Cole knew that Ulysses had plenty of strength left, so after only a few minutes of rest, he swung up onto the sorrel again and scouted around the valley, looking for the route the rustlers had taken. He found the trail of the stolen herd leading over a saddle of ground between two large hills. Judging from the tracks and the freshness of the droppings he found, the rustlers were only about an hour ahead of them. The posse could make up that ground by the middle of the day.
For the first time since this whole business had begun, Cole felt confident that it was about over—and none too soon, he added to himself.
* * *
Frenchy LeDoux took off his hat and sleeved sweat from his forehead. The warmth of this spring day was growing rapidly as the sun climbed into the sky. Frenchy stole a glance at Alexandra Fisk, who was riding near him.
Alexandra managed somehow to look cool, even though she was pushing herself as hard as any of them and had to be quite worried about her sister.
Several hours had passed since the posse had left the valley where the rustlers had hidden the stolen stock. They were out of the mountains now and heading east over the prairie, just as Cole Tyler had predicted.
The marshal was a pretty canny gent, Frenchy thought, and he wasn't sure why Cole and Kermit Sawyer got along so badly. Frenchy saw a lot of qualities to admire in both men. Maybe they were just too much alike to get along, although neither of them would have ever admitted to a thing like that.
Cole held up a hand to bring the posse to a halt. He swung down from his horse and hunkered next to a fresh pile of droppings left behind by one of the stolen cattle. Cole looked up and said, "They're less than half an hour in front of us now. We ought to catch up to them about noon. They're really pushing those animals."
"They keep this up, they're liable to run all the meat off em," Sawyer complained. "It'll take a while to fatten 'em back up, once they're back where they're supposed to be."
"If that's all you have to worry about, count yourself lucky," Fisk snapped. "Those men have my daughter and my foreman, remember?"
"I remember," Sawyer said heavily. "That's the only reason I'm puttin' up with you, Fisk."
Cole stood up and moved between the two men. "That's enough," he said. "We'll take five minutes, then we're riding again."
Frenchy dismounted and led his horse over to where Alexandra was getting down from her horse. "Anything I can do for you, Miss Alexandra?" he asked.
She regarded him with an unreadable stare. "You're already going along to help rescue my sister, Mr. LeDoux. I couldn't ask anything more of you."
He hesitated, then said, "Well, there's something I could ask of you, ma'am. Could you maybe call me Frenchy?"
"I suppose I could." He thought he saw a smile tugging at her lips. "But what's your real name?"
The question took him by surprise. "I, uh, I don't generally go around tellin' people my real handle, Miss Alexandra."
"Why not? You're not ashamed of it, are you?"
"Well, it ain't something I brag on, if you get my drift. Reckon it might've been all right had I stayed in Louisiana where there's plenty of other Cajuns, but when I drifted over to Texas I thought it might be better if folks called me something else."
"I won't tell anyone," Alexandra said.
She was obviously glad to have something to take her mind off the danger her sister was in, even for a few minutes, so Frenchy knew he couldn't deny her that.
He glanced around to make sure no one was within easy earshot, then said quietly, "When I was born, my folks called me Francois."
Alexandra smiled. "Francois LeDoux. I like it."
"Glad you do, ma'am, because I sure don't. I been Frenchy for a long time, and I reckon I'll stick with that."
"Of course. I'll respect your wishes . . . Frenchy."
He liked the name even more when she said it, although to be fair, Francois didn't sound so bad when it was coming from her lips, either. He decided he didn't much care what she called him, just so long as she was talking to him.
Austin Fisk strode over to them, glaring at Frenchy. "How are you holding up, Alexandra?" he asked his daughter.
"I'm fine, Pa," she said. "Don't worry about me."
Fisk glanced at Frenchy again. "How can I not worry about you?"
She flushed and said, "I can take care of myself."
"Yes," Fisk said dryly. "I'm sure you can."
Frenchy nodded to Alexandra and tugged on the brim of his hat. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said. He turned and led his horse away, unable to make out the low-voiced conversation going on behind him but willing to bet that it had something to do with him. Fisk was bound to be unhappy about the attention Alexandra was receiving from the Diamond S segundo.
Well, Fisk might have to just get used to it, Frenchy told himself, because when they all got back, he intended to court Alexandra, no matter what her father—or Kermit Sawyer—thought of the matter.
The posse was on its way again in a matter of minutes, and another hour rolled past as they followed the rustlers. The sun was wheeling ever higher in the sky. It was almost midday when Cole spotted a haze of dust in the air up ahead and pointed it out to the others.
"That's them!" Fisk exclaimed, clenching a fist. "It's got to be!" He kicked his horse into a run and shouted over his shoulder, "Come on!"
"Wait a minute, you fool!" Cole shouted, but Fisk ignored him. The Latch Hook riders followed their boss without hesitation. Cole watched them disgustedly for a moment, then muttered, "What the hell," and waved the others on. They all charged after Fisk and his punchers.
The showdown was finally at hand.
Chapter 29
The posse caught up to the rustlers in a broad, grassy meadow between a couple of shallow, winding creeks. If they could see the rustlers, then the rustlers could see them, Cole reasoned, so he wasn't surprised when six or eight men peeled off from the group pushing the stolen cattle and dropped back to fight a rear-guard action. Guns began to crash, and a haze of powder smoke was quickly added to the dust in the air.
The long, ground-eating strides of the sorrel carried Cole to the front of the posse, along with Fisk, Sawyer, Frenchy LeDoux, Lon Rogers, and several of the Latch Hook punchers.
The hurricane deck of a running horse was just about the worst possible platform from which to shoot, but Cole unshipped his Winchester anyway and guided Ulysses with his knees as he levered the rifle and brought it to his shoulder. The Winchester bucked against his shoulder as it began to boom.
Ulysses ran smoothly enough so that Cole was able to aim better than most. He wasn't surprised when one of the rustlers flew out of the saddle and landed in the limp sprawl that signified death. Everyone was firing now, and so much lead was in the air that some of it had to find its target. Another rustler fell, along with one of the Latch Hook men.
Cole emptied the Winchester, then jammed it back in its saddleboot and palmed out his Colt. Beside him, Frenchy had already drawn his pistol and was firing at the rustlers who met them head-on. For a few minutes, the peaceful meadow became a hellish nightmare of milling horses, gunshots, and screams of pain.
The acrid scent of gunsmoke filled Cole's nostrils, and a part of his brain gloried in it. That familiar red haze slid down over his eyes as a killing frenzy gripped him. He had thought that he was beginning to put that part of his personality behind him, but obviously that wasn't the case. He wasn't berserk or out of control. He cut down the rustlers with a calm, deadly efficiency, but a part of him exulted in the danger and death.
The other members of the gang were pushing the cattle as fast as they could, but the posse was delayed only a few minutes by the gunfight in the meadow. Two men had been killed and another three wounded so badly that they were out of the fight, but even heavier losses had been inflicted on the rustlers. Cole managed to reload the Winchester as he galloped after them. He glanced over once, surprised to find that Alexandra Fisk was riding close beside him, a rifle in her hands. He motioned for her to drop ba
ck, but she ignored him.
It was her own hide, Cole thought with a grimace.
As more of the rustlers turned back to try to stop them, Cole picked off first one, then another, at a pretty good distance. The outlaws had to be getting discouraged now. Maybe they would give up and avoid any more killing.
Cole hoped so. The bloodlust that had gripped him earlier had departed as abruptly as it came, leaving him a little sickened.
He wasn't going to turn back now, though. If the rustlers put up a fight, whatever happened was on their heads.
The posse caught up as the running cattle began to splash across the second shallow creek. Cole snapped a shot with his Winchester and saw one of the rustlers plunge from the saddle to land in the creek with a splash.
Nearby, Billy Casebolt's old Confederate revolver boomed heavily and sent another man tumbling to the ground.
At close quarters, one of the rustlers charged Frenchy LeDoux and swung his rifle like a club. Frenchy ducked under the swiping blow and fanned his six-gun, the shots coming so close together they sounded like a peal of thunder as they nearly cut the rustler in half. Sawyer, Fisk, Lon Rogers, even Alexandra . . . all of them downed rustlers with their gunfire.
Cole expected the rustlers to begin surrendering, but evidently they intended to fight to the bitter end.
Except for a couple of them, Cole realized as he suddenly caught sight of a pair of riders fleeing, abandoning the cattle and their companions. He lifted his rifle, intending to send some slugs after them, but then a cloud of gunsmoke drifted in front of his face, momentarily blinding him. The next instant, a strident curse from his right made him swivel in his saddle as one of the other rustlers opened up on him.
Bullets whipped past Cole's head. He fired the Winchester from his hip and saw the round thud into the gunman's chest, driving him backward off his horse.
Cole looked for another target and couldn't find one. Some of the members of the posse were still shooting, but for the life of him, Cole couldn't see any rustlers still alive.
Even the two who had fled seemed to have vanished. He shouted, "Hold your fire! Damn it, hold your fire!"
The shots gradually died away. Across the creek, the cattle had run on a hundred yards or so, then stopped in confusion since no one was hazing them on.
All the rustlers were sprawled either on the banks of the creek or in the stream itself. There was blood everywhere, soaking into the ground, running into the water in thin tendrils that stretched out and then disappeared but still gave the creek a faint tinge of pink.
Holding his Winchester in his left hand, Cole rubbed his right hand wearily over his face.
"Looks like we got 'em all, Marshal," Casebolt said as he eased his horse up alongside Cole's.
"How many men did we lose?" Cole asked.
"Another man killed, and a handful with bullet holes in 'em. Looks to me like all of 'em ought to make it, though."
Cole nodded slowly. "We were lucky. It could have gone the other way."
"Reckon so," Casebolt said. "But it didn't."
Suddenly, Austin Fisk called out, "Catherine! Catherine! Damn it, where's my daughter?" His voice was ragged and thick with misery.
Cole swung around, saw that Fisk had dismounted and was running among the dead scattered along the creek. With all the bullets flying around, it was entirely possible Catherine Fisk and Wilt Paxton had been hit. But as Fisk came to a stop and stood there trembling, he lifted his face to the others and said, "She's not here. Neither of them are here."
Cole dismounted and strode over to him. Alexandra Fisk swung down from her horse and hurried over to her father as well. Fisk caught her arms and asked, "Are you all right, Alex?"
She nodded. "I'm not hurt, Pa. But where's Catherine?"
Kermit Sawyer spoke up, saying, "You should've thought of that before you charged in shootin', Fisk. That was a good way to get that gal of yours killed."
"Damn it, don't you understand?" Fisk demanded. "She's not here!"
"Take it easy, Fisk," Cole told him. He turned to Sawyer. "Ride up there with some of the men and round up that herd. Maybe the prisoners are with the cattle."
Sawyer, Frenchy, Lon, and some of the other men carried out Cole's orders, and a few minutes later Sawyer came jogging back on his horse, his face grim, while the others started moving the cattle slowly back toward the creek.
"No sign of em," he reported.
Fisk shook his head. "I don't understand it. I just don't understand it. They took Catherine and Paxton prisoner last night. What could they have done with them?"
Cole didn't want to give voice to the possibility that had occurred to him, but somebody had to. He said, "Maybe the rustlers didn't want to be slowed down by prisoners when they lit out from that little valley in the mountains."
Fisk glared at him. "What the hell do you mean by that?"
"I'm sorry, Fisk, but . . . they could've killed your daughter and your foreman before they ever left."
Alexandra cried out, "No! We were there. We didn't find any bodies."
"There are plenty of ravines around there where they could have dumped them," Cole said.
Fisk shook his head. "No. No, we didn't come all this way just to . . . to get some cattle back! I came after Catherine!"
Cole started to put a hand on Fisk's shoulder, then drew it back, knowing that Fisk didn't want any comforting from him. He said, "I reckon we can maybe find out what happened to them."
Fisk swung around to face him, wild-eyed. "How?" he demanded.
"I saw two of those rustlers taking off for the tall and uncut while the fighting was still going on," Cole explained. "They're the only ones left alive. If we can catch up to them, maybe they can tell us what happened to the prisoners."
"They'll tell us," Fisk said, his voice shaking with emotion. "By God, they'll tell us, or I'll burn their eyes out!"
To Cole's surprise, Kermit Sawyer made the gesture that Cole had decided not to. The Texan dismounted and grasped Fisk's shoulder, squeezing tightly. "Hang on, Fisk," Sawyer rumbled. "You don't want to be givin' up hope just yet. Could be those owlhoots stashed Catherine and Paxton somewhere. When we catch up to the two who lit a shuck out of here, we'll know."
Fisk managed to nod. He took a deep breath and said, "You're right. But we don't need the whole posse to go after them." He looked at Cole. "I'm going on, but I think some of the men should take this herd back to Latch Hook."
"That's just what I was thinking," Cole agreed. "You and I will trail those last two rustlers, Fisk."
Alexandra said, "I'm going with you, Marshal. I've got a right."
Cole looked at Fisk, who nodded. "Alexandra can come."
Frenchy had ridden up in time to hear this last exchange. He edged his horse forward and said, "I'll be goin' along, too, then."
Fisk glared at him. "There's no need—"
"I want him to go," Sawyer broke in. "I've got a stake in roundin' up the last of those wideloopers, too, since some of these stolen beeves are mine. Frenchy's goin' along as my representative."
"Sounds reasonable to me," Cole said, although he didn't like agreeing with Sawyer again. That was getting to be an unpleasant habit.
"All right, all right," Fisk muttered. "Can we get started?"
Cole nodded and turned to Casebolt. "Billy, you're in charge of getting these cattle back where they belong."
Casebolt nodded.
"When you're done, head on back to Wind River."
The deputy nodded again. "Sure thing, Marshal."
Fisk and Alexandra had mounted up and were anxious to ride. Cole and Frenchy joined them, and the four of them headed east, the direction the pair of rustlers had fled, while the remainder of the posse started the cattle moving toward home.
* * *
A couple of days later, the four riders trotted wearily into Cheyenne, the capital and largest city of the Wyoming Territory. In the two years since General Grenville Dodge had established the town to serve a
s a station for the Union Pacific railroad, Cole had been there several limes, as well as to the nearby Fort Russell, which had been built at the same time.
Cheyenne had become a boom town with the arrival of the railroad, and even though the railhead had long since moved on, the boom still continued. A shipping center for the growing cattle industry and a supply point for the entire territory, Cheyenne was noisy night and day. The saloons never closed, and neither did the railroad depot or the nearby stockyards.
As Cole and his companions rode down the main street toward the Union Pacific station, he looked around at the throngs of people and was glad he didn't have to keep the peace here, instead of in Wind River.
He just hoped that among all the crowds, they could find the two men they were looking for. It wasn't going to be easy.
That same thought must have occurred to Alexandra Fisk, because she said dispiritedly, "Where do we start looking?"
"The cattle buyers stay at the hotels close to the stockyards," Cole said. "That's as good a place as any."
"I don't understand why," Fisk snapped. "Those rustlers don't have a herd to sell anymore. We recovered it, remember?"
"They don't have a herd this time, but maybe they've done business with some of the buyers before. It's possible somebody around here still owes money to them. The trail led here, and those weren't more than an hour in front of us. I think they're still here somewhere."
It was true that once the tracks of the fleeing rustlers had turned south, they had led straight toward Cheyenne.
The fugitives had pushed their mounts hard, hard enough to stay ahead of the pursuit, even if it wasn't by much. But Cole knew their horses had to be played out. To continue their flight, the rustlers would have to either trade for fresh mounts—or take the train out of here.
Either way, he and the others were headed in the right direction, because the Union Pacific station, most of the town's livery stables, and the hotels where the cattle buyers stayed were all grouped fairly closely together. The four of them would probably have to split up to cover all the possibilities.
Medicine Creek (Wind River Book 4) Page 22