Wolf Shadow (Wind River Book 3)

by James Reasoner

  “Oh, now, ma’am, that ain’t necessary,” Rowlett protested. “Cole and the doc can take me back to Wind River—“

  “Nonsense. If rest and some good home cooking are what you need to recover, there’s no better place for you than right here.”

  Rowlett was about to argue some more when Kent said, “The lady has a point, Mr. Rowlett. As long as she and her family are agreeable to looking after you, there’s really no need for you to endure the added strain of the long ride back to town.” The doctor smiled. “I should think you’d want to stay here and enjoy their hospitality.”

  “That’s right, Yancy,” Andrew said. “We’ll take care of you.”

  Rowlett frowned and looked at the marshal. “What do you think, Cole?”

  Cole shrugged and said, “Shoot, I agree with the rest of these folks. Stay here where it’s warm and comfortable and rest up. It was you who got this cabin built in such a short time; might as well take advantage of the offer.”

  Rowlett winced and didn’t say anything as Kent began swabbing the wound with carbolic acid. When the doctor was done with that and began wrapping the injured shoulder with bandages, Rowlett said grudgingly, “I reckon I’m outnumbered. If you’re sure I won’t be too much of a bother, ma’am, I’ll stay.”

  “Of course you won’t be a bother,” Polly assured him with a smile. The children echoed her pleasure at his acceptance of the invitation.

  Cole leaned over the bunk and clapped a hand on Rowlett’s uninjured shoulder. “Looks like you’re in good hands,” he told the big mountain man.

  “Yeah, I reckon,” muttered Rowlett, and once again Cole had a strange prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He was still halfway convinced there was more to this ambush attempt than Rowlett was letting on.

  While Rowlett was recuperating with the Dillons, Cole decided, he would just have to keep an eye on the place. If there was more trouble on the way, maybe he could head it off before it got here.

  * * *

  The cave had been spared for the most part from the last snowstorm, although a little of the white powdery stuff had blown in through the entrance under the overhanging bluff. The interior of the cave was warm, though. A fire blazed in the middle of the big room with its arching ceiling, and the smoke from the flames found its way out through several cracks in the rock overhead. The chamber was large enough for the men and their horses, and they all knew they had been lucky to find it when the wind started howling and the snow began to fall.

  That was a couple of days in the past now, but the cave made a good headquarters and Henry Turner had decided to stay here while he sent teams of scouts out to search for Yancy Rowlett.

  At the moment, Turner was sitting beside the fire puffing on his pipe and wondering what the hell had happened to Coy and Riley. They should have been back the night before.

  Both of the gunmen were young and hotheaded, Turner thought. He should never have sent them out together. Instead he should have split them up and paired each of them with an older, more experienced hand. But it was too late now, and if something had happened to the two of them, that was just too damned bad. Turner would just have to make do.

  After all, he still had plenty of men to back him up when the time came to kill Yancy Rowlett.

  Some of the others were sitting around the cave cleaning their guns or mending their saddles or playing cards. Turner had made it clear to them that he wouldn't abide drunkenness as long as they were riding for him, so there were no bottles of whiskey being passed around. There would be time for celebrating when the job was over and they had been paid.

  As always, a couple of men had been stationed at the mouth of the cave to act as guards, and it was one of them who came hurrying in from his post a few minutes later to say to Turner, "Somebody's comin', boss. One man on a horse."

  Turner looked up sharply. "Is it Coy or Riley?"

  The guard shook his head. "Looks like Coy's horse, but it ain't Coy ridin' him. Might be Riley."

  Turner stood up, knocked the dottle out of his pipe and into the fire, then put the briar away. Outwardly, he was calm, but inside a white-hot rage began building. Something had happened, he thought, something that would delay his vengeance on Rowlett that much more.

  With each night, the grief-haunted dreams became stronger. Blood cried out for blood. Turner didn't know how much longer he could stand it.

  He strode quickly toward the entrance of the cave and stepped out into the cold to watch the lone rider come closer. The man was leaning forward over the neck of his horse and seemed to be hurt. He clutched his leg with one hand while the other was wrapped in the mane of the animal. Turner thought he saw a crude bandage wrapped around the man's thigh.

  In a matter of minutes, the man was close enough for Turner to identify him as Riley. His leg was bandaged, just as Turner had thought, and now he could see the bloodstains on the crude dressing. There had been trouble, all right, no doubt of that now.

  Turning to one of the guards, Turner bit out, "Go get him." The guard hurried to obey the command.

  Turner went back into the cave, knowing that Riley would be brought to him. A few minutes later, the horse—Coy's horse, Turner noted, just as the sentry had speculated—was led inside the cave.

  A couple of the men helped Riley down from the saddle. The young gunman couldn't stand by himself. Even in the ruddy glow of the fire, his gaunt features looked pale, washed-out. With a man on each side of him to hold him up, he faced Turner.

  "What happened?" Turner's voice was as cold as the snow lingering on the ground outside the cave.

  With a visible effort, Riley struggled to find the strength to reply. He said, "We . . . we found him . . , Coy an' me."

  "You found Rowlett?" The question lashed at Riley.

  "Y-yeah." Riley managed to nod feebly.

  "Where?"

  "S-south of here . . . 'bout twenty miles . . . We were goin' to . . . to turn back . . . then Coy spotted . . . him."

  "What did you do?" Turner's mouth thinned into a bleak line. "You didn't attack him, did you? You were supposed to follow him, find out where he's been staying."

  A shudder ran through Riley, and it was a moment before he was able to answer. He said, "Coy decided to . . . take a shot . . . at him. Thought he could . . . wing the bastard . . . an' bring him back to you."

  Turner's eyes glittered, but it wasn't a reflection from the fire burning near his feet. "What happened to Rowlett? Is he dead?"

  Riley shook his head. "We thought he was. Rode down to check on him . . . an' he started shootin' . . . killed Coy . . . shot my horse out from under me. I caught a slug . . . in the leg . . ."

  "So you ran back here to me—after you'd disobeyed my orders. No one was to kill Rowlett except me! No one!"

  "S-sorry, boss," Riley ventured hesitantly. "It wasn't my idea to . . . to shoot at him . . ."

  "Can you find the place you saw him?"

  "Yeah . . . I think so."

  "You'd damned well better be able to." Turner gestured sharply to his other men. "Patch up that wound in his leg and give him something to eat and drink. One shot of whiskey to shore him up, then coffee. Don't waste any time; we'll be riding in an hour."

  "But Mr. Turner," one of them objected, "Riley ain't in no shape to be ridin' again so soon—"

  The look on Turner's face made the man fall silent. None of the men in this cave, no matter how tough they were, wanted to argue with Henry Turner right now. Not when he was finally this close to the man he had sworn to kill. "

  "Did you say Rowlett was wounded?" he asked Riley before the others could help him stumble away.

  Riley shook his head. "Don't know . . . he might've been."

  "You'd better hope he's still alive. I'm going to kill him myself, and I'm going to enjoy every second of his death." Turner swung around and stalked away, talking more to himself than to his men. "We'll find him. Wherever he is, we'll find him. And Lord help anyone who tries to get in our way."
/>   Chapter 13

  The wind began to blow the day after Rowlett had been shot, a northwestern wind that was surprisingly warm. The snow began to disappear even though the temperature was still slightly below the freezing point. Rowlett nodded as Andrew described the phenomenon to him.

  "They call it a Chinook wind," Rowlett explained. "It doesn't melt the snow so much as it just dries it up and blows it away. Could be the worst of the winter weather is over now."

  "I hope so," Andrew said. "It used to snow more than this back in Illinois sometimes, but it wasn't as cold. I'll be glad when spring gets here."

  Rowlett nodded. "Spring in the Rockies is a beautiful time, all right. Wildflowers blooming all over and the grass greening up. Air so clear it's like it's not really there. The smell of the pines in the morning . . . Spring makes all the hard times in the winter worth it, I reckon. Someday you and me'll have to go up in the Wind River range or the Bitterroots, and you'll see what I'm talking about."

  "I'd like that," Andrew said, wide-eyed from listening to Rowlett's description.

  From behind him, Polly said, "Right now you have chores, young man. I'm afraid there isn't time for you to go off to the mountains with Mr. Rowlett."

  "Oh, Ma—"

  "I was just telling the boy about some things, ma'am," Rowlett said quickly. To Andrew, he added, "You run along now and do what your ma tells you."

  Grudgingly, Andrew went out to bring more water from the creek, and Polly sat down in the chair beside the bed. She looked at Rowlett and asked, "How are you feeling this morning?"

  "Fit as I can be," he replied. "I reckon I could just get up out of this bed and go on about my business—"

  "You most certainly cannot," Polly told him emphatically. "Dr. Kent said you would need several days of rest, at the very least. You can't just leap back up and go on about your business, as you put it. I'm not certain what your business is, but I'm sure it can wait until you're healed."

  Rowlett sighed and leaned back against the pillow behind him. He wished he could be as sure of that as Polly was.

  But the only thing he was really sure of was that every day he stayed here was another day the Dillon family was in danger—and all because of him.

  There was a chance the man he had wounded had gone off somewhere and died before reaching Turner. Even a minor gunshot wound could cause a man to bleed to death. He was proof of that; the crease on his shoulder had almost put him under, probably would have if he hadn't been so damned stubborn that he had refused to give up until he reached the Dillon homestead. If he had collapsed out there alone on the plains, as had almost happened, he would have died right where he fell.

  The best he could do at the moment was to hope that was the fate which had befallen the bushwhacker who got away. Because if the man had made it back to wherever Turner was waiting for him . . .

  Rowlett's jaw tightened. He didn't want to think about that.

  * * *

  Billy Casebolt nudged Cole in the side with an elbow. "Look down yonder," the deputy said quietly, nodding toward the eastern end of Grenville Avenue. "You recognize those gents at Parker's place?"

  Cole's hands rested on the rail along the boardwalk as he leaned forward to study the men Casebolt had indicated. There were about a dozen of them, all wearing long dusters as protection against the wind that was still blowing. A day had gone by since the wind began, and all traces of the recent snow had disappeared.

  "Can't say as I know any of those boys," Cole said as he looked at the newcomers to Wind River. The men had reined in and dismounted in front of Hank Parker's saloon. Now they were going inside the big, false-fronted building, all except for one man who stood on the porch, his duster thrown back and his hands on his hips as he glared around the town. He seemed to be the oldest of the bunch, and he carried himself like a leader.

  "Want me to mosey on down there and find out what they're up to?" Casebolt asked.

  Cole considered the question for a few seconds, then shook his head. "They're not causing any trouble. Could be they're just passing through and stopped for a drink. They may be gone in an hour."

  "That'd be all right with me. Looked like a bunch of hardcases, they did."

  Cole agreed with that assessment, but the strangers wouldn't be the first gunmen to drift into Wind River. Lots of travelers passed through here, and as long as they didn't start any sort of ruckus while they were in town, Cole was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.

  On the other hand, if there was going to be trouble, it might be nice to have some sort of advance warning . . .

  "I'll walk down to Parkers," Cole told the deputy. "You stay here at the office."

  Casebolt snorted. "Decided those gents might not be so peaceable after all, did you?"

  "We'll see," Cole said with a little grin. He strode down the boardwalk toward the saloon.

  The drinking establishment had begun as one of the many tent saloons that had been set up when the railhead first reached Wind River. Hank Parker was part of the multitude of saloonkeepers, gamblers, whorehouse madams, and assorted saints and sinners that had followed the progress of the Union Pacific halfway across the West.

  Every time a new railhead was established, the "hell on wheels", that rolling den of iniquity, as the sky pilots called it, came into town on the first train. The businesses were only temporary, though, and moved on when the railroad construction did. In the case of Parker, though, he had decided to stay in Wind River, and his big canvas tent had been replaced by a permanent building.

  Cole went up the front steps of that structure and onto the porch, where he nodded at the man who was still standing there.

  The man was lean and middle-aged, with a lantern jaw and gray hair under a black hat. He returned Cole's nod with a cursory glance, then looked again at the marshal, his gaze centering on the badge pinned to Cole's buckskin shirt, which was visible under the lawman's open coat.

  "Howdy," the stranger said. "You're the law hereabouts?"

  "That's right. Marshal Cole Tyler."

  The stranger didn't offer his name, only grunted in acknowledgment of Cole's introduction.

  Cole waited a few seconds, then when it became obvious the man wasn't going to speak, he asked, "Mind if I ask your business here in Wind River?"

  "Passing through," the man said curtly, which was the answer Cole had expected. Obviously, this gent wasn't going to volunteer much information. After a moment, though, he surprised Cole by going on, "Don't worry, Marshal. We're not here to rob the bank or hold up the railroad depot or anything like that. My men just wanted to stop and have a drink, get a hot meal, and maybe sleep in a bed for a change. We've been on the trail for a long time."

  "All right, that's fair enough. I don't mean to pry, Mr . . . ?"

  "Turner," the man answered reluctantly.

  "I don't mean to pry, Mr. Turner, but being a lawman and all, I have to know what's going on in my town."

  Turner nodded. "Sure. No offense, Marshal."

  Cole inclined his head toward the saloon's entrance. "You're not having a drink with your men?"

  "I don't use whiskey," Turner said stiffly.

  Ever since getting a good look at the stranger, Cole had thought there was something familiar about him, and suddenly he knew what it was. He hadn't recognized Turner; to the best of his recollection, he had never met the man before. But Turner had the same quality about him that Cole had seen in some of the Mormons down in Utah Territory.

  In the man's eyes shone a fanaticism that was at odds with his otherwise solemn demeanor. Turner might not go out of his way looking for trouble—but he would be a dangerous man to cross. Cole didn't peg him as a Mormon or any other religious sort, but Turner was following some sort of goal with a single-minded devotion that was a little scary.

  Those thoughts flashed through Cole's mind in a matter of instants. He nodded again to Turner, maintaining the pleasant facade, then said, "I'll see you around." He opened the outer door of the s
aloon and pushed through one side of the batwings.

  Turner's men were lined up at the bar on the right side of the room, talking and laughing as they passed a bottle among them. They were the only customers at the bar, although several of the tables were occupied and a poker game was going on in the back of the room. A couple of Parker's percentage girls worked their way along the bar, playing up to the strangers. The usual amount of pawing and fondling and coarse joking was going on.

  Behind the bar, Hank Parker didn't look quite as surly as usual. The hulking, bald-headed, one-armed saloonkeeper was a veteran of the Civil War, and Cole had known him for quite a while, from the days when both of them had followed the railhead. In all that time he had never known Parker to look truly happy. There had been trouble between the two of them in the past, but at the moment a grudging truce seemed to exist.

  Cole moved along the bar, studying Turners men in the big mirror above the backbar. Billy Casebolt had been right about them—they had the look of hardcases, of hired gunmen. They were all packing iron, and there was a certain grimness around their eyes, even when they were laughing. A few of them noticed Cole watching them and met his gaze in the mirror with a lynx-eyed stare of their own.

  Parker placed his palms on the hardwood and leaned forward, saying between a couple of the men, "Did you come in here for a drink, Marshal, or are you just trying to run off my paying customers?"

  The rest of the men looked around now that it had been pointed out there was a star packer behind them. Cole felt their hostility, but it didn't bother him. He smiled coolly at Parker and said, "I'll have a beer, Hank." He shouldered his way between a couple of the strangers and put his left hand on the bar. His right hand didn't stray far from the butt of the Colt on his hip.

  The men who had been forced to move aside a little to make room for him didn't look as if they liked it, but neither of them said anything, and Cole wasn't crowded back as he sipped from the mug of beer Parker placed in front of him. He took his time with the drink, well aware that his presence was putting a damper on the celebrating that Turner's men had been doing. But none of them challenged him, and gradually they began talking among themselves again. One of the percentage girls laughed at a ribald comment whispered into her ear.