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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Humbug Creek
Bill Henderson
1
They had me in a fare-thee-well pickle, that’s for sure!
Pa always said a man should look to his defenses first, and I had spotted that cave right off. Of course it wasn’t really a cave at all. It was where an ancient stream had hollowed out a deep depression in the granite millions of years ago. That same stream now ran some twenty five feet below the cave.
It was a shallow cut weathered in the face of the stone that was only about fifteen feet deep and six feet high at the entry, sloping to the back, so that I had to walk hunched over inside it. There was evidence of old fires and the ceiling was blackened from ancient smoke. There were still a few pieces of mesquite near the back wall.
I’d climbed all over these hills prospecting for the last six months before I found this spot on the Humbug. It was a place where the stream leveled out and made a smooth bend in the narrow canyon. On the inside of that bend was a likely place for gold to deposit, so I ran myself a couple of sample pans.
Gold is heavy, and likes to go down until it hits bedrock, so I dug myself a sample hole. I hit bottom at about four feet, so that too was good news. Most of the time, miners have to contend with up to twenty feet of gravels and dirt just to get to bedrock and the gold.
My first pan showed very good color and my second showed even more, so I filled the hole back up and smoothed it out so nobody would be tempted to try their luck. Then I went to town and filed three adjoining claims in that canyon. The next stop was the general store where I bought supplies and five hundred rounds of .44 ammunition. The storekeeper raised his eyebrows at that.
“Fixin’ on starting a war son?”
“No sir, but I’d sure hate to get myself killed for lack of wherewithal to fight back. Those .44’s will fit both of my rifles and my sidearm.”
Humbug creek drains the southeastern slope of the Bradshaw range, and it’s usually dry in the summer, but there had been several spring storms, and the creek had a couple of feet of clear water, which was perfect for panning. I cached my supplies in the cave and began to tote rocks up there to build myself a wall at the front of the cave.
The granite wall on the inside of the curve went almost straight up for two or three hundred feet, and above my cave, it was too smooth for a man to scale, so there was little threat from that side of the creek. The other side was a far different story. The hill on that side began just a few feet from the creek bank and sloped up sharply, but not too steep for a man to climb. It was the remains of an eroded and weathered mountain, and the soil supported hundreds of saguaro cactus, prickly pear, and small desert trees. Here and there were outcroppings of rock, and a few scattered boulders perched on the side.
What bothered me was knowing that a man with a rifle could get behind one of those boulders and look right down into my cave, so my wall would have to be at least three feet high to give me cover. On the other hand, a man could just shoot at the back wall and let the bullets ricochet around, knowing that sooner or later, one would find me. That meant I would have to build two walls; one in front of me and one behind to protect my back. I knew it wasn’t going to build itself, so I picked up the first rock.
That placer was even richer than I thought, so by the end of my first month, I figured I had nearly twelve thousand in nuggets and dust. That sort of money outside a bank was starting to make me nervous, and I was running low on grub, so I decided that I’d work three more days and head for town. That plan didn’t even last a full day.
The next morning brought in lowering gray clouds and the odd scent of rain in the desert. To the north, the top of the Bradshaw Mountain was already obscured, and I began to worry some about a flash flood. I’d seen debris in the area from previous floods up in trees some ten to fifteen feet above the normal creek level, so it was a serious threat. I moved the horses father up the canyon to high ground, and went back to panning, keeping a wary eye out for the ever present danger of Apaches and now, maybe a flood.
Far off to the north, I heard thunder several times, and once, lightning flashed a couple of miles away. I eyed my path up the wall to my cave, and filled another pan. I was just finishing it off when I heard the low rumble of thunder again, only this time, it didn’t peter out. In fact, it kept right on rumbling and getting louder until it became a steady roar. Just that fast I was on my feet and scrambling up that path.
The roar became deafening, and I could hear the clash of rocks and giant boulders borne along by the vast pressure of the raging water. A bolt of brilliant lightning hit somewhere nearby and the instant crash of thunder sounded as I dove for the protection of the cave.
I looked upstream just as a wall of water slammed around a bend some five hundred feet away and came charging downstream, carrying all sorts of dead wood, rocks, and stream trash with it. For a moment, I thought it might be higher than my cave, but I was relieved to see that it was at least ten feet lower. However, I was trapped until the water receded. And then it began to rain.
2
For the rest of that day, it rained steadily. There was no wind, and the clouds hung so low that the top of the hill across Humbug Creek disappeared into the mist. I was dry enough in the hollowed out cave, and I had food, but I was worried about my horses.
Across the creek, the various desert gullies and washes were running bank full, and the creek was still flowing hard at ten to fifteen feet deep. I set out a pot to catch water and lit my pipe. There was little to do, so I dug out a copy of Plutarch and set to reading it.
Across the way, torrents of water were cascading down the normally arid hillside, and I could occasionally hear rocks dislodge and roll down the hill to disappear in the roiling water of Humbug Creek.
The darkness fell early with the heavy cloud cover, so I built a fire with mesquite wood I had stored in the back of my cave. The warmth and light gave me some comfort as the steady downpour continued. Somewhere in the night, I dozed off.
The dawn came gray and dismal. Some light rain was still falling, and Humbug Creek was running bank full. There was a damp chill in the air, so I prodded the coals of my fire and fed it with sticks from the pile. There was still coffee in the pot, so I set it in the coals and sliced bacon into the frying pan. I still had some hardtack biscuit, so I pulled one out and started chewing as I looked out over my stone wall. It was almost the last thing I ever did.
I glanced casually around at the flooded creek, and then I looked up the hillside to a huge boulder and the black eyes of an Apache who was drawing a bead on me with his rifle. For a moment, I just stared back at him, and then good sense took over, and I dropped behind my wall just as his bullet found its way into my cave and ricocheted around.
I scrambled to another point behind my wall and peered over the top in time to see two more Apaches scrambling for cover. Evidently, they had been caught unaware of my presence until they hear the shot. There were three of them, and like I said, they had me in a real pickle. They were all well above me and behind rocks, and I was trapped in my cave by the flooded creek.
There’d been a miner’s notice posted that warned of a small band of renegades which had deserted the encampment at Fort McDowell and were being hunted by a troop of cavalry. Maybe this was the bunch, which would explain why they were out in such bad weather. But that same bad weather meant that there was little hope of any help from the army.
I peered through a small hole I’d made in my wall for a gun port, trying to locate the Apaches, but nothing moved. The rain was increasing again, which was fine with me. I was dry and warm while they were getting wetter and more miserable by the minute. Just then a movement caught my eye, but it was just another rock which had lost its grip on the muddy hillside and was rolling and bouncing down the hill.
I gathered up my Henry rifles and laid out two rows of ammunition, ready to hand. Still nothing moved, and I was beginning to wonder if they had given it up as a bad idea when I heard voices. Then I saw a foot behind a smaller boulder just downhill from the large one where the first warrior had narrowly missed me. I was just sighting in on that foot when it was withdrawn and the third Apache appeared on the far side of that same boulder, firing one shot before quickly ducking back. The round ricocheted with an angry snarl, smacking into my rear guard wall and then who knows where it went. I silently thanked my father for his wise advice.
3
I reckon it was about noon, before I saw that foot again. Nothing had moved that I could see, and they must have been low on ammunition because that one searching shot was all they took. I’d heard voices several times and it sounded like arguing. They were probably trying to figure a way out, because I was on the far side of a flooded creek that probably wouldn’t recede for days. With the cavalry on their trail, they couldn’t wait that long to get at me and recover whatever guns and ammunition I had. That’s when I realized that they too were in a pickle because they couldn’t move either without getting shot at! They were probably wondering if I had horses, so I was glad I’d moved them up that canyon and out of sight. Knowing I had them might be an argument to stay.
I decided to help them make up their minds. I took a bead just below that foot and fired, figuring that even if I missed, it would still kick up rocks and sand, which would hurt almost as bad. I figured right. There was a surprised yelp and an angry exchange of words. I grinned and put another round in my Henry.
Things got quiet again, and I looked longingly at my coffee pot still sitting on the coals near the back wall, wisps of steam coming from the spout. That bacon was probably burned a little, but my stomach was complaining, so I was considering making a run for my bacon and coffee when the rifle barrel of that Indian behind the big boulder appeared on top of it.
I was just taking a bead above that big boulder when one of the other two Apaches appeared from behind the smaller boulder just below the big one. I instantly lowered my front sight and snapped off a shot. It just missed the top of his head and slammed into the bottom of that big boulder. What happened next was the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen and probably ever will see.
All three of them Apaches just came to their feet and looked around. I was wondering what the hell was going on when I realized that the big boulder was moving. The two warriors just below it began to run sideways, and the third was hanging on to the boulder itself! Then I saw a crack forming some twenty feet higher and the whole hillside was moving, slowly at first and then it simply collapsed and avalanched. Just like that, all three Apaches disappeared in a wall of mud, cactus, and rocks.
The avalanche slammed into the flooded creek just upstream from me, sending a wall of water up the side of the granite face, some of it coming into my cave and putting out my fire. It would also have carried off my coffee pot if I hadn’t grabbed it.
I stood by my rock wall and watched the creek quickly erode away the temporary dam created by the avalanche. With a roar, the flood breached the dam and sent another wall of water below my cave. A desert rat like me enjoys the rare rainstorm, but I had seen all the rain I wanted. And as if to taunt me, the rainfall increased.
A movement across the creek caught my eye. Sticking out of the mud was an arm, and it was moving. As I watched, a brown body worked itself out of the muck and slowly gained its feet. For a moment, he stood there in the downpour, obviously confused and addled with his back to me. He slowly looked all around and finally saw me and that I had him in my sights. He just stared at me and made no move for cover.
He was the most miserable looking human being I had ever seen. He was now stark naked in the pouring rain, his breechclout torn off by his ordeal, and he was covered in mud and blood. He had lost everything, including his dignity. He just stood there, waiting for the execution he knew was coming.
I lowered the hammer and cradled the Henry in the crook of my left elbow. I raised my right arm to him, and then gestured for him to be on his way. For a long moment, he looked at me in astonishment. We both knew he would have killed me had the situation been reversed, but then, we had our different ways. Finally, he raised his own right arm, turned and walked off, limping slightly with his right leg. I guessed he was the man whose foot I dusted.
I heard later that the army picked up the lone survivor of the band of renegades, and he told them a fantastic tale about a white warrior that they dismissed as lie. The flood had washed away my placer deposit clean down to bedrock, so I never returned to my diggings. I used my gold to buy some cattle, and two hundred acres south of Castle Creek, claiming grazing rights on an additional forty thousand acres. My ranch became one of the most successful.
All that happened a long time past, of course, but I was reminded of it a few years ago when I ran into an old Indian outside a saloon. He was sweeping off the porch out front, limping and favoring his right foot. I ordered a beer and asked the barkeep about his Indian swamper. He laughed and told me a story about an old Apache with a crazy tale about a hill that fell into a creek and how he escaped death from a mysterious white devil.
I finished my beer and stepped outside. I walked over to my horse and pulled my old Henry from its saddle scabbard, levering in a round. I stepped back on the porch and aimed it at the old Apache, who calmly stood there and stared right back at me. Then I lowered the hammer and cradled the Henry in the crook of my left elbow. When I raised my right arm to him, I saw the dawn of recognition, and his face broke into a toothless grin with twinkling eyes. Then he held up his own right arm and it was my turn to grin. I held my hand out to him and he took it.
The barkeep was watching all that from behind the batwing doors, and he spoke up.
“What the hell was that all about?”
“Just a salute between two old warriors.”
“You mean his story was true?”
“Well, of course it was true. You don’t think someone could just make up a tale like that do you?”
His name was Yudhajit, which means victor in war. I took him with me that day out to the ranch, where I put him up in a little cabin down by the creek, and when he died a few years later, I buried him in the family plot.
We were brothers in combat.
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