Chapter 11
Caldwell raked the snow away from the base of a large boulder and proceeded to break up some dead pine branches that he had pulled out of the stand of trees below them on the slope. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt you none to help me find some more wood.”
Trask sat huddled against the boulder, seeking protection from the frigid breezes that swept constantly across the high ridge. With his blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he reluctantly moved away from the huge rock. Showing no enthusiasm for the task, he poked around the edge of the trees until he uncovered a sizable limb, which he dragged over to the spot where Caldwell was in the process of starting a fire. “That damn pine’s gonna smoke like hell,” he said as he dropped the limb at Caldwell’s feet. “I don’t know if Fry would like it too much if we build a fire. No telling how far a body can see the smoke.”
Caldwell didn’t bother to look at Trask when replying. “Fry, or Pitt, either, ain’t setting up here freezing their asses off.”
Trask shrugged, then looked around him as if afraid Fry or Pitt might overhear. “Fry’s still mad ’cause we couldn’t catch them two that killed Wiley.” He hesitated for a moment, thinking about the circumstances that had dictated the need for him and Caldwell to be sitting lookout on a frozen mountain ridge. “Fry thinks the woman and the half-breed hightailed it for the Injun reservation. Do you think that’s where they went?”
“Hell, who knows? Maybe—I don’t really give a shit.” Foremost in Caldwell’s mind was coaxing the tender flame he had created into a warming fire. “Hot damn,” he exclaimed triumphantly as the flame blossomed into a bona fide blaze. “Now we got somethin’.” He sat back on his heels, carefully feeding sticks and branches to the fire. When he was certain it was established, he turned to look at Trask. He said nothing for a couple of minutes, watching Trask frown as the fearful little man worried about the thin column of smoke drifting straight up until it cleared the top of the boulder, where the wind swept it away.
“I don’t like bein’ in no damn militia,” Trask finally blurted. “Settin’ up here watching that pass below. What if them two did make it to that Snake camp? That don’t mean them Injuns is gonna come riding over here lookin’ for us, does it?” It irritated him that Caldwell didn’t appear to be as agitated over the task assigned to them. “Why the hell ain’t Clell out here freezing his ass off?”
Caldwell laughed. “Fry told Clell to ride out to the other side of the north ridge and keep a lookout. Clell probably dug him a hole somewhere and crawled in it.” He backed away from the fire a little when it began to throw out some heat. “Why don’t you quit peeping around that rock and come over here and get warm? Ain’t none of them Injuns gonna come riding over here. It keeps snowing like this, that pass’ll be closed in the morning.” He laughed again. “If I see a whole passel of Injuns come riding through that pass before then, I ain’t sure I’ll even bother goin’ to tell Fry. I just might light out down the other side of this mountain.”
Trask didn’t respond right away. In fact, he wasn’t even listening to Caldwell’s rambling. He had spotted something on the far side of the narrow pass that guarded the entrance to Canyon Creek. It captured his complete attention until it took identifiable form through the veil of falling snow. Without taking his eyes from the gap in the mountains, he called to his partner. “Caldwell, come look at this! Somebody’s coming.”
“Damn, you’re right. Who in the world . . .” He paused while the party approached the valley. “It’s somebody driving a wagon.”
“There’s two more on horses coming up behind him,” Trask said. “Who in the world would be driving a wagon in here this time of year? It ain’t the Mashburn woman and the boy. Maybe they’re lost. Whaddaya think we oughta do? Fry didn’t say nothin’ about this.”
“Fry’ll think we’ve been sleeping up here if we just let ’em drive on in without saying nothin’. So I guess we’d best just ride on down there and play soldier.” After thinking about the unlikely appearance of the wagon in the valley, something triggered Caldwell’s memory as he stepped up in the saddle. “I reckon I know who that is. What’s the feller’s name that runs the store?”
“Wysong?”
“Yeah, Wysong. That’s who that is. He’s been gone to Fort Laramie for supplies. That’s who it is, all right. Let’s go down and welcome him back, ’specially since he’s bringing us that wagonload of provisions.”
* * *
Jim Culver caught sight of them first—two riders working their way down through the timber to cut them off. He nudged Toby and pulled up beside the wagon. When Nate looked over at him, Jim said nothing but pointed toward the slope on the left. Nate squinted up at the snowy hillside, trying to identify the riders.
“You know them?” Jim asked.
Nate hesitated before answering, still straining to make out the faces. Finally, he decided. “No, can’t say as I do. Don’t look like anybody I know.”
Jim reached down and pulled his rifle from its sling. “You might wanna keep your rifle handy,” he told Wysong. Calling back to Lettie, he advised, “Pull your horse around the other side of the wagon till we see what these two have on their minds.”
They pushed on through the narrow pass, where the snow was already beginning to accumulate to over a foot in the low places. Jim scanned the slopes on either side, looking for signs of anything out of the ordinary. It appeared the two riders were alone. They rode at a leisurely pace toward a point in the trail where they would intercept the wagon and waited there for Nate to approach.
“How do,” Caldwell called out when they were within thirty yards.
“Howdy,” Nate responded, keeping a wary eye on the strangers.
Caldwell flashed a wide smile. “I reckon you might be Mr. Wysong. Is that right?”
“Yes, I’m Wysong,” Nate replied, surprised that the stranger knew his name.
Caldwell, confident that he could play the game as well as Simon Fry, glanced up at the sky. “Well, Mr. Wysong, looks like you mighta just beat the snow here by the look of that sky. We knew you was coming back from Fort Laramie, and the captain was getting ready to send some of us out to look for you.”
“Is that a fact?” Nate could only wonder what the smiling young stranger was talking about. He glanced at Jim, baffled.
“Yessir, that’s our job. I’m Corporal Caldwell, and this here’s Private Trask. We’re in the Montana Militia.” Trask said nothing but glowered darkly upon hearing his assigned rank. Caldwell went on to relate the story Fry and his men had told everyone else, about their assignment to Canyon Creek to protect the citizens there.
“Oh my Lord in Heaven,” Nate Wysong exclaimed, shocked by the news that the Shoshonis had been raiding in the valley. They had always been friendly and peaceful ever since he had built his cabin and store there. He was now more anxious than ever to get home to his wife and children. Caldwell assured him that his family was safe, but he told him that there had been others who had not been so fortunate. The Cochrans and Monk Grissom had been killed by the Indians. And just two days before, the Colefield place had been burned to the ground. Rufus, his daughter, and the boy were missing. “It’s been a bad streak of Injun meanness,” he said. “We’ve lost four of our men, but we’re staying right here to protect you folks.”
Jim had no reason to suspect Caldwell’s story. With no knowledge of the Shoshoni people, he could imagine that they were as hostile as the Pawnees who had ambushed Lettie and him east of Fort Laramie. He did, however, wonder about the quality of the Montana Militia if these two were any examples, especially Private Trask. They certainly bore no resemblance to the soldiers he had seen at Fort Laramie. Both soldiers seemed extremely curious about him and Lettie when Nate introduced them.
Caldwell explained that he and Trask were on patrol, watching for Indian raiding parties that might try to enter the valley, but he’d be glad to escort them to Nate’s store if the storekeeper wished. Nate declined, figuring it unnecessary sinc
e they had said there were no Indians in the valley. So they hurried on, leaving the two scruffy-looking soldiers by the side of the trail. Nate apologized to Jim after having been told that the soldiers had taken over Jed Springer’s old cabin for their headquarters. “Won’t be no trouble finding you a place to stay,” he promised him. Jim assured him that he wasn’t concerned about it.
* * *
While Caldwell and Trask watched the three latest arrivals to Canyon Creek, Clell Adams sat himself down before a blazing fire in the fireplace Monk Grissom had built of stones from the river’s edge. It was better than the fireplace in the cabin Fry and the gang had taken over. But the cabin itself was smaller than the one built by Jed Springer. Clell looked around him as he made himself comfortable on Monk’s bed of buffalo robes, searching the tiny interior of the cabin in case he had missed anything of value when they had ransacked the place before. The old fart sure didn’t have much plunder to show for living as long as he did. A few packs of skins, some salt, dried venison and flour, and one gray mare. That was about all they had found at the cabin—anything of value he had owned had been carried on his body. And those few items had been split up among the gang after they had killed him. Fry and Pitt had naturally taken the weapons, leaving precious little for the rest of them. About all Clell had gotten out of it was Monk’s pistol and a foxskin cap with the head of the fox intact. He reached up to touch it. It’s a sight warmer than that old hat of mine, he thought.
He reached in his pocket, pulled out a piece of jerky, and began to work it around in his mouth to soften it. He could only chew on one side of his mouth since he had no bottom teeth on the other side, but that hampered him very little. He still managed to keep a well-rounded belly in front of him. Feeling cozy and comfortable, he reached over to push a stick of wood farther into the fire. He figured that by the time the fire started to burn out, it would be time for him to get back on his horse and return to headquarters, as Fry liked to call Jed Springer’s old cabin.
Headquarters, he thought and snorted. Fry and Pitt were beginning to act like they really were soldiers. Sending the rest of us out on patrols to keep an eye out for the Mashburn bitch and that boy—well, this ol’ coon ain’t built for riding around in the snow while everybody else is setting in front of the fire. He almost chuckled with the thought. I wonder if ol’ Caldwell and Trask are sitting up on that mountain freezing their butts off—more likely holed up somewhere like me. Then he did chuckle. Problem is, they ain’t got no cabin to lay up in like I have. Giving more thought to the idea, he speculated that Trask, scared to death of Pitt, was probably plodding back and forth up in the north end of the valley, his fingers and toes about to fall off with the cold. Foolishness, he thought. These people in Canyon Creek don’t suspect nothing. Even if they did, they’re too damned scared to do anything about it.
* * *
The solitary, buckskin-clad figure sitting motionless on his horse on the bluff overlooking the river hesitated before descending to the cabin below him. His paint pony stamped its right front hoof several times, impatient to get moving again. “Easy, boy,” Clay Culver said softly and patted the Indian pony on the neck. Something looked awry. There was smoke coming from the chimney of Monk’s cabin, but there was a strange horse tied to the front corner post, saddled and standing in the snow. Glancing over at the corral and the lean-to Monk had built for his horses, Clay could see no sign of Monk’s mare or the buckskin. “Maybe we’d best go on down and see who Monk’s visitor is,” he said as he pressed his heels gently against the paint’s belly.
The blue roan tied at the corner of the cabin whinnied a greeting as Clay approached, leading his packhorse. But the man taking his ease inside on Monk’s soft buffalo robes paid it no mind as he dozed before the warm fire. Still half-asleep, Clell wasn’t aware that he had company until he felt the surge of cold air that rushed over him when the cabin door was suddenly opened.
“Damn! Close that damned door,” he yelped. Thinking he had been found out by one of the other members of the gang, he scrambled to his hands and knees, trying to extricate himself from the buffalo robe. When the door was not closed at once, he looked up, about to curse again. The oath was choked off in his throat by the sight of the formidable figure filling the doorway. “W-who the hell are you?” he stammered.
Ignoring the question, Clay demanded, “Where’s Monk?”
Recovering somewhat from the initial shock of having been suddenly doused with frigid air, Clell got to his feet only to find the figure that had towered over him was still a head taller. “Monk ain’t here,” he blurted. “He’s gone under—kilt by Injuns.”
The man’s statement hit Clay like the kick of a mule right in his chest, but there was no change of expression on his face as he continued to glower down at the nervous intruder in his old friend’s cabin. Clay did not want to believe what he had just heard. Still, as was his nature, he remained calm as he asked, “And just who might you be?”
Clell strained to stand taller, attempting to affect a posture of authority. “I’m a soldier in the Montana army,” he blustered, unable at the moment to remember exactly what Simon Fry called the sham military unit.
“I’ve never heard of any Montana army,” Clay said, his eyes measuring the grimy-looking man before him, “and you don’t look much like a soldier to me.” He glanced quickly around at the disheveled state of Monk’s cabin. It had obviously been plundered, and the thought of this riffraff going through Monk’s belongings was enough to cause his blood to simmer. In particular, the foxskin cap pulled down snugly on the man’s head looked a hell of a lot like the one Monk wore.
Even a man of Clell’s limited intelligence could see that the buckskin-clad stranger was not one to fall for a bluff. Still, he attempted to bluster his way through. “Militia,” he suddenly remembered. “That’s what I am—and we was sent to protect the folks in this here valley.”
Clay stood glaring at the man for several long seconds, silently thinking that this man was no soldier, militia or regular. Of that, Clay was certain. He knew a skunk when he saw one, and this one was beginning to give off an odor. Although his anger was threatening to surface, he continued to maintain a calm exterior until he got some definite answers to the questions in his mind. “Protect them from what? You say Monk was killed by Indians? What Indians?”
“Why, Snakes, they was,” Clell replied confidently.
Clay was certain now that the man was lying. He knew without doubt that the Shoshonis—or Snakes, as some called them—had not been responsible for Monk’s death. Less than six days before, Clay had visited Washakie in the Shoshoni camp. The old chief had related the conversation he had had with Monk about rumored raids in Canyon Creek. What part this dingy-looking scoundrel now standing before him had played in the actual murder of Monk, Clay could only speculate. His first inclination was to execute the man right then and there, but he knew there was still the possibility that Clell really was in some form of hastily organized militia. After all, Clay had been away from Canyon Creek for some time now. A lot could have happened that he wasn’t aware of. Yet he could not ignore his gut feeling about this scruffy-looking individual. With great reluctance, he suppressed the impulse to simply strangle the man and be done with it. He felt Monk’s soul crying out for vengeance, but he resisted the urge to strike prematurely.
“Suppose you tell me just what the hell you’re doing in Monk’s cabin,” Clay said, his voice low and devoid of emotion.
“Why, I . . .” Clell sputtered, indignant but intimidated by the stranger’s appearance to the point where he was not sure how much bluff he should hazard. “I’m supposed to be here,” he said after a moment, “taking care of things for the militia.”
“This ain’t the militia’s cabin,” Clay calmly replied.
“Well, I was just fixin’ to leave, anyway. Got to report back to headquarters.”
“Is that a fact? Just where is headquarters?” Clay asked.
“We set up in an
old abandoned cabin on the other side of the river.”
Clay thought for a moment, trying to recall. Then, remembering, he said, “Jed Springer’s cabin?”
“I don’t know. I reckon.” Clell was beginning to tire of the questioning. “I’ve got to git on back now.”
“Jed didn’t have a very big cabin—not much bigger than this one. How big is your outfit?” Clell didn’t answer. “There must not be very many of you unless you’re sleeping in tents.”
“Mister, you ask a helluva lot of questions.” Clell’s hand dropped to rest on the handle of the pistol in his belt. “Now, I expect you’d better get on with your business, whatever it is.”
Clay’s eye never wavered as he took notice of Clell’s hand tightening around the handle of the pistol. “I wouldn’t advise you to pull that weapon out of your belt unless you’re prepared to answer to God right now.”
Clell hesitated. He could see no firearm on the mountain man’s person. Still, there was something in the tall scout’s eyes that told him it was not an idle threat. Since back-shooting was more to Clell’s calling, he decided it prudent to back down. The thought also flashed through his mind that Monk’s pistol had misfired once before, when he had attempted to put Hicks out of his misery. Something told him that could be fatal for him if it happened at this instant. “Why, hell, mister, you’ve got the wrong idea. I got no reason to pull a weapon on you.” He immediately held both hands up before him, palms out. “But I got to go now. The captain will be looking for me.”
“I expect I’ll be calling on your captain myself,” Clay said and turned his back on Clell, preceding him out the door. Fully anticipating what was to follow, he eased the war ax out of his belt, shielding it from view with his body as he started in the direction of his horses. Just as he expected, he heard the sound of a hammer cocking before he had taken three steps past the door. He didn’t wait to react.
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