Medicine Creek (Wind River Book 4)

by James Reasoner

  MEDICINE CREEK

  James Reasoner

  and 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 © 1995 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.

  First printing HarperPaperbacks: April 1995

  Second printing The Book Place: August 2011

  For Jessica Lichtenstein

  Chapter 1

  Frenchy LeDoux reined in at the top of the rise, leaned forward in his saddle, and narrowed his eyes as he studied the rugged Wyoming Territory landscape in front of him, A moment later an angry curse burst from his mouth.

  No doubt about it. That dust floating in the air about half a mile away didn't lie.

  Those damned Latch Hook punchers were moving Fisk's cows toward one of the waterholes claimed by the Diamond S—again.

  Frenchy whirled his horse around and heeled it into a gallop. They'd just see about this.

  He was riding a big buckskin gelding, and its long-legged stride carried him quickly toward the spot where the rest of the crew was doing some of the spring branding. There were about a dozen men in the bunch, more than enough to deal with some Latch Hook riders. Austin Fisk's men would soon regret trying to move their stock onto Kermit Sawyer's range.

  Frenchy had been out scouting for just such trouble as this. More and more this spring, cowboys and cattle from the neighboring spread had been encroaching on Diamond S territory. It was time to put a stop to it before it got any worse.

  He had ridden over a couple of hills when he saw the smoke from the branding fire. The fire itself came into view a minute later as he topped another rise.

  Down below were the makeshift corrals where the gather was taking place, filled with cattle that had been combed from the pastures and gullies of the broad valley where Kermit Sawyer had established his ranch.

  Near the corrals was the branding fire, and gathered around it were several of Sawyer's punchers. Frenchy heard the bawl of the calf that was being branded at the moment, and as he rode up he smelled the familiar scent of singed hair and burned hide. The young man holding the branding iron stepped back from the fire and looked up at Frenchy in surprise.

  "Something wrong, Frenchy?" he called. "The way you came tearing over those hills, it looked like something must be after you."

  "No, but I'm goin' to be after something in a few minutes, Lon," Frenchy replied. "Namely a bunch of Latch Hook polecats. They're moving stock toward that water-hole over by Wildcat Ridge."

  "Damn!" Lon Rogers exclaimed as he tossed the branding iron down. "What're we going to do about it?"

  "What do you think?" Frenchy asked with a glare. "I reckoned we'd go disabuse 'em of that notion."

  Several of the Diamond S cowboys nodded in grim agreement. They headed for their horses while Frenchy took off his hat and sleeved some of the dust and grime from his face.

  He was a tall, lean-bodied man in his late twenties, with a thick shock of black hair and a naturally dark complexion made even darker by years of exposure to the elements. His black hat was wide-brimmed and had a pinched crown. He wore a cowhide vest and leather wrist cuffs, and batwing chaps—not really necessary in this part of the country but a habit from his days of riding the range in Texas—were strapped to his long legs. A holstered Colt rode on his right hip. Anyone looking at him now would have hardly taken him for anything other than a cowboy, and only a faint accent, as well as the nickname he had carried ever since drifting from Louisiana to Texas as a young man, revealed his Cajun heritage.

  Lon Rogers, who was some seven or eight years younger than the hard-bitten segundo, was the first man in his saddle. His open, innocent face and curly brown hair made him look even younger. But he was all business, and grim business at that, as he rode up alongside Frenchy. "Let's go teach those Latch Hook skunks a lesson," he said curtly.

  The other men were ready to ride, too. Texans all, by either birth or choice, they had accompanied their boss, Kermit Sawyer, all the way up to Wyoming Territory from Texas when Sawyer had brought a herd along the trail to establish a new ranch here. The middle-aged cattleman had left his ranch in Texas to his daughter and her husband following the death of his wife, and the challenges of the arduous trail drive, not to mention the problems of starting up a new ranch, had been just the tonic he needed to get over his grief.

  Other ranchers had other reasons for coming to Wyoming, though, not the least of which was the fact that this was prime country for a cattle spread. A few years earlier, there hadn't been anything out here except a few army posts, the remnants of the once-flourishing fur trade, and the Oregon Trail, which carried hundreds of thousands of immigrants farther west.

  Now, with the ending of the Civil War and the arrival of the railroad, people were beginning to realize that Wyoming Territory itself was ripe for settlement. Kermit Sawyer had been here less than a year, and already he was saying that the country was getting downright crowded.

  And the fella doing the most crowding, the way Sawyer saw it, was Austin Fisk.

  Frenchy thought about that as he led Lon and the rest of the punchers over the rolling hills toward Wildcat Ridge and the waterhole there. Sawyer and Fisk hadn't gotten along right from the start.

  Fisk was a Kentuckian, for one thing, and Sawyer just naturally didn't fully trust anybody who wasn't from Texas. And Fisk was pushy, too, accustomed to getting his way.

  The man had arrived only a month earlier, with his herd about a week behind him. The cattle had been gaunt and worn-out when they showed up, having been driven west during the winter, stopping only when the weather was too bad to proceed.

  The graze along the way hadn't been good, of course. Any fool could have told Fisk that. But he had wanted to arrive in the spring, and so by God, he had gotten here in the spring, no matter how hard it was on his animals!

  Those Latch Hook cows would fatten up again, probably already had. Frenchy knew that. But he still couldn't imagine putting men and cattle through the hardships of such a drive, just out of sheer cussedness.

  That was typical of Fisk, though. What he wanted, he went after, and devil take the hindmost!

  "Frenchy," Lon said, sounding a little more nervous now that they were drawing near the disputed waterhole. "Do you reckon there'll be any trouble with Fisk's men?"

  "Gun trouble, you mean?" Frenchy asked.

  Lon nodded.

  "Could be," Frenchy said. "Only if they start it, though. Mr. Sawyer told us not to slap leather on those boys unless they go for their guns first."

  He glanced over at Lon, wondering just how badly scared the young man was. Lon was brave, but he wasn't much more than a kid. Sure he was nervous; only a fool wouldn't be when there was a chance of trouble like this. And Lon had been green as grass when they'd started up here from Texas. He had toughened up some since then. He'd been mauled by wolves the previous winter and had recovered completely from that ordeal, and that showed what sort of man he was. But he might not know that yet. There might still be some self-doubts.

  The only way to get over those, Frenchy figured, was to grab by the throat whatever life threw at you and keep going. He figured Lon would be all right. But as foreman of Sawyer's crew, it was his job to keep an eye on all of the
men. He would watch Lon especially close, he decided.

  The haze of dust in the air that Frenchy had spotted earlier was gone now. That probably meant the cattle had arrived at the waterhole. As he and the other men came in sight of the long, pine-dotted Wildcat Ridge, Frenchy saw that his guess was correct. The waterhole was at the base of the ridge, and he could see the cattle surrounding it. Some of the cows had waded out into the water, roiling the surface.

  A fresh surge of anger went through Frenchy. Those were Latch Hook cows down there, not Diamond S, and they had no right to be there.

  The interloping cattle were accompanied by six or seven of Fisk's punchers. The men moved out away from the waterhole to meet the newcomers, leaving the cattle there to drink. Frenchy led his men on, not stopping to draw rein until only about thirty yards separated him from the first of the Latch Hook cowboys.

  The rest of the Diamond S punchers halted, too, spreading out on either side of Frenchy.

  Fisk's men followed suit, stopping in a ragged line with one man in the center, sitting his horse a little ahead of the others. He started forward slowly, and Frenchy did likewise. As he drew nearer, he recognized the other man as Will Paxton, Fisk's foreman. That was good, Frenchy decided. He could talk to Paxton as an equal, segundo to segundo.

  Paxton cuffed his hat back on his blond hair. He was a good-looking man about Frenchy's age. Frenchy remembered hearing that Paxton had not come all the way from Kentucky with Austin Fisk; he had signed on in Kansas, and already he had worked his way up to foreman of the outfit. That was ample evidence that he was a top hand.

  He was supposed to be good with a gun, too, and Frenchy kept an eye on Paxton's right shoulder, watching for a telltale twitch, as he said, "Sort of off your range, ain't you, Paxton?"

  "Not so's you'd notice," Paxton replied easily.

  "This is Diamond S land," Frenchy said, more impatient now. "Mr. Sawyer has the whole valley, from that range of mountains on the east side to the ones in the west."

  Paxton grinned. "Sort of greedy, wouldn't you say? Of course, that's just like a Texan . . ."

  Frenchy could sense the tension gripping his companions. It grew even tighter at Paxton's mocking words. Holding his own temper in check, he said, "You'd best tell your boss that we won't stand for his stock on our range. If you get those cows out of the waterhole and drive 'em back over to the Latch Hook, there won't be any trouble."

  "Won't be any trouble anyway," Paxton drawled. "This is open range, free to anybody who wants to use it."

  Frenchy shook his head stubbornly. "Your boss had better check again on that. Mr. Sawyer bought this valley from McKay and Durand, the fellas who founded the town of Wind River and started the settling of this part of the territory. And they got the land from the Union Pacific after it'd been granted to the railroad by the government when it wasn't for sure which route the railroad would take. It's all legal and above board, Paxton. Plenty of Wyoming Territory is open range, I reckon—but not this valley!"

  The smile dropped off of Paxton's face as he said, "Mr. Fisk tells it different, LeDoux. And I go by what my boss says. So we're going to graze our stock on this range and let 'em drink this water until Mr. Fisk says different. Understand?"

  Frenchy s teeth grated together as his jaw tightened. He forced it open to say, "I understand you're goin' to get yourself and your crew shot all to hell if you ain't careful, mister."

  For a long moment, Paxton didn't say anything. During the tense silence, Frenchy heard a few soft coughs coming from behind him, the occasional stamp of a hoof as a horse moved, the creak of saddle leather.

  The same noises were coming from the Latch Hook punchers. It was amazing how quiet it could get just before guns started to go off. A man could hear the tiniest sounds—as well as some louder ones like his own pulse hammering in his head.

  Finally, Paxton said, "There's twice as many of you as there is of us. That's not a fair fight."

  "Nobody said anything about fair," Frenchy grated. "All I said was that this is Diamond S land, and you'd better get the hell off."

  Paxton hesitated a couple of seconds longer, then nodded abruptly. "All right," he said curtly. "I reckon you've got us outgunned this time, LeDoux. But it won't always be that way. I wouldn't mind seeing how we'd stack up against each other, just you and me."

  "Any time," Frenchy told him.

  Paxton turned his horse and jerked his head at the other Latch Hook riders. "Get those cows started back toward home," he ordered. With a mixture of reluctance and relief on their faces, the punchers moved to comply. They had to have known that if shooting had broken out, most of them likely would have died. But they were men who rode for the brand, and they would have run that risk if Paxton had forced the issue.

  Frenchy, Lon, and the rest of the Diamond S men watched in grim silence as the Latch Hook riders choused the stock out of the waterhole and got it moving back toward the east, around Wildcat Ridge toward the broad canyon that had given them access to the valley.

  The Latch Hook spread lay beyond those mountains to the east, in another valley that was smaller and less fertile than the one in which the Diamond S was located. It was still pretty good range, though, Frenchy knew. The only real reason Fisk was trying to push into this valley was sheer cussedness.

  When the cattle were out of sight and all that was left of their presence was another haze of dust and the still-muddy waterhole, Lon edged his horse up alongside Frenchy's and said, "I thought for sure there was going to be some shooting that time."

  Frenchy leaned forward in the saddle and rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tenseness there. "For a minute, I thought so, too. But Paxton's no fool. He knew the odds were too high against him. If things had been even, well . . ." Frenchy shrugged. "No tellin' what might've happened."

  "You going to tell Mr. Sawyer about this?"

  The foreman nodded. "He's got a right to know. This ain't the first time we've had to chase Latch Hook stock off his range. This was the biggest bunch so far, though, and the first time Fisk's punchers just drove 'em over here out in the open. Always before there was the chance they'd just strayed."

  "Not this time," Lon said.

  "Nope. Not this time." Frenchy drew a deep breath. "You and the boys get back to the brandin', Lon. I'll ride back to headquarters and talk to Mr. Sawyer."

  "What do you reckon he'll do? He's going to be pretty mad."

  "Mad as hell is what he'll be. But he won't load all the rifles and go chargin' over to the Latch Hook to start a war. Not yet. I reckon he'll go to town and try to straighten this out legal-like. He'll need to talk to Mrs. McKay and maybe the marshal."

  "You think Marshal Tyler will do something about Fisk?" Lon asked.

  Frenchy rubbed his lean jaw. "Don't know if he will. Don't know if he can. But one thing's for certain—somebody had better do something . . . or there's going to be hell to pay around here."

  Chapter 2

  Cole Tyler felt like a schoolboy. He felt downright foolish, in fact. But that didn't stop him from standing here on the big porch of the Wind River Emporium, waiting for Simone McKay to come out.

  He had seen her go into the block-long general store a few minutes earlier, when he was walking down the other side of Grenville Avenue, Wind River's main thoroughfare. Without really thinking about it, he had crossed the broad street and stepped up onto the porch. He hadn't talked to Simone in several days, and he wanted to remedy that situation.

  Not that there was anything deliberate about it. It was just that they were both busy people. Simone owned practically the entire town, which she had inherited from her late husband, Andrew, and his equally deceased partner, William Durand, so she had business matters demanding a great deal of her time and attention.

  And Cole was the settlement's marshal, which meant he had to deal with proddy cowboys, rambunctious railroad workers, saloonkeepers who were only as honest as they had to be, and all the hardcase drifters who naturally gravitated toward th
e largest settlement in this part of the territory. It was a big job, which was why he hadn't wanted it in the first place.

  Cole had been a buffalo hunter, providing meat for the thousands of Union Pacific workers, when the leading citizens of Wind River had prevailed upon him to pin on a badge and become their lawman. Almost a year had passed since then, and in that time Cole had learned that the chore was every bit as troublesome as he had expected it to be— and then some.

  But he was still here and still had that badge pinned to his buckskin shirt, partially because he'd found that he liked living in town more than he thought he would, and partially because of the friends he had made here in Wind River.

  He was a medium-sized man with thick brown hair that fell to his broad shoulders. His face was clean-shaven, and his eyes were keen and alert. He wore a broad-brimmed brown hat, which usually dangled on the back of his neck from its chin strap, as well as denim pants and high-topped boots. A cartridge belt was strapped around his hips, and in its holster rode a weil-cared-for Colt .44. On his left hip was sheathed a heavy-bladed Green River knife.

  He had the look of a seasoned, competent frontiersman who could handle just about anything life might throw his way.

  Anything except falling in love with a woman who was much too good for him.

  Of course, it was too early to even be thinking about love, Cole told himself sternly. He liked and admired Simone McKay, and anybody with eyes could see that she was beautiful, but she had never indicated that she might feel anything toward him other than friendship and respect.

  She was, in a manner of speaking, his boss, which complicated things even more. She was a widow, too, and might still be grieving for her loss . . . although it had been a long time since her husband had been killed.

  As he stood with his shoulders against the wall of the emporium, he took a deep breath and told himself that maybe this wasn't a good idea after all. Maybe he ought to just go on about his business—