His left arm swung around in a sweeping backhand that found the jaw of the man rushing toward him. The man was knocked backward by the blow. His booted feet tangled with each other, and he lost his balance, sitting down so hard that the breath was knocked out of him.
Two more of the men were lunging at Jeremiah. He met them with an angry roar and open arms, grabbing them and slamming them into each other so that their heads knocked together sharply. Both men went limp and folded up on the floor when Jeremiah released them.
Unfortunately, the maneuver, as effective as it was, took time . . . time that Jeremiah didn't have. Another man had gotten behind him and slashed at his head with a drawn gun.
The impact staggered Jeremiah, and the gun-sight tore a gash in his scalp above his left ear. He caught his balance, twisted, and snapped a punch at the man who had just hit him. The blacksmith's massive fist caught the man on the nose. Blood spurted over Jeremiah's knuckles, and the man went backward as if he had been lassoed and jerked off his feet.
The sixth man snatched up a short, thick length of wood from the pile Jeremiah used to feed his furnace and rammed it into the blacksmith's back, just above the kidneys. Pain shot through Jeremiah, pain so intense that it blinded him for a second.
The man hit him again with the piece of wood, this time on the head. Jeremiah went to one knee and put a hand on the floor to keep himself from falling.
One of the other men had recovered somewhat by now, and he leaped onto Jeremiah's back and began hammering blows at him. Jeremiah went down, sprawling on the floor with his furious assailant on top of him.
The first man, the one whose wrist Jeremiah had twisted to make him drop his gun, stepped up, holding his injured limb with his other hand. His feet were free, though, and he used one of them to kick Jeremiah in the head. The rest of the men were recovering now, and they followed suit. Even with Jeremiah's overwhelming size and strength, six-against-one odds were too tough to buck. His attackers crowded around him, stomping and kicking.
After a while, the blows crashing into him didn't hurt anymore. Jeremiah was beyond pain. All he could do was lie there numbly and wait for the ordeal to end. He felt consciousness slipping away from him and wondered idly if the men would kill him. The matter no longer seemed that pressing, one way or the other. He had no fear of death.
His lips moved, but no sound could be heard over the thudding of the kicks. The words were clear enough in Jeremiah's head, however.
The Lord is my shepherd . . .
* * *
Cole Tyler wasn't prepared for the bloody apparition that came shambling into the marshal's office later that evening. He had been doing a little paperwork—the bane of all lawmen, he had discovered since pinning on a badge—when the door opened and Jeremiah came a step or two into the room.
The big blacksmith was swaying, his features bruised and covered with blood, and he looked like a man about to fall onto his face. Cole muttered, "What the hell—!" as he came up out of his chair and hurried around the desk to grasp Jeremiah's arm and steady him.
That arm was as thick and hard as the trunk of a young tree, but at the moment there was little strength in it. Jeremiah let Cole lead him over to a chair in front of the desk. The piece of furniture groaned in protest as Jeremiah's great weight came down on it.
"What in God's name—no offense, Jeremiah—happened to you?" demanded Cole as he came around in front of the blacksmith and leaned over to study his wounds.
"Some men . . . came to my shop," Jeremiah said, struggling to get the words out through thickly swollen lips. "Wore masks. . ."
"Outlaws?"
Ponderously Jeremiah shook his head. "Didn't try . . . to rob me . . . just. . . beat me up . . ."
That was quite an accomplishment in itself, Cole thought. Jeremiah could hold his own in just about any fight. "How many of them were there?"
"Six. They had guns but. . . didn't shoot."
"You're probably lucky," Cole said. "Did you see any of their faces?"
Again Jeremiah shook his head. "Had bandannas tied around them . . . tight. Didn't recognize their clothes . . . or their voices."
"Well, you just stay put right there," Cole told him. "I'll go fetch Dr. Kent. I'd send Billy, but he's gone down to the cafe."
Jeremiah reached up and caught hold of Cole's sleeve as the marshal started to turn away. Even injured like this, strength was returning to the big man's grip.
"They . . . wrecked my forge . . .," he forced out. "Broke my tools . . . tore up the bellows . . ."
"Why in blazes would anybody do that?" Cole asked.
"Said they wanted to . . . teach me a lesson. Wanted to convince me . . . not to build . . . church . . ."
An anger even greater than what he had felt when he first saw Jeremiah flared inside Cole. He knew all about the letter Jeremiah had sent to that company back East, and he knew that the blacksmith had a rival for the land where he wanted to build the church.
"You know what that likely means," Cole said. "You know who was probably behind this attack on you."
"Yes," Jeremiah said. "Hank Parker . . ."
Chapter 3
Once again, however, there was a little matter of proof. Jeremiah hadn't gotten a good look at any of the men who attacked him and would be hard pressed to identify them. They hadn't claimed that Parker had sent them. The conclusion was obvious, but Cole knew what would happen if he went down to the Pronghorn and confronted the saloonkeeper.
Parker would just insist that he knew nothing about the attack on Jeremiah, and there would be no way to prove he was lying.
Just because Cole knew all of that didn't mean he had to like it, though.
He was still seething a half-hour later when Judson Kent finished stitching up the gash in Jeremiah's scalp. "That should take care of it," Kent said. "Your other injuries, though painful, are largely superficial. I want you to rest as much as possible for a few days, Jeremiah. You'll probably have a frightful headache in the morning, and there's always the possibility of a brain injury when there have been sharp blows to the head."
"My skull's plenty thick, Brother Kent," Jeremiah said. "I don't think I have anything to worry about . . . except my shop."
Billy Casebolt, who had come back from the cafe munching on an evening snack of one of old Monty Riordan's biscuits, put a hand on Jeremiah's shoulder. "No need to fret about that. The way folks around here feel about you, I reckon everybody'll pitch in and get your place back in order 'fore you know it."
"That's right," Cole said. "Do you want to press charges, Jeremiah?"
"Against who? I can't prove Parker had this done to me."
Cole shrugged. "Maybe not, but somebody ought to at least have a talk with him."
"It wouldn't do any good," Jeremiah said. "I'll take care of the talking, Cole . . . but I thank you anyway."
"You're going to talk to Parker? I don't know if that's a good idea."
"Not Parker," Jeremiah said with a shake of his head. "That wouldn't help."
"Then who are you goin' to talk to?" asked Casebolt.
Jeremiah looked up at the three men standing around him and said, "Why . . . God, of course."
* * *
In the big house on Sweetwater Street, at the western edge of Wind River, Simone McKay paced restlessly. From time to time she paused to run her fingers through her thick dark hair in a nervous gesture. She wore a silk dressing gown that had been purchased in one of the finest shops in Philadelphia a few years earlier; she had always liked the smooth feel of the fabric against her skin. But tonight she took little comfort from it, or anything else.
She wasn't sure what had caused this mood to come over her. All she knew was that ever since she had dined alone, earlier in the evening, she had been unable to settle down.
The cook had gone on to bed, leaving Simone alone in the parlor, not an unusual set of circumstances. Simone had tried to read but had not been able to concentrate on the book that was open on her lap. She had t
urned pages, then realized to her annoyance that she had no idea what was written on them.
Putting the book aside, she had tried to calm herself with some needlework, but that hadn't helped, either. She found herself on her feet, walking from the parlor to the dining room to the kitchen and back again. She lit a candle and moved through every room on the first floor of the house. It was as if she was searching for something—or someone, she realized.
That was ludicrous. She knew she was alone in the house except for the servant woman, who by now was doubtless sound asleep in her room on the third floor. Simone's bedroom was on the second floor, and she told herself she ought to go up there and lie down. Perhaps that would make her feel better.
But she knew it wouldn't. She knew that no matter what she did or how long she stayed up there, sleep would not come to her. She couldn't have said how she knew that, but the knowledge was certain in her mind.
"This is ridiculous," she said aloud as she paced through the parlor for perhaps the sixth time this evening. "I'm acting like some sort of flighty schoolgirl."
"You're as beautiful as a schoolgirl," a voice said behind her.
Simone froze, utterly unable to move. Her heart pounded heavily in her chest, and her throat was suddenly dry and tight. She knew that voice. She knew it.
Even though she hadn't heard it in over a year—and had never expected to hear it again . . .
"Of course, you were always beautiful," the voice went on. "You'll never change, will you, Simone? Simone? Don't you hear me? Turn around, darling."
There was an unmistakable tone of command in the words. Simone forced herself to swallow painfully, then her stiff, unwilling muscles began to slowly turn her. At first she saw only the familiar, luxurious furnishings of the parlor, and for a dizzying moment she thought he wasn't there at all, thought that she had imagined the entire episode.
Then she saw him standing in front of the fireplace, as tall and handsome as ever, his suit impeccable, his cravat just right. The light from the lamps in the room even glittered on his stickpin and cuff links. He smiled at her.
Her husband. Andrew McKay.
Who had been dead and buried for over a year.
"What's the matter, Simone? Aren't you glad to see me?"
Somehow, her stunned brain formed words, and she dragged them out of her mouth. "Andrew . . . you . . . you're dead."
"Yes. I am."
"But. . . but that's impossible! That would mean you're a . . . a . . ."
"Ghost?" The corners of his mouth quirked ironically as he smiled. "I suppose you could call it that. I don't really know. Such distinctions just aren't that important where I am now."
"Are . . . are you in heaven?" It was a ludicrous question, Simone knew, but she was curious.
"Heaven? No, I don't think so."
"Then . . . ?"
Andrew shook his head. As he did so Simone noticed that she could see right through it to the stones of the mantel over the massive fireplace behind him. "No, I'm not in hell, either," he said and chuckled. "Though I must admit, I was a bit surprised when I got here and found that the place wasn't ablaze. You know as well as I do, my dear, that my life was rather . . . unsavory at times."
"I don't want to think about that," Simone said stubbornly. Her voice shook a little, and she didn't like the sound of it.
"Of course you don't. I don't blame you. No one likes to think about their past misdeeds and the fact that they may someday catch up to us. But that's not why I'm here."
"Wh-why are you here?"
"To ask a favor of you. I think that's reasonable enough, don't you, after everything we shared together in life?"
Simone made herself swallow again. "A . . . a favor?"
"That's right." Andrew gestured around himself, and as Simone's eyes followed his hand, she saw the wall through it. As long as he stood still he seemed to be substantial, but whenever he moved, he took on a hazy, semi-transparent quality. "Despite the fact that my surroundings are not unpleasant, I feel a . . . a pull, I suppose you could say. I need to move on, Simone. The place where I am now was meant to be only a temporary stop." He smiled. "A depot, you could say, like the Union Pacific depot in Wind River. How is our little town, by the way?"
"It. . . it's fine," Simone said, feeling ridiculous again to be answering such a question from a ghost. "Can't you see what's happening here from . . . from wherever you are?"
"I'm afraid not," Andrew replied regretfully. "At least not under normal conditions. We can contact someone who is still on the other side, of course, as I'm contacting you now, but believe me, that's not as easy as it sounds. In fact, it's a bit of an ordeal. But I have to do it if I'm ever going to move on and be at peace."
Simone's mouth tightened into a thin line. She had figured this out now. She had gone insane, of course. She had lost her mind, so the best thing to do was just to play along with this fantasy so that it would be finished as soon as possible. Her voice was stronger and calmer as she asked, "What is it you want me to do?"
"It's quite simple, really," Andrew told her. "I want you to find out who killed me. My spirit can't rest until my real killer is brought to justice."
Simone stared at him. That request was one of the last things she had expected, but she knew she shouldn't be surprised. Nothing else about this ghostly encounter had made sense so far.
After a moment she found the words to speak again. "Your killer has been brought to justice, Andrew. I shot William Durand myself."
"William!" exclaimed Andrew. "William didn't kill me. He may have planned to double-cross me eventually, I wouldn't doubt that for an instant. After all, I planned to do the same to him, remember? But I'm absolutely certain he didn't kill me. I saw him on his way through here, and he told me he didn't do it."
"You saw him?"
"Yes, and it's impossible to lie on this side. That's one of the odd things about it. Damned frustrating at times. But as I said, William told me he didn't shoot me, and he was rather put out with you because you shot him. That was all we had time to talk about, because he was here for only a short time." Andrew sighed. "I'm afraid poor William was definitely on his way to someplace warm."
Simone's head was swimming. She felt as if she might pass out at any moment. The strain of trying to stand there calmly and talk to the ghost of her dead husband was almost too much. Knowing that she had to bring this to an end as quickly as she could, she said, "All right. I'll do what you ask. Tell me, what do you remember about that day?"
"It's all quite vivid. I remember the band playing, and I remember the speech I was making after the train rolled in, and then that fight broke out . . ." He shook his head, turning transparent again for a second. "It was a brawl, really. I was worried about you, afraid that you might get hurt in all the commotion. I recall turning around and seeing that the crowd had already gotten between us. I started pushing my way through, trying to reach you . . . and that's all I remember until I woke up here. I assume someone shot me during the confusion of the melee?"
"That . . . that's right. Oh, Andrew, I . . . I'm so sorry!" A sob racked her. She lifted her hands and buried her face in them.
"There, there, dear, it's all right. It's not your fault." He grimaced. "I wish I could put my arm around you, I really do. Here, perhaps if I try . . . "
She stiffened again as she felt something brush against her shoulders. For an instant it felt just like his arm, the way it had felt when he drew her into his embrace. A huge shudder went through her, and then she gasped for breath as the featherlight touch vanished.
"I'm afraid that's the best I can do," Andrew said softly. "And I really must be going. I wish I could stay with you longer, Simone. I hope that somehow, someday, we'll be together again. Goodbye, Simone. Goodbye . . ."
She kept her eyes screwed tightly shut as the voice faded away.
Simone could not have said how much time went by before she opened her eyes again. But when she did, the parlor looked perfectly normal. There wer
e no spectral visitors standing in front of the fireplace. Everything looked as if Andrew had never been there.
Of course he hadn't been there, Simone told herself. He was dead, and there was no such thing as a ghost.
The stress of running for mayor and trying to lead the community into the future had simply been too much for her for a moment or two. That was all it had been.
She couldn't tell anyone about this. If word got out that she was seeing things, her chances of being elected—even running against a boor such as Hank Parker—would be damaged.
She wouldn't say anything about this to anyone, not even Cole Tyler or Judson Kent. Simone smiled. She hated to think how Cole and Judson would react if she told them she had been talking to her husband's ghost. They were two of the most levelheaded men she knew. Surely they would think she had lost her mind.
She went to a small cabinet, opened it, and took out a bottle of brandy and a glass. After what had happened this evening—or what she imagined had happened—she deserved a drink.
The liquor was a jolt of smooth fire as she sipped it. She felt its warmth spreading through her, and with it came a calm resolve. She would put this episode behind her and never allow herself to even think of it again.
Then, abruptly, her fingers tightened on the glass until she thought it would shatter in her hand as once again she seemed to feel the touch of a phantom hand on her shoulder. She whirled around—
There was nothing there.
The empty glass fell from Simone's hand and thumped to the thick rug under her feet. Her heartbeat was racing again. Eyes wide, she whispered, "Andrew . . . ?"
The only reply was silence.
Chapter 4
Billy Casebolt was right about how the people of Wind River would react to the attack on Jeremiah. By the next morning, word had gotten around town about the outrage, and more than a dozen able-bodied men showed up bright and early at the blacksmith shop offering their services to Jeremiah, willing to do whatever was necessary to set the place to rights.
Judgement Day (Wind River Book 6) Page 3