by Lee Clinton
Gus quizzed, ‘Not even Indian?’
‘No,’ they both said together. Then Ben added, ‘Maybe we are just searching in the wrong spot. If it was Cheyenne, they would have gone north and we’ve been searching mostly west.’
‘Surely some sign would still have been found,’ offered Gus. ‘They would have to go west first to catch her because that’s where the footprints were leading. Then they would head north.’
Both Noah and Ben agreed that the search had been wide enough to pick up any such sign, like a party of Indians, especially if they were also driving livestock.
‘Let’s just hope that the Indians didn’t go after her and that she’s still out here, lost or gone to ground, injured,’ said Noah, with Ben nodding in agreement.
It was clear to Gus that they both firmly believed that it was Indians who had killed the family and burnt down the homestead. And why not, he thought. What other explanation could there be, regardless of any denials from the chiefs?
Gus didn’t get to see his son until Henry rode into the makeshift camp that had been established another two miles further to the west and some ten miles from the ruins of the homestead. It was an agreeable site beside a small creek with a good flow of clean water coming from a rocky ravine immediately to the north, which had been christened with the name Coyote Canyon, as a family of prairie wolves had come into the camp on the first night of occupancy and stolen some food. Henry was the last man to arrive and it was just on last light. He dismounted, and workmanlike, immediately began doing the rounds and speaking to each man – fifteen in all – seeking reports on the areas searched and marking them on a makeshift map in his field notebook.
When Gus finally got to speak to Henry it was also businesslike as he handed over two saddle-bags that had been filled with provisions of beef jerky, dried fruit, potatoes and slices of cold pudding from his mother. Henry put one of the bags over an arm and proceeded to walk around offering each man a choice. This gave time for Gus to observe his son, and he was somewhat surprised. He could see the tiredness and concern etched upon his face and in the firelight he looked as if he had instantly aged by some five years. He was also looking thinner than he had ever remembered. This prompted Gus to discuss provisioning for the search party.
Henry advised that this had been taken care of. Nat Crenshaw had returned to Laramie earlier that day to ask his father-in-law to bring out his chuck wagon and to take on cooking duties. They expected him back later the following day.
What Gus was trying to say to Henry was that he needed to eat and keep his strength up, but the message was lost, so he asked about where the provisions were coming from.
‘Ben sent Nat back with a note to draw the provisions he needed from the general store,’ said Henry.
‘Good,’ said Gus, ‘I’ve spoken to the mayor about funding for—’ He was about to say, for the funerals, but quickly changed course and said, ‘for the search.’ Gus then added, ‘Have you thought of a lay day?’
‘Sunday,’ said Henry.
Gus knew he couldn’t skirt around it any longer. ‘The funerals are planned for Saturday. It can’t wait any longer.’
Henry said nothing.
‘You’ll be going back?’ Gus asked.
‘I wasn’t planning, unless I have Grace with me,’ said Henry. ‘I’ll keep searching till then.’
‘Sunday too?’
Henry nodded.
‘On your own?’
‘If needs be.’
‘I see,’ said Gus and he knew that now was not the time to enter into a discussion of the rights or wrongs of going to the funerals, or staying out here to search on his own. Instead he said, ‘Do you want me with you?’
‘No,’ said Henry, ‘but if you could attend the funerals for me and pay my respects while I keep looking for Grace, that would be appreciated. I don’t want to leave her out here on her own.’
‘Of course,’ said Gus, as he had no idea what else to say.
Gus and Martha attended the five funerals on Saturday, as did most of the town. It was a sombre affair as each body was lowered into the ground, side by side, after the calling of the name and the reading of a prayer. Tears openly flowed when Ben’s small coffin was interred, and again for the last casket as the words were said, ‘A Mayfield daughter, known only unto God.’ On completion of the service, collection plates were passed amongst the congregation and over two hundred dollars was raised, some fifty dollars of that coming from Rufus Cole and his two half-brothers Calvin and Aaron Moy. Many commented on their community spirit and generosity.
Over the following days more men and supplies arrived at the camp, which had now been given the name Harmony Creek. The search was extended to the north and even a little way to the south. No need was seen to search to the east as that’s where Laramie lay and had Grace, or even young Chrissy gone that way, they would have walked back into town by now.
Martha began a regular trip every second day out to the Harmony Creek camp to deliver supplies from the general store, hand over freshly washed clothing items sent by wives, and collect dirty laundry. She also took back any messages and diligently wrote up a notice that was pinned on the church bulletin board. It advised one and all of how the search was progressing in terms of the area covered, which now stretched out some forty miles west and thirty-five miles north. She also listed the name of every man who participated and the number of days each had attended.
Gus commented to Martha how smart it was for her to recognize those who were giving up their time, often at the expense of a wage, to join the search.
Martha replied, ‘I didn’t do it for that.’
‘What did you do it for?’ he asked.
‘To shame those who have yet to lift a finger.’
There was a hardness in his wife’s eyes as she spoke. One he had not seen before.
At the top of each report posted, Martha wrote the date and the number of days searched. It was now at Day 14.
CHAPTER 9
PRECIOUS TIME
The Coming Chill
The days were now becoming just a little chillier on the high plains, especially in the mornings when the central fire at Camp Harmony had yet to be stoked. Fall was well on its way and not that long after, the first fresh snows would appear upon the Medicine Bow Mountains. Yet, regardless of the chill, or the number of days into the search, Henry was up before anyone else in the camp to put on the coffee and entice the searchers to rise for at least one more day.
However, the truth of the matter was, as each day passed, the numbers began to dwindle, and who could blame them. They had searched far and wide and now day twenty-one had passed with still no sign of the missing Mayfield girl. Martha kept up her routine to support her son, and in a way, it relieved Gus of having to spend too much time away, as law-and-order matters in Laramie still required attention. Some of those duties were fixed by date and place, especially on court day, when charges were heard and evidence had to be given.
Rumours of Cheyenne renegade involvement in the Mayfield killings had now hardened. It didn’t seem to matter that no evidence of any Indian involvement had yet to surface, either from the Indian agent or from the return of the 2nd Cavalry to Fort Laramie after patrolling far to the north. All the while Gus’s indigestion continued to annoy him, like a repetitious shout from the gut, saying something wasn’t right.
But what, exactly?
If it was Cheyenne renegades, why had no sign been found by the searchers? Fast-ridden horses leave clear tracks. Al Leonard personally met with Red Cloud to discuss the matter, and once again he was given assurance that if a white girl or woman had been taken, then Little Wolf would have known and passed this information on. So, if it wasn’t an Indian raid, it had to be an attack from an as yet unsuspected source.
Gus approached Judge Chester E. Morgan of the Laramie District Court and sought his advice after passing on the little information he had gained from his investigations so far. Judge Morgan listened intently b
efore saying, ‘Terrible business this, Gus. Best it is tidied up as soon as possible. I also had Larry up here yesterday seeking authority to sell the Mayfield stock.’
Gus went to say, tidied up how, but instead he just confirmed that the matter of the stock also needed to be resolved, before asking what would happen to the proceeds from the sale.
‘It will go towards Abe’s estate, but held by the Territory until probate can be enacted.’ The judge then asked Gus, ‘Do you know of any kin?’
‘No,’ said Gus before correcting himself. ‘The missing Mayfield girl, the money can go to her.’
The look on the judge’s face indicated that he thought such an eventuality was now a very dim possibility. ‘I’ll speak to the bank and see if Abe secured his Will with them. If so, it may mention kin.’ The judge made a note in his leather-bound diary, the scratching of the nib upon the page making the only sound within the room. The cold silence was finally broken when the justice said, ‘If you don’t think it’s Cheyenne, then the other thing I can do is write to the Supreme Court and request any information that may have come before the courts regarding a similar event. It could just help you identify the culprits. Things like this are normally never isolated events, they have a history.’
Gus left the judge with the thought that tidying things up as soon as possible, to bring the perpetrators to justice, was now starting to fade considerably. Would it eventually elude him? Townsfolk had concluded, almost to the last woman and child, that it was renegade Cheyenne. The comment he most often heard was that the Army should raid the Cheyenne camps to the north to see if they were holding any white women. When Gus reminded them that renegades were being turned away by peaceful Cheyenne, and that women and children lived in those camps, it did not change their minds one jot. Seems rough justice was better than no justice at all, even when delivered against the innocent.
Gus dwelt and pondered on every aspect of this ‘terrible business’ as the judge had called it, but found that he was getting nowhere. He hoped that some fact or detail would emerge and set him straight. Maybe the judge’s letter to the Supreme Court would provide that answer. However, in the meantime, he had to worry about the here and now.
He met with Larry Earnshaw of the Laramie Livestock Agency, who confirmed that no stock had been taken from the Mayfield property after an audit had been conducted pending sale of the cattle and horses. In conversation, Gus learnt that the stock was in good shape and had been moved down to graze by the main creek that ran through the entire length of Abe’s property. In fact, his land had sole access to water all year round; therefore his neighbours had to lean on Abe’s goodwill to gain access to water for their livestock. Permission to traverse had been given willingly, said Larry, who then went on to praise the Mayfield women, who could all ride like men, he had said, including Chrissy. ‘Those girls are good with cattle and horses. They did most of the mustering for Abe by driving the cattle to the top yards on those days when a neighbour needed to get their stock to water. I’ve seen Chrissy do that on her own. She’s a good handler by any standard.’ He then went on to confirm that the Mayfield stock would soon go to market.
‘Will it fetch a good price?’ Gus asked in passing.
‘Depends,’ says Larry. ‘Most buyers know that all the stock has to be sold regardless, so they will hold their bids, expecting to get a better price. But there is plenty of interest.’
Gus expected it would be from the meat packers in the East. ‘Chicago?’ he asked, referring to the Union Stock Yards.
‘No, local,’ said Larry.
‘Who?’ he asked out of curiosity.
‘Rufus Cole for one.’
Gus was more than a little surprised. ‘What would Cole want with a herd of cattle?’
‘To build up his own stock.’
Gus didn’t know that Cole owned any stock. ‘I didn’t know his business extended to cattle.’
‘It’s a new venture,’ said Larry a little awkwardly. ‘As a businessman, he keeps an eye out for any opportunity that may come along.’
CHAPTER 10
ONE MORE DAY
Running out of Hope
As the days passed, the hope of finding the missing Mayfield girl faded. Some were now openly saying that if she was found, maybe it would be better that she be found dead instead of having to live with what might have been done to her. Gus didn’t hear any of this directly. Instead it was passed on by his deputies, who thought that he should know, and they were right. He just didn’t want Henry to hear such talk.
A reply was received by Judge Morgan to the letter he had written to the Supreme Court in Washington. It was hand delivered by a US Marshal on his way to San Francisco on the Union Pacific. The efficiency of such a quick and personal conveyance impressed Gus no end when he was called by the judge to the district court rooms. The judge opened the correspondence, but handed it to Gus to read first. It was just a one-page reply that said, in a fancy sort of way, no, they had no such information of similar circumstances that could relate to those described, but to rest assured that should any such word come into their possession, they would pass it on with haste. Gus handed the letter to the judge.
‘Not much help, is it?’ was his comment on reading the correspondence.
‘Not much.’ Gus couldn’t hide his disappointment.
‘Feel like you’re running out of hope?’ said the judge.
‘Pretty much,’ confirmed Gus.
‘Know how you feel,’ said the judge. ‘Each day reduces the odds and is a day closer to the end of the search.’
Gus didn’t sleep well that night. The realization that the time had come when it was now inevitable that the search would have to end rested heavy upon him like a weight on his chest. The community had responded and tried their best, but he could no longer expect them to keep it up. If the search was to continue that responsibility now belonged to the family. Many families in the past had searched on for years – some were even successful – but most were not. The sober truth in this instance was that there was no Mayfield family left to accept such an obligation. The closest to any known kin was Henry, who was betrothed to Grace.
Just two days later the mayor declared that all official searching would end after one month. The money had all but run out to pay for any more provisions and day thirty of the search was due to fall on the coming Sunday, when it was planned to dedicate a combined community church service to the Mayfield family and the searchers.
On Wednesday Martha made her last delivery to the camp. The quantity of provisions on the buckboard was small as there were few left in the search party. On Thursday the chuck wagon departed, leaving Henry with just six men before they, too, would ride back on late Friday or early Saturday morning.
However, when those last searchers did arrive back in Laramie late on Friday evening, it was with news that Henry had stayed behind. He had told them that he was planning to head west to where General Rawlins had camped in ’67, then north to Fort Casper as he continued on with the search.
Gus knew he couldn’t let his son do this. To search that far and wide was not only futile, but delaying the inevitable. It was worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. At least a found needle would make itself known by a sting and a jab to draw blood from a hand sifting through straw. A scattered search by one man could pass over a vital clue without notice. Henry now needed to stop, to finish his grieving, and return to his duties as a deputy.
Gus departed with his sombre thoughts before first light on Saturday morning and just managed to catch Henry by minutes. His son had cleaned up the camp, packed up the remaining provisions that were left after filling his saddle-bags, and was readying to depart.
A father now had the difficult task of disallowing his son’s plans. ‘I can’t let you do this, Henry. It is time to come home,’ he said.
Henry kept preparing his horse and avoiding eye contact.
It annoyed Gus. ‘Did you hear me, Henry?’
Henry co
ntinued to adjust and tie down straps.
‘I said, did you hear me, Henry?’
‘I heard,’ came the chilly response.
‘We need to head back home.’
‘You head back,’ said Henry, ‘I’m staying. I’m going to continue this search till I find Grace.’
Gus could feel his ire rising. He wasn’t getting through and it showed when he said abruptly. ‘What if it’s not Grace? What if it was Chrissy who escaped – and what if she’s now dead? It’s been a month of hard searching, Henry, and nothing. The chances of finding her alive are—’
Henry was now staring hard at his father, his hands still on the buckle of the saddle-bag.
Gus felt ashamed for his outburst, but he knew that he had to put an end to the search. It was like a battlefield amputation where the limb had to be sacrificed to save a life. It was going to be brutal – he had no choice. ‘Judge Morgan has written to the courts in Washington for advice on any similar attacks against settlers that could be linked; and both the Indian agent and the cavalry commander have sought information from Chief Red Cloud and Chief Little Wolf on any missing white women. All have drawn a blank. I wish it were different, if only to end the unknowing, but nothing, Henry, nothing. It is time to let go or this will lead you to despair.’
Gus could see the tears welling in Henry’s eyes. His words had stabbed and hurt deeply. His immediate response was to step forward and grip his son in a hug. He felt his boy’s body shaking with grief as a coyote howled from up in the ravine and another howled back.
‘Can I have one more day?’ asked Henry. ‘Just one more day.’
Gus was concerned it was a ploy. If he left Henry here and returned to Laramie, could he trust him not to head north? ‘There is a church service tomorrow,’ said Gus, ‘to pray for the souls of the Mayfield family. We should attend, Henry. The town will expect to see both of us there, our families were close, and many will wish to offer their condolences to you personally.’ Gus hesitated, then reinforced, ‘You need to be there, the service is also for those who searched.’
