A pair of gunshots ripped through the air, but they didn't come from Cole's revolver. He pushed himself onto his knees and swiveled his head to look over his shoulder. Billy Casebolt had fired the shots, Cole saw.
Tendrils of smoke still trailed from the muzzle of the deputy's old Griswold & Gunnison revolver as he lowered it. Casebolt had done what Cole had intended to do: fire a couple of shots into the air to get the crowd's attention.
He had it. Men were frozen, fists cocked in readiness to strike another blow, and all eyes were turned toward the deputy. "Hold it!" bellowed Casebolt. "Everybody just stand still! The next tarnal idiot throws a punch, I'll ventilate him!"
Cole pushed himself to his feet, and Casebolt's anxious gaze swung toward him. "You all right, Marshal?"
Tm fine," Cole told him. "Thanks, Billy."
Cole went to the edge of the speaker's platform, the crowd parting before him now. The look on his face and the heavy gun still in his hand made people want to get out of his way. When he reached the platform, he put his free hand on it and vaulted lithely onto the plank floor of the structure. Simone came toward him.
"Thank goodness you got here, Cole," she said in a low voice. "I thought this was going to turn into another riot."
"It almost did," he said. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head. "All the fighting was down in the street."
"Good," Cole said with a curt nod. He turned and faced the crowd. "What in blazes happened here?"
"I can answer that, Marshal," Michael Hatfield said. The young newspaper editor bent to pick up his notebook from the street. Obviously it had been knocked out of his hand during the melee, and he looked at its ripped, stomped-on pages in disgust for a second before he glanced up at Cole again and went on, "Some men didn't like what Simone had to say, so they started disrupting her speech. They were yelling about how people ought to vote for Hank Parker for mayor. Then one of them threw a punch at Dr. Kent."
Cole's eyes sought out the tall figure of the medico. "Judson? Are you all right?"
Kent was brushing off his coat with one hand while he held his bowler hat with the other. The headgear was barely recognizable. Kent sighed as he looked at it, much as Michael Hatfield had regarded the damaged notebook, then nodded in reply to Cole's question. "My jaw may be a bit sore tomorrow, but so, I dare say, will be the jaw of the man who accosted me."
"You mean you punched him back, Doc?" asked Casebolt.
"I most certainly did. Just because I'm a doctor doesn't mean that I'm absolutely lacking in knowledge of the manly art of fisticuffs."
"Well, good for you," Casebolt told him. "Wish I could've seen it."
"Never mind about that," Cole said, impatience creeping into his voice. "What's this about voting for Hank Parker?"
"That's what some of the men in the back of the crowd were urging, Marshal," Nathan Smollett spoke up as he came forward on the platform. "They were the ones who started the fight, too."
"Point 'em out," Cole said grimly.
"I'd be glad to." Smollett's eyes swung toward the crowd still gathered in the middle of Grenville Avenue, but after a moment a frown appeared on his face. "I. . . I don't believe I see any of them, Marshal."
"What about you, Mrs. McKay? Did you get a good look at the fellers?"
"I saw several of them," Simone replied, "but I don't see them now."
"That's correct, Marshal," Kent put in as he looked around. "The man who assaulted me and fomented that disturbance seems to have disappeared along with all his cohorts."
"Likely they lit a shuck when they saw the law comin'," Casebolt said.
"Could be," Cole agreed. He holstered his Colt and looked down the street toward the Pronghorn Saloon. "But I reckon I know where to find them . . . or at least the man who sent them."
Chapter 2
It was clear the speechmaking was over for the day. Cole and Casebolt dispersed the crowd, not bothering to arrest anyone for disturbing the peace, not even the men who, in their enthusiasm, had attacked Cole. The marshal had no doubt in his mind that the entire fracas had been planned, and the spectators had been goaded into the near-riot just as the handful of agitators had wanted.
Cole didn't particularly care about tracking down the men who had started the trouble, either. He just wanted the gent they worked for.
A few minutes after the crowd had broken up, Cole slapped aside the batwing doors across the entrance of the Pronghorn and strode into the saloon, trailed by Billy Casebolt.
The lanky deputy had detoured by the marshal's office and picked up a scattergun from the rack on the wall. The greener was in Casebolt's hands now, and his thumb was looped over the hammers in readiness.
As soon as Cole came into the saloon, he spotted Hank Parker standing at the end of the long hardwood bar. Parker was tall and powerfully built, and his bullet-shaped head was shaved clean. He wore an expensive suit, a white shirt, and a silk cravat with a diamond stickpin in it. The left sleeve of his coat and shirt were pinned up. Parker had lost that arm during the Civil War, leaving it on the dark and bloody ground around Shiloh church. Using his heavily muscled right arm, though, he could still wield a bungstarter with the best of them.
Cole had known Parker for several years and had never liked the man. Parker had run a succession of tent saloons, moving from settlement to settlement along with the railhead of the Union Pacific, until he reached Wind River. Then, for some reason, he had decided to settle down here.
He had been successful, too. The Pronghorn was Wind River's largest saloon. Parker had tried to change his image, dressing like a businessman instead of the ruffian Cole knew him to really be. You could put an Easter bonnet on a pig, the marshal thought as he walked toward Parker, but it was still a pig.
Parker grinned at him. "Afternoon, Marshal. What brings you here? Like a drink?"
"No, thanks," Cole said.
"You sure? I've got the best whiskey in Wind River. You know that."
It was true enough. Parker was willing to pay to have prime-quality goods brought in, instead of brewing up vile rotgut full of gunpowder and strychnine like most of the other saloons.
The move had paid off, too, because cowboys, miners, railroad workers, and sodbusters from miles around came to the Pronghorn to wet their whistles. Cole wasn't in the mood for whiskey at the moment, however, no matter how good it was.
"I didn't come here to drink," he snapped. "I'm here because there was nearly a riot down the street a few minutes ago when Simone McKay tried to make a speech."
Parker shrugged. "I heard a little commotion, but I didn't pay any attention to it. I'm a businessman, Marshal. I've got a saloon to run."
"I hear you're also a candidate for mayor."
"You mean the word's gotten around town already?" Parker asked, his features twisting into a grin. "I just decided to run earlier today."
"You sent those men to ruin Mrs. McKay's speech."
The grin dropped off Parker's face. "The hell I did. You can't prove that, Marshal, and you don't have any right to accuse me of it."
Cole looked around. There were only half a dozen customers in the saloon right now, but it was the slowest part of the afternoon. Cole didn't recognize any of the men, which didn't mean anything. Wind River had long since grown past the point where he knew practically everybody in town.
"Why don't I just go get Mrs. McKay and Nathan Smollett and Dr. Kent and Michael Hatfield?" Cole suggested. "I want them to take a look at these gents to see if they recognize any of them."
Parker waved his hand casually. "Sure, go right ahead. But these boys have all been in here for at least an hour. They didn't start any fight out in the street."
Cole and Casebolt exchanged a quick glance, and the same knowledge was in the eyes of both lawmen. Parker wouldn't have agreed so readily unless he was confident of what he was claiming. Cole felt certain none of the men currently in the Pronghorn had had anything to do with the brawl. But that didn't mean Parker was in the clear.
"You, there," Cole said, catching the eye of one of the men drinking at the bar. "Did anybody else come running in here during the past half-hour?"
The man shook his head. "No, sir, Marshal. I ain't seen nobody like that."
"Me, neither," one of the other men chimed in without being asked. The rest of the customers began shaking their heads.
"There you go, Marshal," Parker said smugly. "You heard it yourself, from half a dozen impartial witnesses."
"Impartial my hind foot!" Casebolt burst out. "All these fellers are scared of you—"
"That's enough, Billy," Cole said. He looked intently at Parker and went on, "Maybe I can't prove it, but we all know what happened out there in the street and why. Are you really running for mayor?"
"You're damned right I am! Simone McKay's talking about closing down all the saloons if she's elected. What am I supposed to do, just stand aside and let her reform me right out of business? Let her ruin the whole town so that she and a few of her friends can act high and mighty?"
Cole's mouth tightened into a thin line. As much as he hated to admit it, Parker had a point. Simone's main backing came from a group of citizens intent on reform, which wasn't a bad thing in itself. But if it was carried too far . . . if all the saloons and the other places that some people considered unsavory were forced to close . . . then the settlement would be damaged. Parker was only interested in protecting his investment in the Pronghorn, of course, but at the same time, he was right about what Simone's plans might mean for Wind River.
"I don't care about any of that," Cole said, ignoring the misgivings he felt deep down. "I just don't want any more trouble in my town. You run a clean campaign, Parker, instead of paying some rannies to cause problems for Mrs. McKay—or you'll have to campaign from a jail cell."
Parker slipped a fat cigar from the pocket of his coat and put it in the corner of his mouth. "I didn't pay anybody to do anything," he said. "All I did was start spreading the word that I was running for mayor. If some of my supporters got carried away, you can't blame me for that." His teeth clamped down on the cigar, and he growled around it. "And another thing . . . you're a public official, Tyler. You can't take sides in this election. I'm a citizen just like Mi's. McKay, and I got just as much right to run for office." He gave a humorless chuckle. "Besides, if I'm elected, this won't be your town much longer. You'll be out on your ass so fast you won't know what happened."
Casebolt edged forward, the barrels of the greener coming up a little. "Marshal. . ."
Cole held out a hand. "Back off, Billy. Parker can spew all the hot air he wants to. He hasn't been elected yet, and I've got enough faith in the people of Wind River to figure he won't ever be elected." He looked at Parker again and added, "Just remember what I said."
Parker took the cigar out of his mouth. "Oh, I'll remember, Tyler. You can count on that."
Cole jerked a thumb at the entrance of the saloon, and out of habit, he and Casebolt backed out of the place. When they reached the boardwalk and turned toward the marshal's office.
Casebolt said angrily, "I'd like to put both barrels of this here scattergun through that bald-headed son of a—"
"He's right, Billy," Cole said.
"Right? How in tarnation do you figure that?"
"We can't prove he had anything to do with those men starting the fight. And he's entitled to run for mayor against Simone if he wants to. Just like the people here in Wind River are entitled to vote for him if that's what they want."
"Hell, nobody in this town is that addlebrained. You said so yourself."
"Yeah," Cole agreed, but he wished he could be certain of that. Unfortunately, in politics there was only one thing that could be counted on: Damned near anything—no matter how far-fetched—could happen.
* * *
There was a faint red glow in the night sky over Jeremiah Newton's blacksmith shop. Jeremiah had a fire going in his furnace, and the ringing of hammer against metal could be heard through the open doors of the squat, blocky stone building.
Inside the building, Jeremiah bent over his forge, working the bellows with his foot to produce more heat as he hammered a horseshoe into shape. A long, thick canvas apron covered him from shoulders to knees.
He could have done this work anytime; there was no rush on the shoes. But he had found that working with his hands left his mind clearer to concentrate on the things that were really important. He did some of his best praying and thinking while he was working at his forge.
The art of the blacksmith had been born in ancient Mesopotamia, in the fabled city of Ur. Later on, the Hittites had discovered the secret of smelting ore to produce the near-mystical gray metal known as iron.
Jeremiah was well aware of the history and lore of his profession, and he took pride in it. But his true calling was spreading the word of the Lord, and soon he would be able to do that from the pulpit of Wind River's first real church.
That is, he clarified to himself, if that heathen Hank Parker didn't ruin everything.
There was a beautiful wooded knoll just southwest of town where Jeremiah intended to build the church. The only problem was that Hank Parker wanted to buy the land, too.
Parker's goals were less than holy, however. If he got his hands on the knoll, he intended to build some stockyards on its lower slopes. He had even talked of building a slaughterhouse and rendering plant on top of the knoll.
Jeremiah didn't know enough about such things to be sure if Parker's plans were practical or not; all that mattered was that Jeremiah had plans of his own, plans that he was certain had been divinely inspired. The thought of blood and offal covering the ground where the church ought to be made Jeremiah strike that much harder as he hammered out the horseshoe.
He stopped what he was doing and grimaced. His anger had gotten the best of him, and he had ruined the horseshoe he was gripping with a pair of tongs. Now he would have to heat it up again and reshape it.
His nerves were stretched taut, and he knew why. He had sent off a letter to the company in the East that owned the knoll where he wanted to build the church. In that letter had been his best offer on the property. Jeremiah knew from talking to one of the clerks at the Union Pacific depot that Hank Parker had also written to the Eastern company at about the same time. No doubt Parker had made an offer on the land, too.
Since then, more than two weeks had passed, and there had been no word. That wasn't an unreasonable amount of time to wait for a response, of course. Logically, Jeremiah knew that.
Logic had little to do with what he was feeling these days, however. He had to know what was going to happen, and he had to know soon. Otherwise he was afraid he would go mad.
Jeremiah put his hammer aside and worked the bellows harder, building up the fire and directing more heat into the forge. His attention was on his work, and he didn't hear the men who came into the blacksmith shop behind him. He didn't know he was no longer alone until one of the men said, "Hey! Preacher!"
Jeremiah stiffened and looked over his shoulder. He saw half a dozen men standing just inside the entrance of his shop. All six of them had bandannas pulled up over the lower half of their faces and tied behind their heads. They were all wearing holstered guns, but none of the weapons had been drawn.
Straightening slowly and turning to face them, Jeremiah said, "Good evening to you, brothers. What can I do for you?"
"What do you think, big man?" asked one of the masked men.
"Well, I doubt that you're here to have any blacksmithing work done," Jeremiah said. "And there's no money here, so you can't be planning to rob me. The only other answer is that you've come to discuss the Lord, and your faces are hidden because you're ashamed of the fact that you're sinners." Jeremiah smiled. "There's no need to be embarrassed about that. The Good Book says that all have sinned and come short of the glory of God."
"Yeah, that's right, preacher," another man said as he sauntered forward, and Jeremiah recognized his voice as that of the first man wh
o had spoken. "We're sinners. But we're not ashamed of it. In fact, we're here to tell you to forget about building a church in these parts. Nobody wants one."
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, brother. The good, God-fearing people of Wind River want a sanctuary, a place where they can bring their problems and turn them over to the Lord."
The spokesman drew his gun, a smooth, efficient gesture. "Your problem's going to be lead poisoning if you don't give up on the idea of a church, preacher. We're here to show you just how misguided you really are. Now step away from that forge."
Jeremiah shook his head. "I don't think so."
The masked man lifted his gun. "You figure I won't shoot you? Hell, preacher, that'd solve all the problems right quick. Now move—or die."
Jeremiah could read the truth in the man's eyes. He wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger of that gun if Jeremiah didn't follow orders. But Jeremiah had no intention of doing that. He had faith in the Lord . . . and in his own strong right arm, which was halfway behind him. His fingers closed around the handle of the heavy hammer he had set aside a few minutes earlier.
With no warning, he whipped the hammer around one-handed— an impressive feat of strength in itself—and sent it spinning toward the intruders.
A couple of them let out surprised yelps, and all of the men jumped frantically out of the way of the hammer, which was heavy enough to break bone and pulp flesh. Jeremiah lunged right behind the throw, heading toward the man who had a gun out, since he was the greatest threat.
The blacksmith's long, powerful fingers closed around the gunman's wrist and jerked the weapon aside. As he twisted his wrist, bones crunched together, and the masked man screamed thinly as the gun slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers.
Hearing the rapid shuffle of feet behind him, Jeremiah thrust the first man away with a hard shove, then pivoted with surprising speed and grace for a man of his size.
Judgement Day (Wind River Book 6) Page 2