Massacre at Crow Creek Crossing

by Charles G. West

  Pinnacle Westerns by Spur Award Winner CHARLES G. WEST

  Hell Hath No Fury

  No Justice in Hell

  MASSACRE AT CROW CREEK CROSSING

  CHARLES G. WEST

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 Charles G. West

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-4558-7

  Electronic edition:

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4559-4 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4559-0 (e-book)

  For Ronda

  CHAPTER 1

  Cole Bonner stood up again after having put the mortally wounded deer out of her misery. He looked back when he heard Harley Branch pushing through the willows beside the busy stream behind him.

  “I swear,” Harley offered, “she got farther than I thought she would.” He was breathing heavily from his efforts to catch up to the deer and his younger friend. “Fine shot, though,” he continued as he walked up beside Cole and peered down at the doe. “Right behind her front leg—you’re gettin’ pretty good with that bow. I reckon that’s what you were aimin’ at, tryin’ for a lung shot.”

  Cole snorted, amused. “Hell, I was just aimin’ at the deer. It just happened to hit her there.”

  Harley snorted in reply, knowing Cole had hit the deer exactly where he had aimed. His young friend seemed to be handy with just about any kind of weapon, so Harley had not been surprised by the short time required for him to become quite efficient with a bow. Cole had deemed it important to learn to use the weapon since money for .44 cartridges was not in great supply.

  “I reckon we’ll butcher it and smoke it and pack it if we’ve got any more room on the horses to tote it,” Harley said. “If we run up on any more deer, we’re liable to have to train some of ’em to use as packhorses to tote the rest of the meat.” He paused to chuckle at the thought of it. “I reckon old Medicine Bear will be surprised to see us show up with all the meat we’ve cured—happy, too. He ain’t lookin’ for us to come back before spring.”

  “Reckon so.” Cole had not planned to return to the Crow village on the Laramie River before spring, and maybe not until summer, depending on how he felt. The time he and Harley had spent in the mountains had served to entice him to push on to explore the ranges beyond the Bighorns. It was a period in his life when he needed to find a peace in his soul, and the high snowy peaks seemed to speak to him. There were things he would like to forget, and people he would always remember. The solitude of the Rocky Mountain ridges and valleys came to him as a place to heal. But as winter deepened, he realized that Harley was past the point when the mountains spoke to him. Cole owed a great deal to the short, bowlegged little man the Crow people affectionately called Thunder Mouse. Harley had come along at a time when Cole needed someone who knew the country and would stand with him when the going got rough.

  Although Harley never complained about the rough dwelling they had fashioned at the bottom of a long narrow ravine, Cole decided to pull out of the snowy Bighorns and take Harley back to a warm tipi. “This oughta just about do it,” he said, nodding toward the carcass. “We’ll start back in the mornin’.”

  “Whatever you think best, partner,” Harley said as casually as he could manage, still trying to disguise his eagerness to return to the Crow camp. They worked the rest of that day, smoking the largest portion of the fresh kill to preserve it, while keeping a generous amount of it to eat on the way back to the village.

  * * *

  On the second day of travel about a mile short of the South Fork of the Powder River, Cole pulled his horse up short when he discovered a thin column of smoke rising on the far side of a treeless ridge up ahead. He waited for Harley to pull up beside him on the low rise before commenting. “If I had to guess, I’d say that oughta be comin’ from beside the river.”

  “I expect you’re right,” Harley agreed. They both studied the smoke that etched a thin dirty yellow line on the cloudy gray sky. “About right for a campfire, providing there’s a sizable party campin’ there,” he added.

  Cole was thinking the same as Harley. They had seen signs of a hunting party in the foothills, and on one occasion, had gotten close enough to identify it as Sioux. They could play it safe and swing around far enough to strike the river south of the camp and avoid it altogether. With no wish to encounter the Sioux hunters, that would be the wisest choice to make. Cole could not ignore the natural urge to take a look, however, in case it was not the hunting party’s camp. Some innocent travelers might be under attack by Sioux warriors, although if that was the case, he and Harley were close enough to hear any shooting, and there was no sound of that. Also, if that was the case, it probably meant they were too late to help. It was not likely to be settlers traveling this time of year in that country, anyway—maybe a cavalry patrol that found itself outnumbered by the hostiles.

  Still, Cole decided it couldn’t hurt to find out who was burning what, if only to determine any threat to Harley and himself. “We might best take a look.”

  “I reckon,” Harley agreed, knowing his friend well enough to have been certain they would all along.

  The snakelike course of the river was easily traced by the trees and bushes that lined its banks as it wound its way through the open prairie on both sides. Their concern was that they would have to cross that rolling treeless plain before reaching the cover of the cottonwoods beside the river. Anyone who might be watching from the river could easily see them before they got within one hundred yards. Consequently they decided to angle off toward the east to strike the river farther downstream and then work back to the point where the smoke originated. Hindered a great deal by the string of packhorses behind each rider, they knew it would not be to their advantage to be spotted by anyone in the event they were forced to run. They planned to tie the horses in the trees when they approached the camp and proceed on foot from that point.

  It took almost
half an hour to reach a spot on the riverbank approximately two hundred yards short of the place from which the smoke emanated. They dismounted and Harley remained there to guard the horses while Cole made his way along the bank on foot.

  “Make sure don’t nobody spot you,” Harley said. “We might have to leave in a hurry if that is a pack of Sioux and they come after you. I’ll have a helluva time tryin’ to manage this big bunch of packhorses by myself.”

  “I don’t plan on gettin’ caught,” Cole assured him. “But if I do, I’ll try to get off at least one round to warn you. If you hear it, don’t wait for me.” He didn’t care much for alerting a Sioux hunting party of his and Harley’s presence and losing the supply of meat they had cured to take to the Crow village, as well as the horses that were carrying it. There was also concern for the hides he was packing. He sorely needed them to trade for the ammunition and supplies he was running short of.

  In spite of those concerns, however, he could not ignore the column of smoke and ride on, not knowing if someone there was in a bad situation. “I’ll whistle if it’s all clear.”

  “Just be careful,” Harley reminded him once more as Cole started out along the bank of the river.

  Within fifty yards of the smoke, he still heard no sounds that would indicate the presence of anyone. Another ten yards took him to the edge of a low bank of berry bushes where he got his first glimpse of the source of the dirty yellow smoke. In a small clearing near the water’s edge, a typical farm wagon was still smoldering, the wagon box and its contents having been mostly consumed by the flames beneath it. He paused for a few moments, scanning the campsite carefully, then looked back at the burning wagon. To set it on fire, the Indians had simply pulled the wagon over their victims’ campfire and parked it there. He scanned the campsite again to make sure, but it was obvious that no one was left in the camp, at least no one alive. Cole shifted his gaze back closer to the edge of the river when the dark shape of a body caught his eye. Someone, he thought, prospector or settler, has rolled the dice and lost. It was a shame, but it was not that rare an occurrence at a time when Sioux war parties were raiding all along the Yellowstone and its tributaries. Satisfied that there was no longer any danger, he stood up and whistled for Harley to bring the horses.

  Cole walked out of the cottonwoods and went straight to the body lying near the water, paying close attention to the tracks in the light snow on the ground. By the time he reached the body, he knew it was not Indians who had attacked the unfortunate victim. There were no tracks left by unshod ponies, as there would have been had the man been killed by Indians. And there were footprints left by men in boots, not moccasins. The men who did this rode shod horses. And from what he could see, there were no more than two or three men. He turned the body over and stared down at the victim, a youngish man, possibly no more than twenty-five or thirty. Dressed in the simple garb of a farmer or prospector, his scalp had not been taken, a further indication that the evil business was conducted by white men. There were two bullet holes in his chest and a more obvious one in his forehead, that one evidently to make sure he was dead.

  Cole was looking around at what remains he could find near the smoldering wagon when Harley entered the clearing, leading the horses.

  “I swear . . .” Harley muttered when he saw the corpse, “some bad business here.” He looked over at Cole, still close by the wagon. “Whaddaya figure?”

  “Well, it wasn’t Indians,” Cole replied, concerned more than he had been because of the pieces of woman’s clothes he’d found that had not been completely consumed by the flames. He held a scorched skirt up for Harley to see, all that was left of a gingham dress.

  “I swear . . .” Harley muttered again, shaking his head slowly. “What in the world was they doin’ out here in the middle of nowhere, all alone?” He looked around him as if searching for another body.

  Sharing the same thought, both men began a scout of the clearing, hoping to find the woman still alive. After a thorough search, they concluded that she had been taken by the men who had killed her husband.

  “They headed out this way,” Harley called from the opposite end of the clearing. When Cole joined him, Harley added, “Yonder,” and pointed toward a line of low hills to the southeast.

  Cole studied the line of tracks that led into the river. “Might be three men, but I’d bet there was just two of ’em and the woman, and maybe two packhorses, with the woman ridin’ a mule.” He pointed to the smaller hoofprints mixed in with the others. He stepped up in the saddle then and forded the river to see if they had continued in the same direction once they crossed.

  He returned to join Harley, shrugged, and said, “I reckon we’d best find out what happened to the woman.” His comment seemed almost casual, but the picture of what the woman might be enduring was not something he could ignore. Her husband looked to be a fairly young man, causing Cole to speculate on the woman’s fate. Had she been older, she would more than likely be lying dead beside her husband. “I can’t waste any more time,” he said to Harley. “I don’t know how much head start they’ve got, but there ain’t much daylight left before they’ll be thinkin’ about making camp.”

  Harley understood what Cole was about to say. He was thinking the same thing, so he cut him off. “That feller layin’ over there is just startin’ to get real stiff, so maybe they ain’t got too much of a lead. I figure it’d be best if you was to go on after ’em and I’ll come behind you with the horses. If they hold to that line the tracks started out on, they’re pretty much headin’ the same way we are. I hope I won’t be that far behind you.” He knew what Cole was capable of on his own and that he would just slow him down. “You just be careful you don’t go ridin’ into no ambush.”

  “Right.” Cole turned the big Morgan back toward the other side again. “It ain’t gonna be a hard trail to follow,” he called back over his shoulder. He hated to leave his friend with the job of protecting their horses, but in good conscience, he had no choice. He just hoped that he could find the woman before she was harmed too badly.

  “I’ll wait here till the horses have had a chance to drink before I start after you,” Harley said. “While I’m waitin’, I’ll put this poor feller in the ground.”

  Cole waved his hand to acknowledge, then set out following the obvious trail in the light snow. Harley paused a few minutes, watching his young friend as he rode off after the men who had done this evil business. He had not mentioned it, but he was sure that memories of Cole’s past had come rushing back to remind him of the tragedy that had destroyed his family—also at the hands of murderers like these he was bound to go after today. Harley could tell when the occasional memory came back to haunt his friend, but Cole never spoke of it. Maybe time will eventually heal his sorrow, Harley thought.

  As he had told Harley, Cole had no trouble following the trail, which led to the southeast in the general direction of the little settlement of Casper. He encouraged Joe to a fast walk, and the big Morgan gelding responded willingly. Cole had planned to rest Joe at the river even though he had not shown signs of exhaustion, but he was going to have to ask a little more of him. If the men he pursued were heading to Casper, it was unlikely they planned to reach that town with a woman hostage in tow, so he could not waste any time in the chase. Maybe they would stop a little earlier than usual to make camp. That would be good for him, but might not be good for their captive. The thought increased the urgency he already felt for the woman’s situation.

  * * *

  Malcolm Womack pulled his horse to a halt and waited for his brother to pull up beside him. He pointed to a pocket of trees a few hundred yards ahead, where a stream wound its way through a shallow valley. “That looks like a good place.”

  “I was startin’ to wonder if you was gonna stop anytime soon,” Travis said. Younger than his brother by a year and a half, he was accustomed to waiting for Malcolm when it came to making decisions—at least when their eldest brother, Troy, was not present. That was
the case on this trip, Troy having elected to remain in Laramie.

  Malcolm chuckled in response. “You ain’t gettin’ itchy, are you, brother? Hell, we ain’t rode more ’n five miles from their camp.” He turned in the saddle to look back at the woman on the mule behind him. “How ’bout you, Buttercup? You gettin’ itchy, too?” He chuckled again at the joke he had made, amused by the lack of response from his hostage.

  In mortal fear for her life, Carrie Green was not certain whether or not she might prefer death to the horror she feared was awaiting her. Her eyes downcast, she sat astride the mule that had pulled her wagon, her mind’s eye still blinded by the picture of her husband’s brutal slaying. Since there was no saddle and no reins, she had kept from falling off by holding on to the mule’s stubby mane, her wrists firmly bound together. She wished now that she had been killed with her husband, and the thought of letting go of the mane had tempted her. But she feared a fall from the mule would only cause her more pain to add to that from the deep bruise on her face, the result of a stunning blow from Malcolm’s fist. It came as a clear message of her helplessness at the hands of her abductors.

  “Yonder in that sharp bend looks like the best spot,” Travis suggested, the hint of excitement obvious in his voice. “There’s still a good bit of daylight left. I reckon we’re just gonna stop long enough to rest the horses, ain’t we?” His mind was already heating up with thoughts of what he might do to pass the time while the horses were resting.

  His brother’s impatience caused Malcolm to chortle. “Why, hell no. We might as well camp early—give us a little time to enjoy some of that ham Buttercup and her husband brought with ’em, and maybe see if she’s worth the trouble it took to take her with us. They sure as hell weren’t carryin’ anythin’ else in that wagon worth two cents.” The lecherous grin plastered on Travis’s face told him it was good news to him. Too bad ol’ Troy stayed back in Laramie, Malcolm thought. He’d sure enough get a kick out of this.