Brigham's Lake

By Karsen Max

Cattle ranchers in 1920’s Wyoming, Brigham and Millie Davis understood and accepted adversity but an unexpected natural disaster left them facing changes they had never expected to encounter. An idyllic spring morning nearly became a tragedy when Brig narrowly missed crushing death by a landslide. Changing the course of a river, the avalanche was just the beginning of changes that he or his wife could never have imagined. Unexpected betrayal by friends and neighbors cuts to the core of Brig’s honorable soul, while he feels that the responsibility for the safety of those same friends and neighbors rests on his shoulders. His hurt and confusion leave him vulnerable to a personal dilemma that threatens to divide him from Millie as well.
Challenged like never before, Brig and Millie’s relationship suffers. But while refusing to accept that he had witnessed his wife’s almost certain death, Brig’s selfless search and rescue demonstrates to Millie that what she feared had vanished was still alive and strong.
Laced with snippets of Quarter Horse and agricultural history and authentic insights into the psyches of the horses that are fundamental to their lives, Brigham’s Lake leads the reader through an ill-fated hunting trip in the Yellowstone to the hustle and bedlam of the Stockyards of Fort Worth to the destruction of an entire community as the force of Nature that created the problem in the beginning forged its own solution.
A little romance, a little drama, and some adult language; it was written with great care to avoid anything corny or contrived. Although minor liberties may have been taken with actual places and events of the past, numerous hours were spent researching that characters and historical happenings might remain authentic and believable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karsen Max
• Release date: Dec 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301935413

Karsen Max

I've always loved words and reading and writing. I may be the only person ever who took English Composition as an elective in senior year of high school. I got too old to ride horses the way I used to, the family is grown up and gone, I'm semi-retired from accounting and tax prep, so now I have time to write all the stories that I was always going to get around to writing someday.Transparency disclaimer: My profile pic is from a few years ago. I still look a lot like that if you squint.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Brigham Davis left his ranch in the lower elevations of the Sage Canyon Mountains on a young mare, fresh from her layoff over the winter months. A deep red sorrel, leggy and still coltish; she had attained full height but lacked yet what would be the bulk of her maturity. Still shaggy with winter hair, promises of summer sleekness showed in patches on her neck and shoulders. The mare traveled well, her muscled hindquarters propelling her easily up the inclines and steep switchbacks and Brig stopped to let her breathe on a rocky promontory high above the point where he had begun, yawning to relieve the pressure in his ears.

By mid-morning Brig had crossed the ridge and was looking over the rim of a broad basin to the Jubilee River, sparkling in the sunlight as it flowed below the steeply slanted face of Badger Peak. Far downstream, homesteads were tiny dots along a road that paralleled the river before curving sharply away. Descending into the valley, he and the mare wove through leafless brush and scattered stands of pine and aspen on their way to the river a quarter of a mile in the distance. He sat easily in his saddle, enjoying the unseasonably warm temperature until gradually an unnatural stillness penetrated his senses. His eyes narrowed when the red mare flicked her ears nervously back and forth as though she too, had felt a pall come over the bright spring morning. He scanned the landscape carefully for any sign of bear or big cats; and finding nothing, tried to shrug aside the vague disquiet that still troubled him.

Brig and the mare worked their way down the broad sweep of the meadow to the water’s edge, where the sheer upright face of Badger rose monolithically only yards away across the river. The red mare approached the water reluctantly, too obedient to refuse but signaling her resistance plainly. Stepping into the shallow water, she drank skittishly, flinging her head nervously, ears swiveling in response to unidentifiable stimuli, her body rigid. Brig felt her tension and he straightened in the saddle, tightening his reins imperceptibly. Over the babble of the water, the sound of distant thunder puzzled Brig. There was not a cloud in the sky.

Inside the mountain the tiny fault had multiplied, replicating itself over and over; spiderwebbing through to the outermost crust of the mountain where it erupted with the all the speed and power of a lightning bolt. The shock of it rang Brig’s ears; and yet he still did not comprehend that the sound had come from the mountain itself. Fortunately, the mare’s mind was faster than his and she spun, nearly unseating him. She was in full flight, a red form streaking across the valley floor.

The first movements were tentative. Tiny fractures zigzagged down the face of Badger Peak. Shoals of small pebbles became a flow that swelled and gathered, sweeping down with a toneless susurration punctuated by the splash of boulders falling into the river below. Behind the sheet of stones, the face of the mountain collapsed gently inward upon itself. Sparse trees waved melancholy goodbyes to their high-altitude strongholds as the granite to which they had clung determinedly now crumbled beneath them. Their gentle waving ceased abruptly as a huge section of the ridge suddenly sagged and disappeared, adding its mass to the shifting landscape and stirring it to a state of urgent frenzy. What had begun as a slow, stately slide was now a tumbling, boiling maelstrom of trees, rocks, brush and timber, pulverizing everything in its path. The air filled with the wrath of the avalanche.

Belatedly, Brig’s mind recognized imminent death. Giving the mare her head, he urged her to even greater speed, crouching low above her neck. She made impossible leaps to unknown landings, clearing the treacherous gullies and dodging through trees and limbs and thickets so recently navigated with careless ease. She faltered once, and Brig prayed for the swift death of a broken neck over crushing suffocation if she fell. Given no other option he trusted her, both hearts in pursuit of a common goal reduced now to the single element of survival. They fled as the mountain chased them, obliterating the valley and filling it with rubble. The Jubilee River sent up one single silvery arc of spray in surrender before it was snuffed by tons of dirt and stone.

Headlong, the mare galloped wildly towards the mouth of the valley, where the trail branched to safety up a steep incline. The ground they had traveled only a short time ago seemed to stretch out into eternity. Brig no longer presumed to direct the mare in any decisions. He was only a passenger on her headlong flight to safety, and the outcome would be decided in the next few seconds. Nothing he could do now would affect its conclusion. Mutual fear and desperation united them as she made great clawing bounds up the muddy path to that would see them to safety.

Clearing the crest of the hill with one final Herculean effort, momentum carried her on and she ran still yet a final few yards before staggering to a standstill, heaving and trembling, quivering with exhaustion. Spittle and saliva drooled from her gaping mouth and her nostrils flared like bellows as she gasped for air. The outermost edges of the slide clattered to a stop below them.

There was a deafening stillness when the mountain had finished falling. The slide had silenced the perpetual, eternal babble of the river, and its absence was a vacuum yet to be filled. The valley was devastated, a morass of mud, rocks, and boulders, tangled with the twisted remains of delicate aspens, brush, and massive fir trees. Incongruously, as if in apology for the damage; entire sections of earth had been transported with groups of trees remaining upright and undisturbed at their new location. An earthen dam now stretched across the valley, blocking the Jubilee River.

Oblivious to the obstruction, the water continued to flow. Hesitating when it reached the new barrier, it curled back upon itself, swirling uncertainly while searching for a new direction. Trickling over and around the debris, its crystal clarity gradually became a thick murky brown soup roiling aimlessly as the level of the water slowly increased.

Far below the earthen barrier, the last of the water slid away, heedless of the sudden nakedness of the river channel. Fish were stranded in small pools; and their bellies flashed silver as they struggled against the unfamiliar heat of the sun. Vibrant green vegetation lay flat and lifeless. Deprived of its life-giving water, it would soon dry and turn into a slimy brown muck.

Chapter 2

A fine haze of sawdust shimmered golden in the sun around the Bajorek Brothers Sawmill. Calvin Bajorek hummed soundlessly to himself, his mind rehearsing the music he would play Saturday night at the dance held once a month in the tavern he and his wife, Hannah, owned in the nearby town of Ravine. His hands worked by rote as they turned out dozens of spindles on the mill lathe from the pallet of blank walnut shafts at his left side. Calvin placed the shaped spindles on his right to be further polished and refined before they were bundled and shipped to the new courthouse under construction in Tarleton County, some one hundred and fifty miles distant. The Bajorek Brother’s sawmill had won the contract for much of the millwork in the Tarleton County courthouse, and Calvin was determined to do a good job, hopeful that would be a consideration when bidding began for construction of a new courthouse closer to home in Cordite County. Right now its exact location was uncertain, with the towns of Ravine and Cole Junction both claiming to be most favored for that distinction. Probably it would come up for a vote on the general ballot in the next couple of elections; Calvin really didn’t care much either way as long as Bajorek Brothers Sawmill could get the contracts. He supposed it might mean more business for the tavern if the courthouse were to come to Ravine, but he and his wife had their hands pretty much full with that the way it was. He noncommittally debated the pros and cons of it in his head as he worked.

The monotonous, ear-pounding drone of the pulleys and the rhythmic slap of the long belts that were the mechanical lifeblood of the mill permeated Calvin’s unconscious thought. It was as familiar to him as his own breath, so familiar that the first slight stutter of the complicated network jolted him to attention, alert for the least malfunction. The mill was powered by a complicated system of thick, heavy belts and pulleys. A slipped or broken belt would whip around like a striking snake, capable of killing or maiming a man; and creating more damage if it fouled the other belts. His practiced glance noticed nothing amiss but within the space of a few minutes it was obvious that it was not only his lathe that was losing power, but the whole mill also appeared to be shutting down. The pulleys high-pitched drones trickled down to a soft whisper and the belts shivered in anticipation of a full stop. Calvin could hear voices raised in puzzled questions as the machinery in other areas coasted to a standstill. Shit, Calvin muttered to himself and he went in search of Virgil, the other half of Bajorek Brothers.

He found Virgil at the end of the millrace that diverted the flow of the water to the mill turbines, staring in astonishment at the rapidly disappearing water. What the hell…? he started, and they stood gaping in disbelief at the unlikely sight of the river simply ceasing to flow, the last of the water vanishing like the tail of a snake slithering in a hole. Virgil peered upstream as if Moses had only temporarily parted the waters and he expected it to come crashing down again at any minute. Employees emerged from their various workstations only to also discover the failure of the river to flow. They milled about aimlessly, disoriented by the unexplainable but undeniable fact that the water was gone. After a few minutes Virgil turned to the workers grouped around him and said, Guess you might as well go on home. Calvin, you and me need to go upriver and see what’s happening.

As they were locking the doors, a Model T Ford came tearing down the road, bouncing wildly through muddy potholes and barely lurching to a stop before its excited occupants were screeching the news that there had been a huge landslide and the river was blocked. Yeah, we kinda noticed that the river was drying up, Calvin commented drily.

Jack Lovan and Harvey Bridges had been cutting poles to repair corrals prior to spring cattle working when they heard the mountain give way, shaking the ground and scattering the stack of pine logs as though they were toothpicks. Leaving their tools where they lay, they plunged their horses recklessly down the steep slope and over the crest of the ridge between them and the mountain, staring in shock at the panorama that spread out before them. The valley floor had been scoured clean and the mouth of it filled solid. Already the waters of the Jubilee River were pooling. Spurring their mounts, they raced back to Harvey’s homeplace to jump in his car, driving wildly to be the first to spread the news.

Chapter 3

Hanging the first load of laundry on the line, Millie Davis anticipated the clean smell of fresh washed and line dried sheets on her bed. The faint breeze felt good on her skin after a winter buried under heavy clothes. She had traded her usual boots and jeans for a baggy housedress, and her legs were winter-pale below the hem. Like her husband Brig had done far up the mountain, she dawdled over her chores, enjoying the freedom from indoors. From afar, the trees glowed a faint pink as the sap began to rise in them; and near the porch, the tightly curled shoots of daffodils poked their green tips hesitantly through the muddy soil. Soon the mares would begin dropping their foals, all gangly legs and flighty curiosity. She, Brig, and their son Luke would be exhausted from keeping close watch on them. Heavy with foal, they could disappear in the blink of an eye; hiding themselves in a thicket or patch of brush to give birth. Most often they reappeared unscathed, sheltering protectively a wobbly, inquisitive baby, but in case of trouble, a watchful eye and quick assistance could prevent the loss of the mare, the foal, or both.

Millie breathed deeply of the fresh air. Cold would drive her back in before true spring arrived, but the transient blessing of the early chinooks were a promise that the end of another brutal Wyoming winter would come.

Pinning the last sheet, she caught a peculiar movement from the corner of one eye. On the horizon, the jagged edge of Badger Peak rippled once; then broke away. Turning to watch full on, she saw the top of the mountain slide soundlessly out of sight. As it disappeared, a dull roar began to ripple through the air.

For a few seconds, Millie stood rooted to the spot in wide-eyed disbelief. Brig’s name was a choked cry as she threw her basket aside and ran to the house. She cursed the mud and the spring day that had caused her to discard her usual jeans for the dress that swirled around her, hampering her movement. Ripping it off as she crossed the porch, she flung it aside viciously. Thankful that her jeans were not in a pile of wet laundry, she pulled them on hurriedly before shoving her feet into socks and boots, swearing as her haste made her clumsy.

Snagging a bridle as she flew through the barn, Millie noted with consternation that of course the horses were at the furthest point away in the pasture. Her breath coming in short gasps, she forced herself to slow down as she approached them, displaying a calm she didn’t feel. Already Charlie and Beau had begun to watch her with concern; fairly certain that her appearance was not good news and could possibly indicate the end of their leisurely creek side morning. The two geldings stood companionably head-to-tail, in anticipation of the appearance of any pesky flies. Hip-shot and head down, they straightened their stance at Millie’s approach.

Easy, guys, Millie said. Don’t you dare play any of your games with me right now.

Splashing through the creek, she made an angled approach towards Charlie’s shoulder. He raised his head a fraction and cast a wary eye behind him, gauging a possible escape route.

Charlie, damn you, don’t even think about it right now, Millie muttered through clenched teeth. Of course it had to be Charlie standing on the outside. Beau would never consider taking evasive action on his own, but Charlie was of a more subversive nature; and occasionally he felt compelled to make a token show of resistance to being caught. On approach, he would move away at a steady pace just out of reach of his captors. Amused at their attempts to keep up, he would lead them at a walk or trot around the paddock, inspiring his companions to do the same. Upon reaching the furthest point away from the barn, he would squeal and gallop madly past the puny humans, flinging his heels at them in flagrant disrespect. He would then thunder to a dramatic halt at the gate, snorting and blowing before submitting casually to the halter, satisfied that his point had been made.

Millie usually found it almost as amusing as it was annoying; but apparently something in her stance warned Charlie that at this particular time that behavior’s amusement factor would be non-existent. He accepted his mission with grudging grace, clenching his teeth only momentarily as a token show of resistance.

Flinging a saddle on him, a swift thump of Millie’s heels convinced Charlie of the urgency of her task. She snatched his head around and set off at a gallop over the long flat stretch that lay between them and the trail to Badger Peak, pushing him relentlessly as they climbed higher up the ridge. She cut across the trail, ignoring the easier switchbacks, leaning low over Charlie’s neck as he plunged upward. Fretfully, she allowed him a moment to catch his breath; then pushed him into a gallop towards the summit, ducking and dodging the low-hanging limbs and branches. Breaking over the top, they pounded along the muddy path that followed the contours of the secondary plateau. Through the distance, Millie saw the figure of a horse and man at the edge of a small copse of pines. Reaching them, she jumped from her hastily saddled horse, throwing herself at her husband. She felt him tremble as he wrapped his arms around her.

Millie, what in the world are you doing here? Brig asked in amazement.

I was outside…I saw the mountain crumble…oh, Brig, my God, I was so scared…I knew you were up here somewhere.

Come and take a look, Millie. You're not going to believe it what you're going to see, he said quietly.

They led their horses a few feet through the trees that shielded them from the full view. Millie sucked in her breath, throwing her hand over her mouth at the sight of the devastation below her. She closed her eyes in horror as Brig described his route, retracing his steps through the valley and ending at the clay bank pocked and scarred with the hoofprints of the mare where she had scrambled to safety at the top.

What had been only a few hours before a tranquil valley burgeoning with the promise of new growth was now a brutal landscape of raw earth and boulders. Already the murky brown water had begun to pool.

Brig was quiet on the way home, and Millie didn’t press him, knowing that he always needed a little space and time by himself to process anything important or unsettling; and she guessed a close brush with death and instant interment under a billion tons of rock might be in the category of a little unsettling. When Brig did begin to talk, he ventured to say it might be a good idea to give the mare a good rub down with some liniment to ward off any muscle stiffness, and to watch her closely for the next couple of days for any sign of founder or colic; and that for a young horse she was pretty dependable. But Millie saw him surreptitiously rub the mare’s neck gently just forward of the saddle, and he scratched behind her ears just a little longer than usual as he slipped the halter off to release her into the pen.

The cabin was mellowed by the moon’s borrowed luminescence when Brig quietly slipped out of the bed to stand at the window overlooking the pasture. The horses were dark silhouettes and Brig could identify every one, both by shape and the occasional soft nostrilly flutter of a horse, tranquil and relaxed. He gazed at them for a long time, remembering the sound of the slide bearing down upon him. He felt the mare running beneath him, a powerful machine in her right, yet weak before the almighty authority of that unforgiving mass. There would have been no justice, no judgment as to whether Brig and the mare deserved to live or die, only oblivion had the mare been just a little less swift or they had been just a little further down the valley. Brig questioned the hand of an omnipotent God directing every move but was nonetheless grateful that he had cheated death on such a beautiful day. He supposed that if it was God’s attention that was the source of his narrow escape, then he appreciated that the salvation had come in the shape of a good horse. Brig sighed and wished he could put the whole experience out of his mind as easily as the mare appeared to. Her fair share of the oats and hay and a drink of fresh water seemed to be the chief concerns in her life. She did not seem compelled to ponder whether she had been spared for some higher, greater purpose or if there was some ‘mission’ to as yet to be fulfilled. He turned away from the window with a small snort of annoyance and satisfied himself with the thought that his ‘mission’ was to continue with the small mundane ways of life until they planted him in his permanent three by six piece of real estate. So considering, he added another stick of wood to the stove as insurance that his early morning departure from a warm bed to another ordinary day would at least have a pleasant start.

When Brig returned, he tried to slip in as quietly as he had left so as to not disturb Millie, but she had noticed his absence and turned to him, giggling as the chill he brought with him goosepimpled her flesh. He slipped one arm under her shoulder and gathered her to him, burying his face in the clean scent of her hair. Shedding her flannel nightgown within the warm cocoon of the heavy winter blankets, her still-slim body molded itself familiarly against his. For the second time that day, Brig had reason to be happy.

Chapter 4

Luke Davis helped himself to his mother’s hot biscuits and jam while reporting that there were already several feet of water at the dam and that the Shrabell farm, the church, and the parsonage further upstream were just a few feet away from inundation.

Old Shrabell, he says he’s not gonna leave, he says the governor’s gonna bring in crews and dynamite that blockage before the water gets high enough to reach the house, he continued. I don’t know, I think I’d at least be getting my stuff to higher ground, just in case. It’d probably not be as easy as a man would think, getting enough dynamite and setting it off to blow a hole through that mess. As usual, Luke was dominating the whole conversation, not through rudeness but more simply as just a verbal train of thought. Similar in size and height to his father, he had a restless energy that expressed itself with the impression of constant motion. Brig was more reserved and preferred to let others talk while he was deliberating over what he had to say. Luke never met a stranger and could put others instantly at ease. On rare occasion he could take an instant dislike to someone and not hesitate to point out the reasons he did. Even as a child, Luke had been quick to intuit the agendas and motives of others, and his first impressions were accurate more often than not. The same facile skill applied to animals, and within minutes he could create a bond with the most ill-tempered dog, cupping their muzzle with self-assurance, or gentle a timid, fearful, or aggressive horse, cultivating their confidence with his own. He was a natural leader and could usually bring people around to his way of thinking.

One holdout, though, was Miss Estaline Majers, a teacher at the school in Ravine, who refused to subscribe to Luke’s way of thinking that she should really get to know him better. Estaline was petite, blonde, educated, and the object of every schoolboy over the age of ten’s desire, as well as the attention of several well beyond the age of schoolboys and often otherwise engaged. She had come to teach at Ravine from a small town near San Antonio, Texas. Her soft Southern drawl was a curiosity that amused the native-born population; and belied the authority with which she ran her classroom. Miss Majers maintained discipline with little apparent effort and instilled in her students a desire to learn. She behaved with impeccable decorum, taking room and board with Dr. Anderson and his wife, who guarded her reputation zealously. Unfailingly courteous and polite, she treated Luke with the same well-mannered behavior as she did her