Hero's Stand

by Charles G. West

  It happened so fast that Clell was still preparing to aim his pistol when the war ax slammed into his chest with such force that the blade embedded itself almost to the handle. Having dropped to his knee when he whirled around to throw the ax, Clay was able to avoid the bullet that whistled harmlessly over his head.

  The pistol clattered noisily on the flat stone sill Monk had set in his cabin doorway. Clell staggered backward, horrified by the sight of the ax buried deep in his chest. He grabbed the handle in both hands, screaming in pain as he struggled to extract the blade, knowing he was mortally wounded.

  While the stricken man fell back against the cabin wall, Clay moved unhurriedly toward him, his long skinning knife in his hand. He felt no remorse in taking the man’s life. By deliberately offering Clell his back, Clay had confirmed what he had almost been certain of—that the man was a murderer, and his execution was justified.

  His eyes wide with fright, Clell Adams looked into the face of death’s messenger. Paralyzed by fear, he was unable to resist when Clay slapped the foxskin cap from his head and grabbed a handful of hair. Jerking Clell’s head back, he growled, “You better hope Monk Grissom ain’t waiting for you in hell.” The sound of blood gurgling, followed by the whisper of Clell’s last breath from the clean gash across his windpipe, was the foul man’s last utterance before Clay sent him on his way to whatever awaited men of his kind.

  Washakie had been justified in his concern for Monk. I should have come straight over here when I left Washakie, Clay thought, instead of going hunting for elk. Something evil had descended upon the peaceful valley of Canyon Creek. The question that bothered Clay’s mind now was how many others had been murdered by this band of outlaws calling themselves militia? Before leaving the Shoshoni reservation to find Monk, Clay had promised Angry Bear that he would look in on his nephew, the half-breed Luke Kendall. He was living with Rufus Colefield and his daughter. Clay had met them briefly once when visiting Monk. He would go there next, but he decided to wait until darkness, when he would be less likely to be spotted by this so-called militia.

  Chapter 12

  Mary Wysong was standing in the door of the little general store that fronted her cabin when she spotted her husband’s wagon round the crook in the trail just past the church. She didn’t wait for him to make his way up to the store. Without taking the time to throw a shawl over her shoulders, she ran to meet him. He pulled his mules to a stop so his wife could climb up to the seat.

  “Hey, darlin’,” he said as she threw her arms around his neck.

  “I feared something terrible had happened to you,” she whispered breathlessly, “with the Indians raiding all over the territory.” With a great sigh of relief, she released him and reared her head back to look at him. “You let your beard grow,” she noted. “I’m just thankful to the Lord you didn’t lose your hair. Captain Fry and his men have been trying to protect us from the Indians. I just thank the Lord that you got through.”

  Nate still found the news difficult to believe. “I didn’t see anything between here and Fort Laramie.”

  This, in turn, surprised Mary. “Captain Fry said the Shoshonis were raiding all over the territory. I know they’ve sure hit here.” Her face took on a worried frown. “Nate, they hit Rufus Colefield day before yesterday. We saw smoke from the cabin in the morning. Reverend Lindstrom rode over there with Whitey Branch and Horace Spratte. They didn’t find any trace of Katie or Rufus—the boy, either. They said the Indians must have carried them off.” She wrung her hands nervously. “I’m so glad you’re back. Nate, what are we gonna do? I heard a gunshot a little while ago. It sounded like it came from over near Monk Grissom’s cabin.” She interrupted herself. “Nate, Monk’s dead.”

  “I know. I heard,” Nate said. “A couple of those militia fellows told me.” Having been distracted by his wife’s nervous chatter, Nate just then remembered Jim and Lettie, seated on their horses, quietly watching the reunion. Remembering his manners then, he introduced them. “This here is Miss Lettie Henderson. I told her she could stay with us till spring.”

  Lettie was quick to respond. “I hope I won’t be putting you out, Mrs. Wysong. Your husband said you wouldn’t mind, but I can find someplace else if it’s a bother.”

  After apologizing for her rudeness in ignoring Lettie at first, Mary managed to smile. “Call me Mary. Why, it’s no bother at all. It’ll be a treat to have some female company for a spell. I’m just sorry you had to come when we’re having all this Indian trouble.”

  Wysong waited for the women to finish their greetings. “And this is Jim Culver. I told him about Jed Springer’s cabin, but those soldiers told us they’re using it. I reckon he could bunk in the storeroom till he finds a better place.”

  “You’re welcome, Jim, but it might get a mite chilly in that storeroom. We’ll have to find you plenty of blankets.” Mary was always hospitable to visitors, and, in these troubled times, she was especially glad to see the broad-shouldered young man and one more rifle.

  “You don’t need to go to any trouble, ma’am. I’ve got all I need to stay warm. I’m just grateful to get out of the snow.”

  Nate smiled approvingly. “Jim here is looking for his brother, Clay Culver. Has he been here yet this winter?” When Mary looked puzzled, he realized that she probably didn’t recognize the name. “Big fellow,” he said. “Always wore buckskins. He came in the store with Monk last spring, looking to buy some coffee.”

  Then she remembered. “Oh, him,” she replied. “I know who you’re talking about now.” She laughed. “I remember I thought Monk had brought a grizzly bear into the store.” She looked at Jim with an expression of amazement, as if finding it surprising that the man who had frightened her children just by his appearance could actually have a family. “Is he your brother?” When Jim nodded, she said, “No. He hasn’t been here so far this winter.”

  Before Jim had an opportunity to take care of his and Lettie’s horses, Reverend Lindstrom rode up, having seen them when they passed the church a few minutes earlier. Nate introduced the two visitors to the preacher, and, while the men talked, Mary took Lettie inside to show her where to put her things. Mary immediately filled the coffeepot and placed it on the stove. “It won’t be long before Whitey Branch shows up,” she confided to Lettie. “Any time more than two folks get together, Whitey will be there before you finish saying ‘Howdydo’. That man has a nose for coffee.”

  Lettie glanced out the window to discover another man had joined the group of men. “I guess Whitey must have already smelled the coffee,” she remarked.

  Mary glanced up from the table, where she had already started rolling out dough for biscuits. “No,” she said. “That’s Horace Spratte. He probably saw you from his place across the river. His cabin is up near the pass where you came in.” She returned her attention to the dough. “Now set yourself down here, young lady, and tell me how you happen to find yourself in a little out-of-the-way place like Canyon Creek.” There was a twinkle in her eye when she added, “And tell me about that young man with you.”

  Flushing visibly, Lettie was quick to inform her new friend that there was nothing to tell about Jim Culver aside from the fact that he had come along at the right time and had been gentleman enough to come to her aid. Without being asked, she then pitched in to help Mary with the biscuit dough while relating the events that had brought Jim and her to this valley. Before the biscuits went in the oven, the woman and the girl were fast friends. And before the biscuits came out of the oven, Whitey Branch rode up to join the other men. “Nate,” Mary called out the door. “I’ve got hot biscuits and coffee ready.” She smiled at Lettie. “Now, don’t get in the way of the stampede, honey.”

  The conversation around the Wysongs’ kitchen table soon turned to the concern shared by all those who had staked their future on Canyon Creek. Reverend Lindstrom was perhaps the most concerned of all, for it was the reverend who had persuaded most of the others to settle here, and his dreams of a town and a
large congregation were rapidly fading away as each year passed. He had pressed Captain Fry more and more lately about when they could expect to see a full regiment of militia. Fry’s answers were becoming increasingly curt and irritable. When the soldiers had first arrived in Canyon Creek, Fry had intimated that there might be plans to actually build a fort here. Now, the reverend confessed, he was beginning to wonder if maybe Monk Grissom might have been right in saying that such talk was nonsense.

  Nate Wysong spoke up. “I know one thing for sure. We keep losing folks like we have lately, none of us will be left.” He held his cup out when Lettie passed by with the coffeepot. “I can’t run a store unless there’s folks to buy things. I may have to close it up and just stick to farming.”

  Then Horace Spratte voiced what more than one of them had on their minds. “This business over at Rufus Colefield’s place worries me. Katie and that half-breed boy of John Kendall’s spoke out against Captain Fry and his men. And then they got burnt out, and there’s no trace of ’em. They tried to tell us that it wasn’t Injuns that kilt Monk.” He shook his head slowly, as if perplexed. “I don’t know—don’t it strike anybody else that it’s a mite peculiar that, if the Shoshonis are really on the warpath, they don’t just come on through and kill us all at once instead of one here, one there, and the rest of us don’t even see ’em?” He paused a moment before confessing, “I fear we owe Katie Mashburn an apology. I only hope we see her again.”

  A few minutes of dead silence followed Horace’s words. Gradually, the others expressed some of the same feelings. Jim found it hard to understand their reluctance to express their doubts. Even from the little he had heard about the events that had occurred since the militia’s arrival, he knew something was strange. He had only met two of these so-called soldiers, and they hadn’t looked to be the kind of men that he would feel comfortable having at his back. The discussion continued for almost an hour, until finally someone suggested that Nate should ride over and take a look at the ruins of Rufus Colefield’s place.

  “If we’re going, we’d better go now. We’ve only got about two hours of daylight left,” Nate said. He turned to Jim. “How ’bout it, Jim? Are you interested in taking a look?”

  “Yeah, I’ll ride along.” The discussion had generated a strong curiosity in Jim. “It wouldn’t hurt to take a look.”

  * * *

  Jack Pitt walked his horse slowly around the blackened timbers that had once been Rufus Colefield’s home. If the snow kept falling, it wouldn’t be long before the last little pockets of smoldering flames were extinguished. He grunted his satisfaction when he noticed that the snow had already covered the hoofprints, hiding the fact that the horses had all been shod and not Indian ponies. When he had left Fry back at the cabin, he told him he was going to check on the lookouts. Trask and Caldwell were right where he had told them to be. He had been unable to find any sign of Clell, so he was on his way to Grissom’s old cabin. He had a hunch he would find the lazy slacker there. And he had already decided he was going to take it out of his hide if Clell was laying up by a fire in that cabin.

  Hearing a noise, Pitt turned to look back toward the wagon road that ran by the front of the property. Well, now, lookee here, he thought. Some of the town’s leading citizens. Wonder what in hell they want. Recognizing Horace, Lindstrom, and the half-wit, Whitey, he couldn’t identify the other two—one, a young fellow sitting tall in the saddle. Who the hell is that? Pitt wondered as he guided his horse over to the front of the cabin to wait for them.

  Riding up from the corner of the cornfield and past the garden patch, Reverend Lindstrom led the delegation of Canyon Creek’s citizens up to meet Pitt. Always uneasy in the presence of Captain Fry’s second-in-command, the reverend’s companions hung back a little to let Lindstrom do the talking. Jim couldn’t help but notice.

  “Good afternoon, Lieutenant. Or is it sergeant?” Reverend Lindstrom called out, still somewhat confused as to Pitt’s rank.

  “Just Pitt,” the huge man replied with more than a hint of annoyance in his tone. “What are you doing up here, Preacher?”

  Lindstrom could never understand why Pitt always seemed so belligerent. He was the opposite of his captain. Fry was always willing to engage anyone in conversation, while Jack Pitt was almost noncommunicative. When he did talk, it always came out curt and unfriendly. Nevertheless, the reverend, in good Christian fashion, always strove to ignore the man’s rudeness. In answer to Pitt’s blunt greeting, he replied cheerfully, “We just decided to come take a look at Rufus’s cabin.”

  “There ain’t much to see,” Pitt said. Then, nodding his head toward Jim, he asked, “Who’s this here?”

  Since the question wasn’t aimed directly at him, Jim didn’t reply. He didn’t particularly care for the way the big man was eyeballing him, so he guided Toby around the other horses and pulled up beside Lindstrom. You might as well get a good look, he thought and proceeded to do some eyeballing of his own. He could readily understand why the others tended to hang back in Pitt’s presence. He was a surly son of a bitch and big, with hands the size of small hams. Jim decided the man was a bully and bad trouble in a large size.

  “This is Jim Culver,” Lindstrom said. “He came in with Nate, here, from Fort Laramie.”

  Pitt grunted, then demanded, “What’s he doing in Canyon Creek?”

  Before the reverend could answer, Jim spoke up. “Mister, I reckon I can talk for myself. If you wanna know something, you can ask me.” He didn’t care for the huge man’s attitude. There was no call for it. “And as far as what I’m doing in Canyon Creek, I reckon what I’m doing is minding my own business, which is a good idea for anybody.”

  Pitt was surprised by the stranger’s spunk, but he didn’t let on. His face remained a dull mask as he glared at Jim. Then a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It developed into a smirk before he finally remarked, “Now, that’s good advice for all of you.” He locked his gaze on Jim’s eyes for a few more moments before turning back to Lindstrom. “Like I said, there ain’t much to see.”

  “We was just curious and thought we’d take a look,” Nate Wysong offered, hoping to relieve some of the tension.

  “Go ahead and look,” Pitt said. “I ain’t stopping you.” He gave his horse a kick and rode around them, keeping his eyes trained on Jim. You’re gonna be just enough trouble to get your ass killed, he thought, and I’m gonna enjoy doing it.

  After Simon Fry’s sullen enforcer rounded the corner by the cornfield and disappeared down the trail, the rest of the group found their voices once again. The relationship between the townsmen and one who was supposedly there to protect them was very puzzling to Jim. They were obviously ill at ease around him. Lindstrom assured him and Nate that the captain was a different sort altogether and was in definite control of his men.

  Getting back to the reason they had ridden over to the Colefield place, Lindstrom and the others dismounted and walked around the burnt-out cabin, now almost completely covered with snow. Jim remained in the saddle and walked Toby around the outer perimeter of the homestead to get a picture of the farm.

  Nate could only shake his head in sympathy for Rufus and his daughter. It was difficult for him to believe that Katie and Rufus were gone—Luke, too. Katie and her husband, Robert, had come into the valley with Rufus in the original wagon train Reverend Lindstrom had organized. There was hope, Horace had told him, that they might still be alive. Like Whitey and Lindstrom, Horace had come running when he saw the smoke from the burning cabin. Captain Fry and a couple of his men were already there, but there was no trace of Rufus or Katie or the boy. There was no sign of blood, and there would have been some sign had they been killed—even in spite of the snow, because the heavier snowfall hadn’t begun until that evening.

  The four friends had paused to look down toward the river when they were suddenly summoned by Jim. “There’s a milk cow down in the willows by the river,” he called to them.

  “Well, that’s Ru
fus’s cow, all right,” Whitey said, stating the obvious as the four of them rode over to join Jim.

  “Sure is,” Horace agreed. “Throw a rope on her, Whitey.”

  Jim moved up the bank a few yards while the four of them debated the question of what to do with the cow. They all came to agree that Horace Spratte should take her with him since he didn’t have a cow. Whitey didn’t own a cow, either, but they all decided—Whitey included—that he wouldn’t milk her regularly.

  “Wonder why them Injuns didn’t take the cow?” Nate questioned. “They took the horses. It’s a wonder they didn’t at least shoot the cow. That’s generally what Injuns do when they raid—what they don’t take, they kill.”

  Before anyone could speculate, Jim gave them something else to consider. “There’s a fresh grave over here under this cottonwood. Anybody know who’s in it?”

  He didn’t have to hear an answer. The surprise in all four faces told him that the grave was news to them. They quickly gathered around the mound of freshly overturned sod, and the speculation began in earnest. Whitey immediately suggested they should dig it up and see who was buried there. There was some hesitation, primarily by Reverend Lindstrom, who was reluctant to desecrate the grave.

  “You reckon all three of ’em is in there?” Whitey wondered.

  While they were still discussing it, Jim gave them something else to think about. “I don’t know a helluva lot about Indians, but it seems strange to me that a raiding party would bother to bury their victims.”

  “They wouldn’t,” Nate Wysong stated emphatically.

  “I expect we’d better see who’s buried here,” Reverend Lindstrom said solemnly. “There’s probably a shovel in the barn somewhere.”

  In less than thirty minutes, Whitey’s shovel struck something yielding in the shallow grave. “Go easy now, Whitey,” Reverend Lindstrom implored, and Whitey began to carefully remove the remaining dirt from what could now be determined to be a body. It was obvious that there was only one person buried there, and everyone crowded around the grave as Whitey brushed away the final soil with his hands.