"Frenchy!" the smaller of the two shapes cried out. "Lord, I'm glad to see you! I figured I was a goner for sure."
Frenchy glanced at the other man, who was tall and massive in a fur coat of some kind. Then he caught Lon's outstretched hand and pumped it. "Are you all right?"
"Reckon I will be. I got thrown off my horse and hurt my knee, and then I tangled with some wolves. But Mr. Rowlett here came along and gave me a hand. I reckon he saved my life."
Kermit Sawyer rode up and dismounted in time to hear what Lon said, and as he strode up to them he thrust out a gloved hand at the other man. "Rowlett, is it? Well, Mr. Rowlett, we owe you. Sounds like you saved this boy's life."
"Glad I came along when I did," Rowlett replied as he shook Sawyer's hand. "I reckon you'd better get this young fella back to your ranch house. He lost some blood, and his toes must be near froze off by now. He could use some thawing out."
"I imagine you could, too," Sawyer said. "One of my hands can double up with another rider and give you his horse. Lon, you can ride with Frenchy." Sawyer sounded a little relieved that they had found Lon, but overall his tone was as crisp and businesslike as usual.
That was just a pose, Frenchy knew. He had heard the pain in Sawyer's voice when the rancher had said they would have to turn back before they found Lon. Sawyer might try to cover it up, but Frenchy had known him for a lot of years. He knew when Sawyer was hurting, and the cattleman had been in pain tonight.
But that was all over now. They had Lon back safe and sound . . . maybe. There was still the matter of getting back to the ranch house and then tending to the young cowboys injuries. If Lon was hurt too badly, they might have to send for Dr. Judson Kent to come out from Wind River, and with the weather like this, the physician could have trouble reaching the ranch in his buggy.
Well, if he had to, Frenchy thought, he could always put Doc Kent on a mule and bring him out that way. The doctor might not like it, but Frenchy just wouldn't give him any choice in the matter.
When he was back in the saddle, he reached a hand down to Lon, who climbed up behind him with some help from Sawyer and Rowlett. Then one of the other ranch hands dismounted and turned his horse over to Rowlett, who was too big to ride double with anyone.
When everyone was mounted again, they turned the horses back toward the central valley and got them moving. Frenchy found himself riding beside Rowlett, and he said to the big man, “This was quite a storm, I reckon.”
“This little blow?” Rowlett shook his shaggy head. “I’ve seen it do that for damn near a week without stopping. The snow can cover up all of a cabin except the chimney, and sometimes even that gets covered up. Times like that, you don’t get out until the spring thaw.”
Frenchy frowned. “I’d think something like that might make a man turn crazy.”
“It’s been known to, my friend,” Rowlett replied with a grin. “It sure has been known to.
* * *
It was far into the night, well after midnight, when the group of riders finally reached the Diamond S ranch house. Lon had passed out again, but it was from exhaustion this time.
Rowlett carried him into the sturdy log house where Sawyer lived and placed him on the cattleman's bunk. Sawyer himself gave the order to do that.
Meanwhile, Frenchy went to the massive stone fireplace on the other side of the big main room and stirred up the embers. There was a stack of wood near the fireplace, and Frenchy fed branches into the growing flames until he had a good-sized blaze going. Heat spread through the room.
Sawyer took off the crude bandages Rowlett had tied around Lon's wounds. The places where fangs had ripped the young man's flesh were covered with dried blood. Sawyer got Lon stripped down to his long underwear, cut away the arms and legs of the ripped, blood-stained garment, and carefully washed away the blood with a cloth dipped in a pan of water that Frenchy warmed at the fire.
The bites were more than simple punctures; the wolves’ teeth had ripped long, deep gashes in Lon’s arms and legs. Sawyer looked over his shoulder and said to Frenchy, “There’s a bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer of my desk. Fetch it here.”
Frenchy nodded, found the whiskey in the desk, and handed the bottle to the rancher. Sawyer pulled the cork with his teeth, spat it out, and went on, “Best hold him down while I pour this in those wounds.”
Frenchy and Rowlett moved to Lon’s shoulders and followed Sawyer’s commands. Sawyer tipped the bottle and splashed raw whiskey into the bites. Lon’s eyes snapped open and he might have come up off the bunk if not for Frenchy and Rowlett holding him down. He let out a long, choked cry that turned into a sigh as he settled back down on the thin mattress.
“Maybe that’ll keep ‘em from festerin’,” Sawyer said as he picked up the cork. Before he replaced it in the bottle, he took a long swallow of the whiskey, then offered it to the other two men. Frenchy shook his head.
Rowlett said, “Don’t mind if I do,” and took the bottle from Sawyer. He tilted it up and matched the slug Sawyer had taken from it, then wiped his mouth and gave the bottle back to Sawyer.
From the bunk, Lon asked hoarsely, “I . . . I reckon we got back to the ranch?”
“That’s right,” Sawyer told him as he put fresh bandages on the wounds. “You just get some rest now, son. You’ll be fine.”
Lon nodded and closed his eyes. Sawyer drew a thick quilt over him. As he looked down at the youngster, he said, “My wife made that quilt over twenty years ago. It’s the warmest one I’ve got.”
“He ought to thaw out all right,” Rowlett said, making an effort to keep the rumble in his voice low. He inclined his head toward the other side of the room, and Sawyer and Frenchy joined him there as Lon dozed off. In an even quieter tone, Rowlett asked, “Did you check his fingers and toes?”
Sawyer nodded. “No sign of frostbite. He’s damn lucky he had on good boots and thick gloves.” The cattleman’s blue eyes fixed intently on Rowlett. “But he’s even luckier you came along when you did, mister. How’d that come about?”
Rowlett shrugged his massive shoulders. “You said it yourself—luck. I was slanting down through these hills. Been up in the mountains north of here before that. My horse stepped in a drift and busted its leg.” He spread his bearskin coat open, revealing a woolen shirt and buckskin pants tucked into fringed, high-topped boots. “The way I see it, I’m just as lucky as Lon over there. If you gents hadn’t been out looking for him, I reckon I might’ve froze to death, too. So maybe we saved each other’s lives.”
Frenchy spoke up. “Lon said something about tangling with wolves. What happened?”
“That’s how I come to find him. I heard him shooting at a pack of lobos that had him cornered. Time I got there, they had him down and were going after him. I sort of waded in and pulled ‘em off of him.”
“You fought off a pack of wolves with your bare hands?” Frenchy sounded like he found that difficult to believe, even as big as Rowlett was.
“I’ve lived up in the high country a long time,” the man said, his mouth curving in a faint smile under the drooping mustache. “Wolves don’t like the smell of this coat. I knew it’d spook ‘em a mite. I did some roaring when I jumped into the fracas, too. Figured they might think a bear was horning in on their kill. I managed to break the neck of one of them, and the rest of ‘em ran off. Again, you can call it luck if you want to. I was just glad they turned tail when they did.”
“That’s a hell of a story,” Sawyer said. “And like I told you, you’ve got our gratitude, Rowlett. If there’s any way we can pay you back . . . a job, maybe, or just a place to stay for a while . . . the grub our cook rustles up ain’t fancy, but it’s fillin’.”
Rowlett’s smile widened into a grin. He glanced at the bunk as a snore came from Lon. The youngster was resting, and that was what he needed now as much as anything. “I never was much of a hand with cows,” Rowlett said, “but I thank you for the offer, Mr. Sawyer. If I can have a roof over my head tonight and somet
hing to eat and the loan of a good horse in the morning, that’ll be more’n enough to repay any kindness I did. I was bound for Wind River when all this happened, though, so I reckon I’ll be moving on down there as soon as I can.”
Sawyer snorted and said, “Don’t see why you’d want to. The place is just a town, like a hundred others out here.”
“I hear the railroad runs through there.”
Frenchy said, “Wouldn’t be any town if it wasn’t for the Union Pacific. Couple of land speculators found out where the railroad was going to run, bought the land, and laid out the town site. They got everything started. They’re both dead now, but the widow of one of ‘em is still sort of running things around town, from what I hear.”
“Pretty good-sized settlement, is it?”
“Big enough,” grunted Sawyer. “Too big, the way I see it. ‘Course, I never liked bein’ crowded.”
Rowlett looked at both men shrewdly. “Up from Texas, aren’t you?”
“From the Colorado River country,” Sawyer said. “You ever been there?”
“I’ve been most everywhere,” Rowlett answered with a chuckle. Changing the subject, he asked, “Any law in Wind River?”
If Sawyer or Frenchy thought that was a strange question, neither of them showed any reaction to it. Sawyer frowned and said, “They’ve got a marshal. Fella who used to hunt buffalo for the UP ‘fore he got roped into the job.” The cattleman’s tone made it clear that he didn’t particularly care for the man he was discussing.
“His name’s Tyler,” added Frenchy, “Cole Tyler. And he’s got a deputy, an old-timer called Billy Casebolt.”
“Well, the main thing I’m interested in is that railroad,” Rowlett said. “Are the trains running regular-like through there?”
Sawyer nodded. “Eastbound and westbound both. The railhead was in Wind River for a while, but it’s moved on now. You figurin’ on doin’ some travelin’?”
“Thought I might head on over to Cheyenne, maybe even go all the way to Sant Louie. Never seen a place that big before.”
Sawyer snorted again. “You ain’t missed much ‘cept a lot of dirty streets and too damn many people. But that’s your business, I reckon. You can bed down in the bunkhouse tonight and have your pick of the horses in the mornin’. I’ll ride into town with you.”
Frenchy asked the rancher, “You think we ought to get Doc Kent out here to look at Lon?”
Sawyer thought it over, then said, “We’ll see how those bites look in the mornin’. That knee of his is all bruised and swole up, but the only thing to do for that is stay off it and let it heal. Don’t worry, Frenchy, if Lon needs doctorin’, I’ll see that he gets it.”
Frenchy nodded and started for the doorway, but Sawyer stopped him with a word.
“Thanks for bein’ such a damned stubborn Cajun,” Sawyer told him. “I knew you weren’t goin’ to let any of us come back unless we had Lon with us.”
Frenchy grinned sheepishly, shook his head, and looked down at the floor. He didn’t say anything.
“Go get some sleep,” Sawyer told him. “Take Rowlett with you.”
The ranch foreman and the big stranger went to the door, and as they went out, Frenchy glanced back over his shoulder. Sawyer had moved beside the bed and was looking down at Lon’s sleeping form. In the flickering light from the fireplace, the ranchers seamed face was a blend of exhaustion and relief. Kermit Sawyer wasn’t a young man anymore, and he had pushed himself today, pushed himself hard. Still, it was clear he thought the effort had been worthwhile.
Frenchy grinned to himself and went out, leading Rowlett over to the bunkhouse. The stars still shone brightly in the night sky above.
* * *
Yancy Rowlett barely heard the things the foreman said to him as they walked across the yard to the bunkhouse. Instead, his mind kept turning over one intriguing fact he had gleaned from the conversation with Sawyer and Frenchy.
Cole Tyler was the marshal of Wind River.
Rowlett had taken pains not to show any reaction when the men mentioned that name. It wasn't such an unusual name, after all. There could be more than one Cole Tyler on the frontier, more than one in the Wyoming Territory, in fact. But if the man who had pinned on a marshal's badge in the settlement of Wind River was the same Cole Tyler that Rowlett was thinking of . . .
Well, that could prove to be mighty interesting, the big man decided. Mighty interesting indeed.
Chapter 4
Cole Tyler reached up and held on to his flat-crowned brown hat as the strong wind caught its broad brim and threatened to pluck it off his head.
The snowflakes stung his face as he leaned into the wind and trudged across Grenville Avenue, the main street of Wind River. Cole wasn't sure why he was out here in this weather in the first place. He could have forgotten all about his usual rounds, he told himself, because nobody would be foolish enough to be causing trouble on a night like this. Even the most hardened owlhoot would be inside somewhere beside a fire, trying to warm up.
But in the six months or so that Cole had worn a badge, certain habits had become ingrained in him, and one of them was making the rounds of the settlement every night, trying the doors of the businesses to make sure they were locked, checking to make sure nobody had been pulled into an alley and robbed or killed. Wind River had settled down a little since the railhead of the Union Pacific had moved on west to the town of Rock Springs, but it was still a pretty wild place most of the time.
Not tonight, though. Cole glanced up and down Grenville Avenue and saw that there was no one else on the street. Any horses that had been tied at the hitching rails earlier in the evening had been moved into the livery stable when the storm hit. Cole had already been by there, and the barn was bulging, every stall full. This blizzard was going to be a boon to the stable owner.
The saloonkeepers, the restaurant owners, folks who owned hotels and boardinghouses— they would all profit from the bad weather, too, because travelers would be forced to spend several days here in Wind River rather than moving on, and those pilgrims would have to have a place to stay, something to eat, and in many cases a drink or two.
As far as Cole was concerned, however, the blizzard could have missed Wind River entirely and it would have been all right with him. He had spent more than one winter here in the Wyoming Territory, but he'd never gotten used to these fierce storms that swept down from the north.
He reached the boardwalk on the far side of the street and stepped up onto the planks. It would take him a few minutes to walk down this side of Grenville Avenue, and then he could head for the boardinghouse run by Lawton and Abigail Paine. There would be a fire in the parlor, and maybe Abigail would have some coffee simmering on the stove in the kitchen. Cole could almost smell the coffee, could almost feel the heat from the fireplace. Once he had soaked up some of that warmth, he could go upstairs to his room and climb under the thick comforter on the bed
A grin plucked at Cole's mouth. He had to be getting old. Time was, he would have found himself an overhang to keep the snow off and spent a night like this outside without thinking twice about it. Maybe town living had just softened him up.
He passed the Territorial House, Wind Rivers biggest and fanciest hotel. Like the livery stable, the hotel would be full up tonight. There was a westbound train stopped down at the Union Pacific depot, and it wouldn't be going anywhere for a few days. On the plains between Wind River and Rock Springs, deep drifts would be piling up on the tracks, making it impossible for the trains to proceed until the snow melted off.
Cole paused in front of the hotel. The windows were all steamed up inside so that he couldn't peer through the glass, but he knew what was in there: warmth and companionship.
After a moment's hesitation, Cole went to the double doors and grasped the knob of one of them in a gloved hand. He took his duties as marshal seriously, but there was such a thing as being too damned stubborn. He opened the door and stepped quickly into the lobby of the hotel, hurriedl
y closing the door behind him so that not too much wind and snow could blow in.
As he had suspected would be the case, every armchair and divan in the lobby was full. Impatient-looking men and tired-looking women sat there, most of the men reading copies of the Wind River Sentinel while the women tried to keep up with bored children who ran around the room.
The clerk behind the desk looked rather harried, which came as no surprise. Tonight was no doubt one of the busiest nights in the short history of the hotel.
One of the children scurrying around the room, a little boy, stopped in his tracks and stared up at the newcomer. Cole smiled at him, and the boy turned quickly to one of the women and asked loudly, "Mama! Is that a cowboy?"
"I don't know, dear," she answered. "Why don't you come over here and sit down?"
The boy shook his head and pointed at the revolver holstered on Cole's hip. The bottom of the holster was visible beneath his coat. "Is that a real gun you got there, mister?"
"Yes, it is, sonny," Cole told him. "A Colt Army model, .44 caliber."
"Then what's that?" The youngster pointed at another sheath on Cole's left hip, this one decorated with short pieces of fringe.
"It's a Green River knife," Cole said. "My pa gave it to me. Your pa ever give you anything?"
The boy grinned. "Just a whuppin' when I'm bad. Are you a cowboy?"
"Nope. Used to be a buffalo hunter and a scout, but now I'm the law around here. I'm the marshal of Wind River."
"The marshal?" repeated the youngster, awe in his voice. "Like Wild Bill Hickok down in Kansas?"
"Well, I'm no gunfighter like that fella Hickok. I knew him a couple of years ago when both of us were still scouting for the Army, and back then they hadn't started telling all those stories about him, so I don't know how much of it's true."
"You know Wild Bill?"
"His real name's James Butler Hickok. We called him Jimmy most of the time."
The boy just stared up at him. Cole put out a hand and tousled his hair, then moved on toward the desk.
Wolf Shadow (Wind River Book 3) Page 5