She crossed her arms over her chest and said sternly, "I don't want to be beholden to anyone. I think I told you that already, Marshal."
Cole felt a touch of impatience, and he let it show in his voice as he said, "Let me explain something to you, Mrs. Dillon. This part of the country is big and mighty wild at times. Everybody needs some help sooner or later and is glad to get it. Everybody's beholden to somebody else at one time or another. Back east it's called civilization. Out here on the frontier, it's just a matter of surviving."
Appearing somewhat chastened, Polly nodded. "I suppose you're right," she said. "It . . . it was nice of Mr. Rowlett to think of such a thing." She brightened a little. "We had barn-raisings and cabin-raisings back in Illinois. I had no idea that you had them out here, too."
Cole smiled. "Like I said, everybody needs help sometimes."
The first wagon in the group rolled up then, and after bringing it to a halt, Rowlett hopped down spryly from the seat and turned to shout orders to the men with him. The men with the empty wagons were sent to the foothills a couple of miles distant to start felling trees. They would bring the logs back here when they were done, and those logs would form the walls of the cabin that was to be built. Some of the logs would be split into puncheons that would be laid for the floor. In the meantime, the other men would begin working on such things as window frames and doors.
When he had everybody busy, Rowlett turned to Polly and spoke to her for the first time, ducking his head to avoid looking directly at her. His usual self-assurance had been replaced by a certain awkwardness, the uneasiness of a man who was used to a rough life and unaccustomed to being around women . . . especially decent women like Polly Dillon.
"Mornin', ma'am," he told her. "Hope you don't mind us coming out here to give you a hand. Could be another storm coming in a day or two, and the boys and me, we didn't want you and your youngsters out here with no shelter."
"Thank you, Mr. Rowlett," Polly said coolly, her natural reserve taking over. "I certainly appreciate the help."
"You know my name?" Rowlett sounded surprised.
"I told her," Cole put in. He was standing nearby, holding Ulysses's reins. "I told Mrs. Dillon back in town that you were harmless, too, Yancy, so don't you go proving me wrong."
Rowlett grinned and bobbed his bushy head. "Oh, I'm plumb harmless, ma'am," he assured Polly. He stuck out a hand. "Yancy Rowlett, at your service."
Hesitantly, Polly took his hand, her much smaller fingers disappearing in his big paw. To her surprise, his grip was very gentle, not at all the crushing force she expected. "I'm . . . Polly Dillon," she said.
"Yes'm, I know." Rowlett glanced at Cole as he released Polly's hand. "Well, are you going to just stand around gawking, boy, or are you going to get to work with the rest of us?"
Cole grinned at him. "I've got a town to look after, and since you brought my deputy with you—" He jerked a thumb at Billy Casebolt, who was wielding a hammer next to Jeremiah Newton as they framed up a door jamb. "—I reckon I'd better get back there."
"All right, then, get on out of our way if you're going to be like that," Rowlett said with mock gruffness. He nodded to Polly again, and Cole figured he would have tipped his hat if he had been wearing one on that wild thatch of graying red hair.
Cole said to Polly, "I reckon you're in good hands, ma'am," then swung up into the saddle and headed Ulysses back toward Wind River.
Polly watched him go with a little trepidation. For all of Yancy Rowlett’s surprisingly courtly manner, Polly was still a bit nervous about being around him. But all these other townsmen from Wind River were there as well, so she thought she would be all right. Rowlett would be on his best behavior with so many men around, including the marshal's deputy.
As for the three youngsters, they were looking on in awe as the work got underway. Andrew, Martha, and Francie had never seen this much hustle and bustle going on. Their eyes widened even more when the wagons bringing the logs from the foothills arrived a little later and Rowlett pitched in to help unload them. It took two men and sometimes three to handle most of the freshly trimmed logs, but Rowlett could lift some of them by himself, giving only a small grunt as he hefted them to let anyone know just how much effort was involved. Polly saw the same thing and marveled at the big man's strength.
Rowlett was not the only one capable of such a feat, however. Jeremiah Newton could also unload a log by himself and did so over Billy Casebolt’s badgering objections. Ever since the founding of Wind River, Jeremiah had been the biggest, strongest man in town, and although envy was an un-Christian feeling, Jeremiah found himself experiencing a touch of it. The other men gradually stepped back to watch as the blacksmith and the visiting mountain man staged an informal competition, each of them struggling with larger and larger logs.
Finally, as Rowlett pulled the largest log yet from the rear gate of one of the wagons and knelt to get his shoulder under it, one of his feet slipped in a small patch of mud left over from the melting snow. He staggered a little, and Andrew Dillon abruptly called out, "I'll help you, Mr. Rowlett!" The boy leaped forward, reaching for one end of the log.
"Hold it, sonny!" Casebolt yelped as his hand shot out to snag the collar of Andrews coat and jerk him back.
Jeremiah sprang forward at the same time, moving with surprising speed for a man of his size and bulk. He grabbed the end of the log and steadied it until Rowlett had his booted feet on solid ground again. Everyone there knew how badly Rowlett might have been hurt if he had collapsed under the weight of the log. But Andrew would have been injured even worse if he had been caught under it; the life would have probably been crushed out of him.
Rowlett gave Jeremiah a nod of appreciation and said, "I reckon we'd better quit showing off. What do you say, Mr. Newton?"
"I say amen, Brother Rowlett. Why don't we work together from now on?"
"Sounds like a good idea to me," Rowlett answered with a grin. He and Jeremiah shouldered the massive log and carried it easily over to the spot where the cabin was being laid out. It was on a small knoll overlooking the stream, and Polly knew that in a more hospitable season, the view from the cabin would be green, sweeping, and beautiful.
The men had brought more than building supplies from the settlement. They had baskets of food in some of the wagons as well, and when the sun was overhead at noon, work stopped long enough for everyone to eat lunch. The Dillon children brought buckets of water from the stream that was fed by both the spring and the snowmelt, and it was breathtakingly cold and good.
During the afternoon, the air rang with the sounds of hammer and ax, and as Polly and her children watched, their new home took shape before their eyes. The sturdy log cabin rose from the ground atop the knoll, and by late in the day the walls were finished and the roof was in place.
There was still a lot of work to be done inside, including a fireplace, but for now the structure would serve to keep the family out of the weather, and the cast-iron stove they had brought with them from the farm in Illinois would provide warmth as well. Rowlett and Jeremiah carried the heavy stove in together while the other men unloaded the rest of their goods.
When the mountain man and the blacksmith emerged, Polly shook her head and told Rowlett, "I . . . I just don't know what to say. This is a wonderful thing you've done, Mr. Rowlett. My children and 1 thank you, all of you."
Rowlett tugged on his beard and said gruffly, "We're just glad we could help, ma'am. You sure you'll be all right out here?"
"I'm certain we'll be fine, now that we have such a splendid place to live. Thank you again. Perhaps . . . perhaps all of you would like to stay for supper . . . ?"
Billy Casebolt shook his head and spoke up. "No, ma'am, I reckon we'd better get on back to town. Most of these fellas got families of their own, you know. But we're mighty obliged for the offer."
Rowlett shot him a glance, and Polly wondered if the big man had intended on taking her up on the invitation until Casebolt butted in. If that
was the case, Rowlett didn't make any mention of it. Instead, he said, "I hope you won't take offense, Mrs. Dillon, if I ride back out here from time to time to check on you folks."
Earlier in the day, when Polly had first seen this massive, wild-looking individual, she never would have dreamed that she would reply as she did to such a suggestion. But she smiled anyway and said, "That would be most welcome, Mr. Rowlett." Even now she could hardly believe such words were coming from her mouth.
The children looked happy about the prospect of Rowlett returning to visit, too, and Francie suddenly darted forward to hug the big man's leg. It was like hugging a tree trunk. Rowlett grinned down at her and awkwardly ruffled her blond hair. "I'll be seeing you again, too, little lady," he told her.
"Come along, Francie," Polly said. "Let go of Mr. Rowlett's leg. I'm sure he has things to do."
"Yes'm." Rowlett turned to the other men and said, "Let's get on back to town."
They climbed on the wagons and the saddle horses and headed toward Wind River with waves and shouts of farewell. Polly and the children returned the waves until the men dwindled from sight in the gathering dusk. The wind picked up from the north then, and Polly shivered as she noticed how chilly it was.
"Let's go inside," she told the children. "It'll be getting cold soon."
As she shepherded the youngsters into the cabin, she paused at the door and looked back over her shoulder at the big, empty landscape unfolding before her. "We made it, Jason," she murmured. "We made it to Wyoming."
But although this first day on their new place had gone differently than she had expected—and better than she ever could have hoped—Polly Dillon was still all too aware of how alone they really were here.
Then she thought of Yancy Rowlett.
Maybe they weren't completely alone, after all . . .
Chapter 9
The storm that had been looming to the north held off for a couple of days, but when it finally came rolling down through the mountain valleys and across the plains, it came with a vengeance.
Bitterly cold wind howled and gobbled, bringing with it blinding sheets of ice pellets and then waves of snow so thick that it was well nigh impossible to tell where the ground ended and the sky began. In weather like this, there was nothing anyone could do except hunker down and wait and hope for the best.
The blizzard struck late in the afternoon, and by that night, the stove inside the bunkhouse at the Diamond S was struggling to put out enough heat to warm the long, narrow room. The ranch hands drew their chairs closer to the stove and took the blankets off their beds, wrapping the covers around them as they huddled around the black, cast-iron stove.
"We'll be sleeping sitting up tonight, boys," Frenchy told them, and nobody argued with the foreman. Their bunks were going to be too blasted cold for slumber.
Lon pulled his woolen blankets tighter around him and shivered. Maybe it got this cold in Texas, too, he thought—once or twice in a hundred years or thereabouts. Even inside the bunkhouse, the bone-numbing chill seemed to creep in, all but freezing the blood in a man's veins. It was even too cold to play cards, although some of the boys had tried, giving up only when stiff, icy fingers fumbled the pasteboards repeatedly. Wasn't much a body could do in cold weather like this except sleep, Lon reflected. He leaned back in his chair as best he could, all wrapped up like he was, then tipped his hat down over his face and closed his eyes.
Sleep came gradually, but with it came the same sort of dreams that had haunted Lon for the past week and a half.
He found himself back in that little valley where he had been set afoot, hobbling along desperately with the gray, ghostly shapes of the wolves gliding along through the trees around him. Although he tried to go faster and faster, his injured leg held him back, and even in his sleep he felt the pain shoot through him with each step. His heart pounded faster and faster in his chest until it felt like it was going to tear itself out of his body.
Then the wolves were closing in, drawing nearer and nearer until he could see their breath fogging in the air and moonlight glinting off their fangs as they got ready to launch themselves at him, pull him down, rip his flesh to bloody shreds . . .
He came awake with a start and a gasp, his hat nearly falling off as he jerked upright in his chair. Quite some time had passed since he dozed off, Lon saw. The lanterns that had cast their yellow glow through the bunkhouse earlier had all been extinguished. The only light in the big room came from the grate in the door of the stove. The feebleness of the illumination told Lon that the fire had died down and needed more wood.
The room was filled with the snores and mutters of sleeping men. Quietly, so as not to disturb them, Lon got to his feet and unwrapped the blanket from around him, leaving it on the chair. There was a woodbox beside the door. He would get some chunks from the box and put them in the stove to burn. A shiver ran through him as he started toward the door. It had gotten colder in here since he had been asleep, too.
Lon grimaced as he walked. His leg had stiffened up, and it twinged sharply with every step. Not as bad as it had hurt in real life when he was trying to escape from the wolves, of course, but bad enough to bring a frown to his face. He was beginning to wonder if his knee was ever going to heal up so that he could ride again.
A cowboy who couldn't ride wasn't worth a hill of beans, he thought. If his leg didn't get any better, he wouldn't have any choice but to go back to Texas. Either that or go to clerking in a store, and Lon didn't know if he could stand that kind of life.
He had to pass a window to get to the wood-box. Both sets of shutters, inside and out, were closed, of course, but if he put his eye close to the window, he could peer out through a small gap where the shutters came together. There wasn't much to see. Ice had crusted over the glass. All Lon could make out was some kind of red light, sort of like the glow from the grate in the door of the stove . . ..
Suddenly, Lon stiffened. His eyes widened as he stared at the shifting crimson glare filtering through the thin layer of ice on the window. Then he threw himself at the door, the wood-box and even the pain in his leg forgotten. He fumbled at the latch for a second, his fingers cold and stiff, then finally flung the door open to see flames leaping from the roof of the barn.
"Fire!" Lon bellowed. "Fire!"
Behind him, men leaped up from the chairs where they had been dozing. Shouted questions filled the bunkhouse. But Lon wasn't there to answer them; he was already heading for the barn, running as fast as his injured leg would allow.
The snow had stopped, he saw, but that wasn't a good thing. If the blizzard had still been going on, the thick snowfall would have at least put a damper on the fire now raging through the barn. As it was, fighting the fire was going to be very difficult. All the water that was outside tonight was frozen solid, and there wouldn't be enough in buckets and pails inside the main house and the bunkhouse to douse the flames, not by a long shot.
No, Lon thought as he limped hurriedly across the yard, the barn was going to be a total loss. But there was livestock in there that could maybe be saved, and that was what he was after.
More men poured out of the bunkhouse and joined him, catching up and passing him as they ran toward the barn. Frenchy was trying to coordinate the rescue effort, but it was difficult to hear his shouted commands over the roar of the fire. Lon spotted Kermit Sawyer running along the porch of the main house. Sawyer had hastily pulled on some pants and thrown a coat over his nightshirt, but the tail end of the garment was hanging loosely from under the coat. He bellowed orders along with Frenchy.
Snow had drifted against the front of the barn during the storm, and it took several men to grasp the doors and haul them open. They dashed inside and began freeing the horses that were pinned up in stalls. Lon knew there was a bull in the barn, too, a magnificent brute that had cost Sawyer a great deal of money when he bought the animal down in Texas. The bull had made the long trip all the way to Wyoming Territory, and Sawyer planned for him to continue as the
principal sire for the Diamond S herd. His bloodline had already improved the stock.
The bull wouldn't have a chance to do that if he wasn't gotten out of the barn quickly. As Lon limped up to the entrance, ducking out of the way of a pair of horses that practically stampeded out for fear of the fire, he looked at the hayloft. That seemed to be where the fire was concentrated, and he wondered briefly how it had gotten started. But it was lucky that the upper portion of the barn was being consumed first by the flames, because that gave the hands time to free the stock kept in here.
After a moment’s hesitation, Lon headed for the stall where the bull was kept, intending to make sure that someone had already rescued the massive animal.
The bull was still there, however, moving nervously back and forth and slamming his head against the walls of the stall, making them tremble from the force of the blows. Lon’s eyes widened. He didn’t see how he could handle the bull himself, but everyone else was busy. He swallowed hard and reached out for a coiled rope hanging on a peg driven into the wall.
He might have a bad leg, he told himself, but that didn’t keep him from handling a rope. He was well aware that down in Texas he had been pretty inept as a cowboy, but Frenchy had worked with him quite a bit since they’d come to Wyoming, and Lon was able to fashion a loop in a matter of moments. He leaned over the wall of the stall and dropped the loop over the bull’s horns, then took up the slack in the rope before swinging open the stall gate. Seeing freedom in front of his fear-maddened eyes, the bull lunged forward.
Lon hung on tightly to the rope and shouted, “Whoa! Settle down, damn it!”
The bull ignored him and practically jerked him off his feet. Lon gasped and tightened his grip on the rope, realizing that he had bitten off more than he could handle. Then suddenly Kermit Sawyer was there, slamming a closed fist into the bull’s snout and yelling at the brute. The bull went docile at hearing the voice of its master, and Sawyer took the rope from Lon’s hands and began leading the massive creature toward the doors. “Come on, Lon,” Sawyer added over his shoulder.
Wolf Shadow (Wind River Book 3) Page 12