Crow Creek Crossing (19 page)

It was already approaching darkness by the time Cole reached the east bank of Chugwater Creek. The dark clouds hovering over the shallow valley appeared swollen and closer to the ground than they had been an hour before, threatening to rupture at any second and cover the prairie with snow.

Cole felt an urgency to cross the creek while there was still a little light to see which way Corbett and Sanchez had fled. It was easy to see where they had entered the water, so he crossed and picked up the tracks on the other side.

•   •   •

Fighting the almost overpowering urge to close his eyes and sleep, Slade suddenly became alert upon hearing the sound of a horse climbing out of the water. In his efforts to keep warm, he had crawled to a gully that was deep enough to get most of his body inside. It had helped a little to withstand the biting cold, and it afforded him protection against anyone
searching for him. He was certain that someone would come to finish him, and now they had arrived. The anticipation caused him to forget his pain that had almost crippled him before, as he pushed himself up from the gully far enough to get his head and shoulders above the edge. He waited for his stalker to appear.

In a few minutes, a dark figure appeared in the failing light, walking up from the creek bank, leading his horse. He appeared to have a rifle in one hand, and he was looking at the ground, intent upon the tracks he was following.

A slow, painful smile crept across Slade's face when he realized the man could not see him there in the gully. He rested his gun hand on a sizable stone to steady his aim, although he felt it would be impossible to miss his target as the figure came closer to the gully. In no hurry to take the shot, for it was obvious that his tracker had no idea he was there, he picked his spot to pull the trigger. He thought of Sanchez at that moment, who no doubt thought Slade was dead, and with no idea that in a few moments he would have a horse. The Mexican's days were numbered.

His target was almost to the spot Slade had his .44 trained on, with no indication that he knew of the ambush awaiting him.

Now,
Slade told himself, and slowly squeezed the trigger, only to be startled when he heard the metallic click of the hammer falling on an empty chamber. In that horrifying moment, it occurred to him that he had not reloaded his pistol after he shot at Sanchez. In desperation, he frantically squeezed the trigger
again, fanned the hammer back, and pulled the trigger again, hoping there might be one bullet left.

•   •   •

Fully startled, for he thought the creek bank was deserted, Cole reacted as soon as he heard the hammer fall on the empty chamber. Spinning around toward the sound, he fired three shots at the dark object showing above the rim of the gully as fast as he could crank the lever on his rifle. The figure sank down out of sight in the gully.

When there was no return fire, he hesitated for a moment before moving cautiously toward the gully. Seeing the pistol lying in the snow, he knew his shots had hit home, so he moved up to the edge and looked down in the gully to get a closer look. Even in the half-light, he could see that it was Slade Corbett. The black hat with the silver hatband lying close by confirmed it. He took a quick look around him then to make sure Sanchez was not there. Coming back to stare at the body again, he felt a sudden weariness as he looked down at the one man whose name had never left his mind, awake or sleeping. The road had been long and hard before it led him to this creek bank. There was a feeling that his job was done—until he reminded himself that the savage Sanchez was still running free.

One more before I rest,
he thought.

With that thought in mind, he decided that he had better look for the tracks of Sanchez's horses before it became too dark to see them. So he hurried back to his horse and continued following the tracks while he could still see. It was important at least to know
which direction Sanchez had headed when he left the creek.

After another fifteen minutes or so, it became too difficult to see the tracks anymore, but he had seen enough to know that Sanchez had headed toward a low line of hills to the west of the Chugwater. And if he held to that line, it would most likely lead to a notch he could see in the southern end of the hills. He figured he could pick up the outlaw's tracks in the morning, so he decided to make camp by the creek about thirty-five yards from the gully where Slade Corbett's body lay.

Wood to build a fire was scarce, as was grass for Joe to eat. He fed the horse some grain from a sack he carried for such occasions. The firewood was mostly sticks and small limbs from the many berry bushes on the bank, but it was enough to boil his coffee and cook the deer jerky he had brought with him.

While he turned his jerky over the flame, he thought about how close he had come to being the corpse left lying in a gully. Lady Luck was riding with him, because he had been downright careless. The fact that Gordon had told him that the two outlaws were gone was still no excuse for not exercising more caution. He had to admit that he would be dead right now if Corbett had not tried to shoot him with an empty pistol, for he was at point-blank range and had no notion Slade was even there. When he had checked the outlaw's body, he found that he was wearing a cartridge belt with plenty of cartridges, so it must have been a simple matter of forgetfulness.

How the hell could anybody in that situation forget to load his gun?
Cole wondered.

He awoke the next morning to find the creek bank
covered with a blanket of freshly fallen snow. He had slept so soundly that he had not even been aware of the gentle shower that covered his slicker and extinguished his fire.

Alarmed that he had overslept, for he was anxious to go after Sanchez at first light, he roused himself immediately. Coffee would have to wait until he had ridden far enough to have to rest his horse.

He saddled Joe and prepared to leave, but first he went back to the gully where he had left Slade's body. He found the body still there, undisturbed by scavengers. But the smooth white blanket of snow on the bank of the creek made it impossible to see any tracks now. He shook his head in consternation. There was nothing he could do about it. It had been too dark to follow Sanchez the night before. But at least he had an idea of the line Sanchez took when he left the creek, so he stepped up into the saddle and turned Joe toward the notch in the faraway hills to the west. There was still one man to kill before his beloved wife could rest in peace.

•   •   •

There was no improvement in the weather as he continued toward the notch, and by the time he reached it, it had started snowing again. He followed the notch through to the other side of the single line of hills, only to be confronted with endless miles of white prairie.

He reined Joe to a stop while he looked out over the country before him. It was difficult to accept, but he had to admit that he had no clue which way Sanchez might have ridden. There was no road or Indian trail to follow in any direction. Even had there been a
game trail, it would have been impossible to see it under the snow. He was going to have to make a decision,

Knowing that he could be no more than half a day's ride from the last of the six men who had destroyed his life, Cole was overcome with frustration. If only he knew which direction to search! Buzzard's Roost came to mind, but Sanchez's trail led far too much toward the west. It stood to reason that he would have run directly north if he was going to Lem Dawson's place in the Laramie Mountains. Maybe he and Corbett had intended to foil the posse by heading west, then changing directions when they got to the Chugwater. But that had not been the case. When Sanchez crossed the Chugwater, he cut back even farther west. Cole was forced to accept the fact that the outlaw had successfully given him the slip.

Suddenly the weariness returned, contributing to a feeling of failure. Slade Corbett was dead, as were all the rest of his gang, save one, and that one's days were numbered, he promised his late wife. Maybe not before spring, maybe not before summer, but Sanchez would pay for his part in the brutal murders of Ann and her sister's family, no matter how long it took. He told himself that his responsibility now was to give his wound time to heal properly and regain his strength so that he would be ready when it was time to begin his search anew.

With that settled, he decided the best place to do that would be Medicine Bear's village where Harley was passing the winter. He turned Joe around to retrace his tracks to Cheyenne, where he had left his buckskin packhorse. He would get the supplies he
needed to set out for the Laramie River and the Crow camp there as well.

•   •   •

Mary Lou Cagle brought the coffeepot over to the table where Gordon Luck and Leon Bloodworth were finishing their supper. She filled both cups, then paused to ask if either of them had heard any news of Cole Bonner.

“Matter of fact, he came in the stable this mornin',” Leon said, his arm still in a sling while his shoulder healed. “Gordon and I were just talkin' about that.” He looked up at Mary Lou and smiled. “I reckon you won't have to worry about Slade Corbett no more. He's dead.”

That was good news to Mary Lou. “He caught up with them,” she said, thankful that it was over.

“He caught up with Corbett,” Luck corrected. “Sanchez is still on the loose. Bonner said the snow covered his trail, and he had to give up on him.”

Damn!
she thought, disappointed to hear that, but maybe Corbett's death would be enough to satisfy Cole's desire for vengeance. Then she wondered if he would stop by the dining room to see her and Maggie, and she realized that she was feeling a little bit hurt that he had not done so already.

“What?” she asked when she realized that she had been too deep in her thoughts to hear a comment Gordon had just made.

“I said there he is now, comin' in the door,” Luck said, then waved his hand and called out to him. “Bonner! Come on over and join us.”

Cole was just about to sit down at a table near the door when he heard Luck's invitation. Not particularly enthusiastic about having any company while
he ate his supper, he nevertheless decided that it wouldn't hurt to accept. Watching him carefully, Mary Lou pulled a chair back from the table, turned an empty coffee cup right side up, and filled it with coffee. Then she stepped back to let him pass in front of her. She had thought not to speak until he did, but she couldn't resist when he merely nodded.

“Are you all right?” she heard herself ask. “You don't look like you've been resting that wound.”

“I'm fine,” Cole answered.

“Are you gonna eat?”

“I figured on it.”

“I'll fix you a plate,” she said, and turned to go to the kitchen.

Somewhat surprised by Mary Lou's unusual showing of a gentle nature, Gordon Luck grinned, wondering if the independent young woman saw something in the sullen stranger that touched a tender spot in her otherwise bulletproof heart. He wondered if it was something he should be concerned with, for he had more than a casual interest in the young lady. At the moment, however, he was interested in what had happened on the banks of the Chugwater, so he brought his mind back to questioning Cole.

“Leon here tells me you finished the job me and the other boys started,” he said. “Where did you catch up with Corbett?”

“Right where you left him,” Cole said with a shrug. “He wasn't in much shape to run. He was still there on the bank of that creek.”

That was a surprise to Luck, for he had been sure he saw the two outlaws running. “I don't suppose you had any choice but to kill him,” Luck said.

“Reckon not,” Cole replied, thinking that was his
intent regardless and wondering if Luck thought he should have tried to bring him back for trial.

“God's will,” Gordon pronounced. “That man was a disciple of Satan himself and brought a lot of pain and sorrow to our community. He left us with graves to dig for some of our most important citizens.”

Cole took a long sip of his coffee, already thinking that he had made a mistake in sitting down at their table. He had no desire to talk about what had happened on the banks of the Chugwater. He knew what he had done and that he had done it for himself with no thought of avenging the people of Cheyenne. He was glad to see Mary Lou arrive with a plate piled high with Beulah's popular cowboy stew, which brought a wry comment from Leon Bloodworth.

“Boy, you sure must have a way with Mary Lou. She ain't ever piled one up like that for me.”

“You don't need one that big,” Mary Lou came back at him. “You're getting too fat as it is.” She cast a stern look in Cole's direction and said, “You need to build your strength back up, or that wound in your side won't ever heal up proper.” She didn't miss the knowing look Leon flashed to Gordon, and Gordon's frown of concern. She didn't care. They could think what they wanted to. She had decided that this man was someone special, even though his devotion was to a woman now dead. “You two let the poor man eat now while his food's hot.”

“Yes, ma'am, Miss Cagle,” Leon said with a chuckle.

“You know, I've been sittin' here, thinkin' about something,” Gordon said. “We ain't got no sheriff now, and it occurs to me that you'd make a good one. Would you be interested in the job? I ain't talked to
the others on the town council, what's left of 'em, but I think they'd most likely agree with me. Whaddaya say?”

Cole was fairly astonished by the suggestion, amazed that Luck could make such an offer. He viewed himself as little more than an assassin and not even approaching a representative for law and order. He finished chewing a large mouthful of beef before replying.

“I figured you to be the best candidate for sheriff,” he told Luck. He based his comment on the size of the man and the obvious respect the men in town had for him.