Crow Creek Crossing (9 page)

“No, it ain't far,” Harley said. “It's where the Laramie and the North Laramie come together—half a day, maybe more. But to tell you the truth, I'm thinkin' 'bout ridin' on down to Crow Creek Crossin' with you. I ain't been there since they changed it to Cheyenne. I ain't never been to a circus, and I reckon that's about as close as I'll ever get to one.”

He didn't express it, but there was also some curiosity about what Cole was going to do when he got there. He had to admit that he felt a fascination about the seldom-smiling man he had joined up with, who professed to have only one purpose in his life. According to what Cole had reluctantly confessed, three of the original six men who had destroyed his world were dead, two by his hand. And he seemed to look no further into the future than the deaths of the remaining three.

Harley considered himself a good judge of men, and Cole Bonner struck him as having been made of good stock. It was a waste of life to dedicate himself to vengeance, especially when the odds might favor those he sought to execute. The thing that bothered him about the young man was his lack of a fear of dying. It was one thing to be fearless and brave, but even for the bold there was a natural desire to survive. He sensed that Cole's loss had been so great that he no longer cared if he lived or died, as long as he could survive long enough to kill those who destroyed his life. Ordinarily Harley would let a man insistent upon committing suicide go his own way, but he felt that Cole Bonner was worth salvaging.

“Course, you might not want no company,” Harley finally allowed.

Cole looked at the gnarly little man wearing buckskins, and wondered for a few moments why he would want to tag along with him. This quest was his business alone, and he couldn't understand why Harley would want any part of it. He shrugged after a moment and said, “I don't see any reason why you can't go with me, if that's what you wanna do—as long as you know somebody's gonna end up dead before I'm through. Might not be a good idea to stay close to me.”

“I'll cut out if it gets too hot for me,” Harley said.

“Fair enough,” Cole concluded. “Let's get movin'.”

•   •   •

Two and a half days of hard riding brought them to the outer buildings of Cheyenne, some of them still under construction. The street, filled with people, had been churned into a quagmire of snow and mud as horses and wagons plowed up and down past the saloons and shops, general stores and brothels—the toddling town of Cheyenne had them all. Amazed by the growth of the town since he had last been there, Harley sat on his horse, taking in the busy scene on that cold winter day. If ever a town looked like a hotbed of the wild and wicked, Cheyenne was it. He wondered if he should have elected to ride on up to Medicine Bear's camp, instead of partnering with Cole. He glanced over at the relentless searcher, his face a mask of granite, as he glared at the busy street, looking as if he was peering into every door.

“Whatcha aimin' to do now?” Harley asked.

“I expect we're gonna have to stable our horses first thing,” Cole told him. When Harley confessed
that he didn't have the money to pay for that luxury, Cole said he didn't expect that he did. “I'll pay for boardin' the horses while we're here. I wanna get Joe and the buckskin some grain and rest 'em up ready to go when I need 'em. I expect you want the same for your horses.”

“Well, I reckon,” Harley replied, “although my horses ain't used to gettin' grain to eat. And I didn't expect you to pay for me. I figured we'd camp outside town somewhere.”

“I need to be in town, and the horses need decent feed for a change.” Cole ended the discussion. He nudged Joe with his heels and started down the street toward the stables at the other end.

•   •   •

“Well, I'll be . . . ,” Leon Bloodworth started when Cole and Harley led their horses inside the stable. “I wondered if I'd see you back in town again, after the way we treated you the last time.” He grinned at Harley. “He had to shoot his way outta the hotel dinin' room, and then Jim Thompson threw him in jail for the night.” He turned his attention back to Cole then. “I expect you've been workin' pretty hard on that piece of land you bought up on the Chugwater.”

“I see you took to wearin' a gun,” Cole said in reply, having no desire to relate the tragic events that had destroyed his life.

“Had to,” Bloodworth said. “Had to wear it for my health. It ain't only the railroad crew that's causin' all the trouble. It's the dad-blamed riffraff that follows 'em. I swear, it seems like every road agent and murderer has headed to Cheyenne this winter. What brings you back to town?”

“I'm lookin' for some old friends of mine,” Cole said. “I heard they're back in town.”

Bloodworth knew right away who Cole was referring to. “They're here, all right—big as life, like they own the town—but if I was you, I believe I'd stay clear of 'em. They ain't nothin' but trouble, and they ain't likely to forget that you shot that feller that was with 'em.”

“I woulda thought the sheriff would arrest the three of them as soon as they showed up here,” Cole said. He had been expecting to have to figure a way to get to them while they were in jail.

“He mighta, if we had a sheriff. Jim Thompson was gunned down in the middle of the street a few days ago. Funny thing, those fellers you had the fight with showed up the next day. Jim's deputy decided to retire from the law business right after that. Left us in a mess. You interested in the job?”

“Reckon not,” Cole replied. “But I am interested in finding those three outlaws.”

Bloodworth frowned thoughtfully, realizing that Cole was deadly serious. “Well, that won't be a hard job. They sure as hell ain't makin' theirselves scarce. They've took to hangin' around the Sundown Saloon. You can find one of 'em or all three of 'em there about any time of day.”

“What about the vigilance committee you told me about?” Cole asked.

Bloodworth shook his head. “Well, we still aim to take our town back, but we suffered a couple of deaths that slowed us down, and we've got to get our backbones up again. I'll tell you the truth, most of us that rode with that posse weren't all that disappointed that we didn't catch up with 'em.” He shook
his head slowly. “And now we've got the sons of bitches back in town, actin' like it's their town.”

“Well, Harley and I need to put our horses up while we're in town. They've been rode hard for the last couple of days.” He paused to take a look around him. “Looks like you're pretty full up. You got room for four more horses?”

“I'll make room for you,” Bloodworth said, eyeing the solemn young man intensely. “And if you're thinkin' on gettin' rid of some of that riffraff, I won't charge you nothin'.”

“Can't get a better deal than that,” Harley spoke up for the first time.

Cole only nodded. “Sundown Saloon, huh?”

“That's right,” Bloodworth replied, certain he had correctly read the look in Cole's eyes. But he couldn't help wondering why a young man with a pretty little wife and a fine family would risk standing up to three hardened gunmen like Slade Corbett and his two partners. “Be careful, and good huntin'.”

Outside the stable, Harley remarked, “He don't know about what happened to your wife.”

“Reckon not,” Cole said. It didn't surprise him. The only way anyone in Cheyenne could know would have been from Walter Hodge, John Cochran's friend and neighbor on the Chugwater. Evidently Walter hadn't been into town since the massacre. Cole could easily understand why he had thought it wise to avoid Cheyenne and stay close by his family.

•   •   •

Tom Larsen studied his cards carefully, a pair of jacks and the ten of clubs. He discarded the nine of spades and the six of hearts. “I'll take two,” he said, and watched the dealer as he dealt two cards. The dealer
moved quickly to the player on Larsen's left, casual in his handling of the deck of cards, too casual in Larsen's opinion. He was convinced the gambler was dealing off the bottom, so his gaze was intense when the gambler dealt himself three cards.
Damn you,
Larsen thought,
you're pretty damn slick. I ain't caught you yet, but I know you're dealing off the bottom of that deck
. The gambler had won too many pots to call it pure luck since they'd started playing two hours before. Slade and Sanchez were still up in the room at the hotel, sleeping off a drunk from the night just past, but Larsen never allowed himself to drink until incapacitated like his partners. It was that policy that kept his mind and reflexes sharp. And now his instincts told him the gambler was definitely cheating, even if he had not been able to catch his sleight of hand.

Larsen picked up the two cards, a ten of hearts and the deuce of clubs, which gave him two pairs, jacks and tens. He watched the dealer carefully as he opened the bidding. When it came around to him, Larsen called, and frowned sullenly when the dealer spread three sevens on the table. It was all the justification Larsen needed to call him out. “That's the last time I'm gonna let you get away with that bottom deal,” he announced stoically.

There was an immediate hush in the crowded saloon as Larsen sat staring into the gambler's eyes, waiting for his response. The other two players at the table backed their chairs away, anticipating the trouble that was sure to follow. A faint smile appeared on Larsen's face, as he recognized the familiar blanching of the gambler's features that betrayed the fear that Larsen's fixed stare created.

“You're wrong, my friend,” the gambler protested weakly. “I've just had a streak of good luck.”

“You're not only a cheat, but a liar, too,” Larsen told him, his tone calm and threatening. “Now, just shove that pile of cash over to the center of the table, and get your no-good ass outta here.” The thin smile was still firmly in place as he waited to see if the gambler had the guts to meet his challenge. “A damn poor cheat, to boot,” he said, adding fuel to the fire, and giving the man no choice but to fight or slink out in shame.

The gambler hesitated, nervously fidgeting with the cash on the table before him, obviously weighing his chances. All eyes were on him, waiting to see if he would hand over the money and turn tail and run. He knew that Larsen wore a .44 six-shooter in a holster. Seated up close to the table, as Larsen was, the gambler decided it would be too awkward for Larsen to draw it before he could reach the revolver that he wore in a shoulder holster. Although he was still unnerved by the insolent glare in Larsen's eyes, the gambler's common sense told him he had the advantage. Gaining some confidence then, he said, “You're gonna have to back up your words or apologize. Which is it gonna be?”

They made their moves at almost the same time. The gambler had been correct in his estimate of the time it would take for Larsen to make the awkward draw from his chair. He did not allow for the possibility that Larsen had a double-barrel derringer lying in his lap, however, a habit he always employed when playing cards with strangers. Two quick shots under the table ripped into the gambler's gut before he
could reach inside his coat. Larsen was immediately on his feet, his .44 now in his hand. He walked around the table and kicked the gambler's chair over, dumping the fatally wounded man on the floor. He stood over him for a moment before reaching down to relieve him of his revolver. Then he looked around the room at the witnesses to the shooting. “He tried to draw on me,” he claimed, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Anybody could see that, and he got what he deserved. Anybody see it any different?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Who said that?” Larsen demanded, his brow furrowed in anger as he turned, scanning the room, searching for the person foolish enough to refute his word. His gaze stopped when it fell upon the tall young man holding a Henry rifle near the door. “Who the hell are you?” he started, but it struck him almost as soon as he said it. “You, you son of a bitch! You shot Frank Cowen!”

“That's right,” Cole replied solemnly. “I shot Smiley Dodd, too. And now it's your turn. I'm sendin' you straight to hell for killin' those folks on the Chugwater.”

“The hell you are!” Larsen blurted, shocked to think Cole knew about the murders. He raised the weapon already drawn from its holster to silence his accuser. It was almost a draw, but Cole was a fraction of a second faster. His rifle already leveled, he hit Larsen in the middle of his chest, knocking the stunned man backward to land on the table and then slide to the floor. Cole moved quickly to make sure Larsen was dead. He pulled the table aside too late to avoid the pistol aimed at him. Larsen's final
effort
before fading from consciousness was to pull the trigger, sending a .44 slug into Cole's side.

Staggered, Cole fought to keep his feet, willing himself to confirm the kill. He cranked another round into the chamber and sent the fatal bullet through Larsen's brain.

“Where are the other two?” he demanded of anyone, determined to complete his task, only vaguely aware of Harley, who had rushed to his side to help him stay on his feet.

“They're up in the hotel!” someone shouted in answer.

Defying the bullet wound in his side to stop him, he pushed toward the door, ignoring Harley's pleading for him to sit down and wait for the doctor. The crowd in the saloon emptied out to follow him into the street, where their numbers increased as bystanders outside ran to see what the shooting was about. In no time at all, a mob of spectators was created, all eager to witness the confrontation.

Young Claude Campbell, who helped his father in the hotel's stables, ran ahead of the mob to tell his father the news. He burst through the door just as Slade and Sanchez came down the stairs. “They shot him!” Claude exclaimed to his father, who was behind the desk. Then seeing Slade and Sanchez, he yelled, “A feller shot that friend of yours, and he's coming after you!”