"Marshal Tyler!" Michael called, lifting a hand in greeting. "Could I talk to you for a minute?"
Cole hesitated, then nodded. "Sure, Michael, I reckon so. Billy, you can go on to the office and make sure nobody's looking for us. When I get through with Michael here, I'll be riding out on that errand we talked about earlier."
"You bet, Marshal." Casebolt nodded and moved off down the boardwalk, his gait that of a man made of sticks and held together with twine.
Cole turned back to Michael. "What is it you want to know?"
"I've been hearing some gossip around town this morning about some Indian trouble north of here, as well as a near riot last night right here in Wind River. Can you give me the details, Marshal?"
Cole regarded the young editor coolly. "I didn't know gossip was your stock in trade now."
Michael flushed, feeling angry and embarrassed at the same time. After sharing some dangers with the marshal, he knew Cole respected him a little more than when they had first met. But he still seemed to regard him as something of an adversary, especially when Michael was just trying to do his job.
"Sometimes there's some truth in the wildest gossip," Michael said. "As a newspaperman, it's my responsibility to sift out the facts and report them."
"I suppose so. But I've got enough to handle right now without having folks get all worried and upset about something that may not even be true."
He was going to have to ask some direct questions, Michael sensed. That was the only way he would have even a chance of getting direct answers. "Did the Shoshones attack a farm north of town and kill the family living there?"
"Somebody did," Cole said. "I don't know if it was the Shoshones or not."
"Are you going to try to find out?"
Cole nodded. "I'm riding out there this morning to take a look around."
"What do you expect to find?"
Cole's eyes narrowed, and he said, "A man who expects to find something usually does, even when it's not there. I plan to just keep my eyes open and see whatever it is I see."
"What about that riot?"
"There wasn't any riot," Cole said firmly. "And there's nothing unusual about a bunch of liquored-up railroad workers causing a commotion. That's all that happened."
"I heard there were some Chinese coolies involved."
"I wouldn't call 'em coolies. But if you want to know more about that, go talk to your boss. She's responsible for them being here in Wind River, not me."
Michael tried not to look as surprised as he felt. "Are you talking about Mrs. McKay?" he asked.
"She still owns the newspaper, doesn't she?"
"Of course. I—"
Cole pushed past him, not particularly rudely, but firmly, obviously not willing to devote any more time to this conversation. "I've got to get busy. Sorry, Michael."
Michael turned and watched him go down the street, then realized that Cole was heading for the livery stable. He remembered what Cole had said about riding out to that farm where the massacre had taken place. That was probably his destination now. For a second, Michael considered hurrying after him and asking if he could come along, but he was afraid Cole would refuse. Besides, Michael told himself, he had work to do at the office.
And, if the truth were told, he didn't really want to see what was left of that settler's family after the Indians had gotten through with them. The bodies might have been buried already, but they might not have been, too.
Michael had seen violence since coming west, more violence than he had ever wanted to witness, but looking at dead people still made him sick to his stomach. He was going to have to toughen himself up if he was going to be a good newspaperman, he supposed.
Besides, there was the matter of the Chinese strangers to look into. Marshal Tyler had told him to ask Mrs. McKay about them. What connection could Simone McKay have with some Chinese coolies? Michael wondered. Maybe he would take a detour and go out to the McKay house before he went to the office.
Once thought of, the decision was made, and Michael turned toward Sweetwater Street. The idea of interviewing Mrs. McKay, his own employer, was a little intimidating, but Michael told himself not to worry.
He was just doing his job, after all.
Chapter 6
Cole allowed Ulysses to really stretch out this morning. The big horse loved to run, loved it more than anything else in the world. The wind of the stallion's passage blew Cole's hair out behind him and tugged at the broad-brimmed brown hat that hung on his back from its chin strap. Like Ulysses, he enjoyed the speed, the smooth play of the horse's muscles underneath him.
Horse and rider became almost one being when Ulysses galloped like this. Cole could almost let himself believe they were alone in the world, racing along over rolling prairie beneath a high, clear blue sky. Nothing but the two of them, and the speed, and the wind and the sun in his face . . .
And then reality intruded harshly, in the form of a burned-out cabin that was still smoking a little in places.
As he rode up to what was left of the Jessup place, Cole saw that the Diamond S horses were unsaddled and in the corral. Sawyer and his punchers were standing a little ways off from the ruins of the cabin, near the garden that Ben Jessup had started. Six mounds of freshly turned earth were before them, and several of the cowboys were leaning on the shovels that had been used to dig the graves.
Cole swung down from the saddle, looped the sorrel's reins over the corral fence, and walked over to the others. Sawyer turned, his black hat tightly gripped in his knobby hands. He gave Cole a grim nod and said, "You got here too late for the buryin', Marshal. Found the other bodies inside the cabin, just like I figured we would."
"They were all dead?" Cole asked.
"What the hell do you think?" Sawyer snapped. "We put the baby in with its mama. Seemed fittin'." There was an edgy tone to Sawyers voice, as if he expected Cole to challenge the decision.
Instead, Cole nodded in agreement. "Say anything over em?"
"I've buried folks before. I know what needs to be done."
Cole nodded again and changed the subject. "Have you or any of your boys looked around the place?"
"For tracks, you mean?"
"That's what I was thinking about."
Sawyer clapped his hat on his head and grunted, "Come on. I'll show you what we found."
For all of Cole's dislike of Sawyer, he had to admit the man was an experienced frontiersman. Sawyer never would have survived as long as he had down in that wild country in Texas without an equal mix of sand and savvy. Sawyer led Cole over to a jumble of horse tracks on the far side of the shed from where the cabin had stood.
"Looks to me like they rode up over here, then one of 'em held the horses while the others tried to slip up on the house," Sawyer said as he gestured at the tracks. "Somethin roused that sod-buster and he came out to see what was goin' on. Probably the dogs were raisin' a ruckus. We found a couple of 'em, shot to ribbons."
Cole hunkered down on his heels and studied the hoofprints for a long moment, then glanced up at Sawyer. "Unshod," he said.
"Yeah, how about that?" Sawyer didn't sound surprised. "Look at the footprints. Nobody wearin' boots or shoes made those. Those are moccasin prints."
Cole had to agree with him. He straightened and said, "I wish we'd found some arrows or something else with markings on it. That way we could tell which band was responsible for this."
"The Sioux have been raidin' off to the north and the east, from what I've heard," Sawyer said. "Now, maybe they've come back to these parts and maybe they haven't. But I know for damn sure that the Shoshones are still around here. That's where I'd start lookin', was I you."
As usual, the Texan was free with his advice, whether it was asked for or not, Cole thought. He said, "I already figured I'd send Deputy Casebolt out to talk to Two Ponies. Billys friends with the Shoshones, and if anybody can find out what's going on around here, he can."
Sawyer stared at him for a moment, then said dubiou
sly, "You're goin' to let that old man question those savages? Hell, they're liable to send him back to you with a war lance stuck clear through him!"
"I don't think so," Cole replied, knowing that he sounded stubborn but not giving a damn, either.
Sawyer snorted. "You just don't want to believe the Shoshones are to blame for these killin's."
"I'm not going to blame anybody until I know some more."
"What about the army? When are you going to wire them?"
"I'll get around to it," Cole said.
Sawyer stuck a blunt finger at him, and Cole had to make an effort not to grab it and break it with a sharp twist. "You best remember one thing, Tyler," the cattleman warned. "You ain't the only one who knows how to use a telegraph. I can send a wire, too."
Cole stiffened. "You go to meddling in official business and you'll regret it," he said.
The Diamond S punchers had all moved over to stand behind their boss, and Cole was aware of the hostile stares they were directing toward him. As seemed always to be the case when he and Sawyer were going at it nose to nose, the odds were heavily against Cole. But he wasn't going to let that make him back down.
Sawyer was going to have to get used to the fact that he didn't run everything around here, the way he likely had in Texas.
"This raid was too damned close to my ranch for comfort," Sawyer grated. "I'll do whatever I have to to protect the Diamond S. You just remember that, Tyler."
Cole jerked his head in a nod. "I don't reckon you'll let me forget it," he said.
Sawyer swung around and strode stiffly toward the corral. "Come on, boys," he called over his shoulder. "We're goin' home."
Cole waited while Sawyer and the other men saddled up and rode out, then he stepped up into his own leather and pointed Ulysses toward Wind River. There was nothing more he could do here.
Now that Sawyer was gone, Cole calmed down a little and reflected on the things he had said to the cattleman.
Being in charge of things, having all these responsibilities, was still new to Cole. For most of his life, he hadn't been responsible for anything or anybody except himself. That was a hard, lonely existence most of the time, but being a part of something like Wind River had hardships of its own.
He had to spend too blasted much time thinking about whether or not a course of action was the right one, rather than just letting his instincts take over. There was more riding on his decisions now than just his own survival. It was quite a chore, but it was one he had pledged to do, at least for a while.
And Cole Tyler had always believed that a man did what he said he would do, or died trying . . .
* * *
Michael Hatfield swallowed hard as he stood in front of the gate of Simone McKay’s estate. He had been in the big house several times previously, but although the day was bright with sunshine, the place seemed somehow ominous to him.
That was ridiculous, he told himself sternly. He and Mrs. McKay had gotten along well, right from the start. After her husband's death, she had told Michael how she was depending on him to help her keep the newspaper going, and so far he didn't think he had let her down.
The Sentinel was doing well; practically everyone in town read it, and a few paid advertisements were starting to appear in it. Michael had no doubt the paper was going to be a success, and he didn't think he was being immodest when he credited part of that success to himself.
But still he dreaded asking Simone about the Chinese. Marshal Tyler had indicated that she knew the facts, however, and Michael had to have those facts if he was going to write a truthful story about the matter. He took a deep breath, gathered his courage, and strode up the walk to the veranda of the mansion.
The housekeeper, Esmeralda, answered the summons of the bell pull. "Oh, 'tis you," she said when she saw who the visitor was. She wore the same sour expression Michael had seen on her face every other time he had come here. He wasn't sure how Simone put up with the woman.
"I need to speak to Mrs. McKay," he said, trying to make his tone sound official, as if he would tolerate no argument.
"Well, you can't," Esmeralda snapped.
Michael sighed. "If you'll just tell her I'm here—"
"Can't do that, either. The missus ain't here."
"Oh." Michael blinked. "Where is she?"
"Down at the hotel'd be my guess. Said she had to see to somethin' or other about them Chinamen, and that's where they stayed last night." Esmeralda sniffed. "Although why the missus'd be kind enough—or foolish enough—to let those heathen Chinee sleep under the same roof with white folks—"
"Thank you, Esmeralda," Michael said quickly, cutting in before the woman could get really wound up and launch into a tirade. "I'll go down there and see if I can find her."
"You do that," the housekeeper said curtly as she shut the door, leaving Michael standing on the veranda.
He took another deep breath. He felt a bit foolish now. Here he had gone and girded up his loins, so to speak, and Mrs. McKay wasn't even home.
That was all right. He would feel more at ease talking to her in the hotel after all, he realized. He walked back out to Sweetwater Street and headed for Grenville Avenue.
By this time of the morning, the town was quite busy. Men and women moved along the boardwalks, intent on the errands that had brought them out. There were several wagons parked in front of the huge general store. Other vehicles—farm wagons, buckboards, buggies, canvas-covered Conestogas—rolled along the street. Men on horseback moved along Grenville Avenue as well.
A few dogs lazed in the morning sun, and children ducked in and out of the alleys, laughing and playing. As yet there was no school in Wind River, and that was something the town would have to see to soon, Michael thought as he watched the youngsters playing. The only education available was whatever the children could get at home, and often that didn't amount to much.
The leaders of the community were going to have to look into hiring a real teacher before too much longer. Michael wanted his children to be able to attend an actual school when they got older.
That was a matter to bring up with Mrs. McKay, since she was the most influential citizen in town, but not today, Michael decided. He wanted to concentrate on finding out about those Chinese. He reached the Territorial House and went into the lobby. The clerk behind the desk looked up and greeted him with a nod.
"Good morning," Michael said. "Is Mrs. McKay here?"
The clerk inclined his pomaded head toward the dining room. "I believe she's out in the kitchen."
"Thanks," Michael said. He walked through the dining room, where over half the tables were occupied by patrons, and through a door that led to the kitchen. As he stepped through the opening, air laden with the delicious smells of cooking washed over him.
There were three cast-iron ovens in the kitchens, further evidence of how Andrew McKay and William Durand had spared little expense in making sure their new town was a shining example of civilization, even before the Union Pacific arrived. It must have cost a lot of money to have those heavy ovens freighted out from St. Louis, Michael thought. He had never been in the hotel kitchen before. It was a surprisingly busy place as waitresses moved in and out, several young men worked around a couple of long tables, and a middle-aged Chinese man watched over everything with his arms folded on his chest and a placid expression on his round face. The young men working in the kitchen were Chinese as well, Michael noted, and now he was beginning to understand why Cole had told him to talk to Simone McKay.
The Chinese who had come into Wind River the night before weren't coolies at all, Michael realized now. They were cooks.
Simone was talking to the older Chinese man, who nodded as she spoke. She noticed Michael and smiled, then beckoned him over.
"Good morning, Michael," she greeted him. "I want you to meet Wang Po. He's going to be in charge of the kitchen here at the hotel. Wang Po, this is Michael Hatfield, the editor of our local newspaper."
The Chinese man put
his hands together in front of him and bowed slightly. "I am honored to meet you, Mr. Hatfield," he said in excellent English.
"Uh, same here," Michael said.
"Were you looking for me, Michael?" asked Simone.
Michael hesitated. He didn't want to admit that he had come to ask her about the Chinese, not right here in front of Wang Po and the others. He said, "I, uh, just wanted to let you know that I'll have this week's edition of the paper ready to come out tomorrow, right on schedule."
Simone smiled slightly. "I never doubted that. While you're here, though, let me tell you a little about our newest citizens, Wang Po and his family."
She must have read his mind, Michael thought, and he was grateful to her for her perceptiveness. She proceeded to answer his questions without him even having to ask them, explaining how she had hired Wang Po from his job in California and how he had previously cooked in one of the finest restaurants in San Francisco.
"My wife and I came to this country to search for gold," Wang Po put in, "but instead we found riches in the form of our sons and the friends we have made."
"From what I've heard, not all of your people were so fortunate," Michael said.
Wang Po nodded solemnly. "This is true. Many suffered during the time known as the Gold Rush. Now there is the building of the Central Pacific railroad to provide jobs for many of my countrymen, but it is hard, dangerous work. I am thankful my sons do not have to do these things." He beamed with obvious pride at the young men scurrying around the kitchen tables, preparing plates of food for the hotel's diners.
"Was there anything else you wanted, Michael?" Simone asked.
"No, I suppose I had better get on to the office. I'll be seeing you, Mr. Wang."
The Chinese man smiled and bowed slightly again, obviously pleased that Michael knew the correct way to address him.
Thunder Wagon (Wind River Book 2) Page 6