Crow Creek Crossing (3 page)

“Where did all these people come from?” Cole asked, for the street was crowded with men, many of whom were loud and boisterous.

“Railroad men and the riffraff that comes with 'em,” Leon Bloodworth, the proprietor, said. He went on to explain, “When they started layin' the tracks west of here, up Sherman Hill, the bad weather pretty much shut 'em down for the winter. So the railroad told 'em to go home and come back in the spring. Well, a lot of them boys' homes are too far away to get there and back in time to claim their jobs, so they just moved into town. And the town can't handle 'em. The saloons and the whorehouses go all night long to take whatever money the railroad men have left. The sheriff can't keep the peace. One of 'em shoots another one of 'em damn near every night. It got so bad the God-fearin' men of this town had to take matters in their own hands and form a vigilance committee. So what you see tonight ain't as bad as it was.”

“It still looks pretty wild to me,” Cole remarked, “but I'll take your word for it. I'd like to stable my horse for the night. I've got no reason to visit a saloon, but I would like to buy a little supper before I turn in. And if the charge ain't too much, I'll just bunk in with my horse.”

“I won't charge you no extra, since you and your
partner bought grain from me before. And if you're lookin' for a quiet place to take supper, there ain't none. But your best chance is the hotel dinin' room. Maggie Whitehouse tries to run a respectable place, and the food's fair to middlin'.”

“Much obliged,” Cole said. “I'll give Maggie a try.”

•   •   •

He walked past two saloons on his way to the hotel. It appeared that both were doing a booming business, although it was still early in the evening. Ann's word of warning came to mind, causing him to smile to himself, and he thought if he was going to spend the price of a couple of drinks of whiskey, he'd most likely spend it on some trinket or doodad for her instead. This would be the first night they would be apart since their marriage, and he had to admit he missed her.
I'd better not ever let her know what kind of hold she's got on me,
he thought, although he suspected she already knew.

Inside the hotel, he headed for a door with a sign over it, identifying it as the dining room. It led to a large room with one long table with benches in the center and smaller tables with four chairs each lined up along the walls. The room was crowded. Only a few of the smaller tables were unoccupied, and all but one of them had dirty dishes on them. There were a couple of empty spaces at the long table, but there was not much room between the battling elbows on each side of them. So he seated himself at the one clean table against the wall, propped his Henry rifle against one of the empty chairs, and waited. After a short time, a young woman, looking bored and weary, stopped before the table. It occurred to him
that, in spite of the expression she wore, she looked strong and able. Her hair, raven black, was pulled back from an honest and not unattractive face. It was plain to see that she had no concern for dolling up for the benefit of her customers.

“Stew?” she asked.

“What's the special tonight?” he asked.

“Stew,” she repeated with a look of undisguised impatience.

“What kinda stew is it?” he asked.

“Cowboy stew,” she replied, her expression ap- proaching painful. “Look, mister, you wanna eat or not?”

“I'll take it,” he said, anticipating an invitation to leave if he didn't. “With a cup of coffee,” he added. She turned toward the kitchen without another word.

Back in a short time, she placed a large bowl of stew before him and a plate with bread beside it. “I'll be back with your coffee in a minute or two,” she said. “Got a new pot just comin' to a boil.”

“Much obliged,” he said to her back as she hurried away again. He turned his attention to the bowl of food before him, tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it in the stew, then bit off a mouthful to test. It tasted a lot better than it looked, so he set into it with a will. He couldn't identify all the ingredients, but it was some kind of beef stew, which he had already suspected, since she called it “cowboy stew.” By the time she brought his coffee, he had eaten half of the bowl.

“You musta been hungry,” she commented upon seeing the progress he had made.

“I sure was,” he responded. “That's pretty good stew.”

“Just pretty good?” she asked, teasing him. Then
went to work clearing the dirty dishes from the table next to his. “Maggie thinks it's damn good,” she tossed at him as she filled her arms with dishes.

“I won't argue with that,” he said. “Tell Maggie she's right. It's damn good.”

“I'll tell her,” she said, already on her way back to the kitchen.

He reassessed his impression of his waitress. He had first thought she was grumpy. He decided now that the poor girl was just tired. Looking around him at the crowded room, he thought the reason was obvious. She needed help. His stew finished, he took a few tentative sips of the steaming-hot coffee. It was still a bit too hot, so he took a chunk of the bread left on the plate and dipped it in the coffee and ate the soggy mouthful.

He didn't pay much attention to the trio of men when they ambled into the dining room a few minutes later, except to note that they probably weren't railroad workers. Most likely, he wouldn't even have noticed that, but they sat down at the table next to his, which the waitress had not finished cleaning. He glanced up to meet the eye of one of the men, who favored him with a smile that more closely resembled a sneer. Cole gave a polite nod, and it was answered with a cold, unblinking stare.
Friendly cuss,
Cole thought, and returned his concentration to his coffee cup.

It didn't register in his mind right away, but several diners got up abruptly from their tables and left the dining room. The waitress came from the kitchen then and, seeing the three men at the table, hesitated for a few moments before coming over to finish
clearing it. When she did, she made it a point to first ask Cole if he wanted more coffee. When he said he did, one of the men spoke. “Never mind his coffee, Mary Lou. You'd better see about gettin' us somethin' to eat first. We've been settin' here a helluva long time.”

“Humph.”
She uttered a little snort, as if wondering how he knew her name. “You just walked in,” she said. “You ain't been here two minutes.” Pointedly turning to Cole again, she said, “Soon as I wipe this table off, I'll get you some more coffee.”

“'Preciate it,” Cole said. He took another look at the men at the table. All three wore long raincoats, and the one doing the talking wore a black flat-crowned hat with a band that looked like a silver belt. It seemed to Cole that the waitress was accustomed to dealing with the likes of the three leering men, so he saw no need to stick his nose in it. He concentrated on draining the last gulp of coffee from his cup while the young woman started wiping the table with a damp rag. The door opened then and three more men walked in to stand looking around the room.

“Tom,” one of the men at the table called out. “Over here.”

It occurred to Cole then that he might find himself in a spot he'd rather not be in, especially when a couple more patrons suddenly got up and hurried out the door.
Not a good sign,
he told himself.
They must know something that I don't
. But he was not inclined to get up and leave before he was ready.
I'll just mind my own business and let the six of them mind theirs,
he thought.

The man called Tom and his two friends walked over to join the three seated at the table, openly
surveying the waitress's behind as she finished cleaning the table. “Thought you'da already et by now,” Tom said.

“Well, we ain't yet,” the man wearing the black hat replied. Then he suddenly grabbed the waitress's wrist. “'Cause Mary Lou ain't brought no food yet.”

Cole felt the blood getting hot in his brain, and the muscles in his forearms tensed. It did not go unnoticed by the defiant young woman. Well acquainted with the kind of men she was dealing with, and with no wish to cause Cole to become involved, she jerked her hand free, causing the man to laugh. “Don't you worry yourself, mister,” she whispered aside to Cole. “I can take care of myself.”

“That's right, mister.” The antagonist sneered, having overheard. “Ol' Mary Lou can take care of herself. You don't need to worry none on her account. You're leavin' now, anyway.” He shifted his eye to his friend again. “Tom, we need more room. Why don't you pull that table over next to ours and we'll make it one big table?” There was no doubt he was referring to Cole's table.

“You can use one of the other tables,” Mary Lou said.

“I want that one,” he said, his tone no longer civil.

The whole dining room went suddenly silent, and all eyes shifted to focus upon the lone young man, who now knew there was no peaceful option available to him except to slink cowardly out of the saloon. And that just wasn't his style—never had been, no matter the odds. But six to one didn't promise much success for him in a fistfight, and a couple of the men, grinning at him in anticipation of his reaction, were pretty stout-looking fellows, eager for a tussle. Cole
looked up from his cup and smiled when he spoke. “You gentlemen are welcome to this table right after I have another cup of coffee.” He turned to Mary Lou then. “I'd appreciate that coffee whenever you get a chance.”

Glaring at him in total disbelief, Black Hat remarked, “Mister, you ain't got the brains God gave a prairie dog. Either that or you figure you've lived long enough.” When Cole still made no sign of moving, Black Hat nodded toward a wide-shouldered brute of a man. “If you don't get your sorry ass outta that chair right now, ol' Skinner there is gonna break your back for you.”

Cole glanced at the grinning half-wit, who appeared eager to do the job, and knew that he had little choice. It was obvious that he was likely to take a licking if he didn't act quickly and decisively. “That would be a mistake,” he warned, and in one swift move, grabbed for the Henry rifle propped against the chair, cranking a cartridge into the chamber as he brought it up to level on Black Hat. He had no desire to kill anyone, but he had no intention of taking a whipping.

His quick response caught them by surprise, but there was no concern evident in any of the faces staring at him. “Well, ain't you the feisty one?” Black Hat said. “You fixin' to have a gunfight against six of us? That don't seem too smart to me.”

“I expect that's so,” Cole replied. “But I don't figure to have a gunfight with all of you, so I'm settin' my sights on just one. I reckon that will be you, Mr. Bigmouth, and I'm damn sure I'm gonna get you.”

“He's bluffin', Slade,” the man called Tom said. Two more of the patrons took a quick gulp of their
coffees and headed for the door. The rest of the room was frozen in a deadly silence.

“Hold on a minute, Tom,” Slade cautioned. “You ain't the one lookin' down the barrel of that damn rifle. Don't nobody make a move.”

Wondering why Mary Lou had not been back to the kitchen with more dirty dishes, Maggie Whitehouse finally got curious enough to go out to the dining room to see for herself. “Mary Lou,” she called out as she went through the door, “what in tarnation is goin' on here?” Her question was unnecessary, for she saw the apparent confrontation between Cole and the six men. “Not in my dining room!” she exclaimed. “You can just take yourselves outside and do your fightin' in the street like the mad dogs you are.”

Both sides of the standoff ignored the annoyed woman's demand. With six pairs of eyes fixed on Cole's rifle, trigger fingers were beginning to itch as the seconds dragged slowly by. “Take it easy, boys,” Slade cautioned again, lest one of his gang decide to make a play and cause him to get gut-shot in the process. “The lady's right. This ain't no fittin' way to act in her dinin' room, so we'll just let it go this time.”

Somewhat relieved, Maggie was still worried that the trouble wasn't over as long as the man holding the rifle remained. It was obvious to her that he wasn't the real cause of the confrontation, but she suspected it was going to be difficult to order the six ruffians to leave. It might be easier to feed them and let them go on their way with full stomachs. So she decided to appeal to their lone adversary. Leaning close over his shoulder, she said softly, “Mister, it looks like you've already finished your supper. I'd appreciate it a whole
lot if you would leave before trouble starts up again. If you will, your supper's on the house.”

“All right,” Cole said, fully understanding her problem. “I'll go.” He rose to his feet with a cautious eye on the men watching him. Mary Lou gave him a nod of thanks as he backed slowly past her on his way to the door. Like a pack of hungry wolves, Slade Corbett's gang of troublemakers watched him closely as he withdrew, restrained by the rifle held ready to fire. Tense with the anxiety of permitting him to simply walk out unharmed, one of the men saw an opportunity to act when Cole took one hand off his rifle to open the door. His .44 failed to clear his holster before Cole, reacting without consciously thinking about it, swung his rifle around and cut him down. The shot set off an instant explosion of gunfire, aimed at Cole, but not quick enough to hit him as he ducked out the door. The only casualty, other than the man Cole shot, was Mary Lou, who had been unfortunate enough to have walked toward the door after Cole.

“Get that son of a bitch,” Slade yelled, and charged toward the door. He was immediately discouraged from going farther when a couple of rifle slugs ripped off some chunks of the doorframe and sent them flying. Maggie's screaming caused him to look at the wounded girl lying on the floor, and he decided it best to get out of there before the law came. He was thinking of the strong possibility that some of the patrons who had left the dining room at the first sign of trouble might have already alerted the sheriff. “Let's get the hell outta here,” he ordered then. “Out the back door!”