Thunder Wagon (Wind River Book 2)

by James Reasoner

  "Let go of me," Burdette grated.

  Cole released the major's arm and stepped back. "Don't get the idea I like touching somebody like you, Burdette." He snorted. "Hell, when you get down to it, you're nothing but an errand boy for the Union Pacific."

  "How dare you—" Burdette blazed.

  Cole cut in, "Well, that so-called civil disturbance you rode in on is going to be a lot more trouble for the UP than the Shoshones! In case you didn't notice, Major, that was one hell of a riot, and it was all because most of the track layers around here have gone on strike. They've got some crazy idea in their heads that Chinese coolies are going to come in and take over their jobs. You'd accomplish more by getting to the bottom of that than you would chasing the Shoshones around."

  Burdette shook his head stubbornly. "My orders don't say anything about this matter. I'm to deal with the Indian threat, and that's all."

  Cole sighed in frustration. Trying to talk sense to Burdette was like arguing with a pine tree.

  Boot heels rattled on the boardwalk outside. Cole looked over in time to see Kermit Sawyer pass by the window and then turn in at the door. The Texan appeared in the doorway of the office a second later and glared at Cole before turning his attention to the major. Sawyer seemed surprised to see an army officer.

  "So," grunted Sawyer, "you took my advice and finally got around to callin' in the army, eh?"

  "You've got that wrong, as usual, Sawyer," Cole said.

  Burdette looked steadily at Sawyer. "Who might you be, sir?"

  "Kermit Sawyer, late of the Colorado River country down in Texas, now owner of the Diamond S spread north of here," the cattleman replied. "I reckon you're here to put a stop to all the thievin' and killin' those damned redskins have been doin'."

  Before Burdette could reply, Cole asked, "Has something else happened, Sawyer?"

  "Damn right it has. Two of my hands were killed, and some of my stock was run off. The killers were ridin' unshod horses."

  Burdette threw a triumphant glance at Cole, then said to Sawyer, "You say this happened north of town, Mr. Sawyer?"

  "That's right. I can show you the place. You can pick up the bastards' tracks there, probably follow 'em right back to their camp. Likely my cattle will have been butchered by the time you catch up to 'em, but I don't care about that near as much as I do makin' those savages pay for killin' my hands."

  "I can assure you, sir, we'll do our best to recover your stolen property, as well as meting out justice to the killers of your employees."

  Cole watched them, his disgust growing. Sawyer and Burdette were two of a kind, all right, despite the differences in their backgrounds. Both of them were eager to jump to conclusions—and those conclusions revolved around hunting down the Shoshones.

  "Sorry to break up your party, gents," Cole said, "but you said you and your men weren't pulling out until tomorrow, Major, and I expect my deputy will be back before then. He can tell us what Two Ponies has to say."

  Sawyer snorted contemptuously, and Burdette turned his smug expression on Cole. "Under the circumstances, Marshal, I believe the troop will leave this afternoon after all. I want to investigate the incident on Mr. Sawyer's ranch." He paused, then added, "And I fail to see why you think the word of a savage would carry any weight with the United States Army, even if this deputy of yours does return shortly."

  Cole's face was bleak as he shook his head. "You're making a mistake, Major."

  "No, Marshal. I'm following orders." Burdette turned back to the Texan. "Come along, Mr. Sawyer. I want to hear more about this atrocity."

  They started out the door, Sawyer saying as they departed, "You and your troop can make camp at the Diamond S tonight, Major. I'd be glad to put you up."

  "Thank you, Mr. Sawyer. We can study those tracks and start following them as soon as it's light tomorrow morning."

  Cole sank down behind his desk and sighed. Control of this situation had well and truly slipped away from him now—if he had ever really had control of it in the first place, which he was starting to doubt.

  The sound of a new voice in the corridor outside made him look up sharply. "Hello, Mr. Sawyer," Cole heard Simone McKay say.

  "Howdy, ma'am," Sawyer replied. "I'd like you to meet Major Burdette. Major, this is Mrs. McKay"

  Cole was on his feet again by that time, moving quickly around the desk to the door so that he could see into the short hallway opening onto the boardwalk. Simone, wearing a dark blue dress and hat, had just entered the building and was smiling at the cavalry officer, who had gallantly doffed his hat. "It's an honor and a privilege to make your acquaintance, ma'am," he said as he took Simone's hand.

  At least Burdette was just shaking her hand, Cole thought. He halfway expected the officer to bend over and kiss it like some sort of fancy-ass European. Simone seemed just as impressed as she would have been had Burdette done such a thing, though. Her smile grew wider as she looked at the handsome young officer.

  "What brings you to Wind River, Major Burdette?" she asked.

  "Duty, ma'am. My troop and I are here to pacify the Indians that have started to give trouble in this area."

  "Oh." Simone glanced over Burdette's shoulder at Cole, who was glowering in the doorway of the marshal's office. "I wasn't aware you had sent for the army, Marshal Tyler."

  "I didn't," Cole said flatly. "Jack Casement wired Fort Laramie. I think it's a mistake."

  Burdette chuckled. "No offense, Mrs. McKay, but Marshal Tyler here seems to think that the Shoshone are some sort of peace-loving psalm singers."

  "I never said that," Cole snapped. "I wouldn't cross 'em unless I had to—especially if I wasn't sure there was a good reason for doing it."

  "Those hands of mine they slaughtered are reason enough," Sawyer said.

  Simone frowned. "There have been more killings?"

  "Two of my men were murdered, and I had some cows and horses stolen," the Texan told her. "There ain't no doubt the Shoshones were responsible."

  "There's doubt," Cole said stubbornly. "I sent Billy Casebolt out to talk to Two Ponies, Mrs. McKay, but he's not back yet."

  Simone looked at Burdette. "Deputy Casebolt does know those Indians better than anyone else around here, Major. Perhaps you would be wise to wait until he returns and gives the marshal his report."

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I've got to follow my orders," said Burdette. "And they say to deal with this Indian problem as I see fit. My men and I are riding out to Mr. Sawyer's ranch, and we'll pick up the trail of the raiders there."

  "Well, that seems to make sense, too." Once more Simone smiled at the officer. "Good luck on your mission, Major."

  "Thank you, ma'am."

  "If you have a chance later, please stop by the Territorial House. I own it, you know, and I'd like to have you as my guest for dinner in our dining room."

  "Thank you again, ma'am." Burdette smiled warmly at her in return. "I'd like that."

  Cole gritted his teeth, wondering why Simone was playing up so to this addlepated young fool. But it was none of his business whom she had dinner with, or whom she smiled at, he reminded himself. He sure as hell didn't have any claim on her.

  "We'd best be movin' along," Sawyer said, and Burdette nodded in agreement as he replaced his hat on his head. He tugged on the brim as he nodded politely to Simone, then she moved aside to let the two men step out onto the boardwalk.

  As Sawyer and Burdette strode down the street Simone turned to Cole. "Having the cavalry here should solve our problems, shouldn't it?"

  "I wouldn't count on it," Cole said curtly.

  "I heard there was some trouble earlier." She moved a couple of steps closer to him. "You've been hurt. I hadn't noticed the bruises until now."

  That's because you were too busy mooning over Burdette, Cole thought, but instead of saying it, he just shrugged his shoulders. "The Union Pacific sent for some strong-arm men to try to force the strikers to go back to work," he explained. "Those hotheaded Irishmen were waiting fo
r the train when it pulled in. There was quite a fracas."

  "And you were caught right in the middle of it," Simone guessed. "Were you hurt badly?"

  "I'll be all right," Cole replied, brushing off her question. Truth to tell, he hurt all over, his muscles aching and throbbing from the beating he had taken.

  "At least you were able to keep things from getting out of hand."

  Cole hesitated, then said, "The army did that. Burdette and his troop rode in while the ruckus was going on." The admission tasted bitter in his mouth.

  "Oh. Well, I'm sure you were doing your best, Marshal."

  "Yeah. Too bad that's not good enough anymore." Cole nodded briskly to her. "Good day to you, Mrs. McKay."

  He turned and went back into his office before Simone could say anything else, knowing that he was being rather rude to her but no longer caring, at least not right now.

  Something was wrong as all hell about this whole mess. Cole could sense it, but damned if he could put his finger on what it was.

  And while he tried to figure it out, things just kept spiraling downward. It was like trying to dig a hole in quicksand—the harder he tried to get out, the lower he sank.

  Maybe Billy Casebolt would throw him a rope. Right now it was about the only hope he had left.

  Chapter 12

  Delia Hatfield had learned how to ignore her daughter Gretchens babbling, at least for the most part. Delia's maternal instincts told her when to pay attention, when Gretchen might be saying something important. But at the moment, as Delia got ready to put a pan of corn bread in the oven, Gretchen was going on about some spotted dog she had seen earlier in the day, and Delia was letting the child's words go in one ear and out the other.

  At least things were a bit more peaceful now between her and Michael, Delia thought. Her visit to the newspaper office the day before had buoyed her spirits for some reason. Perhaps seeing Michael in his element . . . seeing him where he was the happiest . . . had convinced her to be more tolerant of his passion for the newspaper. After all, a man had a right to do what made him happy—within reason, of course.

  She bent over to open the door of the oven, then picked up the pan from her kitchen counter. Suddenly a sharp pain shot through her body, and she gasped from surprise as much as from discomfort. The pain grew rapidly, however, completely replacing the surprise. Delia bent down again, and the pan slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor.

  "Mama?" Gretchen said, forgetting about the spotted dog in her worry. "Mama sick?"

  Delia sank to her knees, biting her lip to keep from crying out at the pain gripping her. "Y-yes, Gretchen," she managed to choke out. "Mama is . . . very sick. Can you . . . can you go find . . . Papa?"

  Gretchen came over to her and extended a hand, but the little girl stopped short of actually touching her mother. Her face was filled with fear. "Find Papa?" she echoed tentatively.

  "Yes . . . p-please. Go on . . . now . . . dear."

  Slowly, Gretchen backed away, her blue eyes wide. She didn't stop until she bumped up against the back door of the house. Hesitantly, she reached up to touch the latch.

  "Th-that's it," Delia encouraged her. "Go on, Gretchen." Another thought occurred to her. Michael might not be at the newspaper office. He could have gone somewhere else to report on some news. She added, "If you can't . . . can't find Papa . . . then fetch Dr. Kent. Can you do that, Gretchen?"

  Wordlessly, the child nodded, her face solemn as well as frightened.

  "Th-thank you . . . G-Gretchen . . ."

  Sweat had popped out on Delia's face, beading and rolling down her forehead and her cheeks. A pulse throbbed in her temple, and she felt hot for some reason, even though the late-summer day wasn't particularly warm. At the same time, her fingers were trembling as if she was chilled.

  With maddening slowness, Gretchen made up her mind to carry out her mother's commands. She reached up again, unlatched the door, and swung it open. For a long moment she stood there in the doorway, watching Delia with that scared, solemn expression.

  Then she turned and broke into a run, vanishing from Delia's sight.

  Delia closed her eyes and tried to push the pain out of her mind. She tried thinking about the baby, but that only made it worse, because she was desperately afraid there was something wrong with the child she was carrying. That was the only explanation for the agony she was suffering. Something was wrong with the baby, she sobbed wordlessly, and she was going to lose it and maybe die herself and leave Michael and Gretchen all alone . . .

  A fresh wave of pain, worse than any that had come before, and accompanied this time by nausea, washed through her. Delia felt herself swaying on her knees, then she slumped forward despite her best efforts to stay upright. She managed to turn herself to the side, so that her shoulder struck the floor first, rather than her swollen belly. Panting rapidly, she tried to hang on to consciousness, but it was slipping away from her and she knew it.

  Vaguely, she was aware that she was not in labor. She had experienced that when Gretchen was born, and this was different, terrifyingly different. She was sure, too, that her water had not broken. But she was still convinced that the pain came from the baby, that something had gone horribly awry in her body.

  She offered up a silent prayer for the unborn child, for Michael and Gretchen, for herself. Then, with a shudder, she surrendered to the blackness that rose up to claim her.

  * * *

  "Papa!"

  The frightened cry made Michael Hatfield wrench his head up from the freshly printed sheet he was studying proudly. The press was still working, its clatter and clank filling the little building where the newspaper office was housed, as Michael's assistants turned the big cranks attached to the apparatus. Gretchen's scream cut cleanly through the noise, however.

  Michael whirled around and tossed the sheet of newsprint aside. Gretchen came stumbling through the front door of the office, and Michael ran through the gate in the railing that divided the room to sweep her up in his arms. She was alone and crying big tears that rolled down her face as she sobbed.

  "What is it?" Michael asked urgently. "What's wrong, Gretchen?"

  "M-Mama!" she sobbed. "Mama sick!"

  An icy feeling of dread shot through Michael. For weeks now, Delia had seemed convinced that something was wrong. Perhaps her intuition had been correct all along. "What happened to her?" he asked Gretchen, trying to keep his voice steady. He didn't want the little girl to see how frightened he really was. That would only scare Gretchen worse.

  "Mama fall down," she said, sniffling. "Mama cry."

  Michael looked around desperately, not sure what he was looking for. Answers, maybe. Something to tell him what to do. He drew a deep, ragged breath.

  "Hello, Michael," a new voice said from the doorway. "I just stopped by to pick up a copy of this week's paper as it comes off the pre—oh, my God, what's wrong?"

  Simone McKay stood there, a worried expression on her attractive face. Michael practically ran over to her and thrust the squirming Gretchen into her arms.

  "Something's wrong with Delia!" he said frantically. "Can you watch Gretchen for me while I fetch Dr. Kent?"

  Simone tightened her grip on Gretchen. "I'll do better than that. I'll get word to Judson. You go on home as quickly as you can, Michael."

  He nodded jerkily. That was a better idea, he thought. He started out the door at a run, then caught the jamb and pulled himself back. "The press run is going fine," he told Simone.

  "Don't worry about the paper!" she scolded. "Just go home!"

  Michael nodded again and dashed out the door, his shoes pounding against the boardwalk as he ran.

  He provided quite a spectacle for the townspeople, sprinting down the street like that toward his house. But he didn't care. All he wanted to do was reach Delia's side and help her, before it was too late.

  Too late. The words echoed ominously in his head. If anything happened to Delia—or the baby—or both of them—he would never
forgive himself. She had never wanted to move out here in the first place, and she hadn't wanted to stay once they had seen what life was like here in Wind River. Ruthless outlaws, savage Indians, brawling railroad workers, wild cowboys . . . Delia was right. This was no place to be bringing up a family.

  Self-recrimination wasn't going to do any good now, Michael told himself. He blanked all the thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on getting to his house as fast as he could.

  Almost out of control, he careened around a corner onto the side street where he and Delia lived. He saw the house up ahead. It looked perfectly normal, nothing fancy, just a nice little house. Michael bounded onto the porch and slammed the door open. "Delia!" he shouted. "Delia, where are you?"

  He should have asked Gretchen, he thought, but it hadn't occurred to him at the time, so surprised had he been by his daughter’s unexpected arrival at the newspaper office. He thought about the time of day it was. Delia would have likely been preparing supper for him. He ran past the parlor and down the hall to the kitchen.

  She was there, slumped in a motionless heap on the floor. Michael fell to his knees beside her, crying out, "Delia! Oh, Lord, Delia!" He grasped her shoulders and turned her so that he could see her face. Her features were pale and washed out, contorted with the pain that had gripped her.

  But she was breathing, he realized with a surge of relief as he saw the faint up-and-down motion of her chest. As he leaned closer to her he could hear the air going in and out of her. Her mouth was open, and her breathing was harsh and strained.

  He felt her forehead. She was feverish, her skin very warm to his touch. Not knowing what else to do, Michael opened the throat of her dress, hoping that might make her breathe easier, as he said, "Please be all right, Delia! Please be all right."

  The table was within reach. He took hold of a corner of the linen tablecloth and yanked it off the table, spilling the sugar bowl in the process. Michael laid the cloth over her and tucked it around her, not knowing if he was doing the right thing or not.