Thunder Wagon (Wind River Book 2)

by James Reasoner

  The sudden sound of running hoofbeats made him swing around again. A man on horseback turned a corner down the street and rode toward the marshal's office. Before the rider got there, he spotted the men in front of the hotel and veered his mount in that direction. "Anybody seen the marshal?" he called out.

  Cole stepped down off the boardwalk and strode forward to meet the rider, who was hauling his tired horse to a halt. The animal was sweating and its sides were heaving. It had been run hard, and that was usually a sign of trouble.

  "I'm right here," Cole said. In the light from the hotel, he recognized the rider as one of the hands from Kermit Sawyer's Diamond S ranch north of town. Cole recalled the young cowboy's name and asked, "What's wrong, Rogers?"

  Lon Rogers took off his hat and sleeved sweat and dust from his face. His young features were grim as he said, "There was trouble at one of those farms between here and the ranch, Marshal. Looks like Indians hit the place."

  Cole's jaw tightened. "Anybody hurt?" he asked, although he was afraid he already knew the answer.

  "The sodbuster was killed, and the cabin was burned down. Frenchy—that's our foreman—he said he figured the rest of the fella's family was inside the cabin." Lon shook his head. "I don't reckon there was anybody left alive, Marshal."

  "I'll ride out and take a look anyway," Cole decided. "Did you leave anybody at the farm?"

  "Yes, sir, Frenchy and some of the boys are still there. He sent a man back to the ranch to tell Mr. Sawyer what happened, and I came on to town to bring the word. The Shoshones must be going on the warpath."

  A startled-looking Casebolt spoke up. "Shoot, they wouldn't do that! I know ol' Two Ponies, their chief. Him and his people helped me out one time. Saved my life, they did. They're peaceable folks."

  "Sometimes things change," Cole said. "You stay here and keep an eye on things in town, Billy. Hate to leave you here alone with everything that's going on, but I better take a look at what happened out at that farm."

  "Sure, you go ahead, Marshal. But I can tell you now, the Shoshones ain't to blame."

  "We'll see," Cole said as he started toward the livery stable to saddle his horse. He was doubtful, but he hoped Casebolt was right.

  With all the tension gripping Wind River over the Chinese situation, the last thing he needed to deal with right now was an Indian uprising.

  Chapter 4

  It didn't take long for Cole to saddle up Ulysses, the big golden sorrel he kept stabled at the livery down the street from the hotel and the marshal's office. Lon Rogers's horse was all done in, but at Cole's request, the stable owner allowed the young cowboy to pick out another mount. The next time he was in town, Lon could return the borrowed horse and pick up his own.

  Side by side, Cole and Lon rode out of Wind River, angling a little west of north. There was a trail leading to the Diamond S. At first it had been little more than an old game trace, but in the past few months there had been enough traffic over it to widen it and beat down the grass even more. Sawyer's cowboys headed straight for town every time payday rolled around.

  "Were you able to hear the shooting when the raiders hit the farm?" Cole asked as the horses trotted across the plains under a brightly starlit night sky.

  Lon replied, "We heard it, all right. That's how come Mr. Sawyer sent some of us down there to check it out."

  "Could you tell what sort of guns were being fired?"

  "Sounded to me like rifles, and that's the best I could do," Lon answered with a shake of his head. "The place is a pretty good ways off from the ranch, you understand, Marshal."

  Cole nodded. He knew that quite a few farms were springing up on the rolling prairie between the railroad and the mountains to the north. In the distance, he could see some dark shapes along the horizon that he knew were bluffs and foothills. In some places, those rugged foothills would be considered mountains by themselves, but here in Wyoming Territory, the real mountains were farther north and west.

  Since the marshal's office was in the front room of the Wind River Land Development Company, he could hardly fail to be aware of the business Simone McKay was doing.

  Andrew McKay and William Durand had bought up a great deal of land in this area prior to the arrival of the railroad, and now Simone was selling off some of it to settlers from back east who were anxious to make new starts for themselves and their families here in the vastness of the West.

  Cole could understand the appeal of that. He had done a great deal of wandering himself, from the Rio Grande down south to the Milk River up in Montana. He had seen the plains and the deserts and the mountains with their snowy peaks and thickly forested flanks. He had stood on a cliff and watched the Pacific Ocean roll in on rocky beaches in Oregon. Even though he had settled down in a town—for the moment—he knew the powerful lure of the frontier as well as any man.

  But he had ridden alone for the most part, or with partners just as capable of taking care of themselves as he was. He hadn't brought loved ones, women and children, into a country that for all its beauty and majesty could turn deadly dangerous in the blink of an eye. Simone had the right to sell the land as she saw fit, of course, but Cole had to wonder about the wisdom of establishing a lot of nearly defenseless farms in this area.

  It took about an hour to reach the site of the massacre. Lon had covered the ground in less time on his way into town, but there was no hurry now. As the two men rode up to what was left of the farm, Frenchy and the other Diamond S hands stood up from where they had been hunkered on their heels beside the corral, rolling and smoking quirlies to pass the time.

  "Howdy, Marshal," Frenchy called out. "Thought you might want to take a look at this. That's why I sent Lon into town."

  "Thanks," Cole said as he swung down from the saddle. "That was good thinking. If Indians were responsible for this attack, I ought to notify the army, I reckon."

  "Don't know who else it could've been 'cept redskins," Frenchy drawled.

  Cole spotted another figure, this one standing closer to the burned-out cabin, hands on hips. The man turned around at the sound of Cole's voice and strode over toward the shed. Cole recognized him as Kermit Sawyer.

  "Haven't seen anything like this since the Comanch' were raidin' down home," the Texas cattleman said grimly. "What are you goin' to do to put a stop to this, Tyler?"

  Cole felt himself bristling and made an effort to control the instinctive antagonism he felt toward Sawyer. The rancher was arrogant and abrasive and about as mule-headed an individual as Cole had ever run across, but he had to admit that Sawyer had a right to be upset about what had happened here. The man had a ranch, a crew, and a lot of stock to think of.

  "Like I was telling your segundo here, I'll wire the army and let them know what happened. That's about all I can do, except for maybe paying a visit to the other farmers around here and warning them to keep their eyes open."

  Sawyer snorted contemptuously. "Damn little good that'll do," he said. "Those sodbusters keepin' their eyes open won't accomplish anything except lettin' 'em see the savage that's about to scalp them!"

  "This fella here wasn't scalped," Frenchy commented as he pointed toward a dark shape on the ground just under the roof of the shed.

  Cole walked over to the corpse and knelt beside it. The man was in the shadow, so Cole couldn't tell much about him, but he could see that Frenchy was right. The farmer still had his hair.

  "Somebody took a knife to him," Frenchy went on. "Mighty ugly way to die."

  "There aren't any pretty ones," Cole grunted as he straightened from his crouch.

  Sawyer stalked over. "Wirin' the army's not enough," he snapped. "I want a stop put to this."

  "What do you expect me to do? Go to war against the Shoshone with nobody but one deputy to back me up? Besides, my job is to keep the peace in Wind River, not to fight Indians. I've done enough of that already."

  "Yeah, I'd forgotten," Sawyer said sarcastically. "Did some scoutin' for the bluecoats, didn't you, Tyler? Why'd yo
u give it up? Decide you felt sorry for those savages?"

  Once again Cole had to swallow an angry retort. "There was more money to be made shooting buffalo for the Union Pacific. Not that its any of your business, Sawyer."

  "I'm makin' it my business," the rancher said, moving a step closer to Cole. "I know all about men like you, Tyler. You're about half-Indian yourself. You live with 'em and rut with their squaws—"

  Cole tensed, unable to control his anger any longer. "I don't have to stand here and listen to you run off at the mouth, Sawyer. I'm riding back to town." He turned on his heel and started to walk away.

  "Go ahead. We'll handle this ourselves. The Comanch' never could run me off my land down in Texas, and I'll be damned if I let a bunch of pissant redskins like the Shoshone scare me up here!"

  Cole looked back sharply at him. "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean if you see a mountain lion standin' on a rock, you're a damn fool if you wait until he jumps to take a shot at him."

  Cole turned around and walked up to Sawyer, well aware that he was surrounded by Texas cowboys who would likely charge hell with a bucket of water if they thought the devil was giving their boss any trouble. But he wasn't going to stand by and let Sawyer make a lot of threats that could cause more trouble for everybody in this part of the country.

  "You'd best steer clear of the Shoshones, Sawyer," Cole said. "You go attacking a bunch of Indians who may not be guilty of this raid, and you'll have to deal not only with the Shoshones but the army, too. They don't like anybody messing around in their bailiwick."

  Sawyer cleared his throat and spat. "I'm about as scared of the army as I am of a bunch of feather-wearin' savages."

  "Then you're more addle-brained than I thought."

  For a second Cole thought Sawyer was going to reach for that ivory-handled pistol on his hip. Then the rancher barked a short, humorless laugh and said, "Go on back to town, Marshal. Mind your own business. We'll tend to things here, give these folks a proper buryin'."

  "You do that. But don't forget, Sawyer—I'll be around."

  Cole turned and walked back to Ulysses, feeling the hard-eyed stares of the cowboys on him. Sawyer's crew was a salty bunch, all right, and if it came down to a fight between them and the Shoshones led by Two Ponies, Cole wasn't sure who he would put his money on.

  The problem was that the whole thing wouldn't end there. That would just be the beginning. The ending would be anybody's guess.

  But Cole was willing to bet that it would involve fire and blood, and a whole lot of innocent folks dying . . .

  * * *

  Wind River had settled down for the night—at least as much as it ever settled down—by the time Cole got back to town. He put Ulysses in the sorrel's regular stall at the stable without disturbing the owner, who slept in a small room in the back of the barn. Then he headed down the street to the marshal's office.

  Billy Casebolt was there, waiting for him and holding down the fort in the meantime. The deputy started to get up from the chair behind the desk, but Cole waved him back into it. "Keep your seat, Billy," he said. "I'm not staying long. I just wanted to find out if any more trouble cropped up while I was gone."

  "Not really," Casebolt replied as Cole perched a hip on a corner of the desk. "I figure it's just a matter of time, though. Folks are still talkin' about them Chinamen, and they ain't happy."

  "Mrs. McKay explained why Wang Po and his family came here."

  Casebolt shook his head dubiously. "Yeah, but I don't reckon there's more'n a few people who believe that explanation. They still think there's more Chinamen on the way to take all the jobs on the Union Pacific."

  "Well, I intend to have a talk with Mrs. McKay myself and make sure there's not anything she forgot to mention. I think I'll go on over there tonight."

  With a frown, Casebolt drew a watch from his pocket and flipped it open. "Sort of late to go callin' on a lady," he commented.

  "Maybe so, but I'm going to take a pasear over to her house anyway."

  "Before you go, Cole . . . what'd you find out at that farm?"

  "Just what that cowboy said," Cole replied bleakly. "There was a dead man lying by the shed, and the cabin was burned down. I reckon the rest of the family was in there. Sawyer and some of his men were there, and they were going to stay until morning. The ashes ought to be cool enough by then for them to find the bodies and give them a decent burial."

  "You see any arrows or lances layin' around, anything like that?"

  Cole shook his head. "The dead man I saw was killed with a knife. Rogers said there was a lot of shooting, so I suppose the raiders were armed with rifles." He paused, then asked, "Two Ponies' band has some rifles, don't they?"

  "Yeah," Casebolt said grudgingly. "Mostly old trade muskets. They ain't got their hands on many repeaters yet."

  "That you know of."

  Casebolt shrugged.

  "I'm not saying I believe the Shoshones are to blame for those killings," Cole said as he stood up. "But all that farmer's stock was gone, and the cabin was burned down. Those don't sound like things white men would do."

  "Some owlhoots like to tear down ever'thing they can get their hands on," Casebolt muttered.

  "True enough. But I intend to ride out there again in the morning when there's some light so that I can take a look at the tracks around the place. That is, if Sawyer and his bunch haven't trampled them all out by then."

  "I’ll go with you," Casebolt volunteered.

  "We'll see," Cole told him. "You going to sleep on the cot in the back tonight?"

  Casebolt nodded. "Sure."

  "I'll see you in the morning, then."

  Cole left the office and turned toward the western end of town. He was tired and thought fondly of the bed in the room he rented in the boardinghouse owned by Lawton and Abigail Paine. But sleep could wait. He still wanted some answers from Simone McKay.

  Simone lived in a large house at the end of Sweetwater Street, on the western edge of the settlement. The McKay house—mansion was more like it—was at the southern end of the cross street, while William Durand's house was at the northern end. Durand's place was sitting empty at the moment. For a time following her husband’s death, Simone had moved into the Territorial House, preferring the impersonal atmosphere of the hotel to the house that Andrew McKay had built for her. But now she was living full-time in the mansion again, and Cole could see lights burning in a couple of the upstairs windows as he turned the corner from Grenville Avenue onto Sweetwater Street.

  The house was a two-story stone structure with a mansard roof and three gables arrayed along the front, giving it the look of a dwelling that might have been found in New England somewhere, rather than right in the middle of what had been wilderness less than a year earlier.

  Several cottonwood trees had been planted around the house, but it would take time for them to attain much height. There was a wrought-iron fence around a lawn that was struggling to survive in this rather dry climate.

  The gate in the fence was open, and Cole went through it and up a walk made of flat stones that led to a wide veranda. A small lamp in a brass wall sconce next to the front door was lit. The door itself was hardwood, ornately carved in places and inlaid with designs of gold in others. Cole grasped a brass bell pull and tugged on it.

  The door was thick enough that he couldn't hear the bell ringing inside, but a few moments after he released the pull, the door swung open and a middle-aged woman he knew to be Simone's housekeeper stood there, a disapproving scowl on her heavy-featured face. The glare lessened only a little in intensity as the woman recognized him.

  "Oh, it's you, Marshal," she said. "Is there some sort of trouble?"

  "Not really, but I need to talk to Mrs. McKay for a few minutes," Cole replied. "Would that be possible?"

  The housekeepers frown deepened. "Miz McKay's already retired for the evenin'—" she began.

  A clear voice floated down from upstairs somewhere. "Who is it, Esmeralda?
"

  The housekeeper turned, and Cole took advantage of the opportunity to step past her into the foyer of the house. "It's Marshal Tyler, Mrs. McKay," he called. "Can I speak with you?"

  Simone appeared at the top of a curving staircase, a dark green silk robe belted around her trim waist. She smiled down at Cole and said, "of course, Marshal. I'll be right down. Esmeralda, take Marshal Tyler into the parlor and make him comfortable. Some coffee, perhaps."

  "No, thanks," Cole said with a shake of his head as the housekeeper led him into a parlor full of fine furniture, thick rugs, and paintings. A massive fireplace, complete with an oak mantel, dominated one side of the room.

  The housekeeper told him to sit down. Cole glanced around and spotted an armchair that didn't look like it was so fragile it would collapse underneath him. The legs of some of the other furniture seemed awfully spindly. The housekeeper asked, "Sure you won't have some coffee?" and he shook his head again. With that, she left the parlor, and Simone McKay swept into the room some thirty seconds later.

  She sat down on a small divan across from Cole and asked, "What can I do for you, Marshal?"

  "Was there any more trouble about those Chinese folks after you took them in the hotel?" he asked.

  "Of course not. Why should there have been trouble?"

  Cole shrugged. "A lot of people in town aren't very happy about any Chinese being around here right now."

  "You mean because of that ridiculous rumor about the Union Pacific using them to replace the Irish laborers?" Simone shook her head. "I don't believe that will ever happen. And anyway, it has nothing to do with me hiring Wang Po and his family."

  "How did you come to hire them, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "Not at all. I sent word to friends of mine in San Francisco that I wanted to hire the best cook I could find for the hotel here in town, and I was told that was Wang Po. What he referred to as a . . . hash house, I believe was the term he used . . . was actually one of the finest restaurants in San Francisco. At least, it became such after he went to work there."