Thunder Wagon (Wind River Book 2)

by James Reasoner

  "Something's wrong with Mrs. Raymond's baby, isn't there?" Michael asked, a cold certainty suddenly gripping him.

  "I'm afraid so," Kent replied dully. "I was worried that she would have a difficult time of it, but I didn't expect . . ." The doctor sighed. "The child was positioned incorrectly. Not only that, but Estelle Raymond was a rather small woman, and this was her first child. I didn't really know what to expect."

  "Was?" repeated Michael.

  Kent nodded, his face a bleak mask. "I wasn't able to save either one of them. This is a tragedy, a terrible tragedy . . ."

  Michael felt sorrow wash over him, sorrow for Harvey Raymond and the man's devastating double loss, but mixed with that emotion were a couple of others. Fear and anger both made Michael's heart slug wildly in his chest.

  "Why did you come here to tell me this?" he asked tightly.

  Kent looked up at him. "I wanted you to hear about it from me, rather than someone else. I know how concerned you've been about Mrs. Hatfield and her condition, and I wanted you to understand that her situation is nothing like that of Estelle Raymond's. Delia is in no great danger—"

  "You just admitted you couldn't save either the Raymond woman or her baby," Michael broke in, his voice rising and cracking. "What kind of doctor are you, anyway?"

  Resentment flashed in Judson Kent's eyes. "I'm a damned good doctor, and you know it, lad. But I'm not a miracle worker. You've nothing to worry about where your wife is concerned—"

  "Just that she's being taken care of by some sort of . . . some sort of quack!"

  Kent stiffened and stood up straighten "I'm going to forget I heard you say that, Michael. But I'd remind you that it's only been a few days since I saved your wife's life by removing her appendix."

  "Yeah—if that was really what was wrong with her!"

  A small part of Michael's brain knew he was being unreasonable. He had seen countless examples of Judson Kent's medical skills and knew the Englishman to be a caring, highly competent physician. But at the moment Michael's anger and fear—mostly fear—easily overwhelmed that knowledge.

  He came out from behind his desk, moving like a panther, and gripped Kent's arm. Through clenched teeth, he told the startled doctor, "if anything happens to Delia—"

  A voice from the door said, "Here now! What's goin' on?"

  The surprised but steady tone cut through the fog of emotion clouding Michael's brain. He glanced at the door and saw Billy Casebolt standing there, a worried frown on his leathery, beard-stubbled face. Michael looked back at Kent and found the doctor regarding him with a mixture of resentment and pity.

  "I'll thank you to let go of my arm," Kent said stiffly, and Michael did so, stepping back and lifting a hand to rub the back of it across his eyes.

  "Sorry, Doctor," he muttered, utterly ashamed of himself. "You know I didn't mean—"

  "I know we sometimes say things when we're worried about a loved one that we might not say otherwise," Kent told him. "You can put this little incident behind you, Michael . . . but I would appreciate it if you'd not be impugning my skills again without good reason."

  "I won't," Michael promised.

  Casebolt walked into the office and said, "Don't know what this ruckus was about, but I'm glad to see you two got it worked out all right. Now I can ask you what I come over here to ask you, Michael, and you, too, Doc, since you're here."

  "What's that?" Michael said.

  "Either one of you seen Marshal Tyler this mornin?"

  Kent shook his head. "I've been quite busy with a patient, I'm afraid."

  "I haven't seen him either," Michael began, then shook his head. "No, wait a minute. I think I did see him go past on the opposite boardwalk a little while ago, but I don't have any idea where he was going."

  "Which way was he headed?" Casebolt asked.

  Michael thought again, then said, "East, I believe. Is something wrong, Deputy?"

  Casebolt scraped a thumbnail over his lean jawline and shook his head. "I ain't sure. Nothin' that I know of, but I got a feelin' . . . Anyway, I ain't seen Cole this mornin', and he's usually down at the office 'fore now. I wondered if he'd stumbled onto some trouble. Ain't heard no shootin', though."

  "Neither have I," Michael said. "The town seems exceptionally quiet this morning, what with so many of those railroad men gone north to look for gold." There was going to be a story about that in the paper, too, if he ever got around to writing it and setting the type.

  "Well, I'll mosey on down to that end of town and poke around in some o' them saloons." Casebolt looked intently at both Michael and Dr. Kent. "You two ain't goin' to go to argufyin' again, are you?"

  Michael shook his head and smiled sheepishly at the doctor. "No, I can promise you that won't happen, Deputy."

  "Good," Casebolt said emphatically. He nodded to both of them, turned, and left the office in his disjointed stride.

  "I owe you an apology as well, Michael," Kent said. "I should have been more sensitive and realized you'd be upset when you heard about Mrs. Raymond."

  "Well, I reckon we ought to pray for Harvey, and for poor Estelle and the baby, too. I'm sure Jeremiah will hold a service for them."

  "I'm on my way to see Mr. Newton right now," Kent said.

  "Sorry again," Michael called after the doctor as Kent left the office and started toward the blacksmith shop. Kent just smiled tiredly and waved. Michael leaned against the doorjamb and looked up and down Grenville Avenue. Wind River did seem to be mighty peaceful and quiet this morning, but Michael knew all too well that appearances could be deceiving. Death could lurk anywhere, no matter how placid the surface might seem.

  With that troubling thought in his head, he turned, reentered the office, and got back to work.

  * * *

  Cole figured he had been unconscious for only a few minutes when reason seeped back into his head, along with a throbbing pain. He tried to ignore the pain and concentrate instead on his current situation. He remembered confronting Langdon and Parton in the shack behind Langdon's saloon. From the feel of the rough wooden floor pressed against his face, he might still be there.

  The first thing he did was check to see if his arms and legs would move. None of his limbs would budge, he discovered. He was tied hand and foot, trussed up like a turkey.

  Somebody moved around in the room, and Cole was glad he had been careful about revealing that he was conscious again. If his captors knew that, they would probably just hit him in the head again and knock him out. The next hoping for some clue that would tell him what was going on.

  Whoever was in the shack with him lit a cigar. The pungent smell of the tobacco assailed Cole's nostrils. That meant his guard was probably Abner Langdon; Cole had seen Langdon smoking cigars on plenty of occasions.

  A few minutes later that guess was confirmed. The door of the shack opened, and Parton's voice said, "I got that robe, boss, just like you said. Is it going to be big enough?"

  "It should do just fine," Langdon replied. "Spread it out on the floor."

  Cole heard both men moving around, then hands grasped him and rolled him to the side. He let his head loll loosely, mimicking the look of a man who was still out cold. He felt coarse hair underneath him when they stopped rolling him, and another familiar smell surrounded him. They had rolled him onto a thick buffalo robe, the kind that many people used for rugs.

  "All right, roll him up in it," Langdon commanded, and part of the smelly robe was thrown over Cole's face. He forced himself to stay still as he was rolled into the buffalo hide. Langdon asked, "Did you bring the wagon around?"

  "Sure," Parton replied. "I did that before I got the robe."

  "Let's carry him out, then."

  Cole heard a pair of grunts as he felt himself being lifted inside the robe. They carried him out of the shack, and as they did Langdon said quietly, "Take him a long way out of town, make sure he's dead, and dump him in a gully somewhere. You can cave in the side to cover him up."

  "Sure," Parton a
greed. "Don't worry, boss. Nobody'll ever find him."

  "Make sure they don't," Langdon said coldly.

  An instant later the buffalo-wrapped bundle thudded down in the bed of a wagon. Cole didn't know if the bed was covered or not, but he would have bet that it was. With so many immigrants moving into the area, the sight of a prairie schooner with an arched canvas cover over its bed was a common one. Most folks wouldn't look twice at one like it.

  The wagon shifted a little and its springs creaked as Parton climbed to the driver's box and settled himself on the seat. Cole didn't know if the vehicle was being pulled by horses, mules, or oxen, but whatever the draft animals were, they leaned against their harness as Parton snapped a whip and called out to them. The wagon began to roll forward.

  Cole knew he couldn't wait much longer to make a move. But hog-tied and wrapped in a buffalo robe as he was, his options were limited. Langdon and Parton had neglected to gag him, so he could call out for help, but if no one heard his shouts immediately, Parton could lean back and pistol-whip him through the robe, shutting him up quickly.

  The first chance he got, Cole realized, would likely be his only one . . .

  * * *

  Billy Casebolt had visited three of the saloons in the east end of town without finding anyone who would admit to seeing Cole Tyler that morning. His next stop was Hank Parker's big tent, next to the permanent building that was being erected to house Parker's establishment. As he stepped inside he spotted the big, bald-headed proprietor standing behind the bar.

  "Howdy, Parker," Casebolt said as he strode up to the bar. "You seen the marshal this mornin'?"

  "Matter of fact, I have," Parker replied, "He was going over to Langdon's place to have a talk with that thief." Parker snorted contemptuously. "That's like having a talk with a rabid dog. It's not going to do a damned bit of good. Langdon and Sweeney ought to be in jail."

  "We got to get around to buildin' us one of those," Casebolt said. "How come you're so het up about Langdon and Sweeney?"

  "They stole some of my whiskey. I went to the marshal to complain."

  Casebolt nodded. "I reckon Cole'd look into somethin' like that, all right. I'll just go over there and make sure he don't need a hand."

  With a wave that drew a surly nod of farewell from Parker, Casebolt left the tent and walked toward another down the street. He would have gotten around to checking at Langdon's place sooner or later, but with Parker's help he had been able to save some time. Of course, Cole might not be there now, Casebolt realized. The marshal could have concluded his business with Abner Langdon and moved on somewhere else.

  This was a good starting place, though.

  Casebolt hadn't quite reached the entrance to Langdons tent when a wagon came around the corner of the big canvas structure. Barely glancing at the vehicle, the deputy turned his attention back to the entrance flap of Langdons saloon. He was about to push it open when he frowned suddenly and straightened, then looked at the wagon again. It was rolling west down Grenville Avenue at a sedate pace, pulled by six mules. Casebolt trotted after it and caught up within fifty yards.

  "Hey, hold on there, mister!" he called to the driver. The man cast a glance at him but didn't seem to want to stop. He kept the mules moving until Casebolt drew alongside the box and reached up to grasp the man's arm. The deputy ordered sternly, "Stop that wagon!"

  The driver hauled back on the lines and brought the mules to a halt. He licked his lips and asked, "What is it, Deputy? I'm sort of in a hurry."

  "You ain't goin' nowhere," Casebolt said. "Didn't you look over this wagon 'fore you started out?" He pointed at the left rear wheel. "You got a cracked hub back there. That wheel'll work loose and fall off 'fore you go five miles. Best take it over to the wagon yard and get it worked on. Won't take too long to replace that hub, and it'll save you a hell of a lot of trouble later."

  The driver leaned over, studied the wheel, and nodded. "Yeah, I reckon you're right, Deputy. I'll do that."

  "Good thing I noticed," Casebolt said, stepping back from the wagon. He lifted a finger to the brim of his hat in a gesture of farewell.

  That was when the muffled shout came from the back of the wagon. "Billy! Back here, Billy!"

  Casebolt recognized Cole's voice immediately. That was enough right there to tell him something was wrong, but then the driver cursed bitterly, his face contorting in anger, and reached for the gun on his hip.

  He was faster than Casebolt and had his revolver out first. His shot was hurried too much, though, and the bullet went wide of Casebolt to thud into the hard-packed dirt of the street. In the next instant, Casebolt's gun boomed heavily, sending a .36-caliber slug tearing into the driver's chest. The impact of the bullet drove the man backward and sent him slumping over the seat into the bed of the wagon.

  Casebolt leaped up to the box with a spryness that belied his years. The driver had dropped his gun when he was hit, but Casebolt kept the Griswold and Gunnison trained on him anyway, just in case he was up to any more mischief. The man was dead, though, his eyes staring sightlessly up at the canvas cover over the back of the wagon. He was lying next to something wrapped in a buffalo robe.

  That something was yelling, "Billy! Damn it, what's going on out there?" Cords had been tied around both ends and the middle of the rolled-up robe. Casebolt holstered his gun and pulled a barlow knife from his pocket. He opened the blade and used it to cut the cords. The bundle fell apart, and Marshal Cole Tyler thrashed his way up out of the folds of the buffalo robe.

  "What in blazes was you doin' in there, Marshal?" Casebolt demanded incredulously as he cut the ropes binding Cole's wrists and ankles.

  Cole ignored the question and asked one of his own. "Is he dead?"

  "Sure enough. I didn't much want to shoot him, but since he was throwin' lead at me—"

  "You didn't have any choice," Cole assured him. "Anyway, you saved my life, Billy. Thanks." He quickly rubbed feeling back into his arms and legs, which were obviously cramped from being tied up for a while. "We've got to get back down to Langdon's place."

  "Langdon?" Casebolt repeated. "What's he got to do with this?"

  Cole jerked a thumb at the dead man. "That fella worked for him and Sweeney. They've been behind just about all the trouble around here lately. They've been trying to disrupt construction on the UP, and they've damned near succeeded."

  Casebolt shook his head as he hopped down from the wagon behind Cole. "Sounds like the whole thing's pure-dee complicated, but if you say Langdon's to blame for it, that's good enough for me. Let's go get him."

  Several people had run up to the wagon, drawn by the shots, among them Jeremiah Newton. The blacksmith was holding one of the big hammers he used in his forge. "Are you all right, Brother Tyler?" he asked.

  "I will be," Cole replied grimly as he picked up the revolver the dead man had dropped. "You want to come along with Billy and me while we make an arrest, Jeremiah?"

  "Some sinner has transgressed and broken the laws of God?"

  "And the laws of man, too," Cole said. "Come on."

  The three of them went quickly down the street toward Langdon's saloon, trailed by several curious bystanders. When they reached the tent, Cole told the townspeople curtly, "Better stay back. There could be more trouble."

  Instead of going through the tent, Cole skirted the big canvas structure. He hoped Langdon was still in the shack out back so that they could confront him where there wouldn't be as many innocent folks around to get in the way of any flying lead.

  Cole didn't hesitate when he reached the door of the shack. With Parton's gun clutched in his fist, he lifted his right foot and drove the heel of his high-topped boot against the door. It slammed open, and Cole was inside before the door could strike the wall of the shack. He leveled the gun and let his gaze dart around the room, then uttered a heartfelt "Damn!"

  Langdon wasn't there.

  Cole wheeled around and snapped, "Into the saloon!" He and Casebolt and Jeremiah headed for the rea
r entrance.

  When Cole jerked the canvas flap aside and stooped to step quickly into the tent, the first thing he saw was Abner Langdon hurrying toward the front opening. Langdon threw a frightened glance over his shoulder, and as he spotted Cole his hand darted under his coat and came out with one of the pistols the marshal had forced him to drop earlier. The little gun cracked wickedly and the bullet hummed past Cole's head to tear a hole in the canvas of the rear wall.

  "Everybody down!" Cole shouted, but Langdon's customers hadn't waited for the order. As soon as the shooting broke out, they went diving for cover, upending tables and rolling behind the whiskey barrels that supported the planks of the bar.

  Langdon must have found out somehow— probably from someone who had come into the saloon from outside—that the marshal was looking for him. He reached the front entrance and dove through it. Cole had the man in his sights for an instant but held off on the trigger. If he missed, the bullet could hit somebody passing by on the street outside.

  Langdon wasn't being as cautious. He triggered another shot as he vanished through the flap. The bullet missed Cole and thudded into one of the overturned tables.

  "Circle around!" Cole rapped over his shoulder to Casebolt and Jeremiah. Then he ran straight through the saloon, vaulting over a chair that had gotten upended in the rush to escape the shooting. As he emerged from the front entrance a pistol spat from his right, the bullet again plucking at the canvas as it missed the marshal.

  Cole whirled in that direction and saw Langdon stumbling along, running blindly and half turning to fire again. Cole went to one knee as the bullet passed over his head. He steadied the gun he had taken from the wagon, eared back the hammer, and squeezed the trigger. Langdon screamed as the slug bit a hunk of flesh from his right thigh. Cole fired again, and this time the bullet shattered the saloon owner's left knee. Langdon pitched to the ground with a shriek of agony.

  Cole came to his feet and ran up to the fallen man. His boot lashed out and caught Langdon's wrist, sending the little pistol spinning away harmlessly. Cole brought his foot down on Langdon's shoulder, pinning him to the ground. He lined up the barrel of the gun with Langdon's twisted face, and for a couple of seconds, as the blood hammered in Cole's head, every nerve in his body cried out for him to put a bullet through the devious son of a bitch's brain.