Massacre at Crow Creek Crossing

by Charles G. West

  That possibility was the reason Cole had to find him before he found Cole and made good on an attempt. It was the reason he’d told Campbell he would accept the responsibility, and start out after him before his trail became stone-cold.

  There was another reason as well. The man had shot, maybe killed, the sheriff. Like Arthur Campbell had said, that evil deed needed to be punished, and as far as Cole could determine, not one of the town’s citizens was willing to step up to do the job. He couldn’t honestly blame them. They all had families, so that left him as the only candidate for the job.

  I’m the one he wants, he thought. I’m the one who killed his brothers, so it’s sort of up to me to settle this thing for good. He was not content to leave Travis’s horse to run loose, however. He needed the money the horse might bring in a sale, not to mention the saddle and no doubt a rifle riding in a saddle scabbard. “I’m wastin’ time,” he muttered.

  At the stable, he took the essentials he thought he couldn’t do without from the packhorse, telling Leon that Harley would pick it up. Then he backed Joe away from the rail and rode back to the Cowboy’s Rest, where he found Harley engaged in conversation with the bartender.

  Refusing the offer of a shot of whiskey, he told Harley what he planned to do. “I ain’t comin’ back until I run that bastard to ground.”

  “Damnation, Cole,” Harley replied. “You don’t even know who he is, or what he looks like. Don’t let the mayor talk you into takin’ no careless chances.”

  “I got a glimpse of him,” Cole said. “I think I might recognize him if I was to see him again, and if my hunch is right, I figure his name is Womack ’cause Carrie said there were three brothers. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but if you ain’t here when I get back, I’ll see you back in Medicine Bear’s camp.” He turned and walked to the door before Harley could express more words of caution.

  Just before going out the door, Cole turned and declared, “You better hope I run him down, ’cause he’s lookin’ for the man that straddles that Mexican saddle, and he knows his name is Harley Branch.”

  Guiding Joe between the saddle shop and the post office, he looked for the tracks of the three horses in the light snow. He spotted them at once, since no other tracks had been left there since the snow had fallen. With no other thoughts beyond overtaking the gunman, he pushed Joe a little harder in hopes of lessening the head start already taken. Tracks of the fleeing horses led across a creek, then cut back to the west, toward the Laramie Mountains.

  After a couple of miles, the gunman cut back on a course that would intercept the Union Pacific Railroad tracks.

  Upon approaching the railroad, Cole spotted the stray horse with the empty saddle. A bay gelding, the horse had evidently given up the chase when it decided to stop and drink at a small stream. Cole reined Joe back to a walk and approached the bay slowly. The horse watched him attentively, but made no move to flee, permitting Cole to ride up to him and secure him with a lead rope. The fact that the man he chased had made no attempt to catch his brother’s horse told him that he had nothing in mind beyond running. Already leading a packhorse, he evidently figured an extra horse would slow him down too much. In fact, he might not have even known the horse was following him.

  With the bay in tow, Cole resumed the chase, following the tracks of only two horses. They continued to the railroad, but instead of crossing, they turned to follow the road beside the tracks. It seemed that his man was heading for Laramie. Encouraged, Cole thought he had a better chance of catching him in town than he would searching the mountains for him. Forced to pull Joe back to a walk again to keep from tiring the horses too soon, Cole consoled himself by thinking that Womack would have to do the same. Otherwise, he would soon be walking.

  Fortunately, there had been no other traffic on the narrow road since the snowfall, so tracking Womack was easy. Cole wondered why that thought hadn’t occurred to Womack.

  Only a short while after thinking it, the tracks stopped when the gunman had crossed a wide stream. So maybe he wasn’t heading directly to Laramie.

  Intent upon losing a tail or setting up an ambush? It was an indication he at least suspected someone might be tracking him.

  Upstream or downstream? Cole had to make a choice. He looked upstream, which would lead him into the foothills of the Laramie Mountains. Downstream might mean Womack was heading toward the Medicine Bow Mountains on the other side of the valley.

  Cole paused to again consider whether or not Womack was intent only on escaping, or still of a mind to double back in an attempt to kill the man who’d killed his brothers. Cole shrugged, thinking it didn’t make much difference, and decided to go upstream. Womack would likely think that was the best chance to lose anyone following or find a place to wait in ambush.

  Cole gave Joe a light touch with his heels and the big Morgan entered the stream. Keeping him in the middle of the rapidly moving water to see the stream as Womack had seen it, Cole figured he could more readily see the best place to exit without leaving tracks.

  Within a short time, he came to a flat rock jutting out from the bank. Thinking it a likely spot to leave the water without leaving tracks, he rode up on it and dismounted. He found no tracks on or around the rock as he’d expected, but upon finding open sand and gravel beyond the rock, also with no imprints from two horses, he knew Womack would have had to have wings. Back in the water, he continued upstream, watching the banks on both sides as the stream led him toward the top of a narrow ravine.

  Halfway up the ravine the first shot was fired. It struck Joe in the chest, causing the big Morgan to stagger sideways. Cole instinctively slid over to the side of the horse’s neck in time to avoid two more shots that snapped over his head only inches away. A fourth shot caught the courageous horse in his withers, and he stumbled several more steps before going down heavily on his side. Cole managed to draw his rifle from the scabbard as the horse collapsed on the bank, but he didn’t get his left foot out of the stirrup in time to avoid being pinned under the heavy weight of the big Morgan.

  He was trapped! Try as he might, he couldn’t pull his leg out from under Joe. The best he could do was to swing his right leg over and lie flat behind the big horse. No more shots came from above, which led him to believe Womack was waiting to see if he was going to come out from behind the fallen horse. Frantically straining to free himself, he pulled and pulled with no success.

  He paused for a moment to evaluate his situation. His leg felt compressed under Joe’s weight, but he felt no pain to indicate it was broken, as he had at first suspected. He could only speculate that the sandy bank of the stream permitted the leg to be driven into the ground instead of snapping on impact. That might have been good news, but he was trapped under the horse nevertheless, so he went back to pulling with all his might.

  * * *

  “He can’t get out from under that horse,” Troy muttered after several long minutes waiting for Cole to move out from behind the fallen horse. “He can’t get up! The son of a bitch is pinned down!” Suddenly the tables were turned and the advantage was his. “I killed your damn horse and now I’m gonna kill you,” he shouted. First, however, he had to leave the rocks he had chosen as his firing position and move along the ridge until he could see enough of his target to get a clear shot.

  He was almost gleeful as he worked his way from tree to rock to tree again, trying to find the angle that would give him a clear field of fire. Shooting fish in a barrel, he thought. He was to find, however, that the slope of the ridge did not seem to accommodate him, for the tree line where he needed to go stopped short of a grassy patch that would expose him if he moved to the edge.

  He finally settled on a position where he could see Cole’s hat and part of his shoulder. I’ll settle for that, he thought. I’m close enough with my rifle to hit anything I aim at. And there’s no danger of hitting Travis’s horse, still tied to a lead rope from the Morgan’s saddle.

  As he rested the barrel of the Winchester on
a small boulder and steadied his aim, Womack blew on his fingers, which were stiff from the cold. Then he concentrated his gaze on the hat and grinned when he saw it moving slightly. He knew that meant a head was in the hat. Confident he could hit the small target at that distance, he drew a deep breath to steady his aim, then slowly squeezed the trigger. With the crack of the rifle, the hat was immediately blown out of his sight.

  Right on the money, he thought as the shoulder dropped behind the horse’s body as well. Anxious to make sure of his kill, he jumped up and ran into the grassy patch, ejecting the spent shell as he ran. He was right in thinking he could get a clear view of the man lying behind the horse, but he had not counted on seeing that man flat on his back, waiting for him with a Henry rifle aimed at the edge of the clearing.

  There was no time for Womack to react, for the slug from Cole’s rifle was already on its way. With the impact of the bullet, he staggered backward a couple of steps before falling on his backside, stunned by the sudden surprise. Unable to move for a long moment, he felt a burning pain in his side. His fingers fumbled as he unbuttoned his coat and looked at the patch of blood already spreading on his shirt. Panic set in, for the blood was flowing freely, and he was struck with fear that he had to get some help before he bled to death.

  Frantic, he pushed himself backward until reaching the cover of the trees, afraid he might die if he didn’t get to a doctor. The closest was in Laramie, about twenty miles away. With no thought other than to save his life, he pushed to his feet again, although unsteady, and concentrated on one thing only—get to his horses. The man pinned under the dead horse was of no concern any longer. He would probably stay pinned under the horse until he starved to death or the wolves ate him, he told himself. But I ain’t gonna die on this mountain with him.

  Feeling as if his life was draining out of him, the wounded outlaw made his way stumbling back up the slope to his horses. He rummaged through his saddlebag until he found his spare pair of socks, which he stuffed against the hole in his side in an effort to stop the bleeding. They soon became soaked with blood, which only added to his panic. With no other option, he grabbed the saddle horn, pulled himself up into the saddle, and started down the other side of the ravine, bound for Laramie as fast as his horses would permit.

  * * *

  All around him, the ravine had become silent. Still Cole listened, intent upon picking up any sound that might indicate Womack was working his way farther down the ravine for a better spot to shoot from. Trapped as he was, with his leg pinned under the heavy horse, he would be helpless if the outlaw circled around to come up behind him. He knew for certain he had hit Womack, but didn’t know how badly he was wounded. When his shot had struck him, he had staggered backward out of sight.

  Cole could do nothing but lie there and wait, hoping Womack was dead. It was not long, however, before he thought he heard the sound of loose gravel stirred up by horses’ hooves coming from the other side of the ravine. As best he could guess, it sounded as if the gunman was leaving. Cole was not ready to assume that, knowing it could be a ruse. Listening intently, he wondered if Womack was hoping he would carelessly present a bigger target.

  Cole continued struggling to free himself as best he could while lying flat on his back. What was stopping Womack from simply riding around behind him? Assuming he had managed to get to his horses, he should certainly have been able to circle back to a position where he would have a clear shot at Cole. who could do nothing to protect himself.

  Finally, after waiting for what seemed an extremely long time, he decided that the sounds he had heard were, indeed, the departure of Womack. I’ll soon find out, he thought and rose to a sitting position. When that didn’t result in a wave of rifle fire, he knew the outlaw had fled.

  I must have wounded him pretty badly, he thought. Although the immediate task was to free himself from his horse, thoughts he had had no time for leaped to the forefront of his mind as he placed a hand on the Morgan’s neck and stroked the already cooling body. Joe was more to him than just a horse. He had been a partner, more like family, especially since the family he had known had been taken from him after such a short time. He had ridden the powerful Morgan all the way from Lancaster, Nebraska, when he first took his new wife to the land he had intended to farm on Chugwater Creek. It seemed like a hundred years had passed since then. I wouldn’t have made much of a farmer, he thought. But for her sake, I was willing to try like hell. With the death of the faithful horse, the last living memory of his life before his family was destroyed was now gone.

  Shaking away the memories, he turned to the task of freeing himself. The only tool he could reach was his skinning knife. Using it and his hands, he went to work on the cold sand under his leg. With no better plan, he concentrated on cutting a trench under the trapped limb in hopes that he could eventually clear out enough to let his leg settle a little deeper. He hoped the weight of the horse would still be supported by the ground on each side of the trench and he could slide his leg out.

  As he labored away, he occasionally glanced up at the bay gelding, frustrated to think of that horsepower going to waste, and how it would have made his task simple. The bay patiently watched the strange efforts of the trapped man, possibly wondering why he didn’t just order the Morgan to get up.

  After a half hour that seemed more like an hour, he had succeeded in digging a trench down to his knee, but he could get no farther due to the weight concentrated on the lower part of his leg. So far, he had been successful in gaining some movement in his imprisoned leg, but he was still held fast from his knee down. And there was the matter of freeing his boot from the stirrup. Discouraged, he took a look at the long knife in his hand, wondering if the only chance he had was to try to cut his leg off. “To hell with that,” he spat, knowing it to be impossible. Frustrated with his lack of success, he placed his free foot on the seat of his saddle and strained to move the horse off of his leg, no longer worried about the possibility of Womack’s return.

  “Damn it, Joe!” he exclaimed. “Why in hell did you have to fall at an angle like that?”

  As if in response, the big Morgan’s stomach seemed to heave slightly, and Cole heard what sounded like a large release of wind. For a split second, he felt a slight movement of his leg. He didn’t hesitate. With his other foot still planted firmly on the saddle seat, he pushed with all the strength he could summon. Nothing happened at first, then he suddenly slid backward when his leg came free.

  Scarcely able to believe he was no longer trapped, he rubbed his leg, cautiously testing it, lest it might be broken after all. He soon determined that there had been no real damage with only an aching knee from having been locked in a twisted position for so long. His boot was still in the stirrup under the horse and he stared at his stocking foot, wondering if Joe had responded to his frustration as one last service for his partner. He thought of Walking Owl, the medicine man in the Crow village. He would have no doubt said that Joe’s spirit had seen to it that the leg was released.

  I ain’t gonna question it, he thought, then said to the horse, “I wanna thank you for turnin’ me loose. I appreciate it, and I’m sorry I cussed you before.”

  Finally free, Cole turned his attention to the job to be done next. He took hold of the bridle of the bay that had been watching him in curiosity. It was a sturdy-looking gelding. He had to admit that Travis Womack had ridden a fine horse. “I reckon it’s you and me now,” he said softly as he continued to calm the horse. “But I don’t think much of that saddle. I’d rather have mine, so whaddaya say we get to it? Then we’ll see if we can get after that son of a bitch that shot Joe.”

  Working quickly, with only one boot on, he took the coil of rope from Travis’s saddle and tied it to the saddle horn on his saddle. He tied the other end to a tree on the bank. With his saddle secured in place, he undid the cinch, then looped one end of his lead rope around Joe’s neck, and the other to Travis’s saddle. All set to remove his horse from his saddle, he took the
bay’s bridle and led him till he took the slack out of the rope. “All right, let’s go, boy,” he encouraged the bay and pulled on the bridle.

  The bay hesitated when he felt the resistance from the dead horse, then hunkered down and easily pulled the Morgan away from the bank and off his saddle. Once Joe was off the stirrup, Cole halted the bay and retrieved his boot.

  When the saddles were swapped, Cole left Travis Womack’s rig, along with his bridle, beside the creek. The only possessions he took were a Sharps rifle and a cartridge belt. With a sad farewell to Joe as well as a heartfelt thanks, he turned the bay toward Laramie.

  * * *

  “Gone?” Mary Lou exclaimed. “Gone where? When’s he coming back?” She caught herself then, suddenly realizing she might be revealing emotions she preferred to remain hidden. In an attempt to toss it off as unimportant, she laughed and remarked, “He never could stay in one place very long, could he? What about you? Are you heading out right away, too?”

  “No, ma’am,” Harley said. “I’ll stick around for a day or two.” He was not fooled by her attempt to trivialize Cole’s sudden departure without so much as a fare-thee-well. He was perturbed at his friend as well.

  Cole Bonner was as smart as any man he had ever met, except when it came to women. There was not a doubt in Harley’s mind that Mary Lou had called off her wedding to Gordon Luck because she couldn’t bring herself to close the door on Cole. And Cole was too damn blind to see the two of them were tailor-made to couple up.

  At the moment, Harley was tempted to tell her of the many times during the past year, when Cole thought he was alone with his thoughts, and he’d stood gazing absently at the snowcapped mountains. Harley was sure his friend had been thinking what might have been, but he hesitated to say, however, thinking maybe it wasn’t his business.