Crow Creek Crossing (5 page)

Unwilling to wait while Sanchez enjoyed himself, the other four rode on toward the house, where the two horrified women sought to protect the children and themselves. Paralyzed by the shocking scene just witnessed, Mabel could not think until Ann screamed, “Get the shotgun!” Only then did Mabel seem to remember the weapon by the fireplace, and she went at once to retrieve it.

“Take the children into your bedroom!” she told Ann as she opened the breech to make sure the gun was loaded. Then she took a stand facing the front door and cocked the hammers. There was nothing else she could do, so she waited, tears streaming down her face at the thought of her husband and firstborn lying dead on the ground. In the bedroom, used now by Ann and Cole, her sister huddled in the
corner with Lucy and Skeeter close up under her arms.

Slade wasn't sure what might be waiting for them inside the cabin, but he was damn sure they were going in. With guns drawn, the five outlaws dismounted and cautiously approached the house. Slade didn't hear any sounds coming from inside, but he could picture the terrified women and children trying to find someplace to hide. Stepping up to the stoop that served as a front porch, he slowly lifted the latch, but it was bolted on the inside. He took a step back then and motioned to Skinner.

“Bust it open,” he directed. The oversized brute grinned, eager to exhibit his bullish strength. He stepped forward and sized up the door, pressing one giant palm against it to get an idea of the thickness. Satisfied, he backed away a couple of steps, lowered his shoulder, and charged the door. The massive blow splintered the doorframe and the door swung open to bang against the inside wall. The simpleminded giant had a wide, self-satisfied grin on his face when he was met with a full load of buckshot from both barrels at a range of no more than six feet. The force of the shot was enough to send him staggering backward out the door to collapse in the front yard. His companions reacted instantly, pumping half a dozen shots into the defiant woman, killing her before she dropped to the floor.

“Hot damn!” Smiley blurted facetiously. “Reckon she's dead?”

Not particularly grieved by the loss of Skinner, Tom Larsen remarked caustically, “That big half-wit finally made himself useful.” Seeing no one else in the front room, he looked at Slade. “Looks like the
place is ours. The rest of 'em is hid in here somewhere. Let's root 'em out.”

“I want to see the young woman,” Sanchez said. “I hope she don't have no shotgun.”

“I expect we'll find her and the young'uns in there,” Slade said, and they all turned toward the closed bedroom door.

•   •   •

Cole looked up at a gray sky as he neared the center of the valley. It had not snowed in the last two days, but it looked as if it might soon.

Not before I get home, anyway,
he thought.

If he remembered correctly, the knoll he had just left behind was about four miles from the cabin he and John had built. When he got to the creek, he would be on his land. The thought made him eager to get started on his own cabin, the house where hopefully a son would be born sometime in the summer. The thought of his wife caused him to nudge Joe with his heels, asking for a little faster pace.

Spotting a wisp of smoke in the distance, he knew that now he couldn't be more than two miles from John and Mabel's place. John had said that he might burn out some of those brambles and sage if it didn't snow. He wanted to clear off enough brush for a garden, hoping to plant it in the spring. But when the wind shifted toward him, there appeared to be a little more smoke than he had first seen, and he suddenly had a cold feeling in his gut. He had no explanation for it, but something told him that the smoke was an indication that something was wrong. He nudged Joe into a lope.

As he rode along the bank of the creek, the first
sign he saw that told him his feeling of alarm might be justified was the remains of a fairly recent campfire. He saw tracks of several horses close by, which increased his concern. As he approached the last stand of trees that blocked his view of the cabin, he kicked the Morgan into a full gallop, no longer able to contain his apprehension. And when he left the cover of the trees, he cried out involuntarily when he found the smoking ruins of the cabin. The barn was still standing, but his last desperate hope was shattered when he saw the bodies of John and Elliot lying where they had been shot down. He was almost overcome with revulsion when he saw that they had been scalped.

Indians! They had been attacked by Indians!

Indians had been known to take white women captive in the past. This thought was all he had left to hope for. Leaving the bodies, he ran toward the house, only to have the last of his hopes disappear when he found Skinner's body lying flat on his back before the front door, his pants legs singed from being so close to the burning house. His neck, face, and upper chest looked to have been torn apart by a shotgun blast at close range. Still, there was enough left to recognize him as the huge man whom Cole had been threatened with in the hotel dining room. He was easy to identify. The man called Slade had called him Skinner.

So this was not the work of an Indian war party, after all.
The gang of murderers has come back to destroy my life,
he thought. But how could they have known this was his place? He turned and looked at the pile of burned timbers with only two partial walls still standing. His heart pounded with the dreadful scene
he might find if he entered the ruins, but he knew that he had to go in. He had to know for sure.

Suffering a reluctance that he had never known before, Cole went into the smoky ruins of what was left of John Cochran's dream, stepping over charred timbers and debris as he made his way into the front room. The first body was in the middle of the floor, burned beyond recognition, and he sobbed as he knelt beside it. Judging by the size, he knew that it had been Mabel, since Ann was much smaller.

After a moment, he rose to his feet and forced himself to go into what had been his and Ann's bedroom. There he found her. The sight of the fragile body, which was, like Mabel's, burned beyond recognition, was too much for him to stand. He sank to his knees helplessly, his heart beating as if about to burst from his chest, and great sobs of despair choked his throat so that he could barely breathe. Unlike with Mabel's body, there was not a shred of clothing evident, making it impossible not to imagine the torture she must have suffered before her death. He dropped from his knees, no longer able to remain in that position, to sit beside the charred body of his wife, amid the ruins of his life. For without her, there was no life. Drowning in total despair, he sat there beside her for over an hour, lost, with no reason to go on.

He sat inside the burned house until the afternoon began to drain away into evening. A snort from the big Morgan gelding reminded him that there were still responsibilities to take care of, and he realized that his horse wanted water but would not move as long as his reins were on the ground. Drained of tears and grief, Cole strained to pull himself together.

“I've got graves to dig,” he announced to his grieving soul, and he got to his feet.

The bodies of Lucy and Skeeter were in the corner of the room, both heads shattered by gunshots at close range. He had to pause and take a deep breath when he thought about the precocious little rascal who used to dog his every step. He quickly told himself to keep his mind on the chore to be done and went at once to the barn, where he knew he would find a shovel. In the barn, he also found the carcasses of John's two horses. The murderers had evidently thought the pair not worth their trouble.

It was well after dark when he finished digging the one large grave. He had thought about digging Ann's grave apart from the others, but he changed his mind when he decided it would be better for her to be with her family, and not alone. When he finished filling the grave, he said a few words over the dead. For the most part, it was an apology to them all, especially to his beloved Ann, for not being there to protect them. He would forever feel guilt over their deaths.

Although he had not eaten since early that morning, he had no desire for food, not even coffee, but he felt a weariness that seemed to drain his very soul, so he lay down next to the grave to sleep, reluctant to leave Ann's body.

When he woke up, he found that a light snow had fallen during the short night. He sat up and looked around him at the darkened ruins and the unfin- ished barn, looking cold and dead. He knew that he needed to leave this place. His grief was turning more and more toward bitterness, and his sadness from the night before, when he just wanted to crawl
into a hole and die, was replaced by a desire for revenge. He swore on the grave that he would not rest until all who had participated in the murder of his wife and family had died by his hand.

His mind, so severely dulled by the grief and despair that had taken it over, began to function logically again. There remained four men to be dealt with, four debts to be paid. He was certain of the number, remembering that there had been six men who baited him in the hotel dining room. He had killed one during the brief shoot-out, and another was now lying dead on the ground near the house. He commanded his brain to remember the other faces, especially Slade Corbett with the silver hatband. He didn't know the names of the other three, except the tall, serious-looking man they had called Tom. He would remember the other two by their faces. One was a pudgy man with a shaggy beard, and the other looked to be Mexican.

With something to drive him on now, he scouted around the house and barn, looking for the tracks that would tell him which way they headed when they had left. They had apparently not worried about being followed, for after a short scout around the clearing, he found the unmistakable tracks of six horses that the light snow had not been able to cover up. They led to the north, following the Chugwater. Once he was certain there was a trail to follow, he returned to the ruins of the cabin to search among the ashes for anything he could use. There was nothing of value left. The murderers had taken everything, so he was left with nothing except his horse, his weapons, and the clothes he wore. He was not without some money, however, provided the outlaws
had not found the canvas bag he had buried in a corner of the back stall in John's barn. It contained three hundred dollars, his total fortune, left to him when his father passed away four years before. It was intended to be used to build a cabin and buy seed to plant. Now it would be used to hunt four men.

Crow Creek Crossing,
he thought, and wished to hell he had never heard of it. It would remain in his brain forever with the end of the pleasant life of Cole Bonner with his dreams of family and prosperity.

As he prepared to leave, he suddenly paused. So caught up in his grief, he had given no thought toward Walter Hodge and his family. Surely someone would have seen the smoke coming from this direction, and possibly heard the gunshots. Their house was no more than two miles away. Why had they not responded? The sobering thought struck him then that perhaps Walter and his family had suffered the same fate as his. Though the tracks he found leaving the scene of the massacre led in the opposite direction from Walter's place.

Still, he had to make certain, so he turned Joe and headed toward Walter's
farm.

To his relief, he spotted Walter Hodge driving a horse and wagon from his wheat field, heading toward his barn. Seeing the lone rider approaching from the south, Walter's son, Sammy, signaled his father. Walter pulled his horse to a stop and turned to follow Sammy's outstretched arm. Both father and son watched intently until the rider came close enough to identify.

“Hey-yo, Cole,” Walter sang out when Cole was near enough to hear his greeting. There was no indication that Cole had heard, for he did not acknowledge but continued to approach them. Close enough now to see the grim expression on their young neighbor's face, Walter was pressed to ask, “What's wrong?”

Having already learned what he had come to confirm, Cole was not interested in wasting time before returning to pick up the trail left by the killers. So he quickly told Walter what had happened. Walter and
Sammy were both horrified to hear of the murders and professed to have been totally unaware of the tragedy that had taken place. They claimed there had been no hint of smoke, saying that it probably had been after dark when the cabin was burned, and the wind had evidently been blowing in the opposite direction.

“And you heard no gunshots?” Cole asked.

“No,” Walter said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Maybe for the same reason we didn't smell any smoke.” He kept shaking his head sadly. “Frances will be devastated. I'm so sorry for your loss,” he added. “I'll get Frances and we'll get over to your place right away.”

“Ain't no use,” Cole stated grimly. “Ain't nothin' left but the barn. I buried everybody.”

“You must be about spent,” Walter said. “Come on up to the house and let us get you something to eat or a drink of likker, maybe.”

“No, thanks,” Cole said. “I just came over to make sure you folks were all right and let you know what happened. I've got to get back while there's still some daylight left.”

“What are you gonna do?” Walter asked. His immediate concern was his family and if they were in danger.

“The same thing you'd do, I reckon. I'll be goin' after them.” Sensing Walter's concern, he told him that he suspected that he was targeted because he had killed one of the gang. And the tracks he had found indicated that the killers had headed on, following the Chugwater. “Just the same, it wouldn't hurt to keep a sharp eye out for any strangers.”

Then he turned his horse abruptly and started
back at a lope, leaving Walter and his son to stare after him, still staggered by the unthinkable tragedy.

“You be careful,” Walter called after him. Cole did not acknowledge him. “I didn't like the look in that man's eye,” he said to Sammy. “He's liable to be ridin' into his own death. Damn, that's sorrowful news. We best go tell your mother.”

He didn't express it to his son, but the incident was certainly tragic enough to make him question his family's safety. He had counted on John Cochran and Cole Bonner to be there in time of need or danger. Now he was the lone man again.

•   •   •

It was not a difficult trail to follow since the four outlaws continued along the banks of Chugwater Creek. But with little knowledge of the country he was traveling, Cole could not speculate where they might be heading. With a mountain range to the west of him, he guessed that he was not too far from Fort Laramie. And if they stayed on their present course, they would probably strike the Platte River some distance west of the fort. It made little difference to him where they were heading, whether or not it was Fort Laramie or hell itself—he would follow them there and deliver his sentence of death.

As he rode doggedly on, stopping only when it was necessary to rest his horse, he felt empty inside, as if his soul had been torn out of him. There were no thoughts of a future beyond killing the men who had destroyed his life and taken the only thing he truly valued from him. And with nothing to detract from the monotony of the ground he trod upon, it was difficult to discourage thoughts of his beloved Ann. Every memory of their brief time together only served
to increase his pain. So he was glad, when near the end of the day, he was suddenly distracted by a movement in the middle of the creek ahead of him.

At once alert, he pulled his rifle from its scabbard and squinted in an attempt to identify it. When about forty yards from the bend in the creek where he had first seen movement, half a dozen antelope came up from the edge of the water, moving in a single line. With his rifle already out and ready to shoot, it was an easy shot, and he brought the lead antelope down. There was no time for a second shot, even had he wanted one, before the swift animals bolted away. Only then did he realize that he had not eaten anything since leaving his wife's grave. The thought reminded him that he had to continue to take care of himself while searching for his wife's murderers. And that he could not go without food.

“I reckon this is where we'll camp for the night,” he announced to Joe. The big Morgan appeared glad to hear it.

With no coffee, and no pot to boil it in, not even a cup, he had to settle for drinking water from the creek, same as Joe. He was fortunate to have the skinning knife he always carried, and a flint and steel in his saddlebags with which to build a fire. He went about the business of skinning and butchering the antelope, telling himself that it was important to keep his strength up. Thinking of the three hundred dollars he had, he decided he would have to spend some of it to better equip and supply himself the first chance he got.

That opportunity came two days later when he approached a small settlement on the Laramie River.

•   •   •

It appeared to be the start-up of what might become a sizable town, with a short row of log buildings and tents already in place. Looking down the street, Cole saw a saloon, a general store, a stable, a blacksmith, and a barber, plus a couple of other buildings that had no signs to identify them. He figured any information regarding the four men he trailed would most likely be obtained at the saloon, but he decided to visit the general store first, because along with his other supplies, he needed to buy cartridges for his rifle.

“Howdy,” Mort Johnson greeted him when he walked into the store. Cole only nodded in reply. The owner of the store looked the stranger over thoroughly before asking, “What can I help you with?”

“I'll be needin' some things,” Cole said as he eyed a small coffeepot on a shelf behind the counter. “A box of .44 cartridges to start,” he began, then called off the basic food supplies he needed, which consisted primarily of coffee beans, salt, and dried beans. “How much for that coffeepot?”

“That's a dandy, ain't it?” Mort replied. “Just the right size for a feller travelin' alone.” He paused to glance out the open door and saw Joe tied to the hitching rail. “I reckon you ain't got no family with you.” Cole didn't say whether he did or not, so Mort went on. “What brings you to Johnstown? I don't recall seein' you come through before.”

“Is that the name of the town?” Cole replied.

“Yup,” Mort said, always eager for a chance to talk about it. “It was named after me. My name's Mort Johnson, and I've run this here tradin' post for twelve
years. Wasn't nobody here but me until four years ago when folks started movin' in. I guess they thought it was a good place to settle, since the Injuns hadn't bothered me.” He chuckled proudly. “They named the town after me, but they shortened it from Johnsontown to Johnstown.”

“How much for the coffeepot?” Cole repeated.

“Dollar and a half,” Mort answered. “You never said whether you was passin' through or stayin'.”

“Passin' through,” Cole said. He listed a couple more items that he needed, one of which was a blanket to make a bedroll. After he paid for his purchases, he said, “I'm looking for four men who musta come through here ahead of me, maybe a day or two ago.”

Mort frowned before asking, “They friends of yours?”

“Nope,” Cole replied. “I'm just lookin' for 'em.”

“You ain't by any chance a lawman, are you?”

“No,” Cole said. “I'm just lookin' for 'em—thought maybe you mighta seen 'em.”

Still with a deep frown on his face, Mort said, “I've seen 'em all right. Night before last they shot Cotton Smith, the bartender in the saloon. We don't hold still for that kind of trouble in Johnstown. We're a respectable town, and to make sure it stays respectable, we have a vigilance committee to see that outlaws and murderers don't hang around here.” He paused and laughed when he realized what he had just said. “I reckon I shoulda said we got a committee to see that outlaws and murders
do
hang around here.”

Tense now with the realization that he might be catching up with Slade Corbett and his men, Cole ignored Mort's attempt at humor and pressed for
more information. “So they got away from your vigilance committee?”

“Yeah, all except one, and he's locked up in jail, waitin' for a detail of soldiers to come get him and take him over to Fort Laramie for trial.”

Cole immediately felt the muscles in his arms tensing.

One of them is here!

His expression remained stoic, however, never revealing the storm raging inside him. “If he shot the bartender, why didn't you just go ahead and hang him?” he asked.

“Tell you the truth, we was of a mind to, but he ain't the one who shot Cotton. It was the mean-lookin' son of a bitch with the silver hatband that pulled the trigger.”

“Slade Corbett,” Cole muttered softly to himself.

“Is that his name?” Mort asked. “I ain't ever seen a meaner snake than that feller. The one we caught said his name's Smiley Dodd. We were lucky to get him. Buck Wiley, the blacksmith, got ahold of his coattail when they jumped on their horses—pulled him right outta the saddle and landed him on his ass. The other three got away, though, and I don't reckon they'll come back to Johnstown. And the army will take care of Mr. Smiley Dodd.”

“What do you think the army will do with him?” Cole wanted to know, not at all pleased with the notion of handing him over to be tried. The army might not know how vile a murderer this man was.

“I ain't got no idea,” Mort replied. “Throw him in jail for a while, I guess, because he didn't really do anything but raise a little hell and damage a couple of
chairs in the saloon. We'd just hold him ourselves, but we ain't really got no jail.”

“No jail?” Cole responded. “Where have you got him locked up?”

“In the smokehouse behind the stables,” Mort said. “He ain't goin' anywhere. That smokehouse is built outta solid logs with a padlock on the door, and we got members of the vigilance committee takin' turns watchin' him till the army comes to get him.” He paused then and watched Cole for a few seconds. “What are you lookin' for them fellers for?” It seemed to him that the young man was deep in serious thought.

“They owe me something,” he said, and that was as far as he cared to go with it. What they owed him were their lives, and he had vowed on Ann's grave that he would accept nothing less. Ready to leave, he paid for his purchases, then hesitated before putting his money away. “If that little coffeepot was a dollar, I'd buy it.”

Mort grinned as he responded, “Well, you gimme a pretty good order, so I might let you have it for a dollar and a quarter.”

“Done,” Cole said. “I'll take it.”

Mort walked outside with him and helped carry his supplies. He stood watching as Cole filled his saddlebags until they could hold no more. “Looks like you need a sack for the rest of that stuff,” Mort commented. “I'll getcha one.” He went back inside, returning moments later with a cotton sack.

Cole tied it on his saddle. “Much obliged,” he said.

Mort nodded and remarked, “You was down to just about nothin'. How much farther are you goin'?”

“Don't know,” Cole answered honestly, then stepped up into the saddle before Mort could think of any more questions.

He turned Joe's head toward the stables at the end of the street and held the horse to a lively walk as he looked for the smokehouse Mort had mentioned. He had a lot to think about. The fact that one of the men who had murdered his wife and family was locked in a smokehouse no more than forty or fifty yards from him was causing him to struggle with indecision. It was unthinkable that a cold-blooded murderer might receive no more punishment than a short stay in the guardhouse at Fort Laramie. If what Mort had told him was true, that he was being held for nothing more than disturbing the peace and minor property damage, then it was very much likely that this would be the case.

The thought of waiting for the soldiers to show up, and then shooting Smiley when they let him out of the smokehouse, was tempting. He had to discard that idea, however, because it gave him little chance of escaping unharmed after taking the shot. And while it might give him the satisfaction of killing one of the outlaws, it might also mean that the other three would go unpunished.

On the other hand, if he simply followed the cavalry patrol back to Fort Laramie and waited for Smiley's release, the murderer's three accomplices would get even farther away by that time. He might never find them. He could choose to forget the one in order to make sure that the three did not get away, but he felt that the dead cried out to him that they all must die or vengeance would not be complete.

Perplexed, he sought a place to think about his
decision, so he rode up the river about a quarter of a mile to a shady grove of cottonwoods and dismounted. While Joe grazed on the riverbank, Cole brushed a light dusting of snow from a log and sat down to decide what he was going to do.

•   •   •

It was well after sundown, and a moonless sky cloaked the cottonwoods in darkness when Cole rode Joe slowly out of the trees and headed back to town. To avoid being seen by anyone at the noisy saloon, he rode behind it until he came to the stables and the smokehouse.