Massacre at Crow Creek Crossing Page 5
“I ain’t lettin’ that son of a bitch get away with that,” Red fumed, still smoldering at the ease with which Cole had gotten away. “I ain’t backin’ down to no half-breed Injun.”
“Hell, Red, forget about it,” Tiny said. Even he could see there was no need to go riding off in the approaching darkness, maybe to ride into a hot ambush.
“You know he’s gonna stop somewhere pretty quick for the night,” Red insisted.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Yarborough said. “He’s already had his supper. Depends on his horses. If they ain’t tired, he might ride half the night. I say to hell with him. You’ve let him get under your skin. I ain’t worried about him. I’m just wantin’ to get down to Laramie.” Red sat down at the table again, but the longer he sat there, the madder he got, and before several minutes had passed, he was on his feet again. “You ain’t gonna forget it, are you?” Yarborough asked.
“No, I ain’t gonna forget it,” Red replied. “I told you that.” He stood glaring at his two partners, waiting for their response. When he got it, it only served to make him madder.
“Don’t look at me,” Yarborough said. “I don’t care enough about that half-breed to go to the trouble of runnin’ him down tonight. You need to cool off before you talk yourself into walkin’ into an ambush.” He looked at Tiny, who seemed to find Red’s anger amusing. “Maybe Tiny’ll go after him with you.” Tiny shook his head, still grinning at Red’s frustration. Determined to show them both that he made no idle threats, Red took a long swig from the jar of whiskey, set the empty jar down hard on the table, and marched out the door.
* * *
Spurred on equally by his need to settle with Cole and his desire to make his two partners eat their words, Red hurried to the corral to get his horse saddled. Confident that if he could determine which way Cole rode out, he could likely pick up his trail. There were several trails leading to Murphy’s Store. It was only a matter of finding the one Cole took, and that was not a problem because Murphy’s hired hand, Jack Peters, was loading some hay into the hayloft from a flatbed wagon. “Hey,” Red hailed him, “feller just rode outta here leadin’ a packhorse, which way’d he go?”
“Him?” Jack answered. “He lef’out on the river trail, yonder way.” He turned and pointed to a trail that ultimately led to the North Laramie River.
Red didn’t bother to reply to him and turned his horse toward the trail he indicated at a lope. Unconcerned about overworking his horse, he held the sorrel to that steady gait. He was confident that he would be riding faster than the man he chased and would catch up to him before he had to worry about resting his horse. The trail was easy enough to follow, even in the rapidly growing darkness that descended upon the open prairie away from the river. He had not ridden an hour when he saw the dark outline of trees ahead to indicate a stream or a creek. A few moments later, he reined the sorrel back to a fast walk when he caught a glimpse of a fire in a stand of pines. Ha, he didn’t get far before he made camp, he thought. Still about a mile from the trees, he felt confident that he couldn’t be seen out on the dark prairie, even if Cole was watching for him. But there was no sense in being reckless and riding right into a welcome from the Henry rifle, as Yarborough had suggested. I ain’t that dumb, he thought and turned the sorrel’s head to angle off of the trail he had been following.
When he reached a point he figured to be about one hundred yards upstream from the point where he saw the fire, he turned his horse to ride into the trees. Once in the protection of the trees, he dismounted and tied the horse to a low tree limb. Then he drew the Winchester ’66 from his saddle sling and cranked a round into the chamber. Ready then, he set out through the trees on foot, following the winding creek back toward the campfire. When he came to a spot where the trees were a little less dense, he could see the fire, maybe fifty yards away, and the figure of the man sitting beside it. His horses were beyond the camp, maybe thirty yards, he figured. Now I’ll show you how to sneak up on an Injun, he told himself, confident he had caught his prey off guard. Before he moved in any closer, he paused to consider the possibility that he might be walking into a trap. It was an old trick to roll up a blanket or two to look like a man sleeping, but there was nothing like that near the campfire. Instead, he could see a man sitting next to the fire, and his back was turned toward him. More certain than ever, Red pulled his Winchester up to rest against his shoulder and took dead aim at the center of the man’s back. Before pulling the trigger, he hesitated a moment to consider waiting until he got closer to see the fear in the man’s face when he discovered what was happening. It was just a moment, however, because he decided it best to shoot him down before he knew he was being stalked. He squeezed the trigger and smiled when the .44 slug struck a point that looked to be centered between the shoulder blades. The man keeled over, his body twisting violently, facedown, telling Red it was a kill shot. He moved forward quickly then to make sure his target was not going to get up.
Remaining cautious, Red moved up behind his victim, his rifle reloaded and ready to fire again, if necessary, but there was no sign of life. He pushed through the last bunch of small bushes that stood between him and his target, then stopped, confused. It appeared that the man’s head had come off and rolled into the fire! “What tha. . . .” Red blurted when he discovered the body to be two medium-sized links of a dead log, with a blanket draped around them. His panic lasted for no more than a split second when he turned just in time to receive the full force of the butt of the Henry rifle jammed into his face. Dropped, as if he had been shot, he was rendered senseless as he lay sprawled on his back, helpless to defend himself.
Wasting no time, Cole grabbed his ankles and flipped him over on his belly. Then he pulled his hands behind his back and tied his wrists together. He relieved him of his gun belt and pulled his boots off. “I oughta kill you for puttin’ a hole in my blanket,” he said as he stood over him. “But I’m just gonna charge you one horse, your guns, and a pair of boots. Now that oughta make you and me even, so I don’t expect to see you again.” He wasn’t sure Red understood what he was saying; he was still looking pretty confused. So he decided to waste no more time. He pulled his blanket off the rotting links of logs and shook it out before using it to carry his newly confiscated firearms and boots to the willows where his horses were waiting. He took another look at the prone form of Red Swann as he rode past the campfire and went back to find Red’s horse tied to a tree limb. Tying the sorrel’s reins to a short lead from his packhorse, he rode for a couple of miles before stopping to transfer his bag of weapons and boots to Red’s horse.
The entire incident had turned out differently than he had anticipated. After his little confrontation with the three outlaws at Murphy’s Store, he figured he was not through with them. Fully prepared to take on the three of them, he set up his fake camp, knowing they would be out to kill him and he was bound to stop them if he could. When only the hothead, Red, showed up, he decided to send him back to his friends with sore feet, knowing the humiliation would be worse punishment than death for someone like him. The thing to do now was to hide his trail as well as he could, in case they did decide to come after him.
* * *
Cole’s plan worked as well as he had hoped. Red laid there by the fire, too groggy to realize what had happened to him until the fire had almost died out. When he finally came to his senses, enough to appreciate the terrible pain he was in, he tried to get up, only then aware that his hands were tied behind his back. There followed a struggle, but he finally got to his feet, aware then that his nose was shattered and there was nothing he could do to stop the bleeding. Wondering if he was going to be able to untie his hands, he started back through the trees to get his horse, not sure he was going to be able to climb on it when he found him. It was then he realized his boots were missing when he stepped on a sharp root protruding from the ground. When he reached the place where he had tied his horse, he discovered the sorrel was gone, and the full impact of his humiliatin
g disaster caused him to roar out his anger and frustration. Faced with the mortifying return to face Yarborough and Tiny, he would have chosen not to return at all, had he any other option. With a raging hatred for the man dressed like an Indian, he did the only thing he could and started walking back to Murphy’s. It was only a few miles, but in his stocking feet on the cold hard ground, it seemed like many more.
* * *
It was Jack Peters who spotted a man walking up from the river. Thinking at first that he looked a little strange, almost limping. He then realized that he walked with his hands behind his back. When he realized it was Red, he climbed down from the hayloft to meet him. “Good Lord in heaven!” Jack exclaimed when he walked up to him. “Did you get throwed?” It was an obvious question, since he came back without his horse.
“No, I didn’t get throwed,” Red fumed. “Cut me loose!” Jack pulled out his pocketknife and went to work on the rope around his wrists, waiting anxiously for the explanation, but Red didn’t offer one. Jack had sense enough not to ask. When Red’s hands were free, Jack stepped back and watched him head for the store, noticing then that he had no boots on, which probably contributed to the limp he had when he came walking up from the river.
Inside the store, the conversation between the three men standing at the counter suddenly stopped cold when Red walked in the door. Yarborough almost laughed, but even he was cautious about making any remarks. It was Tiny who blurted, “Dang, Red, what the hell happened to you? You look like you run into the side of the barn.” When Red just glared at him in answer, Tiny asked, “Did you catch up with that feller?”
When Red still did not speak, Yarborough said, “Yeah, he caught up with him.” He shook his head slowly, thinking about the man called Cole Bonner. “And it looks like he’s gonna need some doctorin’. That nose looks like it’s broke.” He looked at Murphy, who was still struck speechless, staring at Red. “Murphy, does that woman of yours still do a little patchwork?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “Bessie does some doctorin’. I’ll get her.”
Standing in the middle of the room still smoldering while they stared at him, Red finally spoke. Looking at Yarborough, he said, “We’re goin’ after that son of a bitch.”
Yarborough realized that what he said in response might cause some real trouble between him and Red, but he knew it was important that he called the shots. As calmly as he could affect, he said, “No, Red, we’re not. It’s in our best interest to get on down to Laramie like we planned.”
“Damn it, Flint,” Red exclaimed. “The son of a bitch ambushed me, stole my horse, my guns, even my boots! We’ve got to go after him!”
“I tried to tell you to leave that man be,” Yarborough replied, talking calmly, like a father counseling a wayward son. “The best thing for us right now is to get on down to Laramie. There ain’t nothin’ worth foolin’ with in this part of the territory, and there sure ain’t no sense in ridin’ off in the prairie after some half-wild Injun lover.” He paused to gauge Red’s reaction to his advice before continuing. “Me and Tiny are headin’ out for Laramie in the mornin’. You get your nose fixed up, and you’d best come with us.” He felt confident that Red would swallow his pride and come along.
* * *
Late afternoon the following day saw the tipis of Medicine Bear’s village come into view. At the sight of the village, Cole nudged Joe into an easy lope, guiding him toward Yellow Calf and several of the other men who had paused to watch him. Yellow Calf called to Harley as soon as he saw that it was Cole approaching. By the time Cole pulled up, Harley, Moon Shadow, and Carrie were standing with Yellow Calf and the others, waiting for him. “Well, you got back when you said you would,” Harley greeted him. “Did Murphy treat you right? Those were prime hides you took up there.”
“Yep,” Cole answered. “He gave us a pretty fair price, just like he usually does.” He started pulling some of the supplies off the packhorse to give Moon Shadow. Then he reached inside his saddlebag, pulled the hairbrush out, and held it up for Carrie to see. “Only one like it this side of the Platte,” he announced, “and the only one Ian Murphy had.” Her reaction upon seeing it was worth the trip to fetch it.
“Well, it sure surprises me that Murphy had one,” Harley remarked. “I wouldn’ta thought he’d have anybody lookin’ for one. Run into any trouble?”
“Nope, nothin’ to speak of,” Cole answered.
“So I guess we’ll be starting out for Cheyenne tomorrow,” Carrie said. The absence of enthusiasm in her tone caused Cole to question her eagerness to go.
“Tomorrow or the next day,” Cole replied, “whatever you wanna do.”
* * *
Close to the time Cole rode to Fort Laramie, Travis Womack pulled up at the stable in the town of Laramie, some ninety to one hundred miles away. The owner of the stable, a balding man named Grover Taylor, walked out to meet him.
“Womack,” Grover greeted him indifferently, “Ain’t seen you in town for a spell. You been away?”
“Up toward Montana country,” Travis answered, equally stoic. “My brother been in today?”
“As a matter of fact,” Grover answered, “that’s his gray yonder in the corral.”
Travis nodded in response, relieved to hear that Troy was in town. His first stop had been at the run-down shack he and his two brothers had been living in on a fork of the Laramie River about a dozen miles west of town. But Troy was not there, nor was there any sign he had been there for some time, causing Travis to fear he had left the territory. “I reckon he’s stayin’ somewhere in town.”
“I expect so,” Grover said, not really interested in Troy’s whereabouts. “You lookin’ to board those horses?”
“Yeah,” Travis replied, “at least till I find out what my brother’s gonna do. I expect I’ll find him at the Bucket of Blood this time of day, probably in a card game with Big Steve Long and the boys.”
Grover cocked his head at that remark. “I doubt that.” Then when Travis responded with a questioning expression, he said, “You have been outta town for a long time, ain’tcha?” When Travis still wore a blank face, Grover enlightened him. “The folks around here finally had enough of your friend, Big Steve Long, with his killin’ and robbin’. There’s a new county sheriff now, Nathaniel Boswell. He got up a vigilance committee, and they marched into the Bucket of Blood a couple of weeks ago and arrested Long and those two half brothers of his—took ’em out and hanged ’em.”
The news stunned Travis for a moment. He and his brothers had come to Laramie to ride with Big Steve Long. Long had been the town sheriff, and as such, he’d ridden roughshod over the town and everything around it. He and his two half brothers, Con and Ace Moyer, owned the Bucket of Blood saloon.
Where does that leave Troy and me, Travis wondered. Finally, he asked, “But you saw Troy in here this mornin’, right?”
“Yeah, he was in here,” Grover answered. “He’s been stayin’ in town for about a week now. I was kinda surprised he was still here, after Boswell cleaned out Long and his friends.” He could almost see Travis’s mind turning over the news he had been surprised with. And Lord willing, maybe we’ll see the last of you, your brothers, and the rest of your kind around here, he thought. “I’ll take care of your horses for you. You gonna take those packs off of ’em?”
“Yeah, reckon I’d better,” Travis replied, then changed his mind. “No, I’m gonna take ’em with me. I’ll be back after I find Troy.” He decided it best to make sure Troy was all right before leaving his horses. Up to the point when he and Malcolm had left to head for Bozeman, he and his brothers were guilty only of being friendly with Long and the Moyers. Troy might have done something to make them unwelcome since then. It would be best to find out in case he might have to make a quick departure.
Travis took a quick precautionary look up and down the short street on either side of the Bucket of Blood before stepping inside the door. As soon as he entered the noisy establishment, he looked toward the
bar. Fred Wiggins was tending bar as usual. Travis scanned the barroom, which was about half empty, until he spotted his brother sitting alone at a back corner table, a bottle before him. Relieved to have found him sitting peacefully, Travis made straight for the table.
When he heard the sound of hurried footsteps coming toward his table, Troy glanced up, surprised to see his brother. “Travis!” he blurted. “When did you get back?” He looked around. “Where’s Malcolm?”
“Malcolm’s dead, Troy,” Travis replied. “We ran into some trouble.”
Stunned, Troy looked around him quickly as if afraid someone might hear. “Set down and keep your voice down.” He waited for Travis to slide into the chair across from him before noticing the wad of bandage under his coat. “You been shot?”
Travis nodded vigorously in response.
“And you say Malcolm’s dead? Who shot him? What kinda trouble did you run into?” His eyes narrowed and deep frown lines creased his forehead. “Who shot Malcolm?” he repeated.
“I don’t know who he was,” Travis replied. “But I got a look at him before he shot me and I had to run for it. I was lucky to get away.”
“Was he a lawman, one of those damn deputy marshals?”
“No, he sure as hell wasn’t no lawman,” Travis replied. “He’s a wild-lookin’ son of a bitch—Injun or half-breed—I don’t know which.” He went on to tell Troy the circumstances that had caused the loss of their brother’s life, leaving out the part about his running for it without waiting to help Malcolm.
“He’s a dead man,” Troy growled. “He’s gotta pay for this. Nobody kills one of my brothers and gets away with it.” Cutting his gaze sharply around to focus on Travis, he muttered, “And you couldn’t do nothin’ about it?” It was a question, but could also serve as an accusation.
“That’s a fact,” Travis replied at once. “When I got hit, it knocked me flat. My whole arm went dead on me. I couldn’t even raise my hand for a while there. Malcolm told me to pull myself back below the bank where we could stand him off. I hadn’t even caught sight of the son of a bitch by then, but I finally managed to get back below the bank and I saw him out in the open. Tall jasper, looked like an Injun, only I don’t think he was—just wearin’ buckskins. He was standing with a rifle just waitin’ for one of us to show our heads above the bank. Malcolm raised up before I could holler at him. I didn’t really have no choice. I couldn’t raise up to shoot, and I was already bad hurt, so I was lucky to get away without gettin’ killed, myself.”