by John Legg
“Cold camps are no fun, Sheriff, that’s for sure. Well, I have work to do, but I’ll have Captain Kelly take you around.”
Culpepper had a mostly pleasant evening at the fort. After he had bought his supplies at the sutler’s store and then chosen a mule, it was close to suppertime. He ate voraciously, enjoying the hot food at Watkins’s quarters, and enjoying the company of Watkins’s wife and three children. The youngsters, ages fourteen, eleven, and eight, were amazed—and a little frightened, at first—at Bear’s size, and all three had a fine time rolling around on the floor with the giant but gentle mastiff.
In the morning, Culpepper loaded his mule in the stable alongside a small troop of soldiers preparing for the ride into Durango with Fauss’s body. Then he saddled his horse and rode on out of the fort. The new mule trotted behind at the end of a rope Culpepper held, and Bear loped alongside Culpepper and his buckskin.
A couple of hours later, he arrived at the site of his dead mule. He stopped to see if he could salvage anything. The packs had been pretty well tom asunder, and the small store of supplies that was left was strewn all over. There was almost nothing usable, so Culpepper spent little time looking.
He pushed on at a good pace, and that night he camped on the Mancos River. Early the next day, he crossed the river and headed into Mancos Canyon, following the same trail he had when he and the posse were on the trail of Ellsworth’s outlaws. He reached the ruins where the gun battle had taken place shortly before dark. He ignored the ruins where he and his men had holed up, instead going to the one where the outlaws had taken cover.
He unloaded the mule, then found wood and started a fire. He put food and coffee on the fire, and while it cooked he unloaded his horse. Bear raced off at one point and came back a few minutes later with a large jackrabbit clutched in his bloody jaws. Man and mastiff ate well that night.
In the morning, Culpepper loaded up and left, heading roughly northwest, the way he thought the outlaws had gone. After a few minutes, Bear seemed to get excited, and Culpepper began to think that the dog had found the scent. It might be possible, he reasoned, since there’d been no rain in the area that he knew of between the time of the gun battle and now. So he let the dog go and followed along.
He came to a creek, running pretty well, late in the day and decided to camp there. He crossed the creek in the morning, and then sat and waited patiently as Bear raced back and forth trying to pick up the trail again. Culpepper figured that it was lost, when suddenly the mastiff barked and charged off.
The land began to change some. While it was no more barren than it had been, much of the ground was covered by reddish dirt, and there were tall, spindly spires of sandstone in odd formations. The land was cut through with dozens of canyons and long, flat mesas. The air was hot and dry, with the wind bringing along a sometimes stinging blast of sand.
Bear had trouble following the trail anymore, and so it took Culpepper lots of time to explore each canyon, or to go around mesas, hills, or rock formations. Sometimes, the mastiff would pick up the trail and the going would be a little faster for a while, but eventually they would come to another canyon.
Ten days after leaving Fort Lewis, Culpepper came to a small creek that in places was barely running, if at all. Bear seemed to not be able to find the trail, but on a hunch, Culpepper began following the winding creek through rough, low hills. It was a hot journey, with the breeze bringing no relief, only new gusts of warm, seemingly dead air.
For some reason, Culpepper was certain he was on the right trail. He didn’t know why, and Bear seemed not to have any trail to follow. But Culpepper was absolutely sure he was right. Not only that, he was just as certain that he was close to the outlaws.
Still, he did not want to push on too late, moving through these rugged little hills in the dark. If his hunch was right, he might just stumble into an outlaw camp, and that would certainly do no good. So he stopped and made camp.
He ate well in the morning, wanting to have a fully belly if his instincts proved true and he found the outlaws. He rode on slowly, still following the creek. A couple of hours later, he heard voices, sometimes, shouting. He stopped and tied his horse and mule to a tree. Pulling his Winchester out of the scabbard, he winked at Bear. “Time to go to work, boy,” he said quietly.
He edged up onto a low, scrubby hill until he was up on the crest and looked over it. Down in a little valley, between the hill Culpepper was on and one just like it fifty yards across the creek, was a cabin.
Chapter Sixteen
As he lay there looking at the leaning, dilapidated cabin across the creek, Culpepper could not help but wonder where the wood for the place had come from. There was almost none for miles around here, and what was here came from short, stubby little trees that would never provide the planking to build a cabin. It was an intriguing question, but it didn’t matter, really, so Culpepper finally put it out of his mind.
The shack was cocked to the north and looked as if it would fall over at any time. The planking, such as it was, hung loose in a few spots, and in others, poor wood was hammered on to cover up holes. There were no windows in the front, and only one door there. A small tin tube stuck out of the roof. A thin streamer of smoke curled out of the tube. Culpepper suspected they were pulling boards off the walls for firewood.
After a little, Culpepper went back down the hill and got a canteen plus some jerky and hard biscuits. He carefully carted the supplies up the hill and stretched out again. Bear sprawled beside him, lying on his side. Man and dog gnawed on jerky at times. Occasionally Culpepper would pour some water into his hat and let Bear drink.
A couple of hours into the morning, Culpepper had decided that he’d seen all the men in the cabin. There were only three that he had counted. He had wanted papers on at least two of them, so he knew these men were part of Mack Ellsworth’s gang. Trouble was, Ellsworth was nowhere to be seen here. What he figured he needed to do was capture at least one of the men staying at the cabin. With luck, that man would tell him where Ellsworth and the others had gotten off to. That, of course, would not be easy.
He began to think that there would be no way out of killing at least one of the outlaws, not without risking his own neck too much. He didn’t really think he could just walk on down there and tell all three outlaws they were under arrest. But if he shot one down, the other two might surrender. That was a mighty iffy proposition, though.
Culpepper pondered his limited options for several more hours, but nothing changed, and he came up with no new alternatives. Still, he did not like what he was faced with. He could ride on, skirting the cabin, but that was not really an option, as far as he was concerned. The people of San Juan County had elected him to do a job, and he would do it, no matter how difficult or onerous it might be at times.
The outlaws had been inside most of the time, only wandering outside now and then to relieve themselves or to get a breath of fresh air. Judging by the outside of the cabin, and the men inhabiting it, Culpepper figured the inside was foul of sight and smell.
Culpepper sighed, ready but unwilling to do the job he faced. Jonas Culpepper was not a bloodthirsty man, and tried as often as possible to avoid killing. When it became necessary, he could be as ruthless as anyone.
Then another idea hit him: he could wait until night and then go down to the cabin. Of course, that would put him inside a dark cabin with three outlaws, any one of whom would be not only happy, but eager, to blow his head off. It was an intriguing thought, but probably not workable. He sighed again, back to the beginning.
For another hour or so he tried to conjure up some reason to hate these men. If he could, it would make it easier to drop one or two of them in cold blood. But he couldn’t. The only thing these men had done, as far as he knew, was to rob a train. They more than likely had robbed many another person or thing, and Culpepper would’ve bet money that they had killed before, but he had no proof of that. They weren’t even the ones who had killed John Maguire, not as fa
r as Culpepper knew. And so he couldn’t work up any hate for these men.
Then he found a reason. Late in the afternoon, the door opened and a naked woman was shoved outside. She fell and lay sobbing in a heap. An outlaw followed her out, holding a hand on his face.
“Bitch!” the man snarled, as he stepped up and kicked the woman several times.
The mastiff growled low and dangerously, but Culpepper said quietly, “Hush, Bear.” Culpepper brought the rifle to his shoulder and fired as soon as his sights fell on the man still kicking the woman.
The man had started to bend, and the bullet hit him in the top of the head, instead of in the chest, as Culpepper had intended. The results were the same, though. The man went down in a heap.
The woman looked up, frightened, searching for what had happened. She gasped when she saw the outlaw dying in a pool of blood.
The two other outlaws tumbled out the door of the cabin, guns in hand. They stopped just outside the shack when they saw their friend’s body.
“What happened, girl?” one of them demanded. His voice came up to Culpepper clear as a bell.
“I don’t know,” the woman cried. “He was...he was...kicking me. Then...there was a shot and...and…”
“Shit,” the same outlaw said. Culpepper recognized him from a handbill as Cory Powell. “Milt, go on out there and find out who shot Danny.”
“And what’re you gonna be…?”
Culpepper put a bullet into Powell’s chest. The other man bolted, racing back into the house.
“Durn,” Culpepper breathed. “Miss!” he yelled. “Miss, can you hear me?”
The young woman looked around dumbly, then sort of nodded. Or so Culpepper thought.
“Come on up to the hill, Miss. Go slow.”
“No,” she said, her voice almost a wail.
“Miss,” Culpepper called again. “Miss, I’m San Juan County Sheriff Jonas Culpepper. I can help you, but you’ve got to help some, too.”
“No.” Shame was evident in her voice.
“Miss, I expect you’ve been abused somethin’ awful. But that don’t matter to me. Nor will it matter to any decent folks. Don’t you go frettin’ about what’s happened here. Now, ease your way up here where I can look out for you.”
Seeming stunned, the woman began crawling across the rough grass and small stones, heading toward the little hill.
The cabin door cracked open, and a voice growled out, “Don’t you go anywhere, you bitch.”
The woman stopped, numbed from the abuse she had taken, but at the same time, Culpepper let fly seven shots from the Winchester. The bullets thudded into and through the thin door, and Milt Adler—the only man left inside, as far as Culpepper knew—screamed in pain.
Culpepper, who had not looked away from the cabin while talking with the women, still kept his eyes fixed on the shack. As he began sliding shells into the Winchester’s tubular magazine, he said, “Come on ahead, Miss. Don’t you worry about that pukin’ scoundrel. He ain’t going to bother you again.”
The woman began her slow movement up the hill again, as Culpepper kept a close watch on the cabin. Every now and again, he would flick his eyes to the woman to check her progress.
Finally she reached the crest of the hill. She gasped in fright when she saw the huge mastiff.
Without looking at her, Culpepper said, “Don’t you worry about Bear, Miss. He’ll look out for you, not hurt you. There’s a big coat tied on the back of my horse down there. Why don’t you get it and use it to cover yourself? You’ll be safe now.” The woman stared at the bulky sheriff a moment. Fairly certain that he would not look at her, she rose.
As the woman started down the hill, Culpepper said, “Bear, go with her.”
The woman stopped, frightened anew. Then Bear walked up to her and gently licked at her hand. She almost managed a smile. With her hand on Bear’s broad head, she walked down the hill.
“There’s some jerky and biscuits in the packs, Miss, if you’re hungry. There’s a canteen, too.” He paused, not sure she had heard him or was interested. “You can stay down there if you feel more comfortable. Bear’ll stay with you. Or you can come back up here.” He was surprised when she came up and lay down on the crest of the hill a few feet to his left. Bear was between the two.
“What’s your name, Miss?” Culpepper asked, after some moments of silence.
There was a dead time, before a soft, gentle voice said, “Daisy Greenwalt.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Greenwalt. In case you didn’t hear me before, I’m Jonas Culpepper, sheriff of San Juan County. Where’re you from?”
“Durango, I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
“Well...” Daisy hesitated. Then she shrugged and said, “I worked in one of the...cathouses there.” She sounded fatalistic.
“That’s where those boys grabbed you?”
“Yes,” Daisy said, with a resigned sigh.
“They treated you some poorly, I’d say?”
“No more than a woman like me’s got a right to expect.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Miss Greenwalt. Many a good woman’s come out of such a place. And even if that wasn’t true, no woman deserves to be treated the way those men treated you.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Daisy said shyly. A man had never spoken to her so nicely before. She wasn’t used to it. She kept quiet for a little, chewing on jerky and casting flickering glances from the cabin to Bear and Culpepper and then back. She still couldn’t believe her good fortune, if that indeed was what it was. Culpepper certainly seemed a decent man. But time would tell.
“How’d you come to be here, Sheriff?” Daisy finally asked. “Been followin’ Mack Ellsworth’s gang. They robbed the train between Silverton and Durango a couple weeks ago. I got a posse up right off and took out after those pukin’ scoundrels, but they got away after killin’ a couple men in the posse. Not before we got three of them, though. After bringin’ the bodies of my friends back to Silverton and buryin’ them, I headed out again. I got to where we’d had the gunfight with them, and Bear’s been followin’ their trail since. Then we got here.”
“I’m glad you did.” She did sound grateful, but also still ill at ease at being here.
“I wish it could’ve been a little sooner, miss.” He paused. “You comfortable enough, Miss? We’re liable to be here, for some time yet.”
“I guess I am.” She shuddered. “What’re we waitin’ for? Why don’t we just leave?”
“I aim to arrest that maggot down there, if I can.”
“But why?” Daisy’s voice quavered with fright.
“He’s got a lot of misdeeds to answer for, includin’ what they did to you. Plus I figure he can tell me where Ellsworth’s holed up.”
“You’ll never get into that cabin.”
“Maybe not. But he’s got to come out sooner or later. When he does, he’ll get a choice—surrender or get shot.”
“Won’t he try sneakin’ up on us tonight?”
“Let him try. He won’t get within ten yards of us before Bear lets me know. Then him and I can prepare a little surprise for that scoundrel.”
Daisy was quite convinced that Culpepper was crazy, but there was nothing she could do. She did feel a lot safer with the broad-shouldered sheriff and the big mastiff. At least she was out of the clutches of those animals down there. Still, she kept casting glances at Culpepper, wondering if he, too, would turn out to be a beast. Most men she had encountered in her eighteen years were, and she saw no reason for this one to be any different. So she lay there, gnawing on jerky and sipping water, grateful for the cover provided by Culpepper’s large and heavy bear-fur coat.
As darkness began to draw over the high desert, Daisy rested her head on her arms and drifted to sleep. She jerked awake every few minutes, sure that one of her captors was coming for her again. Then she would look over at the big, wet-nosed mastiff and feel comforted. Despite the many times she woke, she n
ever saw Culpepper move from where he was. After a while, she drifted into a deeper sleep, her subconscious telling her she was safe now.
Sometime during the night, Bear growled softly. Culpepper became alert, but realized it was only a coyote beginning to nose at Powell’s body. In the light of the stars and the sliver of moon, Culpepper could see two more coyotes moving warily toward the bodies of Powell and the other man. He brought the rifle up, ready to fire, to scare the scavengers off. Then he decided to let nature have its way, and he uncocked and lowered the Winchester.
“Keep alert, Bear,” Culpepper whispered. He rested his head on his canteen, and told himself to wake a half-hour before dawn. Then he went to sleep.
His timing was a little off, but not too much. It was still dark, though pink was tinting the eastern sky behind him. Culpepper sat up and rubbed his face. He took a few swallows of water, then rose and stretched.
The movements woke Daisy, who sat up, her heart beating in panic.
“It’s almost dawn, Miss Greenwalt. I’m going on down there to see if that last pukin’ scoundrel is still alive.”
“What about me?”
“You stay here. You’ll be all right.”
“Leave Bear with me?” Daisy asked, frightened anew.
“I need him with me. You can watch. If somethin’ happens to me, get on the horse and ride like the dickens.” Without waiting to hear any more protests, Culpepper said, “Come on, Bear,” and headed down the hill.
Chapter Seventeen
Culpepper stopped alongside the wall next to the cabin door. Bear was on the other side of the door. Then they waited. When he figured there was enough light to see by, Culpepper suddenly kicked the cabin door open. The move was greeted by three gunshots.
“Go,” Culpepper said, nodding at Bear.
The dog raced inside and suddenly a scream was heard, but no more gunshots. Culpepper spun inside, Remington in his right hand. He found Bear straddling Milt Adler, with Adler’s right wrist in his mouth.