COLD CREEK


Gunfire, in the canyon below, did not occur until Ben and Nate Monroe had been at the top of the ridge for some time.

Breathing rapidly, from the exertion of their climb, they had stopped to study the tracks on the ground. "Looks like that cat was coming back down for more of the calf," Ben told his brother after catching his breath. "Usin' the same trail as before. Now she knows we're after her. Stood right here and watched us when we came 'round the point down yonder. Strikin' out for the high country now."

Ben was tall, slender and fair like his mother. He also had her blue eyes.

"Like Pa says, we don't stand much of a chance gettin' close without dogs to tree her and now she knows we're here, she's a gonna be makin' herself mighty scarce."

Nate grunted his agreement.

The two boys would never have been taken for brothers. Nate was short, stocky and dark complected. His long hair hung down in all directions from the top of his head. With his prominent brow, high cheek bones, and heavy-lidded eyes, he could quite easily have been mistaken for an Indian or part Indian. Whereas Ben was gregarious and outgoing, Nate was quiet and withdrawn. He was content to let his brother, or anyone else, do the talking. It wasn't that he lacked speaking ability, he simply saw no purpose to a lot of chatter. On rare occasions he would make a brief statement, if truly warranted. It never failed to bring a look of surprise from family members within hearing range and, with a voice that had the nature of a soft, low-pitched rumble, this range was limited to a few feet.

Ben, on the other hand, was a continuous talker like their father, Walt. Those few, who were acquainted with the Monroe family, thought that to be a peculiar situation since Nate, rather than his brother, was almost a dead ringer for their pa if you disregarded the age difference.

"Course we could circle 'round, see if we could head her off." Nate's lack of response told of his disagreement. Ben took the hint. "That'd really be a long shot, though. We don't know where she's holed up."

The boys assumed they were following an old lioness, probably one with cubs. This was their pa's reasoning. Walt Monroe had a theory for almost everything and very little reluctance in expressing it.

"She killed that calf cause she's desperate," he'd told his two sons and their mother that morning at breakfast. "Probably ain't been able to catch no deer or rabbits-gettin' slow in her old age so she had to come down out of the hills to find somethin' that wasn't so quick. Them cats ain't been a bother'n us for quite a spell. Usually don't like to come this close by where there's folks. Purdy skittish. Ain't seen but one in three years." He winked at the boys. "And that one ain't a comin' back. Its hide was tacked up on the barn til your ma made me throw it away."

Walt and the boys had discovered the calf the previous day when they noticed a cow, that had given birth a few weeks earlier, hovering around the partly-eaten carcass.

"Maybe we could follow her and find the den," Ben had suggested while watching his father's face for the expected negative reaction. "That way we could do away with the cubs."

The old man chuckled. "Not much chance. She'd be hard to track when she gets up in them rocks. Be like lookin' for a flea on a buffalo, but go ahead, give it a shot. With a full belly, she could get careless. This might be your lucky day. If that don't work we'll have to try stakin' out the carcass-see if she comes back for 'nother meal. Got to do somethin'. Can't stand losin' no more of our stock to that cat."

"Now you boys be careful," their mother had counseled as she packed pouches with jerky and corn cakes. "Them cats can get mean if they're wounded or protectin' their young'ns."

Standing on the high ridge, Ben could see the log cabin that was their home and the other buildings. Also visible was the pole fence across the mouth of the box canyon which, effectively, completed the enclosure of the little ranch. Only a couple dozen head of cattle could be seen grazing in the open meadow. Most were hidden among the trees that grew along the banks of Cold Creek-a name Walt had given the stream that meandered out of the canyon. Cold Creek was also his name for the ranch, although in the family it was called "the spread".

"Bet you can see half of the Injun Reservation from here and clear down into the New Mexico Territory." Ben chewed on a stick of jerky while taking in the sweep of the plains that lay beyond the nearby hills and stretched south toward the San Juan River. Behind him, the San Juan Range continued rising until it reached some of the highest mountains in Colorado. The boys had seen the Colorado Territory become the thirty-eighth state in the union in 1876, just four years earlier. It was fall and the chill in the air, at their high elevation, brought out the brilliant yellow colors of the aspen to contrast with the stark greens of pinion pines, firs and junipers.

"Umm," Nate acknowledged, disinterested. He was occupied sighting the .44-40 Winchester at imaginary cougars. At fifteen, a year and a half younger than his brother, he tended to dwell on thoughts having to do with feats of daring and high adventure rather than scenery.

"Everthin' looks so small. Whoa! Look at this! There's a rider comin' in from the 'Trail'!"