Hero's Stand Page 7

  The Injuns is still pretty quiet, just a few little set-to’s from some of the younger bucks from time to time. Come to think of it, though, there was a hot little fight down at the river. A bunch of Sioux decided to take over the ferry again. The soldiers had to go over and take it back. Killed two or three young Sioux—didn’t amount to much.”

  “What do you think about our detachment of soldiers here in the valley?”

  Monk didn’t have to spend much time considering the question. “I reckon I don’t think too much of ’em. They don’t look much like soldiers to me.”

  Having been genuinely happy to see the arrival of even a small number of fighting men whose job it was to protect the settlers, Rufus had been hoping to hear a more positive response from Monk. In an attempt to justify his faith in Simon Fry’s men, he offered a possible explanation for their presence in the valley. “Well, you’ve got to remember, these boys ain’t regular soldiers. They’re militia, volunteers, more’n likely got farms like us somewhere. Captain Fry himself said they didn’t think much of spit and polish.”

  “Maybe so, Rufus,” Monk said, shaking his head, “but you ain’t got nothin’ to go on but their word. Even if they are militia like they claim, eight men don’t make much of a unit. I don’t know how much help they’d be if we had some honest-to-God trouble. I just hope they don’t go stirrin’ up no fuss with Chief Washakie.”

  Showing more than casual interest in the topic of conversation, Katie put her dish towel away and sat down at the table to listen. Her father, reluctant to dismiss his positive view of the valley’s newest arrivals, insisted, “I know eight ain’t many, but Captain Fry said there’d be more coming later on. You know the army ain’t got enough men to keep the peace out here. The only way to do it is to use volunteer militia like these fellers.” He shifted his gaze to his daughter for a second. “I know I feel a sight better with some added protection here in the valley.”

  Monk sat there looking at Rufus for a few moments. Finally, he shrugged and said, “All I’m sayin’ is, I’m damn shore gonna watch my back around them boys. They don’t look like farmers to me.” He wondered if the other folks in the valley were as trusting of Simon Fry and his gang as Rufus seemed to be. Could be they were right, and he was just being overly suspicious. When he thought about it, there wasn’t much to draw a gang of outlaws to Canyon Creek, if indeed that’s what they were. There was damn little to steal—horses, maybe, and a few family heirlooms that might be worth a little. Hell, maybe they are militia. More likely, though, his earlier thoughts were closer to the true story, and they were probably just deserters or other riffraff looking for a warm place to hole up for the winter and live off the charity of honest folks.

  “Well,” Katie interrupted, “you men can sit around the table and talk all day. I’ve got work to do.” With that, she got up from the table, took off her apron, and strapped her pistol on again. Her actions served to end the breakfast discussion.

  “Much obliged, Katie,” Monk said as he got to his feet.

  “Anytime,” Katie replied. “Here, stick a couple of these cold biscuits in your pocket.”

  He grinned as he graciously accepted the offering. “Thank you, ma’am,” He leaned closer to her ear and spoke softly. “I hope my talk about them militia boys didn’t worry you. Your pap is probably right, but, just the same, you watch yourself around that bunch.”

  Katie smiled at the old mountain man. “Don’t worry, I will.” She stood in the doorway while her father walked out to the hitching post with Monk. She was momentarily overcome by a deep feeling of regret—not for herself, but for her father. Watching his animated conversation as Monk stepped up in the saddle, she knew he was still trying to convince Monk to change his mind about the militia. Katie knew deep down that Rufus was trying to convince himself as well. He chose to see their arrival as a blessing for the settlement because he wanted so badly for it to be just that. It was a sad thing to see, but Katie also knew that her father was frightened. He refused to even admit the possibility that the group of men were not militia as they claimed but were here to do harm. Rufus Colefield had been living in fear from his first exposure to the dangers of this wild territory and living in shame ever since Robert had been killed and he had lacked the courage to stand and fight. She felt a deep compassion for his pain, but there was nothing she could do to alleviate it. She never blamed him for it. What could he have done against the Ute raiding party? Watching him now, as he stood back to give Monk’s horse room to turn away from the post, she shook her head slowly. I’m sorry I ever talked you into leaving Ohio, she thought, for she knew she had been the driving force behind that decision.

  Chapter 4

  Mendel Knox sat on his bedroll in the corner of the little cabin that was now the official headquarters of the self-proclaimed unit of the Montana Territorial Militia. A broad smile spread across his face as he watched Simon Fry buckle on the shiny officer’s sword. “I swear, Simon, I almost believe you’re a damn soldier myself. You mighta missed your callin’.”

  Fry smirked in response. “I might have considered the military if they made me a general or something, but the pay ain’t good enough.” He straightened his coat and brushed the dust from the campaign hat. “I reckon I’m soldier enough for this bunch of farmers, though.”

  Seated in the one chair at the table, Jack Pitt had also been watching Fry’s preparation for the town meeting. Although Canyon Creek could hardly be called a town, being no more than a church and Nate Wysong’s general store, still Reverend Lindstrom insisted upon calling it one—betting on the come, as Clell put it. The reverend had spread the word around the valley that this was an important meeting, to get acquainted with the detachment of Montana volunteers. It was in everyone’s interest to attend the meeting, the reverend said. Ever mindful of his higher calling to administer to the lost sheep of Canyon Creek, Reverend Lindstrom had conveniently scheduled the town meeting to follow immediately after prayer services on Wednesday night.

  Silently watching, Pitt couldn’t resist teasing his partner a little. “You know, Fry, if you don’t shake a leg, you’re gonna miss the prayer meetin’.”

  “Huh,” Fry snorted. “Don’t think I couldn’t stand right up there with the rest of the sinners.” He jerked his head around so that he was looking at Hicks and Caldwell lying on their bedrolls. “Maybe I ought to take a couple of you younger fellows with me.” This brought the two youngest members of his gang to immediate attention. “Don’t get all riled up,” Fry said before they could protest. “I’d be afraid the roof might fall in if you two sinners walked in.”

  On a more serious note, Fry sat down on the edge of the table to discuss their plans for the evening. “According to what that fat ol’ preacher told me, most everybody in the whole valley will be at this meeting. This would be a good time for you and the boys to nose around a little, see if there’s anything worth taking.” Pitt grunted. He had already had the same idea. Fry continued. “If anybody sees you sniffing around, you can tell ’em you’re scouting the valley to see how best to protect ’em.” He shot a sharp glance in Wiley Johnson’s direction while reminding Pitt of their overall plan to keep the peace for the time being. “Keep in mind that all you wanna do is look the pickings over for when the time is right.”

  Pitt snorted, slightly resenting the inference that he might have been stupid enough to steal or plunder before they were ready to depart the little valley in the spring. “You go on to your prayer meetin’. Me and the boys’ll split up and scout around a little.”

  * * *

  Fry waited outside the log building until the sounds of the last hymn faded away and a handful of young children burst through the doorway, anxious to escape the watchful eye of the Reverend Lindstrom. He knew the prayer meeting was over then. He carefully folded the square of the soft suede he used to polish the handwork on his Spanish saddle and put it away in his saddlebag. While waiting, he had taken special notice of the number of horses and wagons t
ied up in front of the church. From what he had seen of the little settlement since he and his men had stumbled upon the valley, he speculated that most of the inhabitants of Canyon Creek were indeed gathered here at the meeting.

  “Well,” Reverend Lindstrom announced as Fry walked in the door of the church, “here’s Captain Fry now.” He walked up the short aisle to greet Fry. “I was afraid we had got mixed up on the day.” He glanced behind Fry as if expecting someone else. “I was hoping you’d attend the prayer meeting, maybe bring some of your men as well.” Lindstrom was clearly disappointed.

  “Sorry, Reverend, but you can understand a soldier has duties to attend to.” He started to say that Sergeant Pitt was leading the men on a patrol, but then he couldn’t remember if Pitt had been a sergeant or a lieutenant when they had first talked to Lindstrom. So he simply said, “Pitt took the men out on patrol.”

  “Well, that’s a shame, but I’m sure you have to do your duty.”

  Several of the men in the congregation, led by Horace Spratte and Rufus Colefield, came forward to welcome Fry to the meeting. They introduced him to those he had not met. It was a warm welcome from the tiny gathering of homesteaders so long isolated from other settlements in the territory. For Fry’s part, he was at his glib best, telling the folks what they most wanted to hear in a manner both sincere and articulate—he and his men were there to help and protect them; they were but the vanguard of larger troops to follow; there were even plans to build a fort nearby. He assured them that all these things were in the territory’s future.

  His words were met with hearty approval by a breed of people which thrived upon hope alone; otherwise, they would hardly have made the long, hard passage across the continent to this remote valley. Lindstrom beamed. He could envision a thriving little town with an army post nearby. Rufus Colefield literally glowed with enthusiasm, while others in the meeting beamed at each other, transmitting their approval with nods and handshakes. There was never a hint of skepticism, except for one person in the back of the room.

  Seated on the last wooden bench, near the door, Monk Grissom listened to the glowing oratory of Simon Fry. He offered no comment on the captain’s speech. But to his way of thinking, what Fry had foretold didn’t make a great deal of sense. In the first place, why would the army want a fort in this part of the territory? Forts were built where the people were, on the main trails and rivers, where the mainstream of settlers passed through the country. Canyon Creek was almost totally isolated. It was on the road to nowhere. In the second place, they weren’t having any Indian trouble to speak of. And even if they were, eight motley-looking volunteers would be of little value. In the third place, this bunch didn’t look like soldiers, didn’t act like soldiers, didn’t smell like soldiers, and, if you cut a slice out of one of them, Monk would bet he wouldn’t taste like a soldier, either. In short, Monk wasn’t buying what Fry was selling, but he held his tongue. We’ll just wait and see, he told himself. This so-called captain is workin’ the churn pretty fast. We’ll just see if there’s any butter when he’s done talkin’. He got to his feet and moved quietly out the door. I wonder what the rest of his boys is doin’ while everybody’s settin’ here in the church.

  The men whom Monk wondered about were, at that moment, taking an inventory of the homesteads closest to the center of the valley. One pair, Wiley Johnson and Mendel Knox, were even then seated upon their horses at the far end of Rufus Colefield’s garden. Through the open door of the cabin, backlit by the lantern glow, the figure of a young woman standing by the kitchen table had captured their attention.

  “Damn a’mighty, Mendel. Look at that!” Wiley slid off his horse and moved up through the garden to get a better look. When Mendel moved up beside him, Wiley whispered, “I knew there had to be some young women in this little valley.”

  Inside the cabin, Rufus’s dog emitted a low growl and got up from his place beside the fireplace. Katie, immediately alert, looked quickly toward the corner of the room, where Luke was laboring over a book that she had given him to read. The boy had already sensed something, and met her gaze. Without a word, he picked up his bow and quiver and slipped out the back window into the night. Katie walked to the door and closed it, then took down the rifle from over the fireplace.

  Outside in the darkened garden, Wiley uttered an oath. “Damn. She shut the door.”

  “Dog spooked her,” Mendel said. As soon as he said it, the dog began to bark. “We better git our hides outta here.”

  “Hold still,” Wiley whispered. “Let’s wait a minute.” He craned his neck, trying to see into the darkness. “That’s the first young-lookin’ woman I’ve seen around here.” He inched his way a few feet closer to the edge of the garden. “There don’t seem to be anybody else around. Her old man must be at the meeting with everybody else. I’m gonna have me a better look.”

  “You know what Fry told us about gittin’ into trouble,” Mendel reminded him.

  “Hell, what Fry don’t know won’t hurt him,” Wiley replied, his eyes riveted on the door of the cabin. “Maybe you don’t need a woman, but it’s been too damn long for me.”

  Mendel was not comfortable with the situation. Wiley’s overheated condition was bound to bring trouble for the whole gang. The continuous barking of Rufus’s dog didn’t help matters any. “Dammit, Wiley, how in hell will Fry not find out about this if you go botherin’ that woman?”

  “Mendel, you worry too much. Hell, how do you know she ain’t willin’? Even if she ain’t, she won’t likely tell nobody with her throat cut.” Wiley smiled at the prospects before him. “Ain’t nobody done nothin’ to shut that dog up. I bet she’s all alone. Who’s gonna say it was us?” At the end of the garden now, he placed a hand on the wooden fence and prepared to climb over.

  Startled by a solid thump on the fence rail, Wiley looked down to discover an arrow neatly embedded in the wood between his thumb and index finger. Before he could snatch his hand away, there was another thump on the rail inches from Mendel’s leg. “Jesus!” Wiley screamed. Not waiting for the next arrow, both men fled for their lives. Running, stumbling over the garden rows, they beat a panicked retreat to the lower end of the garden, where their horses were tied.

  Standing motionless in the shadow of the trees that framed the shallow branch, Luke watched the two intruders as they whipped their horses back down the wagon track. After a few moments, he left the cover of the trees and went to retrieve his arrows. Calling to the dog, he quieted the animal with one sharp command. Katie opened the door and waited for Luke to come in; she was still holding the rifle.

  “Maybe I should have killed them instead of just giving them a warning,” Luke said after telling Katie what had happened. “It was two of those soldiers who just came to the valley.”

  Katie studied the boy’s face for a few moments before commenting. Luke was completely calm about the incident. She had no doubt that he would not have hesitated to kill both men. “No,” she finally said, “you did the right thing. They were probably just snooping around.”

  * * *

  When Fry returned to Jed Springer’s old cabin after the town meeting, Pitt was waiting to tell him some news. “Looks like we might have some Injun trouble, after all. Mendel and Wiley was set on by a war party at the Colefield place.”

  “Can’t say for shore,” Wiley piped up. “But there was a bunch of ’em. Me and Mendel just got outta there by the skin of our teeth.”

  “Damn,” Fry swore. This was not welcome news. He had returned from the meeting smug in the belief that the valley was his for the taking. Indian trouble would only complicate his plans and, depending upon the size of the raiding party, might pose too great a risk for him to hang around. “Dammit,” he swore again. “Could you tell what kind of Injuns they were? There’s not supposed to be any trouble with the Snakes.”

  “It was too dark to tell,” Wiley replied. “Arrows was flying too thick and fast. I warn’t about to wait around for no introductions.”

 
Fry walked back to the door of the cabin and looked out into the night, half-expecting to see the glow of a cabin burning across the river in the direction of Rufus Colefield’s place. “I ain’t heard no gunfire. They must not have any rifles, or maybe they’re trying to keep it quiet.” Turning back to face his men, he said, “All right, then. I guess we’d better stand a guard out tonight in case that war party is planning on sweeping through this whole valley. We’ll just have to wait till morning to see if it was just a hit-and-run raid. Trask, you can take the first watch.”

  “Ah, hell, Fry, I’m still stove up pretty bad.”

  “You ain’t been worth a shit for nothing since you took that damn arrow. At least you can sit on your ass and keep your eyes open.”

  From Fry’s tone, Trask knew it would be useless to protest. He roused himself out of the corner and walked slowly out the door. After Trask was gone, Fry detailed the rest of the guard roster.

  * * *

  “Injuns! Run for your lives!” Pitt yelled at the top of his voice while standing directly over a sleeping Clell Adams. At the same time he yelled, he administered a stout kick squarely on Clell’s backside that brought the startled old man lurching to his feet from a sound slumber. Snatching at the bushes beside the cabin for support, he scrambled up wildly while trying to orient his still-numbed senses, only to go crashing to the ground again, the result of having his ankles hobbled with a short piece of rope. Figuring he was done for, he rolled over and over until he came to a stop at Pitt’s feet. Only then did the befuddled man realize that the hoots and laughter he was hearing were coming from his own comrades and not wild Indians.