Massacre at Crow Creek Crossing

by Charles G. West

  Cole untied the reins and walked over to the stable, leading the bay. “Mornin’,” he started again.

  “Mornin’,” Grover Taylor returned, and blatantly looked Cole up and down, a practice Cole was becoming accustomed to since entering Laramie. “Ain’t seen you in town before. You lookin’ for Big Steve Long?”

  “Nope,” Cole answered. “I’m lookin’ for a fellow named Womack. Have you seen him this mornin’?”

  “Womack,” Grover echoed. “You a friend of his?”

  “Nope,” Cole said again. “I’m just lookin’ for him.”

  “You the feller that shot him?”

  The question surprised Cole. He figured Womack would be trying hard to keep people from knowing about his wound. “Maybe,” he answered. “He shot the sheriff in Cheyenne yesterday and he was headed this way. Sounds like you’ve seen him.”

  “I saw him. He ain’t been in here, but I saw him comin’ outta Doc’s house this mornin’. The way he was movin’, kinda gingerlike, I figured somebody mighta shot him. His brother was in town, lookin’ for him a few days ago, but I didn’t see him with Troy today. Just saw Troy.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “You a lawman?”

  “Nope,” Cole answered, “just somebody who wants to catch up with him. Which way did he go when he left the doctor’s house?”

  “When he left Doc’s, he headed up the street toward the railroad depot.” He watched Cole’s reaction as he considered that for a long moment. “Mister, you’re about three hours behind him. And if you’re wonderin’ if there’s a gray like the one Troy was ridin’ in my stable, you’re welcome to take a look for yourself.”

  “Much obliged,” Cole said. There was no point in looking in the stable. He was sure Grover was telling the truth. He stepped up into the saddle and turned the bay back toward the railroad depot. Possibly someone on that end of the street might have seen which way Womack went from there. Three hours behind him, he thought, not as far as he had suspected, after having slept longer than he had wanted to.

  There was one man at the depot and he had just come to work an hour before, since there was no train scheduled to stop in Laramie before noon. That left Mabel’s Diner the only other possibility. Cole tied the bay to the rail in front of the diner and went inside.

  “You’re a little late for breakfast,” Mabel informed him. “We’ll start again at noon.”

  Cole couldn’t help feeling disappointed. The pleasant aroma of baked biscuits and fried bacon still filled the small dining room, causing him to realize he was hungry. It would probably not have put him that much farther behind in his search if he had taken a few minutes to eat. “I’m sorry I missed breakfast, ma’am, but I’m lookin’ for a fellow that mighta passed by this way this mornin’. And I was wonderin’ if you mighta noticed.” He paused a moment, waiting for her reply. “Big fellow,” he continued, “ridin’ a gray horse. Mighta come from the doctor’s office.”

  She knew then that her earlier suspicions about Womack were justified. “Whaddaya lookin’ for him for? You a friend of his?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m not. His name is Troy Womack. He shot the sheriff over in Cheyenne.”

  She shook her head slowly and thought about Troy’s version of how he’d received the gunshot wound in his side. At the time, she wondered if she could believe his story. Now she wondered if she could believe this young man’s claim. He looked for all the world like a wild Indian, even though he spoke softly and respectfully. “Are you a lawman?”

  “No, ma’am,” Cole replied.

  “Well, then, how come you’re tryin’ to catch him? That sounds like the law’s job.”

  “He shot my horse,” Cole stated simply.

  “Oh.” Mabel responded, understanding. Then she made a decision. “Yeah, that fellow was in here at five-thirty this morning. I fed him some breakfast. He said some robbers had waylaid him and that was how he got shot.”

  “Do you know which way he went when he left here?”

  “Sorry, I don’t,” Mabel said. “I didn’t pay him no mind after he went out the door.”

  “He crossed the river and headed north on the other side,” a voice came from the kitchen door. Cole turned to see a large, heavyset woman enter the room.

  “How do you know that, Lou?” Mabel asked.

  “I was out back, dumpin’ some dishwater, when I saw him ride away,” Lou said. “He crossed over and followed that trail that runs along the river.”

  “Much obliged,” Cole said. He started to leave but hesitated long enough to say again that he was sorry he had been too late to get breakfast. “I’d like to have tried some of your biscuits.”

  Mabel turned to Lou and asked, “Did we have any of those biscuits left?”

  When she said that they had two or three, Mabel turned back to Cole. “You want a couple of biscuits?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I sure do,” he replied at once.

  * * *

  Following the faint remains of an old game trail, Troy Womack grimaced with the sudden sharp pain that shot through his side when his horse hunkered down to climb the steep part of a slope. “Damn quack,” he complained. “Ain’t no tellin’ what kinda mess he made of that wound. Good thing I’m almost there.” Before he could complain further, a sight caught his eye that caused him to rein the gray back to a sudden stop. Smoke! Coming from the chimney of the little cabin he and his brothers had used. A dirty ribbon of smoke was trailing up into the frosty winter sky. Somebody was in his shack, and he had not been gone much longer than a week. He pushed the gray a little farther down the slope until able to get a better look, a spot that enabled him to see a corner of the corral. This caused some concern, for he could see at least three horses. There might be more. It was hard to tell. I ain’t in no shape to take on three or four, he thought. The squatters could be anybody—outlaws, drifters, prospectors, settlers—anybody. He decided against settlers, because there was no wagon. Undecided as to what he should do, he contemplated his next move. Even though he felt the cabin was rightfully his, he wasn’t ready to ride in and claim it until he had a better idea of the situation. He finally decided to move in closer to the trees lining the riverbank to get a better look.

  After tying his two horses where he was sure they couldn’t be seen from the cabin, he moved closer on foot until reaching a thicket of bushes clinging to the bank. He settled himself to wait, thinking that sooner or later someone was bound to have to come outside to answer nature’s call, if nothing else. Then maybe he would be able to make a judgment on his best course of action. If it’s a bunch of sodbusters, I’ll just shoot the place up till I either kill them or run them out, he thought.

  * * *

  Flint Yarborough got up from the bedroll he had been using as a seat. “I reckon if I get any closer to the fire, I’ll be in the middle of it,” he complained. He and his two companions had crowded around the small fireplace as close as they could without singeing their clothes. “Whoever built this damn fireplace sure as hell didn’t know how to build one. All the heat goes up the damn chimney.”

  “I swear, that’s a fact,” Red Swann said. “My belly’s hot as hell and my back feels like a slab of ice. A shack this little, that fireplace oughta heat it up like an oven.”

  “I expect we’ll get goin’ again in the mornin’,” Yarborough said. “See what’s in that town.” Red’s comment was the first sign that he was getting back to normal after his adventure with the man dressed in buckskins at Murphy’s Trading Post. His nose was considerably flatter than before and the deep bruises had not yet begun to recede. Yarborough was sure Red hadn’t made peace with himself for the humiliation he suffered, but he seemed to be getting closer to his normal sour disposition.

  “I’d just as soon we go on into town today,” the third member of the gang said. “Find us a saloon and a couple of warm women.”

  His comment drew a snicker from Red. “What’s the matter, Tiny? Ain’t you satisfied with our company? Hell, me and Flint oughta be t
he ones bellyachin’. We’re the ones tryin’ to sleep in this little shack with you snorin’ like a damn sawmill.”

  “I’ve had a lot better company, myself,” Tiny Weaver replied. “Ain’t nobody complained about me snorin’ before. Besides, I’m about ready to spend a couple of nights on a bed, with a plump little woman to keep my back warm.” He favored Red with a wide, foolish grin.

  “Like that plump little gal in Bozeman?” Red asked, reminding the oversized simpleton of the circumstances that had instigated their early departure from that town. The childlike ox had broken a prostitute’s jaw because she’d made fun of his clumsy attempts to make love. Ordinarily, that would not have caused much of a stir, except for the unfortunate fact that the whore in question was a favorite of the town marshal.

  “Ah, Red,” Tiny replied, “she didn’t have no call to say what she did. You’da done the same thing.”

  “I wouldn’ta had to,” Red crowed. “I don’t get no complaints when I’m romancin’ the ladies. That’s the difference between me and you.” He grinned and winked at Yarborough. “Ain’t that right, Flint?”

  “You two are makin’ me tired,” Yarborough replied. “I druther go outside and stand in the cold.” He started for the door.

  Knowing why he was really going out, Red called after him, “That’s a pretty stout wind from the north. Best be sure you stand facin’ south.” He chortled heartily in appreciation for his wit.

  Once outside, Yarborough didn’t bother to walk very far from the cabin door to release most of the coffee he had consumed. He was not quite finished when he heard the voice behind him.

  “You’re under arrest for public indecency! Put your hands in the air!”

  Startled, Yarborough whirled around, reaching for the handgun he forgot he wasn’t wearing, stunned to find himself facing Troy Womack doubled over laughing. “Womack!” he cursed. “Damn you! Where’d you come from? You could get your sorry ass killed pullin’ stunts like that.”

  Troy chuckled again. “Not when you ain’t wearin’ your gun. I noticed that right off.” He gestured toward Yarborough’s trousers. “Looks like you left a few tracks on your way back to the barn.”

  “I swear, you’re lucky I ain’t wearin’ my gun,” Yarborough grumbled while hurriedly buttoning his pants. “I’da shot you for sure.”

  Having heard a commotion outside, Red and Tiny were at the door by then, both with their weapons in hand.

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” Red started. “Troy! What the hell are you doin’ here?”

  “I oughta be askin’ you that,” Troy replied. “I’ve been usin’ this shack for a little while and I didn’t expect to find anybody in it when I came back. How the hell did you boys find it?”

  “Hell, you’re the one who told me where it was when I told you we might ride down this way,” Yarborough answered. He glanced back toward the way Troy had come. “You by yourself? Where are your brothers?”

  “It’s just me now,” Troy said. “We had a streak of bad luck and both of my brothers are dead. Malcolm first, then Travis, both killed by the same man, and I got a hole in me that I’m tryin’ to heal up.”

  “I swear,” Red responded. “Same man shot all three of ya? Who was he, a lawman?”

  “No,” Troy said. “I don’t know who he is. A wild man, maybe a half-breed. He wears buckskins and braids his hair Injun style. Always carries a Henry repeatin’ rifle.” He paused then to ask, “What in the world happened to you?”

  “I reckon I ran into the same kinda wild man you’re talkin’ about,” Red answered.

  “Let me go back and get my horses,” Troy said. “I’ll take care of them, then let’s go inside where it’s warm and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Ain’t much warmer in there than it is out here,” Yarborough said, still grumbling about the fireplace. He couldn’t help being curious about the man Troy described—sounded an awful lot like the man who had rearranged Red’s features.

  After his horses were corralled with those belonging to his three friends, Troy returned to the cabin to tell his story. He was greatly encouraged when he found them at the cabin, thinking that the man whose name he thought was Harley Branch would now hesitate to attack four men. Consequently, he was disappointed to learn that the three of them were already planning to move into Laramie before dusk, having become tired of sitting in the small shack complaining about the cold.

  “I need to lay low for a couple more days,” Troy explained and opened his heavy coat. He pulled out his shirttail and showed them the bandage wrapped around his midsection. “Why don’t you wait a couple of days before you go into town? We can get up a helluva card game. I’ve got a bottle in my saddlebag. Whaddaya say?”

  “I don’t know, Troy,” Yarborough said, hesitating. “We’ve all got a pretty good dose of cabin fever already.”

  “I need me a woman,” Tiny blurted.

  “Yeah,” Red added, “I reckon we’re all ready to see what the hell Laramie’s got to be proud of. You can rest up better in a hotel room, anyway. They got a hotel, don’t they?”

  “You boys are lucky you ran into me,” Troy said. “You’d best take my advice and let Laramie be. This ain’t no time to ride into that town. The folks there are puttin’ a bounty on anybody that looks like an outlaw. That’s why I came down here on the river.” He went on to tell them the recent happenings in Laramie, about the demise of Big Steve Long and the Moyer brothers. “Hell, the Bucket of Blood ain’t in business no more, and the vigilance committee is eyeballin’ every drifter that rides through town.”

  His report caused a bit of hesitation from his three friends, but the dose of cabin fever was already severe.

  Finally Yarborough expressed his opinion. “Well, damn it, I’ve had enough of this little shack. I need to go somewhere where’s there’s warm food and good whiskey. Maybe you’re right, Troy. Maybe it ain’t smart to hit Laramie right now with all that lynchin’ fever goin’ on. Why don’t we just ride on down to Cheyenne? It ain’t that far. Besides, I ain’t never been to Cheyenne.”

  That was distressing news to Troy as well. “Hell, I can’t go back to Cheyenne. I just ran from there. That’s where that son of a bitch is that shot Travis and Malcolm and put a bullet through my side.”

  Yarborough favored him with an accusing leer. “Ain’t you plannin’ to even things up with that jasper for killin’ your kin?”

  “Well, yeah,” Troy replied, stumbling over his words. “I mean, hell yeah. ’Course I plan on evenin’ the score. I just came back here to get fixed up by the doctor and get my strength back. Then I was gonna go look for that bastard.”

  “That ain’t but one man you’re talkin’ about, right?” Red asked. “And you said you shot the sheriff, mighta killed him you said. That don’t sound like you’ve got anything to worry about. If that feller’s still around, we’ll settle his bacon for him real quick. Sounds like that town oughta be wide open.”

  “It might be at that,” Yarborough said. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became. “Hell, I’m ready to go. How far is it from here?”

  “From the cabin here, it’s a good day and a half,” Troy said.

  Yarborough cocked his head back to take a look at the sky. “We got a good chunk of daylight left. Whaddaya say we pack up and head on out right now? We oughta be able to eat up a lot of that distance before dark. Then we’d have all day tomorrow to get to Cheyenne. Whaddaya say, boys?”

  “Whatever you wanna do,” Tiny spoke up. As usually happened, he went along with anything Yarborough said to do.

  Red agreed as well. “I don’t think I’ve got any appointments on my calendar,” he joked. “So let’s ride.” All three turned to gaze at Troy, waiting to hear his decision.

  “I reckon I’m up to it,” he said, rubbing his side gingerly. “I ’preciate you boys helpin’ me run this son of a bitch down.” Truth be told, he had no intention of crossing paths with the sinister rifleman again. But with the added protectio
n of three hardened gunmen, it put the odds of settling with his brothers’ killer much more in his favor.

  “All right, then. Let’s get saddled up,” Yarborough declared. “We’re headin’ to Cheyenne.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Gnawing on the last of Mabel’s biscuits, Cole crossed the river and found a narrow trail that followed along beside it. There were only a few tracks, most of them from days before, but he saw what he estimated to be fresher tracks from a couple of horses. They had to be left by Womack. And as long as I’ve got tracks, I’ve got Womack, he thought. He had ridden no more than a quarter of an hour, however, when he realized the fresh tracks he had been following were gone. “Damn,” he scolded himself and turned the bay around, studying the trail more intently to see where Womack had left the common track.

  Cole backtracked for less than a mile before discovering the place where the fresh tracks forked off and headed almost due west on what appeared to be an old game trail. Not having been in the country west of Laramie before, he had no idea where the trail might lead. For as far as he could see, there was nothing but wild, rolling prairie around him, with mountains in the distance. A thought crossed his mind then, reminding him that he had blundered into an ambush before while doggedly following Womack’s trail. His carelessness had cost him the best horse he had ever owned. If I make the same dumb mistake, he thought, I deserve to get shot. Another thought occurred to him. He might not even be following Womack’s tracks, but those of some trapper or settler on his way back from town.

  “Damn,” he cursed again. “I wonder if that ol’ gal back there in the diner knows what she really saw.” He’d gone too far to give up on it, however, so he decided to take it a while longer, just in case. At least the tracks were fresh and clear and they were the only trail he had.