Medicine Creek (Wind River Book 4)

by James Reasoner

  "Why would Billy have to go to your village?" Cole asked, ignoring Kent's protest.

  "This is something I cannot say," Two Ponies replied with a frown. "Some medicine must not be spoken of."

  Cole turned to Black Otter and looked intently at him. "You're sure you can help Billy?" he asked. Two Ponies translated the question.

  Black Otter replied with a firm nod and another burst of Shoshone. Two Ponies said, "As sure as I am that all rivers flow to the Father of Waters and all spirits flow to the Great Spirit. These are the words of Black Otter."

  Cole drew in a deep breath, then nodded abruptly. "Might as well give it a chance."

  Kent stared at him, open-mouthed. He could not believe what he was hearing. "You can't be serious, Cole," he said when he was able to overcome his surprise enough to speak again. "Deputy Casebolt is under my care, and I forbid that such an utterly ludicrous course of action be followed."

  "Why don't we ask Billy?" Cole suggested.

  "He's in no shape to make a decision like that."

  Casebolt said, "Beggin'. . . your pardon . . . Doc. But I reckon I . . . I trust Black Otter. If he says he can . . . can fix me up . . . I don't mind him tryin'."

  "That settles it," Cole said before Kent could say anything else. "You reckon you can ride, Billy?"

  "There is no need for friend Billy to ride," Two Ponies put in. "We will make him a travois."

  Casebolt nodded. "Sounds all right . . . by me."

  They were all ignoring him now, Kent realized. It wasn't a good feeling. And yet he could tell from the expressions on the face of Cole and Two Ponies, as well as the determination of Casebolt's weathered features, that it would do no good to argue. Still, he couldn't allow them to go through with this without saying anything.

  He folded his arms across his chest and told them sternly, "You're doing this over my objections and against my best medical judgment, gentlemen. I won't be responsible for what happens."

  "Don't worry . . . Doc," Casebolt said. "I'll be all right."

  "I pray that you're correct, Deputy Casebolt. Because if you're not, you won't need a doctor anymore. You'll need an undertaker."

  With that, Kent turned on his heel and stalked out of the examining room. There was nothing left for him to do except to wash his hands of the entire matter.

  That, and hope that somehow Black Otter's barbaric "medicine" would do the trick after all.

  Chapter 5

  Frenchy hauled back on the reins and brought the team of horses pulling the ranch wagon to a halt in front of the general store. Kermit Sawyer was on the seat beside Frenchy, and he stood up to step directly from the wagon onto the raised porch of the emporium. Sawyer turned and spoke to Frenchy and the men on horseback who had accompanied the wagon from the Diamond S into Wind River.

  "It'll likely take me a while to get this order filled," Sawyer said. "You boys can go get a drink, but no gamblin' and no fightin', savvy?"

  "Sure, boss," Frenchy said. "I'll keep an eye on 'em, don't you worry."

  Sawyer grinned. "If you're tryin' to make me feel better, you ain't succeedin', Frenchy. When you first signed on with my crew, you were the biggest hell-raiser west of the Trinity, you ol' Cajun."

  "That was a long time ago, boss," Frenchy protested as hoots of laughter came from Lon Rogers and the other hands.

  Most of the crew had been left on the ranch, but in this rugged territory, even a routine trip into town to buy supplies could lead to trouble. Sawyer insisted that a few of the Diamond S punchers come along with the wagon whenever it headed for Wind River.

  Besides, a trip to town was a good way to reward hard work. This wasn't payday, but the men could all afford a couple of shots of whiskey apiece.

  Sawyer turned and went into the general store, taking from his coat a piece of brown paper with this month's order scribbled on it. The emporium's manager, Harvey Raymond, and his clerks would fill the order and load it onto the wagon while Frenchy and the other men went over to one of the saloons.

  There were plenty of those to choose from in Wind River. Some of the saloonkeepers had moved on when the railhead of the Union Pacific was transferred farther west, but others had stayed, and in fact even more had arrived in the intervening months.

  As the only good-sized settlement for eighty or ninety miles around, Wind River was a prime location for drinking establishments of every sort. There were regular saloons, gambling dens, dance halls, and out-and-out brothels. Businesses that had once been housed in large canvas tents were now permanent.

  Frenchy set the brake on the wagon and hopped down from the seat as the other men dismounted and tied their horses to the hitch rail. One of the cowboys suggested, "How 'bout we head on over to Parker's place, fellas?"

  "Sounds all right to me," Frenchy nodded. "One place is as good as another."

  Spurs jangling and bootheels clomping on the broad planks of the boardwalk, the men strolled toward a big building with an impressive three-story false front and a large sign with curlicue letters emblazoned across it. PARKER'S PRONGHORN SALOON, the sign read. Smaller, plainer letters beneath the name proclaimed, WIND RIVER'S OLDEST AND FINEST.

  Bragging about being the oldest saloon in a town established less than a year earlier wasn't much of a boast, Frenchy thought with a grin. But Parker's was a good place anyway, with relatively honest games of chance, dance floor girls that weren't completely worn out and were even occasionally pretty, and whiskey that a man could drink without worrying overmuch about getting the blind staggers or falling down dead.

  Of course, the visit today would be a quick one, but later in the month, when payday rolled around, some of the Diamond S punchers would spend the night at the Pronghorn and come out the next morning broke and hung over—but somehow satisfied.

  Lon and the other cowboys were laughing and talking, but although Frenchy walked alongside them, he didn't really take part in their ribald banter. For one thing, he was a few years older than the rest of them, and for another, he was the foreman.

  He had to hold himself a little apart, so that the men would respect him and know that he meant it whenever he gave an order. It was sort of a burden, and sometimes he missed the days when he could be as carefree as the rest of them, but Kermit Sawyer had made him the segundo. Sawyer was counting on him.

  That was why Frenchy didn't hesitate to say sharply, "Hold it, boys!" when he spotted some horses with a familiar brand tied up in front of the Pronghorn. "Maybe we better find someplace else to drink."

  "Aw, why, Frenchy?" Lon wanted to know. The other men echoed the question.

  Before Frenchy could answer it, several men pushed through the batwinged entrance to the saloon and came out onto the boardwalk. The man in the lead froze, and the others followed suit. The Diamond S punchers saw the newcomers, and everyone stiffened in sudden anticipation of trouble.

  The man who had just led half a dozen cowboys out of the saloon smiled, but it wasn't a very pleasant expression. "Hello, LeDoux," Wilt Paxton greeted Frenchy. "You're not fixing to tell me that the Pronghom belongs to the Diamond S, too, and that Latch Hook riders aren't wanted there?"

  "Take it easy, boys," Frenchy said under his breath to his companions. "Mr. Sawyer said no fightin', remember?"

  To Paxton, he went on, "I reckon you Latch Hook boys can drink anywhere you want to, long as the other people in the place don't mind."

  "What about you?" Paxton asked. "You heading for the Pronghorn?"

  One of the other men answered before Frenchy could. "We were," he called out, "but I don't reckon it's had long enough to air out just yet. We'll come back later when the stink's gone."

  Frenchy bit back a curse. "We're not lookin' for trouble," he said quickly, but he knew it was too late. The gibe from the Diamond S rider had struck its targets, and the Latch Hook cowboys all looked tense and angry, ready to stab their hands toward their guns.

  Another man pushed through the batwings and said curtly, "What's going on here?"

/>   Without looking around, Paxton replied, "Just a little run-in with some of those Texas boys, Mr. Fisk."

  Austin Fisk was tall and slender and held himself upright in a stiff, military carriage. He wore a dark suit and hat and had a neatly trimmed, gray mustache underneath his prominent nose. He looked at Frenchy and the other Diamond S riders and said, "You're some of Sawyer's men, eh?"

  "That's right," Frenchy said.

  "That one's called LeDoux," Paxton told his boss. "He's Sawyer's segundo and the gent who ran us off from that waterhole after you told us to take the cattle over there, Mr. Fisk." Paxton's grin was ugly as he went on. "Him and the others were mighty brave when there were twice as many of them as there was of us. Now that the odds are even he starts yelping about how they ain't looking for any trouble."

  "Is that so?" Fisk murmured. "Well, we're not looking for trouble, either, but we won't run from it. I think it's time we settled this problem, if we can. LeDoux, where's your boss?"

  Frenchy hesitated, not knowing if he should get Sawyer involved in this or not. But Sawyer was already involved, of course, when you got right down to it. Frenchy inclined his head toward the emporium and said, "Back yonder in the general store."

  "Fetch him," Fisk rapped in the tone of a man who expected unquestioning obedience, even from men who didn't work for him.

  Frenchy's anger bristled, but before he could say anything, Lon Rogers spoke up. "Mr. Sawyer's already on his way down here, Frenchy."

  The foreman glanced over his shoulder and saw Kermit Sawyer striding briskly along the boardwalk toward the confrontation. The ranks of the Diamond S punchers parted to let him through.

  "What's goin' on here, Frenchy?" Sawyer asked curtly as he came to a stop beside his segundo.

  "I can answer that, Sawyer," Austin Fisk said before Frenchy had a chance to reply. "I'm glad you're here. Now we can get to the bottom of that ludicrous claim of yours about owning that entire valley."

  Sawyer's eyes narrowed. "Howdy, Fisk. I sort of figured you'd be around if there was some sort of trouble goin' on."

  Fisk's lean features flushed with anger. "Your men are the ones who have been causing trouble, Sawyer. Just the other day they threatened some of my riders who were merely following my orders."

  "Well, then, that'd be your fault, because your orders took 'em onto Diamond S range," Sawyer shot back.

  "Open range, you mean."

  Sawyer shook his head. "Not a bit. That valley's mine and has been for almost a year. I've got papers and witnesses to prove it."

  "I haven't seen any papers, nor heard from any witnesses."

  "No, and you won't unless you take me to court."

  Fisk snorted in contempt. "The nearest court's in Cheyenne."

  "That's right. You want to hash this out legally, that's where you'll have to go, I reckon." Sawyer paused, then added in a harder voice, "Where I come from, men usually take care of their own disputes without a bunch of damned lawyers and judges."

  Fisk smiled thinly. "Possession is nine-tenths of the law, eh?"

  "So I've heard. And if you don't keep your men and your stock off my land, you're likely to find out just how Texans settle things."

  This wasn't going very well, Frenchy thought. Sawyer and Fisk had started out talking rationally enough, even though it was obvious that neither man was going to budge an inch in his beliefs. But they were getting edgier now, and the Latch Hook crew standing behind Fisk all had their hands close to their guns. Frenchy didn't have to look around to know that the Diamond S cowboys were also ready for shooting to break out. Hell, for that matter his own right hand was only inches away from the smooth walnut grips of his Colt.

  "I don't take kindly to being threatened, Sawyer," Fisk said sharply.

  "And I don't like it when some bastard tries to push his way onto my range!" Sawyer answered, even more harshly.

  Fisk pulled his coat back. He was wearing a pistol in a cross-draw rig, the holster tilted forward to the left of his belt buckle.

  Frenchy was vaguely aware that all the other pedestrians had cleared the boardwalk on this side of the street, and even folks on the other side of Grenville Avenue were ducking into doorways.

  Somebody shouted somewhere, but Frenchy was too wrapped up in what was about to happen to understand the words. He had taken part in showdowns like this before, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that somebody was about to die.

  Suddenly, alarm in his voice, Fisk said, "Hold it!" He lifted his arms, moving slowly so as not to spook anyone on either side into reaching for a gun. He went on, "Wilt, take the boys, mount up, and get out of here. Go back to the ranch."

  "But, boss—" Wilt Paxton began.

  "Just do as I say, damn it! Now!"

  Paxton grimaced, then said grudgingly, "All right, Mr. Fisk. I reckon you know what you're doing." To the other Latch Hook riders, he added, "Come on, boys."

  Sawyer, Frenchy, Lon, and the rest of the Diamond S men stood there and watched warily as Paxton and his fellow cowboys stepped off the boardwalk, went to their horses, and swung up into their saddles.

  Everyone from the Diamond S suspected that this might be a trick of some sort. But when Paxton looked one more time at Fisk, the Kentuckian made a curt gesture, indicating that they should go. Paxton called out, "Let's ride." He and his companions moved off down the street, heading east.

  Austin Fisk was still standing in front of the saloon, gazing stonily at the Texans. Frenchy wondered what in blazes was going on, but then, the next moment, a female voice said from behind him, "Excuse us, please. Can we get through?"

  Once again the tight knot of Diamond S punchers parted, and this time two young women walked past them. Both of them were wearing expensive dresses and were quite attractive. The older one, whom Frenchy judged to be in her early twenties, was a green-eyed brunette, tall and lithe. The second young woman, who was probably no more than eighteen or nineteen, had blond hair and blue eyes, was shorter and more lushly curved than her companion. There was a resemblance between them despite their differences, and Frenchy realized they were likely sisters.

  Austin Fisk's features remained an inexpressive mask until the brunette came up to him and said, "We're finished with our shopping, Dad. Are you ready to go?"

  Fisk's expression softened slightly as he nodded and said, "You and your sister go on down to the wagon, Alexandra. I'll be there in a moment."

  The young woman called Alexandra looked over her shoulder at the group of Diamond S men, and for an instant, her eyes met Frenchy's.

  He read suspicion and dislike in her gaze, as well as a keen intelligence. Alexandra Fisk was smart enough to realize that she and her sister had just interrupted something, Frenchy thought.

  The blonde paid no attention to the Diamond S cowboys, however, other than to glance at them and give them an innocent smile. Several of Sawyer's punchers reached up hurriedly to tug their hats off and nod politely to her.

  "Go on, Catherine," Fisk said to her, his voice stern.

  Catherine Fisk appeared not to have noticed the warning tone. She smiled at the Diamond S riders again, then moved off down the boardwalk after her sister. They headed toward a big wagon parked in the next block.

  Frenchy understood now what had happened. Fisk's daughters had emerged from the general store down the street and started toward the saloon, obviously intending to meet their father there.

  Fisk had seen them coming and realized that if any shooting broke out, the two young women would be in imminent danger of being struck by stray bullets. That was why he had called off the confrontation so abruptly.

  But the showdown had merely been postponed, Frenchy knew. Fisk confirmed that by saying in a low voice, "I'll be seeing you again. Sawyer."

  "Don't doubt it," Sawyer grunted. "I just hope I see you first, otherwise I might wind up with a bullet between my shoulder blades."

  Fisk flushed again. I'm no backshooter," he declared icily. "We'll settle this man to man."

&nbs
p; "Until then, keep your damn cattle off my range."

  Fisk made no reply. He turned and walked stiffly toward the wagon where his daughters were waiting.

  The tension on the boardwalk eased. Sawyer turned to his men and said, "Go get your drinks. We'll be pullin' out for home in a little while."

  The Diamond S men started into the Pronghorn. As they did so, the wagon driven by Austin Fisk rattled past. Frenchy hung back from the others and watched it roll by.

  Fisk was pointedly staring straight ahead, and Catherine was talking animatedly to him. Alexandra, though, turned her head and coolly returned Frenchy's look.

  She was mighty nice-looking, Frenchy mused. Too bad she was Fisk's daughter.

  "Frenchy." Sawyer's voice broke into his thoughts. "You comin' or not?"

  "I'm comin', boss, I'm comin'," Frenchy replied. He pushed through the batwings after the others and entered the cool, dim interior of the Pronghorn, which had the typical saloon smell of liquor, smoke, and sweat.

  But as he did, he was still thinking about a tall young woman with dark brown hair and the most striking green eyes he had ever seen.

  Chapter 6

  Cole hoped he hadn’t made the worst mistake of his life. If he had, it wouldn’t be him paying the price for his mistake in judgment.

  It would be Billy Casebolt.

  A night and a morning had passed since they had left Wind River to journey here to the village of Two Ponies and his band of Shoshones, and still Casebolt burned with fever.

  So far the old shaman Black Otter had done nothing except rattle gourds and bang on a little drum and dance around while he chanted monotonously. All of that was so Casebolt would be prepared to accept the healing medicine that Black Otter would soon perform, Two Ponies had explained to Cole.

  But as far as the marshal could see, Casebolt was just getting worse. The deputy was weaker today, less coherent when he spoke.

  They had left Wind River late the previous afternoon. After Black Otter had examined Casebolt, the Shoshones had ridden out, much to the relief of the citizens, and Cole and Casebolt had met the Indians later, outside of town.