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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504395960 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Balboa Press |
| Publication date: | 04/14/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 264 |
| File size: | 15 MB |
| Note: | This product may take a few minutes to download. |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Down to the Salmon
"There she lays," the stage driver said as he pointed. "Yonder's a big hunk of the Salmon River country."
The panorama suddenly revealed from the rim of Idaho's high Camas Prairie was a fantasy in dimensions. I gazed out over the nation's greatest continuous expanse of blue peaks and rugged gorges, many unexplored. Here, within a fifty-mile radius, lay the three deepest river canyons on the continent — Hells Canyon of the Snake, the Salmon River Gorge, and that of its Middle Fork.
From ridge to ridge, the immensity rose and fell into the mist of its own purple horizon. Out to our right, grand in its dusky depth, one predominant chasm coiled into the tapestry of distance.
"That's part of the lower Salmon gorge." The driver followed its sweep of fantastic color and distance with a wide gesture.
"I had no idea it was so wide! So deep!" I exclaimed.
"This don't hold a candle to the upper Salmon country," he explained. "Don't suppose you'll ever see it though. Most schoolma'ams get mighty river shy after the first year, especially if they come from the city, and I'd guess you do." His glance flicked over my velvet toque; tailored tricotine suit and high-heeled, buttoned shoes.
"My folks live in Boise," I said.
"I'd guess this is your first school too," he announced.
Uneasily I admitted this, wondering if, in spite of my grown-up lady's costume, I looked as young as my sixteen years. I wanted desperately to look eighteen, the minimum age required by Idaho for teaching. Feeling guilt for the false statements made to the examining board and in various applications for schools, I wanted no discussion on the subject of age.
He spoke some more. "And I'd guess again that you don't know much about this country, or you'd have left that trunk at home. A big box thing like that can cause a sight of misery traveling like you'll have to do from now on."
I didn't like my shiny new trunk called "a big box thing," but I had to admit that it had already caused considerable trouble, for in order to load it that morning, the rear stage seat had to be removed. Fortunately, I was the only passenger for the canyon country. I glanced back at my treasure surrounded by mailbags and sundry freight items. Already its glossy surface was coated with dust.
"I wouldn't have brought it if I'd come straight through by stage from Boise," I apologized. "But they said part of the road was out from a cloud burst, and I couldn't get to White Bird that way. Had to come by train around through Oregon and Washington to Lewiston and take that jerkwater line up to Grangeville. Just think — three days to get a hundred miles from home."
"Just as well, though," remarked the driver. "That stage road north from Boise is a heller at best. Takes as long, too, with stopovers and all, and you'd have been plenty shook up."
"The ticket agent thought I'd get almost to White Bird on the train. It looked such a little way from Grangeville on the map."
"A little way on a map don't mean a thing in this country," the driver commented grimly.
After a tug on the reins, the team moved along the narrow road on the edge of the prairie. In spite of my wretched night spent in Grangeville, I took a last long look back to its faint smudge on the horizon. It was to be my last contact with life's easier ways for a longer time than I then knew. In that raw frontier town, built by cattle, mines, and wheat, I had spent my first night of total aloneness and my first sojourn ever in a hotel. Booted feet had clumped up and down the hall, accompanied by loud laughter and profanity. There had been raucous whoops in the street, and at intervals horses were ridden up and down the boardwalks. When midnight passed and the tempo increased, I arose, dressed, and sat on the bed until dawn brought a lull in the merriment.
When I went downstairs for an early breakfast, the desk clerk apologized for the uproar. "The boys like to celebrate a little on Saturday nights," he explained.
The edge of the prairie was close. The road dipped to the rim, and we started over.
Far below, our way wound steadily downward. Several switchbacks were already in sight. It seemed a desperate descent to the bottom of the vast declivity. I set my feet and took a firm grip on the seat. The rangy bay team upped their rumps against the downward push of the surrey; the driver's foot pushed gently and then harder on the brake. Iron tires screeched on wooden brake blocks, and a cascade of dust rose with each wheel turn, encasing us in a smothering cloud.
"This here's a twelve-mile grade, and she's down every foot of the way," said my companion. "But there's no need to be nervous. I drive it every day."
The vast panorama was snatched from us as we clattered down the grade. Rapidly we sank into the mass of steep, brown hills. Gigantic outcrops of lava towered above us, and the road twisted between massive boulders. My trunk worked loose from its moorings and shifted forward against the seat, threatening to catapult us over the dashboard.
At the next switchback, we halted. The driver set the brakes, handed me the reins, and alighted to chock the wheels. Then he set about the task of arresting the movement of my roving luggage, pushing it back, and using additional rope to anchor it. Acutely embarrassed, I gripped the reins tensely and considered the "sight of misery" my box thing had already caused.
Down we went and still down. The sere grasses of the upper level gave way to sturdier stands of milkweed and thistle. Chokecherry bushes began to appear, their leaves and fruit heavy with dust. Occasionally, we spanned a gully between hills where a brave trickle of water greened the weeds and grass along its course.
There was no tenseness in my driver's leather brown face. His eyes squinted against the billowing dust, and he slouched at ease against the low seat back. Only the grip of his hands on the reins and the forward thrust of his foot against the brake showed constant vigilance. I began to relax.
"How big a town is White Bird?" I asked.
"Not very big," he said. "Couple of stores, bunch of saloons, bank, and hotel."
"I hope someone's there to meet me."
"There will be," he said. "Never no question but some of the young bucks around will be there to meet the new schoolma'am. They just fight for the chance."
I could feel a flush creep up under the coat of dust that covered my face. "I'm not teaching the town school, you know. It's at Buck Creek. Do you know where it is?"
"Sure, I know!" he exclaimed with sudden interest. "It's across the river up between the forks of the Salmon and the Snake. Pretty country up there, but rough."
"Rougher than this?" I asked quickly.
"Well, yes, ma'am, it's considerable steep country. But," he added, "there's a wagon road in there for a piece. You can always get out. Where you going to stay?"
"With one of the school directors. He wrote me about it.
His name is Sanson. Know him?"
"Sure do. Jess Sanson's an old-timer in these parts. Got a little ranch, thousand acres or so, about six miles up from the river. Most of that country in there is run by two big cattle outfits, but Sanson has managed to hold on. They're nice folks. You'll like'em. And," he added silkily, "they've got a nice young son, good-looking kid. Rides for the Wynn outfit when he isn't working for his old man's place. Wouldn't wonder if he'd be in White Bird to meet you."
The warm September sun beat down on the topless surrey endlessly, the wheels squalled against the brake blocks, and the horses' hooves plopped softly in the dust. I closed my eyes. Still we jolted downward, and I dozed, hating to miss any part of the changing scene but helpless against a stupor of drowsiness.
"We're getting down." The driver's voice woke me, and I straightened with a jerk. The road was only slightly downgrade, and the sun laced through cottonwoods. Lush grass thrust up stoutly between the rocks, and goldenrod nodded dustily. We were traveling along the floor of a narrow canyon. Widely spaced frame and log houses appeared.
"This is White Bird Creek," he said. "Runs into the Salmon near here. You won't see the river until you cross the ferry."
"I've crossed the Snake on a ferry," I said proudly. "And once I was out on it a little way in a rowboat."
"You won't do no pleasure boating on this river, ma'am. It don't take kindly to bridges or boats. Harry Guleke's the only man ever to run the Salmon in a boat. He builds a scow at Salmon City every year and runs her down to Lewiston during low water. Just sells her for lumber there. No man could ever make it up the river through them rapids. 'River of No Return' some folks calls it, poetic-like."
"I can hardly wait to see it," I said. "Folks in my part of the state seem to have heard a lot, but I couldn't find anyone who'd ever been here. They told me the horses were shod with hobnails — the mountains were that steep. And that there were wild men — fellows who'd got lost in the canyons years ago and never could find their way out. So, they just went wild."
My companion chuckled indulgently. "Most folks just talk without knowing. But it's mighty big. A man could spend his whole life trying to fit the pieces all together and still not get a good start. The river cracks the state clean from Oregon to Montana, and it's plenty wide and plenty rough and plenty deep. Look, here's yer first river town. And like I told you, there's Sanson's rig and young Brick Sanson standing there on the hotel porch all slicked up and rarin' to meet the new schoolma'am."
CHAPTER 2The Sanson Ranch
My trunk was unpacked. Clothes hung from nails behind the door, and my books and writing materials were arranged on the rough lumber table beside the bed. There was one prim, straight back chair with a square of cowhide tacked across the seat, a tiny sheet iron heater and a woodbox stacked with wood chunks and kindling.
I pulled the chair up to the table and began a letter to my mother. She hadn't wanted me to come — had said, "Oh, my poor child," over and over in sorrowful resignation. She must be assured that I had escaped stage robbers and scalp snatchers and was safely anchored in a little cabin only a few feet from the Sanson door. If I hurried, I could run up to the road and put the letter in the canvas bag that hung from a pole over the mailbox. A rider going into town would pick it up, and it would go out on the afternoon stage.
A shadow fell across the hewn log that was my doorstep. Mrs. Sanson stood there regarding me somberly. "I brought you an extra quilt. The nights are getting cold. And here are some pictures to brighten your walls. We should have papered this place before you came."
"Think it's nice," I said. "Everything is just fine."
She did not answer, but her eyes rested on me speculatively, almost morosely, it seemed. I had wondered ceaselessly about Mrs. Sanson that morning. She had been remote, silent, and unsmiling ever since we drove in tired and dusty the preceding evening. Perhaps it was the way she wore her hair, skinned back tightly and twisted into a hard knot at the back of her head. I wished she'd loosen it a bit. Then perhaps she could smile. She was a small person with erect bearing that gave the impression of greater stature. Her ravaged face still held traces of youthful beauty, and her eyes, deep set and smoky gray, were those of the dreamer, of one who partook of deep inner life.
"Dinner will be at two," she said. "We always plan it for that time on Sunday." Abruptly she stepped from the door and left me staring at the patch of sunlight on the floor and wondering uneasily about this strange woman with whom I was to live for the next eight months.
My letter written, I stood awhile at the mailbox and looked down on the Sanson ranch. It was the biggest piece of flat ground I had seen since we dropped down from Camas Prairie into that mass of tumbling mountains. Nor was it entirely flat, for it sloped away wedge-shaped to a point far below where the feet of two mountains seemed to meet in a tangle of trees and brush. To the right rose a rugged, bare mountain with a knob-shaped summit — Round Mountain, as I knew it later. Buck Creek flowed at its base. The left of the wedge was bounded by a small, nameless creek, and the hills rose behind it, rolling to the river.
It was a snug little ranch with its square log house surrounded by orchard and garden. It's barn, sheds, and corrals followed the downward slope. The drought of autumn was on it, but its harsh tones were softened by a haze of misty blue.
The long table in the kitchen was spread with a Sunday white cloth. Close by, on the wood range, kettles emitted appetizing odors. I hovered around trying to help. Brick came in with a bucket of water, cool from the deep well at the end of the porch. Jess Sanson, at the washstand, sloshed water, polished his ruddy face on the roller towel, and ran a comb through his reddish, graying hair.
Food was served on thick, white dishes, and we partook of the best fare I was ever to enjoy in the river country. Later I was to recall the bounty of the Sanson table with longing.
There was fried chicken; fat brown biscuits with cream gravy; mashed potatoes; corn, beans, and squash; numerous dishes of pickles, jellies, and preserves; sweet, cool melons; and deep-dish apple pie. Brick and his father talked of the cattle, the range, and probable feed conditions for the winter. Mrs. Sanson said nothing.
"Is there a short cut to the river?" I asked during a break in the conversation.
Instantly I was aware of a tenseness in the faces of the two men, and Mrs. Sanson's somber eyes stared at me fixedly.
Brick said quickly, "Sure there is. I'll show you after dinner."
"It was getting dark last night when we crossed and I didn't get to see it really," I blundered on. "I've heard such a lot about the Salmon River —"
"We'll let the beef drift in the lower pasture tonight," interrupted Jess Sanson harshly — most rudely, I thought.
Bewildered and resentful, I was silent.
Two hours later, I sat on a flat rock near the mouth of Buck Creek and looked at the river. Brick squatted on his heels and scattered gravel. Of solid and powerful build, he was an attractive study in bronze with hair like rubbed copper, a fighting chin, ruddy complexion, and that type of ice-blue eyes with the quality to spark instantly to flame-blue.
A small bar had formed where Buck Creek pushed into the mother stream, but a hundred feet across, bluffs of black rock held the river's grim course.
"It doesn't look rough," I said. "Just smooth and green like a strip of satin."
"Look close," said Brick as he threw out a twig. It danced along crazily for a second and then disappeared suddenly as if sucked down by an invisible mouth.
"No," I cried. "Now I see that it isn't quiet. It looks like water just at the boiling point. It's whirling too and moving fast."
"Plenty fast," said Brick.
Fascinated, I stared down through the clear, green depths at the huge boulders that lined its bed. There were black places, too, that looked bottomless, and here the water was furiously agitated.
"Potholes," said Brick, following my steady stare.
"I don't like it," I said at last. "It gives me the creeps — like a monster waiting to grab and pull you down."
"Look," said Brick, teetering back on his heels. "I hate to tell you this, but you'll have to know, I guess. Didn't you notice at the dinner table?"
"I only asked a simple question," I said, and started to explain when I was cut off. Are all women in this country supposed to be seen but not heard? Like — like your mother?"
"Don't get so damned uppity," said Brick, and sparks were in his eyes. "Let me explain, will you? It's just that we don't talk about the river when Mother's around. You see, my brother was drowned below here a few miles when he and my father were swimming cattle one fall."
"Oh," I faltered. "I'm sorry."
"Mother took it mighty hard. She's never been the same since. They couldn't keep her at home, and she rode up and down the river with the search party. Where she couldn't ride, she walked, and she was there when they found him and pulled him in, six days later, floating twelve miles down the river in a big eddy. The water was warm — and pounding over the rocks. You wouldn't believe that a human body could get like he was." His sturdy shoulders quivered.
I stared at the river, recalling macabre reports of similar drownings in the Snake.
"It was so bad," continued Brick, "that they had to bring him home on a travois. Mother was bound he shouldn't cross the river again to the White Bird cemetery. We had a baby sister buried here anyway, so there's two graves up by the old cabin."
"There's something comforting about being buried on your own land. I expect your mother felt that way."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from ""Topping Out""
by .
Copyright © 2018 Marilyn Allen.
Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Preface, vii,
Idaho Map, ix,
Acknowledgements, xi,
Prologue, xiii,
Chapter 1 Down to the Salmon, 1,
Chapter 2 The Sanson Ranch, 9,
Chapter 3 Smoky Mule, 17,
Chapter 4 Pocket of Peace, 23,
Chapter 5 Pay Day, 27,
Chapter 6 Wilderness Water, 33,
Chapter 7 Thaddeus of Horn Creek, 37,
Chapter 8 A Bachelor Entertains, 47,
Chapter 9 "Slick Weather", 55,
Chapter 10 Rider from the Seven Devils, 59,
Chapter 11 Cow Creek Episode, 65,
Chapter 12 Vertical Grasslands, 69,
Chapter 13 Spring and a Young Man's Fancy, 75,
Chapter 14 Day of Days, 83,
Chapter 15 Cleft of the Snake, 89,
Chapter 16 Shanghaied, 93,
Chapter 17 High and Dry, 105,
Chapter 18 Manners, Morals, and Diet, 113,
Chapter 19 The Summer Camp, 121,
Chapter 20 Men of the Fading Frontier, 129,
Chapter 21 The Sagebrush Years, 139,
Chapter 22 Forever Packhorse, 147,
Chapter 23 "EE-DA-HOW", 151,
Chapter 24 Old Sugar, 157,
Chapter 25 The Big Brass, 169,
Chapter 26 White-Water Runners, 179,
Chapter 27 Zero Week, 187,
Chapter 28 The Battle for Water, 205,
Chapter 29 Beef Tally, 209,
Chapter 30 Passage Out, 227,
Afterword, 239,
Glossary, 243,
About the Author, 245,