Hero's Stand

by Charles G. West

  “It’s Rufus,” Horace said even before Reverend Lindstrom reached down to remove the cloth covering the body’s face.

  “Sweet Jesus in Heaven,” Lindstrom uttered as he removed the cloth. “Poor Rufus. I don’t see any bullet holes or other wounds besides those places on his head, and they don’t look like much.”

  “Looks to me like he musta got clubbed on the head,” Nate said. “Musta broke something in his skull.”

  Lindstrom stood up and looked around at the faces gathered around the rude grave. “That means the Injuns run off with Katie and the boy.”

  “This ain’t the work of Injuns,” Horace pronounced solemnly. “And there ain’t no use hiding from it any longer. Katie and Luke—and Monk Grissom—were right about that bunch. They ain’t no more soldiers than I am. Looks to me like Fry and his gang done this. There ain’t no Injun sign about it. The question we’ve got to decide right now is what are we going to do about it?” He looked into the faces of his friends and read the reluctance to face the truth. “What else could it be?” he implored. “Why else would that mean-looking brute, Pitt, be snooping around here, acting like we got no business coming here?”

  “Horace is right,” Lindstrom said. “Them soldiers ain’t done nothing but leech offen us, and they sure ain’t protecting nobody.” He paused for emphasis. “And since they showed up in our town, we’ve lost John and Ruth Cochran, Monk, Grissom, and now Rufus Colefield. And no telling what happened to Katie Mashburn and Luke.”

  “Yeah, but some of Captain Fry’s men has been kilt, too,” Whitey said, still not convinced the militia was responsible for the deaths.

  “I hate to say it, Whitey,” Nate said, “but it looks to me like the reverend and Horace might be right. And I’m afraid our little community is in great danger. We’ve got to do something before they kill someone else. I ain’t been away but a little over two months, and I come back to find half my neighbors dead.”

  Jim stood back, leaning against the tall cottonwood that sheltered Rufus Colefield’s grave, and listened to the fretful discussion taking place. These men were farmers, hardly fighters, and there was a conspicuous absence of enthusiasm for physically confronting Simon Fry’s gang of hardened outlaws. It wasn’t his fight, but he could see that they desperately needed his rifle. He’d already decided he didn’t like Jack Pitt, anyway. He might as well give them a hand, whatever they decided to do.

  “They’ve lost men, too,” Whitey insisted again. “It musta been Injuns.”

  Reverend Lindstrom gazed patiently at his simple-minded neighbor. “I don’t think so, Whitey. When you think about it, any time they lost somebody, someone of our folks ended up dead, too. We just have to realize that we’ve been bamboozled by a gang of cutthroats, and we’ve got to chase them out of our valley.” He hitched up his trousers and stood squarely at the foot of Rufus’s grave, taking his customary attitude of responsibility. “We’ll have a meeting at the church tomorrow night right after prayer meeting to decide what we’re gonna do.” They all nodded agreement. “In the meantime, we’d better not let on to them what we’re planning to do.” He looked directly at Whitey. “Don’t say nothing to any of the soldiers.” The issue decided for the time being, they covered the grave, and after Reverend Lindstrom said a prayer, left for home before darkness overtook them.

  * * *

  At approximately the same time the group of Canyon Creek neighbors left the Colefield place, Jack Pitt stood before Monk Grissom’s cabin, looking down at the body of Clell Adams. He looked around him cautiously in the growing twilight lest clell’s killer might still be near. Feeling reasonably sure that there was no one else around, he then knelt down to take a closer look at the body. He felt no compassion for his fallen comrade. His only feelings were anger and disgust—anger that someone had depleted the gang’s ranks by one more, and disgust with Clell for obviously having been careless enough to get himself killed.

  It struck him as especially curious that Clell wasn’t shot. His throat was cut, and there was also a deep wound in his chest—the kind of wound an ax might make. Injun? He wondered. Maybe that half-breed boy slipped back into the valley. He immediately discarded that idea. It took a powerful arm to sink an ax deep enough to leave a wound like that. The boy looked strong, but not that strong. Ain’t Fry gonna love to hear about this, he thought as he got to his feet again. Untying Clell’s horse, he led the blue roan away from the cabin, leaving Clell’s body where he had found it. There was something strange going on in the quiet little valley, something that was going to require Fry and him to make some decisions. Fry’s little plan to lay up in Canyon Creek for the winter hadn’t turned out to be successful. Eight men when they first discovered the isolated valley, they were now down to four. He would hear Fry’s ideas as to what action to take now, but Pitt was of the opinion that it was time to slaughter the rest of these farmers and be done with it.

  * * *

  The paint pony stepped lightly down the snow-covered bluff, picking its path carefully and sure-footedly in the falling snow, guided only by a slight nudge of one knee and then the other. They were so in tune with each other, rider and horse, they almost functioned as a single unit. “Whoa,” Clay said softly, and the paint came immediately to a stop. Clay looked up into the heavy, dark clouds and wondered if this little valley would be sealed off before morning. Bringing his gaze back to the clearing below him and the stark white ruins of the cabin he had once visited with his friend Monk Grissom, he figured there would be no good news for Angry Bear regarding his nephew.

  A gentle pressure from his heels signaled the paint to continue, and Clay guided the pony in a circle around the ruins of Rufus Colefield’s cabin. There were many tracks. Soon they, too, would be covered, but they were still fresh enough to tell Clay that several horses had recently been here. It was hard to say what had happened here—accidental fire or deliberate—but Clay had a feeling it had to do with the militia of which the man at Monk’s cabin had claimed to be a member. He saw the grave and knew that it had been opened recently. More killing, he thought. It’s beginning to look like a pack of wolves has hit the valley.

  He paused to recall the people who had lived in the cabin. Nice folks, he remembered. Monk thought a lot of them. Something was going to have to be done about this wolf pack for reasons beyond avenging Monk’s death. They were in the process of killing the community. Never one to rush headlong into any situation before he knew what the stakes were, he decided to keep out of sight until he could see what he might be up against.

  It was late now, and he had to find feed for his horse. So he guided the paint past the grave and along the riverbank, looking for a suitable spot to camp. About a quarter of a mile from the remains of the cabin, he found what he was looking for, a dry pocket where the spring floods had washed away part of the bank. Branches from the line of cottonwoods would provide sweet bark to feed his horse. Tomorrow he would scout Jed Springer’s cabin and try to find out how many outlaws he might have to deal with.

  Chapter 13

  “I’m tired of pussyfooting around with these damn farmers,” Simon Fry uttered between clenched teeth, his anger fired by the news of Clell’s death the night before. “I was willing to go easy on these people if they behaved. But, by God, if they want to play rough, then we’ll show ’em what rough really is.”

  “There ain’t but four of us left,” Trask reminded him.

  “Four’s enough to handle this bunch of farmers,” Fry fired back. “And the best way to keep any more of us from getting bushwhacked like Clell and Wiley is to make sure there ain’t nobody left to do the bushwhacking.”

  There was a long moment of silence following Fry’s angry outburst. Then Pitt calmly asked, “Women and children, too?” Pitt had no qualms about killing anyone, but, if they were to take Fry at his word, it meant the total slaughter of an entire community.

  “Hell,” Fry replied, somewhat mollified, “we could make it look like another Injun massacre.” He read
the reluctance in Trask’s and Caldwell’s faces, however. He glanced at Pitt. “What do you think, Pitt?”

  Pitt shrugged indifferently. “I wouldn’t give a shit if we cleaned out the whole valley, but there ain’t enough of us now to hit everybody at once. And if we didn’t, some of ’em’s sure as hell gonna get away, and then we’d have a damn patrol from Fort Laramie looking for us. We’d be better off just taking what we need and cutting outta here before this weather gets any worse and closes the pass.”

  Fry considered Pitt’s advice for a moment before nodding approval, his mind already working again. “Maybe you’re right. We could tell ’em we’re declaring martial law because of Clell’s murder and confiscate their weapons.” The more he thought about it, the more he liked the plan. “Who’s gonna stop us from taking what we want? The preacher? The storekeeper? Old man Bowen?” He looked around at them and grinned. “Or maybe ol’ big-belly Horace Spratte . . .”

  “What about that new feller?” Caldwell asked. “He looks like he might be a little trouble.”

  “He might be at that,” Pitt answered. “I expect he’s gonna have to have an accident. I ain’t worried about him, though. I know where I can find him.” He looked at Fry and raised an eyebrow. “There’s another cat in the woods around here, and this’un might be a mountain lion. He drove an ax so deep in Clell’s chest you could stick your hand in it up to your wrist.”

  It was a mystery none of the four could explain. Pitt felt reasonably sure that Clell hadn’t been killed by any of the settlers in Canyon Creek. Jim Culver was the likeliest suspect, but both Trask and Caldwell could testify that they had watched him come through the pass with Nate Wysong. He would hardly have had the opportunity to settle with Clell. “All right, then,” Fry concluded. “We’ve got some other son of a bitch sneaking around in the valley. We’ll just make sure we don’t go anywhere by ourselves from now on. He’ll have to show his face sometime. In the meantime, we’ll have a little talk with the good people of Canyon Creek and let ’em know how things are gonna be around here.” His mind still working on it, he paused for a few seconds. “If they put up any fight, we’re gonna have to clean ’em all out. We can’t leave any witnesses. The army’s got to think it was an Injun massacre.” He looked around him for signs of hesitation. There was no dissent. “What day is it?” he asked. Nobody knew. He thought a moment longer. “If I’m not mistaken, today’s Wednesday.” He grinned. “Boys, I think it’s time we went to prayer meeting.”

  * * *

  From a low hillock on the far side of the river, Clay Culver watched the activity around Jed Springer’s old cabin. He had kept an eye on this headquarters of the Montana Militia for a good part of the afternoon. And although they had accumulated quite a few horses, some of which were Indian ponies from the looks of them, he could only account for four men. A little before the dingy gray sky began to fade into twilight, all four men came out of the cabin, mounted up, and rode off toward the settlement. Clay left his vantage point, crossed over the river, and took a look around the cabin before he rode after them.

  * * *

  Jim Culver looked up when he heard Lettie approaching, her footsteps crunching in the freezing snow. She wore a heavy coat draped over her slender shoulders. “You’re gonna freeze to death sitting out here,” she said and motioned for him to make room for her on the step of Nate’s store. “Scoot over,” she ordered, “before I spill this on you.” She settled herself beside him, taking care not to spill the hot black coffee she carried. “Here, I brought you some coffee.”

  He was hoping she would say that. “Ahh, thank you, ma’am. I could sure use it. You sure this is for me?”

  “Yes. I’ve already had mine.” She sat quietly beside him for a few minutes, watching evening approach the silent valley. “Mary said Nate and the others were worried about the soldiers, and they’re gonna talk about it tonight after prayer meeting.”

  Jim took a long sip of coffee, which was already losing its heat to the cool night air. “Yeah, that’s what they said.” He didn’t continue for a long moment, wondering how much he should tell Lettie. He didn’t want to alarm her, but he didn’t want her to be unaware of the seriousness of the situation, either. He decided she deserved to know what they had ridden into. “Lettie, I’m afraid this peaceful, friendly little town Nate sold us on when we were at Fort Laramie is fixing to have a whole passel of trouble. Don’t blame Nate, though. He didn’t know any more about this gang of riffraff than we did.”

  Her expression reflected her concern as she asked, “What do you think’s going to happen?”

  “I can’t say for sure. I guess it’ll depend on what Nate and the others tell those militia fellows. It could get ugly. I haven’t seen the one who’s supposed to be the leader of the bunch, but the one called Pitt looks like he’d just as soon shoot you as look at you. They’re gonna decide what they’re gonna do after church tonight.”

  “Maybe I’d better start wearing my gun again,” Lettie said.

  Jim couldn’t resist a chuckle. “I noticed you haven’t been wearing it lately.”

  “I didn’t think it looked proper, a lady wearing a pistol around the house, especially in front of Mary’s children.” Changing the subject abruptly, she asked, “Are you going to prayer meeting tonight?”

  “Reckon not. Me and churches don’t mix too good.”

  She registered mild surprise, having grown up in a God-fearing family. “Don’t you believe in God?” she asked. “Don’t you ever pray?”

  “I didn’t say that. But if I’m gonna pray, I’d rather do it outside where I’m sure the Lord is gonna hear me. To my way of thinking, prayers get bottled up inside a little log building like that, especially when you’ve got a bunch of people praying at the same time. It’s a wonder the Lord don’t get confused with the jumbled-up noise that leaks out.” He shifted around to change his position on the hard oak step. “I guess I’ll just wait till the praying is done. Then I’ll slip in to hear what’s said at the meeting.”

  Looking a bit exasperated, she said, “I’m going to pray for you.” She got up from the step then and announced that she had to get ready for church. She took his coffee cup and, leaving him sitting where she had found him, returned to the house. He watched her as she walked away. For some reason, it made him smile just to watch her—heavy coat around her shoulders, boots almost up to her knees and baggy pants tucked inside them, pants so large they looked like they might have belonged to her late brother. Little ol’ spindly thing. It’s a wonder she can tote all those clothes.

  Noticing the cold a little more now, Jim got up and stretched, pulling some of the stiffness out of his joints from sitting too long. He decided to saddle his horse in order to be ready to ride over to the church later. That done, he went into the house and sat down at the kitchen table to be out of the way of the family getting ready for church. Nate’s two sons, ages nine and eleven, came out first, all ready to go. They sat down at the table with Jim. Always nervous around young children, Jim tried to affect a friendly smile while the two stared at him.

  He was rescued a few minutes later when Nate came out dressed in his church clothes. “Come on, boys. Let’s go hitch up the wagon.” Both boys dutifully got up from the table to follow their father out the door. Jim started to get up to help, but Nate insisted that the boys knew how to do it. “You might as well stay in here where it’s warm.”

  Seeing his coffee cup on the end of the long plank table, he glanced at the stove to discover the pot still sitting on the edge. He had just started to get out of his chair when the blanket that partitioned off a corner of the room was pulled aside, and Lettie walked out. Jim froze halfway up from the table. Startled at first, he thought she was a stranger. He had never seen Lettie in a dress before, with her hair undone and lightly resting on her slender shoulders. Somehow the sassy facade that had always tended to characterize her disposition was transformed into the face of an angel, innocent and sweet. And Jim was obviously caught o
ff guard by the transformation. Lettie was aware of it and was visibly pleased. From the bedroom, Mary Wysong entered the room, witnessed the reaction, and smiled. “Sure you don’t want to come with us?” she asked.

  “What?” Her question didn’t register at once. “Ah, no.” He stumbled over his words. “No, I reckon not. I’ll be at the meeting after.” He sank back down in the chair, his eyes still on Lettie.

  Lettie favored him with a warm smile as she draped her heavy coat over her shoulders and followed Mary out the door. She was very much aware of the effect her appearance had upon Jim. And with a new feeling of confidence, she joined the Wysong family waiting in the wagon.

  * * *

  In Reverend Linstrom’s mind, it was always proper to put God and God’s business before other worldly considerations, so he proceeded to conduct the weekly prayer meeting in the usual fashion. However, in the sense of urgency, and the concerned faces looking up at him, he started the meeting early and cut it considerably short—much to the delight of the children. After releasing them to play outside in the snow, Lindstrom called the town meeting to order.

  Lettie sat in the back of the log building with the wives and listened to the intense discussion taking place among the men, who numbered five in total. They spoke about the neighbors who had gone under since the militia had ridden uninvited into their little community, all killed by the Shoshonis, according to Captain Fry. “And yet not one of us here in this room ever saw hide nor hair of the first Injun,” Horace Spratte reminded them. The question to be decided was what action they should take. Or, more accurately put, what action could they take? Spratte suggested that it might be time to notify Captain Fry that Canyon Creek no longer desired militia protection. “Maybe they’ll just ride on out of here and leave us in peace,” Horace said.