Crow Creek Crossing (6 page)

Guiding Joe toward the rear of the smokehouse, he dismounted when he was within about twenty yards and pulled his rifle from the saddle sling. Mort Johnson had told him that there would be a guard at the makeshift jail at all times, so he skirted the building in the darkness until he saw a figure sitting by a fire in front of the door. Dropping to one knee, he watched the guard for a few minutes and decided that the man's main interest was simply to keep warm. He then turned his attention to the stables in front of the smokehouse and watched for a few minutes. There was no sign of anyone there. The only things stirring were a few horses left in the corral for the night. His mind made up, he rose to his feet, pulled his bandanna off his neck and retied it around his face, then walked boldly toward the smokehouse.

“Whoa!” Jonah Welch blurted, taken completely by surprise. “Is that you, Paul?” he asked, unable to make out the man's features in the dark. He struggled to get up out of his comfortable position by the fire, only to be met by the barrel of Cole's rifle against
his forehead before he was halfway up. When he looked up to see the masked man hovering over him, he sank slowly back to a sitting position. Convinced that he was about to cross that dark divide that awaited all men, he pleaded, “For God's sake, mister, hold on. I've got a wife and young'uns. Whatever you're after, I ain't gonna give you no trouble.”

“Unlock the door,” Cole ordered. He had no intention of harming the man, so he hoped he was as scared as he seemed. “Smiley Dodd,” he called, “you in there?”

“Hell yeah,” Smiley answered, fully as surprised as his guard, Jonah Welch, had been. “Who is that?”

“A friend,” Cole answered. Then he glared at Jonah when the trembling man failed to open the padlock. “Mister, I ain't got time to fool with you. Unlock that damn door.”

Shaking with fright, Jonah whimpered, “I ain't got no key. Mort Johnson's got the key. He won't unlock it till he brings the prisoner some breakfast in the morning.”

This was disappointing news to Cole, causing him to hesitate while he decided what to do. Determined to carry out his plan, however, he ordered Jonah to surrender the rifle beside him. “You wearin' a handgun?” he asked as he took the rifle from him. When Jonah opened his coat and showed him that he wasn't, Cole told him to get on his feet. “Turn around and put your hands on the wall.” Jonah did as he was ordered and faced the front wall of the building with the palms of his hands flat against the logs. “You just stay that way,” Cole said, “and maybe you won't get hurt.”

“Did Slade send you?” Smiley called out impatiently. “Hurry up and get me outta here.”

“Hold your horses,” Cole told him. He tested the hinges on the smokehouse door. There were only two, and they were held in place by two nails each. It didn't surprise him. Smokehouses weren't built with imprisoning outlaws in mind. And whoever built it wasn't worrying about cured hams trying to break out. The hinges seemed to be firmly attached, but he felt sure they could be loosened with something to use for leverage. He looked around for a lever of some kind, but he could see nothing in the darkness. Then he remembered Jonah's rifle.

That might do it,
he thought.

There was a large enough crack between the edge of the door and the doorframe to insert the barrel of the rifle, so he wedged it up as close to the top hinge as he could. It wasn't necessary to tell Smiley what to do. As soon as he saw what Cole was attempting, he put his shoulder to the door and tried to help.

Cole applied all the force he could muster behind the resisting hinge until, finally, the nails began to back out of the door frame. Smiley, becoming more excited with the considerable show of progress, increased his efforts, banging against the door like a bull. Suddenly the hinge pulled free of the frame, causing the door to sag away at the top.

Held now by only a bottom hinge and the padlocked clasp, the door hung open far enough for Smiley to step through the opening. “Hot damn!” he exclaimed, truly amazed to have been rescued. Anxious to complete his escape, he didn't take time to look closely at the masked stranger who had freed him. Instead he looked around frantically.

“Where's my horse?”

“There are some horses in the corral there,” Cole said, nodding toward the back of the stables. “Pick one out.”

“Pick one out?” Smiley retorted. “Hell, I want my horse and my saddle.”

“We ain't got time for you to break into the tack room in the stable. I've got money to buy you a new outfit when we get away from here. We need to leave now, before the next fellow comes to relieve this guard. So just grab any horse with a bridle on it and let's go.”

“You've got money?” Smiley replied, confused by the entire situation. He was still surprised that Slade and the others would bother to come back for him. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I told you. A friend,” Cole answered. “Now, let's not waste any more time here.” He turned his attention to Jonah then, who was still standing flat against the wall. “You can step inside now and go sit in the back corner.” Jonah obeyed immediately.

“Shoot the son of a bitch!” Smiley blurted. “He'll tell 'em which way we went.”

“No, he won't,” Cole said. “He's gonna stay put in that smokehouse till we're outta sight, 'cause he knows I'll shoot him if he sticks his nose out in the light of that fire. Ain't that right, mister?”

“Yes, sir,” Jonah replied. “I ain't in no hurry to get shot.”

“And I can see that fire for a long way,” Cole continued. “If I shoot him before you get a horse, we'll have half the town runnin' out here to see what's goin' on. So get goin'.”

Smiley wasn't tickled with the plan. He wanted his
horse and saddle. He was fond of the buckskin gelding he had stolen in Kansas. But on the other hand, the idea of buying a whole new outfit wasn't bad, either, so he ran to the corral and climbed over the rails. As luck would have it, his buckskin was among the horses there. He almost blurted out in surprise.

“Hell,” he muttered, “I bet I can get my saddle, too.” He paused to take a look around. There was no one around the place but the masked man and the scared little fellow in the smokehouse. There was a locked door to the barn inside the corral. “We'll spend that jasper's money on somethin' more pleasurable,” he said, and kicked the door in.

Cole couldn't help wondering if he had overplayed his hand. Smiley was taking far too much time in the corral, and he could hear the sound of the outlaw's boots thudding against the door. Maybe he was too smart to be taken in by the simple ruse and was figuring on running out the other side of the barn. He decided to go in to search for him, but the gate to the corral opened just then, and Smiley burst out riding a buckskin horse, saddle and all. “Let's make tracks!” he blurted to Cole as he rode by.

Cole had no choice but to turn Joe and gallop after him, but before he did, he emptied the cartridges from Jonah's rifle, just in case he decided to take a parting shot. “I'd be careful about using this rifle if I was you,” he called out to the man inside. “I bent the barrel a little bit on that door, and it might split on you if you try to shoot it.” There was no sound or reply from inside the dark smokehouse, so Cole gave Joe a firm nudge and set off after Smiley.

Anxious to put as much ground behind him as possible, Smiley held the buckskin to a reckless
gallop over the darkened prairie, with Cole giving close chase. They maintained the pace for almost two miles, until finally Cole shouted for him to hold up.

“It don't make much sense to run the horses to death,” he told him. “If we don't walk 'em for a spell, you and me are gonna be on foot with a posse after us.” Smiley couldn't disagree, so he reluctantly dismounted and led his horse beside Cole.

“Who'd you say you was?” Smiley asked again.

“I'm an old friend of Slade's from way back,” Cole replied. “He sent word for me to come get you outta that smokehouse.”

“Slade ain't ever said nothin' about knowin' somebody around here. Seems kinda funny he ain't even mentioned it. How'd he have time to send word to you?”

“You ask too damn many questions,” Cole said. “You're out of that smokehouse, ain't you?”

“Yeah, I reckon,” Smiley replied, still finding his jailbreak more and more strange. “How long you gonna keep that bandanna tied around your face?”

“I forgot I had it on,” Cole lied. “I couldn't take a chance on that fellow back there recognizin' me.” He pulled it down just below his chin, counting on the night to mask his features, and hoping Smiley didn't recognize him at once.

Although confused by the sudden appearance of a strange rescuer whom he had had no knowledge of before, Smiley did not suspect foul play. In fact, he took little notice of Cole's face as they led the horses in the darkness.

“They took my rifle,” he complained. “It wasn't in the saddle sling. I'm gonna have to get another one,
first chance I get. We shoulda took that feller's back there.”

“The barrel was bent,” Cole said.

Smiley held up a pistol for Cole to see. “They didn't get this .44 I had in my saddlebag, though.” He checked the cylinder to make sure it was loaded. As they continued walking while the horses caught their breath, Cole was trying to decide the best way to find out where Slade and the other two were going when they fled Johnstown. In a few moments, however, Smiley asked the question “Where the hell are Slade and the boys? Where are we supposed to meet 'em?”

Cole had to think fast. “He said you'd know. That's all he told me. Said you'd know where they're headin'.”

“I'd know?” Smiley responded. “How the hell would I know?” He thought for a minute before speculating. “Well, we was plannin' on headin' up in the mountains after we left Cheyenne to lie up awhile, but I don't know where he figures we'll catch up to him.” He scratched his shaggy whiskers thoughtfully. “Best I can figure, he must be plannin' on goin' back to Buzzard's Roost, up in the mountains. At least, that's where we was talkin' about goin'. Reckon that's where he meant?”

“I reckon,” Cole replied. Hoping to get more specific directions to Buzzard's Roost, a place he had never heard of, he pressed for more information. “I've heard of that place, but I ain't ever been there. I ain't sure I could find it, if I was on my own.”

“Easy enough,” Smiley said. “Follow the creek up from the river where Lem Dawson's tradin' post sets. . . .”

He paused abruptly, suddenly sensing something wrong, and he realized that he had not been able to get a close look at this stranger who said Slade sent him. It seemed to him that any friend of Slade's would know where Buzzard's Roost was. And ever since he had pulled his bandanna off, the man had kept his face turned aside, never facing him head-on.

“Wait a minute,” Smiley said, straining to get a better look at his benefactor. “Ain't I seen you someplace before?” It struck him then. “You're the bastard that shot Frank Cowen in that hotel dining room.” He hesitated as he formed the picture in his mind. “That was you!” He jerked the .44 from his belt and aimed it at Cole but wasn't quick enough to beat the bullet already on its way from Cole's rifle. He folded over when the slug tore into his belly, causing him to fire his pistol into the ground at his feet. Even as he dropped to his knees, he tried to pull the trigger again, but Cole knocked the weapon from his hand.

Helpless now, his eyes glazed with the searing pain in his gut, he gasped, “Why?”

“Those people you and your friends killed on the Chugwater, they were my family, my wife—and you animals slaughtered them, that's why.” No longer able to remain on his knees, Smiley keeled over to land on his side, his pudgy face twisted in a painful snarl. “You're dyin',” Cole said. “You might as well tell me what river Lem Dawson's tradin' post is on. Maybe that'll help make up some for your sins.”

“Go to hell,” Smiley choked out with a mouthful of blood. “You broke me out so you could kill me?”

“That's a fact,” Cole said. “And I'll find the other three sooner or later,” he stated stoically. “Tell me
where to find them, and I'll put an end to your sufferin'.”

“Go to hell,” Smiley repeated.

Cole studied the dying man's face for a few moments. There was no compassion in his heart for him. “Have it your way,” he said. “Maybe you'll die before the coyotes and the buzzards start to feed on your worthless carcass.”

He cranked another cartridge into the chamber and put another slug in Smiley's midsection to make sure he died, although not too fast. He didn't feel that it was right for the murderer to slip easily into death.

•   •   •

Even though one more of the killers had paid the ultimate price for his sins, there was no feeling of solace for the determined executioner. The fact that he had been transformed into a killing machine with no purpose beyond the fulfillment of total vengeance was of no moral consequence to him. His thoughts turned immediately to the unfinished business he had sworn to complete. He had hoped to learn more regarding the possible whereabouts of Slade Corbett, the man called Tom, and the Mexican, but at least he had one clue to work on. Smiley had said that their plan had been to go up in the mountains.

As cold as it had already been, it seemed odd to him that they would be heading up in the mountains. But if that was true, it could be anywhere north or west of where he now stood. The closest mountains would be the Laramie Range, directly west. And if that had been their intended destination, then maybe the trading post was on the Laramie River. He could think of no better option than to proceed on that assumption. There was little doubt that a posse from
Johnstown would soon be on its way, but they would most likely wait until daylight to have any hopes of following his tracks. And just like the posse, Cole would have to wait until sunup for any hope of finding tracks left by Slade and the others. With those facts in mind, he decided there was no risk to camp where he was until dawn. So he picked up Smiley's weapons, tied a lead rope on his horse, and rode downstream until he found a campsite that suited him.