Crow Creek Crossing (24 page)

Sanchez is still bleeding!

So Ace Moyer
had
wounded him. The discovery made him hurry even more.

•   •   •

Another one?
Sanchez questioned. He was sure there had been no more than four, but there was now one lone figure that just emerged from the canyon and was following his trail.

Well, we'll give him the same medicine the other four got,
he thought, and looked around him to pick his spot.

He had dismounted when his leg felt as if it was getting numb, thinking that maybe he should try walking in hopes of keeping it from going stiff on
him. It had only resulted in starting the bleeding again.

Damn the luck,
he thought.
I wonder if there's any more of them behind me.
His only thought now was to reach Lem Dawson's place. Lem should be able to get the bullet out of his leg. He wouldn't be the first outlaw Lem had operated on.

The mouth of a ravine just ahead of him looked to be a handy spot to take care of the Indian still tracking him. He led his horse up the ravine a little way to get it out of sight. Then he limped back to the lower end of the ravine and lay down on the snow-covered lip with his carbine ready to fire. It would be an easy shot, he thought.

The damn fool must think it's too dark to see him out in the open like that
. Waiting for his target to get a little closer, so that he couldn't miss, he suddenly realized that it was not an Indian, but a white man. His first thought was that it was Big Steve Long, still trying to get his hundred dollars back. The man was hard to identify, but he was a sizable man like Big Steve. He couldn't help smiling at that.

I think I'll let him get a little bit closer so I can see the look on his face just before I send him to hell
. Thinking to find a better place, one that would bring his victim within point-blank range, he picked a spot on the other lip of the ravine. Then he led his horse farther up the ravine before coming back to take his position on the lip. If Big Steve followed the bay's tracks, as Sanchez figured, he would pass within ten yards of the ambush waiting down the slope, just over the ravine's lip.

It was the kind of setup Sanchez enjoyed. He could witness the stark terror in his victim's face the
moment he realized he was about to die and there was nothing he could do about it. An evil grin spread across Sanchez's face as his unsuspecting target drew nearer. Lying in the shadow of a large pine, Sanchez slowly raised the muzzle of his carbine and set the front sight on the spot where he planned to pull the trigger. The man stopped at the foot of the ravine to look up toward the top. Sanchez jerked his head back in surprise. It was not Big Steve, but his face was familiar. It struck him then. The man stalking him now was the vengeful hunter who had doggedly come after him and the others!

But now he has made his first mistake when he has conveniently walked squarely into my gun sight,
Sanchez thought.

This was even better than killing Big Steve Long. Sanchez had an almost overpowering urge to roar out his laughter for the quirk of fate that brought his demon to present himself to be killed. But not wishing to chance a foul-up, he maintained his patience until Cole was directly in front of him at point-blank range.

Now!
Sanchez told himself, and rested his finger on the trigger. He started to squeeze it when he was suddenly startled by the low guttural growl of a wolf only a few feet behind him. Without thinking, he automatically spun around to defend himself.

•   •   •

There was no time to think when he heard the growl of the wolf. Cole immediately dropped to one knee and swung his rifle around to bear on the dark form that suddenly separated itself from the shadow of a large pine. Two quick rounds from the Henry rifle
found their mark, and the wolf slumped lifeless on the snow-covered slope.

Alarmed now that he had forfeited any advantage of surprise he might have had, he scrambled back to take cover behind a rock at the bottom of the ravine and waited for Sanchez to react. He surely knew he was being stalked now. He watched the dark ravine above him carefully, wondering if Sanchez had already ridden out at the other end, or if he had picked that spot to camp and was now there watching him from farther up the ravine. Maybe he had been too quick and not thinking when he automatically shot the wolf, but it had been too close to wait. Something had attracted it. Possibly it had caught the scent of blood, since Sanchez was leaving a trail of it in the snow.

Time crawled slowly by with still no response of any kind from the upper part of the ravine. Then suddenly a large dark form emerged from the shadows above him, coming down the center of the ravine. Ready to fire, Cole checked himself when he realized that it was a horse, but the saddle was empty.
Some kind of trick?
he wondered, and remained ready to shoot. The horse walked slowly past him. He continued to wait, but there was still no response to his rifle shots. He turned then to stare at the dark lump lying just below the rim of the ravine. Maybe it wasn't the wolf he had shot. Maybe it was something else. No longer concerned with an attack from the upper part of the ravine, for he was suddenly certain, he ran across to the other side.

What had just occurred to him was, in fact, what had actually happened. It was not a wolf. He stood staring down at the body of Jose Sanchez. Two bullet
holes were neatly placed, one in the chest, and one in the throat. For a brief moment, the low clouds opened a window for the moon to shine down on the mask of shocked anger frozen on the wanton butcher's face. Cole turned to look at the spot where he had been when he heard the wolf growl. It was no more than thirty feet from where he now stood. Had Sanchez pulled the trigger, he could not have missed. The wolf had saved his life. With that thought, he looked quickly around him, thinking the wolf might still be planning to strike, but there was no sign of the vicious predator. Most likely the rifle shots frightened it away.

Bringing his attention back to the body lying before him, he suddenly felt drained of all his strength, just then actually realizing that his death hunt was over. It brought no feeling of relief. Instead he was struck with a heavy sadness as he thought of his wife, Ann, and he wondered if she would forgive him for taking so long to avenge her. It troubled him that he could not bring her face into sharp focus in his mind. Suddenly exhausted, he sat down a few yards away from the corpse with his back against a tree, his rifle resting across his arms.

It was over. He was done.

•   •   •

When he opened his eyes, it was daylight. Realizing it, he started, suddenly wide-awake. He looked around him frantically, prepared to defend himself, but there was no one. His horse was standing several yards away, still saddled. A few yards beyond the Morgan, Sanchez's bay stood, also saddled. They both appeared to be watching the man sitting against the tree and wondering if he was alive or dead. He
looked over at the body, staring up at the morning sky in angry defiance. Even then, Cole had to assure himself that it was actually over. They were all dead and gone to hell, all six of them.

Stiff and cold, he roused himself to get up from his position and move his limbs in an effort to get his blood flowing. He remembered then that he had a little coffee left, so he decided to gather enough wood to build a fire. But before he did, he wanted to look on the slope on the other side of Sanchez's body, curious to see if there had been a pack of wolves that threatened to attack, or if it had been just the one lone wolf. Walking just past the corpse, he stood gazing down the slope covered with a blanket of smooth white snow. He shook his head, perplexed, thinking he must still be groggy with sleep. There were no tracks, nothing to disturb the smooth white slope.

But there had to be tracks,
he told himself.

It had not snowed while he was asleep. Even so, he walked down beyond the body and raked the surface of the snow with his boot in an effort to uncover the tracks. This could not be. It was impossible for a wolf to have come so close without leaving one track. And there was a wolf. He was certain of that. He had heard it growl, and Sanchez had heard it growl. If he had not, he wouldn't have spun around to defend himself.

Completely confused now, he decided there must be an explanation for the absence of tracks, but he would have to figure it out later. It occurred to him that this was the second time he had encountered a wolf that left no tracks, recalling the white wolf he had seen near Medicine Bear's village.

I must still be asleep, dreaming,
he told himself.

•   •   •

For the first time since the death of his wife, he set out with no promises to keep and no sense of failure. For months, his life had been a hunt for vengeance, and his future had stretched out no further than the next execution. For a change, he was in no hurry to get anywhere. When he left the scene of Sanchez's death, he had to decide where he was heading. His buckskin packhorse was back in Cheyenne in Leon Bloodworth's stable, but he was much closer to the Crow village near the forks of the Laramie and North Laramie rivers, so he decided he would go there.

Maybe it was just his imagination, but the day seemed more springlike on this morning as he continued along the bank of the river. There was even a glimpse of the sun occasionally through the cloudy sky, and the clouds were white and not the dingy dark snow clouds of the past several days. Behind him, he led the bay gelding, saddled and Sanchez's Spencer carbine in the saddle sling. Maybe he could do some trading with Leon Bloodworth to pay for the bill he was going to have when he went to get the buckskin back.

His thoughts returned to the puzzling question about the wolf. He was still certain that he didn't imagine the presence of the wolf.

“I heard the damn thing!” he stated emphatically. “And so did Sanchez.” He couldn't help thinking about Walking Owl's interpretation of his dream about the white wolf. “White Wolf,” he said, still talking to Joe. “I reckon him and Harley would try to tell me that some ghost wolf or something kept me from gettin' shot by Sanchez. I expect I'll just not tell
'em everything that happened back there in that ravine.”

Having said that, he still could not keep himself from wondering about the possibility. Maybe Harley was right. Maybe the Indians knew some things that the white man hadn't learned about the world he lived in.

“Ah, White Wolf returns,” Yellow Calf said when he glanced toward the river and saw the lone rider approaching.

Harley looked up from the length of buffalo sinew he was weaving into a bowstring for a three-foot bow made of ash wood and backed with sinew. He had been a fair hand with a bow in his earlier years with the Crow, so he had decided to try it again, since his supply of cartridges had gotten low over the winter. A wide smile parted the heavy growth of gray whiskers that hid almost all of the elfish face when he recognized his friend.

“It's White Wolf, all right,” he said. “Looks like he picked up another horse. That ain't his buckskin he's leadin'.”

Harley immediately thought the new horse could be a positive sign, especially since it was carrying a saddle. He chuckled to himself when it struck him that all Cole's packhorses seemed to come with a
saddle on them. Instead of a rider, this one had a deer carcass draped across it. He got up from his place by the fire so he could attract Cole's attention.

Cole saw him and guided Joe in his direction. When he pulled up before the fire, he dismounted and dropped the Morgan's reins to the ground. “Welcome back, my friend,” Yellow Calf greeted him.

“Thank you, Yellow Calf,” Cole returned. “I brought a deer I was lucky enough to get a shot at a couple of miles back. I need to butcher it pretty soon. I thought maybe you folks could help me eat it.”

Yellow Calf smiled. “I will call Moon Shadow to butcher the deer,” he said, and turned to the tipi to call her.

“White Wolf,” Moon Shadow greeted him when she came out of the tipi and saw the deer he had brought. Fresh meat was always welcome. “You bring a nice gift. I will butcher it.” She turned to her husband then and said, “Yellow Calf will hang the carcass for me.” It wasn't a question.

“I'll help you string him up,” Cole said. “It's the least I can do if Moon Shadow is gonna do the butcherin'.”

Having always been skilled in his observations of people, Harley stood silent during the casual conversation between them, watching Cole closely. The dark cloud that had always seemed to hover over his young friend was gone.

Finally Harley asked, “You got him, didn't you?”

“I did,” Cole answered simply.

“Well, thank the good Lord for that,” Harley said, beaming with relief, for he had almost convinced himself that Cole's streak of luck was strained to the limit, and Sanchez might be the one to break it. “Whaddaya aim to do now?”

“I don't know,” Cole answered honestly. “I haven't given much thought to what was gonna happen after I settled with all of 'em.”

“I reckon there ain't no hurry to decide,” Harley said. “We'll have us a feast of that deer to celebrate. Tell you the truth, I was worried about that son of a bitch Sanchez. He was mean clear to the bone. I figured he'd be hard as hell to kill. How'd you track him down?”

“I'll tell you about it sometime,” Cole said. “Right now I expect I'd better get these saddles off my horses and turn 'em out with the pony herd.” He was still not sure he wanted to tell Harley about the wolf part of the story.

“I reckon you know you can stay here as long as you ain't made up your mind what you're gonna do,” Harley said.

“I reckon,” Cole allowed. “I've got a good horse down in Cheyenne that I don't plan to lose. So I'd best get down there pretty soon.”

Harley nodded thoughtfully. “Yep, there's some folks down there that most likely wanna know if you're all right.”

Cole shrugged indifferently. “I don't know about that. All I know is I've got a damn good horse I ain't planning to leave there.”

Mary Lou's awkward confession came to mind, as it had more than a few times in the last couple of days. And the more he thought about it, the more it bothered him, because he wasn't sure exactly what he thought about it. He tried to remember her exact words. Was she telling him that she was open to an offer from him? He couldn't help speculating about the possibilities of a union between himself and the strong-willed woman.

Whenever he let his mind ramble unfettered in that direction, he was prone to bring it back abruptly with thoughts of guilt. It was disrespectful to Ann's memory to think of such things. Her death was much too recent to think of moving on. Besides, there was still the craving to see the high mountain country—to ride the Big Horns, the Absarokas, the Bitterroots, and beyond. He had forsaken that dream for the life of a farmer-rancher when he married Ann. He would never regret that decision, but maybe now was the time to revive the dream. He glanced up then to see Harley staring at him, waiting for a response, and he realized his mind had been so deeply absorbed in his thoughts that he had not even heard the question.

“What?” he asked.

“I said, when are you thinkin' about goin' back to Cheyenne?” Harley replied. “Where the hell were you? You looked like you was a thousand miles away.”

“I was just thinkin',” Cole said. “I ain't thought about when I'm goin' after my horse—in a day or two, I reckon.” Another concern popped into his mind then. “I've got a piece of land I filed on down on the Chugwater. I might wanna do something with that.”

“Like what?” Harley asked. “You know anythin' about farmin'?” His expression testified that he already knew the answer to that.

“Can't say as I do,” Cole admitted. “But I do know something about raisin' horses and cattle.”

Harley was still skeptical. “Is that so? You ain't got much of a start if you're set on raisin' horses—three horses, and all three of 'em geldin's.” He waited for Cole's answer to that, but Cole declined to reply. So Harley continued. “I've been ridin' with you long enough to know you—better'n you know yourself maybe. You got the wanderin' in your blood, same as me when I was about your age. You're a hunter. Walkin' Owl told you that, and you ain't gonna have no peace till you see the Rockies for yourself. You can go on back to that place on the Chugwater and set your mind to raisin' wheat and cattle. And you might scrape by for a while, but that day will come when the mountains whisper to you on a fresh spring breeze, like a beautiful woman callin' you to her bed. And you'll be standin' there with a hoe or a pitchfork in your hand instead of a good repeatin' rifle. Then it'll be fare-thee-well to that miserable plot of land. Hell, that land around the Chugwater ain't no good for farmin', anyhow.”

Harley's passionate remarks left Cole slightly astonished, and somewhat amused. He couldn't help smiling at his gnarly friend. “Damn, Harley, that's the biggest mouthful I've ever heard you say at one time.” He laughed then, but Harley's words struck a chord deep inside him. And Cole could not honestly refute anything he said. “I reckon you're too old to ride to the high country, if I decided that's where I'm goin'.”

“The hell I am!” Harley protested. “I ain't ready to squat by the fire just yet.”

“Wasn't long ago you told me that the winter was gettin' in your bones,” Cole reminded him. “You stayed here by the fire when I went back to Cheyenne.”

“Ah, hell,” Harley said. “I just didn't wanna go along to see you get killed.” He grinned then. “I reckon I didn't know you was the meanest stud horse in the herd. Besides, it's just the damn flat prairie winter that gets into my bones.”

He paused to see if Cole would make any commitment to go or stay. Although comfortable in his later years to be with his Crow friends, he had to confess that he would dearly love to see the high mountains once more before meeting his maker. This was especially true if he had a strong partner like Cole to rely on. Finally, with nothing forthcoming from Cole, he pressed. “Are you really thinkin' about headin' up to the high country?”

“I'm thinkin' on it,” Cole admitted. “Like I said, I'm goin' down to Cheyenne to pick up the buckskin. Then I reckon I'll decide what I'm gonna do.” He didn't tell Harley, but he had already decided to stop by the ruins of John Cochran's homestead on the Chugwater to visit Ann's grave. He would continue on to Cheyenne after he had talked it over with her.

•   •   •

Cole purposely rode wide around Walter Hodge's farm. He had no desire to visit John Cochran's friend, but he was concerned enough to take a long look at Walter's homestead from the top of a mesa about a quarter of a mile away. When he decided that the place looked peaceful, just as it had the last time he visited, he nudged Joe to continue down to John's land.

He felt a cold hand clutching his chest when he topped the rise before the creek to once again see the charred ruins of John Cochran's house. Like a solemn gravestone, it stood dark and silent, the only memorial to the family that had perished there. He found the one large grave to be just as he had left it, with the exception of some weeds that had taken root. But there was no evidence of scavengers, which was a relief to Cole. He pulled the saddle off Joe and built his fire by the side of the grave closest to Ann's body. He wasn't sure what he had expected, or even what he'd hoped for. If it was a message from his dead wife he was looking for, a sign, or a dream, it never came to him.

When finally he drifted off to sleep, he slept soundly, a deep and dreamless sleep, and when he woke the following morning, it was with the feeling that it was time to get on with his life. He said a final farewell to his wife, with the promise that she would always live in his memory.

Then he saddled Joe and turned his head toward Cheyenne.

•   •   •

Crow Creek Crossing,
he thought when he rode in from the north end of town once again.

He couldn't help thinking about the first day he had seen the town. Enough had happened since to fill the lifetime of an average man, and most of it not good. On this day, however, the town had a calmer look about it. There were a couple of new buildings under way, and he noticed that the church was finished. Gordon Luck would be preaching fire and brimstone to those in his flock who chose to avoid the sinful path, his long mane of sandy hair lying like a golden shroud upon his massive shoulders. Cole could imagine that the reverend cut quite a figure for the ladies of Cheyenne. He decided that the town had a chance at respectability now that it appeared the riffraff had moved on.

“Howdy, Cole,” Leon Bloodworth greeted him when he rode up to the stable. “I was wonderin' when we might see you again.”

“Howdy,” Cole returned. “You ain't sold my horse, have you?”

Bloodworth laughed. “No, he's still here. I coulda sold him a couple of times, though. But I knew you'd be back for him.”

“We'll settle up on what I owe you when I get back from the hotel,” Cole said. “I wanna see somebody there first.”

“You gonna be stayin' with us awhile this time?” Bloodworth asked.

“Don't know. I'll let you know when I get back.”

•   •   •

Maggie Whitehouse glanced out the window as she walked past carrying a stack of freshly washed tablecloths. Something caught her eye, and she took a couple of steps back to make sure it was Cole Bonner she had seen heading toward the dining room. It was him, all right. There was no mistaking the easy long-legged strides as he headed purposefully straight for the door.

Uh-oh,
she thought, and turned at once to alert Mary Lou, who was in the kitchen, talking to Beulah.

“You were supposed to leave those in the dining room,” Mary Lou complained when Maggie walked in, still carrying the stack of tablecloths.

“I think you've got company,” Maggie said, ignoring Mary Lou's tease, as she nodded toward the door.

“Oh?” Mary Lou replied, aware now of Maggie's serious manner. She turned abruptly and walked into the dining room just as Cole came in the outside door.

“Mary Lou,” Cole called to her, “I was just comin' to see you.”

“Is that right?” she responded, realizing that it was unusual to see a smile on the usually stern facade. She had not expected to see him return to Cheyenne so soon—maybe not at all—and his sudden appearance made for an uncomfortable moment. So she thought the best thing to do was not to beat around the bush.

“Before you say anything, I think I oughta tell you that I said a lot of things that I shouldn't have, things that may have given you the wrong idea about what I was thinking.” He started to respond, but she quickly continued before he could speak. “I'm afraid I might even have scared you, and thinking back, I can understand why. Let me set your mind at ease. Gordon Luck has been pestering me to marry him for a long time, and I finally said yes.”

She was looking down at her feet when she said it, so she didn't notice the stunned expression on Cole's face. Maggie, who was watching for his expression, did not miss it, however.

Emotionally staggered for a moment, Cole recovered quickly enough to reply. “Well, good for you,” he said, trying not to show his disappointment, for he had made up his mind while walking from the stable that he was going to ask her to be his wife. The decision to once again forsake his dream of riding the high mountains had been hard, but he had persuaded himself that it was worth the love of a good woman.

“And good for Gordon,” he managed, trying hard to smile.

“I can't picture me as a preacher's wife,” she went on in an attempt to keep the conversation light. “I reckon I'll just be a wife to the part of him that runs the sawmill.”

“I reckon,” Cole said, and forced a chuckle. “Gordon's a good man. I wish you the best.” He glanced at Maggie then, who looked as if she was in pain. “I just dropped by to tell you folks good-bye. Me and Harley are headin' up in the Rockies—don't know when I'll get back this way again. I have to pick up my horse. Then I reckon I'll be on my way.” An awkward silence followed that seemed interminable, until Cole finally said, “I wanna thank you both for everything you've done for me.” He nodded to each one, then turned and headed for the door.