He rode over to her and shook his head. "I'll go with you until you get where you're goin'. Wouldn't want any of those cows to get it in their heads to turn back."
"It's really not necessary. The pass is narrow enough so that I won't have any trouble—"
"No point in takin' any chances," Frenchy broke in. "Shoot, I've already come this far. Might as well go a little farther."
"Well, if you insist . . ."
Together, they rode into the pass behind the little jag of cattle. Frenchy would be glad when they got to the other side of the pass. He was relieved that they hadn't run into any other Diamond S riders while they were driving the Latch Hook cows back to the pass; he would have been damned hard put to explain just what in blazes he was doing.
Heading off more trouble before it started, that's what he was doing. That was what he told himself, at any rate.
But in the back of his mind, he had to wonder if he would have done the same thing if Wilt Paxton or one of the other Latch Hook cowboys had come onto Diamond S range to retrieve that stock. Somehow, he doubted it.
The cattle cooperated, as if sensing that they were headed back to their home range, and it wasn't long before the end of the twisting pass came into view. Frenchy and Alexandra prodded the cows out into the next valley, back onto land claimed by Fisk's Latch Hook spread. Once again, Alexandra reined in and looked over at Frenchy.
"Thank you," she said, and this time he could tell the expression was genuine. "You could have caused some trouble about this, but instead you were quite reasonable. Not at all like Father—" She stopped abruptly and caught her bottom lip between even white teeth.
Frenchy grinned. "What'd your pa say? That all of us over on the Diamond S were a bunch of crazy, trigger-happy Texans?"
Alexandra had to laugh. "Something like that," she admitted.
"Well, we're not. A mite proddy sometimes, maybe, but not crazy. No offense to your pa, Miss Alexandra, but if he would just be reasonable, likely him and Mr. Sawyer could settle this wrangle without anybody gettin' hurt."
Right away, he saw that he had gone too far. The hint of friendliness he had seen in her eyes had vanished instantly at his words. Her stare was once again cool and appraising and a little bit hostile.
"Reasonableness works both ways, Mr. LeDoux," she said. She dug the heels of her boots into the flanks of her horse and sent the animal forward.
Stubbornly, Frenchy bit back a curse and rode alongside her. "I can go a mite farther with you, just to make sure—"
Alexandra interrupted the offer. "Not necessary. And might I remind you, we're on Latch Hook now. You'd better make yourself scarce before we run into some of my father's riders. I don't think they'd like to find you here."
Frenchy was about to tell her that he wasn't afraid of any Latch Hook riders when a group of men suddenly emerged from a line of trees about three hundred yards ahead of them. There were at least a dozen of them, Frenchy saw, and they had to be Fisk's men.
Alexandra saw them, too, and brought her horse to an abrupt halt. "What did I tell you?" she snapped. "Now get out of here while you still can."
Frenchy had reined in as well, and he studied the approaching cowboys as he sat his saddle tensely. They had been ambling along when they came out of the trees, not in any hurry, but now they seemed to be moving faster. They must have spotted the cattle, as well as him and Alexandra. And she was right—they wouldn't like it if they found him here.
"All right," he said. "Only reason I helped you bring those cows back over here was to head off trouble, so I reckon it wouldn't do to start any now. I'll go."
"Thank you. You can reach the pass and get back through it before my father's men can catch up to you."
"Yep. There's just one more thing I got to do first."
It was an impulse, pure and simple, and Frenchy couldn't have come up with even one good reason for doing it—except that he wanted to.
He reached over, caught the reins of Alexandra's horse, and leaned toward her. She had time to say, "What—," before his lips met hers.
The kiss was hard and fast, but even though it didn't last very long, it packed a wallop. Frenchy was breathless and his pulse hammered in his head when he pulled back. Her lips had been soft and warm and sweet as strawberries, just as he expected. And also just as he expected, she was staring at him through eyes wide with surprise.
He let go of her reins, ticked a finger against the brim of his hat, and said, "So long, Miss Alexandra."
As he wheeled his horse, he glanced at the oncoming riders. They must have seen what he had done, because he heard faint shouts of anger, and suddenly guns began to pop as they drew their pistols, fired into the air, and galloped forward at a breakneck pace. Frenchy dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and sent it into a gallop. He tugged off his hat, slapped it against his mount's rump, and gave a high-pitched Texas yell. A last glance over his shoulder showed him Alexandra still staring after him, her face pale with shock.
It had been a crazy stunt, he thought with a reckless grin. Those Latch Hook cowboys must have recognized their boss's daughter, and they had seen one of the hated Diamond S men kissing her. His life wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel if they caught up to him.
But he had a good horse under him, and the mouth of the pass was right ahead, and besides, the risk had been worth it, Frenchy thought.
Kissing Alexandra was worth just about any risk he could think of.
Chapter 9
"Nobody got shot?" Cole asked.
Jeremiah Newton shook his head. "Not this time. One of the citizens who saw the trouble brewing ran down to the blacksmith shop to fetch me, but by the time I got there, Brother Sawyer's men were drinking in the Pronghorn, and Brother Fisk and his men had ridden out of town. I'm not sure what stopped them from trying to kill each other. The Lord was provident, I'd say."
"You're probably right," Cole said. "I knew there were plenty of hard feelings between those two, but I didn't figure it would break out into gunplay right here in town."
"It didn't," Jeremiah pointed out.
"Not this time. Not yet."
The blacksmith shrugged his massive shoulders in acknowledgment of Cole's point.
"Reckon I'll have to ride out to the Diamond S and have another talk with Sawyer," Cole said with a sigh. "I'll pay a visit to Fisk, too, but he strikes me as being just as muleheaded as Sawyer. Probably won't do any good to talk to either of them."
"You have to keep trying, though, just like I continue to spread the Word of God despite the fact that some simply won't allow themselves to hear it."
Cole nodded. When Jeremiah put it like that, he had to admit there were some similarities between lawmen and preachers.
Jeremiah changed the subject by asking, "How is Brother Casebolt?"
"Better," Cole said. "Just about over whatever was ailing him, in fact." He didn't think Jeremiah knew where they had been, so he didn't say anything about the Shoshones and the visit to Medicine Creek. Jeremiah would probably consider everything that Black Otter had done to be pagan and sinful. Cole didn't care about that, as long as it worked.
"Well, I'm glad that you've returned to town, Brother Tyler. Between the blacksmith shop and my ministry, keeping the peace isn't that easy."
"I know, Jeremiah, and I sure appreciate you helping out the way you have. As fast as Wind River is growing, I'm going to have to start giving some thought to hiring another regular deputy . . . if the town will go along with paying for one, that is."
Jeremiah nodded and said, "That's a good idea, especially since I'm soon going to be even busier once I start building the church."
"Fixing to start pretty soon, are you?"
"I hope so," Jeremiah said fervently. "Wind River needs a house of worship."
Cole couldn't argue with that. When he had first met Jeremiah, almost a year earlier, the big blacksmith had already been talking about building an actual church so that he wouldn't have to continue holding services in e
mpty stores or under trees, the way he had been doing. Jeremiah had even started a collection of money for just such a purpose. However, the contributions hadn't come in as quickly as he had hoped, and so far, nothing had been done about the construction of a church.
Religion wasn't the only area Andrew McKay and William Durand had neglected when they were developing the settlement, either. There was no school in Wind River, although some of the parents had taken to sending their children over to the boardinghouse run by Lawton and Abigail Paine, who had a considerable brood of kids. Abigail taught her own children and any others who showed up, but the town needed a real school and a real teacher.
McKay and Durand had been interested only in things that would make money and increase their own fortunes, and religion and education hadn't fallen into that category.
As those thoughts went through Cole's mind, he told himself he would have to discuss both issues with Simone McKay sometime. Cole had always thought many of the so-called benefits of civilization were overrated, but if they were going to have a settlement here, they might as well go ahead and do it right.
"Well, I'd better get back to the office," he told Jeremiah. "Thanks again."
The blacksmith nodded, and Cole left the squat, thick-walled building where Jeremiah plied his trade. The marshal strode along the boardwalk, looking up and down Grenville Avenue.
The town was fairly quiet today, folks going about their business, a few riders and wagons moving along the street. He heard the whistle of a locomotive as it pulled into the depot a few blocks away. That would be the westbound, heading for the railhead at Rock Springs, Cole judged.
The tranquility of the town was deceptive, though, Cole knew. It could shatter in an instant, without even a moment's notice. All it would take would be for Kermit Sawyer's men and the crew from Austin Fisk's Latch Hook spread to run into each other again, and the air could suddenly be filled with the crash of guns, the stink of gunsmoke, and the whimpers of dying men.
But not if he had anything to say about it, Cole toldhimself grimly. Not in his town.
* * *
Casebolt had the chair tilted back and his booted feet resting on the desk in the marshal's office. His hat was tipped down over his eyes. It felt mighty good to just sit here like this and relax, he thought.
The ordeal of the past few days had taken a great deal out of him. He felt better than he had any right to feel, though, and he figured that was due to whatever special quality that pool at the head of Medicine Creek possessed.
The sound of footsteps on the boardwalk outside made Casebolt raise his head and open his eyes. He saw a sandy-haired young man in a town suit and string tie passing by the window, and a moment later that same young man came through the foyer and appeared in the door of the marshal's office. "Hello, Billy!" Michael Hatfield said enthusiastically. "I didn't know you were back in town."
Casebolt sat up and nodded. "Got back a short spell ago," he told the young editor of the Wind River Sentinel.
Michael pulled up a chair and sat down without waiting to be invited, saying, "I knew you and Marshal Tyler were out of town, but I wasn't sure where you had gone."
The youngster was fishing for a story for his paper, Casebolt realized. And Cole had warned him about revealing too much. So he said, "The marshal and me had some business to take care of, that's all. Weren't much to it."
"I heard you were sick," Michael said.
Casebolt shrugged. "I felt a mite poorly. Doin' a lot better now."
"The way I heard it, you almost died."
Somebody had been doing some gossiping, Casebolt thought. He didn't figure Dr. Kent or Simone McKay had spread any stories, at least not on purpose, but Wind River was still a pretty small town, relatively speaking.
Word got around, and there didn't seem to be anything anybody could do to stop it. But that didn't mean Casebolt had to confirm any rumors Michael had heard.
"I feel mighty spry now, better'n I have in a long time," he said. "Looky here."
Casebolt stood up and came out from behind the desk. He did a little jig, moving his feet fast and flapping his aims. Michael laughed out loud, and Casebolt grinned.
"That look like somethin' a feller on death's door could do?" Casebolt asked.
"No, I suppose not. Those Shoshones must have worked some real magic."
"Wasn't magic," Casebolt said without thinking. "Just—"
"Just what, Billy?" Michael asked as Casebolt stopped in mid-sentence and grimaced.
"I didn't say nothin'," the deputy insisted.
"Yes, you did. I said the Shoshones must have worked some magic on you, and you said they didn't. So what did they do?"
"Don't know what you're talkin' about. I ain't seen no Shoshones in a month or more."
Michael leaned forward. "Now, Billy, you know that's not true. Everybody in town saw them ride in the other day, and a couple of them went into Dr. Kent's office. I hear tell you were in there sick. That's why the Shoshones came into town, to see you. And then, later the same day, you and Marshal Tyler vanish mysteriously." Michael shrugged and spread his hands. "It seems obvious to me that you went back to the Shoshone village. Did their witch doctor cure you?"
"Black Otter ain't no witch doctor," Casebolt said hotly. "He's a shaman, a medicine man." Too late, he realized that once again Michael had prodded him into saying more than he wanted to.
Michael opened his mouth to say something else, but Casebolt made shooing motions with his hands. "You best go on and get out of here, Michael," Casebolt said firmly. "I got law business to tend to."
The young newspaperman looked around the otherwise empty office. "What law business?"
"Just . . . just never you mind about that."
Michael stood up, but he didn't turn to leave. "Was it some sort of potion this medicine man Black Otter gave to you? Or did he just chant and dance and wave talismans over you?"
"You been readin' too many o' them penny dreadfuls, boy," Casebolt told him.
"Or maybe he sacrificed something," Michael prodded. "An animal, maybe? Or . . . a virgin, like the ancient Aztecs down in Mexico?"
"It wasn't nothin' like that!" Casebolt exploded. "He sat me down in a pool o' hot water at a place they call Medicine Creek, all right? And that's just all he—" Casebolt clapped a hand to his forehead as he closed his eyes in dismay and muttered, "Oh, hell!"
"Thanks, Billy," Michael said as he headed for the doorway.
"Hold on there a minute! You can't print none of that! You got no right—"
"You're a public official, Deputy Casebolt. What you and the marshal do is news. And my job is to print the news."
Casebolt's hand closed around the butt of the old Griswald & Gunnison revolver on his hip, but then he sighed and let go of the gun. Short of shooting Michael Hatfield, there wasn't much he could do.
Cole might be unhappy about him spilling the story to. Michael, but Casebolt figured the marshal would like it even less if he was to go gunning down uppity, young newspapermen.
Casebolt waved a hand at the door. "You got what you came for," he said. "You best get on out of here now."
"I'm sorry, Billy," Michael said, and he sounded sincere. "The people have a right to know what's going on, though."
"Sure. I reckon you're right."
But that didn't make Casebolt feel any better as he stepped out onto the boardwalk and watched Michael hurry toward the newspaper office.
Marshal Tyler wasn't going to be happy about this, Casebolt thought. No, sir, he sure wasn't.
* * *
Michael Hatfield wasn't very happy with himself as he entered the office of the Wind River Sentinel. In fact, he felt positively guilty for badgering the deputy into giving away what had happened to him.
Michael liked Billy Casebolt, he truly did, and Casebolt had once saved the life of Michael's daughter, Gretchen.
But news was news, and every journalistic instinct in Michael's body had told him there was a hell of a story waitin
g there in the marshal's office. Sure enough, he had been right.
He took off his coat, sat down at his desk, and pulled a pad of paper over in front of him. Picking up a pencil, he began to write. The next edition of the Sentinel would be printed the following day, and there was just enough time to write this story, set the type, and get it into print.
As often happened when he was working intently on something, Michael lost track of time. So he wasn't sure how much of it had passed when he heard a footstep and looked up to see Cole Tyler coming into the office. The marshal looked angry.
"I thought you and I had gotten to be friends, Michael," Cole said without preamble.
Michael placed his pencil on the desk. "I think we have, Marshal," he said. "We still are, aren't we?"
"Not if you print that story about how the Shoshones cured Billy of whatever was ailing him, along with his rheumatism."
"His rheumatism is cured, too, eh? I didn't realize that. But I should have known, from that jig he did for me."
Cole came closer to the desk and slapped a palm down on top of it. The sharp crack made Michael jump a little.
"Blast it, boy, aren't you listening to what I'm saying? You'll cause more trouble than you know if you put in your newspaper that Billy was cured by some sort of magic water."
Michael grinned. "I like the way you phrased that, Marshal. Magic water . . . mind if I use it?"
Cole's jaw tightened and his eyes blazed, and for a second Michael was afraid he had pushed the lawman too far. He dropped the grin and stood up so that he could meet Cole's angry glare on a more or less equal level.
"Look, Marshal," he said seriously. "I'm sorry if you're upset about this. And I'm sorry I sort of tricked Deputy Casebolt into telling me what happened. But this is news, and it's my job to print it." He waved a hand at the racks of type he had already set up. "There's a story about the trouble between Kermit Sawyer and Austin Fisk. That could cause more problems, I suppose, once the people involved read it. But I don't hear you asking me not to print that story."
Medicine Creek (Wind River Book 4) Page 7