Crow Creek Crossing (10 page)

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.

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.

“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.