Kent rubbed his eyes wearily. It was so obvious to him, and he was surprised the answer hadn't occurred to her. He asked, "How long have you been in your current line of work?"
She flushed in embarrassment, and that partially answered Kent's question. She was so new at it that she was still ashamed of herself. "Only about a month and a half," she said. "I didn't really want to do it, but I ain't got no kin anymore, nor any schoolin'. And a gal's gotta eat, don't she?"
"Indeed," Kent said, trying not to sound judgmental. He stood up and gestured at the examining table. "Climb up there, please. I think a quick examination will determine what we need to know."
Becky looked scared, like a doe that wanted to bolt but didn't dare, but after a moment she did as Kent asked. As he had promised, the examination was a quick one, and when he was through, he helped her sit up on the end of the table. Wiping his hands, he said, "It's just as I thought. Miss Lewis, you're with child."
She gaped at him. "You mean I'm goin' to have a baby?"
Kent nodded. "That is correct. I would say that you are approximately six weeks pregnant, which means that conception coincided with your entry into your current profession." He wasn't sure she followed what he was saying; he had already decided that she perhaps wasn't completely competent mentally.
"You're sayin' the first fella who done me is likely the one who got me this way?" she asked, proving that she was somewhat quicker-witted than he had estimated.
"I'd say that's probably correct, yes. Before you came here, had you engaged in any, ah, intimate relations in the recent past?"
She shook her head. "No, I'd never even done it before. That's why it was so hard. If that first fella hadn't been so nice . . ." Her eyes widened even more. "If he's my baby's daddy, then he ought to do right by me, oughtn't he?"
"That seems a reasonable assumption." Kent nodded. "You may have trouble convincing him of his responsibilities, however. In your line of work, the, ah, potential for fatherhood is spread around among a great many likely candidates, I would imagine."
"If you mean a lot of fellas've had me, Doc, you're right about that. But I remember the first one, sure enough." Her expression fell. "But he can't do nothin' for me and the baby now. He's dead."
"That is a shame. If he was any sort of gentleman, he would have provided for you once the circumstances were explained to him."
"Oh, he was a gentleman, all right. A really swell gentleman." Becky looked up at the physician, a cunning gleam appearing in her eyes. "His name was Andrew McKay."
Chapter 10
Kent stared at her in shock for a moment after that astounding claim. When he was finally able to speak again, he said, "You must be mistaken. I knew Andrew McKay. He was not the sort of man to . . . to . . ."
"Bed down with a whore?" Becky smiled. "No offense, Doc, but I reckon you didn't know him as well as you thought you did."
"But his wife is a very attractive woman—"
"I may be new to the game, but I've already learned it don't matter what you got, if you ain't willin' to use it. Andrew told me his wife didn't want him in her bed 'cept every once in a blue moon."
Taut lines of dismay appeared on Kent's face. He didn't want to hear this sort of thing about a man he had considered a friend and a woman he greatly admired. A married couple's private lives were just that—private. Unless, of course, there was a legitimate medical reason for him to be involved.
In this case, there was indeed a medical reason—Becky's pregnancy—but still Kent felt awkward and uncomfortable hearing such intimate details about the McKays.
The look of cunning on the young prostitute's face had grown more intense. As she laced her fingers together over her stomach, she said, "Andrew and his wife didn't have any kids, so this one here is his only, what you call it, heir. Ain't that right?"
"Well, the legitimacy of such a claim would be very difficult to prove," Kent hedged. "At any rate, most of Mr. McKay's business holdings went to William Durand under the terms of their partnership agreement."
"Yeah, but she got something—the wife, I mean. I reckon she's pretty well-off, and some of that money ought to go to my baby, by all rights."
Beads of sweat popped out on Kent's forehead. If this young woman came forward with her claim of having been impregnated by Andrew McKay, it would cause a great deal of embarrassment for Simone. In fact, the widow would be devastated, Kent judged. He could not allow that to happen if he could prevent it.
"Perhaps you have a case," he said to Becky, "but as I told you, it would be virtually impossible to prove in court. And you would cause a great deal of trouble for some innocent people if you pressed your claim."
"Innocent people? You mean Andrew's wife, don't you?" She gave him a sly smile. "Are you sweet on that widow woman yourself, Doc?"
Kent's bearded features hardened. "I'll thank you not to speculate on things that are none of your concern, Miss Lewis. What we have to decide is what we're going to do about this situation."
"Ain't nothin' to decide. I'm goin' to have a baby."
"Yes, indeed you are." Kent sighed.
"And I'll bet that Mrs. McKay'd be happy to pay to keep her husband's name from bein' dragged through the mud. Long as I keep quiet about it, I don't have to prove nothin' in court."
Kent had been hoping that Becky wouldn't arrive at that conclusion, but it was a futile hope, he knew. She had the survival instincts of a wild animal.
It was even possible, he thought abruptly, that there was no truth to her story. She could have concocted the tale about Andrew McKay being her first lover solely to extort money from Simone. Her seeming ignorance about her pregnancy could have been nothing but a sham, her visit here this evening only a ruse to lay the groundwork for her financial claim.
Kent couldn't afford to take that chance, however, not and be sure that Simone's good name and that of her late husband were protected. Making his voice as stern as possible, he told Becky, "You will not approach Mrs. McKay."
"No? What's to stop me, Doc?"
"I will," Kent said. "If you insist on bringing this out into the open and exposing Mrs. McKay to all sorts of ridicule, I will have no choice but to also make public the medical knowledge that Andrew McKay was physically incapable of fathering a child."
"But that's not true!" she exclaimed.
"No, it's not," Kent admitted. "But the community will take my word over that of a young woman such as yourself. Your claim will be seen as nothing but a venal scheme to enrich yourself at the expense of one of the town's founders, and you'll wind up with nothing."
Becky's hands clenched into small fists, and for a second Kent thought she was going to attack him. "You wouldn't do that!" she said desperately.
"Not unless you force me to. As long as you keep your knowledge to yourself, so will I."
"But it ain't fair! McKay got me this way, and he ought to have to take care of me."
"Allow me to handle this," Kent said, thinking furiously. "It's a very delicate situation and will require caution in bringing it to a conclusion that is satisfactory for all concerned." He went behind the desk and opened one of the drawers, then took out a small metal box. "I have a bit of money. I'll give you some to help out with your expenses, in return for your silence until I can decide what to do."
"How much?" Becky asked sullenly.
Kent opened the box and took out a gold double eagle. "This to start," he said as he handed the coin across the desk to her.
She snatched the double eagle, bit it to make sure of its genuineness, then cached it in the bosom of her dress. "All right," she agreed. "But twenty dollars ain't goin' to keep me quiet forever. Not with all the money McKay had. You figure it out, Doc. You figure out some way to get me what I want and keep your lady friend in the dark at the same time. We're all countin' on you, although I reckon Miz McKay don't know it."
Kent sighed. This was perhaps the thorniest set of circumstances he had ever encountered, but there was a way out of the tangle
. There had to be.
"I'll say good evening to you now, Miss Lewis."
"Sure, I'll leave. But I'll be back to see you, Doc. You can count on that."
Kent did not doubt for a moment that she was telling the truth. She would be back, and he would have to have an answer for this dilemma—or else things would never be the same for Simone McKay.
And he could not allow Simone to be hurt. At all costs, he could not allow that . . . .
* * *
Cole Tyler paused just outside the entrance flap to Hank Parker's tent saloon and listened to the loud talk and shrill laughter within. Parker was doing a booming business; all the saloons in Wind River were.
The settlement would serve as the railhead for another month or so until a lengthy section of track had been laid to the west. Cole had been told by acquaintances who worked for the Union Pacific that a place over on the Green River called Rock Springs would likely be the next railhead. Once the tracks reached that spot, Hell on Wheels would roll again.
That time couldn't come too soon for Cole. Strawhorn's bunch had moved on, but Wind River was still full of Irish work crews from the UP, as well as cowboys from Kermit Sawyer's Diamond S.
There were rumors that other trail herds were on their way, and once they arrived, the settlement would fill up even more with potential troublemakers. Added to that was the fact that a payroll train was scheduled to arrive any day now, meaning the railroad workers would have more money to spend on liquor and gambling.
Fights were still rare, but they were becoming more commonplace. Cole figured that within a few weeks he and Billy Casebolt would be kept busy breaking up a couple of fracases every night.
Cole pushed the flap aside and stepped into the saloon. A few heads turned in his direction, and the noise in the place might have subsided just a little. It didn't cease, however, and most of the people who had paused in what they were doing to look at him turned their attention back to their poker hand or bottle of rotgut or calico cat or whatever was occupying them. Lawman or no lawman, life went on in the saloons.
As Cole approached the bar Hank Parker caught his eye and nodded a curt greeting. Parker seemed a little nervous about something, his eyes darting from Cole to a spot down the bar. Cole stepped up to the plank and asked over the noise in the room, "What's wrong, Parker?"
"I just don't want no shooting in here, that's all," replied the burly saloonkeeper. "Gunfights are bad for business."
Cole frowned. "I don't plan on shooting anybody."
"Wasn't necessarily talking about you, Marshal." Again Parker's eyes cut toward the other end of the bar.
Cole leaned forward and looked along the line of men who were bellied up drinking Parker's whiskey. He stiffened as he saw the man standing at the end of the bar. Immediately, he recognized the white hat with the rolled brim, the long blond hair, and the drooping mustache.
The drifter had a bottle of rotgut at his elbow and a shot glass of the fiery stuff cradled in his left hand. He was lifting the glass to his mouth when he saw Cole. The glass stopped midway to his lips, and for a second Strawhorn looked as if he wanted to toss it aside and reach for his gun.
But then he gave Cole a lazy, sardonic smile and lifted the glass even higher before he tossed back the drink. The mocking salute made Cole's jaw tighten. He hadn't forgotten the attempt on his life or the fact that Strawhorn might have been behind it.
"I told you, I don't want any trouble," Parker said nervously.
"Won't be any unless Strawhorn starts it," Cole snapped. He stepped away from the bar and sauntered along behind the line of drinkers, making sure that his right hand hung close to the butt of his .44.
"Howdy, Marshal," Strawhorn greeted him coolly as Cole reached the end of the bar. "Have a drink with me?"
"Nope. I'm particular about such things."
Anger flared in Strawhorn's pale eyes, but he kept the fires carefully banked. "Suit yourself." He shrugged.
"I intend to. What are you doing back in Wind River, Strawhorn?"
The drifter tipped up the bottle, splashed more whiskey into his glass. "Didn't know there was any law against visitin' this town," he said without looking around at Cole. "You intend to arrest me, Marshal?"
"Depends on what you've done."
Strawhorn sipped the rotgut this time, which took some control considering how raw the stuff was. "All I've done is sit here and have a few drinks, peaceable like."
"Deke's tellin' the truth. Marshal," said the man standing beside him. Cole recognized him now, along with a couple of other men at the bar, as cronies of Strawhorn who had been with the gunman during his earlier visit to Wind River.
"Stay out of it," Cole told him. "This is between me and your boss."
"I ain't nobody's boss but my own," Strawhorn protested. "Me and the boys are just pards who like to ride together."
Cole nodded. "Sure. You wouldn't happen to know anything about some shots that were fired at me from an alley a while back, would you, Strawhorn?"
"Why, Marshal, are you sayin' that somebody tried to bushwhack you?" Strawhorn shook his head and clucked his tongue. "I reckon this town is more lawless than I ever figured."
"You left town right around the same time," Cole pointed out. "Maybe you had a good reason for not showing your face around here for a while. Maybe you thought if you laid low, I'd forget about what happened." He shook his head. "You were wasting your time, Strawhorn. I don't forget about cowardly skunks who try to backshoot me."
Again the hatred blazed up in Strawhorn's eyes. Cole was deliberately baiting him, hoping to prod him into admitting that he was behind the ambush attempt. Of course, if that happened, Strawhorn might go for his gun in an attempt to finish things, and he had three of his cohorts backing any play he made. Cole was alone and without any friends in this place, at least real friends who would be willing to put their lives on the line for him.
Something thumped on the planks that formed the bar, and Hank Parker said in a loud voice, "I told you I didn't want no shooting in here." A few muttered, surprised curses from the other drinkers followed on the heels of his statement.
Cole glanced along the bar and saw that Parker had produced a sawed-off shotgun from somewhere. The saloonkeeper had his hand resting on the stock of the weapon, near the trigger. Parker glowered at both Cole and Strawhorn, his heavy brow creased in a menacing frown. Men began backing away from the bar.
"Put that greener away, damn it," Cole rasped. "You let it go off in here and innocent folks'll get hurt."
"That's right," Parker said. "And it's your job as marshal to see that don't happen. So back off and quit prodding Strawhorn, Tyler. You always were a hotheaded son of a bitch, and that star on your chest don't change anything."
Cole could hear the blood pounding in his head as he struggled to control his anger. As much as he hated to admit it, Parker was right in a sense. The way things had been going, Cole could have goaded Strawhorn into a gunfight, regardless of the odds against him. His own dislike of the hardcase had nearly betrayed him into foolishness.
He looked at Strawhorn again and warned, "Stay out of my way, mister, and don't even think about breaking the law. I won't bother trying to lock you up. I'll just kill you."
Strawhorn laughed coldly. "Some lawman you are, Tyler, threatenin' law-abidin' folks that way. Me and the boys just came to town for a little fun. We'll be gone soon enough."
"See that you are," Cole said, unwilling to give Strawhorn the last word. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the saloon, the skin between his shoulder blades prickling as he turned his back on Strawhorn. It was doubtful that the man would try to gun him down in cold blood in front of so many witnesses, though.
Cole pushed the flap aside and stepped out into the night. There was a cool breeze that felt even cooler as it brushed against the sweat that suddenly popped out on his face. He had come damned close to losing control of himself in there. What was the line he'd heard his pa quote from one of those old p
lays? Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war. Maybe war was too strong a word for what had nearly happened, but he had sure enough almost let those dogs slip away from him.
He would have his chance to settle things with Strawhorn. Now that the hardcase was back in town, it was only a matter of time until he made a play of his own. Cole was sure of it.
And he would be waiting.
* * *
The trouble came even sooner than Cole had expected. He was still making his evening rounds less than an hour later when he walked past a wagon piled high with empty barrels. The wagon was parked beside the boardwalk, near the emporium. As Cole reached the end of the walk he stepped down into the street and started to cross behind the wagon.
With a rumble like sudden thunder, the barrels shifted and started to roll off the wagon.
Cole tried to dart out of the way, but one of the barrels struck his left shoulder and knocked him off his feet. Despite being empty, the barrels were heavy, and if enough of them landed on him, they could crush the life out of him. He rolled desperately in the only direction that promised any hope of safety—underneath the wagon.
He heard a man curse and then booted feet thudded against the dusty street next to the wagon. The man had been hiding there among the barrels, Cole figured, just waiting for him to go by so the barrels could be toppled over onto him. That might have been enough to kill him right there, but the ambusher would have been ready to finish him off if necessary.
Those thoughts flashed through Cole's mind as he scuttled toward the front of the wagon, his numb left arm dragging and making progress awkward. He knew he had to get out in the open again; as long as he was bottled up underneath the wagon, he was an easy target for the would-be killer.
His feet and legs drove him forward. The wagon team had been unhitched and led away, so he didn't have to worry about them spooking and pulling the wagon over him.
Some of the barrels were still rolling and falling, the noise from them even louder under here. Cole couldn't hear the man's gun being cocked, but he heard the blast of the shot and winced as the bullet sang past his head and hit the ground, kicking dust into his eyes. He had just cleared the front wheels, so he dropped and rolled again as he reached for his own gun.
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