Crow Creek Crossing

by Charles G. West

  Anxious to put as much ground behind him as possible, Smiley held the buckskin to a reckless gallop over the darkened prairie, with Cole giving close chase. They maintained the pace for almost two miles, until finally Cole shouted for him to hold up.

  “It don’t make much sense to run the horses to death,” he told him. “If we don’t walk ’em for a spell, you and me are gonna be on foot with a posse after us.” Smiley couldn’t disagree, so he reluctantly dismounted and led his horse beside Cole.

  “Who’d you say you was?” Smiley asked again.

  “I’m an old friend of Slade’s from way back,” Cole replied. “He sent word for me to come get you outta that smokehouse.”

  “Slade ain’t ever said nothin’ about knowin’ somebody around here. Seems kinda funny he ain’t even mentioned it. How’d he have time to send word to you?”

  “You ask too damn many questions,” Cole said. “You’re out of that smokehouse, ain’t you?”

  “Yeah, I reckon,” Smiley replied, still finding his jailbreak more and more strange. “How long you gonna keep that bandanna tied around your face?”

  “I forgot I had it on,” Cole lied. “I couldn’t take a chance on that fellow back there recognizin’ me.” He pulled it down just below his chin, counting on the night to mask his features, and hoping Smiley didn’t recognize him at once.

  Although confused by the sudden appearance of a strange rescuer whom he had had no knowledge of before, Smiley did not suspect foul play. In fact, he took little notice of Cole’s face as they led the horses in the darkness.

  “They took my rifle,” he complained. “It wasn’t in the saddle sling. I’m gonna have to get another one, first chance I get. We shoulda took that feller’s back there.”

  “The barrel was bent,” Cole said.

  Smiley held up a pistol for Cole to see. “They didn’t get this .44 I had in my saddlebag, though.” He checked the cylinder to make sure it was loaded. As they continued walking while the horses caught their breath, Cole was trying to decide the best way to find out where Slade and the other two were going when they fled Johnstown. In a few moments, however, Smiley asked the question “Where the hell are Slade and the boys? Where are we supposed to meet ’em?”

  Cole had to think fast. “He said you’d know. That’s all he told me. Said you’d know where they’re headin’.”

  “I’d know?” Smiley responded. “How the hell would I know?” He thought for a minute before speculating. “Well, we was plannin’ on headin’ up in the mountains after we left Cheyenne to lie up awhile, but I don’t know where he figures we’ll catch up to him.” He scratched his shaggy whiskers thoughtfully. “Best I can figure, he must be plannin’ on goin’ back to Buzzard’s Roost, up in the mountains. At least, that’s where we was talkin’ about goin’. Reckon that’s where he meant?”

  “I reckon,” Cole replied. Hoping to get more specific directions to Buzzard’s Roost, a place he had never heard of, he pressed for more information. “I’ve heard of that place, but I ain’t ever been there. I ain’t sure I could find it, if I was on my own.”

  “Easy enough,” Smiley said. “Follow the creek up from the river where Lem Dawson’s tradin’ post sets. . . .”

  He paused abruptly, suddenly sensing something wrong, and he realized that he had not been able to get a close look at this stranger who said Slade sent him. It seemed to him that any friend of Slade’s would know where Buzzard’s Roost was. And ever since he had pulled his bandanna off, the man had kept his face turned aside, never facing him head-on.

  “Wait a minute,” Smiley said, straining to get a better look at his benefactor. “Ain’t I seen you someplace before?” It struck him then. “You’re the bastard that shot Frank Cowen in that hotel dining room.” He hesitated as he formed the picture in his mind. “That was you!” He jerked the .44 from his belt and aimed it at Cole but wasn’t quick enough to beat the bullet already on its way from Cole’s rifle. He folded over when the slug tore into his belly, causing him to fire his pistol into the ground at his feet. Even as he dropped to his knees, he tried to pull the trigger again, but Cole knocked the weapon from his hand.

  Helpless now, his eyes glazed with the searing pain in his gut, he gasped, “Why?”

  “Those people you and your friends killed on the Chugwater, they were my family, my wife—and you animals slaughtered them, that’s why.” No longer able to remain on his knees, Smiley keeled over to land on his side, his pudgy face twisted in a painful snarl. “You’re dyin’,” Cole said. “You might as well tell me what river Lem Dawson’s tradin’ post is on. Maybe that’ll help make up some for your sins.”

  “Go to hell,” Smiley choked out with a mouthful of blood. “You broke me out so you could kill me?”

  “That’s a fact,” Cole said. “And I’ll find the other three sooner or later,” he stated stoically. “Tell me where to find them, and I’ll put an end to your sufferin’.”

  “Go to hell,” Smiley repeated.

  Cole studied the dying man’s face for a few moments. There was no compassion in his heart for him. “Have it your way,” he said. “Maybe you’ll die before the coyotes and the buzzards start to feed on your worthless carcass.”

  He cranked another cartridge into the chamber and put another slug in Smiley’s midsection to make sure he died, although not too fast. He didn’t feel that it was right for the murderer to slip easily into death.

  • • •

  Even though one more of the killers had paid the ultimate price for his sins, there was no feeling of solace for the determined executioner. The fact that he had been transformed into a killing machine with no purpose beyond the fulfillment of total vengeance was of no moral consequence to him. His thoughts turned immediately to the unfinished business he had sworn to complete. He had hoped to learn more regarding the possible whereabouts of Slade Corbett, the man called Tom, and the Mexican, but at least he had one clue to work on. Smiley had said that their plan had been to go up in the mountains.

  As cold as it had already been, it seemed odd to him that they would be heading up in the mountains. But if that was true, it could be anywhere north or west of where he now stood. The closest mountains would be the Laramie Range, directly west. And if that had been their intended destination, then maybe the trading post was on the Laramie River. He could think of no better option than to proceed on that assumption. There was little doubt that a posse from Johnstown would soon be on its way, but they would most likely wait until daylight to have any hopes of following his tracks. And just like the posse, Cole would have to wait until sunup for any hope of finding tracks left by Slade and the others. With those facts in mind, he decided there was no risk to camp where he was until dawn. So he picked up Smiley’s weapons, tied a lead rope on his horse, and rode downstream until he found a campsite that suited him.

  He surprised himself by falling asleep soon after making his camp, waking only after the first rays of sunshine began infiltrating the mist rising from the river. Startled as he was by the fact that he had slept through the remainder of the night, his automatic reaction upon opening his eyes was to reach for his rifle to defend himself. His sudden move was met with bored indifference on the part of Joe, as the Morgan and the buckskin grazed peacefully on the riverbank. When there appeared to be no cause for urgency on his part, Cole decided to rekindle the fire and make some coffee.

  When he had finished his coffee, he saddled the horses and rode back up the river to the site of the execution. Just as he had suspected, Smiley was only a few yards from where he had left him, no doubt having tried to crawl away from the spot. His corpse stared up at Cole in eternal agony, evidence of his final hours. With no feelings of compassion or conscience, Cole relieved the body of its gun belt and searched its clothing for anything he might have use for. The decision to be made now was whether or not to go upriver or down in hopes of finding Lem Dawson’
s trading post.

  Chapter 5

  Two entire days were wasted riding up and down the river, upstream on the first day, then downstream on the second. There was no trading post to be found, and he had to conclude that if Lem Dawson’s place was on this river, then it had to be a hell of a way from the crossing where he now stood. Bitter frustration threatened to overcome him, because there was no reasonable way to decide which way to go, and no certainty that the trading post was even on this river. Maybe he hadn’t gone far enough north. Maybe Dawson’s store was on the Platte. That would make more sense, if the man was looking for more trade. There would be a lot more travelers on the Platte.

  Reluctant to start out in the wrong direction, he decided to camp where he was, even though there were still a couple of hours of daylight left. So he unsaddled the horses and gathered wood for a fire. When his stomach suddenly reminded him that he had forgotten to eat again, he unwrapped the major portion of the antelope haunch, which was all that was left of his kill. He had packed it in a sack filled with snow to keep it fresh, so he hoped it hadn’t spoiled.

  If it has, he thought, it’ll just come back up and I’ll have an empty stomach again, no worse off than I am now. With that in mind, he fashioned a leaning spit out of green cottonwood branches to roast it over the fire.

  • • •

  He had no idea how long he had sat there by the fire, his mind lost in his loneliness for his wife. Somewhere in the darkness of the prairie, he heard the howl of a coyote, and it caused him to realize that he had become a relentless hunter as well. It was a role he had never wished to play, but driven by his grief, his every thought seemed to be a desire to kill.

  “Hello the camp! Mind if I come in?”

  Abruptly shaken from his trance, Cole dropped the strip of antelope he had been eating, grabbed his rifle, and rolled away from the firelight. He had been taken completely by surprise. There had not been a sound to alert him that he had company, not so much as a nicker from the horses. The voice had come from the stand of trees close to the riverbank, but as yet, he could not see anyone in the fading evening light. “Come on out where I can see you,” he yelled back, his Henry trained on the spot where he had heard the voice.

  “You ain’t aimin’ to shoot me, are ya?”

  “Not if you’re peaceable,” Cole answered, surprised again when this time the voice came from another spot in the trees, close to the horses.

  “I’m peaceable,” the man said, and stepped out from behind a cottonwood.

  “Then come on in,” Cole said, still holding his rifle ready to fire.

  Cole watched as his surprise guest approached the fire. A short stump of a man, he strode easily toward him on a pair of legs bowed as if they had been formed around a barrel. Clothed in animal skins from head to toe, he might have been mistaken for an Indian were it not for the heavy gray beard covering most of an elfish face burned red by the sun.

  “Good evenin’ to ya, friend,” the man said. “I caught the smell of that meat roastin’ when I come up the river just now. Thought I’d best see who was doin’ the cookin’. I almost run up on a Sioux huntin’ party a ways up the river, and they ain’t been too friendly lately.”

  “You’re welcome to share some of this antelope,” Cole offered. “This haunch is all I’ve got left, but it’s more’n enough for both of us.”

  “Why, thank you kindly,” he said. “My name’s Harley Branch. Don’t reckon you’ve got any coffee, have you? I ain’t had no coffee in quite a spell.”

  “I might,” Cole replied, thinking his brand-new coffeepot was obvious enough, sitting in the coals of the fire. “Cole Bonner,” he said. “You got a cup?”

  “Sure do,” Harley said. “I’ll go get it—left it on my saddle.”

  Cole watched the odd little man as he walked back toward Joe and the buckskin, grazing near the water’s edge. In the fading light, he could see that there was now an extra horse munching grass next to them.

  Damn! he thought. It’s a good thing he ain’t a horse thief. If he was, I’d be on foot now.

  Normally sharp of ear, he scolded himself for not being more alert. In a few seconds, Harley returned with a tin cup. Without hesitating, he picked up the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. Swishing the pot around a couple of times before returning it, he said, “Feels a tad light. Reckon I got the last cup?” He gave Cole a wide grin. “Ain’t a very big pot to start with, is it?”

  “I don’t usually have guests for supper,” Cole said. Looking the little man over carefully now, he could see that he was not wearing any weapons, so he decided he wasn’t up to any mischief and was just intent upon taking advantage of free food and coffee. “I’ll fill it with some more water. That was just the first pot with those grounds.”

  “Here, I’ll do that,” Harley said. “I reckon that’s the least I oughta do since you’re furnishin’ the coffee.” He went at once to the water’s edge and scooped more of the dark river water into the pot, being careful not to lose any of the remaining grounds. When he returned, he placed the pot in the coals again, pulled a strip of the roasting meat off the spit, and settled himself beside the fire to eat it with his coffee.

  “’Preciate the hospitality,” he said as he helped himself to another strip of meat. “Antelope’s good eatin’. I’m partial to elk, but there ain’t no elk in this part of the country. Bighorns, there’s elk up in them mountains. I need to get up that way again.” He finally paused in his rambling recitation to study his impassive host for a few moments. “I swear, young feller, I reckon I’ve been rattlin’ on like a magpie, ain’t I? It’s been a while since I’ve had a human being to talk to. So, where are you headin’, Mr. Cole Bonner? Fort Laramie?”

  “No,” Cole replied. “Is that where you’re headin’?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Harley replied. “Maybe I’ll end up there or somewhere else. I hadn’t thought about it that much. I got a little camp back up in the mountains, but I got tired of talkin’ to myself. Thought I might go visit some Crow friends of mine before winter set in too hard to get through the passes. Sometimes I hunt down this way, and once in a while I’ll ride on over to Fort Laramie. I can trade my hides there.” He poured himself another cup of coffee. “I need to get over to the fort pretty soon, though. I forgot how good coffee tastes, ’cause I’ve been out awhile.”

  Cole figured he’d save Harley the trouble of asking for a handout. “I just bought some coffee beans in Johnstown. I can let you have some.”

  “Well, that’s mighty neighborly of you,” he said. “Maybe we can make a trade. You said this antelope was the last meat you’ve got. I’ve got a packhorse below the riverbank on the other side of your horses, and he’s totin’ two mule deer I was fixin’ to skin and butcher just as soon as I could set up a camp and get me a fire goin’. Whaddaya say you gimme a hand and I’ll share the meat with you, fifty-fifty?”

  Harley’s suggestion served to alter Cole’s opinion of him. The little man was not a beggar after all. The offer of a supply of deer meat was generous indeed. “All right,” Cole quickly agreed. “How far have you been totin’ those deer? I didn’t hear any gunshots, and I’ve been here for a couple of hours.”

  “’Bout five miles, I reckon. You didn’t hear no gunshots ’cause these two deer was shot with bow and arrows.”

  Cole was impressed. “And you managed to get close enough to shoot two of ’em? That’s pretty damn good.”

  Harley grinned. “I didn’t say I shot ’em. Like I just said, I almost run up on a Sioux huntin’ party. They was trailing a good-sized herd of mule deer. They killed two of ’em and left ’em while they went after the rest. The poor things looked so lonesome a-layin’ there, I didn’t have the heart to leave ’em.”

  “You stole deer that a Sioux huntin’ party killed?” Cole couldn’t believe his ears. He unconsciously looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see a band
of angry Indians bearing down upon them. “And now you led ’em straight to me?”

  “Hell, they’ve done it to me before,” Harley said. “Besides, it’ll save me some cartridges.” There was no mistaking the concern he saw in Cole’s eyes, so he tried to reassure him. “If you’re worried about me leadin’ ’em here, there ain’t no need to. I was real careful about not leavin’ my trail—crossed over the river a couple of times. And dark as it is, they couldn’t hardly follow a trail till mornin’, anyway. That’s the reason I was waitin’ so late to make camp. I wanted to make sure I got far enough away from them Sioux before I went to work on them carcasses.” When Cole still looked a little skeptical, Harley continued. “Them boys are a little piece offa their usual range this far over on the Laramie. This is mostly Crow country, so they’ve got to mind they don’t get caught too close to ol’ Medicine Bear’s village. That’s where I was headin’ when I saw your camp.”

  That was even more news to Cole. “There’s an Indian village near this spot?”

  “Yeah, but they’s Crow, friendly with white men,” Harley assured him.

  “Damn,” Cole swore softly, realizing how lost he was, with no idea where to look for the three men he sought. “We might as well get started with that butcherin’,” he said with a shrug.

  Harley grinned happily. “Now you’re talkin’. We’ll cut out some fresh meat for a couple of days and smoke the rest of it for jerky.” He was still pleased that he had met someone to talk to. He had been a long time alone, and Cole Bonner seemed like a man you could turn your back on. Harley decided that right off. “I’ll go get my packhorse,” he said, but paused a moment. “You never said where you was headin’.”

  “I’m lookin’ for Lem Dawson’s tradin’ post,” Cole said.