Crow Creek Crossing
Page 24
Chapter 15
“Ah, White Wolf returns,” Yellow Calf said when he glanced toward the river and saw the lone rider approaching.
Harley looked up from the length of buffalo sinew he was weaving into a bowstring for a three-foot bow made of ash wood and backed with sinew. He had been a fair hand with a bow in his earlier years with the Crow, so he had decided to try it again, since his supply of cartridges had gotten low over the winter. A wide smile parted the heavy growth of gray whiskers that hid almost all of the elfish face when he recognized his friend.
“It’s White Wolf, all right,” he said. “Looks like he picked up another horse. That ain’t his buckskin he’s leadin’.”
Harley immediately thought the new horse could be a positive sign, especially since it was carrying a saddle. He chuckled to himself when it struck him that all Cole’s packhorses seemed to come with a saddle on them. Instead of a rider, this one had a deer carcass draped across it. He got up from his place by the fire so he could attract Cole’s attention.
Cole saw him and guided Joe in his direction. When he pulled up before the fire, he dismounted and dropped the Morgan’s reins to the ground. “Welcome back, my friend,” Yellow Calf greeted him.
“Thank you, Yellow Calf,” Cole returned. “I brought a deer I was lucky enough to get a shot at a couple of miles back. I need to butcher it pretty soon. I thought maybe you folks could help me eat it.”
Yellow Calf smiled. “I will call Moon Shadow to butcher the deer,” he said, and turned to the tipi to call her.
“White Wolf,” Moon Shadow greeted him when she came out of the tipi and saw the deer he had brought. Fresh meat was always welcome. “You bring a nice gift. I will butcher it.” She turned to her husband then and said, “Yellow Calf will hang the carcass for me.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’ll help you string him up,” Cole said. “It’s the least I can do if Moon Shadow is gonna do the butcherin’.”
Having always been skilled in his observations of people, Harley stood silent during the casual conversation between them, watching Cole closely. The dark cloud that had always seemed to hover over his young friend was gone.
Finally Harley asked, “You got him, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Cole answered simply.
“Well, thank the good Lord for that,” Harley said, beaming with relief, for he had almost convinced himself that Cole’s streak of luck was strained to the limit, and Sanchez might be the one to break it. “Whaddaya aim to do now?”
“I don’t know,” Cole answered honestly. “I haven’t given much thought to what was gonna happen after I settled with all of ’em.”
“I reckon there ain’t no hurry to decide,” Harley said. “We’ll have us a feast of that deer to celebrate. Tell you the truth, I was worried about that son of a bitch Sanchez. He was mean clear to the bone. I figured he’d be hard as hell to kill. How’d you track him down?”
“I’ll tell you about it sometime,” Cole said. “Right now I expect I’d better get these saddles off my horses and turn ’em out with the pony herd.” He was still not sure he wanted to tell Harley about the wolf part of the story.
“I reckon you know you can stay here as long as you ain’t made up your mind what you’re gonna do,” Harley said.
“I reckon,” Cole allowed. “I’ve got a good horse down in Cheyenne that I don’t plan to lose. So I’d best get down there pretty soon.”
Harley nodded thoughtfully. “Yep, there’s some folks down there that most likely wanna know if you’re all right.”
Cole shrugged indifferently. “I don’t know about that. All I know is I’ve got a damn good horse I ain’t planning to leave there.”
Mary Lou’s awkward confession came to mind, as it had more than a few times in the last couple of days. And the more he thought about it, the more it bothered him, because he wasn’t sure exactly what he thought about it. He tried to remember her exact words. Was she telling him that she was open to an offer from him? He couldn’t help speculating about the possibilities of a union between himself and the strong-willed woman.
Whenever he let his mind ramble unfettered in that direction, he was prone to bring it back abruptly with thoughts of guilt. It was disrespectful to Ann’s memory to think of such things. Her death was much too recent to think of moving on. Besides, there was still the craving to see the high mountain country—to ride the Big Horns, the Absarokas, the Bitterroots, and beyond. He had forsaken that dream for the life of a farmer-rancher when he married Ann. He would never regret that decision, but maybe now was the time to revive the dream. He glanced up then to see Harley staring at him, waiting for a response, and he realized his mind had been so deeply absorbed in his thoughts that he had not even heard the question.
“What?” he asked.
“I said, when are you thinkin’ about goin’ back to Cheyenne?” Harley replied. “Where the hell were you? You looked like you was a thousand miles away.”
“I was just thinkin’,” Cole said. “I ain’t thought about when I’m goin’ after my horse—in a day or two, I reckon.” Another concern popped into his mind then. “I’ve got a piece of land I filed on down on the Chugwater. I might wanna do something with that.”
“Like what?” Harley asked. “You know anythin’ about farmin’?” His expression testified that he already knew the answer to that.
“Can’t say as I do,” Cole admitted. “But I do know something about raisin’ horses and cattle.”
Harley was still skeptical. “Is that so? You ain’t got much of a start if you’re set on raisin’ horses—three horses, and all three of ’em geldin’s.” He waited for Cole’s answer to that, but Cole declined to reply. So Harley continued. “I’ve been ridin’ with you long enough to know you—better’n you know yourself maybe. You got the wanderin’ in your blood, same as me when I was about your age. You’re a hunter. Walkin’ Owl told you that, and you ain’t gonna have no peace till you see the Rockies for yourself. You can go on back to that place on the Chugwater and set your mind to raisin’ wheat and cattle. And you might scrape by for a while, but that day will come when the mountains whisper to you on a fresh spring breeze, like a beautiful woman callin’ you to her bed. And you’ll be standin’ there with a hoe or a pitchfork in your hand instead of a good repeatin’ rifle. Then it’ll be fare-thee-well to that miserable plot of land. Hell, that land around the Chugwater ain’t no good for farmin’, anyhow.”
Harley’s passionate remarks left Cole slightly astonished, and somewhat amused. He couldn’t help smiling at his gnarly friend. “Damn, Harley, that’s the biggest mouthful I’ve ever heard you say at one time.” He laughed then, but Harley’s words struck a chord deep inside him. And Cole could not honestly refute anything he said. “I reckon you’re too old to ride to the high country, if I decided that’s where I’m goin’.”
“The hell I am!” Harley protested. “I ain’t ready to squat by the fire just yet.”
“Wasn’t long ago you told me that the winter was gettin’ in your bones,” Cole reminded him. “You stayed here by the fire when I went back to Cheyenne.”
“Ah, hell,” Harley said. “I just didn’t wanna go along to see you get killed.” He grinned then. “I reckon I didn’t know you was the meanest stud horse in the herd. Besides, it’s just the damn flat prairie winter that gets into my bones.”
He paused to see if Cole would make any commitment to go or stay. Although comfortable in his later years to be with his Crow friends, he had to confess that he would dearly love to see the high mountains once more before meeting his maker. This was especially true if he had a strong partner like Cole to rely on. Finally, with nothing forthcoming from Cole, he pressed. “Are you really thinkin’ about headin’ up to the high country?”
“I’m thinkin’ on it,” Cole admitted. “Like I said, I’m goin’ down to Cheyenne to pick up the buckskin. Th
en I reckon I’ll decide what I’m gonna do.” He didn’t tell Harley, but he had already decided to stop by the ruins of John Cochran’s homestead on the Chugwater to visit Ann’s grave. He would continue on to Cheyenne after he had talked it over with her.
• • •
Cole purposely rode wide around Walter Hodge’s farm. He had no desire to visit John Cochran’s friend, but he was concerned enough to take a long look at Walter’s homestead from the top of a mesa about a quarter of a mile away. When he decided that the place looked peaceful, just as it had the last time he visited, he nudged Joe to continue down to John’s land.
He felt a cold hand clutching his chest when he topped the rise before the creek to once again see the charred ruins of John Cochran’s house. Like a solemn gravestone, it stood dark and silent, the only memorial to the family that had perished there. He found the one large grave to be just as he had left it, with the exception of some weeds that had taken root. But there was no evidence of scavengers, which was a relief to Cole. He pulled the saddle off Joe and built his fire by the side of the grave closest to Ann’s body. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, or even what he’d hoped for. If it was a message from his dead wife he was looking for, a sign, or a dream, it never came to him.
When finally he drifted off to sleep, he slept soundly, a deep and dreamless sleep, and when he woke the following morning, it was with the feeling that it was time to get on with his life. He said a final farewell to his wife, with the promise that she would always live in his memory.
Then he saddled Joe and turned his head toward Cheyenne.
• • •
Crow Creek Crossing, he thought when he rode in from the north end of town once again.
He couldn’t help thinking about the first day he had seen the town. Enough had happened since to fill the lifetime of an average man, and most of it not good. On this day, however, the town had a calmer look about it. There were a couple of new buildings under way, and he noticed that the church was finished. Gordon Luck would be preaching fire and brimstone to those in his flock who chose to avoid the sinful path, his long mane of sandy hair lying like a golden shroud upon his massive shoulders. Cole could imagine that the reverend cut quite a figure for the ladies of Cheyenne. He decided that the town had a chance at respectability now that it appeared the riffraff had moved on.
“Howdy, Cole,” Leon Bloodworth greeted him when he rode up to the stable. “I was wonderin’ when we might see you again.”
“Howdy,” Cole returned. “You ain’t sold my horse, have you?”
Bloodworth laughed. “No, he’s still here. I coulda sold him a couple of times, though. But I knew you’d be back for him.”
“We’ll settle up on what I owe you when I get back from the hotel,” Cole said. “I wanna see somebody there first.”
“You gonna be stayin’ with us awhile this time?” Bloodworth asked.
“Don’t know. I’ll let you know when I get back.”
• • •
Maggie Whitehouse glanced out the window as she walked past carrying a stack of freshly washed tablecloths. Something caught her eye, and she took a couple of steps back to make sure it was Cole Bonner she had seen heading toward the dining room. It was him, all right. There was no mistaking the easy long-legged strides as he headed purposefully straight for the door.
Uh-oh, she thought, and turned at once to alert Mary Lou, who was in the kitchen, talking to Beulah.
“You were supposed to leave those in the dining room,” Mary Lou complained when Maggie walked in, still carrying the stack of tablecloths.
“I think you’ve got company,” Maggie said, ignoring Mary Lou’s tease, as she nodded toward the door.
“Oh?” Mary Lou replied, aware now of Maggie’s serious manner. She turned abruptly and walked into the dining room just as Cole came in the outside door.
“Mary Lou,” Cole called to her, “I was just comin’ to see you.”
“Is that right?” she responded, realizing that it was unusual to see a smile on the usually stern facade. She had not expected to see him return to Cheyenne so soon—maybe not at all—and his sudden appearance made for an uncomfortable moment. So she thought the best thing to do was not to beat around the bush.
“Before you say anything, I think I oughta tell you that I said a lot of things that I shouldn’t have, things that may have given you the wrong idea about what I was thinking.” He started to respond, but she quickly continued before he could speak. “I’m afraid I might even have scared you, and thinking back, I can understand why. Let me set your mind at ease. Gordon Luck has been pestering me to marry him for a long time, and I finally said yes.”
She was looking down at her feet when she said it, so she didn’t notice the stunned expression on Cole’s face. Maggie, who was watching for his expression, did not miss it, however.
Emotionally staggered for a moment, Cole recovered quickly enough to reply. “Well, good for you,” he said, trying not to show his disappointment, for he had made up his mind while walking from the stable that he was going to ask her to be his wife. The decision to once again forsake his dream of riding the high mountains had been hard, but he had persuaded himself that it was worth the love of a good woman.
“And good for Gordon,” he managed, trying hard to smile.
“I can’t picture me as a preacher’s wife,” she went on in an attempt to keep the conversation light. “I reckon I’ll just be a wife to the part of him that runs the sawmill.”
“I reckon,” Cole said, and forced a chuckle. “Gordon’s a good man. I wish you the best.” He glanced at Maggie then, who looked as if she was in pain. “I just dropped by to tell you folks good-bye. Me and Harley are headin’ up in the Rockies—don’t know when I’ll get back this way again. I have to pick up my horse. Then I reckon I’ll be on my way.” An awkward silence followed that seemed interminable, until Cole finally said, “I wanna thank you both for everything you’ve done for me.” He nodded to each one, then turned and headed for the door.
“I told you so,” Mary Lou said to Maggie after he had gone. “He was planning to head up in the mountains with his faithful ol’ hound dog, Harley, all along. I made the right decision.”
“I guess,” Maggie said. It had been torture for her to keep silent during the conversation between the two young people. But she had promised Mary Lou that she had nothing more to say in regard to her love life.
When Mary Lou went to the window to watch Cole walking back to the stable, Maggie stormed into the kitchen, picked up a coffee cup from the table, and threw it as hard as she could.
Bending over the stove, Beulah jumped when the cup smashed against the wall. “Damn!” she exclaimed. “You scared the hell outta me. What did you do that for?”
Maggie turned as if unaware of her presence before.
“Idiots!” she blurted. “Damn fool idiots!”
“Ain’t it the truth?” Beulah said.
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Read on for a look at
the next thrilling adventure
from Charles G. West,
TRIAL AT FORT KEOGH
Available from Signet in December 2014.
Clint Cooper squatted on his heels and picked up a piece of charred bone, which he used to poke around in the remains of a slaughtered steer. His close inspection wasn’t really necessary, because it was obviously not the work of wolves or coyotes. Those predators did not usually build a fire to cook meat. This was the second carcass he had found in the past few days, and the moccasin prints around the kill told him that it was done by a small party of Indians.
The question in his mind was whether it was the same raiding party that had hit a small ranch eight miles east of the Double-V-Bar Ranch two days before. Leonard Sample, his wife, and his two sons were killed in the raid, their mutilated bodies found by their neighbor to the east of them. It was the first attack by an Indian war party in quite some time, at least since the construction of Fort Keogh. Every rancher on the south side of the Yellowstone suffered the loss of a cow now and then from small parties of Indians around this time of year, when game was difficult to come by. Usually, it was of no real concern as long as it wasn’t allowed to get out of control. But the savage attack on the Sample’s ranch was enough to cause serious worry throughout the territory.
The signs he was reading now turned up no small footprints, which indicated that the slaughter hadn’t been done by a party with women and children, as the first killing had been. This killing was recent—recent enough for him to be able to possibly track down the guilty parties. Clint’s boss, Randolph Valentine, was not likely to miss one or two stolen cows from his herd of more than fifteen hundred, so Clint had been inclined to overlook it when the first steer was slaughtered by a party of hungry Indians. But two in a week’s time was cause for concern, especially after the murder of the Sample family.