Thunder Wagon (Wind River Book 2)

by James Reasoner

  "You shouldn't worry about me," Delia told him. "Someone might be hurt. You might be needed."

  "If I am, they'll fetch me." Kent lowered the window and then turned back to Delia. "Tell me, how have you been feeling?"

  "Oh . . . all right, I suppose."

  "No unusual pains since your last visit?"

  "Not that I remember." Delia suddenly caught her breath as a pang of fear shot through her. "There's not anything wrong with the baby, is there?"

  Kent smiled and shook his head. "Not that I know of. It was a routine question, my dear. Every medical indication is that your condition is proceeding quite normally and naturally. I suspect that within a few weeks you and Michael will be the proud parents of another healthy, happy child."

  Delia knew she should have been relieved to hear such good results from her latest examination by the physician. But even with Judson Kent's encouragement, she was unable to shake the dark mood that had gripped her tightly for most of the past month.

  "What if there's some sort of . . . problem when the baby's born?" she asked.

  "Then we'll deal with it when the time comes," Kent said quietly but firmly. "I do hope you're not worrying yourself sick over this pregnancy, Delia. You're a very healthy young woman, and there has been absolutely no sign of any ill effects whatever from your, ah, adventure."

  "You mean from when I was taken prisoner and nearly killed by that outlaw?" Delia asked bitterly. "It was just luck that nothing happened."

  "Well, there, you see," Kent said. "Providence itself is obviously watching over you, so there's no need for you to worry, is there?"

  She realized that no matter what she said, he was going to twist it and put some sort of bright, optimistic face on it. A part of her brain told her that was better than automatically seeing the worst in everything, but these days she didn't seem to be capable of doing anything else.

  She wished she knew what was going on down the street. If there was some sort of trouble, Michael would probably be right in the thick of it. He liked to claim that he was just doing his job whenever he plunged into some dangerous situation, but Delia knew better. He liked it. He liked the danger and the fact that he was actually on the frontier, on the very edge of an untamed wilderness full of wild animals and bloodthirsty savages and cruel, ruthless desperadoes—

  "Delia. Mrs. Hatfield."

  She became aware that Dr. Kent was talking to her again. She looked up and said, "I'm sorry, Doctor. What were you saying?"

  "At the risk of repeating myself, I was advising you not to concern yourself with imagined terrors." Kent held out his hands to help her down from the examining table. "Now, I want you to go home, enjoy your husband and your daughter, and come back to see me next week."

  Delia summoned up a smile, even though it was a weak one. "All right."

  Kent reached for his coat, which was draped over the same rack that supported the skeleton he called Reginald, shrugged into the garment, then picked up his bowler and his medical bag. "I'll walk with you part of the way," he said. "I have to stop by and see Mrs. Raymond."

  "Estelle Raymond?"

  "That's right. She's expecting, too, you know."

  Delia was aware of this. She knew Estelle Raymond, but not very well, just enough to nod politely when they met on the street. Estelle was married to Harvey Raymond, the manager of the general store. Delia probably knew Harvey better than she did Estelle, since she often shopped at the big emporium.

  "How is she doing?" Delia asked Kent, telling herself she would be better off thinking about someone else rather than concentrating on her own problems all the time.

  Kent hesitated before answering. He frowned, stroked his beard lightly, and finally said, "I'm not sure I should mention this to you in your current frame of mind, but I'm afraid Mrs. Raymond's pregnancy is not proceeding as well as your own. She's considerably older than you, you know, and not as well built for childbearing."

  Delia felt herself blushing at the doctor's frank comments. She supposed that a medical man like Kent became accustomed to being blunt about such things as childbearing. She asked, "Is there anything I can do to help her?"

  "Oh, no," Kent replied with a shake of his head. "I'm certain she'll be fine. I just have to keep a closer eye on her than I do on a healthy young specimen such as yourself." He offered her his arm and led her out of the office.

  Whatever the earlier commotion down the street had been, it was gone now. Delia saw a small knot of men still standing in the street in front of the marshal's office, talking and gesturing angrily.

  She looked around, trying to see if Michael was anywhere in sight. She didn't spot him and felt a sudden surge of worry. If he was all right, he would have been there so that he could write a story for the paper about whatever the trouble had been.

  "I think instead of going home I'll walk down to the newspaper office," Delia said to the doctor. "If you think that would be all right, that is."

  "I think that's a splendid idea," said Kent. "And it's on my route to Mrs. Raymond's house, so I can accompany you the entire way. Nothing like a stroll in the summer sun with an attractive woman on one's arm, eh?"

  Delia found a genuine smile on her face, one of the few such expressions in recent days. "You're a charmer, aren't you, Dr. Kent?"

  "I try, my dear lady, I try."

  They walked west along Grenville Avenue, past the big general store. The Sentinel offices were a block farther along the street. When they reached the door, Dr. Kent tipped his hat to Delia, told her once again not to worry too much, and ambled on down the boardwalk.

  Delia turned to the door and opened it, allowing the acrid, all-too-familiar odor of printer's ink to strike her nostrils. She repressed a shudder and went inside.

  Michael was sitting at a tall, inclined desk, taking bits of type from trays and setting them in place in the frame that would make up a page of the newspaper when it was printed.

  He was frowning in concentration and didn't even notice Delia when she first came in. That gave her a moment to study her husband. He had ink smeared on his face, as usual, and his hair was tangled from his habit of running his fingers through it. But Delia felt warmth spreading through her as she realized he was still the most handsome man she had ever seen.

  "Michael," she said softly.

  He was alone in the office at the moment. Delia didn't know where his assistants were and didn't care. All that mattered to her was the sudden glow of happiness in Michael's eyes as he looked up and saw her. He stood up and hurried over to her. "Are you all right?" he asked as he put his hands on her shoulders. "Where's Gretchen?"

  "Mrs. Paine is looking after her. I've been to Dr. Kent's."

  Michael's eyes widened. "Is something wrong?"

  "Not at all. Everything is all right, Michael. I just . . . I just wanted to see you, to have you hold me for a minute."

  "Well . . . sure. I'll be glad to do that." He folded her into his embrace, and she leaned her head against his chest.

  Delia couldn't have explained it, but she suddenly felt better. Maybe all her worries had been for nothing . . .

  Chapter 9

  Nothing catastrophic happened the rest of the day, and Cole supposed he should have been glad of that. The striking railroad workers didn't cause any sort of ruckus, although they put away enough whiskey in the saloons to float a Mississippi riverboat.

  Jack Casement and his lieutenants headed back to the work train on the same handcar that had brought them into town. Nobody got an ear cut off—at least as far as Cole knew—and nobody stormed the hotel in order to tar and feather Wang Po and his wife and sons. Afternoon turned into evening and evening into night, and as Cole stood on the boardwalk in front of his office and watched quiet settle over the town, he heaved a sigh of relief.

  Of course, there was no telling what tomorrow might bring . . .

  For one thing, Cole was still worried about Billy Casebolt. After some long, hard thinking, Cole had decided not to ride after
him. Everything was just too unsettled here in Wind River to leave the town without a real lawman. And Casebolt was a seasoned veteran of the frontier. Even thinking that Two Ponies and the rest of the Shoshones were his friends, Casebolt wouldn't just openly ride into their camp without taking a look around first.

  If the Shoshones were preparing for war, Casebolt would likely be able to tell it from a distance, and then he would hotfoot it back here to the settlement as fast as he could. That was what Cole hoped, anyway.

  Judson Kent came strolling along the boardwalk. He paused to nod to Cole. "Good evening, Marshal."

  "Howdy," Cole said. "Anybody else come to see you with a chopped-off ear?"

  Kent chuckled and shook his head. "Not so far."

  Cole told him about the incident outside of Miss Lucy's that Casebolt had reported to him, and the doctor's jovial expression turned into a frown. "I say, that's rather strange, don't you think?" he asked when Cole was finished.

  "I haven't been able to figure it out," Cole replied. "Let me know if you see any other injuries like that, will you?"

  "Certainly."

  The doctor moved on down the boardwalk, and Cole went inside the office. There was a cot in a back room where he would sleep tonight so that he would be handy if anybody came looking for the law. He generally took turns with Casebolt, but tonight the deputy was gone. Casebolt was somewhere out there in the darkness, and Cole hoped that wherever he was, he was all right. He had come to depend on the old-timer.

  Give Casebolt some credit, Cole told himself. Billy had survived for a long time out here in this rugged land. He could take care of himself.

  * * *

  Casebolt would have swallowed, but he was afraid the movement of his Adam's apple would be enough to make the point of the war lance that was pressed against his throat prick the skin.

  The warrior standing over him was just a darker shape against the black night sky. The Indian said something in the Shoshone tongue, his voice harsh and guttural. Casebolt couldn't make out all the words. He savvied a little Shoshone, but not when it was rattled out so quicklike. There was nothing he could do but remain silent and hope this didn't make the warrior angry enough to thrust the war lance down through his captive's throat.

  The Shoshone switched to English, but he didn't sound any friendlier. "What do you do here, white man?" he demanded. The fellas tone convinced Casebolt that if he didn't get an answer soon, he was going to lose his patience.

  Carefully, Casebolt said, "If you'll take that pigsticker away from my neck, I can tell you a whole heap easier, ol' hoss."

  "I am not called Horse. I am Climbs on Rocks." The point of the lance moved away from Casebolt's neck, but only a couple of inches.

  Still, that was enough to make Casebolt feel considerably better. He said, "Pleased to meet you, Climbs on Rocks. My name's Billy Casebolt. You reckon I could sit up?"

  "Tell me first why -you are here on Shoshone land."

  "I'm a friend of Two Ponies. I come out here to pay him a visit."

  Casebolt couldn't see the Indian's face, but he figured Climbs on Rocks was thinking about what he had said. If this warrior was part of Two Ponies' band, and if the strange white man was telling the truth, then Climbs on Rocks wouldn't want to offend the chief by killing one of his friends. Casebolt hoped Climbs on Rocks was going to give him the benefit of that doubt.

  The warrior stepped back a few paces, but kept the lance leveled and ready for instant use. "Sit up, Billy Casebolt," he commanded.

  Casebolt did so gratefully. He lifted a hand and touched his throat. The skin wasn't broken. Climbs on Rocks obviously had a deft touch with a war lance.

  The deputy was a mite annoyed with the Indian, but he was downright mad at himself. Time was, even an Apache would have had to be lucky to sneak up on Billy Casebolt without being heard. He should have heard a Shoshone coming a mile away, even if he was asleep.

  He figured he was some fifteen miles west of Wind River. He had ridden all afternoon after leaving town, without spotting a single Indian. Looking for the Shoshone if they didn't want to be found was a pretty futile pastime in this rugged landscape; Casebolt had figured they would find him, and then he would ask to be taken to the camp of his old friend Two Ponies.

  Well, somebody had found him, all right, after he had made camp and turned in for the night, but Climbs on Rocks didn't seem as friendly as most Shoshones normally were. Not near as friendly, in fact. As much as Casebolt didn't want to believe it, maybe the Shoshones had decided to turn hostile to the whites.

  If that was the case, he was in mighty big trouble.

  No point in giving up just yet, though. He said, "Can you take me to Two Ponies, Climbs on Rocks?"

  "Why should I do this thing?" asked the warrior.

  "I got to talk to him. It's mighty important. There's bad medicine back where I come from, and folks are sayin' it's the fault of the Shoshone."

  Climbs on Rocks grunted contemptuously. "The Shoshone have nothing to do with any white man's trouble."

  "Now, that's just what I thought, too. But I got to talk to Two Ponies about it anyway."

  Climbs on Rocks backed off a little more. "Get up," he said. "I will take you to Two Ponies. And if you are lying, Billy Casebolt, you will wish you had never come here."

  Casebolt relaxed a little. He hoped Two Ponies would welcome him. The Shoshone chief and his people had saved Casebolt's life when he was badly wounded, and he had spent several pleasant days in their camp recovering from the injury. Since that time, he had visited them on a couple of other occasions.

  He reached for his hat, clapped it on his head, and stood up. A few yards away, coals glowed faintly in the ashes of the small fire he had built earlier to warm his supper. "How'd you spot me?" he asked Climbs on Rocks as he hefted his saddle. "Did you see my fire?"

  "I saw fire and smelled smoke and knew some foolish white man was abroad in the land," Climbs on Rocks answered. "I was right. If the Sioux had seen you, they would have killed you without asking any questions."

  "The Sioux ain't around these parts anymore, or so I'm told."

  "And you would wager your life on this?"

  Casebolt grunted as he settled the saddle on his horse's back and started fastening the cinches. "You're right," he admitted. "Guess I'm gettin' careless in my old age."

  "A careless man does not get much older."

  Casebolt would have thanked him to keep his redskin philosophy to himself, had he not known that Climbs on Rocks was right. And that knowledge rankled. Maybe he really was getting too old. Maybe he ought to find himself a porch and a rocking chair somewhere and just sit down to wait out the time he had left. It would be a lonely existence, Casebolt thought, since he had never settled down and didn't have any grandkids to cluster around his feet and listen to all his stories about the old days. He sighed. That rocking chair would just have to wait.

  Anyway, there was a good chance he'd never make it. Men like him usually wound up in unmarked graves somewhere underneath the big western sky.

  Once the horse was saddled and his bedroll snugged in place, Casebolt turned back around to pick up the gunbelt he had left coiled on the ground, only to find that Climbs on Rocks already had it slung over his shoulder. The Shoshone warrior strode over and pulled the Henry rifle from its sheath on the saddle, too. "You will need no weapons where you are going," he told Casebolt.

  "Feel a mite nekkid without 'em," Casebolt groused as he swung up into the saddle. "Well, what're you waitin' for? Let's go."

  Climbs on Rocks faded off into the shadows somewhere and returned a moment later leading a pony. He mounted with a lithe motion, still carrying the war lance. Casebolt heard the head of the weapon hiss through the air as Climbs on Rocks gestured with it. "Ride," the Indian ordered flatly.

  Casebolt heeled his horse into motion. It was a dark night, the moon only a thin slice of silver in the sky, but between its feeble illumination and the starlight, it was bright enough for Casebolt t
o see where he was going. He heard Climbs on Rocks riding right behind him. "Which direction you want me to head?" Casebolt asked.

  "Keep going the way you are going," the Shoshone told him. "I will tell you when to turn."

  Grumbling to himself, Casebolt rode on into the night.

  A couple of hours wheeled past, and Casebolt was getting mighty tired. He hadn't gotten much sleep before Climbs on Rocks woke him up by poking that lance against his throat. He needed his rest. But Climbs on Rocks just kept prodding him on, steering him through some canyons and around a couple of mesas. This was a different area from where Two Ponies' camp had been located before, but that came as no surprise to Casebolt. The Shoshones were hunters, and folks who lived that kind of life tended to move around quite a bit.

  "How much farther you reckon we got to go?" Casebolt asked after a while longer. "We keep this up, we're goin' to wind up in Oregon."

  "I think we will stop before we go that far," Climbs on Rocks said, and for the first time, Casebolt thought he heard a hint of humor in the warrior's voice.

  A few minutes later, as the two riders topped a rise, the Shoshone said, "We are here."

  Casebolt could barely make out the cluster of tepees in the narrow valley in front of him. There was a dark, winding line across the landscape that he recognized as thicker vegetation along a small creek. The tepees were on the other side of the little stream. The barking of dogs came faintly to Casebolt's ears. He rode slowly down the gentle slope, Climbs on Rocks following behind him.

  The dogs got louder and more aggressive as the riders approached, splashing across the creek and running around the legs of the horses to nip at the feet of the riders. The mounts shied, and the Indian pony kicked out at the bothersome dogs. Climbs on Rocks reversed his lance and smacked the handle across the flanks of one of the capering creatures, drawing a yip of pain and sending it scurrying away. The warrior snapped a command in Shoshone, making some of the other dogs cringe.

  By this time the commotion had attracted the attention of the village. Casebolt saw a wedge of light as the entrance flap of a tepee was pulled open, letting the glow from the fire inside spill out into the darkness. A voice called a question, and Climbs on Rocks answered. He and Casebolt rode across the creek and into the cluster of lodges. A man strode from the one with the open flap and asked, "Billy Casebolt? Is that you?"