Cole knew he would have only one chance. More slugs kicked up dust around his feet as he dropped the Sharps. He hated to lose it, but that was better than getting himself killed. As Ulysses loomed up next to him, he reached out with both hands, grabbed the saddlehorn with his left and the sorrel's mane with his right. He leaped, stabbing his foot toward the dangling stirrup. His fingers locked onto their grips like iron. If he got his foot in the stirrup and then lost his handholds, he would likely be dragged to his death on this rocky ground before Ulysses could stop.
Then he was swinging up, pulling himself onto the sorrel's neck while his useless left leg dangled, dripping blood. The pain from the wound was starting to grow, but Cole forced it out of his mind. He heard more bullets coming close to him, then he managed to get his left leg over the horse's back and settled down better into the saddle.
He leaned forward, grasping Ulysses's neck and hanging on tightly. Cole didn't have the reins, but it didn't matter. He was in no condition to guide Ulysses. Better to trust to the horse's judgment. Cole had done it before and lived to tell about it. He ventured a glance behind him at the bluff that was rapidly fading into the distance as the sorrel's long-legged stride ate up the ground.
That was when something crashed into Cole's head and drove him forward, almost knocking him out of the saddle. Blackness swept up to engulf him, and his last conscious thought was that he had to hang on. If he could stay on Ulysses, he still had a chance, even wounded. But if he fell off, unconscious, there was no doubt about it.
He would die, likely before the lowering sun even touched the western horizon . . .
Chapter 21
Michael tried not to smile as he slapped bay rum on his freshly shaven cheeks. It was difficult to keep a grin off his face, however. He was looking forward to the medicine show this evening, looking forward to it very much.
Professor Munroe had promised to reveal the results of his analysis of the water sample from Medicine Creek at the evening's performance. Michael was anxious to hear what the professor had found. It was all part of the story he would write for the newspaper, he told himself, the fact that he would soon be seeing Deborah again had nothing to do with the way he felt.
But it did, and deep down he knew it.
He gave a little shake of his head as he reached for his suit coat and shrugged into it. He was adjusting the string tie around his neck when his wife came into the room and said, "I suppose you're going to that medicine show again."
Michael hesitated, trying to read the tone of Delia's voice before he answered. "As long as those people stay in town, it's news," he finally said.
"I suppose so. Why don't you take Gretchen with you? I'm sure she'd enjoy it."
Michael blinked in surprise. He had never considered taking Gretchen with him. Every time he had pictured himself at the show again, he had been by himself. Well, not by himself exactly . . . He had pictured himself with Deborah Munroe.
"Ah, I don't think that would be a good idea, Delia."
"Why not?"
"She might be frightened. I mean, there's an Indian in the show, and he throws tomahawks and knives."
"Gretchen isn't scared of Indians."
"How do we know that?" Michael asked. "She's never really seen any up close, has she? And this Chief Laughing Fox can look really fierce."
"If you don't want to take her because she'd be a bother, just say so," Delia snapped. "After all, I'm here with her all day long. I know how annoying she can be."
Michael felt frustration welling up inside him. "I never said Gretchen was annoying!"
"Ssshh! Keep your voice down, Michael. You don't want her to hear you."
"But I said she wasn't—" Michael stopped short and rolled his eyes. He realized this was one argument he stood absolutely no chance of winning. "All right, I'll take her. I'd be glad to take her. But if she gets scared or stays up too late, it's not my fault."
Delia looked at him, her features tight. "I never said you had to take her. It was just a suggestion. She can stay home with me and the baby."
It was all too much for Michael. He threw his hands up in the air and said, "Damn it, Deb—"
He stopped short, swallowing hard as a look of horror washed over his face. Delia's eyes widened as she stared at him in a mixture of surprise and rage. He swallowed again and said, "I meant—"
"I know what you meant," Delia cut in, her voice as cold as the eternal snow on the peaks of the Wind River range to the north. "You just go on to your little medicine show, Michael Hatfield. Gretchen is staying here with me. I wouldn't send her with you if you were going to a . . . to a dogfight!"
Michael didn't know what the hell that meant, but obviously Delia wasn't thinking too straight right now. He took a step toward her and lifted his hands, reaching out to her, intending to take hold of her shoulders. She moved back quickly, putting herself out of his reach.
"Go on," she said hollowly. "Don't let me keep you here."
He felt some anger of his own, then. She was being unreasonable. There was no need for her to be so mad over a simple, innocent slip of the tongue. Sure, he thought, Deborah Munroe was on his mind a lot these days, but so were the other members of the medicine show. Their visit to Wind River was news, for God's sake!
"You're sure you want me to go?" he asked quietly.
"Please," Delia said, her voice little more than a whisper.
"Then that's just what I'll do." Michael was trying to sound defiant. He turned and walked out of the bedroom, heading for the front door of the house. He just wished he could have carried it off a little better.
And he wished he hadn't heard the strangled little sob that came from behind him . . .
* * *
By the time he reached the clearing on the western edge of town where the two wagons were parked, Michael's guilt had faded and been replaced by anger. He had never given her any reason to doubt his faithfulness. Since their marriage five years earlier, he had hardly even glanced at another woman.
And he had agreed to bring Gretchen tonight, even though he hadn't thought it was a good idea. So it had been completely unfair for Delia to be so angry with him, he decided.
There was already a good crowd on hand when Michael got there, even though the evening's performance had not yet begun.
Everyone in Wind River had doubtless heard about Professor Munroe and Dr. Carter visiting Medicine Creek earlier in the day, along with the story of the confrontation with the Shoshones. That would have only increased what had already promised to be a large audience.
As Michael came up to the edge of the crowd, he saw an elderly man trying to make his way through the press of people. The man was having trouble because he was walking with the aid of two crutches.
Both of his legs were unusually short and twisted grotesquely. He was saying in a quivery voice, "Please let me through. Have pity on a crippled old man and let me through."
No one seemed to be paying any attention to him, however. Michael was struck by the man's plight and moved to his side, reaching out to grasp one of the man's arms.
"Ill give you a hand, old-timer," he said.
The man looked up at Michael with an expression of gratitude on his weathered, beard-stubbled face. "Thank you kindly, young fella," he said. "I heard about this here professor bein' in town, and I want to see if maybe he can help me with that tonic of his'n."
Michael led the old man through the growing audience, taking advantage of every gap in the crowd and elbowing his way through when he had to. He smiled and muttered apologies to the people who turned angrily toward him, and they always subsided when they saw that Michael was just assisting an elderly, crippled man. When they finally reached the front row, near the wagons, Michael heaved a sigh of relief.
"Can't tell you how much I appreciate this, son," the old man said. He balanced on the crutches and stuck out his right hand to Michael. "Name's Otis Stokes."
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Stokes," Michael replied as he shook hands with the man. "Yo
u're not from around here, are you?"
"Nope. Reckon you'd call me a drifter. Do a few odd jobs, whatever I can to get by." He looked down at his twisted legs with disgust. "Ain't much I can do, if you get my meanin'."
"Sorry," Michael murmured.
"Aw, hell, don't be. I was born like this, so I reckon I ought to be used to it by now. Anyway, maybe my luck's about to change. I was over in Rawlins when I heard about this Professor Munroe fella and that miracle water he makes his tonic out of. Figure maybe it'll fix me right up. I took all the money I'd scraped up and bought a train ticket to come over here."
Michael tried not to frown. He hadn't completely made up his mind about the efficacy of Professor Munroe's tonic or the so-called magic in the waters of Medicine Creek. But he couldn't see how the tonic or the water could help a problem like the one Otis Stokes had.
Still, he didn't want to destroy what might be the old man's last hope, so he just smiled and nodded and said, "Maybe so." Then, before he could say anything else, he spied Deborah Munroe at the corner of the wagon. She seemed to be looking for someone, and as she caught his eye, she motioned for him to come to her.
Michael frowned, pointed at himself, and mouthed the word Me? Deborah nodded.
He wasn't going to keep a lady waiting, especially one who looked like Deborah. He said, "Maybe I'll see you later, Mr. Stokes," then left the old-timer in the front ranks of the waiting audience.
When he reached the corner of the wagon, Deborah reached out to grasp his arm and tug him along with her—as if he wouldn't have gone willingly wherever she wanted to lead him.
"I'm so excited, Michael," she said. "Uncle Nicodemus has finished his analysis of that water sample, and he says he's going to be able to use it to make his tonic better than ever!"
Michael heard what she was saying, but much of his attention was focused on the way she was dressed. Tonight she was wearing a bright-red gown that was cut low in the front, as usual, to reveal the creamy swell of her breasts. It had a bustle in the back and a train that swept around to the sides and trailed behind her, exposing her legs clad in mesh stockings.
Her beauty had a powerful, visceral impact on Michael, almost as if he had been struck by a physical blow. She took his breath away, that was what she did. She just simply took his breath away . . .
Professor Munroe was waiting on the other side of the wagons, an excited expression on his face in the light of a lantern hanging from a peg on the side of one wagon. Calvin and Letitia Dumont and Chief Laughing Fox were with him. Munroe smiled when he saw Michael and said, "Ah, there you are! I was hoping you'd be here tonight, Michael."
"Wouldn't miss it," Michael assured him. He pointed to a bottle that Munroe was holding. "What's that?"
"That's the reason I'm glad you're here," the professor replied as he lifted the bottle. It was full of a thick, noxious-looking pink liquid. "This is the miracle of the age, Michael! And you're here tonight to witness its debut!"
"Is that . . . a new tonic?" Michael guessed.
"Indeed it is, my boy." Munroe turned to the Dumonts and the Chippewa. "Go on with the show, my friends, while I explain things to our young journalist friend."
"Sure, Professor," Calvin Dumont said. Holding his wife's tiny hand, he led her and Laughing Fox around the wagons.
Michael took a pad of paper and a pencil from his coat pocket. The paper and pencil went with him nearly everywhere, because as an editor and reporter, he never knew when he might run across something newsworthy. He said, "What did you find when you analyzed the water from Medicine Creek, Professor?"
"Exactly what I expected to find, Michael, exactly what I expected to find . . . only more. The elements which give the water its curative powers are present in even higher concentrations than before. My theory is that the springs which feed the creek are themselves fed by an underground river, and that river is constantly cutting its channel lower and lower into the earth. It must have struck a level in which the elements in question are even more prevalent."
"And what elements would those be, exactly?"
Munroe smiled tolerantly. "The scientific world must have its little secrets, Michael. And so must a businessman. I'm sure you understand why I have to keep the ingredients of my tonic confidential."
Michael frowned and said, "I'm sure the readers of the Sentinel would like to know—"
"And so would every other proprietor of a medicine show," Munroe cut in, his voice gentle but firm. "I'm not trying to be uncooperative, Michael, I'm really not."
"I suppose I understand," Michael said, nodding. "You have to protect your livelihood."
"Not only that, but there are some people who would not be as meticulous as I am in the preparation of the tonic. If they were not careful, a concoction might result that could harm someone. No, I'm afraid I have to keep some things to myself."
Seeing that he wasn't going to get any farther with this line of questioning, Michael switched tacks by asking, "What will this new tonic do?"
"I'm not sure yet," Munroe admitted. "It should cure everything that the old tonic did, plus some other ailments. I only know one way to find out for certain, and that's by trying it."
Michael thought of Otis Stokes and said, "There's an old man in the audience tonight—a really pathetic sort. His legs are crippled and always have been. Do you think the tonic might help someone like him?"
Munroe said slowly, "I'm not sure. I deal in what seems like miracles or magic, true, but in actuality it's only science and medicine, and they have limits, as much as we might like to believe otherwise. But if this gentleman is in attendance tonight, we could certainly try the tonic on him and see what happens."
Michael nodded in excitement. "Sounds like a good idea to me, and I know Mr. Stokes will be happy to give it a try."
Straightening his top hat, Munroe said, "Well, I believe I should join the others. Are you coming, my dear?"
Deborah shook her head. "I'll be there in a moment, Uncle Nicodemus. I want to talk to Michael first."
"Oh." Munroe smiled. "I see. Well, I'll leave you two alone." He started toward the front of the wagons.
Michael was startled by what Deborah had said, and he didn't much like the knowing smile that had appeared on Munroe's face. It was true that he hadn't gone out of his way to let them know that he was a married man, but surely they were aware of it.
"Michael," Deborah said as she laid a hand on his arm, "I can't tell you how much it's meant to us to have a friend like you here in Wind River. So many places where we go, people assume that since we have a medicine show, we're nothing more than fakes and thieves. You've had an open mind right from the start, and you've been very fair to us."
He shrugged. "Well, a journalist is supposed to be fair."
"Yes, but so many of them aren't." Suddenly, she leaned closer to him, coming up on her toes to brush her lips across his cheek in a quick kiss. "That's for being fair."
Michael could still feel the kiss like a brand burning on his skin. His throat was choked and he couldn't seem to breathe properly. His heart was pounding. He managed to croak, "Deborah . . ."
"Yes, Michael?" she whispered, her face only inches from his.
He kissed her.
This was the first time he had kissed anyone other than Delia in years, and the feel of her, the taste of her, the smell of her, all were incredibly exciting to him. His arms went around her, tightening, pulling her to him, and she came willingly, eagerly. He felt the soft thrust of her breasts against his chest. Her body molded brazenly to his. He found himself reacting more strongly than he had in a long time with Delia.
The thought of his wife went through him suddenly, and he broke the kiss and stepped back. Deborah made a little noise of disappointment. "What's wrong, Michael?" she asked. "That was . . . nice. Very nice."
"I . . . I can't do this," he stammered. "I'm married!"
"I know," Deborah said softly. "But I don't care. I've wanted you ever since the first time I saw you."
Her statement struck him like a hammer blow. He felt the same way. From the first instant he had set eyes on
Deborah Munroe, he had desired her. More than that, he had felt a connection, an attraction, stronger than anything he had ever known. He was thrilled to discover that she returned the feeling. She was more worldly, more sophisticated than anyone he had ever encountered, and yet she wanted him, too! It was unbelievable.
But at the same time as the flood of passion was sweeping through him, a strong undertow of dismay tugged at him. He was married, he had a wife and children whom he loved, he had no business dallying here behind a medicine show wagon with a beautiful temptress in a bright-red dress—
He was eternally grateful that he didn't have to decide what to do next. The loud, angry shouts coming from the other side of the wagons did that for him.
Chapter 22
Billy Casebolt was in the marshal's office, trying to decide if it was too early to start on the evening's rounds, when the haggard, bloody figure of Cole Tyler appeared in the doorway.
Casebolt sprang up from the chair behind the desk and ran over to grasp Cole's arm as the marshal limped into the room. "Tarnation!" Casebolt exclaimed. "What happened to you, Marshal?"
"Got winged by some bushwhackers," Cole grunted as Casebolt helped him ease down onto the chair in front of the desk. There was an ugly-looking gash on the side of his head with a fan of dried blood underneath it, and the left leg of his denim pants was black with bloodstains as well.
"I was gettin' a mite worried about you, since you'd been gone so long after ridin' out to Fisk's place. Him and his boys do this to you?"
Cole shook his head, grimacing at the pain the movement caused him. "I don't rightly know who did it," he said. "Don't think it was anybody from Latch Hook, though."
"Well, you just sit right there. I'll run fetch Doc Kent to take a look at you."
Casebolt pounded out of the office, but he was back a moment later. Anxiously, he said, "There's some sort of commotion goin' on down at the west end of town, Marshal. Folks're yellin' like there's a big fight. You reckon I ought to . . . ?"
Medicine Creek (Wind River Book 4) Page 16