Lon hobbled along as fast as he could, wincing as small pieces of flaming debris fell down around him. The barn was going to collapse at any moment, he realized, and he had risked his life by coming in here to wrestle with that stubborn bull. He hurried out into the night behind Sawyer and the animal.
Sawyer turned the bull over to one of the other hands, then swung around to face Lon and caught his arm. “Are you all right?” he asked over the crackling of the growing inferno.
Lon nodded. “Sorry, boss,” he said. “I thought I could get that bull out of there for you.”
“’Predate you lettin’ him loose. He would’ve found his way out, more’n likely, even if you hadn’t dabbed a loop on him.” Sawyer gripped Lon’s shoulder tightly. “Thanks, son.”
The praise made Lon warm for a moment despite the frigid air around him. There was a sudden roar, and both men looked back at the barn. The roof was collapsing, sending a column of blazing embers high into the black sky. Lon said fervently, “I hope everybody got out of there.”
“So do I,” agreed Sawyer. “Anybody who didn’t is a goner.”
It was true. The whole barn was involved in the fire now, and the conflagration took on a new fierceness. Flames shot high into the air. In a matter of minutes, the barn was nothing but a ruined, blackened shell filled with ashes.
“I wonder how it started,” Lon muttered, as much to himself as to Sawyer.
“Don’t know,” the cattleman replied. “But I sure as hell intend to find out.”
And judging from the expression on Sawyer’s face, Lon thought, whoever was responsible for this calamity was in more trouble than anyone would have thought possible.
* * *
As it turned out, though, there was no one at whom to point the finger of blame, because it was impossible to discover how the fire had started. It had burned so fiercely that nothing was left inside the ruined barn except charred rubble. Sawyer suspected that someone had gone into the hayloft, taking a lantern with them, then left the lantern behind after pitching down more hay for the animals in the stalls below. Frenchy hadn't assigned that chore to anyone in particular, though; whoever had done it—if that was even the case—had acted on his own initiative.
That discovery, or rather lack of discovery, would have to wait until morning. Right after the blaze had taken the barn, there were other, more pressing worries . . . such as what to do with the animals that had been housed in the barn.
Some of the horses had scattered when they came running out of the barn, and there was nothing that could be done about them until morning. If the snow didn't start again, they would probably be all right, Sawyer decided. "We'll let the horses fend for themselves," he told the cowboys assembled in front of the burned-out barn. "They can be rounded up when it's light again. We can just count ourselves lucky that everybody got out of that barn 'fore the roof caved in."
A murmur of agreement came from the men. They were all shaken. The events of the night had been disastrous enough, but it could have been much worse and they all knew it.
Sawyer looked over his shoulder at the main house. The big bull was tied to one of the posts supporting the roof over the entrance, and he had calmed down considerably since he had almost dragged Lon off his feet. Sawyer said, "That big fella's the problem. I don't want him spendin' the night out in this weather. It's liable to get mighty cold, now that the wind's laid down and the clouds're breakin' up."
"What do you figure we can do with him, boss?" asked Frenchy.
"Only one thing to do," Sawyer said with a decisive nod. "Take him inside the house."
"Inside your house?" Frenchy exclaimed.
Sawyer snorted. "I've got more room than you boys in the bunkhouse. Besides, he's my bull and my responsibility. Take him in."
"You sure about that, boss?" Frenchy asked dubiously.
"Damn it, I don't pay you to question my orders, LeDoux! I said to get that bull inside, and I meant it. If I want to make him sit on a lace doily and feed him chamomile tea, then by God, I'll do that, too!"
A ripple of laughter went through the cowboys, prompted as much by the idea of Kermit Sawyer having anything to do with lace doilies and chamomile tea as by the image that his angry words conjured up. Frenchy and a couple of men went over to untie the bull and lead it into the house. The beast went reluctantly, and it took all three men leaning on the rope to goad its massive bulk into motion.
"We'll get started rebuilding the barn as soon as we can," Sawyer said. "I reckon the days'll be even longer and harder than usual for a while, so you boys better get back in the bunkhouse and get some sleep if you can."
The hands nodded and moved off toward the bunkhouse, and Sawyer turned to his own dwelling. Frenchy and the other two men emerged, and the foreman said, "Well, he's inside, boss. He ain't too happy about it, though."
"He doesn't have to be happy," snapped Sawyer. He looked up at the stars that had come out in the last half-hour, pinpoints of light that glittered coldly against an utterly black backdrop. He had a burned-down barn and a bull in his house, for God's sake! He hoped this damned Wyoming winter was over soon, because the way things had been proceeding, there was just no telling what was going to happen next.
But Sawyer would have laid odds that it wouldn't be good.
* * *
Michael Hatfield rubbed his hands briskly together as he hurried along the boardwalk. The air was crystal clear and bitterly cold this morning. A thick layer of snow covered Grenville Avenue and had drifted against the buildings in places. Although the storm that had blown in the previous afternoon had blown out again rather quickly, it had been ferocious while it lasted. Michael was just glad it hadn't hung on for several days. If that had been the case, the snowfall would have been measured in feet, rather than inches.
Delia had wanted him to stay home today, but there was a paper to get out. She had said, "No one cares whether or not they have a paper to read in weather like this."
"Well then, they can use it to start fires in their stoves," Michael had replied with a grin, hoping a little humor would turn aside Delia’s wrath.
She had just frowned at him, though, and gone on with what she was doing, which in this case happened to be changing the baby's diaper.
Michael's breath fogged thickly in front of him as he moved along the boardwalk. Not many people were out and about this morning, and the ones who were moving around were bundled up in heavy coats and hats and mufflers, just like he was. Michael lowered his head and increased his pace, anxious to get to the newspaper office. His helpers might not be there today, what with the weather like it was, and he knew he might have to run the press by himself. That would slow the process down considerably, of course, but he was determined to manage any way he had to.
Suddenly, he ran into what felt like a solid wall and bounced back a little, staggering for a step until he caught his balance. He looked up, eyes wide, and saw that he had collided with a man, not a building—although Yancy Rowlett seemed almost as broad and tall as some of the structures in town.
"Best watch where you're going, sonny," Rowlett advised. "I reckon you must be in a hurry."
"It . . . it's cold," Michael said through teeth that started chattering.
Rowlett grinned. His heavy bearskin coat hung open, revealing his woolen shirt and buckskin pants. He waved his massive arms and said, "You call this cold? Hell, I recollect a winter it was so cold that when the wolves howled, the sound froze in midair. Come spring, when everything thawed out, you could hear wolves howling for miles around, and there wasn't any of the varmints anywhere. You're that newspaper fella, ain't you?"
Michael nodded. He and Rowlett hadn't been introduced, but he certainly knew who the big man was.
"Well, you can use that story in your paper if you want," Rowlett said.
"But . . . but I couldn't," Michael said. "It's just an exaggeration, a tall tale . . ."
Rowlett's eyes narrowed, deep in their pits of gristle and bushy red eyeb
rows. "You saying I'm a liar, son?"
"No, sir!" Michael answered hastily.
Rowlett poked a finger against his chest, staggering him again and making him wince. The prod was painful even through his thick coat. Rowlett said, "Then you can print the story, can't you?"
"I . . . I suppose so."
Rowlett nodded. "Good."
Cole Tyler and Billy Casebolt came out of the door behind Rowlett, and Michael realized he was standing in front of the marshal's office. Rowlett had been staying with Cole, Michael recalled. The big man was an old friend of the marshal, or something like that. Michael couldn't recall exactly what the relationship was.
"Mornin', Michael," Cole greeted him. "Cold enough for you?"
"It c-certainly is," Michael replied. "If you'll excuse me, I was just on my way to the paper."
Cole nodded. "Sure." He watched Michael hurry on down the boardwalk toward the Sentinel office.
Rowlett sniffed and said, "Sort of a skittish young feller. Didn't seem to know that I was just funnin' him."
"He's from back east," Cole said with a shrug. "Hasn't been out here all that long. But he's a pretty good man, just a mite single-minded about that newspaper he puts out for Mrs. McKay."
Rowlett looked over at him. "This here Miz McKay owns just about everything in town, doesn't she?"
"She owns a lot," Cole admitted. "But she's done a good job of running things, too. Maybe even better than her husband would have, had he lived."
"She'll treat that Miz Dillon right, won't she?"
"You don't have to worry about that," Cole assured him. "I've never heard any complaints about Simone not being fair."
Casebolt put in, "I'm mighty glad we got that cabin put up for those folks 'fore this last storm come in. The way it blew last night, they'd've been in bad shape out there with nothing but a wagon for shelter."
"Yeah," Rowlett mused, "I've been thinking about them last night and this morning."
That came as no surprise to Cole. He had been able to tell that Rowlett was distracted about something, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what. Rowlett went on, "I figure it might be a good idea to take a ride out there. You know, just to make sure there's nothing else they need."
Cole nodded. "Go ahead if you want. Just be careful."
"Want me to go with you, Yancy?" Casebolt offered.
Rowlett shook his head. "I reckon I know the way all right now. That horse I've been renting from the livery is sure-footed. I can make it out there and back."
"We'll see you later, then," Cole said.
Rowlett nodded and headed for the livery, his boots leaving deep prints behind him as he slogged through the snow. Cole and Casebolt watched him go, and the deputy said quietly, "I figure ol' Yancy there is plumb sweet on that Miz Dillon."
Cole shot him a glance and grinned. "Just now figured that out, did you?"
"Hell, no! A blind man could see it. Something's been keepin' him here in Wind River, and I don't reckon it's the company of a couple of gents like us."
Cole nodded slowly. Rowlett had been slow to leave Wind River, and he hadn't said anything at all about departing since meeting Polly Dillon a few days earlier. If Rowlett had wanted to leave, he could have gotten out before this latest storm hit. Now it would be several days again before the Union Pacific tracks would be clear and the trains running.
There was a good chance Rowlett would never leave Wind River, Cole thought. All it would take was a little encouragement from Polly Dillon. The widow was still in mourning for her late husband, but after some time had passed, who knew what might happen between her and the big mountain man. Maybe before it was all over, Cole might find himself standing up as the best man at a wedding . . ..
With that thought on his mind, he and Casebolt headed down the street toward the Wind River Cafe, ready for a good, hot breakfast on this cold morning.
Chapter 10
Polly Dillon looked out the window of her family's cabin and was grateful they had the thick log walls of the dwelling between them and the frigid elements outside. The view from the knoll looked out over miles and miles of rolling plains, all covered with snow.
From what she had heard of the blizzard a couple of weeks earlier, this storm had not been as bad, since it had moved faster and had less time to dump snow from the sky. Polly estimated the depth of the snow cover as only five or six inches. Still, that was enough snow to suit her tastes, and it was plenty cold outside, too. The little stream had frozen over. Later in the day, she would send Andrew out to chop a hole in the ice and fetch some fresh water, she decided.
At the moment, Andrew and his sisters were at the table that hadn't even been built a week earlier, sitting on chairs that had likewise been recently hammered together. All the furnishings in the cabin, except what the Dillons had brought with them from Illinois, were new. The children were eating biscuits cooked in the stove that also provided heat for the room; the biscuits were smeared with peach preserves Polly had canned the previous summer, back in Illinois.
Back when her husband had still been alive . . .
Polly leaned her head against the glass for a moment, almost relishing the cold sensation. It took her mind off the loneliness that gripped her. She was still a fairly young, vital woman, and she hadn't been meant to be alone, she told herself. Of course, she wasn't really alone—she had the children, after all—but it wasn't the same.
Last night, while the storm raged outside, she had remembered what it had been like to have Jason with her on nights like that, remembered how it felt to have his arms around her as he warmed her with his body and with his love. The memories had made her bunk seem even more cold and empty. Finally, unable to sleep because of them, she had moved her pallet onto the floor, next to the children and closer to the stove. That had helped a little, enough so that she had finally dozed off.
She was young enough to find another man, she told herself as she looked out at the snow-covered ground. Women were still relatively scarce out here in the West. All she would have to do was pass the word that she had finished her period of mourning, and prospective suitors would come calling. By summer, perhaps, that would be the time, and by next fall she might be married again, with a new husband to take care of her and the children and the farm . . .
Guilt washed through her. She had no right to be thinking such things, not with Jason in his grave less than three months. Life went on, like it or not, no matter how much she missed him. She still had the children to raise, and to do that and to make this farm a going concern, she faced a great deal of hard work. She could not control the nights, but dreams had no place in her days, not for the foreseeable future, anyway.
Suddenly her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward, closer to the glass. She thought she had seen something moving out there, but she wasn't sure. The window was already fogged up since the air inside the cabin was warmer than that outside, and Polly's breath immediately made the condensation even thicker. Impatiently, she lifted a corner of her apron and wiped it away. Someone was definitely coming, she saw. The white background made it easy to spot the darker shape of the rider moving against it.
The visitor—if he was actually bound for the cabin, and Polly had no proof yet that he was—rode steadily across the plains a good half-mile from the cabin. Polly was able to follow his progress as he came closer. Andrew must have noticed the intent way she was looking out the window, because he asked, "Is something wrong, Ma?"
Polly felt a tingle of nervousness, reminded that she was alone out here with the youngsters, miles from town. She turned away from the window and said, "Someone is coming, Andrew. Fetch the rifle."
Andrew's eyes widened in a mixture of fear and anticipation, and he stood up hurriedly and went over to the corner of the room where his late father's Henry rifle leaned against the wall.
Polly was already at the dresser that had been brought in the wagon all the way from Illinois, fumbling in one of the drawers for cartridges. Her heart began to poun
d faster at the smooth, metallic, deadly feel of the ammunition. She knew logically that there was probably nothing to worry about.
But it was impossible not to worry out here on the edge of the wilderness. That rider could be anybody from an Indian to a desperado of some sort.
Or, she saw as she took the rifle from Andrew and returned to the window, he could be neither of those things. Polly could tell now that he was a big man, and she could see his long coat flapping in the wind as he rode along the snow-covered trail.
A surge of relief went through her, surprising in its intensity. She stopped trying to load the rifle. The rider was Yancy Rowlett, and she knew he meant them no harm.
"Who is it, Mama?" Martha asked, sounding frightened, and Polly turned quickly to her children.
"It's only Mr. Rowlett," she said. "I'm sure he's just come to visit us."
Andrew's face broke out in a grin, and Martha and Francie seemed very relieved, too. All three of them liked Rowlett.
Polly handed the rifle back to Andrew. "Here, put this away. And don't say anything to Mr. Rowlett about it, either."
The boy nodded. Polly glanced through the window again, saw that Rowlett was within a hundred yards of the cabin, and she suddenly found herself straightening her apron and putting her hands to her hair to make sure it wasn't too disheveled from sleep. She had brushed it this morning but hadn't taken any great pains with it. She supposed she didn't look too bad. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself. She was still wearing black, after all.
She opened the door as Rowlett reined in and swung down from the saddle. He turned toward the door, a broad smile on his bearded face. He was bareheaded, as usual, and his hair was tousled from the ride. He nodded to her and said in his booming voice, "Morning, Miz Dillon. How are you and the young'uns?"
"We came through the storm just fine, Mr. Rowlett," Polly replied. "Won't you come in? We're still eating breakfast, and we have plenty of coffee and hot biscuits."
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