Thunder Wagon (Wind River Book 2)

by James Reasoner

  Jeremiah crossed his brawny arms. "If the two of you are going to carry on this way, maybe I ought to leave."

  "Not at all," Kent said briskly as he turned away from Simone and reached for his hat and his bag. "As a matter of fact, I must be going myself. I've patients that I must look in on."

  Before he could leave, Michael stopped him by saying from the door of the other room, "Before you go, Doctor, I have to ask you a question."

  Kent turned back. "Of course, Michael," he said. "What is it?"

  "Was this . . . appendicitis or whatever you called it . . . was it caused by living out here on the frontier?"

  Kent stared at the young man in surprise. After a moment he said, "Really, Michael, you should know better. Appendicitis can strike anyone, anywhere. To blame your wife's illness on the Wyoming Territory is . . . well, ludicrous."

  "Even I could have told you that, Michael," Simone put in, "and I'm not a doctor."

  "I just wanted to know for sure," Michael said. "I never would have forgiven myself if Delia had to go through this because I came out here to take the job at the paper."

  "Put your mind at ease, my boy," Kent told him. "This was sheer happenstance, nothing more. Just be glad your little girl came to tell you what happened and that I was summoned immediately."

  Michael stepped across the room and put out his hand. "I am glad," he said. "Thank you, Doctor. There's just no words . . ."

  "You've already said enough," Kent assured him as they shook hands. "Someone should stay here with Mrs. Hatfield until I get back, then I can watch her for the rest of the evening."

  "I'll stay," Simone said immediately.

  "No need." Michael looked over his shoulder at the still form of his wife. "I'll be here. I'll be here while she's sleeping, and I'll be here when she wakes up . . ."

  * * *

  Night had fallen before Cole and Casebolt reached the Diamond S. Cole had approached the ranch in the darkness before and knew what to expect. So when he saw several small fires burning ahead of them, in addition to the normal lights from the ranch house and the bunkhouse, he felt a surge of relief.

  "Cookfires for those troopers," he said to Casebolt, pointing at the flames glowing in the night. "I was worried that Burdette might be so anxious to kill some Indians that he'd pull out tonight."

  "Not enough light from the moon and stars to do any trackin' tonight," Casebolt commented. "Looks like we're in time to put a stop to this, Marshal."

  "We can hope so, anyway," Cole said. He wasn't convinced, though. Still, they had to make the effort to get Burdette to listen to reason.

  A few minutes later, as they rode close enough to make out the ranch buildings looming in the darkness, as well as the tents pitched by the soldiers, a voice called sharply from the shadows, "Halt! Identify yourselves!"

  Cole hoped the sentry didn't have an itchy trigger finger. He said, "Marshal Cole Tyler from Wind River, and this is my deputy, Billy Casebolt. We're here to see Major Burdette."

  The guard moved out from a clump of cedar trees. "How do I know you're telling the truth?" he demanded. He sounded a little nervous now, and from his accent, Cole figured he was a newcomer out here on the frontier, too.

  "Well, if I was up to any mischief, I could've shot you by now if I'd wanted to," Cole pointed out.

  "Three or four times," Casebolt added. "More'n that, if the marshal here wanted to fan that Colt of his. 'Course, he ain't no show-off, and besides, fannin' usually don't hit half of what you aim at. Now if that ain't enough to convince you, soldier blue, you just go and fetch Kermit Sawyer out here. That ol' mossyhorn knows who me and the marshal are."

  Another voice called out of the darkness, "Old mossyhorn, am I? That must be you, Casebolt. Ain't nobody else works their mouth as much and says as little as you do." Sawyer walked up beside the guard, an indistinct figure in his black clothes. "Let 'em through, sonny. They ain't much good, but they're who they say they are."

  Cole bit back an angry comment and heeled Ulysses into motion. Casebolt followed on the chestnut mare he had borrowed from the livery stable in town.

  Sawyer walked beside them, gesturing as he said, "Major Burdette's tent is over there. I was talkin' to him when we heard riders comin'. Told him I'd see who it was."

  "We've got important news, Sawyer," Cole told the cattleman. "You were wrong about some things."

  "We'll damn well see about that," Sawyer grunted. "Come on."

  He led them to Burdette's tent, the largest of the canvas shelters. The entrance flap was open and a lamp had been lit on a folding table set up inside. Burdette stood up from a stool to greet them as they dismounted and came into the tent. He had taken off his hat and jacket but otherwise was in regulation uniform.

  "Good evening, gentlemen," he said. "What brings you out here, Marshal?"

  Cole jerked a thumb at Casebolt. "This is my deputy, the one I was telling you about earlier today."

  Burdette glanced at Casebolt and gave that smug, irritating smile. "Yes, the fellow who is . . . friendly . . . with the redskins."

  "Reckon I ought to be friendly with em," Casebolt said indignantly. "Two Ponies and his people saved my bacon not that long ago. Picked me up on the prairie when I'd been shot by a thievin' sidewinder and took care of me till I was damn near good as new."

  "Well, that was kind of them, I'm sure," Burdette said. "It doesn't mean, however, that they haven't turned hostile since then."

  Casebolt bristled. "The Shoshones ain't turned hostile, and I can prove it. I was with 'em last night, when Sawyer here says they was killin' his hands and runnin' off his cows."

  Burdette looked interested at last, and Sawyer's leathery features flushed. "Are you callin' me a liar, Deputy?" the rancher snapped.

  "No, sir, I'm not," Casebolt replied. "But I sure figure you're honestly mistaken about them Shoshones. They're still peaceable, long as they're treated right."

  "Then how do you explain the unshod hoof-prints both here and at that homesteader's farm, as well as the moccasin tracks?" the major asked. "The signs certainly indicate that Indians were responsible for those atrocities."

  Cole said, "Anybody can wear moccasins and ride an unshod horse, no matter what color his skin is."

  "You're sayin' white men are to blame for this trouble?" Sawyer said angrily. "I never heard such a load of horse droppin's!"

  "I'm not saying white men killed your hands or wiped out that settler and his family," Cole said. "But there weren't any arrows or lances found at either place."

  "They were scalped, damn it, and so were those railroad men!"

  Cole shrugged. "A white man can use a scalping knife, I reckon. For that matter, so can a Sioux. And they're damned good at it, too."

  Burdette looked at Casebolt. "You realize, don't you, Deputy, that you're asking me to take the word of a savage?"

  "No, sir, I'm askin' you to take my word. I know Two Ponies and his people, and they were all in their camp last night. I can swear to that on a stack of Bibles."

  Cole asked Sawyer, "How old were the tracks you found around where your boys were killed?"

  For a moment Sawyer didn't answer, then he said grudgingly, "Fresh enough we could tell it happened last night. The bodies told us the same thing."

  Cole turned his gaze to the cavalry officer. "There you go, Major. You've got the proof you need to clear Two Ponies and his band of Shoshone. You go after them now and it'll be pretty clear you're nothing but a glory hunter."

  Burdette stared angrily at him and said, "By God, you like to push your luck, don't you, Marshal?"

  "Just telling the truth," Cole said flatly.

  Sawyer said, "What if we follow those tracks and they lead right to that Shoshone village?"

  "They won't," Cole said, and he hoped he was right. It was always possible that whoever was responsible for the series of depredations in the area might try even harder to lay the blame for the raids on the Shoshones. The stolen animals might have been driven into the vicin
ity of Two Ponies' camp for just that reason.

  "I might could get Two Ponies to come in and talk with you, Major," Casebolt suggested. "Him and his people are pretty leery of towns, but I could give it a try."

  Burdette shook his head. "That won't be necessary. I'm going to accept your word on this matter . . . for now."

  "What?" Sawyer exclaimed. "Beggin' your pardon, Major, but if you don't go after those savages, me and my boys will!"

  Burdette turned to the cattleman. "You'll do no such thing, Mr. Sawyer. Dealing with the Indians is the job of the army, and I fully intend to get to the bottom of this matter. My men and I will follow those tracks and see where they lead. If the Shoshone are involved, I assure you we'll find out about it and deal with them severely."

  "Yeah, well, that's fine," Sawyer said bitterly. "In the meantime, what do I tell my men? Keep a gun close by and one hand on your hair?"

  "Words to live by," Cole said, enjoying the angry glare Sawyer threw at him. "Do I have your word, Major, that you won't attack the Shoshones without good reason?"

  "I never intended to," Burdette replied stiffly. "But if they are responsible for those killings, then God help them."

  "They ain't," Casebolt said. "You'll see, if you'll just be patient and do a little pokin' around."

  "That's exactly what I intend to do. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, it is getting rather late, and my men and I rode a great distance today."

  "Sure," Cole said. "Glad we got here in time to keep you from making a mistake."

  "We shall see about that," Burdette said pointedly.

  Cole and Casebolt turned and left the tent, striding over to their horses. Sawyer followed them, and he said quietly, "By God, if any more of my men are killed by those savages while the major and his soldier boys are piddlin' around on your say-so, Tyler, I'm goin' to hold you responsible."

  Cole swung up onto Ulysses and returned Sawyer's cold stare. "Maybe you ought to start thinking about who really killed your hands, since the Shoshones aren't to blame for it," he suggested. He wheeled the sorrel around and heeled it into a trot. Casebolt followed. Both lawmen could feel Sawyer staring after them, hatred in his eyes.

  When they were out of earshot, Casebolt sighed and said, "That major sounded like he was goin' to hold off on startin' a shootin' war with the Shoshones. I reckon that's another bullet we dodged, Marshal."

  "Yeah," Cole grunted. "But around here, there's always at least one more cartridge in the cylinder."

  Chapter 14

  To Cole's surprise, things were quiet in Wind River for the next couple of days. Many of the Union Pacific workers were still on strike, so many, in fact, that all construction on the railroad came to a temporary halt. Jack Casement and General Dodge wired their superiors back east, asking advice on how to proceed, but so far there had been no reply except to stand pat while the situation was assessed.

  In the meantime, the striking workers spent most of their time in the saloons, which meant a booming business for Hank Parker, Abner Langdon, and the other saloon owners. Fights were rare; the men were more interested now in drinking and trying to forget their troubles than they were in brawling.

  Nor had Major Burdette's troop of cavalry returned from its attempt to trail whoever had raided Sawyer's ranch.

  Two nights after the visit by Cole and Billy Casebolt to the Diamond S, the marshal was making his rounds in town when the sudden noise of a scuffle in the alley he was passing came to his ears. Cole swung around and called, "Who's there? What's going on back there?"

  Somebody yelped, "Help! Oh please, God, somebody stop him—"

  The cry was cut off by a strangled scream. Cole yanked his revolver from its holster and plunged into the shadows of the alley, not sure what he was getting himself into but knowing he couldn't ignore the cry for help. He ran down the alley, tripping over something and almost losing his balance as he stumbled forward.

  An indistinct figure loomed in front of him. Something slashed through the air, and Cole felt a blade tear the sleeve of his buckskin shirt before drawing a fiery line across his forearm. The man grunted with the effort of the blow.

  Another few inches, and that knife would have opened up his belly instead of just gashing his arm, Cole knew. He lashed out with the gun in his hand, aiming at the vaguely seen head of his assailant. The man twisted aside and took the blow on his left shoulder, at the same time cutting back the other way with the bloody knife clutched in his right hand.

  Cole ducked back. Somewhere farther along the alley, someone was sobbing in pain. Without warning, there was a rush of footsteps from Cole's left, and he knew he had two enemies here, not just one. He tried to wheel around and meet the charge, but he was too late. A foot slammed into his side in a vicious kick that sent him sprawling into the wall of one of the buildings.

  That was damned well enough of that, he thought. His side ached, and his left arm burned like blazes where that knife had cut him. Aiming high, he triggered a couple of shots.

  The Colt was deafeningly loud here in the close confines of the narrow alley. The muzzle flash half-blinded Cole, but through slitted eyelids he saw a couple of men in dark clothes darting away. Another man lay on the hard-packed dirt of the alley floor.

  The attackers weren't willing to stand up to the threat of a gun, and they were fleeing for all they were worth. Cole thumbed off a couple of more shots after them, but neither set of running footsteps broke stride and he knew his bullets had missed. He moved forward along the alley and went to a knee beside the man he had glimpsed earlier.

  "This is the marshal," he said, not holstering the Colt just yet. "Are you all right?"

  A hand clawed at his arm. Cole shook it off as the man said desperately, "Oh, Lordy, Marshal, they hurt me! Two of 'em jumped me, and they did somethin' to my head—"

  Cole moved his free hand toward the direction of the man's voice and touched something hot and wet and sticky. The man howled in fresh pain.

  "Marshal Tyler!" Casebolt's voice shouted from the mouth of the alley. "You down there?"

  "I'm all right, Billy," Cole called over his shoulder. "Bring a light, and you'd better send somebody for Dr. Kent!"

  Cole heard the deputy issuing curt orders to some of the bystanders who had been drawn to the alley by the yelling and the gunshots, and a few moments later Casebolt came down the alley with a bull's-eye lantern held high in his left hand. His right gripped the old Gunnison and Griswold revolver he carried.

  As the light washed over Cole and the man beside whom he knelt, the marshal saw about what he expected to see. The man lying in the alley was one of the striking railroad workers, and more than that, he was one of the men who had nearly gotten himself thrown in jail for rioting the night the Chinese family had arrived in Wind River. He was writhing in pain, one hand pressed to his head in a futile attempt to stop the blood welling from where his ear had been.

  Cole knew firsthand how sharp the knife wielded by one of the shadowy attackers had been. It had ripped through the sleeve of his buckskin shirt, which was a lot tougher than the flesh of a man's ear. The railroad worker's ear had been sliced off cleanly, next to the head.

  "Blast it," Cole grated. "I was hoping we'd seen the last of this sort of thing."

  Casebolt let out a low whistle. "'Nother'un, huh? What do you reckons behind this, Marshal?"

  "Don't know yet," Cole replied with a shake of his head. He leaned over the injured man and asked, "What happened? Did they rob you?"

  The man was able to nod weakly. "I'd been drinkin' at Langdon's place, and I was cuttin' through here to get back to the railroad yard. Somebody . . . somebody jumped me, knocked me down, rifled my pockets. Then I felt one of 'em grab my ear and pull on it . . . Oh, Lordy, it hurt then! It's gone, ain't it, Marshal?"

  Cole didn't answer the question directly. He said, "Shine that light around the alley, Billy."

  Casebolt swung the lantern from side to side. "I don't see it nowheres," he announced. "Reckon them
fellers must've got off with it, just like those other times."

  "That's what I figure," Cole said. "Sorry, mister, but your ear's gone."

  The mutilated railroad worker whimpered in his pain and distress. Cole stood up and moved back as several more men came down the alley, Dr. Judson Kent in the lead.

  "I hear there's an injured man here," Kent said briskly.

  "Another missing ear," Cole told the doctor. "Think you can tend to him?"

  "Of course," Kent replied as he knelt beside the victim and set his medical bag on the ground. "I'll get a dressing on here to slow down the bleeding, then take him down to my office so that the wound can be cleaned and stitched. Deputy Casebolt, if you would, shine that light down here so that I can see what I'm doing . . ."

  Cole put a hand on Casebolt s shoulder as the deputy followed the physician's orders. "Stay here and do what you can to help the doc," Cole said in a low voice. "I'm going to take a look around."

  Casebolt glanced shrewdly at him. "You got an idea who's been doin' this?"

  "Just a hunch." Cole shrugged. "I'll see you later."

  The crowd of curious bystanders parted to let him through, and he strode quickly along the alley back to the street.

  Coincidences were piling up, and Cole didn't like them. This new attack confirmed there was a link between the victims—all of them had harassed Wang Po and his family when the Chinese cook arrived in Wind River. And Cole remembered how quickly the Chinese patriarch's sons had drawn knives when they were threatened. The robberies were secondary, Cole believed now; the real reason behind the attacks was vengeance.

  Would anybody be that touchy, that protective of what they considered their honor? Cole knew little about the Chinese, their customs and culture, but given the circumstances, he had to think it was possible. When he reached Grenville Avenue, he turned toward the Territorial House.

  It was time to get to the bottom of this, before anybody else got hurt.

  * * *

  Rose Foster had just drawn the door of her cafe closed and locked it behind her when the rider reined up in the street in front of the building. As she turned automatically toward the horse-backer he reached up and tugged off his hat, holding it in front of his chest. "Evenin', Miss Rose," a young man's voice said enthusiastically. "How are you tonight?"