. Say it anyway you like, you’re risking your life, son, and, most likely, ours, too.”

  Nodding, Josiah said, “Look, I’m no braver than the rest of you. These are folks like us. How do we know that we weren’t placed here for the very purpose of helping them or, at the least, providing comfort?”

  “God save us from fools,” Hemp whispered. Louder, he continued sarcastically, “Tis the Sermon of the Mount, only this time, it’s not spoken by a prophet, but rather by our young leader who I fear is not devine.”

  “Josiah,” Lem said, “I fear your sense of duty and charity has overcome your common sense.”

  “Brother, I’m unsure of your wisdom on the matter. But, I’ll follow your lead. I also feel obliged to help these folks.”

  “Thank you, little brother.” Turning to the other two, Josiah said, “Well? We’re all pardn’rs in our scheme to sell supplies to the miners and make ourselves rich. You have every right to protect yourselves. I’ll understand if you feel you must go on without me.”

  Hemp stared at the ground, and Lem’s face was drawn and pale.

  Mounting his horse, Josiah slowly made his way down the sides of the rock-strewn canyon.

  At the bottom, he caught a whiff of rank odors, and he held his bandana to his nose. You dumb jackass, he thought. What in God’s creation are you doing here? If Hemp is right, the ones still living are already dead. Lem and Hemp must think that I’m acting like a youngun at Sunday class, filled with pity and thoughts of sugarplum charity. Am I throwing away my life?

  Approaching, he saw tents and crude lean-tos, created with odd-shaped branches and scrub brush covered by canvas, weighted down with stones to hold the material down. Under the shelters, Vince saw a few men lying on brush pallets, too weak to stand. The camp’s listlessness was unusual, considering that a stranger was riding into their midst. In fact, it was alarming, like death was secretly lurking beneath each of the makeshift shelters—and likely, it was.

  A woman rounded one tent and greeted him with a nod. Her drawn, pale face was smudged with dirt, and the dress she wore had once been blue and white gingham, but it had become frayed. She was a fine figure of a woman and He reckoned that she was about ten years older than he was. Her hair had tumbled down about her suntanned face.

  “G’day to you, ma’am, I’m Josiah Quick, and those fellows up on the trail and I are on our way to the California goldfields. What’s happened here?”

  “Good of ye to ask. My name is Lisa Annie Sparks. That’s me husband who called out to ye.” She spoke with a lilting brogue from the old country.

  James Sparks approached with uneven steps, leaning on his rifle. He was considerably older than his wife was, and his eyes were watery. “It’s God’s will that ye folks came along,” he said, also speaking in a lilting voice.

  Josiah remained in the saddle. “Howdy.” Josiah replied, remaining in the saddle. Wary, he asked, “What’s happed here and how is it that you haven’t buried your dead?”

  “Damndest thing we ever saw,” the man replied. “We passed the ‘parting of the ways’ ten days ago, came through the cutoff, and veered off into this canyon. We lighted here to rest, after driving the herd over the steep mountain passes. Found some water for the cattle back yonder, and six days ago, my men started getting sick and dying. Each came down with fearful bouts of the runs and nothing we did helped them. Some showed signs of the illness in the morning, and were gone to meet their maker by midday. They died so quickly that me and the rest of the men couldn’t dig the graves fast enough to keep up. We’ve lost nearly two dozen poor souls.”

  “How many of you are left?” Josiah asked.

  “Well, Lisa Annie had the ailment, but came through it. Besides me, there are twelve other men—some are showing signs of the sickness.”

  “Good Lord,” Josiah replied. “A man in my party has seen ailments like this before, and tells me not to touch anything down here. We have no doctor and only a short supply of herbs and medicines. What do you need?”

  Josiah could tell that it was an effort for Mr. Sparks to reply and to remain standing. “I wish to God that I knew the answer. My Lisa Annie seemed to take quinine well, but we ran out two days ago. Do ye have any ye can spare? I’ll pay ye for it.”

  “Yes, we can spare some.”

  Josiah sat his horse, thinking. I can’t expose my pardn’rs to this. Yet, I can’t ride off and just leave these folks. Mopping his brow, another thought struck him. By God, I don’t want to come down with this curse. If all it takes is being near the center of death in this God-forsaken canyon, then maybe I’ve already become part of the walking dead. Still, we have to do something. Thinking more, he decided on a plan.

  “I’ll ride up to the ridge and talk to my men. I’ll bring back quinine. Maybe
they’ll have more thoughts on what to do next. How many cows are in your herd?”

  “We started out last year with near a thousand head in Fort Smith, but I reckon that we’ve lost about a hundred on the trail to broken legs, snake bites, and other perils.”

  “Lost any while you’ve been here in this ravine?”

  “Nary a one.”

  “Any showing signs of sickness?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’ve been too weak to ride and check in the last day or so.”

  Something puzzled Josiah and prompted him to ask, “That’s a mighty big herd and a long drive for, what—two dozen men, covering a journey of two thousand miles?”

  “Aye—we started with sixty-eight men besides Lisa Annie and me. We arrived in the Salt Lake area last year to winter there. We lost a number of men who couldn’t wait for spring and continued to the gold diggings. This spring, our pace was too slow for others, and off they went. On the trail, two accidentally died when a trail gave way.”

  The appalling losses were astounding. Josiah backed his horse, and said, “I’ll be back soon.” Digging his heels into his horse’s ribs, they made the steep climb to the top of the ridge.

  “So, what’s happened down there?” Vince asked.

  Josiah noticed that his three partners kept a reasonable distance from him, despite their curiosity. “They need quinine. It seems to have helped the woman. She survived the illness. The leader says they’ve lost twenty men, and another dozen are in camp and some are showing signs.” Josiah saw their expressions of concern.

  “Where are they going with those cows?” Vince asked.

  “They’re on their way to the gold diggings in California, and Mr. Sparks said they have some nine hundred head of cattle. He also told me that none of the herd has died while they’ve been camped here for nearly a week.”

  Hemp wasn’t much for talking, but he had no trouble expressing himself concerning the situation. “It ain’t no skin off’n any of our noses what happens to them folks. Let’s be on our way.”

  “That’s not Christian,” Vince responded.