Crow Creek Crossing (11 page)

“Easy, Cole,” she said softly, and placed her hand back on his forehead. She glanced at Harley and said, “He's got a fever. Doc said he might have. I'll get some water and a cloth and see if I can't cool him off a little. Doc said he'd come by to check on him when he got a chance this morning.”

•   •   •

Mary Lou took an extra day from her duties in the dining room to look after her patient. After that, Cole appeared to be making some progress, so she moved into Maggie's room and returned to the dining room, leaving Harley to act as Cole's nurse with her frequent visits to check on him. It would be several days before Cole was strong enough to make the short journey to the outhouse behind the hotel—an accomplishment most appreciated by Harley, who had had the dubious responsibility of emptying the chamber pot. It was progress for the patient, however, enough to make him anxious to vacate Mary Lou's room, in spite of her assurance that she was in no hurry to evict him.

To the relief of both Mary Lou and Harley, Cole no longer pressed to resume his hunt for the two murderers. More than anyone, he was aware of his weakness in recovery, and he was no longer prone to
overestimate his ability to ignore his wound. The result of these circumstances left him in a state of morbid suspension, frustrated by his weakened condition, yet anxious to pick up a trail now as cold as the wintry plains he could see from Mary Lou's window.

Although his recovery seemed painfully slow to him, Doc Marion was satisfied that his patient was improving rapidly, and confessed that he had harbored some doubts because of the seriousness of the wound. He attributed it to the patient's strong constitution. Harley was inclined to believe that Cole's refusal to die before his wife's death was avenged had as much to do with his recovery as his constitution.

•   •   •

“Can you ride?” Harley asked when Cole told him that it was time they vacated Mary Lou's room.

“I reckon so,” Cole answered. “I ain't too strong yet, but I think I can stay in the saddle till we find us a place to camp.” He had offered to pay for his and Harley's room and board, but she had refused it.

She told him that he had better keep what money he had, knowing that he was going to need every cent of it, since he had no apparent means of acquiring more. “It's no hardship on me,” she said. “And as far as your food is concerned, I've been feeding you and Harley on leftovers from the hotel kitchen.”

Harley had enjoyed the stay in the warm room behind the kitchen, but he could see that Cole was serious about leaving. “Where are you thinkin' about goin'?” he asked. “It's a bad time of year to build a
winter camp, especially when one of us is likely gonna be doin' all the work.”

“I see what you mean,” Cole said. He hesitated for a few moments. He owed Harley a lot. The little man had chosen to stand by him when he could have gone his own way at any time. “Maybe you figure you've done all you can to help me,” he finally said. “If you're wantin' to get on with whatever you were plannin' to do before we hooked up, I figure I owe you some money for your time.”

Harley merely shook his head slowly, as if perplexed by the offer of money. “You don't owe me any money. I've got a better idea. Why don't we just ride on up to Medicine Bear's village on the Laramie? I've got friends in that camp, and we can winter there. If you get your strength back, and wanna leave before spring, that's up to you. But right now that's the best thing to do, instead of freezin' our asses off holed up somewhere on this open prairie.”

Cole thought it over for no more than a few moments before agreeing. “You're right. I expect we'd better tell Mary Lou she can move back in her room,” he said.

“Hot damn,” Harley exclaimed. “Now you're talkin' sense. We've hung around this damn town long enough.” He had enjoyed the use of the warm room, but it was just as cozy in Yellow Calf's tipi.

Mary Lou had mixed emotions upon receiving the news that her patient was leaving. She had become comfortable having him around, although he never seemed to relax his somber attitude, never smiling, his thoughts never far from the tragedy that tormented him. When completely honest with herself, she had to admit that she would miss him.

Hell,
she thought,
I'll even miss his ol' hound dog, Harley
.

Cole knew she would refuse payment for his care, as she had the room and board, so he left fifty dollars on a shelf in her cupboard. He was certain she deserved more than that, but fifty dollars was a substantial chunk of the money he had left. So it was generous in that respect. Their saddlebags packed, Cole and Harley went by the dining room to tell the two women they were leaving.

“You know you don't have to go, don't you?” Mary Lou asked earnestly. “You can stay till spring if you want to.”

“I owe you too much as it is,” Cole said. “I don't wanna put you out any further. I just hope you know how much I appreciate you takin' care of me.”

“You sure you're well enough to go?” she asked, realizing at that moment just how much she really was going to miss him, although hard-pressed to understand why. Maybe, she thought, it was simply having a man around, even one that required so much care.

“Yes, I'm sure,” he replied.

“Cole.” She looked into his eyes earnestly. “It's time to forget about taking your revenge on that murdering trash. If you don't, you're just gonna drive yourself crazy. Ann wouldn't want you to do that. You've already settled the debt. Let the other two find their own way to hell. That's where they're gonna end up sooner or later, without you to personally send them.” He patiently heard her out, but his stoic countenance told her that she was just wasting words. “Well,” she finally relented, “you're gonna do what
you're gonna do.” Then on impulse, she stepped up and kissed him on the cheek. “Take care of him, Harley,” she said to the grinning stump of a man behind him.

“Yes, ma'am,” Harley responded.

•   •   •

While Cole and Harley rode north out of Cheyenne, the two outlaws who had fled the town were some forty-five miles south in Colorado Territory. Slade Corbett and Jose Sanchez sat beside the stove in a log cabin high up in the foothills of the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains. Another cabin had been built beside the one they occupied, empty now, which was not unusual at this time of the year when the mountain passes were closed by the snow. Constructed over several years' time by fugitives from justice as a place to hide out from the law, it had become known as Rat's Nest.

Like Lem Dawson's Buzzard's Roost in the Laramie Mountains, Rat's Nest was well known among road agents, stage robbers, train robbers, and other men of low character on the run from the law. High up in the hills, on the Cache La Poudre River, it was never visited by honest men, even if they knew of its existence.

At this time, in the dead of winter, there were no other outlaws hiding out in Rat's Nest. It was hard to find, and easy to defend. In order to reach it, a person had to follow a series of old game trails that followed the river up through rocky gorges where the Cache La Poudre formed dangerous rapids in its hurry to reach the valley below. To reach the clearing where the cabins stood, a person had to pass between
the walls of a rock passage, wide enough for only one horse at a time. Because of this, the part-time residents of Rat's Nest felt safe from the long arm of the law, but at this time of the year, it could also seem like a prison of sorts.

“Helluva note,” Slade complained. “There's a lot of places I druther spend the winter than this damn mountain.”

He looked at Sanchez, calmly sharpening his knife on a whetstone, and he wasn't sure he could pass the entire winter with no company but Sanchez. It had not been an issue when the other men were around.

I might end up shooting the bastard before spring gets here,
he thought.

“We're gonna have to go down the river to Fort Collins to get more supplies, before a real storm closes us in up here,” he told Sanchez. “There ain't a damn thing left to eat after we finish up the coffee and bacon.”

Still brooding, Slade had been unable to get over the fact that a lawman had somehow found them in Cheyenne, and Sanchez was tired of talking about it. As far as he was concerned, the marshal found them, and killed Tom Larsen, but the two of them got away, so the one who did not was just unlucky.

“Well, we gotta go down to Fort Collins tomorrow and get supplies,” Slade told him. “Before you drink up all the coffee we got left,” he added.

The remark brought forth nothing more than a smirk and a shrug from Sanchez.

•   •   •

“Afternoon, fellows,” a thin clerk with a shock of black hair and a matching mustache offered when Slade and Sanchez walked into the small store north
of the town of Fort Collins. “Kinda bad day to be travelin', ain't it?”

“That's a fact,” Slade replied, “but there ain't a helluva lot a man can do about the weather, is there?”

The clerk laughed. “Can't argue with that. What can I do for you boys?”

Slade called off a list of supplies that they needed while Sanchez walked back to the door and stared at a building about fifty yards down the road. There were several horses tied to the rail in front of it.

“What's that place down yonder?” he asked the clerk. “Is that a saloon?”

“Sure is,” the clerk said. “Clyde Simpson's place. He just ain't put a sign up yet.”

“Maybe we'll go down there and give him a little business,” Sanchez said. “Whaddaya say, Slade?”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Slade replied. “I could use a little drink to warm my insides.”

“You fellows are new in town, ain'tcha? Leastways, you ain't ever been in here before.”

At once leery of anyone asking questions, Slade quickly said, “We're just passin' through.” He wasn't sure if any of the townsfolk knew about the existence of Rat's Nest. “We've been doin' a little prospectin', got us a little camp back up in the mountains.”

“I expect you'll be payin' with dust,” the clerk said, moving over to a pair of scales on the counter.

“Cash money,” Slade said. The clerk seemed surprised, and made no comment, but he would have bet that the two had never stuck a shovel in the ground. When he glanced up to meet Slade's deadly cold gaze, he decided it best not to ask any more questions. “Thank you, gentlemen. 'Preciate your business.”

Outside, they secured their supplies on the horses, then led them down to the saloon and tied them to the corner post of the porch, next to the hitching rail. From habit, they both took a few moments to look over the horses already tied at the rail, checking not only the quality of the horses, but also the saddles. One of the identifying points of a U.S. marshal was the fine horse he usually rode. The horses they saw there were merely ordinary, some pretty good mounts, others poor to fair. One of them looked to have been ridden long and hard, but nothing about the saddle rig caused them to think it could belong to a lawman. Even so, Slade paused in the door to look the room over before walking in.

“Welcome, men. What'll it be?” The bartender, a heavyset man with beefy arms and a close-cropped beard, stood awaiting their pleasure.

“Somethin' that ain't been watered down,” Slade replied. “Rye, if you got it.”

There was a group of four men standing at the end of the bar. Their loud discussion was difficult not to hear, and Slade's attention was captured at once by a tall, thin man who was doing most of the talking. Slade didn't wait for his drink to be poured. Instead he moved down the bar to join the conversation. The thin man paused to look Slade over before deciding it best to be neighborly.

“Howdy,” he said.

“Howdy,” Slade said. “Go on with what you was sayin'.”

“I was just tellin' these fellers about a shootin' up in Cheyenne,” the thin man said.

“Me and my partner was in Cheyenne not too long ago,” Slade told him. “Who got shot?”

Aware now of the topic of conversation, Sanchez picked up the shot glasses and moved down to listen in on the discussion. He handed Slade his drink and leaned on the bar, waiting for the man to continue.

Recognizing a potential for violence in the faces of the two strangers, the man narrating the story hesitated for a moment before deciding they were just interested because they had just come from Cheyenne.

“Well, like I was tellin' these fellers, there was a shootin' in the saloon over a card game, and a couple of men got shot. One of 'em said the feller settin' across the table from him was dealin' off the bottom. The other feller called him on it and went for his gun. But the one that said he was cheatin' cut him down with a derringer he was holdin' in his lap.”

So that's what started it,
Slade thought, knowing that it sounded like Tom Larsen's style.

“You said there were two men shot,” he said. “Who shot the other one?”

“Some jasper who just walked in the door, went over to the table, and shot that other feller twice, once in the chest and once in the head.”

“Just walked in and shot him?” Slade asked. “Didn't say nothin' to him, just shot him?”

“Well, he did say somethin' to him, but I couldn't hear what it was. The other feller looked like he knew him. He yelled somethin' at him, but I didn't
understand what he said. He got off a shot, hit that stranger in the side, but it didn't even slow him down.”

“Was he a lawman?” Slade asked. “Was he wearin' a badge?”

“Nah, he weren't no lawman. I reckon he just had somethin' to settle with that feller.” He paused then, recalling the rest of the incident. “And that ain't all. With blood runnin' out of a hole in his side, he walked out of the saloon and started toward the hotel, looking to settle somebody else's hash. Damn nigh the whole town went with him, just to see the show. I was in the crowd, too, but whoever he was lookin' for had already took off.” He paused to chuckle. “Good thing, I reckon, 'cause he was sure in a killin' mood.”