It was not a difficult trail to follow since the four outlaws continued along the banks of Chugwater Creek. But with little knowledge of the country he was traveling, Cole could not speculate where they might be heading. With a mountain range to the west of him, he guessed that he was not too far from Fort Laramie. And if they stayed on their present course, they would probably strike the Platte River some distance west of the fort. It made little difference to him where they were heading, whether or not it was Fort Laramie or hell itself—he would follow them there and deliver his sentence of death.
As he rode doggedly on, stopping only when it was necessary to rest his horse, he felt empty inside, as if his soul had been torn out of him. There were no thoughts of a future beyond killing the men who had destroyed his life and taken the only thing he truly valued from him. And with nothing to detract from the monotony of the ground he trod upon, it was difficult to discourage thoughts of his beloved Ann. Every memory of their brief time together only served to increase his pain. So he was glad, when near the end of the day, he was suddenly distracted by a movement in the middle of the creek ahead of him.
At once alert, he pulled his rifle from its scabbard and squinted in an attempt to identify it. When about forty yards from the bend in the creek where he had first seen movement, half a dozen antelope came up from the edge of the water, moving in a single line. With his rifle already out and ready to shoot, it was an easy shot, and he brought the lead antelope down. There was no time for a second shot, even had he wanted one, before the swift animals bolted away. Only then did he realize that he had not eaten anything since leaving his wife’s grave. The thought reminded him that he had to continue to take care of himself while searching for his wife’s murderers. And that he could not go without food.
“I reckon this is where we’ll camp for the night,” he announced to Joe. The big Morgan appeared glad to hear it.
With no coffee, and no pot to boil it in, not even a cup, he had to settle for drinking water from the creek, same as Joe. He was fortunate to have the skinning knife he always carried, and a flint and steel in his saddlebags with which to build a fire. He went about the business of skinning and butchering the antelope, telling himself that it was important to keep his strength up. Thinking of the three hundred dollars he had, he decided he would have to spend some of it to better equip and supply himself the first chance he got.
That opportunity came two days later when he approached a small settlement on the Laramie River.
• • •
It appeared to be the start-up of what might become a sizable town, with a short row of log buildings and tents already in place. Looking down the street, Cole saw a saloon, a general store, a stable, a blacksmith, and a barber, plus a couple of other buildings that had no signs to identify them. He figured any information regarding the four men he trailed would most likely be obtained at the saloon, but he decided to visit the general store first, because along with his other supplies, he needed to buy cartridges for his rifle.
“Howdy,” Mort Johnson greeted him when he walked into the store. Cole only nodded in reply. The owner of the store looked the stranger over thoroughly before asking, “What can I help you with?”
“I’ll be needin’ some things,” Cole said as he eyed a small coffeepot on a shelf behind the counter. “A box of .44 cartridges to start,” he began, then called off the basic food supplies he needed, which consisted primarily of coffee beans, salt, and dried beans. “How much for that coffeepot?”
“That’s a dandy, ain’t it?” Mort replied. “Just the right size for a feller travelin’ alone.” He paused to glance out the open door and saw Joe tied to the hitching rail. “I reckon you ain’t got no family with you.” Cole didn’t say whether he did or not, so Mort went on. “What brings you to Johnstown? I don’t recall seein’ you come through before.”
“Is that the name of the town?” Cole replied.
“Yup,” Mort said, always eager for a chance to talk about it. “It was named after me. My name’s Mort Johnson, and I’ve run this here tradin’ post for twelve years. Wasn’t nobody here but me until four years ago when folks started movin’ in. I guess they thought it was a good place to settle, since the Injuns hadn’t bothered me.” He chuckled proudly. “They named the town after me, but they shortened it from Johnsontown to Johnstown.”
“How much for the coffeepot?” Cole repeated.
“Dollar and a half,” Mort answered. “You never said whether you was passin’ through or stayin’.”
“Passin’ through,” Cole said. He listed a couple more items that he needed, one of which was a blanket to make a bedroll. After he paid for his purchases, he said, “I’m looking for four men who musta come through here ahead of me, maybe a day or two ago.”
Mort frowned before asking, “They friends of yours?”
“Nope,” Cole replied. “I’m just lookin’ for ’em.”
“You ain’t by any chance a lawman, are you?”
“No,” Cole said. “I’m just lookin’ for ’em—thought maybe you mighta seen ’em.”
Still with a deep frown on his face, Mort said, “I’ve seen ’em all right. Night before last they shot Cotton Smith, the bartender in the saloon. We don’t hold still for that kind of trouble in Johnstown. We’re a respectable town, and to make sure it stays respectable, we have a vigilance committee to see that outlaws and murderers don’t hang around here.” He paused and laughed when he realized what he had just said. “I reckon I shoulda said we got a committee to see that outlaws and murders do hang around here.”
Tense now with the realization that he might be catching up with Slade Corbett and his men, Cole ignored Mort’s attempt at humor and pressed for more information. “So they got away from your vigilance committee?”
“Yeah, all except one, and he’s locked up in jail, waitin’ for a detail of soldiers to come get him and take him over to Fort Laramie for trial.”
Cole immediately felt the muscles in his arms tensing.
One of them is here!
His expression remained stoic, however, never revealing the storm raging inside him. “If he shot the bartender, why didn’t you just go ahead and hang him?” he asked.
“Tell you the truth, we was of a mind to, but he ain’t the one who shot Cotton. It was the mean-lookin’ son of a bitch with the silver hatband that pulled the trigger.”
“Slade Corbett,” Cole muttered softly to himself.
“Is that his name?” Mort asked. “I ain’t ever seen a meaner snake than that feller. The one we caught said his name’s Smiley Dodd. We were lucky to get him. Buck Wiley, the blacksmith, got ahold of his coattail when they jumped on their horses—pulled him right outta the saddle and landed him on his ass. The other three got away, though, and I don’t reckon they’ll come back to Johnstown. And the army will take care of Mr. Smiley Dodd.”
“What do you think the army will do with him?” Cole wanted to know, not at all pleased with the notion of handing him over to be tried. The army might not know how vile a murderer this man was.
“I ain’t got no idea,” Mort replied. “Throw him in jail for a while, I guess, because he didn’t really do anything but raise a little hell and damage a couple of chairs in the saloon. We’d just hold him ourselves, but we ain’t really got no jail.”
“No jail?” Cole responded. “Where have you got him locked up?”
“In the smokehouse behind the stables,” Mort said. “He ain’t goin’ anywhere. That smokehouse is built outta solid logs with a padlock on the door, and we got members of the vigilance committee takin’ turns watchin’ him till the army comes to get him.” He paused then and watched Cole for a few seconds. “What are you lookin’ for them fellers for?” It seemed to him that the young man was deep in serious thought.
“They owe me something,” he said, and that was as far as he cared to go with it. What they owed him were their live
s, and he had vowed on Ann’s grave that he would accept nothing less. Ready to leave, he paid for his purchases, then hesitated before putting his money away. “If that little coffeepot was a dollar, I’d buy it.”
Mort grinned as he responded, “Well, you gimme a pretty good order, so I might let you have it for a dollar and a quarter.”
“Done,” Cole said. “I’ll take it.”
Mort walked outside with him and helped carry his supplies. He stood watching as Cole filled his saddlebags until they could hold no more. “Looks like you need a sack for the rest of that stuff,” Mort commented. “I’ll getcha one.” He went back inside, returning moments later with a cotton sack.
Cole tied it on his saddle. “Much obliged,” he said.
Mort nodded and remarked, “You was down to just about nothin’. How much farther are you goin’?”
“Don’t know,” Cole answered honestly, then stepped up into the saddle before Mort could think of any more questions.
He turned Joe’s head toward the stables at the end of the street and held the horse to a lively walk as he looked for the smokehouse Mort had mentioned. He had a lot to think about. The fact that one of the men who had murdered his wife and family was locked in a smokehouse no more than forty or fifty yards from him was causing him to struggle with indecision. It was unthinkable that a cold-blooded murderer might receive no more punishment than a short stay in the guardhouse at Fort Laramie. If what Mort had told him was true, that he was being held for nothing more than disturbing the peace and minor property damage, then it was very much likely that this would be the case.
The thought of waiting for the soldiers to show up, and then shooting Smiley when they let him out of the smokehouse, was tempting. He had to discard that idea, however, because it gave him little chance of escaping unharmed after taking the shot. And while it might give him the satisfaction of killing one of the outlaws, it might also mean that the other three would go unpunished.
On the other hand, if he simply followed the cavalry patrol back to Fort Laramie and waited for Smiley’s release, the murderer’s three accomplices would get even farther away by that time. He might never find them. He could choose to forget the one in order to make sure that the three did not get away, but he felt that the dead cried out to him that they all must die or vengeance would not be complete.
Perplexed, he sought a place to think about his decision, so he rode up the river about a quarter of a mile to a shady grove of cottonwoods and dismounted. While Joe grazed on the riverbank, Cole brushed a light dusting of snow from a log and sat down to decide what he was going to do.
• • •
It was well after sundown, and a moonless sky cloaked the cottonwoods in darkness when Cole rode Joe slowly out of the trees and headed back to town. To avoid being seen by anyone at the noisy saloon, he rode behind it until he came to the stables and the smokehouse.
Guiding Joe toward the rear of the smokehouse, he dismounted when he was within about twenty yards and pulled his rifle from the saddle sling. Mort Johnson had told him that there would be a guard at the makeshift jail at all times, so he skirted the building in the darkness until he saw a figure sitting by a fire in front of the door. Dropping to one knee, he watched the guard for a few minutes and decided that the man’s main interest was simply to keep warm. He then turned his attention to the stables in front of the smokehouse and watched for a few minutes. There was no sign of anyone there. The only things stirring were a few horses left in the corral for the night. His mind made up, he rose to his feet, pulled his bandanna off his neck and retied it around his face, then walked boldly toward the smokehouse.
“Whoa!” Jonah Welch blurted, taken completely by surprise. “Is that you, Paul?” he asked, unable to make out the man’s features in the dark. He struggled to get up out of his comfortable position by the fire, only to be met by the barrel of Cole’s rifle against his forehead before he was halfway up. When he looked up to see the masked man hovering over him, he sank slowly back to a sitting position. Convinced that he was about to cross that dark divide that awaited all men, he pleaded, “For God’s sake, mister, hold on. I’ve got a wife and young’uns. Whatever you’re after, I ain’t gonna give you no trouble.”
“Unlock the door,” Cole ordered. He had no intention of harming the man, so he hoped he was as scared as he seemed. “Smiley Dodd,” he called, “you in there?”
“Hell yeah,” Smiley answered, fully as surprised as his guard, Jonah Welch, had been. “Who is that?”
“A friend,” Cole answered. Then he glared at Jonah when the trembling man failed to open the padlock. “Mister, I ain’t got time to fool with you. Unlock that damn door.”
Shaking with fright, Jonah whimpered, “I ain’t got no key. Mort Johnson’s got the key. He won’t unlock it till he brings the prisoner some breakfast in the morning.”
This was disappointing news to Cole, causing him to hesitate while he decided what to do. Determined to carry out his plan, however, he ordered Jonah to surrender the rifle beside him. “You wearin’ a handgun?” he asked as he took the rifle from him. When Jonah opened his coat and showed him that he wasn’t, Cole told him to get on his feet. “Turn around and put your hands on the wall.” Jonah did as he was ordered and faced the front wall of the building with the palms of his hands flat against the logs. “You just stay that way,” Cole said, “and maybe you won’t get hurt.”
“Did Slade send you?” Smiley called out impatiently. “Hurry up and get me outta here.”
“Hold your horses,” Cole told him. He tested the hinges on the smokehouse door. There were only two, and they were held in place by two nails each. It didn’t surprise him. Smokehouses weren’t built with imprisoning outlaws in mind. And whoever built it wasn’t worrying about cured hams trying to break out. The hinges seemed to be firmly attached, but he felt sure they could be loosened with something to use for leverage. He looked around for a lever of some kind, but he could see nothing in the darkness. Then he remembered Jonah’s rifle.
That might do it, he thought.
There was a large enough crack between the edge of the door and the doorframe to insert the barrel of the rifle, so he wedged it up as close to the top hinge as he could. It wasn’t necessary to tell Smiley what to do. As soon as he saw what Cole was attempting, he put his shoulder to the door and tried to help.
Cole applied all the force he could muster behind the resisting hinge until, finally, the nails began to back out of the door frame. Smiley, becoming more excited with the considerable show of progress, increased his efforts, banging against the door like a bull. Suddenly the hinge pulled free of the frame, causing the door to sag away at the top.
Held now by only a bottom hinge and the padlocked clasp, the door hung open far enough for Smiley to step through the opening. “Hot damn!” he exclaimed, truly amazed to have been rescued. Anxious to complete his escape, he didn’t take time to look closely at the masked stranger who had freed him. Instead he looked around frantically.
“Where’s my horse?”
“There are some horses in the corral there,” Cole said, nodding toward the back of the stables. “Pick one out.”
“Pick one out?” Smiley retorted. “Hell, I want my horse and my saddle.”
“We ain’t got time for you to break into the tack room in the stable. I’ve got money to buy you a new outfit when we get away from here. We need to leave now, before the next fellow comes to relieve this guard. So just grab any horse with a bridle on it and let’s go.”
“You’ve got money?” Smiley replied, confused by the entire situation. He was still surprised that Slade and the others would bother to come back for him. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I told you. A friend,” Cole answered. “Now, let’s not waste any more time here.” He turned his attention to Jonah then, who was still standing flat against the wall. “You can step insid
e now and go sit in the back corner.” Jonah obeyed immediately.
“Shoot the son of a bitch!” Smiley blurted. “He’ll tell ’em which way we went.”
“No, he won’t,” Cole said. “He’s gonna stay put in that smokehouse till we’re outta sight, ’cause he knows I’ll shoot him if he sticks his nose out in the light of that fire. Ain’t that right, mister?”
“Yes, sir,” Jonah replied. “I ain’t in no hurry to get shot.”
“And I can see that fire for a long way,” Cole continued. “If I shoot him before you get a horse, we’ll have half the town runnin’ out here to see what’s goin’ on. So get goin’.”
Smiley wasn’t tickled with the plan. He wanted his horse and saddle. He was fond of the buckskin gelding he had stolen in Kansas. But on the other hand, the idea of buying a whole new outfit wasn’t bad, either, so he ran to the corral and climbed over the rails. As luck would have it, his buckskin was among the horses there. He almost blurted out in surprise.
“Hell,” he muttered, “I bet I can get my saddle, too.” He paused to take a look around. There was no one around the place but the masked man and the scared little fellow in the smokehouse. There was a locked door to the barn inside the corral. “We’ll spend that jasper’s money on somethin’ more pleasurable,” he said, and kicked the door in.
Cole couldn’t help wondering if he had overplayed his hand. Smiley was taking far too much time in the corral, and he could hear the sound of the outlaw’s boots thudding against the door. Maybe he was too smart to be taken in by the simple ruse and was figuring on running out the other side of the barn. He decided to go in to search for him, but the gate to the corral opened just then, and Smiley burst out riding a buckskin horse, saddle and all. “Let’s make tracks!” he blurted to Cole as he rode by.
Cole had no choice but to turn Joe and gallop after him, but before he did, he emptied the cartridges from Jonah’s rifle, just in case he decided to take a parting shot. “I’d be careful about using this rifle if I was you,” he called out to the man inside. “I bent the barrel a little bit on that door, and it might split on you if you try to shoot it.” There was no sound or reply from inside the dark smokehouse, so Cole gave Joe a firm nudge and set off after Smiley.
Crow Creek Crossing Page 6
