Clay Culver pressed on through the night, stopping only when it was necessary to rest his horse. Sleeping for short periods while his horse rested, he had pushed across the open prairie, through South Pass and the mountains beyond. Morning would find him near the pass that led to the small valley called Canyon Creek.
During the past several days he had sighted three Sioux hunting parties ranging far beyond the boundaries of the Red Cloud and Spotted Tail agencies. And there had been a great deal more sign that told of many Sioux parties moving about the territory. It was unusual for this time of year, when most bands were settling into their winter camps. Had he not been so intent upon the welfare of his younger brother, and in such haste to reach him, Clay might have paused to ponder the significance of so much winter movement between the reservation and the camps of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. As it was, the sign served only to warn him to be cautious in the presence of so much Indian activity during the day. As a result, he had made better time at night, setting a steady, ground-eating pace that his surefooted Indian pony could maintain indefinitely.
Approaching the valley from the south pass just before sunup, he passed the burned-out remains of the Cochran place. As he rode silently by, the chilled night sky gradually began to fade away from the blackened comer posts of the cabin, leaving four eerie monuments to mourn what had happened there. Clay did not pause to reflect on the savage massacre of John and Ruth Cochran at the hands of a band of outlaws posing as Indians. He did not know the couple, but knew that they had been good people—this according to his old friend Monk Grissom. It seemed that Canyon Creek had suffered more than its share of tragedy. The thought served to increase his impatience to reach Katie Mashburn’s cabin. With the Cochran place now behind him, he should reach the cabin well before noon.
Just as he figured, the sun was still climbing toward noon when he spotted the cabin that he and Jim had built for Katie. He pulled back on the reins sharply when he rounded the corner of the cornfield. Something was going on at Katie’s. There were several wagons and saddle horses tied up before the cabin. As a natural habit, Clay paused to look the situation over before riding in. There was no sign of anyone outside the cabin. If it was a social gathering, there would be children running around outside playing. Looking toward the tiny corral, he spied the buckskin pony Jim had been riding when he last saw him. That was somewhat reassuring. Nudging the paint pony with his heels, he proceeded toward the cabin at a slow walk. As soon as he passed the new garden plot, he saw people gathered down near the river. He guided his horse in that direction.
He spotted Katie at almost the same time she turned to discover him. “Clay,” she uttered under her breath. The sight of the tall, broad-shouldered scout very nearly brought a tear to the eye of the normally composed young woman, for she had prayed nightly for his return.
His gaze lingered for a moment, engaging hers, before he took notice of the others and realized what the gathering was. There was a fresh grave next to that of Katie’s father. Clay was immediately alarmed. The others, aware of his presence now, turned to greet him. He stepped down from the saddle, accepting the quiet handshakes and greetings, all the while trying to question Katie with his eyes. Seeing the distress in his gaze, she made her way to him as quickly as she could. “It’s Luke,” she whispered.
He could not hide the relief he felt upon hearing the name, for he had feared it might be Jim. Relief immediately replaced by concern once more, he responded, “Luke? How?” He could see the pain in Katie’s eyes as she pulled him aside to relate the tragedy of the past two days.
The news was not good. It was what he had feared he might hear. The cold-blooded bounty hunter had taken Jim, leaving an injured woman behind him and a young life snuffed out. Luke was a fine boy and one person whom Katie had depended upon. It was difficult to believe the brave young Shoshoni lad was no longer there for Katie to lean on. At least she still had Lettie, or so he thought until he took a closer look at the young girl.
The physical injuries were obvious. Lettie’s face was still swollen with dark purple and yellow bruises. The poor girl’s nose had been broken, but Katie felt sure Lettie would look like herself in a few more days. Undetectable were the internal injuries suffered at the massive hand of the savage bounty hunter. Clay had been somewhat surprised that Lettie had not come to greet him, since he and Jim had worked along with her and Katie to build the cabin. Instead she had remained seated on a stool beside the grave of Katie’s father, smiling vacantly at him. He was stunned to learn that the young girl had never been the same since receiving the brutal blow from Slocum’s fist. Katie very nearly lost her composure when she told Clay of the attack. He walked over to Lettie and bent down close to her. Lettie’s smile faded and she looked at him with a vacant stare.
“Lettie,” Clay said softly, “it’s me, Clay.” She continued to stare at him, giving no hint that she understood. “You know me, Lettie,” he tried again. “Can’t you talk to me?”
The girl gave no indication that she heard a word he said, nor any sign that she was even aware of his presence; her only response was to gaze into his face as if watching a sunset. Looking at Clay, Katie’s eyes told him of her desperation as she stroked the frightened girl’s hair. “Well,” she said, “you see what she’s become. She hasn’t uttered a word since I found her lying on the ground by the washpot. I thought she was dead at first; she wasn’t moving. Now it’s like she isn’t even here. I don’t know what to do for her.”
Clay shook his head in a gesture of helplessness. He had seen people knocked senseless before, but they usually either came out of it in a short time, or they died, depending on how hard they were hit. According to Katie, Lettie had been like this for two days. Judging by the marks on her face, it appeared that she had received more than the blow that broke her nose. It was his guess that the blow that left the bruises near her temple was the one that did the serious damage.
As he stood there, gazing at the injured girl, a quiet rage was boiling within him. So engrossed was he in thoughts of his brother, no doubt suffering at the hands of this same ruthless animal, that he was unaware of the people pressing close around him until Nate Wysong spoke.
“Clay, if you’ll lead us, some of us men are ready to go after Jim.”
“That’s right, Clay,” Reverend Lindstrom said. “We oughta be able to round up half a dozen for a posse.”
Lost moments before in his unspoken fury, Clay brought his mind back to deal with the group of men assembled to bury Luke Kendall. Looking now from one face to the other, storekeeper and farmers, Clay’s calm demeanor did not change as he considered their proposal. It seemed to him that the time for the men of Canyon Creek to form a posse would have been two days ago. “I reckon not,” he finally stated.
The reverend’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “What?” he exclaimed. “You’re not going after him?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m going after him. I just ain’t gonna lead a posse after him.”
“You’re plannin’ to go alone?” Lindstrom still found it hard to believe. “You might not appreciate the evil beast you’re going after,” he insisted. “You’re gonna need all the help you can get.”
“That’s where we differ, Reverend. I think I’ve got a pretty fair idea of the grizzly I’m trackin’. I appreciate you folks wantin’ to help Jim, but I’d rather you stayed here and looked after your farms. If you want to make up a posse, I sure can’t stop you. But I ain’t gonna lead it, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stay the hell outta my way.”
Lindstrom and Nate Wysong exchanged looks of surprise. Clay didn’t wait for further discussion, turning on his heel and briskly walking toward his horse. Taking Katie by the arm, he pulled her along with him. When he got to his horse, he turned to face her, his voice low so the others could not hear. “I’m gonna need some food, if you can spare some bacon or something. I’ll be leavin’ after dark. I’ve got to rest my horse first. He’s been rode pretty hard for the last few days.” Katie nodded her understanding. She knew Clay could move faster and considerably more quietly without half a dozen of her neighbors tagging along.
“I’ve got to see my neighbors off,” she said. “Unsaddle your horse and go on in the house. You can get some rest yourself before you start out after Jim.”
He paused a moment while he studied her face. “Will you be all right?” She would be alone now, a thought that had not really struck him until that moment. She couldn’t even count on Lettie as a helping hand.
“Hell, yes,” she immediately replied. “Don’t waste any time worrying about me. Just find Jim before that maniac kills him.”
He nodded, holding her gaze a moment longer before she abruptly turned and went to see the funeral party off. Clay watched her as she walked away. Then he glanced again at Lettie, still seated by the grave, oblivious to the people milling around her. He knew then that something would have to be done to help Katie. She couldn’t run this place by herself. But that would have to wait for another time. The job ahead had to occupy all his concentration now. Turning his attention to his horse, he threw the stirrup up and loosened the girth strap, his mind already working on the possible trails Slocum might have taken.
* * *
Katie stood in front of her cabin, thanking the neighbors as they climbed into their wagons and mounted their horses. She appreciated the support they had shown in mourning the death of the half-breed son of John Kendall. Like Katie herself, Luke had been somewhat of an enigma to the folks in the isolated little valley. In actuality, they knew very little about the boy, except the fact that he was more Shoshoni than white, and he was fiercely devoted to Katie. To some, their attendance at the funeral might have more likely been a memorial for Jim Culver, for there was general speculation among the settlers that Jim was as good as dead. It was with that thought in mind that Reverend Lindstrom lingered after the last wagon turned to leave. Fairly confident of what was on the preacher’s mind, Katie turned to him and waited for him to speak.
Lindstrom favored her with a tired but benevolent smile, looking from Katie’s iron-hard face to the empty face of her young friend, still gazing at some sunset that no one else could see. He shook his head sadly, as if summing up the hardships that had befallen them. “Have you thought about what you’re gonna do?” Lindstrom asked. “You can’t stay on here by yourself.”
“Why not?” Katie replied in quiet defiance.
“Why . . . Why,” Lindstrom said, flustered, “because you just can’t. It’s too much for a woman to handle without no help.”
“I’ve got help,” Katie said, and turned to smile at the childlike girl at her side.
Showing his impatience by sadly shaking his head again, he paused for a long moment before saying, “Lettie’s mind is gone, Katie. It’s hard to accept, and it sure don’t seem fair, but the Lord does things for a reason. First your husband was taken, then your father, now Luke. It’s plain to see that you need a husband to help you farm this place.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and looked her straight in the eye. “This might be the Lord’s way of telling you to find yourself a helpmate. Whitey Branch is a bachelor.” He noticed the immediate raising of her eyebrows at the mention of the name. “I know Whitey ain’t the smartest man in the valley, but he’s a hard worker, and his heart’s in the right place, and he’s a God-fearin’ man.”
“Ha!” Katie exclaimed, unable to hold her reaction any longer. “Whitey Branch, huh? Why, Reverend, when did you get into the match maker business?” She almost laughed in his face. “You’re right about one thing: Whitey sure ain’t the brightest man in the valley. I’ve got chickens smarter than Whitey.”
Sufficiently chastised by her reaction to his suggestion, Lindstrom shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Like most of the men in Canyon Creek, he was hard-pressed to figure Katie Mashburn out. Deciding it useless to press his counsel, he offered weakly, “Well, it was just something for you to think about.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Katie said, “but don’t worry about me. I’ll manage.” She was perceptive enough to guess the reverend’s real concern. His dream of Canyon Creek growing into a sizable settlement was always at the fore front of his thoughts. She figured he was worried that he might lose another of his flock if she decided to pull out and further decrease the population. The fact that he had suggested Whitey Branch as a possible suitor was evidence of his desperation to hold the community together. Poor Whitey, she thought as she stood back to watch Lindstrom climb aboard his wagon, he hasn’t got any more sense than Lettie does right now. It would be a cold day in hell when Katie Mashburn took a husband for no other purpose than to provide a strong back.
The last of the funeral party gone, Katie walked back to the grave, took Lettie gently by the arm, and led her back to the cabin. She glanced toward the corral, where Clay’s horse was eating hay beside Jim’s buckskin pony. She almost thought she saw Luke sitting on the top rail near the corner post—her mind playing tricks on her, she guessed. He often sat there watching his horses. The thought hit her with thunderous impact and she realized how much she would miss the boy. A tear traced its way slowly down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away, forcing herself to regain her self-control. Lettie gazed at her, the faint smile returning to her face. Katie smiled at the troubled girl. “Come on, honey; let’s go inside.”
At first she thought he was gone. Then, when she pushed the door shut, she saw Clay stretched out in a corner of the room, asleep on the floor, his bedroll between him and the dirt floor. She led Lettie to a stool by the fireplace and sat her down. Then she pulled a blanket off of her bed and gently laid it on the sleeping man. Kneeling beside him, she watched him sleep for a few moments. It pleased her to see him sleep so soundly. He was no doubt exhausted from riding day and night for a week. But she knew that if he were camped somewhere in the mountains or on the prairie, he would have been alert at the first little creak of the door opening. It told her that he felt secure in her home. It pleased her. I’ll fix something for you to eat when you wake up, she thought as she got to her feet again.