Crow Creek Crossing

by Charles G. West

  “I woulda thought the sheriff would arrest the three of them as soon as they showed up here,” Cole said. He had been expecting to have to figure a way to get to them while they were in jail.

  “He mighta, if we had a sheriff. Jim Thompson was gunned down in the middle of the street a few days ago. Funny thing, those fellers you had the fight with showed up the next day. Jim’s deputy decided to retire from the law business right after that. Left us in a mess. You interested in the job?”

  “Reckon not,” Cole replied. “But I am interested in finding those three outlaws.”

  Bloodworth frowned thoughtfully, realizing that Cole was deadly serious. “Well, that won’t be a hard job. They sure as hell ain’t makin’ theirselves scarce. They’ve took to hangin’ around the Sundown Saloon. You can find one of ’em or all three of ’em there about any time of day.”

  “What about the vigilance committee you told me about?” Cole asked.

  Bloodworth shook his head. “Well, we still aim to take our town back, but we suffered a couple of deaths that slowed us down, and we’ve got to get our backbones up again. I’ll tell you the truth, most of us that rode with that posse weren’t all that disappointed that we didn’t catch up with ’em.” He shook his head slowly. “And now we’ve got the sons of bitches back in town, actin’ like it’s their town.”

  “Well, Harley and I need to put our horses up while we’re in town. They’ve been rode hard for the last couple of days.” He paused to take a look around him. “Looks like you’re pretty full up. You got room for four more horses?”

  “I’ll make room for you,” Bloodworth said, eyeing the solemn young man intensely. “And if you’re thinkin’ on gettin’ rid of some of that riffraff, I won’t charge you nothin’.”

  “Can’t get a better deal than that,” Harley spoke up for the first time.

  Cole only nodded. “Sundown Saloon, huh?”

  “That’s right,” Bloodworth replied, certain he had correctly read the look in Cole’s eyes. But he couldn’t help wondering why a young man with a pretty little wife and a fine family would risk standing up to three hardened gunmen like Slade Corbett and his two partners. “Be careful, and good huntin’.”

  Outside the stable, Harley remarked, “He don’t know about what happened to your wife.”

  “Reckon not,” Cole said. It didn’t surprise him. The only way anyone in Cheyenne could know would have been from Walter Hodge, John Cochran’s friend and neighbor on the Chugwater. Evidently Walter hadn’t been into town since the massacre. Cole could easily understand why he had thought it wise to avoid Cheyenne and stay close by his family.

  • • •

  Tom Larsen studied his cards carefully, a pair of jacks and the ten of clubs. He discarded the nine of spades and the six of hearts. “I’ll take two,” he said, and watched the dealer as he dealt two cards. The dealer moved quickly to the player on Larsen’s left, casual in his handling of the deck of cards, too casual in Larsen’s opinion. He was convinced the gambler was dealing off the bottom, so his gaze was intense when the gambler dealt himself three cards. Damn you, Larsen thought, you’re pretty damn slick. I ain’t caught you yet, but I know you’re dealing off the bottom of that deck. The gambler had won too many pots to call it pure luck since they’d started playing two hours before. Slade and Sanchez were still up in the room at the hotel, sleeping off a drunk from the night just past, but Larsen never allowed himself to drink until incapacitated like his partners. It was that policy that kept his mind and reflexes sharp. And now his instincts told him the gambler was definitely cheating, even if he had not been able to catch his sleight of hand.

  Larsen picked up the two cards, a ten of hearts and the deuce of clubs, which gave him two pairs, jacks and tens. He watched the dealer carefully as he opened the bidding. When it came around to him, Larsen called, and frowned sullenly when the dealer spread three sevens on the table. It was all the justification Larsen needed to call him out. “That’s the last time I’m gonna let you get away with that bottom deal,” he announced stoically.

  There was an immediate hush in the crowded saloon as Larsen sat staring into the gambler’s eyes, waiting for his response. The other two players at the table backed their chairs away, anticipating the trouble that was sure to follow. A faint smile appeared on Larsen’s face, as he recognized the familiar blanching of the gambler’s features that betrayed the fear that Larsen’s fixed stare created.

  “You’re wrong, my friend,” the gambler protested weakly. “I’ve just had a streak of good luck.”

  “You’re not only a cheat, but a liar, too,” Larsen told him, his tone calm and threatening. “Now, just shove that pile of cash over to the center of the table, and get your no-good ass outta here.” The thin smile was still firmly in place as he waited to see if the gambler had the guts to meet his challenge. “A damn poor cheat, to boot,” he said, adding fuel to the fire, and giving the man no choice but to fight or slink out in shame.

  The gambler hesitated, nervously fidgeting with the cash on the table before him, obviously weighing his chances. All eyes were on him, waiting to see if he would hand over the money and turn tail and run. He knew that Larsen wore a .44 six-shooter in a holster. Seated up close to the table, as Larsen was, the gambler decided it would be too awkward for Larsen to draw it before he could reach the revolver that he wore in a shoulder holster. Although he was still unnerved by the insolent glare in Larsen’s eyes, the gambler’s common sense told him he had the advantage. Gaining some confidence then, he said, “You’re gonna have to back up your words or apologize. Which is it gonna be?”

  They made their moves at almost the same time. The gambler had been correct in his estimate of the time it would take for Larsen to make the awkward draw from his chair. He did not allow for the possibility that Larsen had a double-barrel derringer lying in his lap, however, a habit he always employed when playing cards with strangers. Two quick shots under the table ripped into the gambler’s gut before he could reach inside his coat. Larsen was immediately on his feet, his .44 now in his hand. He walked around the table and kicked the gambler’s chair over, dumping the fatally wounded man on the floor. He stood over him for a moment before reaching down to relieve him of his revolver. Then he looked around the room at the witnesses to the shooting. “He tried to draw on me,” he claimed, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Anybody could see that, and he got what he deserved. Anybody see it any different?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Who said that?” Larsen demanded, his brow furrowed in anger as he turned, scanning the room, searching for the person foolish enough to refute his word. His gaze stopped when it fell upon the tall young man holding a Henry rifle near the door. “Who the hell are you?” he started, but it struck him almost as soon as he said it. “You, you son of a bitch! You shot Frank Cowen!”

  “That’s right,” Cole replied solemnly. “I shot Smiley Dodd, too. And now it’s your turn. I’m sendin’ you straight to hell for killin’ those folks on the Chugwater.”

  “The hell you are!” Larsen blurted, shocked to think Cole knew about the murders. He raised the weapon already drawn from its holster to silence his accuser. It was almost a draw, but Cole was a fraction of a second faster. His rifle already leveled, he hit Larsen in the middle of his chest, knocking the stunned man backward to land on the table and then slide to the floor. Cole moved quickly to make sure Larsen was dead. He pulled the table aside too late to avoid the pistol aimed at him. Larsen’s final effort before fading from consciousness was to pull the trigger, sending a .44 slug into Cole’s side.

  Staggered, Cole fought to keep his feet, willing himself to confirm the kill. He cranked another round into the chamber and sent the fatal bullet through Larsen’s brain.

  “Where are the other two?” he demanded of anyone, determined to complete his task, only vaguely aware of Harley, who had rushed to his side to help him
stay on his feet.

  “They’re up in the hotel!” someone shouted in answer.

  Defying the bullet wound in his side to stop him, he pushed toward the door, ignoring Harley’s pleading for him to sit down and wait for the doctor. The crowd in the saloon emptied out to follow him into the street, where their numbers increased as bystanders outside ran to see what the shooting was about. In no time at all, a mob of spectators was created, all eager to witness the confrontation.

  Young Claude Campbell, who helped his father in the hotel’s stables, ran ahead of the mob to tell his father the news. He burst through the door just as Slade and Sanchez came down the stairs. “They shot him!” Claude exclaimed to his father, who was behind the desk. Then seeing Slade and Sanchez, he yelled, “A feller shot that friend of yours, and he’s coming after you!”

  Sanchez leaped several feet over the stair railing before reaching the bottom step and rushed to the front door. “It’s a lynch mob!” he exclaimed, mistaking the intent of the crowd of spectators.

  “Vigilantes!” Slade concluded immediately, thinking the townspeople had gotten their vigilance committee together again. “Let’s get the hell outta here!” There was no need to repeat it. Slade grabbed a handful of Claude’s shirt collar. “Get our horses saddled and bring ’em to the back of the hotel!” Then he bounded up the stairs after Sanchez, who was already at the top, with Arthur Campbell yelling after him that their bill hadn’t been paid.

  Accustomed to fast exits, the two outlaws were down the back steps in minutes, certain they were only seconds away from a necktie party. In too much a hurry to wait for Claude to bring the horses from the small hotel stable, they ran in and took over the task of saddling up. “Are you sure they shot Tom Larsen?” Slade asked as he worked feverishly to tighten the girth.

  “Yes, sir,” Claude exclaimed. “Some big stranger. Shot him with a rifle. Then your friend shot him, and he didn’t even slow down. He just walked over and shot your friend in the head.”

  “Damn marshal, I bet,” Sanchez blurted. “We got to get the hell outta here.”

  As soon as they were saddled, they jumped on their horses and galloped out the back into a snow flurry. Had he known it was only one man coming after him, Slade would not have run, especially when the man was already staggered with Larsen’s bullet in his side. But he was convinced that a lawman had come to town and had managed to organize the vigilance committee again. And it sounded as though he was not dead set upon merely capturing the three of them. Tom Larsen was one hell of a tough hombre, fast with a gun, and with nerves of steel. If this lawman took Larsen down, he was nobody to take lightly. To run was the only choice Slade and Sanchez had.

  Chapter 7

  The mob of spectators drew up before the front door of the hotel, all eyes on the grim avenger as he forced himself to remain on his feet, determined to complete the vengeance the dead demanded. Harley Branch stayed at his side, ready to support him if he faltered, knowing all the while that Cole might well be walking to his death. But he also knew that Cole would not listen to reason when he was so close to finishing the task that relentlessly drove him.

  Inside the door, Cole stumbled back against the jamb, almost falling, as he desperately scanned the small lobby. Gaping wide-eyed at the wounded man whose blood-soaked shirt could be seen inside his open coat, Arthur Campbell blurted, “They’re gone!”

  “Where?” Cole forced through a painful grimace.

  “They lit out the back when they heard you were coming,” young Claude answered.

  Cole turned to Harley. “I’ve gotta get back to the stable to get my horse.”

  “The hell you are,” Harley replied, determined that he was not going to let him kill himself in his desire for revenge. “You can’t even stand up on your own, and you’re still losin’ blood. You’re goin’ to the doctor.”

  “Take him to my room.” Harley looked toward the dining room door to see Mary Lou standing there.

  “No,” Cole replied. “I can’t do that. I’ll lose ’em.”

  “You’ve already lost them,” Mary Lou said. “Your friend is right, you can’t even stand up on your own.”

  Taking charge of the situation, she told Claude, “Go fetch Doc Marion. Bring him to my room.” Turning back to Harley then, she said, “Come on, my room’s behind the kitchen.”

  She slid up under Cole’s arm and she and Harley walked the protesting man down the hall to the back door. By the time they arrived at the small wing behind the kitchen that housed a couple of rooms for Mary Lou and Maggie Whitehouse, Cole was out on his feet and supported almost entirely by Mary Lou and Harley. He could make no further protest, and dropped exhausted on the bed when they tried to lower him gently.

  “He’s heavier than he looks,” Mary Lou remarked, then went to a cupboard and pulled an old blanket out. “Here,” she told Harley, “roll him over on his side so I can get this blanket under him. He’s gonna bleed all over my good spread.”

  When they settled him on his back again, she decided that wouldn’t do. “Let’s sit him up and get his coat off him. The doctor ain’t gonna be able to treat him like that.”

  When that was accomplished, she told Harley to build a fire in the stove while she pulled Cole’s boots off. “Might as well get him outta that shirt, too,” she said. “It’s soaked through his underwear.”

  By the time they were able to remove all of his blood-soaked clothes, so the ugly wound could be fully exposed, she and Harley had stripped him down to his socks. She got a clean cloth and pressed it on the wound, which was still bleeding when Dr. Frederick Marion arrived and took over. Not especially noted for a sense of humor, Doc Marion was not pleased to have been summoned in the middle of his dinner.

  “Damn fool gunmen,” he grumbled, “they don’t ever learn that they’re not children playing with guns.” He paused to ask Mary Lou, “How’s that shoulder of yours coming along?”

  “Fine and dandy,” she replied, and rotated her shoulder to demonstrate her recovery.

  He took the cloth from her and examined Cole’s wound. She stepped back out of his way to let him work.

  “It looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?” Mary Lou said to Harley. Harley just shook his head, concerned. “I guess you, or someone, needs to ride up to tell his wife what happened. I expect she’ll want to be with him.” Before Harley could reply, she added, “Better tell her we tried to hold a blanket over him when we took his underwear off.”

  She grinned mischievously.

  “I don’t reckon she’ll care much,” Harley said. He then told her what had happened to Cole’s wife, her sister and her sister’s husband, and their children. “That’s the reason he came here lookin’ for Slade Corbett and the other two. There was six of ’em to start with. Cole got Tom Larsen today, so there ain’t but two of ’em left now, and he ain’t gonna stop till he gets ever’ last one of ’em.” He paused to look at the unconscious man. “Or they get him.”

  “My God,” Mary Lou gasped, stunned by the horrible news. With no words to express her shock, she simply repeated, “My God.”

  Overhearing the conversation between Mary Lou and Harley, Doc Marion softened his opinion of his patient. “I’ll do what I can for him,” he told them, “but he’s tore up pretty bad. I’d say just leave the bullet in him, but I’m afraid it’s gonna cause him a lot of trouble if it moves around in there. So I’m gonna try to dig it out of him, and he’s gonna be in poor condition for a good while, depending on how strong a constitution he has. What I need to know now is how long he can stay here, or if he’s got to be moved somewhere else.”

  “I don’t know where else to take him,” Harley said.

  “He can stay right where he is,” Mary Lou volunteered. “There’s no need to move him, so you go right ahead and do your work on him, Doc. I’ve got a perfectly good sofa that’ll do for me.”

  “You sure about that?
” Doc asked.

  “You bet. He’s a decent man, and it sounds like he deserves a chance to get well. I’ll just go talk to Maggie to see if I’ve lost my job, and then I’ll be back to give you any help I can.”

  • • •

  As Doc Marion had predicted, the work was long and tedious, going well past suppertime. Maggie had dropped by later in the afternoon to bring in a pot of coffee from the hotel kitchen and to tell Mary Lou that she could handle the supper crowd without her for one night. Doc appreciated it, because Mary Lou was helping a great deal to assist him. Harley could do little beyond keeping the fire going in the stove so they wouldn’t freeze to death. Doc was able to remove the bullet, but his biggest problem was to stop the bleeding. When he had stopped all he could, he sewed up the resulting incision and pronounced the patient now in the hands of God.

  “I’m gonna leave you a bottle of laudanum,” he told Mary Lou. “When he wakes up—if he wakes up—give him a slug of it. He’s gonna be in a lot of pain, so let him have it anytime he wants it.”

  Maggie and her cook came in just as the doctor was preparing to leave. They were each carrying a tray of food, the leftovers from supper. “Thought you folks might be hungry,” she said. “I know you missed supper. How’s the patient? Is he gonna make it?”

  “We’ll have to wait and see,” Doc said while looking over the plates of food on the trays.

  “Does that include me?” Harley asked. “It sure smells good.”

  “Of course it includes you,” Maggie told him. “Help yourself. There’s plenty.”

  Doc sat down at Mary Lou’s tiny table and attacked the beef stew and soup beans with an unusual amount of gusto, worthy of admiration by the cooks. “I love to see a man who appreciates my cooking,” Maggie said as she watched him reach for another biscuit.