There was also the matter of the outlaws’ packs and some clothes for Carrie, since hers, other than what she was presently wearing, had been destroyed along with everything else in her wagon. The dress she had on was torn in several places, the result of the rough handling she had suffered at the hands of the two brothers. Travis had been closer to Carrie’s size than his brother, so she found some of his things that would work for her. The biggest complaint was the fact that they needed a good washing. She was resolved to endure the smell, however, the alternative being to freeze to death. Since the brothers had pulled the saddles off their horses, they were both left behind. Travis had not had the time to saddle his horse before he fled. Consequently, Carrie would no longer ride without a saddle, and she would be riding the sorrel instead of a mule.
By the time Harley arrived, Cole and Carrie were seated by the fire drinking coffee from the pot the Womack brothers had used.
“Save me a cup of that,” Harley called out as he led the horses into the clearing by the stream. “We gonna be here a while?” he asked before stepping down from the saddle.
“Yeah, reckon we’d better,” Cole answered. “I expect the horses need some rest. I know Joe does. I pushed him pretty hard to catch up with the lady, here.”
Harley stepped down from the saddle and nodded politely to Carrie. “I’m mighty glad to see you’re all right, miss.” Then he looked at Cole for the story.
When Cole brought him up to date on the shoot-out, and the identity of the woman joining them, Harley had only one question. “The feller that took off, you reckon he’ll be back? Looks like we’ve got everythin’ he owns and you killed his brother, to boot.”
“There’s a chance, I reckon,” Cole replied, “but I don’t figure he’ll come back for more. I put a bullet in him. I don’t know how bad he’s hurt, but I think he would have already been back, if he was of a mind to.”
“Might not be too good an idea to stop here for the night, anyway,” Harley advised, still concerned. “Just in case that other one ain’t hurt as bad as you think. Might be he’ll take a notion to sneak back here.” He waited for Cole’s reply, but when he did no more than shrug, Harley continued. “Whaddaya say we take advantage of the hour or so of daylight we got left and push a little farther on?”
Cole shrugged again, not really worried about a visit from the wounded outlaw. He had not taken even one shot after he had been hit in the shoulder. Cole wasn’t even sure if the man had waited to see his brother killed before climbing on his horse and running. But if it would make Harley more comfortable, Cole didn’t object to the suggestion.
“You’re right,” he said. “We haven’t started cookin’ any food yet, so we won’t even unload the horses. We oughta find some water between here and the North Platte, so we’ll camp when we come to a good spot.” The North Platte River was probably no more than twenty miles from where they stood. But there wasn’t enough daylight left to count on making that distance, and the horses were too tired to be pushed another twenty miles that day.
After they took time to drink their coffee, they started out again, holding the horses to an easy walk. After what Cole estimated to be a distance of about eight or nine miles, they came to a small creek. He figured that was as far as he wanted to push his horse. It was almost dark, anyway, so they made their camp beside the creek.
Feeling a sudden relief, now that she was removed from the campsite where he had found her, Carrie was able to dispense with any lingering fears she might have had. For it was obvious to her that the hands she found herself in were sent by the angels and she was safe. Why the Good Lord had sent them to save her, but not her husband, was not for her to ponder. It was just one more sorrowful event in her lifetime to add to those that had preceded it. She would just give thanks for her salvation and vow to be strong in facing what the fates had in store for her. With her confidence restored, she insisted that she could take over the cooking, since they provided the food. She found that it helped take her mind off the loss of her husband when she busied herself with the mundane chore.
Harley agreed with Cole when it came to the property of the Womack brothers. Carrie should be given anything that she might sell or trade. That included the three horses and the contents of the packs. Carrie insisted that Cole certainly deserved something for rescuing her, and in the end, he settled for the weapons and ammunition. Harley was struck with admiration for the fancy Spanish-style saddle that had belonged to Malcolm Womack and immediately offered to buy it from Carrie. Cole wondered what Harley was going to use for money, but Carrie, grateful to them both, insisted that Harley should take it. She was perfectly comfortable with Travis’s saddle. The fancy trimmings on the other saddle held no special interest for her, but Harley was overjoyed. He had never seen it in his means to afford a saddle so elegant with its high cantle and handsome designs embossed on the skirts and back jockey.
* * *
When they broke camp the next morning, Cole was certain that his old partner appeared to be sitting especially straight and tall in his new saddle as he led them out toward the crossing at the Platte. He looked back at Carrie, riding the sorrel, dressed almost entirely in garments owned by Travis Womack, looking more like a child in hand-me-downs than a recently widowed woman. We ought to make quite an impression when we ride into Medicine Bear’s camp, he couldn’t help thinking.
* * *
For Travis Womack, the cold cloudy morning that greeted him promised nothing but pain and hunger. His shoulder had stopped bleeding, but it was still throbbing with pain. He had nothing to eat or drink, save water from the Platte River, where he had been forced to stop for the night. Confident at least that the tall, fearsome-looking man wearing buckskins was not on his trail, he was thinking about finding something to fill his stomach. Unfortunately, his Winchester ’66 rifle was still on his saddle, back on the South Fork of the Powder River. Somehow, he had managed to hold on to his pistol when he was shot, however, so he was searching the banks of the river, hoping to get a shot at a muskrat. He was not looking forward to the long ride ahead of him to Laramie to join his brother. It was sorry news he had to deliver. Troy would be furious to hear of Malcolm’s death at the hand of the buckskin-clad killer. To make matters worse, Travis had been forced to return with nothing to show for their trip to Bozeman. His luck improved, however, with the arrival of two trappers at his camp.
* * *
“Well, I’ll be . . .” Zeb Worley exclaimed softly to his partner as they sat on their horses on a rise near the bluffs of the river. “Whaddaya make of that?”
“Damned if I know,” Smiley Bates replied. “Looks like he’s lookin’ for somethin’ in the river.”
They looked back again at the small fire near the trees beside the river. They could see a horse down near the water’s edge, but there was no evidence of a saddle or bedroll, and no packhorse, either.
Smiley remarked, “Ain’t much of a camp.”
“He sure as hell travels light, don’t he?” Zeb commented.
“Maybe he’s run into some trouble somewhere, and that’s the reason he ain’t got nothin’,” Smiley said.
They watched the movements of the lone man for a while longer as Travis made his way along the bank. Finally it struck them that he was walking a little awkwardly, almost stumbling a couple of times.
“Damned if I don’t believe he’s been shot,” Smiley observed.
“Could be,” Zeb replied. “Maybe he got caught in a bind somewhere. Sure looks like he could use a little help.”
“I reckon we oughta ride on down there and see what’s what,” Smiley said.
“I reckon,” Zeb replied, “but it wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye on him, just in case.” He urged his horse forward with a light pressure of his heels and the bay gelding descended the bluff at a slow walk, a packhorse trailing behind him.
Smiley followed along behind Zeb, leading a packhorse as well.
Intent upon trying to find something to eat, Travis w
as not aware he had visitors until his horse nickered a greeting. Startled, he turned quickly to defend himself, his pistol in hand, thinking the buckskin-clad killer had found him. But the two trappers approaching were brandishing no weapons and appeared to be peaceful enough. Travis realized that they were a sign of good luck and welcome after just having sampled a dose of the other kind. He holstered his weapon and walked up the bank to meet them.
When Travis’s pistol was back in the holster, Zeb and Smiley felt no need to remain wary. They had pulled up abruptly when Travis turned to first discover them and immediately brought his pistol to bear on them. With the weapon holstered, they proceeded to approach. Close enough to confirm what they had suspected, they could plainly see that the man was favoring a wounded shoulder.
“Looks like you’ve had a little spell of trouble, young feller,” Smiley said.
“You could say that rightly enough,” Travis replied. “More ’n I figure I needed.”
“Maybe it was a good thing we come along,” Zeb said. “It sure ’pears you could use a little help.”
“Mister, that’s the God’s honest truth,” Travis said, doing his best to appear respectful, a trait that did not come naturally to any of the Womack men.
“We might oughta start by takin’ a look at that shoulder,” Zeb said. “Smiley, here, is pretty good at doctorin’ bullet holes and knife wounds. Looks like you was tryin’ to find somethin’ to eat. While Smiley tends to that shoulder, I’ll see about fixin’ you somethin’. We’ve got some fresh deer meat, just kilt last evenin’.”
“Well, I surely do appreciate it,” Travis said. “When you first rode up, I thought you were the same fellers that ambushed me.” He watched while the two trappers dismounted. “Killed my brother,” he went on while they took care of their horses. “Took everythin’ I own, my saddle, and my rifle. I was mighty lucky to get away with my horse.”
“I swear. That sure is sorry business. Set down on that there log and I’ll see what that wound looks like.”
While Smiley worked on Travis’s bullet wound, Zeb busied himself over the fire, roasting some venison and boiling some coffee. Travis continued to create a story for them of how he and his brother were bushwhacked by outlaws, so convincingly that they began to be concerned for their own safety.
“Where ’bouts was this spot where they jumped you and your brother?” Zeb asked. “Maybe we oughta be lookin’ out for ourselves. We was more worried about Injuns than a gang of outlaws.”
“I don’t think you’ve got anythin’ to worry about from those fellers,” Travis assured him. “That was back this side of the South Fork of the Powder, and they were travelin’ toward the east.”
“How you know that?” Zeb asked. “I thought you said they was hid and jumped you when you rode down to water your horses.”
His question caused Travis to pause for a moment while he tried to think of an answer. “That’s right, I did say that, didn’t I? Well, I reckon I just figured they were headed that way. It don’t matter none, anyway. They ain’t nowhere around here and I ain’t worried about ’em no more because I’ve got supplies and horses to take care of what I’m needin’.”
Zeb and Smiley exchanged puzzled glances. “Where are your horses?” Zeb asked. “We didn’t see but that one by the creek.”
Travis chuckled, amused by their blank faces. “You rode in on ’em,” he said and continued to grin at them.
A little slow to grasp the meaning of the young man’s casual remark, Smiley stared in astonishment at the .44 Colt suddenly aimed at his stomach. A fraction of a second later, he recoiled with the impact of the slug as it tore into his gut. Equally slow to react, Zeb was frozen for a moment, caught with a coffeepot in his hand. He dropped the pot, turned, and ran for his horse, only to be stopped by a bullet in his back before he was halfway there. He staggered on for a few more feet before falling facedown on the ground.
Travis got up from the log he had been seated on while Smiley tended his wound. He paused to gaze at the wounded man writhing in pain on the ground. “You son of a bitch,” Smiley rasped painfully.
“You done a right handy job on my shoulder,” Travis said, “so I reckon the least I can do is put you outta your misery.” Another shot from his .44 in Smiley’s forehead silenced him forever. “That oughta do the job,” Travis commented and walked unhurriedly toward Zeb to check on him. He found the unfortunate trapper mortally wounded, but still clawing at the light covering of snow in an attempt to pull himself over the ground. “I reckon I oughta tell you how tickled I am that you and your partner came along, ’cause I was in a fix,” he said as he placed another round in the back of Zeb’s head.
He looked around him then while he casually replaced the cartridges he had used, pleased with the good fortune that had come his way. There was still the regrettable news he was bound to report to his brother, Troy. But instead of showing up in Laramie with nothing to show for the trip to Bozeman, it would be tempered a bit with four extra horses and whatever possessions the trappers had. With that thought in mind, he went to work searching the bodies and the packs of his victims. He soon found that he had gained very little of value other than some decent hides he could sell, a couple of Civil War surplus Sharps rifles, and two .44 caliber pistols. The horses looked to be in pretty good shape, though. It was enough to permit him to return to Laramie with a modicum of pride—even if it was without his brother. “Hell,” he snorted, “Malcolm oughta not been caught with his head down behind that bank, anyway.” His brother’s death was certainly a disappointment, but not to the extent that would cause him to feel guilt for not packing him up. To the contrary, the only emotion he felt was one of relief that he had managed to escape getting killed, himself. Add to that the good fortune that sent him Zeb and Smiley, he felt in good spirits as he set out for Laramie, leading the horses he had just acquired.
* * *
The journey to the Crow village near the confluence of the Laramie and the North Laramie Rivers would take the pack train three and a half days. During that time, Carrie developed a deep trust in the two men who had happened into her life at the precise moment she needed them. It was much too soon for her to get over the loss of her husband, but the easygoing nature of her two traveling companions, and their polite consideration toward her, made her suffering bearable. Her two rescuers appeared to be a perfect team. The older man, called Harley, was an elf-like little man, no taller than Carrie herself, although she wondered if he might not be a head taller if his legs were straight. They were so bowed that he looked as if he had come from his mother’s womb ready to ride a horse. Judging by the heavy solid white beard that covered most of his ruddy face, however, she had to speculate that that event must have been many years ago.
In contrast, the younger half of the partnership was as straight and tall as a lodgepole pine. A serious man of few words, Cole Bonner made her think of a mountain lion. Dressed in animal skins, as was Harley, he was clean-shaven. His hair was worn in two braids after the style of the Crow Indians he lived with. Whereas Harley could rattle on about any subject, Cole used his words as if they were too expensive to waste. A perfect set, Carrie thought. Robert could rest in peace knowing that she was with them.
* * *
“Do you think we’ll reach that Indian village tomorrow?” Carrie asked as she brought Harley a cup of coffee.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Harley answered. “We’ll be home tomorrow, all right.” He chuckled and added, “Leastways, me and Cole will be home tomorrow. Crow Creek Crossin’s a good eighty miles or more from there,” he said, referring to Cheyenne by its original name. “You gettin’ kinda anxious to get on down to your in-laws?”
She hesitated before answering. “To be honest, I’m not really looking forward to it. I’ve never met my late husband’s folks, so I’ll be a complete stranger in their home. I don’t know if they’ll be glad to see me or not, especially since I’ll be bringing such bad news.” She sat down beside the fire near him. “I mi
ght be thinking about going someplace else if I had someplace else to go to.”
“Why, I’m sure they’ll be tickled to meet you,” Harley said, although he fully understood her apprehension. “And I know they’ll wanna take care of you since their son picked you for a wife. How long was you and Robert married?”
“Not quite a year and a half,” she answered with a sad smile, thinking what a short time it had been. She and her husband were still only beginning to get to know each other.
“So you two hadn’t got around to havin’ young’uns yet, I reckon.”
“There was one. A boy, but he was stillborn,” she said, looking down at her lap as if ashamed. “We would have named him Douglas, after his grandfather.”
“I declare,” Harley said, “that’s sure enough bad luck.” For one of the few times in his life, he found himself short of words. “Well, you’re young yet,” he finally consoled. “You’ve got time to start out with somebody else. Why, the way I hear talk of Crow Creek Crossin’, I mean Cheyenne, and the way it keeps growin’, I expect there’s a gracious plenty young men there that’d stomp all over each other to get to a pretty little gal like you.”
She responded with another sad smile, causing him to declare, “I’d best go see if Cole needs any help with the horses. We gotta be ready to ride come sunup.” The conversation was getting a little too uncomfortable for him, so he swigged his coffee down and got to his feet. He realized that she was sincere when she said she wasn’t looking forward to meeting her husband’s folks. But according to what she had told Cole and him, she had no other place to go.
Before retreating to join Cole with the horses, he offered one other suggestion. “You might wanna stay a little while in Medicine Bear’s village, till you feel like ridin’ on down to Cheyenne. I expect you’d be welcome for as long as you wanted to stay.”
Once again, the sad smile appeared. “Maybe,” she said. “I guess we’ll see.” In truth, she could not see any possibility that she would be comfortable in an Indian village for any length of time. The thought brought a picture to mind of savages dancing around a roaring fire, brandishing tomahawks and bows, and chanting songs with no distinguishable words. Since both of her rescuers looked like they’d be right at home in a tipi, she declined to express her opinion.
Massacre at Crow Creek Crossing Page 3