Crow Creek Crossing

by Charles G. West

  At first, Clint frowned when he thought about tracking down what he had imagined to be a small group of starving Indians who were still resisting the government’s orders to return to the reservation. But the winters were hard in Montana Territory. A good many of the trail-hardened longhorns from Texas were lost each year due to natural predators, and it was part of Clint’s responsibilities as Randolph Valentine’s top hand to see that the number lost was held to a minimum.

  Before these two incidents, the raiding of the herds had not really been bad, mostly because the army had built a fort on the south bank of the Yellowstone, at the confluence of that river with the Tongue. Originally known as the Tongue River Barracks, Fort Keogh was only about five miles from the Double-V-Bar. Its purpose was to protect settlers from hostile Sioux raiding parties, remnants of Sitting Bull’s and Crazy Horse’s warriors who had escaped after the massacre at Little Big Horn.

  The Texas longhorn cattle were a hardy lot and better suited than other breeds to fatten up on Montana grass over the winter before being shipped to the Chicago slaughterhouses in the spring. One thing was for sure: They were a lot easier to kill than the pronghorn antelope native to the area, especially when the hunter had nothing more than a bow.

  I reckon I’d go after a cow, too, if the situation was turned around, he thought, and I was the one needing food.

  He got to his feet when Ben Hawkins and Jody Hale appeared at the top of the ravine and came slowly down to join him.

  “Found another’n, didja?” Ben called out.

  “Yep,” Clint answered. “If I was to guess, I’d say they left here no more’n four or five hours ago, and I don’t think this one was killed by the same bunch that killed that last one. Take a look.”

  Ben dismounted, dropped his reins to the ground, and walked over beside Clint. He squatted on his heels, as Clint had, and stirred the ashes of the small fire. “I expect you’re right,” he said. “Four or five hours ago, not long after daybreak.” He grunted with the effort to stand up again, not being as agile as the younger man. “I reckon you’re wantin’ to try to track ’em.”

  “I expect we oughta,” Clint replied. “I’m thinkin’ this might be that war party that struck the Sample place. Even if they ain’t, Mr. Valentine said he didn’t intend to feed every starvin’ Indian in the territory.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully as he turned the matter over in his mind. “I’d kinda hoped when we found that other one a few days ago that they were just gonna kill one and move on through our range. But I reckon this is a different bunch, and they’re figurin’ on stayin’ awhile.”

  “Looks that way,” Ben agreed. He crossed the small stream on the other side of the burned-out fire to take a look at the tracks, stepping from stone to stone to keep his boots dry. After a few moments inspecting the mixture of hoofprints and moccasin tracks, he expressed what Clint had already surmised. “’Pears to me they didn’t just go after this one cow. Hell, they cut out half a dozen cows and drove ’em down here to the stream. There’re cow tracks and horse tracks, and the horses weren’t shod, so they was Injuns, all right.”

  “And they drove ’em down that side of the stream toward the river,” Clint finished for him. “I figure it’s that Sioux raidin’ party, ’cause I couldn’t find any small footprints that would mean there were women and children with ’em. I reckon they butchered this one, then just decided to take a few cattle with ’em for their food supply.”

  “Looks that way,” Ben said again, and took another look around the edge of the water for tracks. He was thinking that if there had been kids, they’d have been playing around the water. “Might be a small bunch passin’ through on their way up to Canada to join up with what’s left of ol’ Sittin’ Bull’s people.”

  “How many you think?” Clint asked.

  “I figure five, maybe six,” Ben replied.

  “That’s about what I make it,” Clint said.

  It was not surprising that they agreed, since Ben Hawkins had taught Clint practically everything he knew about reading tracks. Clint had still been in his teens when he’d left Wyoming Territory and made his way down to Texas, looking for work with one of the big ranches. With no ties to any part of the country, he had been prone to wander until he found someplace that suited him. He’d signed on with Will Marston to drive a herd up from Texas to Ogallala. That was where he met Ben Hawkins. Ben had recognized the honest, hardworking decency in the otherwise carefree young man, and had unofficially taken him under his wing.

  It had occurred to Ben that young Clint never mentioned family or home, so one day he had asked him about his home and whether there was someone there who might want to hear where he was.

  “Nope,” Clint answered.

  Although it took some digging, Ben was finally able to learn that Clint had no idea what had happened to his mother. His father told him that she had died of pneumonia. He was about two at the time, as far as he could guess. He’d stayed with his father until the older man had an argument over a prostitute in a saloon and it had turned into a gunfight, and Clint was left an orphan. Now, at twenty, the years having softened his memories, he knew that his father’s name was Clayton Cooper, and that was all he cared to know about his past. He couldn’t recall his mother’s name and doubted that he’d ever known it. He also had an odd C-shaped scar on his neck but had no recollection as to how he’d gotten it.

  After several years, when a natural partnership developed between them, Clint and Ben had decided to help drive a herd of Texas cattle on up to Montana for Randolph Valentine. Valentine was quick to see the potential in young Clint Cooper and offered him a permanent job. He offered Ben a job, too, but Ben was smart enough to know that it was probably due to the fact that the two were partners, and that Valentine would have to hire both of them to get the one he wanted. As it had turned out, however, Valentine came to appreciate the experience and the work ethic of the older partner as well. He soon realized that he had made a better deal than he had at first thought.

  In a couple of years’ time, young Clint Cooper proved to be a man capable of running the day-to-day operations of the ranch. And Valentine was aware of the steel-like strength beneath the carefree attitude he most often displayed. At any rate, Clint was physically big enough to handle objections to any orders he might issue to the crew who worked Valentine’s ranch. That capability was seldom necessary, though, since Clint’s orders always came in the form of suggestions, and he always seemed willing to take his share of the dirty chores. Valentine had never officially announced that Clint was the foreman of his crew, but all the men knew it to be the case. It had not surprised Ben that Valentine had come to look at the young ramrod almost as a son. This was especially true in light of the fact that Randolph and Valerie Valentine had only one offspring, a daughter named Hope, who was a year younger than Clint.

  “Well, I reckon we’d best go see if we can recover our stolen cattle,” Clint said. He looked up at Jody Hale, who was still seated on his horse. “Jody, ride on back and tell Charley and the rest of the boys to keep moving the cattle back off of that flat. I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea to move ’em in closer to the ranch. Me and Ben are gonna go see if we can catch up with these Indians and maybe get our cattle back.”

  Jody, the fourteen-year-old nephew of Charley Clark, nodded in reply and promptly turned his horse to ride back up the ravine.

  Ben looked over his shoulder to watch the boy ride away. “You reckon he’ll remember what you told him by the time he gets back to the herd?” he joked.

  Clint laughed. “Yeah, Jody’s all right. He’s just got his mind on other things most of the time—not much different from any of us at fourteen.” He stepped up into the saddle then, but paused for a moment. “I didn’t ask you if you wanted to stick your neck out to go after a bunch of Indian warriors.”

  Ben waited to answer until he had crossed back over the stream and stepped up on his h
orse. “No, you didn’t, did you?” he mocked. “But then, you never do. Hell, I gotta go with you anyway to make sure you don’t get yourself inta somethin’ you can’t get out of.”

  He gave his horse a kick and splashed across the stream to lead out along the opposite bank, leaving his grinning partner with no choice but to follow.