While the Diamond S crew made their way toward the saloon in front of which their horses were hitched, Casebolt snapped shut the watch in his hand. "It's time," he announced.
Cole nodded and stepped to the open door of the building. The three election judges were in place. "You boys all ready?" he asked.
Nathan Smollett nodded and answered for himself and his companions. "Indeed we are, Marshal."
"Here they come, then. The polls are open."
People were already starting to line up outside. Cole turned and looked at them. He recognized just about all of them, which was a good thing. One of his concerns was that people who didn't actually live in Wind River would try to vote. That could cause a problem before the day was over, which was one reason either he or Casebolt would try to be on hand until the polls were closed.
Cole lifted his hands and raised his voice as he said, "All right, folks, the polls are open. Stay in line, and there'll be no pushing or shoving or arguing with the election judges.
There's no drinking and no speechmaking, and you've got to leave your guns at the door and reclaim them on your way out. This is Wind River's first election, and we want everything about it to be proper." He stepped aside and waved the first voter into the building. "Go ahead and cast your ballots, folks."
Michael Hatfield stood on the boardwalk nearby, paper and pencil in hand. He watched the voters proceed into the building in an orderly fashion and said to Cole, "Can I get a statement for the Sentinel, Marshal?"
"What do you want to know, Michael?"
The young journalist grinned. "How about a prediction on the outcome of the election?"
Cole snorted and shook his head. "I'm not in the predicting business," he said. "I'll leave that to you newspaper fellers. I'm just here to make sure everything's done in a legal, orderly fashion."
"Are you expecting any trouble?"
"I'm not expecting trouble—but we'll sure be ready for it if it happens."
Michael jerked a thumb toward the nearby saloon where Kermit Sawyer and his men were arranged along the boardwalk, drinking coffee since according to territorial statutes it was illegal to serve alcohol while the polls were open. "What's the crew from the Diamond S doing in town?"
"Those crazy Texans have got the idea that an election is some sort of entertainment," replied Cole. "I reckon they'll be pretty bored before the day's over."
"Thanks, Marshal," Michael said as he scribbled on his pad. "Have you seen Dr. Kent this morning?"
Cole shook his head. "No, but I reckon he'll come by to vote sooner or later."
"What about you? Have you voted?"
With a frown, Cole realized that he had forgotten to cast his own ballot. So far he had been too concerned about making it safe and legal for everyone else to do so. "I'll get around to it," he said. "You can count on that."
"So will I," Michael said. "It's easy to forget, isn't it?"
Cole nodded, wishing Michael hadn't even brought up the subject.
Michael didn't press the issue, however, because the next moment he said excitedly, "Here comes Dr. Kent!"
There was a stir among the people lined up to vote. Dr. Judson Kent was indeed approaching along the boardwalk, accompanied by Jeremiah Newton. The doctor wore his best suit and held his head high and defiant, although he was moving somewhat stiffly from the beating he had received the night before.
His features were bruised and puffy, but his expression was one of solemn dignity. He nodded to Cole as he and Jeremiah came up to the lawman and the newspaper editor.
"Good morning, Marshal. Hello, Michael. A fine morning, isn't it?"
"Already a little warm for my taste," Cole said dryly. "Come to vote, Judson?"
"Indeed I did."
The man who was about to enter the building next spoke up, saying, "Here, Doc, you can take my place in line."
Kent smiled and shook his head. "No, thank you, my friend. I'll wait my turn, just like everyone else."
Already turning into a politician, Cole thought a little cynically as Kent and Jeremiah made their way to the end of the line. Michael trailed along with them, getting a statement from the physician.
Cole looked across the doorway at Billy Casebolt and saw the weary acceptance in the deputy's eyes.
It was going to be a long day, and Cole just hoped that at the end of it, the outcome would be worthwhile . . .
* * *
From the window of her suite, Simone could watch the voting. She wondered if she ought to send for Cole and have him escort her over there so that she could cast her own ballot. True, she had been accused of a crime, but she hadn't been found guilty yet. She ought to still have the right to vote, like all the other women who had recently been enfranchised by the Territory of Wyoming.
She shook her head and moved away from the window, deciding against the idea. Such a thing would just draw a lot of attention, and she didn't want that. She knew she must have already been the subject of a great deal of gossip during the past few days. By now she was probably the laughingstock of the settlement, and she couldn't stand the thought of that.
As she went over to the armchair and sat down, Simone glanced at the ghost of her husband. Andrew stood near" the foot of the bed, his features seemingly locked in that same sad expression.
He had been there when Simone woke up this morning, and he hadn't budged since, even when Billy Casebolt brought in her breakfast tray. It had taken Simone only a moment to realize that the deputy couldn't see Andrew, even though the ghost was in plain sight to her.
She had been about to conclude that it was only further proof she had lost her mind, when Casebolt had shivered and said, "It's a mite cold in here, ain't it? Strange, since it's already pretty warm outside."
He had been sensing Andrew's presence, Simone thought. Andrew chose to reveal himself only to his wife, but that didn't mean he wasn't really there.
The thought was oddly comforting. After that, she had tried to talk to the apparition, but Andrew was stubbornly silent. Finally she had said in exasperation, "Oh, all right. Be like that if you want to," and she had ignored him ever since. If he wanted to lurk around like a doomed spirit, that was his business. Simone had other things to worry about.
Like the election.
What if Hank Parker won? she asked herself now. With Parker as the mayor of Wind River, true reform would be difficult, if not impossible. The saloons and the gambling dens and the bordellos would continue to operate. In fact, they would probably thrive under Parker's administration.
Every night there would be more robberies and killings, and Wind River would become known throughout the territory as a haven for lawlessness of all sorts. Eventually the good people would begin to leave—and then the town would be doomed.
She had never opposed Parker out of some moral high-mindedness, Simone told herself. Jeremiah Newton might rant and rave about sin, but Simone was too practical to get all worked up about it. She knew that a town needed a little sin; it was good for business. But Parker would allow it to run rampant, unchecked, as it had been in the early days of the settlement before Cole Tyler had put a dent in the hellishness.
Cole . . . What would he do if Parker was elected? Surely he wouldn't stay on as marshal and attempt to work with Parker. The two of them couldn't stand each other. Even if Cole had been willing, Parker wouldn't allow it.
The thought that Cole might leave Wind River sent a pang of emotion through Simone. She had sensed for a long time that he was interested in her.
She had tried to encourage that without ever allowing him to get too close. It always helped to have the local law be sympathetic; Andrew had taught her that. But she realized now that she had grown genuinely fond of Cole Tyler. She would miss him if he was gone, and so would Wind River.
Whatever toady Parker put into the office wouldn't be able to keep the peace as Cole had.
Simone took a deep breath. "I'm being foolish," she said aloud. "How could anyone in their right mind vote
for Parker over Judson Kent? Judson will be elected, I'm sure of it."
Yet she wasn't really that certain, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise. Judson had entered the race late, declaring himself a candidate only after Simone had dropped out. There hadn't been much time to spread the word that he was running. And Parker had almost unanimous support from the denizens of the red-light district.
Parker might win. It was possible, and Simone knew it.
Unless, somehow, she stopped him. Her hands tightened on the arms of the chair as the thought occurred to her. In the long run, the election of Hank Parker as mayor would be the death knell of Wind River. Simone couldn't allow that. Not after everything she had done to help build this town, not after all the sacrifices she had made so that Wind River could grow and prosper.
Her breath hissed between her teeth. She had to do it. She accepted that now.
She had to get out of here some way and make sure that Hank Parker would never be the mayor of Wind River.
And on the other side of the room, the ghost of Andrew McKay still looked on silently.
Chapter 18
The election was proceeding more smoothly than Cole had ever expected it would. By the middle of the day, no one had tried to vote who wasn't a legal resident of Wind River.
There had been no arguments, no fistfights in the line of voters even though supporters of Judson Kent and Hank Parker were often right next to each other.
There was something almost. . . majestic .. . about the process, Cole thought. Election campaigns might bring out the worst in people, but the voting itself seemed to lift them up out of themselves and give them some added dignity. He supposed that was one reason those old boys back in colonial times had worked out this system.
During one of the lulls in the voting during the morning, Cole and Casebolt had both gone inside to vote. Cole had picked up one of the ballots, which had both Parker's name and Simone McKay's printed on them. Simone's name had been crossed out and replaced by Judson Kent's, a tedious job that had been carried out by hand by several volunteers. Cole used a stub of pencil to mark an X beside Kent's name, then folded the ballot and dropped it into the iron box.
This was the first time in his life he had voted on something, he realized. Always before he had been too busy to even be aware that it was Election Day, or else out in the middle of some godforsaken wilderness' somewhere with the closest polling place hundreds of miles away. It was a good feeling.
When it came time for lunch, he and Casebolt swapped out, with Casebolt going first and bringing back from the cafe a burlap bag full of food for the election judges. Cole went to eat then, and as he passed the saloon where the Diamond S riders had been congregated, he saw that most of them were gone. Only Kermit Sawyer, Lon Rogers, and a couple of other men remained.
"Where's the rest of your crew, Sawyer?" Cole asked. "They get bored and go home?"
"Damn right," growled Sawyer. "You folks up here in Wyoming Territory just don't know how to hold an election. I sent Frenchy and most of the boys back to the ranch. Figured they might as well get some work done."
"I don't reckon the fact that they couldn't buy a drink while the polls are open had anything to do with it, did it?" Cole said with a grin.
The Texan snorted in disgust. "Like I said, you people up here just don't know how to hold an election."
Cole chuckled and moved on, heading for the Wind River Cafe.
The eating establishment was busy when he got there, with all of the tables occupied and most of the seats at the counter full. There was an empty stool next to Michael Hatfield, though, and the young newspaperman motioned for Cole to join him. Michael was drinking a cup of coffee and making notes on the pad that rested on the counter in front of him.
"How's the election going, Marshal?" Michael asked as Cole settled down on the stool next to him.
Cole nodded. "No problems so far. I've been very pleased."
"Is that an official reaction?"
"Sure." Cole shrugged. "But the election's not over yet. Won't be for—" He glanced at the banjo clock on the wall of the cafe. "—nearly three more hours. No telling what might happen between now and then."
"Have you heard any talk about who's leading?"
"Nope, and I don't want to. Some folks, you can tell who they're going to vote for while they're still standing in line outside the polls, but I haven't tried to keep a count of them either way. I'd rather just wait for the official results."
Michael nodded, scribbled a line or two on his pad, then pushed the paper away and put down his pencil. "You know, Marshal, I've been thinking—"
He was interrupted by the arrival of a harried-looking but still lovely Rose Foster, who came up on the other side of the counter and said, "Hello, Cole. What can I get for you? Monty's got some nice pork chops back there in the kitchen."
"Sounds fine," Cole told her. "I'll have potatoes with them and some of that deep-dish apple pie."
Rose smiled, nodded, and moved off to relay the order to Monty Riordan. Cole turned back to Michael and said, "Sorry about that. You were saying . . . ?"
"Well, I don't know if I ought to talk about it or not," Michael said hesitantly, "but I've been thinking about what happened up there at the church a couple of nights ago."
"When Becky Lewis was murdered," Cole said grimly.
"That's right. I've been racking my brain, trying to remember every detail about what I saw up there. I know that I'm prejudiced, but I just can't believe that Mrs. McKay killed that woman."
"Neither can I," Cole admitted. "But all the evidence says that she did."
"Maybe not," Michael said.
Cole leaned toward him. Michael's voice was pitched low, so that the other people in the cafe wouldn't overhear what he was saying. The young man went on, "I think I remember something that might support her story about finding the body just before I did."
"You're not imagining something just because you work for Mrs. McKay and like her, are you, Michael?" asked Cole, sounding a note of caution.
Michael shook his head firmly. "I'm sure of this, Marshal. When I saw those two figures struggling up there at the church, I'm certain that something about them struck me as odd. I really didn't think about it afterward because . . . well, like you said, all the evidence seemed to point toward Mrs. McKay as the killer. But yesterday and today, I've been trying to remember exactly what I saw that I might have noticed like that, and now I think I know what it was."
Michael hesitated again, and Cole said impatiently, "Go ahead. What did you see?"
"Well, I may be crazy, but. . . I could swear that one of the figures I saw had just one arm."
Cole stiffened. Hank Parker was the only one-armed man in Wind River, the only one in the whole area as far as Cole knew. And although Cole wasn't sure why Parker would have wanted Becky Lewis dead, there was a definite connection between the two of them. Cole couldn't prove that, but he was certain of it.
"You're sure about that, Michael?" he asked. "Maybe whoever you saw was turned so that you could only see one arm, but the other one was really there."
Michael shook his head and said, "I'm sure. I saw him turn around, and I saw both shoulders—but only one arm. It had to be Hank Parker! He must've killed that woman!"
"We'd both like to think so," Cole muttered. He looked intently at Michael and went on. "You'd be willing to swear to this in court?"
Michael drew in a deep breath. "Yes. Yes, I'd swear to it in court."
"All right. I'll think about it and try to figure out what to do."
"You're going to arrest Parker and let Mrs. McKay go, aren't you?" Michael asked with a frown.
Cole grimaced. "Well, no offense, Michael, but your word may not be enough to clear Simone. She was found with the body at her feet, and the knife in Becky Lewis's chest came from the Territorial House. With evidence like that, we may have to wait for Judge Sharp to get here and sort everything out."
"You can't mean t
hat!" Michael exclaimed. "What about Parker?"
"May have to take him into custody, too. But he won't be going anywhere until after the election's over, so I'm going to wait until the polls are closed before I do anything."
Michael shook his head in disbelief, then shrugged. "Maybe you're right, Marshal. But you and I both know that Hank Parker is a much better suspect than Mrs. McKay. Why, she would never hurt anybody!"
"I'm inclined to agree with you," Cole said to him as Rose appeared with a platter of food. "But right now I'm going to eat my lunch and leave the law business until later."
There was one problem with that, he discovered as he dug into the pork chops and potatoes. It was damned hard for a fella to enjoy his food when his brain was all cluttered up with murder and the like.
* * *
Simone looked at the watch she wore as a cameo pinned to the front of her dress. Four o'clock. The polls were closing right about now. The election, for all intents and purposes, was over.
That meant she couldn't postpone her decision any longer.
All afternoon she had paced back and forth and looked out the front window, trying to figure out exactly how to proceed. She knew she had to stop Parker somehow. She couldn't allow even the possibility that he might win the election. That meant she had to get out of this hotel room, preferably without anyone knowing until it was too late that she had escaped.
This corner suite, fittingly enough the best accommodations in the Territorial House, had two windows for cross-ventilation, one on the front of the building, one on the side that overlooked the alley alongside the hotel. Simone went to that side window, which was raised a few inches to let air through. She slipped her fingers into the opening and raised the pane the rest of the way.
She had never had a fear of heights, and besides, this room was only on the second floor. She had told Cole Tyler how ridiculous it was to think of her clambering out through a window, and he had agreed with her. The whole idea was just too undignified to ever imagine Simone McKay doing such a thing.
Judgement Day (Wind River Book 6) Page 18