Massacre at Crow Creek Crossing

by Charles G. West

  “No, ma’am,” he repeated. “I’ll be here for a while. Cole figured he didn’t have no choice. He done for two of that feller’s brothers, so he was gonna have to settle up with him sooner or later, and sooner was better before anybody else got killed. That feller’s already shot your sheriff, and maybe killed him. I don’t know. And if Cole don’t stop him, who will?”

  “Why is it always Cole who has to right all the wrongs?” she blurted before she could stop herself from showing her irritation. “I mean, I know the sheriff got shot, and I surely hope he’s gonna be all right, but there are other men in this town that could go after the man who shot him. It’s the town’s business, not Cole’s.”

  Harley fully understood the woman’s frustrations. And, in a way, he felt sorry for her for having feelings for a man like Cole Bonner. And he couldn’t help it, either. It was just his lot in life to be caught in the path of mankind’s violence. He had once tried to live the life of a simple farmer, but fate put a stop to that when his wife was murdered.

  He didn’t know squat about farming, anyway, Harley thought. “Like I said, it ain’t just the matter of the sheriff gettin’ shot. Sooner or later that feller is gonna come after Cole for killin’ his brothers. It’s better for Cole to be the one stalkin’ the other.” He gave her a grin then. “I can tell you this, when it’s over and he’s still standin’, he’s gonna wanna come back to find you.”

  Mary Lou exhaled a long sigh and nodded without replying. It was going to take a little more time. She smiled at Harley then and said, “I expect I’ll see you in the dining room while you’re in town.”

  “You can count on that,” Harley replied with a wide grin. When she turned to go back to the dining room, he called after her and repeated. “Cole said he was comin’ back here when he finished what he had to do.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “Who the hell’s bangin’ on my door?” Doc Evans yelled when awakened from a sound sleep.

  “Open up, Doc.” The anxious reply came from the other side of his front door. “Open up! I’m bleedin’ bad. I need doctorin’.”

  “Who is it?” Evans demanded. He lit a candle by his bed and looked at the clock. “It’s three o’clock in the mornin’.” He picked up a .44 Colt from his bedside table and walked out of the bedroom to the parlor, where he lit a lantern before going to the door.

  “Troy Womack,” the voice came back, “and I’m bad hurt.”

  “Womack,” Evans grunted under his breath, not particularly happy to hear who was calling. “You got the law after you?” Doc Evans had treated a good many gunshot wounds since he’d settled in Laramie, because his practice was almost entirely made up of outlaws. With the recent purge of that wild element from Laramie, he feared he might come under the scrutiny of the vigilance committee. And he knew Womack was one of the more recent drifters who had evidently befriended Big Steve Long.

  “No, Doc,” Troy pleaded. “There ain’t no law after me. Open up, else I’m liable to die on your doorstep.”

  “All right,” Evans relented and unbolted the door. He needed the money and outlaws paid with cash money instead of trying to pay with cabbages or chickens. “Good God, man,” he exclaimed when he held the door open and saw Troy’s blood-soaked clothes.

  Before closing the door, he stuck his head out and looked back toward town. Seeing the lathered horses standing, heads hung down, at his hitching rail, he asked, “You sure ain’t nobody chasin’ you? You ain’t led none of that vigilance committee to my door, have you?”

  “No, Doc,” Troy pleaded. “I swear, I got shot by some jasper halfway between here and Cheyenne. He ain’t no lawman and he ain’t comin’ after nobody no more. I left him under a dead horse.” Even as he said it, he couldn’t help cursing himself for not shooting Travis’s horse as well to make sure the man was on foot, in the event he somehow managed to get himself out from under his horse.

  At the time, however, Troy had been so afraid he was dying, he couldn’t think of anything beyond getting to the doctor.

  “All right. Get over here on the table and let’s take a look at it.” He led Troy to his examination table on one side of the parlor. “Get your coat and shirt off, so I can see the damn thing.” While Womack did as instructed, Doc went to the small stove in the center of the room to revive the fire in the still-glowing ashes. Once it showed signs of life, he placed some wood on it, then placed a bucket filled with water on to heat up.

  “It’s cold as hell in here,” Troy complained, sitting on the table with his shirt off.

  “Is that so?” Doc replied. “If you’d made an advance reservation, I’d have a rip-roarin’ fire goin’ and maybe serve some refreshments.”

  “I wasn’t sure I was gonna make it here before I ran out of blood,” Troy said, ignoring Doc’s sarcasm. “Can you fix me up? I need to get outta town. I can’t stick around here waitin’ for the good citizens of Laramie to decide they wanna stretch my neck just because I was a friend of Big Steve Long’s.”

  “I don’t know,” Doc replied. “I’ll know after I get a look at what you’ve got. Have you got any cash on ya, enough to pay my bill?” After Troy assured him that he would be paid, Doc set his lantern close on the table and examined the wound. “I’ll need to clean it up first.” He went to the stove and poured some of the water in the bucket into a basin, even though it had barely had time to take the chill off of it.

  * * *

  When the first rays of morning light crept across the Laramie River, the patient was sleeping off the lingering effects of the ether, a fresh bandage wrapped around his waist. In place of the bucket that had been on the stove, a coffeepot was bubbling away.

  “Wake up,” Doc ordered, “and get your ass outta here before somebody sees those horses out there and thinks they oughta find out who owns ’em.”

  Reluctantly, Troy sat up on the table and remained there for a few minutes, fighting a wave of nausea that had swept over him. “How bad is it? It hurts like hell.”

  “It ain’t that bad at all,” Doc said. “The bullet went all the way through, and near as I can tell, didn’t hit nothin’ important. Most of the blood that soaked your shirt came out the hole in your back. You’ll be all right, long as you don’t get any dirt in it.”

  “I don’t feel worth a damn,” Troy complained. “Sick in my belly.”

  “That’s most likely from the ether. I don’t have no more chloroform, or I’da used that instead.” Doc took him by the elbow and helped him off the table. “I’ll pour you a cup of strong coffee. That’ll fix you up, then you’d best get on your way.”

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “We’re all square,” Doc replied. “I took my fee outta your coat pocket—didn’t wanna disturb your sleep. Figured it’d save you a little time this mornin’.”

  “Is that a fact?” Troy responded, feeling more of his nasty disposition returning since he no longer feared he might be dying. He picked up his coat and pulled a roll of money from the inside pocket. A quick count showed him to be thirty dollars short. “That’s a pretty stiff bill for ban-dagin’ a wound, ain’t it? You didn’t even have to get a bullet out.”

  “There were some extra charges you wouldn’t have gotten if you’d come in durin’ my usual office hours,” Doc said. “Gettin’ me outta my bed in the middle of the night, the cost of that ether I had to use so you wouldn’t feel too much pain, bandages, coffee—them things add up.”

  “You damned old crook,” Troy said. “I’ll let you get by with it this time. Hell, I might need some doctorin’ again sometime. Otherwise, I’d consider shootin’ you.”

  Not impressed by the idle threat, Doc went to the front door and looked out. It was still early, so nothing was stirring but Troy’s weary horses, standing at the rail, still saddled. “Don’t seem to be much goin’ on. You’d best finish your coffee and get along before somebody comes by askin’ questions.”

  “It’d be their bad luck if they did,” Troy replied, feeling his confidenc
e restored, in spite of the worrisome thought that Cole might somehow have freed himself after all.

  “Go somewhere and get a steak or some beef liver. You need to build your blood back up.” Doc walked him to the door and watched as he pulled himself up into the saddle, relieved when he rode away from his house. He took another look toward town to see if anyone had seen his patient ride away. He could still see only one or two people moving about on the street. Damn Boswell, he thought, cursing the sheriff. If somebody doesn’t kill him, I’m gonna have to try to run a respectable office practice.

  * * *

  Feeling weak and wasted, Troy led his horses toward the Bucket of Blood Saloon. Like Doc Evans had advised, he needed some solid food in his stomach and a little sleep. The short time he had spent under ether didn’t seem to have helped him in his need for sleep. In fact, the only result was a slightly sick stomach, but he decided to get something to eat in spite of it.

  Maybe my empty stomach is contributing to the queasy feeling, he thought.

  He had gone no farther than a dozen yards when he realized the sign was down over the door of the Bucket of Blood and the doors were closed and padlocked.

  Damn, he thought, I reckon Fred Wiggins ran outta whiskey to sell.

  He was going to have to find something to eat somewhere else, and he wasn’t that familiar with anyplace other than the Bucket of Blood. There was a small diner next to the train depot, run by a woman named Mabel Ryan. He had never patronized it, having always eaten at the saloon before.

  Reckon I can try it this morning, he decided, although it was still pretty early and they might not be open. He turned around and walked his horse back up the street toward the train depot.

  The lights were on in Mabel’s Diner, so he tied his horse at the rail. But when he tried the door, he found it locked, only then noticing the CLOSED sign. Ignoring it, he tried the door again, rattling the knob noisily in the process. He kept at it until he heard the bolt slide and the door open wide to reveal a stubby gray-haired woman wearing a no-nonsense expression on her chubby cheeks, her face flushed red from standing over a hot stove.

  “Mister, you must be powerful hungry,” she greeted him, and pointed to the CLOSED sign. “Either that or you can’t read.”

  “I reckon I can read,” Troy replied brusquely. “But it’s gettin’ past time for breakfast and I need somethin’ to eat.”

  Mable gave him a more thorough looking over before continuing. “I don’t believe I’ve ever served you before, else you’d know I open up for breakfast at six o’clock.” She turned her head to look at a clock on the wall across the small dining room. “And according to my clock, it ain’t but five thirty. I’m still cooking.”

  Troy realized right away that he wasn’t going to get anywhere if he tried to bully the feisty little woman, so he decided to try her pity. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I just came from the doctor’s office, and I ain’t had nothin’ to eat since yesterday mornin’.” He unbuttoned his coat far enough to let her get a glimpse of his bloodstained shirt. “I kinda lost track of the time. I reckon I shoulda looked at my watch.”

  Mabel softened a little. “What happened? Somebody shoot you or something?” She peered inside the gap in his coat.

  “Yessum,” he replied. “They sure did. Jumped me on my way back from Cheyenne. I reckon the Good Lord was lookin’ out for me, though, ’cause I made it back here to Doc Evans.”

  At the mention of Doc’s name, Mabel jerked her head back and remarked. “Doc Evans? It’s a wonder you’re still alive. He ain’t no real doctor, you know. Just calls himself one.” Thinking that letting Doc work on him was a second time the stranger had suffered bad luck, she stepped back and said, “Come on in. I’ll get you a cup of coffee and rustle up some breakfast for you. I’ve got biscuits about ready to come outta the oven.” That served to remind her, so she turned her head and yelled, “Lou, look at my biscuits!” Back to Troy then, she asked, “Why did they shoot you? Robbery?”

  “I reckon,” he answered.

  “Can you pay?” she thought to ask him then.

  “Yessum,” he replied. “I can pay. Like I said, I got away. The feller that shot me ain’t likely to cause nobody no trouble no more. He messed with the wrong man that time.” He couldn’t resist crowing a little.

  His boast failed to impress Mabel. In fact, she took another hard look at him, remembering then that maybe she had seen him before. “You were a friend of Big Steve Long’s, weren’t you? I believe I’ve seen you and a couple of your friends down in front of the old Bucket of Blood.” He didn’t answer, but she knew she was right. “You ain’t the first customer I’ve picked up since that saloon closed. Ain’t no place else to get breakfast since Sheriff Boswell shut that place down.” She pointed to a table by the kitchen door. “Set yourself down,” she said before continuing her commentary. “Like I said, I’ve picked up a few, but there’s a lot of jaspers that left town when they saw what happened to Long and his half brothers.”

  “I reckon I’ll likely move on, too, soon as I heal up a little.” Troy said. “I wouldn’ta been hangin’ around here before, if I’da known about Steve Long’s unlawful dealin’s, him and the Moyers. I thought him being the sheriff, he was honest as the day is long. You can’t be too careful these days.”

  “I guess not,” Mabel said, eyeing him even more closely. He had “liar” written all over his face, as far as she was concerned. “I’ll get you something to eat,” she said after a pause and went into the kitchen. When she returned, she had a cup of coffee and a plate holding three biscuits and a slab of bacon. She paused to watch him attack the bacon and biscuits for only a few seconds before commenting, “Well, I reckon you weren’t lying when you said you ain’t ate for a while.” But I don’t know about that other part of the story, she thought.

  He took only a few minutes to finish his breakfast and stayed just long enough to get another cup of coffee. Still feeling weak and unstable, he had no desire to hang around town for any length of time. As soon as he finished, he paid Mabel the twenty-five cents she requested, but not without complaining that he should have gotten a full meal for that price.

  “You did get a full meal,” she replied. “Three biscuits and a slab of bacon, washed down with two cups of coffee. You feel full, don’tcha?”

  “Ha!” he snorted. “You and Doc Evans oughta get together. You’d make a good pair.”

  * * *

  By the time Cole had saddled up and was ready to ride the night before, it had already been too dark to follow a trail, but he was not content to wait for the next morning’s light. He’d decided to head for Laramie, thinking that was the likely place that Womack would head. He was sure Womack was hit, and from the haste in which he departed, Cole guessed he was trying to get to a doctor as fast as he could. Hoping to shorten the distance between them while Womack was at the doctor, he started out for Laramie.

  The first rays of morning light found him a good ten miles from Laramie, riding a tired horse. When he came to a healthy stream, he decided he had to give the bay a rest and catch a little sleep, himself, in spite of the urgency he felt for catching up with Womack. He was feeling the effects of not having slept the night before, and it wouldn’t do to go after the outlaw with a woozy head.

  * * *

  Even though he had slept an hour longer than he had intended, it was still early in the morning when Cole walked the bay past the railroad depot. The aroma of fried bacon drifted across his path, causing his stomach to remind him of his neglect. The smell came from a small building close by with a sign identifying it as MABEL’S DINER. He was tempted to stop and buy himself some breakfast, but he wanted to find the town’s doctor, if it had one.

  He rode on until seeing a man come out the door of a general store. “Mornin’. I’m lookin’ for the doctor’s office.

  The man looked him up and down as if deciding whether or not Cole was an Indian. Finally, he spoke. “You talkin’ about Doc Evans?”

  “If
he’s the doctor,” Cole replied and waited for an answer. “Is he the only doctor in town?”

  “Yep, least he’s the only one in town that practices medicine. He says he’s a doctor.”

  “Well, where can I find him?” Cole asked, by this time losing patience.

  “In his office, I reckon,” the man replied. When Cole’s impatience grew large enough to show on his rugged face, the man quickly blurted, “On down that way, next to the stables.”

  “Much obliged,” Cole said and nudged the bay with his heels. Ain’t a very friendly town, he thought, unaware of the town’s recent troubles with outlaws and drifters.

  He found the doctor’s office next to the stables, just as the man had said, and tied the bay at the rail. He stepped up on the porch and knocked several times before the door opened and Doc Evans stood frowning at him, a coffee cup in his hand.

  “Damned if people don’t pick the damnedest time to knock on your door,” he grumbled. “It’s either when you’re trying to sleep or trying to eat.” Seeing the puzzled look on Cole’s face, he blurted, “Well, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m lookin’ for somebody. Thought he mighta come here last night or this mornin’.” A quickly raised eyebrow told him that his hunch might have been accurate. “A big fellow, ridin’ a gray horse and trailin’ a packhorse,” Cole continued. “Think he mighta needed treatment for a gunshot wound.”

  “Nah, I ain’t seen nobody like that,” Evans declared. He figured this must be the man Womack said he had left under a horse. Doc didn’t give a damn about Womack, but he still counted himself as part of the outlaw element that accounted for the biggest portion of his income. “Now, if that’s all you want, I’ll go back to my breakfast.” He closed the door.

  Cole walked off the porch and stood by the hitching rail for a few minutes while he thought about his next move. Helluva friendly town, he thought as he looked back toward the upper end of the street. He hadn’t learned what he needed to know, but he felt sure the odds were good that Womack had been to see Doc Evans, judging by Doc’s reactions to his questions. While he was pondering that, he saw a man walk out of the stable next door and stand judging the quality of the day just born.