Crow Creek Crossing (13 page)

“Yep, I'm sure,” Cole said. “Right below this tree with the dead limb hangin' just off the ground.” He stood there staring at the open space down to the water's edge.

“Well, there ain't no tracks here now, 'cept mine and your'n,” Harley said. “Reckon you're right. You were dreamin'.”

When they returned to the village, Walking Owl was sitting by the fire, talking to Yellow Calf. Having overheard Cole and Harley's conversation earlier, Yellow Calf had repeated it to the medicine man. He looked up at Cole and said, “It is not my place to tell you what to do, but I heard you telling Thunder Mouse about your dream. I thought it might be a message to you, so I told Walking Owl about it, and he thinks it might be so.”

Cole shrugged and said, “It was just a dream I had. It didn't really make any sense.” He was surprised that they would be interested, and he was inclined to let it go at that.

“The spirits sometime send a man a message to tell him the path he must walk,” Walking Owl said. “The spirit usually takes the form of an animal or a bird. Our young men go in search of their path when they are still boys, but any man can talk to the spirits no matter how old he is. When a young Crow boy is
ready, he will cleanse his body in the sweat lodge. Then he will go out into the prairie or the mountains, alone, without food and water for four days. Then his mind and body will be ready to receive his vision. I think that the spirits sent the white wolf to talk to you, even though you did not know to do these things. But your body was weakened by your wound, making your mind more ready to accept your vision. If it was not so, then the spirits would not have caused you to come to me.”

Cole was skeptical. “I don't know about that,” he said. He was aware of the ritual of young boys, out in the wilderness somewhere, starving themselves until they collapsed, hoping to get a vision. It was how many of them picked the name they wanted to be called. It was a little beyond Cole's imagination. “I saw a white wolf, but he didn't tell me anything,” he insisted.

“Maybe the wolf did not talk to you with words, but maybe it told you what it wanted you to know. You did not listen with your heart,” Walking Owl said. “Will you tell me your dream?”

Cole hesitated before declining, thinking too much had been made of a simple dream already. But since he was a guest in the village, and Walking Owl had administered to his wound, he didn't want to appear rude. And Harley had told him that Walking Owl was a
maxpé
man, so he didn't want to insult him. He glanced at Harley, who nodded his encouragement to cooperate.

“Why, sure,” Cole said, “if that's what you want, I'll tell it.”

“Leave out nothing,” Walking Owl said. “Tell me everything you saw in the dream.”

Cole thought for a minute, trying to recall every move he had made that morning when he walked down to the river. “Tell you the truth, I have a hard time remembering when I was awake and when I went to sleep.” He went on to relate the dream, starting with the two dark eyes on a veil of white.

When he had finished, Walking Owl nodded solemnly but said nothing for a long moment. When he spoke, he told Cole that he wanted to meditate and hold the dream in his head for a while.

“That's it?” Cole asked. “That all you wanted?” He assumed that was the end of the matter. When he and Harley unsaddled their horses, he remarked to his pint-sized partner, “Remind me not to talk to you about my dreams anymore.”

“That ain't the end of it,” Harley said with a chuckle. “Walkin' Owl's the medicine man. Dreams and such, that's his business. I know you don't believe in all the Injun magic and spirit stuff, but I'm tellin' you they know a lotta things that the white man don't.”

•   •   •

Another day saw Cole improving even more, regaining most of his strength and favoring his wound less than the day before. He slept later than usual, awakened by the gravelly voice of Harley, singing one of his many little ditties.

“‘Someone stole the big dog, and I wish they'd bring him back. Big dog jumped over the fence, little dog through the crack, Lord, Lord. . . .'”

He lay there for a while, remembering how Ann used to sing while she did her chores. It brought him no comfort.

Harley knew that his friend's thoughts were
returning to the quest he had sworn himself to complete, so he endeavored to take Cole's mind off Slade Corbett.

“I'm thinkin' you're lookin' fit enough to ride over to Fort Laramie. There's a tradin' post near there. It ain't but half a day's ride—probably do you good to get your blood flowin' again. Like you said yesterday, we need to stock up on some supplies, so I don't mind helpin' you spend some of your money.”

“I appreciate your help,” Cole grunted. “I'd like to test my side anyway, see how half a day in the saddle feels.” Thoughts of his dream and Walking Owl's interpretation of it had already slipped from his mind.

It struck Harley as significant that this was the first time he remembered seeing Cole approach even a chuckle, maybe in the entire time he had known him—if the grunt could be interpreted as humor. “Well, let's go saddle up before the mornin' gets away from us.”

On their way to the horse herd, they met Walking Owl coming from his tipi. “I have thought hard on your vision, White Wolf,” he said to Cole.

“White Wolf?” Cole responded.

“Yes,” Walking Owl said. “That is your Crow name, I think. If you want me to, I will tell you what your dream tells me.”

“Course he wants to hear what you have to say about it,” Harley quickly interjected, afraid Cole might reject the offer of guidance and insult Walking Owl. “Don't you, Cole?”

It was not difficult to interpret the tense expression Harley was aiming at him, so Cole said, “That's a fact. I would be honored to have your
advice.”

There was an immediate look of relief on Harley's face. “Why don't you set down now and talk? We can go to the tradin' post later on when you're finished.”

“Good,” Walking Owl said. “Come. We will go to my tipi.” He turned and walked away, leaving Cole no choice but to follow him.

“I'll go get the horses saddled, White Wolf,” Harley said softly enough not to be heard by the departing medicine man, a huge grin spreading his whiskers.

“You do that, Thunder Mouse,” Cole snorted. “Take my buckskin as a packhorse. Saddle him, too. Maybe I can sell that saddle at Fort Laramie.”

Walking Owl welcomed him into his tipi, where he lit a pipe, offered it to the four directions, then handed it to Cole. Not really sure what his proper response should be, Cole repeated the medicine man's actions. Walking Owl seemed pleased, and proceeded to tell him what he was sure the dream meant.

“The spirit of the wolf came to you to show you your medicine path,” he said. “He would have come to you sooner, but he knew that you did not understand the meaning of spiritual visions. So he waited until you came here where I could read your vision for you. Like the wolf, you are a hunter. Because the wolf was white, with no dark markings at all, it means to tell you that you must kill only those who do evil, for your heart must be pure. As long as you walk this
path, the white wolf will give you strength and courage, and your medicine will be strong. You should take the name White Wolf for your Crow medicine name.” He paused and sat back. “That is all I have to say.”

Cole wished that Harley had told him if there was any ceremonial custom he would be expected to follow at the conclusion of the medicine man's interpretation. The reading seemed pretty simple to him, one anyone could have come up with, but he nodded gravely and thanked Walking Owl for delivering the message. He got to his feet then and went to help Harley with the horses.

So now he had an Indian name.

He couldn't really say that he believed everything Walking Owl had told him, but at least White Wolf was a hell of a lot better than Thunder Mouse.

•   •   •

It was not a long ride to Fort Laramie, but it was enough to convince Cole that he was strong enough to ride any distance. Harley had hoped to get his mind off the grim task that drove him relentlessly with a visit to the busy army post. Cole was not interested in anything the fort had to offer, however, preferring to make his purchases at the trading post, then inquire about the possible sale of his extra saddle. Finding no potential interest at the trading post, or the sutler's store at the fort, he finally sold the saddle to the owner of a stable outside the fort. It was for considerably less than he thought the saddle was worth, but knowing he had no use for two saddles, he took the offer. Once that was done, he was ready to return to the Crow village.

“I was thinkin' we just might stay over for the
night and do a little drinkin',” Harley complained when Cole secured the supplies on the buckskin, using the new pack rig he'd gotten as part of the sale of the saddle. He nodded thoughtfully as Cole covered the load with a bearskin coat he had purchased along with the supplies.

“I'm feelin' fit to ride,” Cole told him, “and we've got enough daylight left to make it back before dark.” Seeing the obvious disappointment in Harley's face, he said, “If you ain't ready to leave, I'll give you enough money to buy a few drinks. I can find my way back with no problem.” Harley looked uncertain, so Cole suggested, “Tell you what, I'll buy you a bottle and you can take it with you.”

Harley's expression changed to one of accusation. “You're thinkin' 'bout goin' after them two bastards again, ain'tcha?” He was afraid his friend had that in mind when he bought the bearskin coat.

Cole nodded. “I'm fit enough to go right now.”

“I wish you'd wait till spring before you go on the hunt again,” Harley said. “You'll be a helluva lot more fit then.”

“Maybe, but I reckon I've got to go now. There ain't no tellin' where they'll be by spring. I've lost too much time as it is.”

Harley hesitated, biting his lip in his reluctance to speak his mind. “Partner, I've come to think a lot of you, but I'm feelin' winter in my bones more and more. What I mean is, I ain't goin' with you this time.”

“I hadn't really figured on it,” Cole said, his expression never changing. “I thought you'd stay in the Crow camp all along. There ain't no sense in you riskin' your neck along with mine.”

“Hell, Cole, you know it ain't 'cause I'm worried
'bout my neck. I'm just gettin' too damn old to be of much help, and like I said, the cold is startin' to get into my bones. I don't want you to think I've gone slack on you.”

Cole gave him one of his rare smiles. “I know that, partner. I never thought for a minute that you had. This thing I've got to do is mine alone. I've already gotten you mixed up in it more than I should have. Anyway, Walkin' Owl told me that I was supposed to go after Corbett by myself.” It was a lie, but he thought it might make Harley feel better about not going with him. “So don't give it another thought.”

Harley seemed relieved to have gotten the matter said.

“Well, you know I hope you have good huntin'.” He didn't want to tell Cole that part of his decision not to accompany him was the reluctance to see his young friend killed. He flashed a big grin then. “I'll take you up on that bottle of whiskey, and we'll ride on back tonight.”

“Where are you thinkin' about headin'?” Harley asked as he watched Cole checking the ropes on his packhorse one last time. The little man was finally resigned to the fact that Cole was setting out after Slade Corbett, in spite of another attempt to change his mind. “Them two outlaws could be anywhere—might be halfway to Texas by now. You ain't got a snowball's chance in hell of findin' 'em.”

“Maybe you're right,” Cole replied stoically. “But I've got even less of a chance of findin' 'em sittin' around this village all winter.” Satisfied that his pack was secure, he answered Harley's question. “Cheyenne was where I lost 'em, so I reckon Cheyenne's where I'll start lookin' to pick up their trail.”

Yellow Calf, Walking Owl, and Medicine Bear, along with several more of the village, came out to wish him good hunting on his journey. The medicine man agreed with Harley in the belief that Cole should give his wound more time to heal properly, but he
understood the young man's sense of what he must do. After thanking his hosts, Cole stepped up into the saddle. A moment before turning the Morgan toward the river, he paused when Harley suddenly stepped up and extended his hand.

“You be damn careful, partner,” Harley said, then stepped back to watch him ride out of the camp, a foreboding thought striking him that he might never see the determined young man again.

When the others returned to their tipis, he re- mained there, watching his friend as he led the buckskin across the river, passing by the spot on the bank where they had searched for tracks left by a white wolf. He shook his head sadly, for he feared there was nothing but tragedy awaiting the young man. For several long moments, he stood there after Cole had ridden out of sight before turning to go back to Yellow Calf's lodge.

•   •   •

Mary Lou Cagle stood in the kitchen door, her attention captured by two men who had just walked into the dining room.

“Well, I'll be damned,” she murmured. “I don't believe the nerve of that pair of murderers.” She turned back toward the kitchen where Maggie was drying a stack of dishes. “You're not gonna believe who just showed up in the dining room,” she said.

“Who?” Maggie asked, aware of the astonishment in Mary Lou's tone.

“That son of a bitch Slade Corbett and the other son of a bitch—whatever his name is,” Mary Lou answered.

“No!” Maggie replied in disbelief, and walked to the door to see for herself.

“Well, you know we should have expected it,” Mary Lou said, disgusted. “They know there ain't anybody in town that'll stop them, now that Jim Thompson's dead and his deputy quit.”

“This deputy wasn't around long enough to even learn his name,” Maggie said. “How do these outlaws find out so soon, anyway?”

“Huh,” Mary Lou snorted, “I know what my guess would be.”

She and Maggie
had
expected trouble with the sudden absence of any semblance of law enforcement, but they had hoped that it would be confined to the riffraff brought in by the railroad. Most of the merchants expected the town's swollen population to be gone when the weather improved and the railroad could push the tracks farther west. They just wondered if the town could survive until spring.

“I wonder if Leon Bloodworth knows those two are back in town,” Maggie wondered aloud, still stunned by their blatant disregard for the law. She knew that the stable owner had been trying to get the merchants together to re-form the vigilance committee now that there was an absolute lack of any official law in town.

“He'll find out soon enough,” Mary Lou said as she watched Corbett and Sanchez swagger over to a table in the dining room. “Whaddaya think we oughta do about them? Think I should tell them we don't serve their kind? They can get something to eat in one of the saloons.”

Patrons at the two tables close to them got up and headed for the door, their supper unfinished. Minutes later, the other diners departed, leaving no one in the dining room but the two outlaws.

“No,” Maggie said. “I'm afraid if you do that, they're liable to tear up the place. Maybe it's best to go ahead and serve them. Then they might just go on about their business. There's no sense in making them mad.”

“All right,” Mary Lou said. “I'll go wait on them.” She released a long weary sigh and started toward the table.

“There she is,” Slade drawled when she approached. “I was wonderin' if I was gonna have to go back yonder in the kitchen to look for you. Hell, that's the main reason I came back to this pigsty, to see you again. Ain't that right, Sanchez?” Sanchez's response was a sarcastic sneer.

Mary Lou had cautioned herself not to get into a conversation with Slade Corbett, but seeing his mocking grin, she could not control her disgust for the monster. “You've got your nerve coming back in here. You're running all our customers out. What do you want, anyway?”

“One thing for sure,” Corbett told her, “is a helluva lot more respect outta you.” Mary Lou snorted her derision. He ignored it and continued. “Me and Sanchez want some supper, and I wanna know where that friend of yours is. You know, the coward with the Henry rifle. I heard he was lookin' for me. I'm lookin' for him now, so where's he hidin' out?”

“How the hell would I know?” Mary Lou replied. “Even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you, and that's a fact. Whaddaya want with him, anyway? You've already slaughtered his whole family. Ain't that enough for you two murderers?”

“What the hell are you talkin' about?” Slade questioned. “We ain't murdered nobody.”

“You know what I'm talking about,” Mary Lou came back, thoroughly into her revulsion for the two murderers. “That family you and your gang of garbage massacred on Chugwater Creek,” she charged. “Why do you think he came after you?”

Stunned by the accusation, Corbett was left speechless for a moment before demanding, “Who told you we had anything to do with that?” Then thinking it best to claim ignorance of the incident, he said, “I didn't know there was anybody killed on the Chugwater. We ain't been up that way in a year. That mouth of yours is liable to get you into more trouble than you're set to handle.”

Realizing that she had already said too much for her own good, Mary Lou decided it best to hold her sharp tongue before she became their next victim. “Maggie says I gotta feed you,” she blurted. “You want supper? Six bits each.”

Corbett hesitated, still shocked that she knew about the little party he and his gang had had at that farm on the Chugwater. He glanced at Sanchez, to gauge his reaction to the accusation, but was met with the insolent sneer his partner always wore.

“Yeah, we want supper,” he answered her. “And we want it quick.” Favoring him with an expression of contempt, she turned and went into the kitchen.

When she had gone, Corbett said, “So now we know why that son of a bitch came after us. He ain't no lawman at all. He's just a crybaby sodbuster tryin' to get back at us for killin' his wife and family—just a damn farmer that don't know when to just thank his lucky stars he wasn't home when we hit his place.”

“He shot Tom Larsen,” Sanchez reminded him, not ready to take the rifleman lightly.

“Maybe so,” Slade conceded. “But you know damn well he had to catch Tom by surprise—snuck up on him when he was playin' cards, or shot him from a safe distance. Hell, he was usin' a damn rifle. He most likely shot Tom from the front door, and Tom never saw him.”

“Tom got a shot in him,” Sanchez reminded him again. He was not prone to dismiss Tom Larsen's killer as a simple grieving farmer.

Sanchez's remark was not enough to alter Corbett's opinion of the man stalking them. “Right,” he responded. “The son of a bitch got shot. He's run off somewhere to hide—might be dead already.” Their speculation was interrupted then by the arrival of Mary Lou at the table with their coffee. Filled with the confidence then that the
lawman
they had fled was now running for his life, Corbett questioned her again. “Now, how 'bout you tell me where that stud is that shot a friend of ours? Is he still in town?”

“No,” Mary Lou replied, thankful that he wasn't.

“How bad was he shot?”

“I don't know. I'm not a doctor,” she answered. “Now, if you're gonna eat, stop asking me questions, so I can go to the kitchen and get your supper.”

“Somebody's been tellin' you the wrong story 'bout us,” Slade said, still trying to convince her she was wrong. “Hell, killin' peaceful folks ain't our style. Is it, Sanchez?” Sanchez merely grunted in reply.

“Is that so?” Mary Lou responded. “I remember how quick you got outta town when you heard what Cole Bonner had done for your friend and was coming for you.”

“Is that his name?” Corbett replied. “Sounds like
you know him pretty well.” He waited for her to respond, but when she didn't, he continued. “Me and Sanchez left town so there wouldn't be no more killin'. 'Cause we'da had to take care of that crazy son of a bitch, and some innocent folks mighta got hurt—like the time you got shot when that feller got Frank Cowen.” He didn't realize that the man who shot Cowen was the same man who now stalked him. Recalling that incident, he commented, “Musta not been too bad. You look like you're doin' all right.” Mary Lou declined to respond.

Seeing no useful purpose to the conversation between Corbett and the woman, Sanchez interrupted. “Go get the food—too much talk. I'm hungry.”

“You know,” Corbett said to Sanchez when Mary Lou went into the kitchen, “the feller that shot Frank—reckon he's the same one that shot Tom?”

Sanchez gave it a thought. “Could be,” he allowed. Then his face twisted with an evil grin. “Be kinda funny if he is—gettin' shot served him right for killin' Frank.”

Further conversation on the possibility was interrupted by the arrival of supper, but the possibility served to convince Sanchez that it was more than a simple farmer they were to be concerned with.

Mary Lou placed a bowl of thick soup before each of them. Slade picked up his spoon and stirred it around. “Looks pretty good. You didn't spit in it, did you?” He gave her a malevolent grin while Sanchez dug in immediately.

“Now, why didn't I think of that?” she replied, and turned to go back to the kitchen, smiling to herself,
since she had done that very thing just moments before.

When she returned to the kitchen, it was to find Arthur Campbell talking furtively to Maggie, having slipped in through the back door. He looked up when Mary Lou walked in, and whispered, “What are they doing?”

“Eating,” Mary Lou replied matter-of-factly, wondering what he had expected.

“They came into the hotel,” Campbell said. “I didn't have much choice. I had to give them a room. I sent Claude down to the stable to tell Leon.”

Maggie became upset immediately. “If you men are thinking about getting the Gunnysack Gang together to do something with those two, you do it outside my dining room. I've had more than my share of damage because of that man and his gang.”

“By the time Leon gets a posse together, they'll most likely be out of your dining room—might be in the Sundown Saloon. That's where they liked to hang out before.” He slipped over to the edge of the door to get a peek at the two outlaws. “Sitting there big as life,” he whispered, “like they had nothing to worry about.” He watched for a moment more before speculating, “It would be pretty easy to shoot both of them while they're sitting there eating—do the whole town a favor.” He spent a moment more thinking about the danger to the person who tried it and happened to miss. Withdrawing carefully from the edge of the door, he said, “I'd best get out of here and go meet with Leon and the others.”

“What are you planning to do about them?”
Maggie persisted, still concerned about her dining room, especially after hearing his speculation.

“I don't know,” Campbell said. “I'll meet with the others and I reckon we'll have to decide the best way to handle it.” He went out the back door then. “It's best if we act as a committee and not one man on his own.”

•   •   •

In the time it took Arthur Campbell to hurry down to Bloodworth's stable, only two other members of the vigilance committee had shown up. Arthur found Bloodworth talking to Jesse Springer, the blacksmith, and Douglas Green, who owned Green's Dry Goods. “We're gonna need more than the four of us to take those two gunmen,” Green said.

“Four of us against two of them,” Springer said. “Seems like enough of us to me.”

“Four merchants with wives and children, against two hell-raising gunmen.” Green was quick to differ. “We need more than the four of us. We at least oughta send for Gordon Luck.”

“Hell, Douglas,” Springer scoffed. “They're in the dinin' room now where we can surprise 'em. It would take too long to ride out to the sawmill to get Gordon. We've hung a few hell-raisers before who thought they were too big to worry about the law in our town. These two ain't no different.”

“The hell they're not,” Green insisted. “Those two are in the business of killing. And there were a helluva lot more of us on those occasions, if you'll recall.”

Gordon Luck had been at the forefront of every lynching in town, and Green would have been a lot more confident with him to lead them. A powerful
man, with shoulder-length sandy hair and a trim beard to match, Gordon was a natural leader, as well as the minister of the town's newly established Baptist church. Far from being humble in his religious beliefs, he conducted himself as a soldier in the Lord's service. His Sunday sermons contained more than a few casual references to the evil that had descended upon Crow Creek Crossing with the coming of the railroad, and the duty for all citizens to take up the sword against it.