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  The four men gathered around to watch Wiley as he wrestled with the struggling woman. She was older than Katie Mashburn. A gaunt, bonethin woman, her face was lined with evidence of years of hard labor. But as long as she was a female, she would do to satisfy Wiley Johnson’s needs.

  Wiley giggled as she fought his every move, enjoying the fight she attempted to wage. He had almost succeeded in ripping away her undergarments when she suddenly managed to free her hand long enough to pull a small pistol from her skirt pocket. Wiley at once jerked back, throwing his arms up before his face in an effort to protect himself. But the shot he expected did not come. Instead, she thrust the pistol against her breast and pulled the trigger.

  She immediately crumpled to the floor. Wiley sprang back upon her, cursing vehemently. “Damn you! What’d you have to do that for? Dammit, don’t you die on me.” But the mortally wounded woman was already sighing her final breaths. Untying his trousers, he wedged himself between the lifeless legs and proceeded to answer his barbaric call.

  “Dammit, hurry up, Wiley,” Clell urged. “You ain’t the only one with a need.”

  “Damn,” young Hicks exhaled. “Not me; I ain’t got no need to jump on a dead woman.”

  “Me, neither,” Caldwell added.

  “Well, I ain’t so fussy,” Clell said. “Hurry up, Wiley.”

  With interest immediately lost, the others turned their attention to looting the cabin while the macabre activity continued in the corner. Like Fry and Pitt had discovered outside, there was very little of value inside the cabin. The Cochrans’ possessions consisted mainly of pots and pans, tools and harness. There were a few sentimental things of value only to the dead couple—pictures of family back East, a silver comb, a Bible, a few other trinkets—but nothing that could turn a profit for the likes of the bloody butchers that had descended upon the unfortunate couple that day.

  “We better scalp ’em,” Pitt pointed out as the gang prepared to leave. Fry nodded his agreement, and Pitt grabbed Hicks by the arm. “You and Trask scalp ’em, and do it neat, like an Injun.” Looking back at Fry, he asked, “Whaddaya wanna do about Mendel?”

  “We oughta just leave his ass where it is, the dumb bastard.” He thought for a minute. “I expect we’d better take him back and bury him. If we don’t, people might start asking questions.” He gave the matter a few moments more thought, then changed his mind. “No, let’s leave him here. Let the good folks of Canyon Creek get a look at him so they’ll see we lost a man trying to protect ’em.”

  Fry looked around him for a few moments, surveying the scene they would be leaving. “Caldwell, look inside there and find a broom. It might be a good idea to sweep over some of these boot tracks you damn fools left around the cabin.” He reached into his saddlebags and pulled out a pair of moccasins he had kept after the raid on the Shoshoni camp. “Here, Hicks, your foot’s the smallest. Put these on and walk around in front of the cabin so there’ll be something besides boot tracks around here.”

  While the last details were being taken care of to cover what had actually taken place, Clell chased down a couple of chickens that had wandered back to the cabin. Grinning his satisfaction, he said, “It’s been a helluva long time since I’ve had a chicken dinner.” He tied them on his saddle.

  “All right, burn it,” Fry ordered.

  Chapter 5

  Monk Grissom cocked his head to one side and put an ear to the wind. He was right; there was a horse approaching. Now, who the hell is that? he wondered, irritated at having been interrupted in his morning toilet. Groaning with the effort, he stood up and peered out through the branches of the willows. “Whitey Branch,” he grumbled as he recognized the familiar figure approaching the shallow ford below Monk’s cabin. He wasn’t in the mood to suffer Whitey on this crisp fall morning. His rheumatism was protesting the coming of winter, and he didn’t feel like visiting with anyone, especially Whitey, who seemed to have little more to do than ride around the valley drinking up everyone’s coffee.

  Clothed in nothing more than his long underwear and his boots, Monk made his way unhurriedly back along the path to his cabin. Looking back toward the river, he noticed that Whitey appeared to be in a hurry, whipping his horse repeatedly as the animal climbed up the low riverbank. “Monk!” Whitey sang out when he spotted the grizzled old trapper. “Injuns!”

  This immediately stopped Monk in his tracks, and he turned to wait until Whitey galloped up. “Where?” Monk demanded, looking behind Whitey, half-expecting to see a war party chasing the excited man.

  Yanking back so hard on the reins that Monk winced, Whitey pulled his horse to a sliding stop a few feet away. “Cochran’s place!” Whitey blurted. “War party raided the place last night! Burnt him out! Killed John and his wife!”

  “Sweet Jesus!” Monk exhaled. He didn’t know John Cochran very well. He had really spent very little time talking to the man, but, on the few occasions he had, Cochran had seemed to be a decent enough sort. He and his wife worked hard on the little piece of land way down on the south end of the valley. “Who found ’em?” Monk asked.

  “Soldiers,” Whitey replied, stepping down from the saddle. “A couple of ’em just happened to be on their way back from a scout when they seen the fire. They run the Injuns off, but one of ’em got shot. The captain is on his way down there with the rest of his men to see if they can pick up a trail. I’m on my way down there now—thought you might wanna take a look.”

  “What band was it? Did they say?”

  “The soldiers that run ’em off said it was too dark to tell for sure, but they suspect it was Snakes.”

  “Snakes?” Monk replied. “I find that damn hard to believe.” This was the second report of attacks by Shoshoni war parties. It didn’t make sense to Monk. Chief Washakie was on peaceful terms with the white folks in Canyon Creek, had been for a long time. And it wasn’t likely some of the younger bucks on the reservation were staging killing raids on their own. Chief Washakie maintained a firm control over his people. Monk decided he would have to scout Cochran’s place himself. It had to be some other band that had made the raid. Then, too, it was possible that Whitey had gotten the message confused. “Let me git my clothes on and saddle my horse. We’d best go take a look,” he said, forgetting the discomfort of his rheumatism for the moment.

  “You got any coffee left?” Whitey asked as he followed Monk to the cabin.

  * * *

  It was close to midmorning when Monk and Whitey crossed the pasture and rode toward the smoking ruins of John Cochran’s cabin. Simon Fry and his men were already there, as well as a few of the valley folk, including Reverend Lindstrom and Horace Spratte, who were busy digging a grave. Monk noticed that the soldiers were sitting in a group, lounging before a crackling fire kindled from the charred timbers of John Cochran’s cabin. They made no effort to help with the grave-digging, and it struck Monk as rather curious that Captain Fry did not detail a couple of men to handle that chore.

  “Mornin’, Monk,” Reverend Lindstrom said, pausing to lean on his shovel. “It’s a sad morning for the valley, I’m afraid. We’ve lost Brother Cochran and his wife. It’s just terrible—a savage attack after so long at peace with the Injuns.” He shook his head sadly. “I reckon he took his chances, living so far from the settlement.”

  Monk stood for a moment, silently appraising the scene around the burnt-out cabin, glancing at the carcasses of the dead oxen in the pasture, back to the two bodies lying side by side under a single blanket, and finally to the group of so-called soldiers sitting idly by. “Snakes, I heard somebody say,” Monk spoke.

  “That’s right,” Lindstrom answered. “Captain Fry said there was no doubt they were Snakes. They killed one of the soldiers.” Lindstrom paused a moment while Monk was obviously considering what he had just been told. “I guess it was lucky for the rest of us that the soldiers were able to get here quick enough to chase ’em away—hard luck for John and Ruth, though.”

  “Yeah, hard luck,” M
onk replied, a generous portion of skepticism in his tone. He didn’t voice it to the reverend, but Monk didn’t like the look of this Indian attack, even though the news that one of the militia had been killed caused him to reconsider his first suspicions. “I think I’ll take a little look around.”

  “There ain’t much to see,” Lindstrom said, taking up his shovel again. “Me and Horace decided to lay John and Ruth to rest together in the same grave. I’ll say a few words over ’em after we get ’em in the ground.”

  Whitey offered to take a turn with a shovel while Monk walked over to view the bodies. Kneeling down beside them, he pulled the blanket away from their faces. Monk had seen more than his share of dead folks in a lifetime that spanned more than six decades. But he had never become callous to the point where he did not feel the frailty of his own mortality whenever he was met with the cold, lifeless eyes of a corpse. His body rigid with death’s final paralysis, John Cochran lay with a rifle ball in his brain, as evidenced by the ugly black hole in his forehead, his face still testifying to the surprise he must have felt. It was obvious to Monk that Cochran never saw the attack coming.

  Shifting his gaze to Ruth Cochran’s face, Monk read the lines of desperation etched into her final expression. Drawn and tired, it had never been a beautiful face. But on the few occasions he had talked with the woman, Monk remembered that it had been a kind face. He glanced up at the ragged patches on her scalp where hair had once been, now crusted black with dried blood. A single shot in her breast had taken her life. The circle of singed cloth around the wound told him that the gun had been held close against her skin. He wondered if perhaps she might have taken her own life. He shook his head slowly as he imagined the horror the poor woman must have suffered in her final moments on this earth.

  “It’s too bad we didn’t get here before they had a chance to scalp them.”

  Monk looked around to find Simon Fry standing over him. He squinted up at him for a few moments before responding. “Yeah, it’s a dirty shame,” he finally said. Looking back at the corpses, he commented, “It’s about the raggedest job of scalpin’ I’ve ever seen.” He shifted his gaze back to Fry once more. “Looks like they tried to take the whole top of their heads off, don’t it? ’Stead of just slitting it neatly from the back to the crown like an Injun usually does it.”

  There was just a slight rising of Fry’s eyebrows, the only hint of irritation registered. “I guess they were in too big a hurry to do it neatly,” Fry said evenly, “what with me and my men hot on their tails.”

  “That musta been it,” Monk commented dryly, noting the irritation in the captain’s expression. He pulled the blanket aside, revealing the bodies completely. He didn’t comment again for a long time while he studied the unfortunate couple. When he finally spoke, it was as if he were thinking out loud. “Mighty peculiar for an Injun massacre, just that one shot in Cochran’s head, couple more in his belly. Ain’t no arrows stuck in him.” He glanced up at Fry again. “You find any arrows anywhere?”

  Fry shook his head. “No. I reckon they all had guns.”

  “Yeah,” Monk replied, “they musta.” He continued his musing over the bodies. “No mutilation. Injuns usually mess up a body pretty bad, so’s the dead man can’t find his way to the spirit world.”

  “Like I said,” Fry replied curtly, “they were in a big hurry.”

  “That’s probably it.” Monk scratched his head as if seriously thinking about it. “Something a little peculiar ’bout Mrs. Cochran, too. They was in too big a hurry to mutilate the bodies, even to do more’n a half-assed job of scalpin’ ’em. But they had time to rape this poor woman.”

  Monk was beginning to get under Fry’s skin. The old mountain man was picking away at the scene Fry had set, and he was afraid Monk might plant some doubt in the minds of the other residents of Canyon Creek if he kept up his nosing around. Fry decided to end the discussion. “Well, my men and I have more important things to do than sit around here trying to figure out why an Indian does what he does.” That said, he turned on his heel and returned to his men.

  Monk covered the bodies again and got to his feet. He wanted to take a close look around the cabin. I reckon shootin’ off my mouth didn’t do much to endear me to that phony son of a bitch. I better damn shore watch my back from now on. He took a moment to cut himself a chunk of tobacco from a plug he had made up from kinnikinnick and molasses.

  Fry’s men continued to lie around by the fire, unconcerned with the burial ceremony taking place less than thirty yards away. Their own dead, Mendel Knox, still lay where his body had been dragged before they set fire to the cabin, his hands still clutching his throat in death. One of their number, however, was not as indifferent as his companions. Jack Pitt had watched Monk closely the whole time Fry had been talking to the mountain man. Pitt could see trouble coming with Monk’s suspicious mind. “Now, what the hell’s that old son of a bitch lookin’ for?” he voiced when Monk began a careful search around the burnt-out cabin.

  “I wouldn’t worry about that old fool,” Fry replied.

  “Yeah? Well, I would. We don’t need that snoopy old bastard puttin’ ideas in their heads.” Pitt got to his feet and headed toward the stone step where the front door had once stood, and where Monk was now poking around in the ashes.

  “What are you lookin’ for, old man?” Pitt growled. He walked up close, almost stepping on Monk’s toes. “I expect it would be best to let us worry about them Injuns.”

  The gruffness in Pitt’s voice was not lost on Monk, nor was the obvious intent to intimidate as Fry’s enforcer towered over him. But Monk Grissom had stood up to grizzly bears and men as mean as grizzly bears. He wasn’t likely to be cowered by the likes of Jack Pitt. Monk took his time in responding, shifting his chew of tobacco over to the other side of his mouth. “That so? Well, I expect you’d best back up a step. I need room to spit.” With that, he launched a long brown stream of tobacco juice that just barely missed the toe of Pitt’s boot.

  Pitt jumped back quickly to avoid getting splashed. “Why, you old—”

  “Is that what you boys is doing?” Monk interrupted before Pitt could finish the threat. “Worrying about the Injuns that done this?” He glanced over at Pitt’s companions gathered around the fire. “Seems to me you ain’t lookin’ too damn worried. I mean, with an Injun war party so close around.”

  “Old man, we’ll take care of the damn Injuns. You know, if you keep snoopin’ around, you’re just likely to run into a whole lot of trouble—maybe git yourself kilt.” Realizing his admonishment was sounding like a direct threat, Pitt attempted to soften it a bit. “That’s what we was sent out here for: to handle the Injun problem so folks like you can tend to your farmin’.”

  “Huh,” Monk snorted. “I don’t do a helluva lot of farmin’.” He spat another stream of brown liquid to sizzle on the smoking timbers of John Cochran’s cabin. “Don’t worry yourself about me, though. I don’t intend to git in your way. I’m just naturally curious is all, ’specially when I see things that don’t look natural—like the ground around this cabin. Don’t it strike you as mighty peculiar that them Injuns, in their allfired hurry, decided to sweep over most of their tracks? I mean, I can’t find more than a few moccasin tracks around this cabin. And they was from a mighty small foot—like a boy or a woman.” He squinted up at the huge man. “Reckon they had women along on a war party?” Pitt declined to answer, so Monk went on. “There are some tracks of unshod horses—Injun ponies, all right. But it’s hard to say how many there was.”

  Like Fry, Pitt soon lost patience with the quiet, relentless manner of the weathered old mountain man. Monk asked too many questions, and nothing seemed to escape his notice. Had it not been for the presence of Lindstrom and the others at the cabin, Pitt might have been tempted to settle Monk’s hash right then and there. As it was, however, he had to restrain himself and wait for a later opportunity to permanently shut the old trapper’s mouth. “Well, we covered the ground around the
cabin pretty good. I reckon we probably covered up most of the footprints.” Seeing the look of doubt on Monk’s face, Pitt tried to form a smile on his face as he spoke in a low voice that only Monk could hear. “It’s best if everybody stays out of the way, so’s us soldiers can take care of the Injuns. I wouldn’t want any of you folks to git hurt.”

  A thin smile parted Monk’s lips. He stepped around Pitt and walked over to the corner of the corral where Mendel’s body lay. Like a surly yard dog, Pitt turned and followed behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, Monk noted that the rest of the militia soldiers were also watching him carefully. There was little doubt that they didn’t appreciate his scouting around the scene of the massacre, and Monk was becoming more and more convinced that his gut instincts about this rough-looking gang had been accurate all along. Militia, my ass, he was thinking as he stood over the late Mendel Knox, this whole story smells to high Heaven. He could feel the presence of Jack Pitt’s hulking body standing over him as he gazed down at the grisly corpse. If there had not been so many witnesses—now in the process of interring the bodies of John and Ruth Cochran—Monk would not have turned his back on Pitt. As it was, he continued to ignore the belligerent bully while he took a good look at Mendel’s wound.

  “Looks like your man got shot at pretty close range,” was Monk’s only comment. He rose to his feet once more and, without another glance at the imposing figure of Jack Pitt, turned and walked over to join Reverend Lindstrom and the others. He had an uncomfortable feeling about the Indian raid on the cabin. And it was damn sure apparent enough that these so-called soldiers didn’t appreciate his curiosity. There was damn little sign to tell for sure what had happened here. Maybe what Fry and Pitt said was the straight of it, but Monk had a nagging suspicion that the Injuns that done it might still be sitting over by the corner of the burnt-out cabin. Mighty peculiar, he thought, that they didn’t get a shot at the Injuns, but they managed to capture Cochran’s horse. He decided that before he voiced his suspicions to Lindstrom and the others, he’d ride over to the Snake village for a little talk with Chief Washakie.