Crow Creek Crossing

by Charles G. West

  “My compliments, madam,” Doc said gallantly when he had finished drowning the last biscuit with his coffee and got up to leave. “I’ve been fortunate in a marriage that’s lasted twenty years as of this past summer. Mrs. Marion is a lovely companion, but unfortunately, cooking is not one of her strongest qualities, and she can’t bake a biscuit fit for a dog.” He looked up quickly. “I wouldn’t want my words to get back to her, dear woman that she is. And if I can depend upon you ladies to never repeat what I just said, then I’ll consider that fine supper as payment of my fee for this operation.”

  Maggie’s eyes opened wide with astonishment, but Mary Lou threw her head back and laughed heartily. “Your words are safe with us,” she said. “We’ll take ’em to the grave.” She closed the door behind him and turned to look at the man stretched out on her bed. It struck her then that the doctor’s humorous departure was rather macabre, considering the young man’s feeble hold on his life. She stood over him, watching his painful battle, evident even while he slept, and it struck her that he would probably not make it through the night.

  “It’s a damn shame,” she muttered.

  “What is?” Maggie asked.

  “Nothing,” Mary Lou answered. “Here, I’ll help you with those dishes.”

  When they started out the door, Harley asked Mary Lou, “Is it all right if I stay here?”

  “Yeah, it’s all right,” she said. “We’ll make it for one night. If he pulls through tonight, I’ll most likely let you men have my room and I’ll move in with Maggie. I’ll stay with you tonight in case he needs something during the night.”

  “Much obliged, ma’am,” Harley said. “I’ll keep an eye on him till you get back. Then I reckon I’d best go down to the stables and get our saddlebags.”

  Mary Lou and Maggie picked up the rest of the dishes and took them to the kitchen. “Sitting by his bed like a faithful old hound dog,” Mary Lou commented, referring to Harley.

  “I guess they’ve been riding together for a long time,” Maggie said. “Maybe they’re kin.”

  “Maybe, but the old fellow wasn’t with him when he hit town the first time.”

  The subject of their speculation was at that moment questioning the reason he was standing by Cole so faithfully.

  I oughta be in ol’ Medicine Bear’s village right now, he thought. Maybe sitting by the fire in Yellow Calf’s lodge, eating his wife’s pemmican. He surprised himself with his interest in the young man’s welfare. Cole had been dealt a tough hand to play, and it just seemed a shame for him to have to deal with it all by himself.

  I reckon I’m just getting soft in the heart in my old age, he thought.

  • • •

  The patient was alive the next morning, but he appeared to be in no better condition than the night before. The only noticeable difference, as far as he was concerned, was the awareness of the considerable pain inside him. He was also aware of the people around him and the helplessness his wound had caused him.

  When consciousness first came that morning, he had attempted to get up from the bed, only to fall back with the pain that resulted. He rolled his head to the side on the pillow to see Harley asleep in his bedroll on the floor. Near the window, he saw Mary Lou, bundled in a blanket on the sofa. It struck him then that while they all slept, Slade Corbett and Sanchez were getting farther and farther away. The thought was enough to cause him to make a greater effort to get up from the bed, thinking that once on his feet, he would be able to remain upright.

  Gritting his teeth, he braced himself to muster all the force he could put behind him. He succeeded in getting his feet planted on the floor, only to feel his knees give way and land him crumpled up on his side on the cold wooden floor.

  “You damn fool!” Harley exclaimed, having been awakened by the crash of Cole’s considerable bulk on the hard floor. “You tryin’ to bust up ever’thin’ the doctor fixed inside you?” He scrambled up to come to Cole’s aid, with help from Mary Lou, who was also roused from a sound sleep by Cole’s attempt to get up.

  “Are you gonna be a problem patient for me?” Mary Lou scolded as she and Harley helped him back on the bed.

  “I can’t lie around here on your bed,” Cole protested.

  “Well, you sure as hell aren’t in any shape to go anywhere,” Mary Lou said. “I don’t know why you think you can get on a horse when you can’t even stand up.” She stepped back and gave him a stern look, hands on her hips. “You’re just gonna have to realize that you’ve got to give yourself time to heal. Otherwise, you might as well just shoot yourself and get it over with.”

  Harley nodded in agreement. “She’s pretty much tellin’ you like it is,” he said. “You’ve got to let yourself heal.”

  After his attempt to get out of bed, Cole could not convince himself that they were wrong. It was not easy to accept. Slade Corbett and Sanchez were escaping him again, running free to God knows where. He thought of Ann, and the way he had found her body, naked and burned, and he closed his eyes tightly, trying to rid his mind of the picture. But it would not go away. In fact, it was never very far from his conscious mind. He apologized to her silently for the thousandth time, and renewed his vow to track down every last one who violated her and took her from him.

  Mary Lou stood near the bed, looking down at the suffering man, his tightly closed eyelids quivering with the troubling thoughts racing through his brain. She looked at his tightly clenched fists, and decided that he was fighting a terrible battle in his mind. She whispered to Harley, who was standing by her, “It must have been pretty bad, finding his wife and the others the way he did.”

  “Yessum,” Harley whispered in reply, “I expect it was.”

  “Were you with him when he found her?”

  “No, ma’am. I hadn’t even met up with him till after that happened.”

  His answer surprised her. He seemed so much the devoted companion that, like Maggie, she had assumed their association had been one of many years. Returning her gaze to the wounded man, she wished that she could do something to ease his mind and let him rest peacefully. She reached down to gently lay her hand upon his brow, but the touch of it caused a violent reaction. His body became immediately tense and his eyes jerked open to glare at her defiantly. It was just for a moment and then his gaze softened when he realized where he was. She was struck by the man she saw in that brief moment, however. She remembered the easygoing young man who had shown concern for her treatment at the hands of Slade Corbett that night in the dining room. He had been ready to gallantly come to her aid. The man she just saw in this brief second was not the same man. The original had been replaced by a cold executioner. It was a tragic transformation.

  “Easy, Cole,” she said softly, and placed her hand back on his forehead. She glanced at Harley and said, “He’s got a fever. Doc said he might have. I’ll get some water and a cloth and see if I can’t cool him off a little. Doc said he’d come by to check on him when he got a chance this morning.”

  • • •

  Mary Lou took an extra day from her duties in the dining room to look after her patient. After that, Cole appeared to be making some progress, so she moved into Maggie’s room and returned to the dining room, leaving Harley to act as Cole’s nurse with her frequent visits to check on him. It would be several days before Cole was strong enough to make the short journey to the outhouse behind the hotel—an accomplishment most appreciated by Harley, who had had the dubious responsibility of emptying the chamber pot. It was progress for the patient, however, enough to make him anxious to vacate Mary Lou’s room, in spite of her assurance that she was in no hurry to evict him.

  To the relief of both Mary Lou and Harley, Cole no longer pressed to resume his hunt for the two murderers. More than anyone, he was aware of his weakness in recovery, and he was no longer prone to overestimate his ability to ignore his wound. The result of these circumstances left
him in a state of morbid suspension, frustrated by his weakened condition, yet anxious to pick up a trail now as cold as the wintry plains he could see from Mary Lou’s window.

  Although his recovery seemed painfully slow to him, Doc Marion was satisfied that his patient was improving rapidly, and confessed that he had harbored some doubts because of the seriousness of the wound. He attributed it to the patient’s strong constitution. Harley was inclined to believe that Cole’s refusal to die before his wife’s death was avenged had as much to do with his recovery as his constitution.

  • • •

  “Can you ride?” Harley asked when Cole told him that it was time they vacated Mary Lou’s room.

  “I reckon so,” Cole answered. “I ain’t too strong yet, but I think I can stay in the saddle till we find us a place to camp.” He had offered to pay for his and Harley’s room and board, but she had refused it.

  She told him that he had better keep what money he had, knowing that he was going to need every cent of it, since he had no apparent means of acquiring more. “It’s no hardship on me,” she said. “And as far as your food is concerned, I’ve been feeding you and Harley on leftovers from the hotel kitchen.”

  Harley had enjoyed the stay in the warm room behind the kitchen, but he could see that Cole was serious about leaving. “Where are you thinkin’ about goin’?” he asked. “It’s a bad time of year to build a winter camp, especially when one of us is likely gonna be doin’ all the work.”

  “I see what you mean,” Cole said. He hesitated for a few moments. He owed Harley a lot. The little man had chosen to stand by him when he could have gone his own way at any time. “Maybe you figure you’ve done all you can to help me,” he finally said. “If you’re wantin’ to get on with whatever you were plannin’ to do before we hooked up, I figure I owe you some money for your time.”

  Harley merely shook his head slowly, as if perplexed by the offer of money. “You don’t owe me any money. I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we just ride on up to Medicine Bear’s village on the Laramie? I’ve got friends in that camp, and we can winter there. If you get your strength back, and wanna leave before spring, that’s up to you. But right now that’s the best thing to do, instead of freezin’ our asses off holed up somewhere on this open prairie.”

  Cole thought it over for no more than a few moments before agreeing. “You’re right. I expect we’d better tell Mary Lou she can move back in her room,” he said.

  “Hot damn,” Harley exclaimed. “Now you’re talkin’ sense. We’ve hung around this damn town long enough.” He had enjoyed the use of the warm room, but it was just as cozy in Yellow Calf’s tipi.

  Mary Lou had mixed emotions upon receiving the news that her patient was leaving. She had become comfortable having him around, although he never seemed to relax his somber attitude, never smiling, his thoughts never far from the tragedy that tormented him. When completely honest with herself, she had to admit that she would miss him.

  Hell, she thought, I’ll even miss his ol’ hound dog, Harley.

  Cole knew she would refuse payment for his care, as she had the room and board, so he left fifty dollars on a shelf in her cupboard. He was certain she deserved more than that, but fifty dollars was a substantial chunk of the money he had left. So it was generous in that respect. Their saddlebags packed, Cole and Harley went by the dining room to tell the two women they were leaving.

  “You know you don’t have to go, don’t you?” Mary Lou asked earnestly. “You can stay till spring if you want to.”

  “I owe you too much as it is,” Cole said. “I don’t wanna put you out any further. I just hope you know how much I appreciate you takin’ care of me.”

  “You sure you’re well enough to go?” she asked, realizing at that moment just how much she really was going to miss him, although hard-pressed to understand why. Maybe, she thought, it was simply having a man around, even one that required so much care.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” he replied.

  “Cole.” She looked into his eyes earnestly. “It’s time to forget about taking your revenge on that murdering trash. If you don’t, you’re just gonna drive yourself crazy. Ann wouldn’t want you to do that. You’ve already settled the debt. Let the other two find their own way to hell. That’s where they’re gonna end up sooner or later, without you to personally send them.” He patiently heard her out, but his stoic countenance told her that she was just wasting words. “Well,” she finally relented, “you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do.” Then on impulse, she stepped up and kissed him on the cheek. “Take care of him, Harley,” she said to the grinning stump of a man behind him.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Harley responded.

  • • •

  While Cole and Harley rode north out of Cheyenne, the two outlaws who had fled the town were some forty-five miles south in Colorado Territory. Slade Corbett and Jose Sanchez sat beside the stove in a log cabin high up in the foothills of the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains. Another cabin had been built beside the one they occupied, empty now, which was not unusual at this time of the year when the mountain passes were closed by the snow. Constructed over several years’ time by fugitives from justice as a place to hide out from the law, it had become known as Rat’s Nest.

  Like Lem Dawson’s Buzzard’s Roost in the Laramie Mountains, Rat’s Nest was well known among road agents, stage robbers, train robbers, and other men of low character on the run from the law. High up in the hills, on the Cache La Poudre River, it was never visited by honest men, even if they knew of its existence.

  At this time, in the dead of winter, there were no other outlaws hiding out in Rat’s Nest. It was hard to find, and easy to defend. In order to reach it, a person had to follow a series of old game trails that followed the river up through rocky gorges where the Cache La Poudre formed dangerous rapids in its hurry to reach the valley below. To reach the clearing where the cabins stood, a person had to pass between the walls of a rock passage, wide enough for only one horse at a time. Because of this, the part-time residents of Rat’s Nest felt safe from the long arm of the law, but at this time of the year, it could also seem like a prison of sorts.

  “Helluva note,” Slade complained. “There’s a lot of places I druther spend the winter than this damn mountain.”

  He looked at Sanchez, calmly sharpening his knife on a whetstone, and he wasn’t sure he could pass the entire winter with no company but Sanchez. It had not been an issue when the other men were around.

  I might end up shooting the bastard before spring gets here, he thought.

  “We’re gonna have to go down the river to Fort Collins to get more supplies, before a real storm closes us in up here,” he told Sanchez. “There ain’t a damn thing left to eat after we finish up the coffee and bacon.”

  Still brooding, Slade had been unable to get over the fact that a lawman had somehow found them in Cheyenne, and Sanchez was tired of talking about it. As far as he was concerned, the marshal found them, and killed Tom Larsen, but the two of them got away, so the one who did not was just unlucky.

  “Well, we gotta go down to Fort Collins tomorrow and get supplies,” Slade told him. “Before you drink up all the coffee we got left,” he added.

  The remark brought forth nothing more than a smirk and a shrug from Sanchez.

  • • •

  “Afternoon, fellows,” a thin clerk with a shock of black hair and a matching mustache offered when Slade and Sanchez walked into the small store north of the town of Fort Collins. “Kinda bad day to be travelin’, ain’t it?”

  “That’s a fact,” Slade replied, “but there ain’t a helluva lot a man can do about the weather, is there?”

  The clerk laughed. “Can’t argue with that. What can I do for you boys?”

  Slade called off a list of supplies that they needed while Sanchez walked back to the door and stared at a building about fifty
yards down the road. There were several horses tied to the rail in front of it.

  “What’s that place down yonder?” he asked the clerk. “Is that a saloon?”

  “Sure is,” the clerk said. “Clyde Simpson’s place. He just ain’t put a sign up yet.”

  “Maybe we’ll go down there and give him a little business,” Sanchez said. “Whaddaya say, Slade?”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me,” Slade replied. “I could use a little drink to warm my insides.”

  “You fellows are new in town, ain’tcha? Leastways, you ain’t ever been in here before.”

  At once leery of anyone asking questions, Slade quickly said, “We’re just passin’ through.” He wasn’t sure if any of the townsfolk knew about the existence of Rat’s Nest. “We’ve been doin’ a little prospectin’, got us a little camp back up in the mountains.”

  “I expect you’ll be payin’ with dust,” the clerk said, moving over to a pair of scales on the counter.

  “Cash money,” Slade said. The clerk seemed surprised, and made no comment, but he would have bet that the two had never stuck a shovel in the ground. When he glanced up to meet Slade’s deadly cold gaze, he decided it best not to ask any more questions. “Thank you, gentlemen. ’Preciate your business.”

  Outside, they secured their supplies on the horses, then led them down to the saloon and tied them to the corner post of the porch, next to the hitching rail. From habit, they both took a few moments to look over the horses already tied at the rail, checking not only the quality of the horses, but also the saddles. One of the identifying points of a U.S. marshal was the fine horse he usually rode. The horses they saw there were merely ordinary, some pretty good mounts, others poor to fair. One of them looked to have been ridden long and hard, but nothing about the saddle rig caused them to think it could belong to a lawman. Even so, Slade paused in the door to look the room over before walking in.

  “Welcome, men. What’ll it be?” The bartender, a heavyset man with beefy arms and a close-cropped beard, stood awaiting their pleasure.