The next morning came with still no sign of Monk. Luke had halfway expected the old mountain man to show up at their doorstep to get more of Katie’s biscuits. When he didn’t, Luke expressed his concern to Katie. “It ain’t like Monk to come back later than he said he would. You reckon I’d best go see if I can find him?” Even though he had planned to give Monk until dark that day, he was becoming more and more aware of an uneasy feeling inside.
Katie didn’t answer at once. She glanced at her father, who was intent upon putting an edge on his ax and was oblivious to the conversation. Luke’s concern about Monk gave her pause to consider some of the events of the past few days. Monk had shown an open contempt for Captain Fry and his soldiers, a contempt that Katie shared, but she had not been as vocal about it as Monk. Without conscious thought, she picked up her belt and holster from the table and strapped it around her waist. There seemed to have been an unusual amount of Indian trouble in the valley since the arrival of the little militia unit—without any real Indian sign. Luke might be wise to be concerned for Monk.
“Maybe you’d best go over to the Shoshoni camp,” she finally answered. “That old fool might have fallen off his horse or something,” she added in an attempt to hide her apprehension. Her concern was also for her father and his childlike acceptance of Simon Fry’s word. Rufus Colefield was not made of especially strong fiber, and Katie saw no need to give him something else to fear before it became necessary. She walked with Luke to the corral. “You mind your back, Luke, and stay outta sight of any of those soldiers. I don’t trust them any more than Monk does.” It was unnecessary advice, for Luke’s native Shoshoni instincts had taught him to recognize a rattlesnake no matter what form it came in.
* * *
As a precaution, Luke crossed the river and passed Jed Springer’s old cabin on the other side so as not to be seen by any of the soldiers who could usually be found lounging around their so-called headquarters. After he was certain no one had seen him, he crossed back over and took the trail to the Shoshoni village.
The old game trail was frequently used by Shoshoni hunters, so Luke was not surprised to discover tracks from many horses—some old, some relatively fresh. They could have been made by a hunting party from the Shoshoni camp, he supposed. But he had a gut feeling that told him they had most likely been left by the valley’s uninvited militia unit. The fact that none of the horses were shod did not influence his thinking. Simon Fry had a string of Indian ponies.
Entering the south end of the narrow pass that led to the western slopes of the mountains, Luke sharpened his senses to be especially alert, a natural impulse when riding through a pass so prime for ambush. He had ridden no more than fifty yards into the pass when his pony snorted, having detected a scent offensive to its nostrils. Luke searched the walls of the narrow valley, his eyes quickly darting from one side to the other. A few yards farther along, the trail became a bit wider, permitting a broader view of the entire valley. At once, he discovered what the confining entrance to the pass had obscured—buzzards feasting on the carcass of a horse.
Luke immediately nudged the pinto, and the pony sprang to a full gallop. Waving his bow back and forth over his head and yelling loudly, he charged down upon the macabre banquet. The belligerent scavengers scattered reluctantly, waddling only a few yards away from their feast. Squawking raucously, flapping their wings defiantly, they refused to depart the scene entirely even when Luke reined up beside the carcass. One glance at the half-shredded remains told him what he had feared. It was the buckskin that Monk had ridden.
To a boy born to the mountains, there was plenty of sign left to tell the dark story of the evil work that had taken place there. Many tracks led across the narrow valley, leading toward the boulders at the base of the trees. There had been an ambush. That was plain to see. And Luke knew immediately that the old trapper who had befriended him—the white-haired, craggy old friend of his father—was no longer among the living. He saw the obvious trail of a half-dozen or more horses that led to the rocks, and he dreaded what he might find behind them.
As he had feared, the old man was there, lying face-up, his lifeless eyes staring at the sun, an ugly black hole near the middle of his forehead. His body had been stripped of everything but his blood-crusted buckskins. No more than five feet from Monk’s body lay another corpse. Luke recognized it as one of the men who rode with Simon Fry. Like Monk, Hicks’s body had been stripped, except for his shirt—which had a bloody hole in the middle of it—and a dingy pair of long-handle drawers.
It was easy to imagine what had taken place in this narrow pass. There was no doubt in Luke’s mind. Monk had been bushwhacked on his way back from the Shoshoni reservation. The soldiers had succeeded in silencing Monk—as Luke and Katie had feared they might—but Monk had managed to take one of them with him. Staring down at Monk now, Luke felt the heavy sorrow of the old man’s passing. He had known Monk for most of his young life and he was thankful that he had found him before the buzzards became distracted from their feast on his horse.
The question now before the fourteen-year-old boy was what he should do. There was no proof that Simon Fry’s gang of outlaws were not connected to any military group. Monk had been confident that their only intention was to prey on the helpless farmers of Canyon Creek. There was no doubt in Luke’s mind that his father’s old friend had been right. His lifeless body surely attested to that. He must warn Katie and her father—and the others in the valley. His first reaction was to seek revenge for Monk himself, but he knew he might be successful in killing only one, or possibly two, of the outlaws before they killed him.
Struggling to keep the anger in his heart from rising to the point where he could not think rationally, Luke tried to make up his mind about what he should do. Looking back at the half-eaten carcass of Monk’s horse, he decided that the first thing he had to do was to take care of Monk’s body. His first inclination was to take the old man back to Katie’s cabin. On second thought, he decided it best to get the body into the ground right away, before he had to fight the buzzards for it.
With nothing with which to dig a grave, he had to settle for scratching out a shallow trench with his knife. When it was finished, he dragged Monk’s body as carefully as he could manage, taking care to keep the old-timer’s head from bumping over the rock-strewn earth. With Monk resting in the shallow grave, Luke said a silent farewell to his father’s old friend. Then he began covering the grave with rocks until he had constructed a solid mound that would keep predators away. He paused but a moment to consider Hicks’s body, then decided the buzzards could have it.
His sorrowful chore finished, Luke’s thoughts now focused on the immediate action to be taken. The news of Monk’s death would be devastating to Katie Mashburn, for she was quite fond of the old man. But he was closer to the Shoshoni camp at this point than he was to Rufus Colefield’s cabin. Maybe he should seek help from Washakie and his mother’s people. Monk was a friend of the old chief’s as well. No, he decided, I’ve got to get back and tell Katie and her pa what happened. The next step to be taken could be decided at that point. Katie would know what to do.
Chapter 7
Luke was right: Katie Mashburn was devastated to hear the news of Monk Grissom’s death. When Luke arrived at the cabin, after a hard ride from the rocky pass where he had laid Monk to rest, she knew Monk had met with tragedy even before Luke spoke. She stood silent, ashen-faced, while Luke told her and her father how he had found the old mountain man’s body hidden in the rocks of the pass along with that of one of the militiamen.
After Luke told them how he had followed the signs that led to the discovery of the bodies, and of the many fresh hoofprints that covered the trail through the pass, Katie sat down heavily at the kitchen table. For several long moments, she said nothing, simply staring at the cabin wall, thinking about the old mountain man who had become like a member of the family. Monk gone? It was almost impossible to accept. Monk was as durable as the mountains he l
oved so dearly, and like the mountains, she had thought he would always be there. She suddenly felt old. It was going to be a grave winter without Monk around.
Realizing that Luke and her father were staring at her, waiting for her to speak, she finally looked up and said, “I knew he was gonna have trouble with those bastards. He wouldn’t keep his thoughts to himself. I told the old fool to keep his mouth shut.” She tried to affect an angry tone in an effort to hold back her tears.
Rufus Colefield was beside himself. The news was especially disturbing to him. He grieved for the loss of a man who had been a true friend to him and his daughter. But more than that, the distressing news that one of the soldiers had been found dead right beside Monk brought added concern to worry him. Always the fearful man, Rufus had purchased Simon Fry’s story one hundred percent because he so wanted it to be true. His tormented mind would never let him forget the Ute raid that had claimed the life of his son-in-law and caused his daughter to wear a pistol strapped to her waist for most of her waking hours. Simon Fry said he had come to protect the people of Canyon Creek. He said there would be more soldiers coming. Rufus wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe there were more soldiers coming. He had to believe him, because Rufus knew he could not protect his daughter in the event there was another raid by Indians. If what Luke said was true, then he might have to face up to protecting his daughter from Fry’s men. But maybe Luke had read the sign wrong. There was probably some explanation that would clear it up. There had to be. Surely, he thought, if the soldiers had been responsible for the ambush, they would not have left one of their own to be found there.
“We need to have a meeting with the other folks in the valley,” Katie said. “We’re going to have to work together to get rid of Simon Fry’s gang.”
“Hold on a minute, Katie,” Rufus quickly responded. “We don’t know that things are exactly the way the boy saw them. We need to be sure of what we’re doing here. The soldiers came here to help us.”
Katie shot an impatient glance in her father’s direction. She had long ago accepted Rufus’s lack of backbone and had forgiven him for his reluctance to face up to his fears. But at this point in time, she didn’t have the patience to placate him. She placed unconditional trust in Luke Kendall’s instincts and ability to read sign. To Luke, the picture was clearly that of an ambush by Simon Fry’s murderous bunch to silence Monk Grissom. It was obvious to her that their settlement had been taken over by a deadly gang of scavengers bent upon feeding off the people of Canyon Creek. First John and Ruth Cochran, now Monk. If they didn’t take action soon, there was no telling who might be next.
“Pa, we can’t take any chances on that outlaw gang destroying our valley—sitting on our hands while they kill us off one by one. We need to call a meeting of our neighbors right away. They need to know about Monk.” She directed her words toward the boy. “Luke, you need to ride out first thing tomorrow morning—get the word out to everyone in the valley. Tell ’em there’s a meeting at our place tomorrow noon. Tell ’em to keep shut about it and don’t tell anybody.” The boy nodded that he understood. Looking back at her father, she said, “We’ve got a nest of skunks setting up in our valley, and we’d best get rid of ’em.”
Rufus was not at all comfortable with his daughter’s grasp of the situation. “I don’t know, Katie. I hope you’re doin’ the right thing. Maybe we should talk to Reverend Lindstrom first before we get everybody riled up.”
“He’ll be here tomorrow with everybody else. We’ll talk to him then.” Unconsciously reaching down to shift her pistol holster to a more comfortable position on her hip, she warned Luke, “You watch yourself, boy. Don’t let any of that ragtag bunch of Fry’s see you.” It was an unnecessary warning.
* * *
In spite of Reverend Lindstrom’s plans to develop Canyon Creek into a thriving valley whose residents would number into the hundreds, there were now only eight families, plus Whitey Branch, in the fertile river bottom. Monk Grissom was gone. So were Jed Springer, Luke’s parents, and the Cochrans—all victims of violent deaths. When Luke Kendall spread the word that there was to be an important meeting at the Colefield place, all eight families responded by sending at least one member; in half the cases, the whole family piled into a wagon and drove over, anxious to see what could be important enough to call them away from a day’s work. Nate Wysong was away, having gone to Fort Laramie to pick up a wagonload of merchandise for the store. But his wife attended with their three children. As expected, the first to arrive was Whitey Branch. With no family of his own, Whitey usually showed up early to most any function. He had made a sizable dent in the contents of the big metal coffeepot on the corner of Katie’s stove by the time Horace Spratte and his wife, Effie, arrived. The last to arrive, at a little past noon, was Henry Lindstrom. As soon as the reverend had greeted everyone, Katie got down to business.
It was apparent to all as soon as they arrived that this was not to be a social affair, for there was no meat on the spit, and no tables were set with tablecloths. There were refreshments, however, for Katie had spent most of the morning baking apple pies, exhausting her supply of the dried apples Monk had brought from Fort Laramie, and there was coffee and cider to wash it down.
Knowing that her neighbors would be anxious to start back to their homes before dark, Katie wasted little time getting the meeting started. As soon as Reverend Lindstrom had greeted the others, she called for everyone’s attention.
A genuine and profound sense of sadness captured everyone when she told them of Monk Grissom’s death. There was not a person there who had not counted Monk among their closest friends. A surge of horror raced through the assembly when Katie related the scene of Monk’s murder as told to her by Luke.
“Lord have mercy!” Reverend Lindstrom gasped; like Katie, he had figured Monk would be around forever. No one spoke out at first, although there was a great deal of murmuring among the families crowded into Rufus Colefield’s cabin. After a moment, Lindstrom voiced the fear that was on everyone’s mind. “That’s a mighty serious accusation, Katie. Do you know for sure that Monk was killed by the soldiers?”
“That’s what I was wondering,” Rufus Colefield interjected, undermining his daughter’s purpose. “I think we ought to be dang sure before we go off half-cocked.”
Katie shot her father an impatient glance before answering. “Who else could it have been? Everybody here knows that Monk was making Fry pretty uncomfortable, asking questions that he didn’t care to answer.”
“That ain’t hardly enough to make him want to kill a man,” Horace Spratte offered. “Them soldiers was sent here to protect us. It don’t make sense they’d kill anybody, ’specially a good man with a rifle—in case we had some Injun trouble.”
Katie had never credited Horace Spratte with a great deal of common sense, but she forced herself to maintain a patient attitude. “Has anybody seen one scrap of proof that that gang of bullies are who they claim to be? They just came riding in here one day saying they were soldiers, and we just sat back and swallowed it. They don’t look like any soldiers I’ve ever seen.”
“They’s volunteers,” Whitey Branch started, but Katie cut him off.
“I know the story,” she interrupted. “Listen, folks. All I’m saying is open your eyes. Luke scouted the whole area in the canyon after he found Monk and that other fellow. There was no Injun sign. It was pretty obvious what had happened.”
All eyes shifted toward the young son of John Kendall. There was an ample measure of doubt in many of their faces. Luke, after all, was no more than a boy. True, he was half-Shoshoni and known to be as truthful and reliable as his father had been. Still, there was plenty of room for doubt. This was a serious and fearful accusation that Katie was making, one that the whole of the congregation desperately wanted to be unfounded.
“Why is the boy so sure?” Reverend Lindstrom asked. “After all, one of the soldiers was killed, too. It sounds more like the work of Injuns to me.” A few
heads in the group nodded in agreement with him. “All of us here know that Luke has relatives in that Shoshoni camp, and it’s only natural that he wouldn’t want to blame the killings on them.” He turned to look at the boy standing by the front window. “No offense, Luke. I’m just saying it’s the natural thing.”
“Luke said it was not the work of Injuns,” Katie stated calmly, “and I trust his ability to read sign.” She looked around the room, searching each face. “Doesn’t anybody here have any doubts about this gang?”
Before anyone could answer, Luke announced, “We’ve got company.”
As Katie and her neighbors watched from the cabin door, Simon Fry and his five remaining outlaws rode into the front yard. He dismounted after directing his men to remain in the saddle. Jack Pitt guided his horse over beside Horace Spratte’s wagon, where he could watch the front and one side of the cabin. The other four men spaced themselves so that they covered the front of the cabin.
Fry had been uncertain about the reception they might receive upon arrival at the secret meeting, so he had instructed the men to be alert. It was going to be a long winter, and he preferred to keep things peaceful until he was ready to loot the valley in the spring. He wasn’t sure what the purpose of the meeting was, but the fact that Whitey Branch had told him that he was not supposed to tell anyone about it had piqued his curiosity. He could assume that it had to do with Monk Grissom’s demise.
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