Crow Creek Crossing (21 page)

When spring finally arrived, Harley found that an oath once taken by the determined young man was never betrayed. Early on a chilly April morning, Harley woke to find Cole's blankets empty. Figuring he had taken a notion to go hunting, Harley roused himself to see what he had in mind. Then he noticed that Cole's saddlebags were missing as well as his saddle. That told Harley that he was planning to be gone for a while. Outside the tipi, he found the saddle and other gear on the ground and saw Cole coming from the pony herd, riding Joe and leading the buckskin.

“Looks like you're fixin' to be gone for a spell,” Harley said. “What's on your mind?”

“I figure it's time I went about tendin' to business,” Cole said as he slid off Joe's back and picked up his saddle.

Disappointed to hear it, but wise enough to know there was no use trying to talk him out of it, Harley said, “Hell, was you gonna ride off without tellin' anybody?”

“No, I was gonna wake you up. I told Yellow Calf and Moon Shadow last night after you turned in early. I'm beholden to them for their kindness and I wanted to tell 'em so.”

“I reckon your medicine tells you what you gotta do, so there ain't no use in me sayin' nothin',” Harley said. “But you know what I think.”

“I reckon.”

“I s'pose you know that you're always welcome here,” Harley told him. “And if you ask me, this is where you oughta be, or maybe go see them mountains you wanted to see. But you didn't ask me.”

“Reckon not.”

As he had done before, Cole rode into Cheyenne to take up his search once again for Jose Sanchez. He had no reason to believe he could pick up Sanchez's trail there, but he figured he had to start somewhere, and it seemed that he was always drawn back to Crow Creek Crossing.

There was another reason he returned to Cheyenne, though, one he was not willing to admit. Nevertheless, it was one he could not truthfully deny. Mary Lou Cagle's last words to him still returned to his thoughts whenever he let his mind wander aimlessly, no matter how much he reminded himself to keep his focus on what he had to do. On this late morning in early spring, however, he found himself at the hitching rail outside the hotel.

It's a good place to seek news about any sighting of the man I'm looking for,
he told himself.
Besides, I'm ready for a solid meal for a change.
He decided those thoughts justified dinner in the hotel dining room.

She saw him as soon as he walked through the door. Tall and rugged, he appeared to be fully recovered from the wound in his side. Thinking of the awkward confession she had left him with when he departed, she was hesitant to display the emotion she felt upon seeing him. Admittedly flustered by his unexpected appearance in the dining room, she retreated to the kitchen to corral her nerves and make an effort to regain her more typically callous facade.

Maggie, busy helping Beulah peel some potatoes for the standard stew the dining room was noted for, glanced up at Mary Lou when she came into the kitchen. Struck by the odd look on Mary Lou's face, she took a second look.

“What's the matter with you?” Maggie asked. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

“What?” Mary Lou responded, totally lost in her thoughts. Then she said, “No reason.” Then she confessed. “Cole Bonner,” she declared.

“Cole Bonner?” Maggie asked. “What about him?”

“He just walked into the dining room,” Mary Lou replied, trying her best to affect an indifferent expres- sion.

“Ohhh,” Maggie responded, dragging it out knowingly, for she knew Mary Lou well enough to be aware of her friend's interest in the sorrowful young man. “Well, we knew he'd show up again, didn't we? I guess you'd better go wait on him. I'll be out in a minute or two to say hello myself.”

“Yes, of course,” Mary Lou said, still trying to maintain her facade as she left the kitchen.

“Well, hello there, stranger,” she greeted him, as casually as she could affect. “Maggie and I were wondering if we'd see you anytime soon. You look a little
more fit than the last time I saw you. I guess you healed up pretty well.”

“I reckon,” Cole said. “You and Doc Marion musta done a pretty good job, 'cause it doesn't bother me a'tall anymore.”

She looked a little different to him than the image he had carried in his thoughts over the winter. It seemed her manner had softened and her smile was warmer. He warned himself not to venture any further with those thoughts.

“Is Harley with you?” Mary Lou asked, and glanced toward the door as if expecting the swarthy little man to walk in.

“Nope. I think Harley's gone completely Injun. He's found him a comfortable place in the Crow village, and he's tired of chasin' around after me, I reckon.”

Maggie came out then to greet him. Unlike Mary Lou, she gave him a hug. “It's good to see you again,” she told him. “We've been hoping you'd show up now that winter's let up a little.” Then she asked the question Mary Lou wanted the answer to, but was not willing to ask. “Now that a little time has passed, have you decided to let the past go? Or are you still of a mind to find that fellow, Sanchez?”

“I reckon,” Cole said. “Ain't nothin' happened to change that.”

“I'll go get you some coffee,” Mary Lou said, and turned toward the kitchen, afraid that her disappointment would show in her face.

Damn it,
she thought,
I don't know why I waste my time waiting for him to come back from the graveyard
.

“I'll go fix you a plate,” Maggie said, and followed Mary Lou.

“'Preciate it,” Cole said.

In a few moments, Mary Lou came from the kitchen with his coffee. She was placing it before him when a man walked up behind her. “Mind if I join you?” he asked Cole.

Cole's eyes had been locked on Mary Lou. He looked beyond her then and recognized a familiar face. It came to him at once. “Mr. Manning,” he said, remembering the Union Pacific foreman. “Have a seat.”

Stephen Manning pulled a chair back and sank down. “I'll have a cup of that,” he said to Mary Lou. Turning back to Cole then, he said, “Seems like I keep bumpin' into you.”

“Seems that way,” Cole said. “I thought your crew was all out of Cheyenne.”

“They are,” Manning said. “We're workin' over Sherman Hill now. I had to come back to meet some of my bosses from Omaha. They're supposed to get into Cheyenne tonight. I recommended they stay at the hotel here. It's a little too rough at the camp at the end of the line. What I shoulda done is get 'em a room in that little hotel they just put up in Laramie City. That would give 'em a taste of what it's really like at the start of a railroad town.” He punctuated his comment with a laugh.

“I never heard of Laramie City,” Cole confessed.

“Not many people have,” Manning said, then paused to thank Mary Lou when she placed his coffee cup on the table before continuing. “Laramie City's a little town that sprang up overnight when
folks found out the railroad was goin' through there. It was mostly tents and shacks at first, but there're already a lot of homesteaders stakin' claims, and some permanent buildings now. I had to go up there with the surveyors, and let me tell you, I thought Cheyenne was wild before I saw Laramie City. But that's the wildest, most lawless town I've ever seen. I was damn glad to get outta there.”

Manning paused only when Mary Lou brought two plates of food to the table. “I guess you want to eat,” she said to Manning. “You didn't say.”

“You guessed right,” he told her, then continued his conversation with Cole. The railroad man seemed eager to talk, so Cole was content to let him, even though only mildly interested in the subject. He preferred not to have to hold up his end of the conversation anyway. “The insane part of it,” Manning said, “is that the town has a marshal.” He gestured toward Cole with his fork to emphasize his next statement. “And the marshal is the biggest crook in town. He wasn't nothin' but a gunman before he made himself the marshal. Big Steve Long is his name. He's got two half brothers named Con and Ace Moyer, and the three of 'em run the whole town. They own a saloon named the Bucket of Blood, and it's a good name for it. The three of 'em have been harassin' some of the settlers around there to turn the deeds to their land over to them. The ones that don't usually wind up in a gunfight with Big Steve Long, and he ain't lost one yet. If a man believes in coincidences, then that's a helluva string of 'em. I'm reportin' to these people from Omaha that they're gonna have to get some government help or something to clean that town up before they think about establishin' a station there.
Why, hell, the only people that get along with the marshal are outlaws and gunmen that drift into town.”

“Sounds pretty wild,” Cole said, not really interested but content to let Manning talk. He seemed to need to tell someone about it.

“You might think I'm exaggeratin' it a little,” Manning went on, “but I saw one incident firsthand. I was thirsty one night, so I went into the Bucket of Blood for a drink. There was an argument started at a table in the back, and one of the men got up from the table, pulled out his pistol, and shot the other fellow in the face. And there wasn't nothin' done about it—didn't call for the marshal or nothin'. One of the owners, he was one of the Moyers—Con or Ace, I don't know which—just dragged the dead man out the front door and dumped his body in the street. The fellow that did the shootin'—he looked like he was a Mexican or somethin'—just ordered another drink like it was just all in a day's work.”

With his gaze mainly on Mary Lou on the other side of the room, and paying only slight attention to Manning's story of Laramie City, Cole suddenly stiffened upright, an alarm triggered in his mind by the word
Mexican
. “Did you say he was a Mexican?” he interrupted.

“Yeah, a Mexican. At least he looked like a Mexican to me,” Manning said.

“Do you know his name?”

“No,” Manning replied, astonished by Cole's sudden change of demeanor. “I wouldn't have any idea. I didn't hang around to get acquainted.”

Cole's mind was racing. “You think he's still there?”

“Why, I wouldn't have any idea,” Manning said.

“How far is Laramie City from here?” Cole pressed. “How can I find it?”

“It's about forty or fifty miles. Best way to find it is to just follow the railroad right of way. It's right where we'll be crossin' the river. You think you might know that fellow?”

“Much obliged,” Cole said, ignoring the question, while rising from his chair. “I'm glad I ran into you, Mr. Manning, but I've got to go now.” He hurried to the front of the dining room where Maggie had a little desk by the door, leaving his dinner half-finished. He handed Maggie a dollar. “I've gotta go,” he told her when she appeared about to start a conversation. “Just keep the change.” She watched him hustle out the door, her eyes and mouth both open in astonishment.

Outside, he wasted no time climbing into the saddle. He turned Joe's head toward the railroad tracks and nudged him firmly with his heels. It was the longest of long shots, but he had no choice other than finding out for himself. He might be simply wasting time, but there existed the possibility, no matter how slim, that the Mexican that Manning had seen was the one he was searching for. It was enough to ignite the burning fire in his breast that had been allowed to smolder when thoughts of Mary Lou had invaded his mind. As he rode out along the newly laid tracks of the Union Pacific, he silently apologized to Ann for having lost his purpose temporarily, and renewed his vow to avenge her death.

Back in the dining room, Mary Lou stopped when she came from the kitchen to see Stephen Manning sitting alone at the table, across from Cole's
half-finished dinner. She walked over to the table. “Is Cole coming back?” she asked.

“I don't think so,” Manning said. “He said he had to go.”

“Did he say where?”

“No, but he asked me how to get to Laramie City,” Manning said.

Mary Lou looked over toward the desk where Maggie still sat. Maggie shrugged in response, so Mary Lou walked over to ask, “Cole?”

“Gone,” Maggie said. “Something put a burr under his saddle. He took off outta here like something was after him. He even tipped me a quarter.”

“Damn!” Mary Lou swore aloud before she caught herself. Then, deciding that Maggie knew of her interest in the obstinate man anyway, blurted, “I'm tired of worrying about that thickheaded imbecile. If he's so set on going after that murderer until he gets himself killed, I'm not wasting any more of my thoughts on him.”

“You don't mean that,” Maggie said, confident that Mary Lou had finally met a man that had captured her interest. And Maggie knew that there were few men in that category. “He'll never be free of the ghost of his wife until he's finished with what he thinks he has to do to make it right. Once he's free of that obligation, it'll still take a strong woman to make him want to move on from there. You're the kind of woman who might be able to do that, and from what I see in Cole Bonner, he's worth saving. That's just my opinion. I won't have anything more to say on the matter.”

Still seething somewhat from what she perceived as a complete disregard for her feelings, Mary Lou
muttered, “To hell with him. Let some other woman save him. Damned if I'm going to wait around for him to go chasin' off after somebody.” She looked at Maggie, as if expecting her to agree. “He's not the only man in the territory, and damn sure not my only chance for a husband.”

“He might be the only one suited to you,” Maggie said, knowing Mary Lou was referring to Gordon Luck, who had been pestering her to marry him for more than six months. “I don't know if you could make it as a preacher's wife.”

“At least he'd be home every night,” Mary Lou replied, still fuming.

•   •   •

Jose Sanchez lolled leisurely with his back against the flat side of a rock outcropping at the top of a treeless mesa. He had been biding his time there since early morning, watching the little grove of trees bordering a small creek, waiting for someone to show up.

“Well, it's about time,” he muttered when a man led a team of plow horses through the trees to water them at the creek. He flipped the stubby butt of a cigar he had been smoking into the gravel below his perch, roused himself up from the rock, and casually climbed into the saddle. He guided the bay gelding down the backside of the mesa and circled around toward the creek at a comfortable lope.

Raymond Anderson was unaware he was about to have a visitor until Sanchez suddenly appeared in the ring of trees surrounding the watering hole. Still holding the traces while his horses drank, Anderson squinted, straining to recognize the rider, but he decided that he was a stranger. Relieved to see that it was not Big Steve Long, or either one of the rogue
marshal's brothers making another call to pressure him into selling them his property, Anderson had no reason to be wary. It was not unusual to see the occasional rider passing through his land on his way to Laramie City, two miles away.

“Howdy,” he called out cordially as the stranger pulled up at the edge of the creek.

“I think I water my horse,” Sanchez stated stoically.