“Somethin’ that ain’t been watered down,” Slade replied. “Rye, if you got it.”
There was a group of four men standing at the end of the bar. Their loud discussion was difficult not to hear, and Slade’s attention was captured at once by a tall, thin man who was doing most of the talking. Slade didn’t wait for his drink to be poured. Instead he moved down the bar to join the conversation. The thin man paused to look Slade over before deciding it best to be neighborly.
“Howdy,” he said.
“Howdy,” Slade said. “Go on with what you was sayin’.”
“I was just tellin’ these fellers about a shootin’ up in Cheyenne,” the thin man said.
“Me and my partner was in Cheyenne not too long ago,” Slade told him. “Who got shot?”
Aware now of the topic of conversation, Sanchez picked up the shot glasses and moved down to listen in on the discussion. He handed Slade his drink and leaned on the bar, waiting for the man to continue.
Recognizing a potential for violence in the faces of the two strangers, the man narrating the story hesitated for a moment before deciding they were just interested because they had just come from Cheyenne.
“Well, like I was tellin’ these fellers, there was a shootin’ in the saloon over a card game, and a couple of men got shot. One of ’em said the feller settin’ across the table from him was dealin’ off the bottom. The other feller called him on it and went for his gun. But the one that said he was cheatin’ cut him down with a derringer he was holdin’ in his lap.”
So that’s what started it, Slade thought, knowing that it sounded like Tom Larsen’s style.
“You said there were two men shot,” he said. “Who shot the other one?”
“Some jasper who just walked in the door, went over to the table, and shot that other feller twice, once in the chest and once in the head.”
“Just walked in and shot him?” Slade asked. “Didn’t say nothin’ to him, just shot him?”
“Well, he did say somethin’ to him, but I couldn’t hear what it was. The other feller looked like he knew him. He yelled somethin’ at him, but I didn’t understand what he said. He got off a shot, hit that stranger in the side, but it didn’t even slow him down.”
“Was he a lawman?” Slade asked. “Was he wearin’ a badge?”
“Nah, he weren’t no lawman. I reckon he just had somethin’ to settle with that feller.” He paused then, recalling the rest of the incident. “And that ain’t all. With blood runnin’ out of a hole in his side, he walked out of the saloon and started toward the hotel, looking to settle somebody else’s hash. Damn nigh the whole town went with him, just to see the show. I was in the crowd, too, but whoever he was lookin’ for had already took off.” He paused to chuckle. “Good thing, I reckon, ’cause he was sure in a killin’ mood.”
Slade was stunned as he realized what he had just heard. He turned to meet Sanchez’s eyes, and saw that he was struck with the same realization. There was no lawman, and there was no vigilante posse. They had run from one man—one wounded man at that! The thought of it was enough to infuriate him. He picked up his empty glass and moved back down the bar, away from the group of men. When Sanchez joined him, he said, “I’m goin’ back to Cheyenne to kill that son of a bitch.” He banged his glass on the bar and motioned for the bartender to fill it. He tossed it down his throat as soon as it was filled, the burn of his fury overpowering the sting of the alcohol.
Sanchez was more chagrined than furious. As far as he was concerned, the killing of Tom Larsen was no great loss to him. He didn’t like him anyway.
“To hell with him,” he said. “It ain’t worth the ride back up there to get him.” He took another drink, then asked, “Who the hell is he, anyway?” There could be a hell of a lot of people who had a reason to come after them, but this one sounded like a crazy man. It was best to avoid crazy people; they were too unpredictable.
“I don’t know,” Slade answered, knowing they had not left any witnesses to their crimes. He cast an accusing glance at Sanchez, thinking that he might have talked carelessly in a saloon. Sanchez was prone to boast about his exploits.
“Maybe somebody let their whiskey do the talkin’.”
Aware that it was an accusation, Sanchez replied, “Maybe. Maybe it was you that talked too much.” It didn’t occur to either man that the silent witness who testified to the massacre of the family on the Chugwater was the body of Skinner Roche.
“The hell you say,” Slade retorted. “You know better’n that.” He looked Sanchez straight in the eye for a long moment, as if daring him to disagree. “I’m goin’ back to Cheyenne,” he repeated. “There ain’t no one man who can run me outta town.”
Sanchez shrugged, still not as incensed over the incident as his partner. “If we ain’t gonna stay here in that hole up on the mountain, why don’t we just go on out to Ogallala or down to Texas to wait out this winter?”
“And have that son of a bitch keep doggin’ our trail? I don’t know how he knew we were in Cheyenne. That mouthy kid in the saloon said he was a stranger. And I don’t know why he’s after us, but I’ll know I don’t have to worry about him after I put a bullet in his brain. So you go to Ogallala, or Texas, or any other place you’re of a mind to. I’m goin’ to Cheyenne to kill that son of a bitch.”
Sanchez thought it over for a few moments before deciding. “What the hell?” he finally said. “Cheyenne’s a helluva lot closer than Ogallala—might as well go there as any place.” He shrugged again. “It’s a helluva lot better place to spend the winter than here. We don’t even have to ride back up that damn slippery little trail to the cabin,” he said.
Sanchez was right. They had all their possessions with them on their horses, plus the supplies they had just bought, so they set out on a trail to the north as soon as they finished their whiskey.
Chapter 8
It was a long three days in the saddle, but Cole managed to gut it out, even though the ride resulted in causing some bleeding from the wound in his side. The trip was made no easier by the winter storm that swept across the Wyoming prairie, bringing blinding snow at times. They pushed on in spite of it, relying upon Harley’s unusual sense of direction. Although he would never admit it to Harley, Cole thought he might regret the decision to leave the comfort of Mary Lou’s room behind the hotel kitchen. Feed for their horses was of major concern, owing to the heavy covering of snow, so a good portion of their time in camp was spent in peeling the bark from cottonwood branches to feed them. This was when they were lucky enough to find a creek or stream bordered by the trees.
The bulk of the camp-keeping was performed by Harley, a chore he seemed to do cheerfully, most of the time quietly singing some little song to himself. He seemed to know only a few lines of any song, for Cole never heard him sing one from start to finish. And with a voice low and raspy, he could be mistaken for a man in pain. There was very little that Cole could do to help with the chores of making camp. Still extremely weak, he did the best he could, but the cold seemed to freeze the recovery of his wound. Harley was satisfied with just Cole’s ability to remain in the saddle all day. At night by the fire, Cole would question Harley regarding the reception they might receive at the Crow village.
“How do you know they’ll take both of us in?”
The question caused Harley to grin confidently. “Because they’re my friends. I’ve been winterin’ with them Crows for more’n six years, and a friend of mine is a friend of theirs. You’ll see.”
Harley’s predictions turned out to be factual, for the entire village came forth to greet the gnarly little man upon their arrival at the camp near the banks of the Laramie River. Nestled in a wide turn of the river about a mile west of the confluence with the North Laramie, the village was protected from the wintry winds by a thick border of cottonwoods.
As Harley had promised, Cole was received cordially, an
d he and Harley were welcomed into Yellow Calf’s lodge. His wife, Moon Shadow, made him a bed of blankets, and Yellow Calf sent for the medicine man to take a look at Cole’s wound.
After Cole was put to bed, Yellow Calf said, “We must have a dance to welcome our friend, Thunder Mouse, back to our village,” referring to Harley by the name the Crow had given him.
It was a name given partially in jest, because of Harley’s small stature contrasted with his bold voice, but it was an affectionate label, for he was held in high esteem by the Crow village.
Walking Owl unwrapped the bandage Mary Lou had tied around Cole’s body and examined the healing wound in his side. Making comments as he looked at the stitches left by Doc Marion, he nodded as if he approved. Cole did not protest, although he had little faith in the medicine man’s expertise. He didn’t understand Walking Owl’s comments, since they were in the Crow tongue, even though Harley, who was standing by, told him everything was all right. He figured it would be an insult to decline the medicine man’s help. Harley told him that Walking Owl possessed special spiritual powers. The Crow word for it was maxpé, Harley told him, and he was more than a simple doctor.
Exhausted by the ride from Cheyenne, he really didn’t care what they did to him as long as they let him sleep. So when Walking Owl left to make up a poultice, Cole barely noticed. When he returned to place it over the wound and rewrapped the bandage, Cole was fast asleep.
When the medicine man left, Yellow Calf came back in and stood watching the sleeping white man for a few moments before speaking to Harley.
“Walking Owl said your friend is strong. He will soon be well.”
“His body is strong,” Harley said, speaking in the Crow tongue. “I worry about his head.” He then related the circumstances that led to Cole’s wound. “His mind is sick with revenge against those who killed his wife. I fear he will try to go back on the warpath before his body is ready.”
Yellow Calf understood then why Harley worried about his friend. “A man must do what his medicine tells him to do. You say he has killed all but two of the men who murdered his people. I think he must be a powerful warrior. If his medicine is strong, he will do what is right for him. You and I are too old to tell the young warriors what they should do. They do not listen anyway. Let us sit by the fire and smoke the pipe, eat the fresh-killed deer meat, and drink the coffee you got at Fort Laramie.”
“As always,” Harley said, “you speak with the wisdom of your years.”
He respected Yellow Calf’s words, but he was not inclined to sit by the fire while Cole pushed himself to seek out Slade Corbett before he was fully healed and back to strength. He wished that there was some way he could persuade Cole to consider his debt paid and let his mind heal as well as his body.
Things would be a whole lot easier if I hadn’t taken such a strong liking to that boy, he told himself.
Cole slept through the night, oblivious of the celebratory feast held to welcome Harley back to the village. He awoke the next morning in the predawn hours, before the sun rose above the eastern plains. Feeling stronger than he had in the days preceding his arrival in the Crow village, he lay there in his blankets for a while listening for sounds that would tell him someone else was awake. He turned his head to see if there was any sign of life from Harley, but the little man was deep in sleep, his breathing heavy and noisy. Looking toward the opposite side of the tipi, he saw Yellow Calf and Moon Shadow bundled together, also fast asleep.
He lay there a little longer before deciding he would do something about the nagging reminder that it had been a while since he had answered nature’s call. He felt a sharp pain in his side when he sat up, much like a knife piercing his insides, but when he paused to examine his bandage, there was no sign of bleeding. Rolling over on his knees, he pushed himself up on his feet, trying not to disturb the others still sleeping.
Once on his feet, he experienced a few seconds of dizziness, but his brain soon righted itself so that he was steady again. Confident then that he wouldn’t stumble over anybody, he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and walked carefully toward the entry flap.
Outside the tipi, he looked around him at the sleeping village—a great circle of lodges seated on the snow-covered ground, churned with the many tracks of people and horses. Near the center of the village, the smoldering remains of a great campfire could be seen, dying evidence of the celebration of the night before. Farther down the river, beyond the village, the horse herd pawed in the snow to get to the grass beneath. Joe and the buckskin were among the Indian ponies there. It was a peaceful sight, and for a brief moment, he was unaware of the bitterness in his heart. But it soon returned to remind him that he had not succeeded in righting the monstrous wrong that had been done to those he held dear. He walked toward the cottonwoods bordering the river, seeking privacy, even though there was no one about who might see him.
Since it appeared that he was the only person awake in the camp, he stopped to relieve himself as soon as he reached the outer trees. When he had finished, he considered the dull throbbing he now felt in his wound, thinking it was more aptly described as discomfort than outright pain. He was satisfied that he was rapidly healing and would soon be ready to ride again. Pulling his blanket up tighter around his shoulders, he walked over to the bank of the river and stood gazing at the dark body of water, gently moving past him in the misty morning light. He heard the faint splashing of a fish or a muskrat under the dark bank. Feeling slightly dizzy again, he brushed the snow from a dead log and sat down to await the sunrise.
As he sat there, he was suddenly aware of a pair of dark eyes peering at him from the solid white of the snow-covered bluff on the opposite side of the river. Startled, he stared back at the eyes, astonished when they moved and the white mass began to take shape, separating itself from the veil of white snow. As it moved closer to the water’s edge, its entire form became distinct. It was a large wolf, its fur solid white. Suddenly it struck, snatching some prey from the edge of the river. Cole was not sure what it was, perhaps a muskrat or some other varmint. He had not even seen it there. The white wolf paused to look back at the man, staring at him for a few moments before scrambling back up the bank, his prey locked in his powerful jaws, and disappearing into the whiteness of the predawn.
In the next instant he was aware of the bright rays of the sun stealing across the snowy prairie, its light glistening silver and gold as it announced another day. Cole suddenly realized that he had been asleep before the sun’s rays awakened him, but for how long? He got to his feet and stared across the river at the opposite bank for signs of the kill he had witnessed. Was there really a white wolf? Or had he dreamed the whole thing? Was there any such thing as a totally white wolf? He had never seen one. He would have liked to cross the river to look more closely for sign of the encounter, but there was no way to cross without getting wet. He would have to wait until later and cross on horseback.
Aware now of sounds of the village awakening, he turned away from the river, still not sure if he had actually seen what he thought he had.
It had to have been a dream, he thought, but it had seemed so real, and he had no idea that he had fallen asleep.
He had been wide-awake before that. Maybe he was feverish again and was hallucinating. He placed his hand on his forehead as if feeling for a fever. His forehead was cold. The whole episode was troubling, and he paused and turned to look back at the riverbank, to make sure he could find the exact spot again.
• • •
When he got back to the tipi, he met Moon Shadow on her way out to attend to her morning needs. “I come back,” she said. “I cook food.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cole said. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She paused to give him a closer look. “Good,” she said. “Get strong. Walk good.” She then hurried off to the privacy of the trees.
“I was startin’ to wonder if somethin’
grabbed you,” Harley said, still sitting in his blanket. “You was gone a long time.” Like Moon Shadow, he scrutinized Cole closely. “You look like you’re feelin’ some better.”
“Yeah, I think I am,” Cole said. “At least I’m pretty sure I ain’t gonna die right away.” Yellow Calf turned to look at him as well. He had been feeding sticks into the fire to rekindle the small flame struggling to survive. He nodded his agreement.
“I’m damn glad we’ve got some coffee in our packs,” Harley said. “Moon Shadow said they ain’t had none in quite a while. Let’s get that little coffeepot of your’n out and get some started. I swear I don’t believe I can get goin’ this mornin’ without no coffee.”
“I expect we oughta share what we’ve got with Moon Shadow,” Cole said. “We ain’t got a helluva lot, but I’ve still got some money. If we can get to a tradin’ post somewhere, I’ll buy some more. Oughta give ’em somethin’ for takin’ care of me.”
“Closest place is Fort Laramie,” Harley said. “If you look as much better tomorrow as you do this mornin’, maybe we can take a little ride over there in a few days.” He got up from his bed then. “Moon Shadow’s gonna build a fire outside to cook on, but I’ll take that coffeepot and fill it at the river. I gotta go pee anyway.” He grinned as Cole handed him the pot. “I’ll try to remember which vessel I’m emptyin’ and which one I’m fillin’ up so I don’t get ’em mixed up and make the coffee too strong to drink.” He was still laughing at his joke as he went out the entrance.
Cole’s coffeepot was refilled two more times before the four of them had enough to go with the pemmican Moon Shadow prepared. As the three men sat by the fire finishing their coffee, Cole couldn’t help thinking about the strange dream he had had by the river.
“I think I’ll saddle Joe and take a little ride across the river,” he said.
“What for?” Harley asked, thinking his young friend might be asking too much of his body too soon. “What’s over there you wanna see?”
Crow Creek Crossing Page 12
