Thunder Wagon (Wind River Book 2)

by James Reasoner

  Cole turned to Stan Brewster, who had followed him into the building. "You've got a shotgun in the express office." It was more of a statement than a question.

  "Well, sure," Brewster began, "but—" "Get it," Cole cut in. "Bring it to me." Brewster blinked and hesitated, then hurried across the lobby and behind the ticket counter to a door that led into the freight office.

  Cole followed, aware that many of the striking workers were watching him, waiting to see what he was going to do. He didn't want them getting between him and Brewster when the clerk emerged from the office with the scattergun.

  A glance over Cole's shoulder showed him no sign of Abner Langdon. Now that the marshal was on hand, the saloon owner had done the smart thing and gotten out while the getting was good.

  Brewster came out of the freight office as Cole reached the ticket counter. Angry mutters came from the assembled railroad workers at the sight of the shotgun in the clerk's hands. Cole reached over the counter and took it, then swung the double barrels toward the men clustered around the doors to the platform.

  Some of them had started to move toward him, but the twin muzzles of the greener stopped them. There were few things in the world more intimidating close up than the yawning black bores of a double-barreled shotgun.

  "Everybody quiet down!" Cole shouted as the whistle of the approaching locomotive sounded again, considerably closer this time.

  "This is none of your business, Marshal!" one of the men called back at him. "This is between us and the Union damned Pacific!"

  "We've had this argument before," Cole said, his voice loud enough to carry to the men out on the platform. "I'm not going to allow any riots in my town. You boys go on and get out of here before the train comes in."

  "We got a right to be here!" another man yelled. "This depot wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for us!"

  The man had a point, Cole thought to himself, but he wasn't about to concede it aloud. Instead he said, "You can leave peacefullike and go about your business, or you can go to jail. Up to you."

  He heard the sound of the other door into the lobby opening behind him, but he didn't want to take his eyes off the men on the far side of the room. He had made a mistake by not bringing Jeremiah with him to cover his back, Cole realized, but it was too late to do anything about it . . . except hope that whoever was behind him wasn't an enemy.

  That was a futile hope, he discovered an instant later, as a man in the crowd yelled, "Get him!" and there was a rush of footsteps behind him.

  He twisted halfway around and saw several men charging toward him. They must have slipped off the platform and circled the building to come in the front door, Cole thought. He should have anticipated that move. As he swung the scattergun toward his attackers his finger tensed on the double trigger, then eased off at the last second. He didn't want to cut these men down with a load of buckshot. They weren't outlaws; they were just men honestly afraid that they would lose their jobs.

  But that didn't make them any less dangerous.

  Swiftly, Cole reversed the shotgun and chopped at the man nearest him with the butt of the weapon. The shotgun's stock cracked into the man's jaw and sent him sprawling backward under the feet of his companions. A couple of them got their feet tangled up and fell heavily. That didn't account for all of them, however, and one of the men still on his feet swung a club at Cole's head.

  Cole ducked under the blow and drove the barrels of the greener into the man's midsection, doubling him over with a grunt of pain. Cole whipped the shotgun around again and smacked the stock against the side of the man's head. Before he was able to do anything else, a heavy weight landed on his back, and a voice howled in his ear, "I got him! Gimme a hand here!"

  Cole stumbled forward as the man on his back drove a punch against his skull above the right ear. He let go of the shotgun with his right hand, reached up, and grabbed hold of the man's hair. Bending forward and hauling with all his strength, Cole sent the man flying off his back to crash down on the floor of the depot.

  There were men all around him as he straightened, too many men for him to fight. He tried to angle the barrels of the greener toward the ceiling, hoping to fire the shotgun into the air, knowing the blast would at least make them pull back momentarily. But hands grabbed the barrels and wrenched them down. A club slammed into the back of Cole's shoulders from behind, staggering him.

  He couldn't keep his hold on the weapon. It was torn away from him as the train whistle blew again, very close now, and the rumble of the locomotive shook the station with its intensity as it rolled past the platform, slowing to a stop.

  Through the open doors to the platform, Cole caught a glimpse of angry men charging the passenger cars. They were met by more men who jumped off the train wielding clubs. Obviously, they had been ready for trouble. The platform became a chaotic sea of slashing clubs, swinging fists, and furious shouts.

  Then the part of the mob that had surrounded Cole closed in on him even more, cutting off his view. Blows pummeled him back and forth.

  He reached for his Colt, but it was gone. Someone kicked the back of his left knee, knocking that leg out from under him. His balance deserted him and he would have fallen if not for the press of men around him, holding him up as they crashed fists into his body.

  Cole fought back as best he could, relishing the impact that rolled up his arm as his fist crashed into the middle of a man's face, pulping his nose. Blood spurted hotly across Cole's knuckles, and he reveled in that brief sensation, too. He wasn't thinking anymore, just fighting berserkly, his lips pulled back in a grimace and his breath panting harshly between clenched teeth.

  Cole was able to stay on his feet for a few minutes, but then the sheer weight of numbers was too much for him. He went down, and boots began to thud into him as the striking railroad workers kicked him viciously.

  A part of his brain knew that he was likely to die here and now, stomped to death in a damned train station. It was not a death he would have picked for himself.

  Vaguely, he heard something that sounded like a bugle being blown. Yes, that was exactly what it was, he decided. He had ridden with enough cavalry patrols as a civilian scout to recognize the sound of a bugle, even half-conscious as he was.

  There was a ripple of gunfire, then Cole realized nobody was kicking him anymore. In fact, as he drew great heaving breaths of air into his bruised and battered body, he saw that the men around him had drawn back, giving him some room not only to breathe but to push himself up on hands and knees.

  A strong hand gripped his upper arm. "Let me help you, Marshal," an unfamiliar voice said. Cole was lifted to his feet, seemingly with ease. The hand let go of his arm and he swayed for a second, then caught himself.

  He found himself facing a tall, well-built man in the uniform of an army major. The officer had a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and crisp black hair underneath his dark blue hat. He asked briskly, "Are you all right, Marshal?"

  Cole lifted his left hand and used the back of it to wipe blood off his mouth. "Reckon I will be," he replied, his lips and tongue thick from the beating he had suffered. "Thanks, Major."

  "Major Thomas Burdette," the officer introduced himself. "I'm glad we arrived when we did. It appears that things have gotten rather out of hand here in Wind River."

  There was a certain smugness in Major Burdette's tone that rubbed Cole the wrong way, but he had to admit that without the cavalry's intervention, he would have likely been trampled into an ugly smear on the floorboards by now. Cole glanced around and saw half a dozen troopers armed with Spencer carbines ranged around the depot lobby, covering the rioters.

  At least a dozen more soldiers were on the platform, maintaining order out there. Major Burdette had drawn his saber, and it was still in his left hand, ready for use if need be. That necessity seemed to have evaporated.

  "I'm not sure what's going on here," Burdette went on. "When we rode in, one of the townspeople told us there was a riot here in the train station and
that you were in trouble, Marshal. Perhaps you could explain . . . ?"

  Cole jerked his bloody chin toward the men filling the lobby. "Some of these gents used to work for the Union Pacific, until they went on strike. The others work for the UP now, and they came to convince the others to go back to their jobs." That left out the reasons behind the trouble, but it was enough for the moment, Cole figured.

  "I see," Burdette said. "Do you want any of these men arrested?"

  Cole thought about it for a few seconds, then shook his head. "I want 'em to go on about their business," he said, loudly enough for them all to hear. "There's been enough trouble today."

  "Very well." Burdette turned to his noncom, a burly, sandy-haired sergeant who stood nearby with the flap of his holster unsnapped. "Sergeant Mullins, disperse this crowd."

  "Yes, sir," the sergeant replied, then turned to the erstwhile rioters and bellowed, "You heard the major! Get out o' here while you got the chance!"

  The striking railroad workers began drifting out of the depot, muttering and grumbling all the way. The men who had come in on the train gathered on the platform, no doubt waiting for orders from the man in charge of their mission here.

  "I think you should have a doctor take a look at you, Marshal," Burdette said as he sheathed his saber and fell in alongside Cole and both of them started for the street door. "I have a medical officer if there's not a physician here in town."

  "We've got a doctor, a good one," Cole replied curtly. "But I'm all right, Major. I've been in enough fracases to know when I need a sawbones and when I don't."

  Burdette shrugged slightly. "Suit yourself. You're certainly not under my command."

  "I wasn't expecting you for another day or two," Cole said as they walked the short block to Grenville Avenue and turned onto the boardwalk along the main street.

  "We were on patrol when a rider from Fort Laramie reached us with new orders. That cut down the time it took for us to arrive." The major walked with his hands clasped behind his back and his spine ramrod straight. "I suppose you can tell us more about why we were summoned?"

  "That's what I figure to do," Cole grunted. "Come on down to my office with me, and I'll give you the whole story."

  "Just the background will be sufficient. I'm fully aware of the purpose of our basic mission here."

  Cole glanced over at the officer. "And what would that be?" he asked.

  Burdette looked a little surprised. "Why, to eradicate the threat of an uprising by the Shoshone and ensure the peaceful progress of the Union Pacific, of course, by any means necessary."

  "Including the eradication of the Shoshone?" Cole felt a surge of anger that he tried to control.

  Burdette looked at him blandly and repeated, "By any means necessary."

  Well, Cole thought, he had been wrong yet again. It looked like things could always get worse.

  Chapter 11

  Cole and Major Burdette reached the building that housed the land development company, and the cavalry officer cast an amused glance at the handmade sign with the legend WIND RIWER MARSHELS OFFICE burned into it. The sign hung from the roof over the boardwalk and was the work of Billy Casebolt. Burdette quirked an eyebrow and asked dryly, "I take it this is our destination?"

  Cole controlled his temper with an effort, his dislike for Burdette growing. He said, "This is my office. Come on inside. There's coffee on the stove—well, sorry, there's not, come to think of it. My deputy usually puts it on to boil, and he's out of town right now."

  "That's quite all right," Burdette said. He followed Cole through the door and then into the spartanly furnished front room. "We had coffee this morning before we broke camp and rode on into town."

  Without being asked, the major took off his gauntlets, tucked them behind the broad black belt around his lean waist, then removed his hat and sat down in the chair in front of Cole's desk. Cole went behind the desk and sat down gratefully. That fight had taken quite a bit out of him.

  "Well, now," Burdette said, "tell me about this Indian trouble. I understand a settler's farm near here was raided and the entire family massacred by the Shoshone?"

  "We don't know that," Cole replied.

  "The settler and his family weren't killed?" Burdette did that annoying thing with his eyebrow again.

  "They're dead, all right," snapped Cole. "But I don't know who killed them."

  "Were there any tracks to be found? Surely the raiders left some sign."

  "There were tracks," Cole admitted. "Unshod ponies."

  "And footprints?"

  "Wearing moccasins." Cole wasn't sure why his answers were so grudging. He ought to be happy to cooperate with the cavalry, he told himself. Maybe it was just the instinctive antagonism he felt toward Major Burdette. He had run into officers like Burdette before, back when he was working for the army. All spit 'n polish and thought they knew everything, even if they were fresh from the East and didn't know sic 'em about the frontier.

  Burdette spread his hands. "Well, there," he said with a smile, "who else could the killers have been except Indians?"

  "Doesn't mean they were Shoshone. There are other tribes of Indians. Used to be plenty of Sioux around here, and they've hated the railroad right from the start."

  "To the best of the army's knowledge, there are no Sioux in this vicinity at the present time," Burdette said. "They've moved to the east." His voice stiffened. "That's where I should be right now, in fact, where I could do some real good. Instead I was sent here to clean up a minor threat from some ragtag band of savages."

  "It wasn't a minor threat to Ben Jessup and his family," Cole said, struggling to hold a tight rein on his emotions. "They're just as dead, no matter who killed them."

  Burdette waved a hand. "Of course. That's not what I meant. And orders are orders, after all. I'll run down those Shoshone, and unless they can convince me that they intend to honor our treaties with them in the future, they will be forced to comply."

  Cole didn't ask Burdette how he intended to force the Shoshones to do anything. It had been his experience that it was damned near impossible to force somebody to do something. You could force them not to do something, you could show them it was in their best interests to follow a certain course, but most of the time when you got right down to it, forcing somebody to do something usually meant killing them for not doing it.

  "Do you know who's responsible for you being here?" Cole asked the major.

  "I understand that former general John Casement of the Union Pacific sent the wire to Fort Laramie requesting military assistance."

  "And do you know why Casement sent that telegram?"

  "Some of his workers were shot and scalped by hostiles, I believe."

  "That's what Casement thinks."

  "And you have reason to doubt his conclusions?" Burdette asked.

  For a moment Cole didn't answer. Then he shook his head. "Not really. Only what my guts tell me."

  Burdette smiled thinly. "No offense, Marshal, but that's hardly conclusive proof of anything."

  "Neither are some unshod pony tracks."

  "Those tracks indicate a high likelihood of Indian involvement, and the only Indians around here are the Shoshone." Burdette sighed. "Really, Marshal, I'm afraid we're not getting anywhere. I merely asked for some information, and you're trying to argue me out of what should be quite obvious. The Shoshone have risen." He leaned back and crossed his arms. "And I intend to put them down again."

  Cole scraped his chair back, stalked over to the window, and peered out unseeingly at Grenville Avenue for a long moment. Finally, he turned and said, "I don't reckon you'd give me a little time."

  "Time for what?" Burdette asked.

  "I sent my deputy out to talk to Two Ponies, the Shoshone chief. He's not back yet."

  "You sent one man on a dangerous mission like that?" Burdette was clearly surprised and disapproving.

  "Billy's friends with the Shoshones, especially Two Ponies. He'll get to the truth if anybody can."r />
  "How long has he been gone?"

  "He rode out yesterday afternoon," Cole said.

  "Not quite twenty-four hours . . . You might as well face it, Marshal, your deputy's scalp is probably adorning the lodge of some Shoshone war chief by now, unless it's still hanging from the savage's belt."

  "I don't think so," Cole said stubbornly. "I think Billy's going to get to the bottom of this, and I don't believe the Shoshones are behind it."

  Burdette stood up and faced Cole squarely. "I'm sorry, Marshal, but what you believe or don't believe is a matter of no concern to me. My orders say to investigate this uprising and deal with it. That is what I intend to do." He clapped his hat back on his head.

  "What exactly do you mean by that?" Cole demanded.

  "I intend to ride out of Wind River first thing tomorrow morning with my patrol. I'd leave this afternoon, but the men have had a long ride, and their mounts need rest. After we leave, I intend to find the hostiles and punish them for what they've done."

  "Punish them?" Cole repeated. "I thought you were supposed to make them honor the treaties."

  "What better way to do that than to impress upon them the futility of opposing the United States Army?" Without waiting for Cole to answer, Burdette nodded his head and turned toward the door. "Good day, Marshal. Let me know if you have any more trouble with civil disturbances."

  The arrogant comment was enough to finally push Cole over the edge. He stepped around the desk quickly and reached out to grasp Burdette's arm. "Just wait one damned minute!"

  Burdette stiffened, and his left hand went to his saber. "I'll thank you to let go of me, Tyler," he snapped. "I don't take kindly to being grabbed, especially by civilians."

  "And I don't take kindly to stiff-necked army greenhorns coming in here and telling me what they're going to do and what they're not going to do," Cole shot back. "You just want to go out and kill a few Shoshones, whether they've done anything or not, so that your commanding officer will send you against the Sioux. You figure that's where the glory is!"