Medicine Creek (Wind River Book 4)

by James Reasoner

  The shots and the angry voices stopped the charge toward the creek. Michael reined in and looked over his shoulder, seeing to his great relief that Billy Casebolt and Two Ponies were galloping down the slope. Casebolt still had his old Confederate revolver in his hand as he rode.

  The two men picked their way through the ragged line of vehicles and riders and placed themselves between the Shoshone warriors and the people who had come here from Wind River. Casebolt wheeled his horse to address the whites while Two Ponies spoke sharply to his warriors.

  "You folks might as well just turn around and head back to town," Casebolt said angrily. "This is a sacred place to the Shoshones, and you ain't welcome here!"

  "They don't own this land!" a man shouted back. "It's open range. We got as much right here as any bunch of damned redskins!"

  "We got more right!" another man added hotly. "This is government land and you know it, Deputy!"

  "The Shoshones were around these parts a hell of a long time before any blasted government was!" Casebolt snapped. "I ain't here to argue law. I'm just teilin' you to back off, 'fore there's some bad trouble." He glanced over his shoulder. "I don't know how long Two Ponies can keep his warriors from tryin' to run you off."

  One of the men said, "Let 'em try! We got sick folks here, and they need that magic water!" Mutters of agreement came from the others.

  Michael rode up next to Professor Munroe's wagon, which was in the front ranks along with Dr. Carter's buggy. "I'm sure glad to see you, Billy," he said to the deputy.

  Casebolt regarded him with narrowed eyes. "Was it your idea to lead this bunch out here, Michael?"

  Michael grimaced sheepishly, but Munroe said, "I'm the one you should blame, Deputy, not Mr. Hatfield. He came to report the news, not to make it, as any journalist should. I want to take a sample of that water for further analysis."

  "And so do I," Carter put in. "I'll prove conclusively that there's nothing to the claims this quack has been making."

  Casebolt held up a hand as Munroe and Carter glowered at each other. "You two stop your argufyin'. We got bigger problems right now." Uneasily, he looked at the array of people facing him, none of whom wanted to turn around without getting what they had come here for.

  An idea occurred to Michael, and he suggested, "Why don't you ask Two Ponies if Professor Munroe and Dr. Carter can each take a sample of the water, Billy? That wouldn't desecrate the place too much, would it?"

  Casebolt rubbed his lean jaw and glanced at Two Ponies. "Well, I don't know . . ."

  Michael raised his voice so that everyone could hear him better. "Nobody wants to get hurt over something that might not even work—no offense to your people, Two Ponies. But if the professor and the doctor can take their samples, maybe they can prove one way or the other whether the creek can cure anything."

  Carter said, "That's acceptable to me. I'll analyze the water and share my findings with anyone who is interested."

  "As will I," Munroe said with complete confidence. "I stand behind everything I've said concerning my tonic and the water on which I based it."

  Casebolt looked over at the Shoshone chief, who sat beside him on horseback, still facing the other direction. "What do you think, Two Ponies?"

  For a long moment, Two Ponies considered the proposal. Then he nodded and said, "This can be done." He spoke to his warriors in their own tongue, obviously ordering them to allow Munroe and Carter to approach the stream. The warriors moved aside reluctantly.

  "Get your samples, and do it damned quick," Casebolt snapped to the professor and the doctor.

  Both men hopped down from their vehicles and went to the edge of the stream. Carter took several glass vials from the pocket of his coat and bent to fill them, afterward replacing the cork stoppers, while Munroe dipped a couple of silver-coated flasks into the creek. All the while, the Shoshones watched with dark expressions on their faces.

  When the two men were done and had returned to the medicine show wagon and the buggy, Casebolt said, "All right, turn around and get back to town." He raised his voice. "Everybody, just go on back to Wind River! The doc and the professor will let you know what they found."

  One of the men, who was sitting on a wagon seat with his wife beside him, the woman holding a sick child in her arms, said, "If that creek can do my Bobby any good, mister, then we'll be back out here in no time. And then there ain't nobody going to stop us from getting what we need!"

  Shouts of anger and agreement came from the others.

  "We'll have to hash that out later," Casebolt said. "For now, all of you git while you still got the chance!"

  Slowly, the pilgrims who had come seeking what they all saw as some sort of holy grail turned their horses and vehicles and started back toward Wind River. The last ones to depart were Professor Munroe, Deborah, and Dr. Carter. Michael watched the medicine show wagon and the buggy roll away, then turned to Casebolt and said, "That was mighty close, Billy. I'm glad you and Two Ponies showed up when you did."

  "I reckon we was all pretty lucky," Casebolt said. "Next time it might not work out so good."

  "Are you coming back to Wind River?"

  "Not just yet," Casebolt replied. "Reckon I'll stay around out here for a while, just in case some of them folks try to slip back. If you see the marshal in town, tell him where I am, will you?"

  Michael nodded. "Sure." He started after the others.

  "Michael."

  He stopped and turned around in the saddle as Casebolt called his name.

  "You be careful," Casebolt warned. "You might not know what you're gettin' into."

  "You mean the trouble between the Shoshones and the people who want the water from the creek?"

  "I mean you best just think about whatever you're doin' before you do it. Now get movin'."

  Michael rode quickly after the medicine show wagon, still unsure exactly what Casebolt was talking about.

  But he wasn't going to worry about it. Now that this crisis was over, he was anxious to catch up to Professor Munroe . . . and Deborah.

  Chapter 20

  Following the directions Milt Paxton had given him, Cole had no trouble finding the area of the Latch Hook spread where the rustlers had struck the first time. More than a week had passed since that night, however, so Cole expected the trail to be cold. He was right.

  Although it hadn't rained since then, there had been plenty of wind to wipe out any sign. Fortunately, that many cattle left quite a few tracks when they were moved in a hurry.

  The trail led generally toward the pass in the mountains, on the other side of which was Sawyer's Diamond S. That didn't look too good, Cole thought with a frown. He kept riding with his eyes on the ground, watching intently for the telltale signs of the stolen herd being pushed along.

  From time to time, he lost the trail, but only briefly. He was always able to pick it up again by riding back and forth, quartering across the area where the tracks had vanished. Each time the trail still led toward the pass.

  But it never got there, Cole discovered to his bafflement.

  The tracks veered to the north instead, toward the seemingly solid wall of mountains, then stopped abruptly, petering out on a wide stretch of rocky, boulder-littered ground. Cole rode to the far side of the rocks, Ulysses's shoes ringing loudly against stone as he did so. He sent the golden sorrel back and forth along the area where the tracks had vanished, but they didn't reappear as they had every time in the past. Cole looked to the west, along the line of rocky terrain. It ended in a sheer bluff about half a mile away.

  He reined in, leaned forward in the saddle, and frowned in thought. Cattle couldn't disappear into thin air, whether they were stolen or not. That Latch Hook stock had gone somewhere.

  But where?

  After a few minutes, Cole sighed. He couldn't figure it out from what he had seen so far, but this wasn't the only piece of the puzzle, either. He turned Ulysses south again, angling toward the pass that would lead him to the Diamond S.

 
; He recalled from his questioning of Frenchy LeDoux that the foreman had run across the rustlers not far from the pass, along the rugged high ground they called Wildcat Ridge. After he had followed the twisting path through the pass, Cole headed for that ridge.

  He hadn't gotten permission from Sawyer to be out here looking around, but he didn't think any of the Diamond S hands would take a potshot at him without first making sure of who he was.

  On the other hand, with all the tension between the two ranches, anything was possible, including shooting first and asking questions later. Cole told himself to keep his eyes and ears open. He wanted to spot any Diamond S riders before they spotted him.

  It didn't take him long to reach the location where the raid on Sawyer's spread had taken place. He recognized the meadow from Frenchy's description. The grass was trampled where the longhorns had been bunched and then driven off—toward the pass again.

  In both raids, the stolen stock had been driven toward the pass. On Fisk's side of the mountains, the cattle had been turned before they ever got there. Cole wondered if the same thing was going to hold true on this side.

  The next hour told him that his guess was correct, but it was also frustrating. Once again, the cattle had been turned north before ever reaching the pass. Only the keenest of observers would have noticed that, however, because almost immediately, the trail disappeared on ground that was covered by a layer of rock. Most people following the tracks would have assumed that they continued straight on toward the pass.

  Maybe that was what the rustlers wanted folks to think, Cole mused as he reined Ulysses to a halt and turned over in his mind what he had discovered this afternoon.

  Fisk blamed Sawyer for the rustling. Sawyer blamed Fisk. Could be that was exactly what somebody wanted the two ranchers to think. Fisk and Sawyer would be too busy trying to settle the score with each other to find out who was really behind the widelooping.

  That theory made sense, Cole decided. But there was still the question of where the stolen cattle were going.

  On this side of the mountains, the band of rocky ground ran almost all the way to the point where the heavily timbered peaks jutted steeply up from the floor of the valley. Cole crossed it anyway and began riding along the base of the mountains, his eyes alert for tracks or any other sign of a good-sized herd moving through here. He didn't find anything, but his frown deepened as he reined in and studied the heights looming over him.

  He thought about the way both sets of tracks had turned, and he tried to orient himself in relation to them. All the tracks had wound up pointing at roughly the same area of the mountains, he realized. Almost as if they were bound for the same place, just coming from different directions.

  Well, that made sense if there was really one gang behind the raids on both ranches, he told himself. They were getting those cattle into the mountains some way and holing up with them there, maybe moving them on to the north and out onto the plains again once they were well away from both ranches.

  The rustlers could take the cows and loop well to the north, avoiding everybody until they swung south again toward Laramie or Cheyenne, where there were always cattle buyers who would make an offer on a herd without asking too many questions about it came from. A phony, scrawled bill of sale putting the stolen cattle in the names of the rustlers would be enough to satisfy some of the buyers.

  Cole's hand clenched into a fist, and he struck the saddle-horn, making Ulysses jump a little. That had to be it, he told himself. He had figured out what was really going on around here. Rustling by one gang of outlaws, pure and simple, only the wideloopers were muddying the waters behind them by playing Fisk and Sawyer against each other.

  All Cole had to do now was prove it.

  Whatever route the rustlers were using on this side of the mountains to drive the stolen cattle into hiding, Cole doubted that he could find it. But he had been thinking about the layout in the other valley and the way the tracks of Fisk's cows had disappeared.

  There was something over there he should have taken a closer look at. He turned his horse and rode back along the slab-shouldered heights toward the pass.

  It was late afternoon by the time he reached Latch Hook range again. He knew he ought to be starting back to Wind River by now, but he wanted to follow up on this idea while it was fresh in his mind. Besides, he doubted if anything could be going on back in town that was as important as stopping a range war before it got started.

  When he reached the rocky area where the tracks had vanished, Cole turned Ulysses toward the distant bluff where the boulder-strewn band of ground ended abruptly. He rode straight toward the jutting upthrust of granite. Above and behind the bluff rose a snow-capped peak.

  Cole was about two hundred yards from the bluff when he spotted a sudden spurt of smoke, seemingly from the face of the cliff. That was just enough warning to give him time to sway sharply to the side. The crack of a rifle and the flat whap! of a bullet passing close beside his ear sounded almost simultaneously.

  "Son of a bitch!" he exclaimed as he drove his heels into the golden sorrel's flanks and sent Ulysses leaping toward the nearby cover of some boulders.

  More bullets whined through the air around him. From the sound of the shots, he knew more than one man was firing at him. He was lucky he hadn't been blown out of the saddle with the first volley.

  Luck could only carry him so far, though. He would have to fight back if he was going to get out of this spot alive.

  When he reached the rocks, he jerked his Sharps from its boot and rolled out of the saddle, landing on his feet and running forward a few steps before throwing himself down.

  Ulysses, as though by cunning, ran behind some of the larger boulders and stopped there, safe from the bullets of the bushwhackers. The horse tossed his head and neighed angrily.

  "I'm not very happy with 'em, either, fella," Cole called to Ulysses. "Let's see what we can do about this."

  The Sharps was loaded. All he had to do was ear back the hammer, set the trigger, raise up quickly, and aim toward the place on the bluff where he had seen the gun-smoke that had warned him. A mere touch of the second trigger was enough to make the Sharps buck heavily against his shoulder and send its lead ball whipping toward the bluff with a roar of exploding powder. He ducked back down without taking the time to see if his shot had done any harm or not. If it hadn't, kneeling there and gawking would be a good way of getting a bullet through his fool head.

  At least the ambushers knew he still had some fangs, though. That was all he had intended to accomplish with his first shot.

  Cole thought furiously as he crouched behind the boulder and reloaded the Sharps. There had to be some sort of path leading up the bluff, a trail too narrow to be seen from any distance, more than likely. And obviously there were guards posted up there with orders to shoot anybody who came too close. But what were they guarding?

  Another way out of this valley, maybe?

  That could be the answer he had been looking for all along without really being aware of it.

  How could there be some sort of passage out of the valley and off of Latch Hook range without Austin Fisk being aware of it, though? Cole found himself wondering if Fisk really had been behind the raid on Sawyer's ranch.

  The story about the rustling of Latch Hook stock could have been a phony. Fisk's own men could have driven those cattle out of the valley and lied about four of their number being killed, just to make it look good when rustlers hit Sawyer's place later on.

  Cole gave a little shake of his head. His brain was running around in circles now. Unless he concentrated on his present predicament, there was a good chance he would never have the opportunity to figure out the twists and turns of whatever plot had brought him here. He would be too dead to care about them by then.

  The Sharps boomed once more as he popped up and fired toward the bluff. He thought he had hit pretty close both times to the spot where the bushwhackers were hiding.

  They might be gettin
g a little nervous by now. Cole wished he had his Winchester instead of the Sharps. The buffalo gun packed a lot more punch, but he could have really peppered the bluff with his repeater and spooked those bastards up there into running. At least he thought so.

  He would just have to make do with what he had. He loaded the big carbine one more time.

  Before he could lift himself to fire it, however, a slug whined past him to splatter itself in a splash of lead against the boulder behind which he crouched. At first Cole thought one of the bushwhackers had managed to sneak around behind him, but then, as more bullets spanked the air around him, he realized to his dismay that the gunmen had gotten smart.

  They had lifted their aim a little and were sending their shots into the cluster of big rocks behind him. Those slugs dancing around him were ricochets. Not all of them came his direction, of course, but enough of them did to make things hot in a hurry. One of the rebounding slugs burned across the back of his left hand, and another tugged at the side of his shirt.

  He had to get out of there. It was only a matter of time before one of the crazily bouncing slugs cut him down.

  His legs driving fiercely, he leaped out from behind the boulder and ran toward the rocks where Ulysses waited. It galled him to cut and run, but that was all he could do.

  Suddenly something slammed into the outside of his left thigh and sent him spinning off his feet. One of the ambushers had clipped him with a slug, he knew. He landed hard and rolled over a couple of times but managed to hang onto the Sharps. It was still loaded, so he brought it to his shoulder as he came up into a sitting position and fired toward the haze of smoke floating in front of the bluff. That might buy him a second or two.

  He used that time to push himself to his feet, propping himself up with the now-empty Sharps as his left leg tried to fold up underneath him. As he hobbled toward the horse, Ulysses bolted out from behind the rocks, racing toward him.