Massacre at Crow Creek Crossing Page 4

  As Harley had said, they were up and in the saddle at sunup, planning to stop for breakfast when the horses needed rest. Carrie wished she felt the enthusiasm to reach the Indian village that was so evident in Harley’s attitude. To the contrary, she didn’t expect her experience to be as comfortable as the one she now had with just Cole and Harley. She tried to tell herself that it would at least postpone the meeting she was to have with Robert’s parents. These were the thoughts troubling her when they rode through the trees to get her first glimpse at the Crow village by the river.

  CHAPTER 3

  Having heard the sound of loud voices outside, Yellow Calf came out of the tipi to see the cause. A small group of people, his wife among them, had gathered near the lower end of the village watching someone approaching.

  Yellow Calf walked down to join his wife. “What is it?”

  Moon Shadow pointed toward the cottonwoods on the other side of the river. “There, in the trees. White Wolf and Thunder Mouse return.”

  Yellow Calf stared at the opposite bank, and in a few seconds, the riders cleared the trees and started to cross the river. “I see them,” he said. “There is someone with them, a boy maybe.” His face lit up with a smile then. “The packhorses are heavily loaded. Maybe this is why they are back so soon.”

  “Maybe,” Moon Shadow said and chuckled. “I think maybe Thunder Mouse needs to get back to his warm tipi.”

  Close enough to be seen clearly, Harley and Cole acknowledged the welcome greetings with a raised arm above their heads. They led their string of packhorses up from the river as more of the village’s residents joined the crowd, excited to see what looked to be a welcome supply of meat and hides. After a genuine welcoming for the hunters’ return, all eyes turned toward the rider with them. Dressed as she was in Travis Womack’s clothing, Carrie was not at once recognized as a woman. When Harley told the people who she was, and the tragic circumstances that caused her to join them, she was warmly greeted, and Moon Shadow immediately took her under her wing.

  Having never been in an Indian village before, Carrie didn’t know what to expect. With no knowledge of the Crow tongue, she had to rely on Moon Shadow’s limited English, but she soon learned that the patient Crow woman knew enough of the language to communicate adequately. And Moon Shadow’s hospitality was much like what she would expect to receive in any neighbor’s home, the conical shape of the dwelling the only difference. In fact, after her most recent time spent in a wagon or sleeping at a campsite with no shelter, the accommodations seemed almost luxurious. She was ashamed to admit to herself how wrong her preconceived notion had been. When she offered Moon Shadow money for taking her in, the Crow woman refused it, telling her that she would need that money if she was going to Cheyenne. “We will eat the meat Thunder Mouse and White Wolf have brought,” Moon Shadow said. “When it gets low, we will send them to hunt again.”

  “You are most kind,” Carrie said, sensing a genuine compassion for her. Still feeling a certain amount of dread of the reception she might receive from Douglas and Martha Green in Cheyenne, she was almost tempted to remain in the Crow village for as long as they would have her. Her common sense told her that was unrealistic thinking, however, for she was too long accustomed to the white man’s town. And, besides, what would she do to become a useful part of the village? Although she had just arrived, already she was struck by the realization that there were no young people in evidence. The little village was seemingly made up of older people. It occurred to her then that the village depended upon Cole and Harley to keep them living as they had always lived, instead of having to go to the reservation. She gained even more respect for her two guardians.

  Since Carrie didn’t seem anxious to get on her way to meet her in-laws, Cole decided to delay the trip to Cheyenne for a few days. He needed to sell the hides he had kept for himself, and maybe trade the firearms he had collected when he’d rescued Carrie. It was a forty-mile ride to Fort Laramie and a trading post where he preferred to make his trades, so that would take him a couple of days. There was a trading post about halfway between the village and Cheyenne, located on the Chugwater Creek at a place called Iron Mountain. That would have been right on the way to Cheyenne, but Cole felt that Raymond Potter, the owner, was not a fair man to deal with.

  Harley was content to stay in the village and keep an eye on Carrie while Cole was gone. That would, in fact, require very little effort on his part, since Carrie was going to stay in Moon Shadow’s tipi. Harley had a tipi of his own in the camp and Moon Shadow would no doubt see to his needs as well. She had been for some time, at least ever since he began to winter with Medicine Bear’s village, and that was almost seven years now. Harley was looked upon as an uncle or cousin and was highly thought of in the camp. His Crow name, Thunder Mouse, was given to him by Yellow Calf because of his short stature and his boisterous nature. It was a name that Harley tolerated, although he would have preferred a more heroic name, like the name Walking Owl had bestowed upon Cole. The old medicine man had given Cole the name of White Wolf because of a dream Cole related in which a white wolf had come to him. As for Cole, he had been with the Crow people long enough to feel each time he returned to the small village was much like coming home.

  Before leaving for Fort Laramie, he asked Carrie if there was anything she needed from the trading post. “I could surely use a hairbrush, if they have one,” she replied. “I can give you some of that money to pay for it.”

  “Like Moon Shadow told you,” he said. “You’d best hang onto that money. I’m gonna be tradin’ a lot of hides and guns, and I expect I’ll be able to talk them into throwin’ a hairbrush in as part of the deal—that is, if they have hairbrushes.”

  * * *

  It was late in the afternoon when Cole approached the bend in the Platte River where Murphy’s Store was located. Standing apart from the cottonwoods that lined the river at this point, it was built of solid log construction, much like a fort. And in less peaceful times, it had served as a fort against attacks from Sioux Indians, one of which resulted in the loss of the barn. A new barn stood only a few yards from the burned timbers of the original, and Cole could see about a dozen horses in the corral. Like his store, Ian Murphy was built of strong fiber as well and over the years had gained a reputation as a fair man, whether trading with white man or red. Consequently, his store was a favorite with trappers and hunters, law-abiding and otherwise. He carried a good stock of basic supplies and whiskey by the jar, but he didn’t sell whiskey by the drink. He had always maintained that he ran a store and not a saloon. Cole had traded with Murphy before and had always been satisfied with the trade.

  He paused for a moment before nudging Joe with his heels, and the big Morgan dutifully entered the shallow water and started across. Cole guided him away from a couple of deep holes he remembered from before to save his packhorse from struggling with its heavy load of hides. There were no other horses tied at the hitching rail in front, but Cole knew that didn’t mean there were no customers there, for Murphy had a couple of rooms to rent upstairs. It was not unusual to find travelors stopping there for more than one day.

  “Cole Bonner,” Murphy greeted him at once when he walked in the door. “I was beginnin’ to think you’d gone under. Is your partner with you?”

  “How do, Murphy?” Cole responded. “No, Harley stayed back in Medicine Bear’s village with his feet to the fire.”

  “I can’t say as I blame him,” Murphy said with a chuckle. “It’s gettin’ cold pretty quick this year. You lookin’ to trade some hides?”

  “Matter of fact,” Cole replied. “You can take a look at ’em. I think they’re pretty good quality, maybe prime for deer. We got most of ’em up in the high mountains where it’s already pretty cold, so they had already thickened up. I got one bearskin that’s a dandy.”

  “Well, let’s take a look,” Murphy said and started to follow Cole out the door. He was stopped by a loud voice near the back of the room.

  “
Hey, where you goin’, Murphy? Are we gonna have to wait all night to get some supper?” This came from a table where three men were seated, working on a jar of corn whiskey.

  “Hold your horses, Yarborough,” Murphy replied. “She ain’t got no magic beans back there.” He looked at Cole. “Hold on just a minute, Cole, let me see if Bessie’s about done with the cookin’.”

  “Go ahead,” Cole said, “I’ll go outside and untie those hides.”

  Murphy went to the kitchen to hurry Bessie, which did not go well with the cantankerous cook, and she told him as much. On his way back, he paused long enough to tell the men at the table that supper was on its way. The three men were not among Murphy’s favorite customers, and his usual policy was to placate them in hopes they would get their business with him done as quickly as possible. The leader of the three, Flint Yarborough, was a vicious scoundrel. Of that, Murphy had no doubt, but Yarborough was capable of civil behavior when it suited him. The two outlaws who rode with him, however, were as rough-cut as the hewn logs of Murphy’s trading post. Of the two, Red Swann was the handiest with a .44 six-shooter, while Tiny Weaver was a brute of enormous proportions housing a pea-size brain. It had been some time since the three outlaws had occasion to stop at Murphy’s. According to what Yarborough had told him, they had spent the past six months in Missouri, and were now heading to Laramie.

  Outside, Murphy inspected the hides, making notes on a paper sack, as Cole pulled them off his packhorse. When he pulled the last one, Murphy said, “You were right, they’re in pretty good shape. Let’s go back inside and I’ll figure up a bid for the whole load, includin’ the bearskin.”

  Back inside, Murphy glanced first to see if his three other customers had their supper yet, and when he saw that they did, he went directly to the counter to figure how much credit he was willing to offer for the hides. Cole never haggled with him over the value of his hides, having always found him fair, so a figure was quickly agreed upon, and Cole started calling off a list of supplies he needed. “Before I use up all my credit, I’d best see about one important item,” he said. “Any chance you’ve got a hairbrush for sale?”

  “A hairbrush?” Murphy echoed, not sure he knew what Cole meant. When Cole nodded, Murphy asked, “Like a lady’s hairbrush?”

  “Yep,” Cole answered, “a lady’s hairbrush.”

  “I thought you were talkin’ about a horse brush or a currycomb,” Murphy said. “As a matter of fact, I do have a hairbrush, and I’ll be glad to sell it to you. Tell you the truth, I didn’t expect to ever have anybody lookin’ for one. I ordered it for a fellow owns a farm about twelve miles east of here, wanted it for his wife—took six months before I ever got it. When it did get here, it was a set of two brushes. Fellow didn’t want but one of ’em, so I reckon I’ve been savin’ the other one for you.”

  “Well, that’ll sure save me from disappointin’ a lady back in Medicine Bear’s village,” Cole said. He went on to finish up his trading with a large sack of coffee for Moon Shadow. “Now, I’d like to try whatever Bessie cooked up for supper before I go.” He had eaten her cooking before and it wasn’t bad, so he thought he might as well chance it again.

  “Good idea,” Murphy said. “I’ll join you.” He went into the kitchen to tell Bessie while Cole carried his purchases out to tie on his packhorse. When Cole came back inside, he found Murphy sitting at the other small table near the back of the room waiting for him. “Bessie’ll be out in a minute.”

  Overhearing, Yarborough interrupted, “Tell her to bring that coffeepot around again.”

  “Yeah, and some more of this slop she calls stew,” the brute named Tiny blurted, much to Red’s amusement.

  Murphy ignored their remarks, being certain that Bessie could hear their requests, and content to let her handle their complaints, if there were any. In a few moments, the feisty Indian woman came from the kitchen with a coffeepot and two cups for Murphy and Cole. She set them down on the table and filled them before going to the other table to refill Yarborough’s cup. The other two cups were still full, since Red and Tiny were still working on the jar of whiskey. Then she turned back to Murphy. “I bring your supper now.”

  “Don’t forget to bring me more stew,” Tiny ordered.

  “I bring you more stew, I charge you for two suppers,” she said.

  “The hell you will,” Tiny responded, then looked toward Murphy. “You let that damn Injun talk to your customers like that?”

  “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” Murphy said. “That’s her business, cookin’ for customers. Best to just eat your supper and let her be.” He looked at Cole and winked. “You get on her bad side and she’s liable to put somethin’ in your supper that’ll keep you runnin’ to the outhouse all night.”

  “She does, and it’ll be the last time she does it,” Red spoke up. “I ain’t got much use for Injuns, anyway,” he glared at Cole then, “or white men that dress up like Injuns.”

  With no interest in getting involved in a fight with a half-drunken gunman, Cole chose to ignore the remark obviously meant to challenge him. He was glad to see Bessie arrive at that moment with two plates of stew for him and Murphy. Murphy was glad as well. “Here we are,” he announced as Bessie set the plates down. “Time to quit talkin’ and start eatin’.”

  Red was not ready to let it go, however, having judged Cole’s lack of response as a sign of cowardice. Like most bullies, that was enough to egg him on. “Wonder if he unties them pigtails when he brushes his hair with his new hairbrush?” he said, plenty loud enough to be heard.

  Eager to encourage him, Tiny was quick to comment. “I bet he does. And maybe he’s got some of them ribbons he uses to make his hair real pretty, so he looks more like a squaw.”

  Murphy shot a quick look at Cole, concerned now that Yarborough and his partners were intent upon making some real trouble. “Maybe it’d be best if you just go ahead and get outta here before this gets out of hand,” he whispered softly.

  “I reckon you’re right,” Cole replied, making no attempt to keep from being overheard. “I’ll be leavin’ right away, but not till after I finish this plate of stew Bessie cooked. It looks too good to waste.”

  His response served to amuse Flint Yarborough. “Looks to me like this fellow ain’t that easy to rile up, Red. I reckon he ain’t heard about your reputation.”

  “Come on, Yarborough,” Murphy said, “there ain’t no call for trouble. Everything’s been goin’ all right, ain’t it? You and your boys have been treated right since you got here yesterday. Right? Cole, here, don’t want no trouble. Right, Cole?”

  “That’s a fact,” Cole said and took a large bite out of a biscuit. “I didn’t come here lookin’ for trouble. I just wanted to trade for some supplies and buy some supper.”

  “And brush your hair with your pretty little hairbrush,” Red snarled.

  “You just can’t let it go, can you?” Cole said, his patience running out. With one quick motion, he whipped the Henry rifle up from the floor where it had been resting beside his chair. To the complete surprise of all four of the men seated there, he cranked a cartridge into the chamber and leveled the rifle directly at Red. The reaction of the three at the other table was predictable, with all three pushing their chairs back in an effort to get to their weapons. In Tiny’s case, it resulted in the huge man’s chair going over backward to land him on the floor. “The first one that draws a weapon gets this first shot, so who wants it?” It was warning enough to freeze all three.

  There was a moment of silence before Yarborough thought to challenge him. “You’ve got the jump on us, but there’s three of us, and I guarantee you that if you pull that trigger, any one of us is quick enough to shoot you before you can crank another round in that rifle.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Cole said. “So as long as you gave me a guarantee, I’ll give you one. The first one of you that draws, I guarantee you’re gonna be the first one dead.” He shifted his rifle to aim directly at Yarb
orough.

  Yarborough slowly broke out a wry smile. “I reckon you’re holdin’ the winnin’ hand on this deal. Don’t nobody draw a weapon,” he ordered. “We were just havin’ a little fun, anyway. No hard feelin’s. Tiny, get up from there and finish your supper.”

  “Fine,” Cole said, “no hard feelin’s. I’ll just finish this plate of stew, then I’ll leave you fellows to enjoy your evenin’. Think nothin’ of this rifle still restin’ on the table. It just gives me a feelin’ of comfort while I’m eatin’.” He continued to eat without wasting any more time, while watching the scowling face of Red Swann. Tiny, simple soul that he was, shrugged it off and attacked his supper again. When he had finished, Cole took the last gulp of his coffee, then carefully got up from the table while still covering Yarborough with his rifle. He left some money on the table for his supper, then backed slowly toward the door.

  Still smiling as if genuinely amused, Yarborough watched his retreat. “Maybe we’ll see you again sometime,” he said when Cole reached the door.

  Once he got outside, Cole wasted no time climbing in the saddle while keeping an eye on the door. He wheeled Joe away from the rail and gave him his heels. The big Morgan seemed to know he wanted a quick departure. Relieved when there were no gunshots to follow him as he crossed back over the river, he left Murphy’s Store at a lope in the fading light of day. He decided to put a few miles between him and the store before making camp, allowing for the possibility that his trouble with the three outlaws was not over.

  Behind him, Yarborough stopped Red when he got up as soon as the door closed. “Let him be,” Yarborough said. “You open that door and you’ll get a .44 slug in your belly.”