Wind River

by L. J. Washburn

  There was no time to relish victory, though, because in the next instant somebody landed on his back, staggering him. An arm looped around his throat from behind and tightened brutally, cutting off his air.

  Cole drove an elbow back into the belly of his new opponent and smelled whiskey on the breath that gusted past his face in response to the blow. The arm around his neck didn't loosen, though, until Cole lashed backward with his foot and felt his boot heel dig into the man's shin. The grasp weakened then and Cole was able to twist out of it, spinning around to club a blow across the man's face.

  Everything around him was chaos now. Men shouted and cursed, women screamed. From what he could see on the platform, the fight had started between some of the railroad workers and a group of hard-faced men in range clothes, but it had spread out to involve everyone in the railroad station and spill off the platform.

  The musicians from the brass band were clubbing opponents over the head with trombones, which, Cole thought fleetingly, was a better use for the instruments. Then one of the Irishmen from the UP was running at him, face distorted with anger, fists up and swinging.

  Cole ducked aside and shouted, "Hold it, Dooley! It's me, damn it! We're on the same side!"

  Dooley wasn't in any mood to listen to reason. He flailed at Cole until the buffalo hunter had no choice but to pound a couple of punches into his midsection and then knock him down with a hard overhand blow. Cole looked around, hoping no one else would jump him, especially not somebody who was supposed to be his friend.

  The brawl was still going on, and Cole wondered where the law was, assuming Wind River had any law. The town was so new that the citizens might not have gotten around to electing a sheriff or hiring a marshal. Some of the railroad superintendents were wading into the melee, however, swinging clubs, and Cole knew it was only a matter of time before they restored order.

  A gunshot cracked, a thin, wicked sound against the uproar of the crowd, and Cole heard a woman cry out, "Andrew!" His jaw tightening, he vaulted onto the platform and began trying to force his way through the mob toward the source of the shot.

  That single report was the only time a gun had gone off during this chaos, but Cole had a bad feeling about it anyway. He palmed out his Colt, taking a calculated risk that more gunfire wouldn't just make things worse, and triggered off three shots into the awning that overhung the station platform. The explosions were deafening in these close quarters.

  They worked, though, freezing men with fists upraised to strike. Eyes jerked around and looked toward Cole, who stood with the revolver in his hand, smoke still drifting from its barrel in thin tendrils. He heard sobbing that came from beyond several men who had been struggling to beat each other half to death only seconds earlier.

  Cole shoved the men aside, not sure why he was involving himself so deeply in this. It was a question that could wait until later. Right now he wanted to know what had happened here.

  Grim lines appeared on his face as he saw the man's body huddled on the platform, blood pooling on the planks beneath him. It was the tall, sleekly handsome man who had been making a speech earlier, Cole saw, but he wasn't so handsome now. One side of his face was pressed against the platform. The features that were visible were contorted in a grimace of agony. His eyes were glassy in death.

  Kneeling beside him, lying half on top of him as her back heaved from the wretched sobs that shook her, was the woman Cole had seen with the dead man, the woman he had taken to be the man's wife. The thickset, bearded man was looking down at them, his face pale and stunned.

  Another bearded man, this one wearing a dusty black suit and a bowler hat, held the dead man's wrist for a moment before placing it gently on the platform. "I'm quite sorry, Mrs. McKay," he said in a clipped British accent, "but I'm afraid there's not a dashed thing I can do."

  The woman looked up, tears streaking her face. "Did . . . did anyone see who shot him?" she demanded. "Did anyone see who had the gun?"

  A young man with sandy hair pointed suddenly at Cole. "He's got a gun!" the young man said excitedly.

  Cole tensed again as every eye in the crowd swung toward him. He realized that by butting into this he might have put himself in danger. It all depended on how worked up these folks were and if they were willing to listen to reason.

  He jammed the Colt back into its holster and said in a loud voice, "Yeah, I've got a gun. So do most of the men in this station. All I did was fire a couple of rounds into the roof to make everybody stop fighting."

  The Englishman, who had been acting like a doctor as he checked for a pulse in the dead man's wrist, straightened to an impressive height and said, "I believe this gentleman is telling the truth. I heard the first shot distinctly, and it did not come from a gun of such a heavy caliber."

  "Maybe he's got two guns," suggested one of the onlookers.

  "That first shot came from a thirty-two," Cole snapped. "Maybe even a gun smaller than that. I'm not carrying anything but this forty-four, and any damn fool can see that."

  The heavyset man gestured at the corpse and asked, "But who would have shot Andrew? My God, this is awful!"

  "Just a stray bullet, I reckon," contributed a lean man with a blond mustache. He shrugged. "Mighty bad luck."

  "Keep your mouth shut, Strawhorn," the heavy-set man said angrily. "We don't need any comments from the likes of you."

  The eyes of the man called Strawhorn narrowed, and he took a step toward the thick-waisted man. The prickling feel of impending violence was suddenly in the air again.

  "Stop it!" The shrill cry came from the woman who still knelt beside her husband's body. "Stop it, all of you! Andrew's dead, and all you can do is argue!"

  A young redheaded woman who was carrying a toddler thrust the child into the arms of the man who had pointed out that Cole was carrying a gun. She hurried forward and bent to put her arms around the shoulders of the distraught woman. "Come with me, Mrs. McKay," she said softly. "There's nothing you can do now. Dr. Kent will tend to things." She looked up at the tall English medico. "Won't you, Dr. Kent?"

  "Of course," Kent said briskly. "Mrs. Hatfield is right. Go along with her and the other ladies, Mrs. McKay .. . Simone. I'll be 'round to see you shortly, and I'll give you something to help you sleep."

  "I . . . I don't want to sleep," Simone McKay said, choking the words out. "My God, he's dead! Andrew's dead!"

  Cole's mouth was a taut line as he watched the young redhead, assisted by several other women, leading the widow away from the platform and through the station to the street. He looked around and saw that the platform, packed so tightly with humanity only a short time before, was half-empty now. Many of the men involved in the brawl had bolted when the shooting started, and most of the others were beginning to drift away now. This little celebration had been blown all to hell, all right.

  The doctor looked coolly at Cole and asked, "Do you mind if I inquire as to just who you are, sir?"

  "Nobody," Cole said. "Just a fella who wanted to know what was going on."

  The Englishman's mouth twisted in a grimace. "Well, you've seen it, haven't you?"

  Cole nodded curtly. He was being dismissed, and he knew it. That was all right with him. This killing, and the brawl that had preceded it, were no concern of his.

  He turned on his heel and strode to the steps at the end of the platform, descending them to circle the building and start down the street. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of the train being unloaded. By nightfall, the tents would be set up again. Whiskey would be flowing in the saloons, cards would be shuffled and dealt—sometimes fairly, sometimes not—roulette wheels would spin, and painted women would laugh gaily as they led their customers into the alcoves where the cots were set up. Business as usual, Cole thought.

  And not even death could stop it.

  Chapter 2

  Kermit Sawyer brought his horse to a stop, hipped around in the saddle, and looked behind him. Two thousand head of Texas longhorns kicked up one hell of a l
ot of dust, he thought as he took off his hat and sleeved sweat from his blunt, lined face. To a cattleman, those clouds of dust billowing up were a pretty sight . . . but Sawyer was just as glad that he owned those longhorns and didn't have to ride drag anymore. The air was a lot cleaner up here at the point.

  He had always been the sort of hombre to be out front, Sawyer thought proudly. Hell, hadn't he been the first rancher west of the Balcones?

  He stretched, old bones creaking a little as he shifted in the saddle. He was a solidly built man in his fifties, with a shock of snow-white hair above features tanned by years of the Texas sun to a shade that almost matched his saddle leather. He favored black clothes, right down to the bandanna around his neck. The only splashes of lightness about him were his hair and the specially made ivory grips of the heavy Colt he wore.

  Texas was a long way behind him now. Texas, and the memories the place held. Memories of the wife who had stood by him for nigh onto thirty years, helping him fight off Comanche and drought and wideloopers, the woman who had been able to stir a cookpot with one hand and reload a rifle with the other, the mother of his children, only one of whom had survived infancy. Six months earlier he had put her in the ground, there on the hilltop overlooking the creek, right next to the four smaller graves. She'd wore out at last, Sawyer supposed, just an old pioneer woman gone to meet her Maker.

  Her name had been Amelia, and Sawyer could whisper that name now, could remember the way she looked without feeling like somebody was stabbing a knife in his chest. But he'd had to leave Texas and come hundreds of miles up here to Wyoming Territory to escape that pain.

  One of the waddies who had come with him on the trek galloped up next to him and asked, "You all right, boss? The herd's comin' up fast, and you don't want 'em trompin' right over you."

  "Who the hell're you to tell me what I want?" Sawyer growled, all those memories immediately banished to the corner of his mind where he kept them. "They're my damn longhorns, and if I want to sit here and let 'em walk right over me, it's my own damn business!"

  The cowboy swallowed hard. "Well, sure, Mr. Sawyer, if that's what you want. . ."

  Sawyer jerked a thumb at the approaching herd. "Get on back there and watch out for strays. That's what I pay you good wages for, ain't it?"

  "Yes, sir!" The youngster wheeled his horse and galloped back toward the longhorns.

  Sawyer faced front again, squared his shoulders, heeled the big chestnut gelding under him into a trot. He wanted to catch up to the chuck wagon and make sure young Lon had chosen a good spot to make camp.

  If Soogans Malone had come along on this drive as coosie, Sawyer wouldn't have worried, but Soogans was too ancient for such a long, arduous trip. Malone was almost as old as Sawyer himself. He'd stayed behind on the home ranch, but he had promised Sawyer that his helper, Lon Rogers, could handle the chuck wagon. And the boy had jumped at the chance.

  Lon wasn't much good at cowboying, but he knew his way around a campfire and a grub wagon. This was new country to him, just like it was to all of Sawyer's riders.

  Each day when the old cattleman sent the chuck wagon on ahead of the herd, there was no way of knowing what the boy would run into. Sawyer spurred his horse to a faster gait, eager now to make sure Rogers was all right and had picked a suitable spot for night camp.

  It wasn't long before the herd was out of sight, although the dust haze was still visible in the air a few miles behind Sawyer. Like West Texas, this Wyoming country was a land where a man could see for a long way. Hills rose in the distance to the right and left, and up ahead to the north, mountains bulked on the horizon.

  That might be the Wind River range, Sawyer thought as he squinted at the far-off peaks. He had been told that the railroad was coming through this area, south of the mountains, and he knew it wouldn't be long now before he found the place where he would establish his new ranch. There was supposed to be good graze in the foothills, and with the railroad close by, it would be easy to ship his cattle to market back east. Wyoming Territory was going to be prime ranching country, and just as he had done thirty years earlier in Texas, Kermit Sawyer intended to be one of the first to take advantage of the opportunity.

  He rode to the top of a ridge and reined in abruptly. Up ahead on the prairie, about a mile in front of him, he saw the chuck wagon. It had come to a stop out in the open, with no stream of any sort around it that Sawyer could see. He frowned in disapproval. Even a relative greenhorn like Lon Rogers knew that a herd had to have water. What had the boy been thinking?

  Sawyer stiffened as he spotted movement around the wagon. He squinted harder until he could make out the mounted figures. A couple of them had feathered headdresses trailing down their backs, he realized, as a cold chill went down his own spine.

  The chuck wagon was surrounded by Indians.

  "Son of a bitch," Sawyer breathed as he reached for his saddlebags and dug out the spyglass he kept there. He pulled the glass out to its full length and lifted it to his eye.

  He needed a few seconds to find what he was looking for, and then the scene came into focus. There were about a dozen Indians, he estimated.

  They weren't attacking. They were just riding slowly around the wagon, looking it over curiously as if they had never seen such a thing before. Sawyer shifted the glass a little and saw Lon Rogers sitting on the wagon seat. The youngster was still alive, and Sawyer was thankful for that much. He couldn't see Lon's face, but he could tell from the stiff way the boy was sitting that he was plenty scared.

  With good cause, Sawyer thought as he closed the spyglass and stowed it away in the saddlebags. Those were probably Sioux warriors, and although there was supposed to be a treaty with the Sioux, Sawyer didn't trust the savages for one minute. The Comanch' down in Texas had signed treaties, too, then gone right on with their raiding and murdering.

  Sawyer turned and looked back toward the herd. It would take him at least half an hour to reach his men and return to this spot with them. In that time the Sioux could get tired of examining the chuck wagon and decide to have some fun with Lon by torturing him.

  Sawyer's blue eyes narrowed. Damned if he was going to stand by and let that happen. Especially not to Lon. He'd promised Lon's mother that he'd look after the boy. . . .

  He spurred down the ridge, galloping toward the wagon.

  The Sioux must have seen him coming. It would have been difficult not to see him in that expanse of open country. When he was still half a mile from the wagon, the warriors moved between him and the vehicle and drew their ponies into a line. They sat there waiting as Sawyer rode toward them.

  He didn't rein his horse to a stop until only twenty feet separated him from the Sioux. Sawyer regarded them steadily as he leaned forward in the saddle, resting his hands on the horn. His estimate had been accurate, he saw. There were twelve of them, just as he had thought.

  Beyond the Indians, Lon Rogers had twisted around on the wagon seat so that he could see what they were doing, and when he saw his employer, he exclaimed, "Mr. Sawyer! Lordy, am I glad to see you!"

  "Don't be," Sawyer snapped. "What the hell were you thinking, boy, driving our chuck wagon right into the midst of a bunch of savages like this? Don't you have the sense God gave a jackrabbit?"

  Lon swallowed and looked confused. "I . . . I'm sorry, Mr. Sawyer. I don't know where they came from. It was like they grew right up out of the ground. One minute they weren't there, and then the next minute they were."

  Sawyer lifted a hand and leisurely waved off the explanation without ever taking his eyes away from the Sioux. "Never mind about that. They give you any idea what they want?"

  Before Lon could answer, one of the warriors spoke up. "Want whiskey," he demanded in a guttural voice. "Want baccy. More whiskey."

  "I don't have any whiskey for the likes of you," Sawyer told him, ignoring the look of alarm on Lon's face. "Nor any tobacco, either. You can drink coyote piss and smoke buffalo turds for all I care."

  A couple of t
he Sioux looked startled by his reply, including the one who had demanded whiskey and tobacco. The others probably didn't speak English, Sawyer decided.

  He didn't give them time to be offended. He reached for the butt of the Winchester socketed into a saddle boot under his right thigh and pulled the rifle free. Laying it over the cantle of the saddle, he went on, "This is a Winchester Model 1866. Holds fifteen shots. That means I can kill ever' damn one of you redskins and have three bullets left over. That's what I'll have to do unless you vamoose out of here."

  Several of the Indians were holding single-shot carbines. They started to lift the weapons, and the others reached for arrows in the quivers strapped to their backs. The one who had spoken before gestured curtly, however, motioning for them to wait before they killed this crazy old white man. He met Sawyer's cold stare and asked, "Who are you to talk to Sioux this way?"

  "My name's Kermit Sawyer," the cattleman replied, "and I've killed a few dozen of your heathen cousins the Comanche down Texas way. I don't mind killin' a few Sioux if I have to, neither."

  Vaguely, he was aware that Lon Rogers was ashen-faced and watching the confrontation with an occasional warning shake of his head. Sawyer ignored the youngster. He wasn't going to let a boy tell him how to deal with Indians.

  A few seconds of tense silence went by, then Sawyer lifted one hand and pointed back where he had come from. He knew the dust from the herd would be plainly visible to these keen-eyed savages. "There's two thousand head of prime Texas beef coming up that trail," he declared. "My cattle. I've got forty proddy young cowboys driving 'em, and every one of those lads is as quick to kill a redskin as I am. But I'll tell you bucks what I'll do."

  The one who spoke passable English laughed harshly. "Tell us, old man," he said.