Crow Creek Crossing (4 page)

“What about Frank?” Tom Larsen exclaimed, pointing to the man Cole had shot.

“What about him?” Slade replied curtly. “He's dead. Leave him. I ain't stickin' around to have a chat with the sheriff and his damn vigilantes about a man dumb enough to think he can draw his pistol faster than a man can pull a trigger.” Slade was not averse to standing his ground against the sheriff and his two deputies, but he was well aware of the vigilance committee that had taken matters into their own hands before. Known as the “Gunnysack Gang,” they had held more than a dozen hangings already since the town had been overrun with felons.

The five men ran through the kitchen and out the back door to the alley behind the hotel. The problem now was to get to their horses, which they had left at the hitching rail in front of the saloon next to the hotel. They had to count on the excitement in the dining room to divert attention from the saloon. “We've got to leave this damn town,” Slade told them, “and I mean right now.”

“I wish we coulda et first,” the slow-witted Skinner complained.

In front of the hotel, Cole backed cautiously away when it appeared he had stopped anyone trying to come out the front door. He had killed a man, something he had never done before, but in the heat of the moment, he had not had the time to consider the right or wrong of his actions. His thoughts now tended to lean more toward removing himself from the scene, so he started toward the stables and his horse. “Hold on there, mister.” He heard a voice behind him and turned to see a man holding a shotgun on him. He wore a badge on his coat. “I think we need to have a
little talk with you.” He waited a moment for a deputy to catch up to him. “Jake, relieve this fellow of his weapon and take him up to the jail. We'll hear what he has to say after we take care of his friends.”

“They're no friends of mine,” Cole said.

“Glad to hear it, son,” the sheriff replied. “We'll hear your story directly.”

With Cole on his way to jail, the sheriff and his other deputy began a cautious approach toward the hotel. Reaching the door, and seeing no sign of an ambush, the sheriff suspected the outlaws must have gone out the back, so he instructed the deputy to go around to the alley. “And watch yourself,” he cautioned. He went in then to find Maggie Whitehouse trying to comfort Mary Lou, who had taken a bullet in her shoulder.

Seeing the sheriff, Maggie blurted, “They ran out the back!”

He hesitated momentarily when he spotted the body lying on the floor. “He's dead,” Maggie said. The sheriff nodded briefly and ran through the kitchen to the back door. Stepping out into the alley, he heard a volley of what sounded like three or four shots fired at the same time. With his shotgun held ready before him, he hurried around the building to find his deputy lying on the ground, dying from four bullet wounds in his stomach and chest, and the sound of horses galloping out the north side of town.

With no recourse to protest his arrest, Cole was forced to spend the night in Cheyenne's jail. There was no one to hear his claim of self-defense, except an old man named Pete Little, whose job it was to sit in the sheriff's office while a posse went after Slade Corbett and his friends. The posse had been hastily recruited soon after the shootings, made up of merchants and their hired help. And they had left that night while the outlaws' trail was still fresh, but after several hours, they gave up the chase, deciding that it was too dark to follow the tracks. It would be safe to say that a majority of the posse was not especially eager to catch up with the fugitives, not relishing the idea of a fight with the five gunmen. It was early morning when the posse returned to town, weary and hungry. Pete brought Cole a plate of food for breakfast, which he appreciated, but neither the sheriff nor his remaining deputy came back to the office until almost noon.
According to Pete, they were catching up on the sleep they had lost the night before.

“Well, young feller,” the sheriff began upon returning to the office, “I don't reckon we'll schedule you for a hangin' after all. I talked to Maggie and Mary Lou, as well as some of the folks who saw the start of the trouble last night. They all said you never started it, and one feller who's a foreman or somethin' with the Union Pacific said he ran into you back down the line a ways. Said you was just a homesteader travelin' through here to settle up by the Chugwater. He didn't think you was the kind to start trouble. Anyway, it wasn't you that shot Mary Lou. You did shoot that other feller, though, but they said he tried to shoot you first. So it looks like you ain't gonna enjoy any more of our hospitality. I'm sorry to say they got away. They're a mean bunch. We didn't know they was Slade Corbett's gang of murderers till Maggie heard a couple of 'em call him by name. Anyway, you're free to go.”

“Is the girl Mary Lou gonna be all right?” Cole asked as he waited for the sheriff to unlock the cell door.

“Yeah, she'll be fine—took a slug in the shoulder—might not be carryin' too many trays for a spell, but she'll be all right.” He handed Cole his rifle. “Maggie said you was like greased lightning with this Henry. I ain't gonna be gettin' no paper on you anytime soon, am I?”

“No, sir,” Cole answered. “Last night was the first time I've ever used that rifle on a man. I can't say as I feel too good about takin' a man's life, even one like that. I don't intend for it to happen again. I've got a
new wife and a piece of ground up on the Chugwater that I'm fixin' to go file on at the land office right now. I don't figure to have any time for any mischief.”

“Good for you, boy. Say, what is your name, any- way?”

“Cole Bonner.”

“Well, pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand. “My name's Jim Thompson. Welcome to Cheyenne. We're looking for new families like yours.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson. I think we're gonna do just fine out here,” Cole said. “My wife and I came out here with her sister and her husband and their three kids. I expect you'll see them in town at some time or another.”

He walked away from the sheriff's office feeling very contented with his introduction to the law of Cheyenne. He had a feeling that he and Ann had made the right choice in coming to Wyoming Territory with John and Mabel, in spite of the confrontation that caused him to kill a man. It still troubled his mind, but if he had taken time to consider his actions, he would have been the one lying dead on the dining room floor.

When he left the land office, his land registered, he had one more call to make before going to pick up Joe at the stable. He thought it the decent thing to do to stop by the hotel and inquire about Mary Lou's condition. Maggie saw him when he came in the door, and she went to meet him. “How's Mary Lou doin'?” he asked.

“See for yourself,” Maggie answered, as Mary Lou came from the kitchen just then, carrying a tray of food with one hand. The other was bandaged and
supported in a sling. “Doc Marion fixed her up last night, and she showed up for work this morning, sassy as ever.”

“I'm sorry she got hit because of me, but I'm glad she's gonna make it all right,” Cole said. He stood there for a few minutes, watching Mary Lou as she bent low to set the tray down on a table with her one good arm before arranging the dishes for a man and his wife.

When she was finished, she walked over to join Cole and Maggie. “I see Jim let you outta jail,” she said in greeting. “Pete Little said you was spendin' the night there.”

“Yep,” Cole replied. “I reckon it was better'n sleepin' in the stable like I had planned to do. They wouldn'ta served me breakfast at the stables.” They laughed at his remark. “I just wanted to tell you I'm real sorry you got shot,” he went on.

“I appreciate your concern,” Mary Lou said, “but I'm gonna be just fine. In a couple of days, I'll be servin' hash with both hands again. To tell you the truth, I'm mighty glad to see you didn't get yourself hurt. That's a mean bunch of cutthroats we were dealin' with. If I'da known they was Slade Corbett's gang of outlaws, I wouldn't have been so sassy-mouthed with 'em myself.” She smiled warmly at him then. “I could tell by the look on your face that you didn't like the way they were treating me, and it looked to me like you were thinking about doing something about it. So, thank you for that.”

Cole shrugged, slightly embarrassed. “I ended up gettin' you shot instead.”

Mary Lou laughed. “It's the thought that counts,” she said. “It didn't look to me like anybody else in the
place was gonna offer to help.” When she saw that he wasn't sure what to say, she saved him. “You gonna eat with us now?”

“Ah, no, ma'am,” he quickly replied. “I'd best be gettin' along toward home. I've already stayed in town longer than I expected to. My wife will think I've forgotten the way home.”

“Well, don't forget us next time you're in Cheyenne,” Maggie said.

“No, ma'am, I won't,” Cole said, touched his finger to his hat brim respectfully, then turned and headed toward the door.

“Say howdy to your wife for us,” Mary Lou called out after him. “Tell her she's a lucky woman.”

“I will,” Cole replied. “Don't know if she'll believe that last part, though.”

He was almost out the door when a man sitting with two others at a table near the door spoke to him. “Glad to see you're walkin' around free this mornin'.” Surprised, Cole paused to reply. The man looked familiar, but he wasn't sure why. “Stephen Manning with the railroad,” the man reminded him. “We met at one of our line camps east of here.”

“Of course,” Cole said. “I couldn't place you at first.”

“Looks like you didn't waste any time lettin' folks in Cheyenne know you're here,” Manning said with a wide smile.

“It wasn't exactly the way I wanted it,” Cole said. Eager to get on his way, he nodded politely to the two men sitting with Manning. “I expect I'd best be gettin' along.” Then remembering something the sheriff had told him that morning, he said, “The sheriff said
you vouched for me last night. Said you told him I didn't start the trouble. I'm much obliged.”

“Glad I was able to tell him what I saw,” Manning said.

Cole gave him a firm nod and said, “I 'preciate it.” He walked out the door then and headed for the stables.

•   •   •

“Heard you got tangled up with a bad bunch last night,” Leon Bloodworth said when Cole walked into the stables to pay for his horse's board and stall.

“Reckon so,” Cole replied, realizing that everyone in town knew about it by then.

“Well, friend, I think it's a damn lucky thing you're still walkin' around today, and that's a fact. There ain't a meaner collection of rattlesnakes in the whole territory than that gang of killers. And what I heard was you pulled a bluff on all six of 'em!” He slapped his hand against his leg. “Whooee, I bet you was sweatin' aplenty.”

“I was,” Cole said matter-of-factly. “How much do I owe you?” He had heard enough about the confrontation in the dining room, and he was eager now to get back up on the Chugwater. Ann would soon be worrying about him.

He wasted no time saddling Joe and was quickly aboard and guiding the big Morgan on the north road out of town. Joe seemed glad to see him and took to the road cheerfully, seeming to want to shake the dust of Cheyenne as much as his master.

Cole had planned to make the ride back home in one day, but he hadn't counted on spending the morning in jail. And by the time he was able to get away, it was well into the afternoon. So he resigned
himself to riding half the distance, then stopping overnight before getting home early the next day. It was only natural that he should have thoughts about the possibility of some attempt by Slade Corbett to seek revenge for the killing of one of his men. But it hardly seemed likely in view of the fact that they had killed one of the sheriff's deputies and shot Mary Lou. Common sense told him that the outlaws seemed to have a great deal of respect for Sheriff Jim Thompson. They would most likely be on the run to leave this territory as far behind and as soon as possible. So his only concern was to get home to Ann as quickly as he could.

•   •   •

Smiley Dodd rode up the bank of the creek, where his four friends lay about a campfire, waiting for his report. “Any of that coffee left?” he asked as he dismounted and hurried up to the fire.

“Well?” Slade Corbett pressed, ignoring the ques- tion.

“There ain't but one man on the place that I could see,” Smiley said as he picked up the coffeepot and swished it around. “Two women—one of 'em pretty young—three young'uns, girl and two boys, looked no more'n ten or eleven for the oldest.” He paused to swish the pot around again. “I swear,” he complained, “there ain't no coffee left in this damn pot. Why the hell didn't one of you pull the damn thing offa the fire?”

“We save that for you,” Jose Sanchez mocked. “We know how you like to do it.”

“Go to hell, you damn Sonora cockroach,” Smiley responded sharply, in no mood for Sanchez's sneering sarcasm.

“Maybe I send you to hell,” Sanchez said, and drew the long skinning knife from its sheath, then held it up before his eyes as if aiming it at Smiley. “Maybe I scalp you first, like them damn Injuns. Then I carve you up.”

“Yeah? And maybe you'll get a bullet in that sick brain of yours,” Smiley retorted. Sanchez liked to taunt all of them, but he seemed especially partial to Smiley, possibly because the rotund and balding miscreant always responded predictably. Skinner was too dim-witted to realize he was being baited. Tom Larsen, like Slade, would most likely shoot him if his taunting irritated him. So he picked Smiley for most of his amuse- ment.

“I've a good mind to shoot both of you,” Slade said, finally tiring of Sanchez amusing himself by baiting Smiley. “You sure about what you saw, Smiley? There ain't but one man in that barn they're workin' on? 'Cause if we ride down there and somebody starts shootin' from inside that barn, I swear, I'll personally make sure you get hit.”

“There ain't nobody else,” Smiley insisted. “I rode all around that place. If there was somebody workin' inside that barn, I'da seen him.”

“All right, then,” Slade ordered. “We ain't doin' no good just settin' around this fire. Let's get goin' and welcome these homesteaders to the territory.”

•   •   •

“Somebody's comin',” young Elliot Cochran an- nounced.

“Where, son?” John paused, giving his axe a rest.

“Yonder, by the bank,” Elliot said, and pointed
toward the trees lining the creek upstream. Everyone stopped to look.

“I see 'em,” John said when he spotted the five riders breaking free of the trees along the creek.

“Who do you suppose they are?” Mabel asked, shading her eyes with her hand while she gazed at them.

“Why, I don't rightly know,” her husband replied. “But you and Ann best go in the house till we find out. Take Skeeter and Lucy with you. Elliot, look inside the barn door and bring me my carbine.” They all did as they were told. When Elliot brought the cavalry rifle and handed it to his father, he took a firm stand beside him. “You'd best run on in the house with your brother and sister,” John told him.

“I'll stand by you, Pa,” Elliot insisted.

It was too late to argue with the boy. The five riders were already approaching the cleared yard before the barn, so John remained standing in front of the barn, his son beside him.

“Afternoon,” Slade called out when they drew up before him. “Looks like you folks have done a lotta work on the place.”

“Afternoon,” John returned. “There's a lot left to do. Where are you fellers headin'?”

“Nowhere in particular,” Slade said, then very deliberately reached inside his coat and pulled the Colt revolver from its holster.

Although he was standing there, holding his Spencer carbine by his side, John was too surprised to act before the .44 slug slammed into his chest. Elliot screamed in shocked horror as his father dropped to the ground. He turned to run but got no farther than
a few yards before a bullet from Tom Larsen's pistol struck him in the back.

“Now,” Slade calmly said to Smiley, “if what you said is a fact, then there ain't nobody in that house but two women and two young'uns, right?”

“That's right,” Smiley assured him. “There ain't nobody else around.”

Always eager to use his knife, Sanchez stepped down and knelt beside John Cochran. “I take his scalp. Anybody comes along after we leave will go looking for Injuns.” He pressed the point of his skinning knife against John's hairline, causing the dying man to make a feeble effort to resist. “Hey,” Sanchez announced, “he ain't dead yet.” The discovery seemed to please him. “I finish him off after I scalp him.” He took pleasure in knowing the man would experience the pain of having his scalp lifted before he was mercifully killed. “I get the boy next.”