Wind River
Ransom Valley
James Reasoner
L. J. Washburn
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by James M. Reasoner and L.J. Washburn.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address The Book Place. P.O. Box 931, Azle, TX 76020-0931.
Chapter 1
The wind sweeping down from the north over the settlement of Wind River brought with it a faint chill that promised the arrival of winter in a month or two.
It also carried the sound of gunshots to Marshal Cole Tyler's ears.
He had just stepped out of the Wind River Café, where he had stopped in for a mid-afternoon cup of coffee . . . and a visit with the café's pretty, strawberry blond proprietor, Rose Foster. Cole and Rose had been keeping company for a couple of months now, although things hadn't gotten too serious between them. Both of them possessed a natural reserve that tended to make them go slow about such matters.
Cole put any thoughts about Rose out of his mind as he broke into a trot toward the southern end of Grenville Avenue where most of the settlement's saloons were located. He figured the two shots he'd heard had come from the Pronghorn, which had a history of violence.
The marshal was a powerfully built man of medium height with square-cut brown hair that fell to his shoulders. His brown hat usually hung from its chin strap on the back of his neck, as it did now. A five-pointed tin star was pinned to his buckskin shirt. Cole had been the law in Wind River for almost two years, and in that time he had seen it grow from a brawling, end-of-track hell on wheels to an established community that still had plenty of rough edges.
Proof of that was the fact that hearing gunshots didn't really surprise him. Folks still resorted to violence to solve their problems all too often.
Cole angled across the wide dirt street and bounded onto the saloon's front porch. His right hand rested on the butt of the Colt .44 holstered on his right hip as he shouldered through the batwings. As he came into the big barroom, he saw that the Pronghorn's patrons had scrambled for cover when the shooting started. Some of them hunkered behind overturned tables while several others tried to crowd behind the piano.
One man crouched at the end of the bar, trying to use the angle of it for shelter as another man stalked toward him brandishing a revolver. The gunman let out a harsh laugh and said, "All right, mister, no place left to run. I'm gonna pin your ears back with lead now."
Cole drew his .44 and was about to warn the gunman to drop his weapon when another man stood up from behind an overturned table and rapidly went into action. He held a gun in his hand, too, but it was reversed, so when it rose and fell, it was the butt that came crunching down on the gunman's black hat.
The gunman grunted in pain and stumbled, then fell to his knees. The revolver in his fist went off with a roar, but the bullet smacked harmlessly into the floor in front of him. He pitched forward onto his face, evidently out cold.
The man who had struck him down glanced at Cole and said quickly, "Hold your fire, Marshal. No need for any more shooting."
This man, like the one who'd been shooting up the place and threatening the hombre at the end of the bar, was a stranger to Cole. They must have ridden into Wind River, because Cole made a habit of meeting all the Union Pacific trains when they pulled into the depot and he hadn't seen either of them get off a train in recent days.
"I'm obliged to you for your help," Cole told the man with a curt nod, "but I'd appreciate it if you'd pouch that iron now."
"Sure, Marshal." The man slid his gun back into leather and smiled. "Always glad to cooperate with the law."
He was in his late twenties, slightly lantern-jawed but still handsome, with crisp black hair under a pushed-back black hat. He wore a black leather vest over a faded red shirt. He might have been a cowboy riding the grub-line or just a drifter . . . something that Cole himself had been at one time in his life.
"Friend of yours?" Cole asked as he nodded toward the man lying unconscious on the floor.
"What? Him?" The stranger shook his head. "Never saw him before today."
"Why did you step in, then?"
"Well, you had the drop on him, but he was drunk and on the prod, and I figured that if you called out to him and told him to drop his gun, there was a good change he'd turn around and try to shoot you. Then you'd kill him."
"Might well have happened that way, all right," Cole said.
"I didn't think anybody deserved to die just for taking on a snootful. Figured he'd rather have a headache when he woke up than be dead."
"He's going to have to pay a fine for disturbing the peace."
"Still better than being dead," the stranger said with a grin. He put out his hand. "I'm Adam Maguire."
"Cole Tyler." Cole holstered his gun and gripped Maguire's hand. "Thanks again for your help. You're new in Wind River, aren't you?"
"That's right. Just rode in today."
People in the saloon were starting to come out of hiding now that it was obvious the shooting was over. The two bartenders stuck their heads up from behind the hardwood. So did Roscoe Hornsby, who ran the Pronghorn for its owner, Brenda Durand.
Hornsby pointed at the man on the floor and said, "You're going to haul him off to jail, aren't you, Marshal?"
"That's right. Can't go shooting off guns in town without paying the price." Rapid footsteps made Cole look toward the entrance as a gaunt, middle-aged man slapped aside the batwings and hurriedly came in toting a shotgun. "Billy can take care of that."
"Take care of what?" Deputy Billy Casebolt asked as he looked around the room. "Somebody you need me to shoot, Marshal?"
"No," Cole said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He gestured toward the man Maguire had knocked out, who was starting to stir a little. "Got a prisoner for you to take to jail, though. Disturbing the peace by discharging a firearm in the town limits." Cole pointed to a couple of the men who'd been drinking in the saloon before the trouble broke out and went on, "You two get this gent on his feet and haul him down to the jail so Deputy Casebolt can lock him up. Keep an eye on him, Billy. I think he's too groggy to start any more trouble on the way, but you never know."
Casebolt nodded. He kept the scattergun leveled as the two townsmen picked up the prisoner and half-carried, half-dragged him to the door and outside.
Cole turned back to Maguire and went on, "Let me buy you a drink."
"I won't say no to that offer," Maguire responded with a chuckle.
All around the room, the Pronghorn's customers were going back to their drinking, gambling, and flirting with the saloon girls in their spangled, low-cut dresses. Cole and Maguire took hold of the table the newcomer had been using for cover and set it upright again, then took chairs on opposite sides of it.
Roscoe Hornsby himself came over to the table and asked, "What can we get for you, Marshal?"
"A couple of beers," Cole said. "What started the ruckus here, Roscoe?"
Hornsby was a man in his forties, short and stocky with graying dark hair and a mustache. His beefy face was starting to develop jowls. He wore his brown tweed suit well, but he didn't strike Cole as a man who had spent his life in a suit.
Cole didn't know much about Hornsby's life before
he had come to Wind River. Hornsby had mentioned St. Louis a few times, giving the impression that he had lived there. That was about all. He had done a decent job of running the Pronghorn since Brenda Durand had hired him. Brenda had bought the saloon at auction after the death of its previous owner, Hank Parker, some six months earlier.
"That stranger came in a little while ago," Hornsby said in reply to Cole's question, "and I think he'd been drinking before he ever got here. He was pretty obnoxious, but he didn't really give any trouble until that freighter Bart Wilcox bumped into him. The stranger yanked out his gun and fired a couple of shots at Wilcox, chased him down the bar and was going after him when you came in."
The gunman's intended target had been vaguely familiar to Cole, and now that Hornsby had named him, Cole remembered the freighter who passed through Wind River from time to time. Wilcox was now sitting at one of the tables with some friends of his, still looking a little shaken from being shot at.
"I'll send those drinks over," Hornsby promised.
While they were waiting for their beers, Cole looked across the table at Maguire and asked, "What brings you to Wind River?"
"A jugheaded roan," Maguire answered. He laughed again. "Seriously, Marshal, I'm just passing through on my way to Cheyenne."
"Got business there?"
"I hope to. But I've never been there before, so either way it's worth the trip, I expect. I've always been fond of going places I've never been. How about you?"
Cole grunted and said, "I used to be."
"Wearing a badge makes a man put down roots, eh?"
Cole shrugged. Earlier this year, he had taken off that badge and tried to resign as marshal, having had enough of the job. Wind River's newly-elected mayor, Dr. Judson Kent, had refused that resignation. Cole might have ridden on anyway if he hadn't unexpectedly found himself the owner of the Territorial House, the biggest and best hotel in town, the Wind River Land Development Company, and a house on Sweetwater Street that was damned near a mansion.
He hadn't wanted any of those things, but he had inherited them from Simone McKay anyway. He could have sold those holdings – he might yet, he thought frequently – but for now they sort of tied him to the town, along with the friendships he had made here.
One of the girls brought over a tray with their beers on it. She bent over as she placed the mugs on the table, giving the men a good view down the daringly cut bosom of her dress, and said, "Mr. Hornsby wanted me to tell you gentlemen that these are on the house."
"The drinks, you mean?" Maguire asked with a seemingly innocent smile that was anything but.
The girl laughed and said, "Oh, go on with you." She grew more serious as she added, "We can talk more about it later if you want."
"I'll keep that in mind," Maguire promised.
Cole lifted his mug and said, "Thanks again."
Maguire clinked his mug against Cole's. "De nada, Marshal. I'm glad I was around to help."
The two men drank. The beer was good and still the coldest in town, something for which the Pronghorn had a well-deserved reputation. Cole and Maguire continued chatting while they nursed the drinks along, but Cole didn't find out anything more about the man. He didn't worry about it. From the sound of everything Adam Maguire said, he would be moving on soon, and once Maguire rode out of Wind River, Cole didn't figure he would ever see the fella again.
When he had finished the beer, Cole said, "I reckon I'd better get back to work. If you're looking for something good to eat, Maguire, drop over to the Wind River Café for supper later. Best food in town."
"I'll remember that, Marshal. Adios."
Cole stood up, nodded farewell to Roscoe Hornsby, and left the saloon. He had been inside the Pronghorn long enough that the afternoon light was starting to fade. In another hour dusk would settle over Wind River, heralding the arrival of what Cole hoped would be a peaceful night.
As Cole ambled along the boardwalk toward the sturdy building that housed the marshal's office, the jail, and the office of the Wind River Land Development Company, he noticed a couple of familiar figures riding by in the street. One was an older man, dressed all in black, with a deeply tanned face and a shock of snow-white hair under his black hat. His companion was considerably younger, not much more than a kid, with curly brown hair under his tipped-back hat. He gave Cole a grin and a friendly wave as they passed.
Cole wondered what had brought Kermit Sawyer and Lon Rogers to town.
Chapter 2
"I ain't sold on this, you know," Kermit Sawyer said as he and Lon reined their mounts to a halt in front of the big, block-long Wind River General Store. "You don't fool me for a second, boy. You're just hopin' to catch a glimpse of that gal and maybe even get the chance to talk to her."
"You're wrong, boss," Lon replied. "I didn't even think about Miss Durand when I said we needed to come to town."
Sawyer just let out a skeptical grunt as he swung down from the saddle.
Lon dismounted, too, and as they started up the steps to the high porch that also served as the store's loading dock, Sawyer said dryly, "If you do talk to her, maybe you should try not to trip over your own tongue this time."
Lon felt his face getting warm. He didn't appreciate the reminder that whenever he had tried to talk to Brenda Durand in the past, it seemed like he stumbled over every other word.
She was just so blasted pretty, Lon thought. Too pretty for an hombre to think straight around her.
Harvey Raymond, the store's manager, was behind the counter. Lon didn't see any sign of Brenda and tried to tell himself that he wasn't disappointed she wasn't here.
Raymond rested his hands on the counter and asked, "What can I do for you, Mr. Sawyer?"
"Ask this young buck here," Sawyer said as he pointed a callused thumb at Lon. "He claims he ordered somethin' special and wants to see if it came in yet on the train."
"Yeah, the, uh, box of books," Lon said.
A woman's voice said behind him, "Books? You ordered a box of books? What are they? Penny dreadfuls?"
Lon jerked around, unable to stop himself. Obviously, Brenda had come into the store behind them, but she moved with such quiet grace that he hadn't heard her until she spoke up.
He tried to answer her question, but it wasn't easy when all he wanted to do was stand there and gape as he drank in the young woman's dark, exotic beauty. She was slender, but the curves of her body in her expensive dark blue gown made it clear she was a woman, not a girl. Her raven hair was piled on top of her head, but several curling strands dangled down artfully around her face. The small, dark beauty mark near her mouth did its job, all right. Brenda Durand was beautiful, no doubt about that.
She was also rich. Through a series of the odd quirks that fate sometimes took, she had wound up owning a large chunk of Wind River despite the fact that she wasn't yet twenty years old. Her grandmother and guardian, Mrs. Margaret Palmer, helped her manage her business holdings, but Brenda wasn't shy about expressing her opinion and demanding that she get her own way. Some people in town considered her little more than a spoiled brat, although of course no one would say that to her face.
Lon had been in love with her from the first moment he laid eyes on her.
"Well?" she demanded now. "Just what is your taste in reading material? Or did you have more in mind taking them to the outhouse with you?"
Lon finally found his voice. He said, "No, ma'am. I mean, I ordered the books to read 'em. They're a, uh, uh, selection of novels."
"Oh. I see." Brenda's tone was cool and mocking. "Perhaps we should start a literary society here in Wind River. We could have meetings and discuss the books you read."
"I, uh, don't think I'd have time for that – "
"No, you wouldn't," Sawyer growled. "There's too much work to do on the ranch for you to be gallivantin' off on such foolishness. And if I'd known that was the errand we were on today, I might've told you to wait until the next time the cook needed supplies."
Lon swallowed h
ard and said, "Sorry, boss."
Harvey Raymond leaned over the counter. "Actually, I do have that box for you, Lon. It came in on the train a couple of days ago."
"Oh. Well, good."
"I'll get it out of the storeroom for you," Raymond said. "Can I do something for you, Miss Durand?"
"No, I just stopped by to see how the day has gone," Brenda said.
"Good. Profitable."
She smiled. "That's what I like to hear."
She was telling the truth about that, Lon thought. Despite his feelings for Brenda, he wasn't blind to the fact that she liked money. She had made that plain from the moment she'd arrived in Wind River to claim her legacy from a father she had never known, the late William Durand, one of the town's founders.
"I'll leave you to it," Brenda went on. She turned toward the door but paused and looked over her shoulder at Lon to add, "Let me know if you change your mind about that literary society."
He swallowed and nodded, again unable to say anything.
When he looked across the counter he thought that Raymond was having a hard time not laughing. The store manager said again, "I'll get that box."
Kermit Sawyer just sighed and glared at the young cowboy.
* * *
Brenda was on her way back to the Territorial House, where she and her grandmother lived in the hotel's best suite, when she noticed the man coming along the boardwalk toward her. He was dressed like a cowboy, as so many of the men around here always were, but something about him was different. He was handsome in a rough-hewn way, and he had a maturity and vitality about him that young punchers such as, say, Lon Rogers lacked.
This stranger was a real man, not a boy like Lon, and Brenda was drawn to him immediately.
As if he could sense that, he stopped and reached up to take off his hat as he nodded politely to her. "Ma'am," he said. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"
"I suppose," Brenda said. "A bit chilly, if you ask me." She drew the shawl she wore a little tighter around her shoulders to illustrate her point.
Ransom Valley (Wind River Book 7) Page 1