To his relief, he spotted Walter Hodge driving a horse and wagon from his wheat field, heading toward his barn. Seeing the lone rider approaching from the south, Walter’s son, Sammy, signaled his father. Walter pulled his horse to a stop and turned to follow Sammy’s outstretched arm. Both father and son watched intently until the rider came close enough to identify.
“Hey-yo, Cole,” Walter sang out when Cole was near enough to hear his greeting. There was no indication that Cole had heard, for he did not acknowledge but continued to approach them. Close enough now to see the grim expression on their young neighbor’s face, Walter was pressed to ask, “What’s wrong?”
Having already learned what he had come to confirm, Cole was not interested in wasting time before returning to pick up the trail left by the killers. So he quickly told Walter what had happened. Walter and Sammy were both horrified to hear of the murders and professed to have been totally unaware of the tragedy that had taken place. They claimed there had been no hint of smoke, saying that it probably had been after dark when the cabin was burned, and the wind had evidently been blowing in the opposite direction.
“And you heard no gunshots?” Cole asked.
“No,” Walter said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Maybe for the same reason we didn’t smell any smoke.” He kept shaking his head sadly. “Frances will be devastated. I’m so sorry for your loss,” he added. “I’ll get Frances and we’ll get over to your place right away.”
“Ain’t no use,” Cole stated grimly. “Ain’t nothin’ left but the barn. I buried everybody.”
“You must be about spent,” Walter said. “Come on up to the house and let us get you something to eat or a drink of likker, maybe.”
“No, thanks,” Cole said. “I just came over to make sure you folks were all right and let you know what happened. I’ve got to get back while there’s still some daylight left.”
“What are you gonna do?” Walter asked. His immediate concern was his family and if they were in danger.
“The same thing you’d do, I reckon. I’ll be goin’ after them.” Sensing Walter’s concern, he told him that he suspected that he was targeted because he had killed one of the gang. And the tracks he had found indicated that the killers had headed on, following the Chugwater. “Just the same, it wouldn’t hurt to keep a sharp eye out for any strangers.”
Then he turned his horse abruptly and started back at a lope, leaving Walter and his son to stare after him, still staggered by the unthinkable tragedy.
“You be careful,” Walter called after him. Cole did not acknowledge him. “I didn’t like the look in that man’s eye,” he said to Sammy. “He’s liable to be ridin’ into his own death. Damn, that’s sorrowful news. We best go tell your mother.”
He didn’t express it to his son, but the incident was certainly tragic enough to make him question his family’s safety. He had counted on John Cochran and Cole Bonner to be there in time of need or danger. Now he was the lone man again.
• • •
It was not a difficult trail to follow since the four outlaws continued along the banks of Chugwater Creek. But with little knowledge of the country he was traveling, Cole could not speculate where they might be heading. With a mountain range to the west of him, he guessed that he was not too far from Fort Laramie. And if they stayed on their present course, they would probably strike the Platte River some distance west of the fort. It made little difference to him where they were heading, whether or not it was Fort Laramie or hell itself—he would follow them there and deliver his sentence of death.
As he rode doggedly on, stopping only when it was necessary to rest his horse, he felt empty inside, as if his soul had been torn out of him. There were no thoughts of a future beyond killing the men who had destroyed his life and taken the only thing he truly valued from him. And with nothing to detract from the monotony of the ground he trod upon, it was difficult to discourage thoughts of his beloved Ann. Every memory of their brief time together only served to increase his pain. So he was glad, when near the end of the day, he was suddenly distracted by a movement in the middle of the creek ahead of him.
At once alert, he pulled his rifle from its scabbard and squinted in an attempt to identify it. When about forty yards from the bend in the creek where he had first seen movement, half a dozen antelope came up from the edge of the water, moving in a single line. With his rifle already out and ready to shoot, it was an easy shot, and he brought the lead antelope down. There was no time for a second shot, even had he wanted one, before the swift animals bolted away. Only then did he realize that he had not eaten anything since leaving his wife’s grave. The thought reminded him that he had to continue to take care of himself while searching for his wife’s murderers. And that he could not go without food.
“I reckon this is where we’ll camp for the night,” he announced to Joe. The big Morgan appeared glad to hear it.
With no coffee, and no pot to boil it in, not even a cup, he had to settle for drinking water from the creek, same as Joe. He was fortunate to have the skinning knife he always carried, and a flint and steel in his saddlebags with which to build a fire. He went about the business of skinning and butchering the antelope, telling himself that it was important to keep his strength up. Thinking of the three hundred dollars he had, he decided he would have to spend some of it to better equip and supply himself the first chance he got.
That opportunity came two days later when he approached a small settlement on the Laramie River.
It appeared to be the start-up of what might become a sizable town, with a short row of log buildings and tents already in place. Looking down the street, Cole saw a saloon, a general store, a stable, a blacksmith, and a barber, plus a couple of other buildings that had no signs to identify them. He figured any information regarding the four men he trailed would most likely be obtained at the saloon, but he decided to visit the general store first, because along with his other supplies, he needed to buy cartridges for his rifle.
“Howdy,” Mort Johnson greeted him when he walked into the store. Cole only nodded in reply. The owner of the store looked the stranger over thoroughly before asking, “What can I help you with?”
“I’ll be needin’ some things,” Cole said as he eyed a small coffeepot on a shelf behind the counter. “A box of .44 cartridges to start,” he began, then called off the basic food supplies he needed, which consisted primarily of coffee beans, salt, and dried beans. “How much for that coffeepot?”
“That’s a dandy, ain’t it?” Mort replied. “Just the right size for a feller travelin’ alone.” He paused to glance out the open door and saw Joe tied to the hitching rail. “I reckon you ain’t got no family with you.” Cole didn’t say whether he did or not, so Mort went on. “What brings you to Johnstown? I don’t recall seein’ you come through before.”
“Is that the name of the town?” Cole replied.
“Yup,” Mort said, always eager for a chance to talk about it. “It was named after me. My name’s Mort Johnson, and I’ve run this here tradin’ post for twelve years. Wasn’t nobody here but me until four years ago when folks started movin’ in. I guess they thought it was a good place to settle, since the Injuns hadn’t bothered me.” He chuckled proudly. “They named the town after me, but they shortened it from Johnsontown to Johnstown.”
“How much for the coffeepot?” Cole repeated.
“Dollar and a half,” Mort answered. “You never said whether you was passin’ through or stayin’.”
“Passin’ through,” Cole said. He listed a couple more items that he needed, one of which was a blanket to make a bedroll. After he paid for his purchases, he said, “I’m looking for four men who musta come through here ahead of me, maybe a day or two ago.”
Mort frowned before asking, “They friends of yours?”
“Nope,” Cole replied. “I’m just lookin’ for ’em.”
“You ain’t by any chance a lawman, are you?”
“No,” Cole said. “I’m just lookin’ for ’em—thought maybe you mighta seen ’em.”
Still with a deep frown on his face, Mort said, “I’ve seen ’em all right. Night before last they shot Cotton Smith, the bartender in the saloon. We don’t hold still for that kind of trouble in Johnstown. We’re a respectable town, and to make sure it stays respectable, we have a vigilance committee to see that outlaws and murderers don’t hang around here.” He paused and laughed when he realized what he had just said. “I reckon I shoulda said we got a committee to see that outlaws and murders do hang around here.”
Tense now with the realization that he might be catching up with Slade Corbett and his men, Cole ignored Mort’s attempt at humor and pressed for more information. “So they got away from your vigilance committee?”
“Yeah, all except one, and he’s locked up in jail, waitin’ for a detail of soldiers to come get him and take him over to Fort Laramie for trial.”
Cole immediately felt the muscles in his arms tensing.
One of them is here!
His expression remained stoic, however, never revealing the storm raging inside him. “If he shot the bartender, why didn’t you just go ahead and hang him?” he asked.
“Tell you the truth, we was of a mind to, but he ain’t the one who shot Cotton. It was the mean-lookin’ son of a bitch with the silver hatband that pulled the trigger.”
“Slade Corbett,” Cole muttered softly to himself.
“Is that his name?” Mort asked. “I ain’t ever seen a meaner snake than that feller. The one we caught said his name’s Smiley Dodd. We were lucky to get him. Buck Wiley, the blacksmith, got ahold of his coattail when they jumped on their horses—pulled him right outta the saddle and landed him on his ass. The other three got away, though, and I don’t reckon they’ll come back to Johnstown. And the army will take care of Mr. Smiley Dodd.”
“What do you think the army will do with him?” Cole wanted to know, not at all pleased with the notion of handing him over to be tried. The army might not know how vile a murderer this man was.
“I ain’t got no idea,” Mort replied. “Throw him in jail for a while, I guess, because he didn’t really do anything but raise a little hell and damage a couple of chairs in the saloon. We’d just hold him ourselves, but we ain’t really got no jail.”
“No jail?” Cole responded. “Where have you got him locked up?”
“In the smokehouse behind the stables,” Mort said. “He ain’t goin’ anywhere. That smokehouse is built outta solid logs with a padlock on the door, and we got members of the vigilance committee takin’ turns watchin’ him till the army comes to get him.” He paused then and watched Cole for a few seconds. “What are you lookin’ for them fellers for?” It seemed to him that the young man was deep in serious thought.
“They owe me something,” he said, and that was as far as he cared to go with it. What they owed him were their lives, and he had vowed on Ann’s grave that he would accept nothing less. Ready to leave, he paid for his purchases, then hesitated before putting his money away. “If that little coffeepot was a dollar, I’d buy it.”
Mort grinned as he responded, “Well, you gimme a pretty good order, so I might let you have it for a dollar and a quarter.”
“Done,” Cole said. “I’ll take it.”
Mort walked outside with him and helped carry his supplies. He stood watching as Cole filled his saddlebags until they could hold no more. “Looks like you need a sack for the rest of that stuff,” Mort commented. “I’ll getcha one.” He went back inside, returning moments later with a cotton sack.
Cole tied it on his saddle. “Much obliged,” he said.
Mort nodded and remarked, “You was down to just about nothin’. How much farther are you goin’?”
“Don’t know,” Cole answered honestly, then stepped up into the saddle before Mort could think of any more questions.
He turned Joe’s head toward the stables at the end of the street and held the horse to a lively walk as he looked for the smokehouse Mort had mentioned. He had a lot to think about. The fact that one of the men who had murdered his wife and family was locked in a smokehouse no more than forty or fifty yards from him was causing him to struggle with indecision. It was unthinkable that a cold-blooded murderer might receive no more punishment than a short stay in the guardhouse at Fort Laramie. If what Mort had told him was true, that he was being held for nothing more than disturbing the peace and minor property damage, then it was very much likely that this would be the case.
The thought of waiting for the soldiers to show up, and then shooting Smiley when they let him out of the smokehouse, was tempting. He had to discard that idea, however, because it gave him little chance of escaping unharmed after taking the shot. And while it might give him the satisfaction of killing one of the outlaws, it might also mean that the other three would go unpunished.
On the other hand, if he simply followed the cavalry patrol back to Fort Laramie and waited for Smiley’s release, the murderer’s three accomplices would get even farther away by that time. He might never find them. He could choose to forget the one in order to make sure that the three did not get away, but he felt that the dead cried out to him that they all must die or vengeance would not be complete.
Perplexed, he sought a place to think about his decision, so he rode up the river about a quarter of a mile to a shady grove of cottonwoods and dismounted. While Joe grazed on the riverbank, Cole brushed a light dusting of snow from a log and sat down to decide what he was going to do.
• • •
It was well after sundown, and a moonless sky cloaked the cottonwoods in darkness when Cole rode Joe slowly out of the trees and headed back to town. To avoid being seen by anyone at the noisy saloon, he rode behind it until he came to the stables and the smokehouse.
Guiding Joe toward the rear of the smokehouse, he dismounted when he was within about twenty yards and pulled his rifle from the saddle sling. Mort Johnson had told him that there would be a guard at the makeshift jail at all times, so he skirted the building in the darkness until he saw a figure sitting by a fire in front of the door. Dropping to one knee, he watched the guard for a few minutes and decided that the man’s main interest was simply to keep warm. He then turned his attention to the stables in front of the smokehouse and watched for a few minutes. There was no sign of anyone there. The only things stirring were a few horses left in the corral for the night. His mind made up, he rose to his feet, pulled his bandanna off his neck and retied it around his face, then walked boldly toward the smokehouse.
“Whoa!” Jonah Welch blurted, taken completely by surprise. “Is that you, Paul?” he asked, unable to make out the man’s features in the dark. He struggled to get up out of his comfortable position by the fire, only to be met by the barrel of Cole’s rifle against his forehead before he was halfway up. When he looked up to see the masked man hovering over him, he sank slowly back to a sitting position. Convinced that he was about to cross that dark divide that awaited all men, he pleaded, “For God’s sake, mister, hold on. I’ve got a wife and young’uns. Whatever you’re after, I ain’t gonna give you no trouble.”
“Unlock the door,” Cole ordered. He had no intention of harming the man, so he hoped he was as scared as he seemed. “Smiley Dodd,” he called, “you in there?”
“Hell yeah,” Smiley answered, fully as surprised as his guard, Jonah Welch, had been. “Who is that?”
“A friend,” Cole answered. Then he glared at Jonah when the trembling man failed to open the padlock. “Mister, I ain’t got time to fool with you. Unlock that damn door.”
Shaking with fright, Jonah whimpered, “I ain’t got no key. Mort Johnson’s got the key. He won’t unlock it till he brings the prisoner some breakfast in the morning.”
This was disappointing news to Cole, causing him to hesitate while he decided what to do. Determined to carry out his plan, however, he ordered Jonah to surrender the rifle beside him. “You wearin’ a handgun?” he asked as he took the rifle from him. When Jonah opened his coat and showed him that he wasn’t, Cole told him to get on his feet. “Turn around and put your hands on the wall.” Jonah did as he was ordered and faced the front wall of the building with the palms of his hands flat against the logs. “You just stay that way,” Cole said, “and maybe you won’t get hurt.”
“Did Slade send you?” Smiley called out impatiently. “Hurry up and get me outta here.”
“Hold your horses,” Cole told him. He tested the hinges on the smokehouse door. There were only two, and they were held in place by two nails each. It didn’t surprise him. Smokehouses weren’t built with imprisoning outlaws in mind. And whoever built it wasn’t worrying about cured hams trying to break out. The hinges seemed to be firmly attached, but he felt sure they could be loosened with something to use for leverage. He looked around for a lever of some kind, but he could see nothing in the darkness. Then he remembered Jonah’s rifle.
That might do it, he thought.
There was a large enough crack between the edge of the door and the doorframe to insert the barrel of the rifle, so he wedged it up as close to the top hinge as he could. It wasn’t necessary to tell Smiley what to do. As soon as he saw what Cole was attempting, he put his shoulder to the door and tried to help.
Cole applied all the force he could muster behind the resisting hinge until, finally, the nails began to back out of the door frame. Smiley, becoming more excited with the considerable show of progress, increased his efforts, banging against the door like a bull. Suddenly the hinge pulled free of the frame, causing the door to sag away at the top.
Held now by only a bottom hinge and the padlocked clasp, the door hung open far enough for Smiley to step through the opening. “Hot damn!” he exclaimed, truly amazed to have been rescued. Anxious to complete his escape, he didn’t take time to look closely at the masked stranger who had freed him. Instead he looked around frantically.
“There are some horses in the corral there,” Cole said, nodding toward the back of the stables. “Pick one out.”
“Pick one out?” Smiley retorted. “Hell, I want my horse and my saddle.”
“We ain’t got time for you to break into the tack room in the stable. I’ve got money to buy you a new outfit when we get away from here. We need to leave now, before the next fellow comes to relieve this guard. So just grab any horse with a bridle on it and let’s go.”
“You’ve got money?” Smiley replied, confused by the entire situation. He was still surprised that Slade and the others would bother to come back for him. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I told you. A friend,” Cole answered. “Now, let’s not waste any more time here.” He turned his attention to Jonah then, who was still standing flat against the wall. “You can step inside now and go sit in the back corner.” Jonah obeyed immediately.
“Shoot the son of a bitch!” Smiley blurted. “He’ll tell ’em which way we went.”
“No, he won’t,” Cole said. “He’s gonna stay put in that smokehouse till we’re outta sight, ’cause he knows I’ll shoot him if he sticks his nose out in the light of that fire. Ain’t that right, mister?”
“Yes, sir,” Jonah replied. “I ain’t in no hurry to get shot.”
“And I can see that fire for a long way,” Cole continued. “If I shoot him before you get a horse, we’ll have half the town runnin’ out here to see what’s goin’ on. So get goin’.”
Smiley wasn’t tickled with the plan. He wanted his horse and saddle. He was fond of the buckskin gelding he had stolen in Kansas. But on the other hand, the idea of buying a whole new outfit wasn’t bad, either, so he ran to the corral and climbed over the rails. As luck would have it, his buckskin was among the horses there. He almost blurted out in surprise.
“Hell,” he muttered, “I bet I can get my saddle, too.” He paused to take a look around. There was no one around the place but the masked man and the scared little fellow in the smokehouse. There was a locked door to the barn inside the corral. “We’ll spend that jasper’s money on somethin’ more pleasurable,” he said, and kicked the door in.
Cole couldn’t help wondering if he had overplayed his hand. Smiley was taking far too much time in the corral, and he could hear the sound of the outlaw’s boots thudding against the door. Maybe he was too smart to be taken in by the simple ruse and was figuring on running out the other side of the barn. He decided to go in to search for him, but the gate to the corral opened just then, and Smiley burst out riding a buckskin horse, saddle and all. “Let’s make tracks!” he blurted to Cole as he rode by.
Cole had no choice but to turn Joe and gallop after him, but before he did, he emptied the cartridges from Jonah’s rifle, just in case he decided to take a parting shot. “I’d be careful about using this rifle if I was you,” he called out to the man inside. “I bent the barrel a little bit on that door, and it might split on you if you try to shoot it.” There was no sound or reply from inside the dark smokehouse, so Cole gave Joe a firm nudge and set off after Smiley.
Anxious to put as much ground behind him as possible, Smiley held the buckskin to a reckless gallop over the darkened prairie, with Cole giving close chase. They maintained the pace for almost two miles, until finally Cole shouted for him to hold up.
“It don’t make much sense to run the horses to death,” he told him. “If we don’t walk ’em for a spell, you and me are gonna be on foot with a posse after us.” Smiley couldn’t disagree, so he reluctantly dismounted and led his horse beside Cole.
“Who’d you say you was?” Smiley asked again.
“I’m an old friend of Slade’s from way back,” Cole replied. “He sent word for me to come get you outta that smokehouse.”
“Slade ain’t ever said nothin’ about knowin’ somebody around here. Seems kinda funny he ain’t even mentioned it. How’d he have time to send word to you?”
“You ask too damn many questions,” Cole said. “You’re out of that smokehouse, ain’t you?”
“Yeah, I reckon,” Smiley replied, still finding his jailbreak more and more strange. “How long you gonna keep that bandanna tied around your face?”
“I forgot I had it on,” Cole lied. “I couldn’t take a chance on that fellow back there recognizin’ me.” He pulled it down just below his chin, counting on the night to mask his features, and hoping Smiley didn’t recognize him at once.
Although confused by the sudden appearance of a strange rescuer whom he had had no knowledge of before, Smiley did not suspect foul play. In fact, he took little notice of Cole’s face as they led the horses in the darkness.
“They took my rifle,” he complained. “It wasn’t in the saddle sling. I’m gonna have to get another one, first chance I get. We shoulda took that feller’s back there.”
“The barrel was bent,” Cole said.
Smiley held up a pistol for Cole to see. “They didn’t get this .44 I had in my saddlebag, though.” He checked the cylinder to make sure it was loaded. As they continued walking while the horses caught their breath, Cole was trying to decide the best way to find out where Slade and the other two were going when they fled Johnstown. In a few moments, however, Smiley asked the question “Where the hell are Slade and the boys? Where are we supposed to meet ’em?”
Cole had to think fast. “He said you’d know. That’s all he told me. Said you’d know where they’re headin’.”
“I’d know?” Smiley responded. “How the hell would I know?” He thought for a minute before speculating. “Well, we was plannin’ on headin’ up in the mountains after we left Cheyenne to lie up awhile, but I don’t know where he figures we’ll catch up to him.” He scratched his shaggy whiskers thoughtfully. “Best I can figure, he must be plannin’ on goin’ back to Buzzard’s Roost, up in the mountains. At least, that’s where we was talkin’ about goin’. Reckon that’s where he meant?”
“I reckon,” Cole replied. Hoping to get more specific directions to Buzzard’s Roost, a place he had never heard of, he pressed for more information. “I’ve heard of that place, but I ain’t ever been there. I ain’t sure I could find it, if I was on my own.”
“Easy enough,” Smiley said. “Follow the creek up from the river where Lem Dawson’s tradin’ post sets. . . .”
He paused abruptly, suddenly sensing something wrong, and he realized that he had not been able to get a close look at this stranger who said Slade sent him. It seemed to him that any friend of Slade’s would know where Buzzard’s Roost was. And ever since he had pulled his bandanna off, the man had kept his face turned aside, never facing him head-on.
“Wait a minute,” Smiley said, straining to get a better look at his benefactor. “Ain’t I seen you someplace before?” It struck him then. “You’re the bastard that shot Frank Cowen in that hotel dining room.” He hesitated as he formed the picture in his mind. “That was you!” He jerked the .44 from his belt and aimed it at Cole but wasn’t quick enough to beat the bullet already on its way from Cole’s rifle. He folded over when the slug tore into his belly, causing him to fire his pistol into the ground at his feet. Even as he dropped to his knees, he tried to pull the trigger again, but Cole knocked the weapon from his hand.
Helpless now, his eyes glazed with the searing pain in his gut, he gasped, “Why?”
“Those people you and your friends killed on the Chugwater, they were my family, my wife—and you animals slaughtered them, that’s why.” No longer able to remain on his knees, Smiley keeled over to land on his side, his pudgy face twisted in a painful snarl. “You’re dyin’,” Cole said. “You might as well tell me what river Lem Dawson’s tradin’ post is on. Maybe that’ll help make up some for your sins.”
“Go to hell,” Smiley choked out with a mouthful of blood. “You broke me out so you could kill me?”
“That’s a fact,” Cole said. “And I’ll find the other three sooner or later,” he stated stoically. “Tell me where to find them, and I’ll put an end to your sufferin’.”
“Go to hell,” Smiley repeated.
Cole studied the dying man’s face for a few moments. There was no compassion in his heart for him. “Have it your way,” he said. “Maybe you’ll die before the coyotes and the buzzards start to feed on your worthless carcass.”
He cranked another cartridge into the chamber and put another slug in Smiley’s midsection to make sure he died, although not too fast. He didn’t feel that it was right for the murderer to slip easily into death.
• • •
Even though one more of the killers had paid the ultimate price for his sins, there was no feeling of solace for the determined executioner. The fact that he had been transformed into a killing machine with no purpose beyond the fulfillment of total vengeance was of no moral consequence to him. His thoughts turned immediately to the unfinished business he had sworn to complete. He had hoped to learn more regarding the possible whereabouts of Slade Corbett, the man called Tom, and the Mexican, but at least he had one clue to work on. Smiley had said that their plan had been to go up in the mountains.
As cold as it had already been, it seemed odd to him that they would be heading up in the mountains. But if that was true, it could be anywhere north or west of where he now stood. The closest mountains would be the Laramie Range, directly west. And if that had been their intended destination, then maybe the trading post was on the Laramie River. He could think of no better option than to proceed on that assumption. There was little doubt that a posse from Johnstown would soon be on its way, but they would most likely wait until daylight to have any hopes of following his tracks. And just like the posse, Cole would have to wait until sunup for any hope of finding tracks left by Slade and the others. With those facts in mind, he decided there was no risk to camp where he was until dawn. So he picked up Smiley’s weapons, tied a lead rope on his horse, and rode downstream until he found a campsite that suited him.
He surprised himself by falling asleep soon after making his camp, waking only after the first rays of sunshine began infiltrating the mist rising from the river. Startled as he was by the fact that he had slept through the remainder of the night, his automatic reaction upon opening his eyes was to reach for his rifle to defend himself. His sudden move was met with bored indifference on the part of Joe, as the Morgan and the buckskin grazed peacefully on the riverbank. When there appeared to be no cause for urgency on his part, Cole decided to rekindle the fire and make some coffee.
When he had finished his coffee, he saddled the horses and rode back up the river to the site of the execution. Just as he had suspected, Smiley was only a few yards from where he had left him, no doubt having tried to crawl away from the spot. His corpse stared up at Cole in eternal agony, evidence of his final hours. With no feelings of compassion or conscience, Cole relieved the body of its gun belt and searched its clothing for anything he might have use for. The decision to be made now was whether or not to go upriver or down in hopes of finding Lem Dawson’s trading post.