Cole thought about how the citizens of Wind River regarded Jeremiah Newton, not only because of his massive size but also because he was the town's only minister. Dryly, Cole said, "I don't think anybody's going to give Jeremiah too much trouble."
"You're likely right about that," Casebolt admitted. "But there still ain't no reason to wait." He leaned closer to Cole and went on in a quieter voice, "It ain't just the fever breakin'. I had some other problems, and the water in that pool 'pears to have cleared them up, too."
Cole frowned. "What are you talking about, Billy?"
"Well, my rheumatism, for one. The stuff's plagued me for years, but this mornin' . . . shoot, my joints don't hurt a lick! I can move around better and easier than any time since I was a young pup!"
Cole's frown deepened as he said, "How could that pool help anybody's rheumatism?"
"Don't know," Casebolt said with a shake of his head. "But I know I sure don't hurt like I normally do in the mornin's, after my bones've had a chance to stiffen up."
Cole wasn't convinced. "You said you had some other problems that have gotten better . . . ?"
Casebolt's tone became even more hushed and confidential. "A feller who's been sittin' a saddle for as many years as I have just naturally has some other complaints . . ."
"Say no more," Cole told him, holding up a hand to forestall any further explanations. "I'll take your word for that one, Billy. Fact is, I'll take your word for all of it, and I suppose if you're convinced that you're strong enough to ride back to Wind River, I shouldn't argue with you. I'll get our horses saddled up as soon as we're finished with breakfast."
That appeared to satisfy Casebolt. When they were done eating, Cole left the lodge and found Two Ponies outside, told the chief they were going to leave the village and ride back to Wind River. Two Ponies nodded solemnly and said, "The place of healing is strong medicine. That is why we gave the name to the creek."
Cole saddled his golden sorrel, Ulysses, and the chestnut mare that Casebolt had been riding when they slipped out of Wind River.
Casebolt came striding out of the lodge a few minutes later, fully dressed and moving easily and confidently. Cole thought about the jerky gait his deputy usually affected and realized it had been due to the rheumatism that had made Casebolt's joints so painful. Cole would have been convinced of the pool's healing capabilities by the breaking of the fever alone; the easing of Casebolt's other aches and pains was just more confirmation.
Casebolt clapped his battered old hat on his head. "Reckon I'm almost ready to ride, Marshal," he said. "Just one more thing I got to do first."
He strode over to Two Ponies and Black Otter. Looking as serious as Cole had ever seen him, Casebolt said, "You fellas saved my life, and that's twice now. I'd've been a goner for sure if it hadn't been for you, Two Ponies, and you, Black Otter. I ain't goin' to insult you by offerin' to pay you for givin' me back my life, but I want you to know that if there's ever anything I can do for you or your people, all you got to do is ask."
"This thing we already know, friend Billy," Two Ponies told him. "You have been a good friend to the Shoshones."
"Well, just don't you forget, I owe you a whole heap."
Casebolt and Two Ponies clasped wrists, then Casebolt came back over to join Cole. As the whole village looked on, the two lawmen swung up into their saddles and started toward Wind River, turning to wave their farewells as they rode away.
The journey back to the settlement was uneventful. Cole kept a close eye on Casebolt to make sure the ride wasn't too much of a strain on the deputy, but Casebolt's recovery seemed complete. After they had been on the trail for over an hour, Casebolt admitted he was a little tired, but he wanted to push on.
As they neared the town, Cole brought up another subject that had been on his mind. "I've been thinking, Billy," he began. "It might not be a good idea for you to talk too much about what happened out there with the Shoshones."
Casebolt looked over at him and frowned. "Why not, Marshal?"
"Well, some folks might not believe that sitting in a pool of hot water could cure whatever was wrong with you and even clear up your other medical problems."
"Don't care if anybody believes me or not," Casebolt snorted. "You an' me both know what really happened."
"Yep, we sure do. But the people who don't believe aren't really the ones I'm worried about."
Casebolt shook his head. "Don't reckon I know what you're gettin' at."
"If folks hear about Medicine Creek and that pool, they're liable to want to go out there and see if the water can heal their illnesses and solve their problems, too," Cole said bluntly.
Casebolt thought about that for a moment, then nodded. "Could be, but I don't see what's wrong with that."
"That's a sacred place to the Shoshones, Billy," Cole said gently. "They only took you there because they think so highly of you. They wouldn't like it if suddenly there were dozens of people tramping around that creek."
"Yeah, I reckon you're right," Casebolt said after a moment. "I hadn't looked at it from that angle. I'll try to keep quiet about it."
A few minutes later, they reached the settlement, once again sticking to the back alleys as they made their way toward the marshal's office. They tied their horses behind the building and went through the rear door.
That took them past the offices of the Wind River Land Development Company, and Simone McKay stood up from behind a desk and hurried out into the corridor when she saw Cole and Casebolt passing by. "Billy!" she exclaimed. "You're back! And I must say you look much better than when you left."
"Yes'm, I feel a heap better," Casebolt said as he tugged his hat off.
"But how in the world—" Simone began.
"I'll tell you all about it later," Cole promised. He could trust Simone with the secret of Medicine Creek. "Right now, Billy and I just want things to get back to normal around here as soon as possible."
"I think that's what we all want," Simone said, and something about her tone made Cole look intently at her.
"Has something happened?" he asked.
"Nearly. And there may still be some trouble brewing. I'll let Jeremiah Newton tell you about it, though, since you left him in charge while you were gone." Simone looked at Casebolt again, smiled, and shook her head. "It's so good to see you healthy again, Deputy. Judson and I were so worried about you. Have you seen him yet?"
"No, ma'am, we haven't," Casebolt replied. "We came here to the office first."
"Well, I'm certain he'll be as happy to see you as I am."
Cole wasn't so sure about that. Kent might be jealous of the success Black Otter had had in curing Casebolt.
There were other things to deal with first. Cole said, "If you feel up to staying here in the office in case of trouble, Billy, I'll hunt up Jeremiah and find out what's going on."
"Sure, Marshal. I don't mind."
Simone added, "And I'll be right here if Billy needs anything."
Casebolt grinned sheepishly. "Shucks, with all you folks worryin' about me and tryin' to do for me, I'm liable to get downright spoiled."
"Don't concern yourself with that," Simone told him. "Why don't you go on in the office and sit down? You must be tired."
"A mite," Casebolt admitted. He headed on into the marshal's office.
Cole started toward the front door, but he turned back and said quietly to Simone, "How bad is this trouble Jeremiah's going to tell me about?"
"I don't know," Simone said. "But Kermit Sawyer is involved—"
Cole grimaced and held up a hand. "Don't say any more. Let Jeremiah break the bad news to me."
He made it to the door of the building before Simone said quietly, "Cole . . . I'm glad you're back."
The tenderness in her voice made his heart leap, made him forget the weariness of the ride from the Shoshone village. He smiled and nodded and said, "I'm glad to be back."
Then he went in search of Jeremiah Newton to find out what sort of trouble had cropped
up in his absence. Once he did, he thought, he might not be quite so happy to have returned to Wind River.
Chapter 8
The mountains that formed the eastern boundary of the Diamond S were to Frenchy's left as he rode along, his eyes watching alertly for any stock that might have strayed over here into this rugged terrain. Several miles to his right, the last of the spring branding was going on, and members of the Diamond S crew were spread out all across the valley, combing it for any calves that might have escaped the first sweep.
Frenchy had assigned the area that each man would cover, and he had taken this part of the valley for himself, since it was closest to the pass where Austin Fisk's Latch Hook stock had intruded before.
Wildcat Ridge was not far off. If there were going to be any more confrontations with Fisk's men, Frenchy wanted to keep them from getting out of hand. After the near-shoot-out in Wind River the day before, he knew that a level head would be required to keep violence from erupting the next time riders from the two ranches chanced to meet.
He hoped he was level-headed enough to keep that from happening.
On the other hand, since he was alone, if he ran across Wilt Paxton or any of the other Latch Hook punchers, they might take that as an invitation to bushwhack him.
Maybe Fisk had gotten smart and decided not to push in where he wasn't wanted anymore. That was what Frenchy was going to hope for, anyway.
It was only a few minutes after that thought went through his head that he saw the cattle grazing on the side of a hill.
Frenchy grimaced and reined in. It had taken him only a second to see that those weren't Diamond S cows. For one thing, they weren't longhorns, which made up the huge majority of Sawyer's stock. For another, they were still sort of skinny, and that, too, marked them as belonging to Austin Fisk. Fisk's cattle were only now beginning to recover from the long, hard drive west.
Quickly, Frenchy's eyes scanned the slopes above and below the cattle. He didn't see any riders. It was possible that the Latch Hook stock hadn't been driven over here at all but had simply strayed through the pass and onto Diamond S range instead.
Well, Mr. Sawyer's orders in a case like that were clear enough. Strays were to be run in with the Diamond S stock, and if Fisk wanted them back, he would have to pay for the privilege.
Frenchy heeled his horse into a trot. There were only about twenty of the cows. He could handle that many by himself. He would round them up and drive them into the center of the valley where the branding was going on.
He had reached the base of the hill where the cattle were grazing when he saw a rider appear at the top of the rise.
The other horsebacker started down when Frenchy started up. Too much distance separated them for Frenchy to be able to tell much about the other man, except for the fact that he rode well. Frenchy knew every member of his own crew, though, and this wasn't one of them, which led to the obvious conclusion: the rider was from Fisk's spread.
Frenchy's right hand went to the butt of his Colt, checked that the gun slid easily in its holster. He was pretty fast on the draw when he needed to be. That wasn't boasting, just a matter of fact.
He hoped he wouldn't need to be fast today.
The other rider was close enough now for Frenchy to tell that he wore a denim jacket and pants, as well as a flat-crowned brown hat. There was a cartridge belt strapped around the man's hips, too, supporting a pistol in a tied-down holster. Frenchy didn't recall seeing this hombre during either of the two recent confrontations with Latch Hook punchers, but that didn't mean anything. Fisk likely had quite a few men Frenchy had never run into.
Both Frenchy and the other man had almost reached the cattle by now. If Frenchy could see the other gent, then the other gent could certainly see him. Nobody was going to be taken by surprise here. And from the looks of things, nobody was going to back down, either.
Frenchy rode straight through the widespread herd, scattering a few of the cows. A glance at their brands as he passed confirmed what he already suspected—they were Latch Hook stock, all right.
He reined in as the other rider came to a stop about thirty yards in front of him. "This is Diamond S range," Frenchy called as he leaned forward in the saddle. "State your business here."
"I came to get those cattle. They don't belong to the Diamond S."
Frenchy stiffened, his nostrils flaring as he drew in a sharp breath. The voice was female.
And he could see now that the other rider possessed a lithe slenderness that also betrayed her sex, despite her garb and the fact that she was carrying a gun.
Her hair must have been tucked up underneath the hat. He swallowed hard and said, "Would you be one of Austin Fisk's daughters, ma'am?"
"I'm Alexandra Fisk," she answered coldly. "And those are my father's cattle. I saw their tracks while I was out riding and followed them through the pass. They seem to have strayed over here. Are you going to allow me to recover them?"
"Strayed . . . or were driven onto the Diamond S?"
It was Alexandra Fisk's turn to stiffen and rise up a little straighter in her saddle, but her reaction was due to anger instead of surprise. "I said they strayed^ and that's what I meant," she called. "My father gave orders not to force any more confrontations."
"What do you reckon you're doin' right now, ma'am?"
"Trying to retrieve what rightfully belongs to my father," she snapped. "And if you interfere with me, mister, you're nothing but a lowdown cow thief!"
Frenchy couldn't suppress the grin that tugged at his mouth. When he had seen her in town, Alexandra Fisk had seemed mighty cool and collected, but she was sure enough full of fire today. He halfway expected her to haul out that hogleg on her hip and start blasting away at him.
Thankfully, she didn't do that but settled for glaring at him instead.
He edged his horse closer to hers so that he wouldn't have to raise his voice so much to be heard. "Look, Miss Fisk," he said. "I've got my orders. Strays are supposed to be run in with the Diamond S stock. If your daddy wants them back, he'll have to talk to my boss."
"You're the foreman, aren't you, the one called Frenchy?"
He blinked, surprised that she would know him. "Yes, ma'am, that's who I am."
"Then surely your employer gives you some latitude in your orders. He expects you to deal with situations that may arise by using your best judgment, otherwise he wouldn't have given you the responsibility of being foreman."
"If you mean Mr. Sawyer don't keep me on a tight rein, I reckon you're right," Frenchy admitted. "He still wouldn't like it if I was to go against a direct order of his."
"He wouldn't mind if he didn't know about it," Alexandra pointed out.
Frenchy frowned. What she was asking him to do was tantamount to a betrayal of Kermit Sawyer and the Diamond S, and where Frenchy came from, a man rode for the brand and didn't allow himself to be swayed by such things as a pretty face.
Even as pretty a face as that of Alexandra Fisk.
However, she was right about Sawyer giving him some leeway in his actions. He was the segundo, accustomed to making some of his own decisions based on what he thought would be best for the ranch.
If he drove these Latch Hook cattle in among the Diamond S stock, that would lead inevitably to another confrontation between the two spreads, because Fisk wouldn't take such a move lying down.
With any luck, Fisk would be reasonable and offer to pay for the return of his cattle. But such a stroke of luck was improbable; it was more likely Fisk and his men would ride over to the Diamond S and try to take back the cows at gunpoint. And of course, Sawyer would fight back. A lot of good men would die.
"You swear these cattle just strayed through the pass?" Frenchy asked abruptly.
"That's twice you've asked me that," Alexandra replied coolly. "I'm beginning to think you don't trust me. But, yes, I swear they just strayed over here."
"Wouldn't have if your daddy's punchers didn't have 'em grazin' so close to the pass," Frenchy
muttered. He held up a hand to forestall her protest as a look of anger flashed across her face. "All right, all right. You can have 'em back, I reckon."
"Thank you." Her voice was icy, without a hint of real gratitude in it.
"You can't handle so many of these critters by yourself, though. I'll give you a hand."
"I don't need your help," she shot back.
"Well, you're gettin' it, whether you need it or not," he said stubbornly. "I want all these cows off of Diamond S range as soon as possible. Don't want any of 'em strayin' off again."
Alexandra glowered at him for a couple of seconds, then nodded in resignation. "All right. Thank you." This time the words sounded a little more sincere, although still grudging.
Frenchy turned his horse. "I'll ride around that end of the bunch," he said, waving his arm to show her what he meant. "You head the other way. We'll push 'em together and head 'em back to the pass."
Alexandra nodded her understanding and urged her mount into a quick trot. She handled the horse well, Frenchy thought, as he watched her over his shoulder. Rider and mount moved almost as one. Obviously she had been riding for a long time, back there in the bluegrass hills of Kentucky. One of those kids who could ride before they could walk, he supposed.
Rounding up the Latch Hook cattle was a relatively easy chore, and within a few minutes, Frenchy and Alexandra had the stock bunched and moving toward the pass in the mountains that led to the next valley.
The young woman proved to be as adept at handling cattle as she was with her horse. Every time one of the cows tried to move off from the herd on her side, Alexandra was there immediately, blocking the path of the recalcitrant critter and prodding it back in the direction it was supposed to go.
Frenchy kept an admiring eye on her while he pushed his own side of the small herd toward the pass.
They reached it in less than an hour. As the cattle started through the narrow passage between steep, thickly wooded slopes, Alexandra reined in and called to Frenchy, 'I can handle them from here. Well be back on Latch Hook range once we get through the pass."
Medicine Creek (Wind River Book 4) Page 6