Two entire days were wasted riding up and down the river, upstream on the first day, then downstream on the second. There was no trading post to be found, and he had to conclude that if Lem Dawson’s place was on this river, then it had to be a hell of a way from the crossing where he now stood. Bitter frustration threatened to overcome him, because there was no reasonable way to decide which way to go, and no certainty that the trading post was even on this river. Maybe he hadn’t gone far enough north. Maybe Dawson’s store was on the Platte. That would make more sense, if the man was looking for more trade. There would be a lot more travelers on the Platte.
Reluctant to start out in the wrong direction, he decided to camp where he was, even though there were still a couple of hours of daylight left. So he unsaddled the horses and gathered wood for a fire. When his stomach suddenly reminded him that he had forgotten to eat again, he unwrapped the major portion of the antelope haunch, which was all that was left of his kill. He had packed it in a sack filled with snow to keep it fresh, so he hoped it hadn’t spoiled.
If it has, he thought, it’ll just come back up and I’ll have an empty stomach again, no worse off than I am now. With that in mind, he fashioned a leaning spit out of green cottonwood branches to roast it over the fire.
• • •
He had no idea how long he had sat there by the fire, his mind lost in his loneliness for his wife. Somewhere in the darkness of the prairie, he heard the howl of a coyote, and it caused him to realize that he had become a relentless hunter as well. It was a role he had never wished to play, but driven by his grief, his every thought seemed to be a desire to kill.
“Hello the camp! Mind if I come in?”
Abruptly shaken from his trance, Cole dropped the strip of antelope he had been eating, grabbed his rifle, and rolled away from the firelight. He had been taken completely by surprise. There had not been a sound to alert him that he had company, not so much as a nicker from the horses. The voice had come from the stand of trees close to the riverbank, but as yet, he could not see anyone in the fading evening light. “Come on out where I can see you,” he yelled back, his Henry trained on the spot where he had heard the voice.
“You ain’t aimin’ to shoot me, are ya?”
“Not if you’re peaceable,” Cole answered, surprised again when this time the voice came from another spot in the trees, close to the horses.
“I’m peaceable,” the man said, and stepped out from behind a cottonwood.
“Then come on in,” Cole said, still holding his rifle ready to fire.
Cole watched as his surprise guest approached the fire. A short stump of a man, he strode easily toward him on a pair of legs bowed as if they had been formed around a barrel. Clothed in animal skins from head to toe, he might have been mistaken for an Indian were it not for the heavy gray beard covering most of an elfish face burned red by the sun.
“Good evenin’ to ya, friend,” the man said. “I caught the smell of that meat roastin’ when I come up the river just now. Thought I’d best see who was doin’ the cookin’. I almost run up on a Sioux huntin’ party a ways up the river, and they ain’t been too friendly lately.”
“You’re welcome to share some of this antelope,” Cole offered. “This haunch is all I’ve got left, but it’s more’n enough for both of us.”
“Why, thank you kindly,” he said. “My name’s Harley Branch. Don’t reckon you’ve got any coffee, have you? I ain’t had no coffee in quite a spell.”
“I might,” Cole replied, thinking his brand-new coffeepot was obvious enough, sitting in the coals of the fire. “Cole Bonner,” he said. “You got a cup?”
“Sure do,” Harley said. “I’ll go get it—left it on my saddle.”
Cole watched the odd little man as he walked back toward Joe and the buckskin, grazing near the water’s edge. In the fading light, he could see that there was now an extra horse munching grass next to them.
Damn! he thought. It’s a good thing he ain’t a horse thief. If he was, I’d be on foot now.
Normally sharp of ear, he scolded himself for not being more alert. In a few seconds, Harley returned with a tin cup. Without hesitating, he picked up the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. Swishing the pot around a couple of times before returning it, he said, “Feels a tad light. Reckon I got the last cup?” He gave Cole a wide grin. “Ain’t a very big pot to start with, is it?”
“I don’t usually have guests for supper,” Cole said. Looking the little man over carefully now, he could see that he was not wearing any weapons, so he decided he wasn’t up to any mischief and was just intent upon taking advantage of free food and coffee. “I’ll fill it with some more water. That was just the first pot with those grounds.”
“Here, I’ll do that,” Harley said. “I reckon that’s the least I oughta do since you’re furnishin’ the coffee.” He went at once to the water’s edge and scooped more of the dark river water into the pot, being careful not to lose any of the remaining grounds. When he returned, he placed the pot in the coals again, pulled a strip of the roasting meat off the spit, and settled himself beside the fire to eat it with his coffee.
“’Preciate the hospitality,” he said as he helped himself to another strip of meat. “Antelope’s good eatin’. I’m partial to elk, but there ain’t no elk in this part of the country. Bighorns, there’s elk up in them mountains. I need to get up that way again.” He finally paused in his rambling recitation to study his impassive host for a few moments. “I swear, young feller, I reckon I’ve been rattlin’ on like a magpie, ain’t I? It’s been a while since I’ve had a human being to talk to. So, where are you headin’, Mr. Cole Bonner? Fort Laramie?”
“No,” Cole replied. “Is that where you’re headin’?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Harley replied. “Maybe I’ll end up there or somewhere else. I hadn’t thought about it that much. I got a little camp back up in the mountains, but I got tired of talkin’ to myself. Thought I might go visit some Crow friends of mine before winter set in too hard to get through the passes. Sometimes I hunt down this way, and once in a while I’ll ride on over to Fort Laramie. I can trade my hides there.” He poured himself another cup of coffee. “I need to get over to the fort pretty soon, though. I forgot how good coffee tastes, ’cause I’ve been out awhile.”
Cole figured he’d save Harley the trouble of asking for a handout. “I just bought some coffee beans in Johnstown. I can let you have some.”
“Well, that’s mighty neighborly of you,” he said. “Maybe we can make a trade. You said this antelope was the last meat you’ve got. I’ve got a packhorse below the riverbank on the other side of your horses, and he’s totin’ two mule deer I was fixin’ to skin and butcher just as soon as I could set up a camp and get me a fire goin’. Whaddaya say you gimme a hand and I’ll share the meat with you, fifty-fifty?”
Harley’s suggestion served to alter Cole’s opinion of him. The little man was not a beggar after all. The offer of a supply of deer meat was generous indeed. “All right,” Cole quickly agreed. “How far have you been totin’ those deer? I didn’t hear any gunshots, and I’ve been here for a couple of hours.”
“’Bout five miles, I reckon. You didn’t hear no gunshots ’cause these two deer was shot with bow and arrows.”
Cole was impressed. “And you managed to get close enough to shoot two of ’em? That’s pretty damn good.”
Harley grinned. “I didn’t say I shot ’em. Like I just said, I almost run up on a Sioux huntin’ party. They was trailing a good-sized herd of mule deer. They killed two of ’em and left ’em while they went after the rest. The poor things looked so lonesome a-layin’ there, I didn’t have the heart to leave ’em.”
“You stole deer that a Sioux huntin’ party killed?” Cole couldn’t believe his ears. He unconsciously looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see a band of angry Indians bearing down upon them. “And now you led ’em straight to me?”
“Hell, they’ve done it to me before,” Harley said. “Besides, it’ll save me some cartridges.” There was no mistaking the concern he saw in Cole’s eyes, so he tried to reassure him. “If you’re worried about me leadin’ ’em here, there ain’t no need to. I was real careful about not leavin’ my trail—crossed over the river a couple of times. And dark as it is, they couldn’t hardly follow a trail till mornin’, anyway. That’s the reason I was waitin’ so late to make camp. I wanted to make sure I got far enough away from them Sioux before I went to work on them carcasses.” When Cole still looked a little skeptical, Harley continued. “Them boys are a little piece offa their usual range this far over on the Laramie. This is mostly Crow country, so they’ve got to mind they don’t get caught too close to ol’ Medicine Bear’s village. That’s where I was headin’ when I saw your camp.”
That was even more news to Cole. “There’s an Indian village near this spot?”
“Yeah, but they’s Crow, friendly with white men,” Harley assured him.
“Damn,” Cole swore softly, realizing how lost he was, with no idea where to look for the three men he sought. “We might as well get started with that butcherin’,” he said with a shrug.
Harley grinned happily. “Now you’re talkin’. We’ll cut out some fresh meat for a couple of days and smoke the rest of it for jerky.” He was still pleased that he had met someone to talk to. He had been a long time alone, and Cole Bonner seemed like a man you could turn your back on. Harley decided that right off. “I’ll go get my packhorse,” he said, but paused a moment. “You never said where you was headin’.”
“I’m lookin’ for Lem Dawson’s tradin’ post,” Cole said.
Harley hesitated, thinking that maybe he had been wrong about the broad-shouldered young man, and he remembered thinking that it was a little strange that there were two saddles lying near the fire.
What, he wondered, happened to the fellow who sat in the other saddle?
“Lem Dawson, huh? You a friend of Lem’s?”
“Never met the man,” Cole answered. “I ain’t really lookin’ for him. I’m lookin’ for the tradin’ post. I’ve got some business near there, and I was thinkin’ it might be on this river, but I ain’t found it yet.”
“You won’t, neither,” Harley said, thinking he might have jumped to the wrong assumption. Maybe Cole was a lawman. “This is the Laramie River. Lem Dawson’s place is on the North Laramie.”
“You know where it is?”
“I know where ever’thin’ is in this part of the territory,” Harley replied. “You help me get this meat cured, and I’ll take you there.”
He knew he should not have doubted his instincts. There was no way this young man could be part of that murderous scum that hung out at Lem Dawson’s place. “I’m thinkin’ you’re a lawman. Is that right?”
“Hell no,” Cole replied at once. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Just took a notion,” Harley said, still convinced he had guessed right.
Most likely one of them secret government detectives, he thought. Don’t surprise me that he denies it. He don’t want nobody to know his secret.
They worked late into the night, butchering the deer, roasting some of the meat and smoke-curing the rest until Harley determined it would not spoil. The next morning they packed the meat on the extra horses. Watching Cole trying to fashion a makeshift version of a packsaddle for the buckskin, Harley finally had to make an observation. “Don’t usually see somebody usin’ a ridin’ saddle on their packhorse,” he commented dryly.
“It didn’t start out as a packhorse,” Cole replied, but offered no further explanation.
“I figured somebody had to have been settin’ in it, but I didn’t say anythin’ about it. Ain’t none of my business.”
But you just did, didn’t you? Cole thought. The task that he had sworn himself to accomplish was no one’s business but his, and he felt no desire to make it known to every person he happened to meet along the way.
“It was makin’ do just fine,” he said, referring to the saddle. “I’ll just have to rig up a couple more knots to tie this extra meat on. I reckon I’d best get it done so we can get the hell outta here.” He shot a sideways glance at Harley. “Just in case you didn’t cover your trail as good as you said. I expect there’s gonna be a party of angry Sioux hunters lookin’ for the feller who stole their meat.”
“You might be right about that,” Harley admitted. “But we ain’t but about five miles from that Crow village I told you about. We wouldn’t have to worry about no Sioux huntin’ party there in Medicine Bear’s camp.”
“You said you could take me to Lem Dawson’s tradin’ post,” Cole insisted. “That’s where I need to go.”
“I was just sayin’,” Harley was quick to reply. “I’ll take you to Dawson’s, like I said.”
He studied the intense young man’s face as he finished tying up his rough-fashioned packsaddle. Granted, he had known Cole for a very brief time, but he couldn’t help noticing that Cole had never cracked a smile. There had to be something weighing heavily on his mind. And if it had to do with Lem Dawson and his kind, it might be serious trouble Cole was riding into.
Ordinarily Harley would think only about distancing himself from whatever trouble the intense young stranger was heading for. But he had a feeling about Cole Bonner, a feeling that basically he was a good man. Harley was not ready to give up the notion that Cole was a secret government agent, but maybe there was something more involved, something personal, and it had to do with Lem Dawson, or the rats that hung around him. In good conscience, he couldn’t hold his tongue any longer.
“I expect you know best,” Harley started out. “I said I’d take you to Dawson’s place, so that I will. And I reckon you know the kind of men you’ll most likely run into when you get there. I don’t know what you’re aimin’ to do, but if you’re thinkin’ about stirrin’ up any trouble with that bunch he usually has around him, you’re gonna need more men.”
Cole realized then that Harley might be having second thoughts about acting as his guide. “All I’m askin’ you to do is to show me where the tradin’ post is,” he quickly assured him. “Like I said, I’ve got no business to settle with Lem Dawson—don’t know the man. I just need to find his store. When I find that, I’ll know how to get to the place I wanna go.”
Harley scratched his head thoughtfully, confused by the roundabout explanation he had just heard. Why didn’t he just say where it was he wanted to go? He thought about Dawson’s store. There wasn’t any place anywhere around it. That’s why outlaws hung around there. Then it struck him.
“Buzzard’s Roost!” he blurted. “You’re lookin’ to find Buzzard’s Roost, ain’t you?”
“You know it?” Cole asked, surprised. He had figured it to be a secret hideout that only a few outlaws knew about.
“Hell, I know about ever’thin’ in this part of the territory. I told you that.” He reined his horse to a stop. “What I don’t know is why you’re wantin’ to go there, and I ain’t sure if I wanna take you. If you’re part of that sorry bunch that hides out up that mountain, then I reckon we’d best part company right here, and you can find it on your own.” He dropped his hand to rest on the pistol he wore, just as a precaution against a violent response.
Seeing his reaction, Cole was at once alarmed that he was about to lose his guide. He was already far behind the three men he was after. He couldn’t afford to lose more time. From the beginning, he had decided to tell no one that he intended to avenge the deaths of the people who meant the most to him. He still thought that was best, but knowing he might save precious time if Harley accompanied him, he reluctantly told him why he wanted to find Buzzard’s Roost.
“There were four of the murderers who left my place on Chugwater Creek,” Cole concluded. “I caught up with one of them at a place called Johnstown. That’s where the empty saddle came from. There are three more that I have to catch up with before my wife and the rest of my family can rest in peace.”
“Good Lord in heaven . . .” Harley drew out a long, slow exclamation after hearing of the massacre of Cole’s family. He said nothing more for a long moment while he thought about what he had just heard. “That is a sorry piece of news. I’ll take you there, if you’re determined that’s what you need to do. I damn sure don’t blame you for wantin’ to kill them bastards. I’m just hopin’ you ain’t bitin’ off more’n you can chew, and I’d hate to see you end up in the ground with your wife. These are dangerous men, sounds to me, and you say you’ve settled with two of ’em. Maybe that’s enough to pay for what they done.” He could see in Cole’s face that it wasn’t. “All right, then, we’ll go. We’re about half a day from the North Laramie, and Lem Dawson’s place is a short half day upriver from where we’ll strike it.”
“I appreciate it, Harley. If you can lead me through these hills between the two rivers, you don’t have to take me all the way to the tradin’ post. Just head me in the right direction, and then you can be done with me and get along to wherever you were headin’ before.”
“I was on my way to Medicine Bear’s village,” Harley said. “Figured on winterin’ with ’em, instead of spendin’ the winter by my lonesome. Them two mule deer was gonna be a present to the old chief, but seems to me that somebody needs to help you get your ass in trouble. So I’ll take you to Lem’s place.”
• • •
It took a bit longer than Harley had predicted, owing to a heavy snowfall during the night. “Well, yonder it is,” Harley finally pointed out when he pulled his horse up short of a sharp bend in the narrow river, just as the sun was sinking behind the mountains to the west.
Cole urged Joe forward a few paces to get a better look at the weathered log cabin sitting in the trees lining the bank of the river. Behind the cabin, there were two outbuildings, and off to one side, a barn with a small corral. Unaware of the tightening of the muscles in his arms and the increase in the beating of his heart, Cole looked hard at the simple building as if he was trying to see inside it.
“There’s a stream on the other side of the cabin,” Harley said. “The trail you’re lookin’ for follows that stream up the mountain.”
“As hard as this place is to find, why do they need another hideout up the mountain?” Cole asked.
“Dawson’s been here a long time,” Harley said. “The Crows told the army about his tradin’ post, and the fact that it was a hideout for outlaws on the run. Ever’thin’ was fine till a cavalry patrol paid him a visit one day, lookin’ for some fellers that killed some folks over at that hog ranch at Fort Laramie. After that, Lem built him a new place up on the side of that mountain. The army don’t know about that one. Ain’t no way up but that narrow trail along the stream, and if the law does find it, whoever’s up there can go down the other side of the mountain.”
“Much obliged,” Cole said, never taking his eyes off the cabin. “I can go the rest of the way by myself.”
“I don’t know if you’re plannin’ on goin’ in the store or not,” Harley said. “But if you ain’t, and you don’t want Lem to know you’re goin’ up that trail to Buzzard’s Roost, I’d advise you to ride up this ravine, then cut across to strike the trail by the stream halfway up. That way, you’ll be above Lem’s place, and nobody’ll see where you’re goin’.”
Cole nodded. “That makes sense to me,” he said, “but I thought you said there ain’t but one way up.”
“Well, there ain’t for most folks,” Harley said. “But I don’t count myself with most folks.”
Cole almost smiled when he turned to thank the crusty little man again for his help.
“I’ll tell you what,” Harley said, “I’ll ride up this ravine with you, and I’ll hold your extra horse while you cut across to Buzzard’s Roost. As fast as the snow’s pilin’ up on that slope, you’ll have your hands full without havin’ to tend to a packhorse.”
His offer drew a wry smile from Cole. “If things don’t go the way I want, then you’ll have a good horse, right?”
“Why, I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Harley lied. In fact, he gave Cole very little chance of coming back alive, and the buckskin looked like a good horse.
“Well, I’d just as soon you got the buckskin, instead of one of them,” Cole said. “Let’s go.” He snorted contemptuously when it occurred to him that the horse had belonged to the late Smiley Dodd. He nudged Joe then and followed Harley up the ravine.
After a climb that brought them to a rocky ledge about one hundred and fifty feet above the trading post, Harley pulled his horses over against the slope to let Cole pass. “I’ll wait for you here,” he told him when Cole handed him the buckskin’s lead rope as Joe edged past.
Cole paused long enough to ask, “What am I lookin’ for up there?”
“There’s a little clearing about fifty yards up the trail big enough to graze a couple of horses when it ain’t covered up with snow. Over against a rock-faced cliff they’ve fixed up a place that started out as a tent, but they built a shack at the end of it. So it’s half shack and half tent now. At least that’s what they had the last time I saw it, about six months ago. That’s about all I can tell you about it. I ain’t never been no closer to it than that ridge on the mountain above it.” Cole nodded and turned Joe toward the stream. “Boy, you be real careful,” Harley said, genuinely concerned for the young man’s safety. “Just because you got right on your side don’t mean you ain’t gonna end up with your ass shot full of holes.”
Cole didn’t reply to Harley’s warning, his mind already fixated on the hideout he was stalking. He rode along the ledge until he came to the stream and the trail beside it. The trail was narrow, but it was not too steep to go up on horseback, so he continued on until first getting a glimpse of the clearing Harley had described before dismounting. Figuring it would be safer to go the rest of the way on foot, he pulled his rifle and looped Joe’s reins around a bush.
• • •
To keep from burning his fingers on the little red-hot iron stove, Porter Lewis used a stick of stove wood to open the firebox. Thinking how grateful he was that Lem had toted the little stove up the mountain, he put the last few sticks of wood in the fire. Before the stove, all the cooking had to be done over a fire outside the shack. Of course, the added benefit was a warm shack to sleep in. Now it was like staying in a hotel. And there was no charge except, of course, guests were expected to spend a generous amount of money in Lem’s store.
With those thoughts in mind, he told himself that he was going to have to go outside and carry in enough firewood to last him through the night. And that reminded him that he was going to complain to Lem Dawson that the last boys who used the hideout didn’t replace the firewood they had used. That was a firm rule that Lem had established when he brought the stove up the mountain.
Porter sat down on the roughly fashioned bunk to pull his boots on, and as he did, he wondered if the authorities were still looking for him in Colorado. He figured they would have given up by now, but since that damn fool bank teller had to make a play to stop him—and wound up getting himself shot—they might have sent a marshal and posse into Wyoming. Fort Collins was not that far away.
They’d play hell finding me in this place, he told himself. There ain’t but a handful of people who know about Buzzard’s Roost, and they’re all outlaws.
“I’ll hole up here for a couple more days. Then I’ll head back down to Cheyenne,” he said. “That’s a good place to ride the winter out, and I’ve got plenty of money, thanks to them generous folks at the bank in Fort Collins.” He laughed at his joke, got to his feet, and went out to get the wood.
“Lazy sons of bitches,” Porter muttered as he picked among the last of a stack of firewood. He was going to have to cut more than his share in the morning.
“Hold real steady. This Henry rifle has got a hair trigger.” The low warning came from out of the darkness.
Porter froze, still holding an armload of wood. Caught in a helpless position, he naturally thought the law had tracked him down.
“Take it easy,” he pleaded. “There ain’t no call to shoot nobody.”
“Turn around so I can get a good look at you. Do it nice and slow.”
Porter turned slowly around to face Cole and the Henry rifle aimed at him. There was no recognition on the part of either man. Porter was still left with the thought that he had been caught by a marshal, while Cole realized he was not one of the men he sought.
“Who else is here?” Cole demanded, although there were only two horses tied in the trees.
“Ain’t nobody here but me,” Porter said.
“I’m lookin’ for Slade Corbett,” Cole said. “You know him?”
“Yeah,” Porter answered, wondering what this had to do with him, “I know him, at least I know of him.”
“Has he been here?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Porter replied, getting more confused by the moment. “Not since I’ve been here, he ain’t.” He remained frozen, with an armload of firewood, while Cole tried to decide what he should do now. Finally Porter became perplexed to the point where he felt compelled to ask, “Are you arrestin’ me, or not?”
“I’m not a lawman,” Cole answered matter-of-factly. “Go on and take your wood in the shack.” He turned abruptly and went quickly down the path to retrieve his horse, leaving a totally astonished bank robber behind him.
• • •
Since night had fallen quickly over the mountain, Cole did not step up into the saddle, deeming it safer to lead Joe down the darkened trail. When he got to the ledge, he found Harley waiting there as he had promised. “Damned if I ain’t glad to see you,” the little man said. “I’m ’bout to freeze to death. I’da built me a fire, but I was afraid somebody’d see it down below.” He waited for Cole to report his findings, but not for more than a few seconds before asking, “What happened up there? I didn’t hear no gunshots or nothin’.”
“They weren’t there,” Cole replied.
“Whaddaya gonna do now?”
“I don’t know,” Cole said, factually. “Maybe I’ll go see this Lem Dawson feller. See if I can find out anything from him.”
Harley shrugged. “Don’t know if it’d do you any good or not. Worth a try, I reckon, but let’s wait till mornin’, get offa this mountain, and make camp. Even if you found out somethin’ tonight, you couldn’t do nothin’ about it till mornin’.”
“I reckon you’re right,” Cole said, somewhat surprised that Harley was still planning to stay with him.