"Yeah, well, I don't much like the idea of you running it," Cole said. "Don't reckon I can talk you out of that one, either."
"No, you can't. A newspaper has to operate independently of governmental intrusion, no matter how well-intentioned. It's called freedom of the press, and it's one of the foundations of our democracy."
Cole looked at him for a long moment, then said, "Maybe you're right. But a bunch of words set down by some high-toned politicians nearly a hundred years ago don't always mean as much out here on the frontier. The Shoshones never heard of the Bill of Rights or any so-called freedom of the press."
"You're saying the Shoshones will be upset about this newspaper story? I didn't even know any of them could read!"
"You're an arrogant little son of a bitch sometimes, you know that?"
The young editor paled in anger, but he didn't move out from behind the desk. Throwing a punch at Cole Tyler would be one of the stupidest things he could do, and he knew it.
After a moment, Cole asked again, "You won't stop this story?"
"No," Michael said flatly. "I won't."
"Then you remember one thing, mister. If there's trouble that comes from this, some of it—all of it!—is on your head."
With that, Cole turned and stalked out of the office.
When the marshal was gone, Michael heaved a long breath and slumped back into his chair. He admired Cole Tyler a great deal, and he hated to be on the opposite side of this issue from the marshal.
But there were times when such things were inevitable, Michael supposed. All he could do now was run the story as planned . . . and hope that Cole was wrong about it causing even more trouble.
* * *
The story of Medicine Creek had people talking in Wind River for two or three days, but then it was overshadowed by news of a bloody battle between the Sioux and some U.S. cavalry troops from Fort Laramie to the east.
Billy Casebolt had to endure some good-natured ribbing from a few of the citizens about how the Shoshone treatment had proven that all he really needed to cure his ills was a good bath.
Casebolt tolerated the gibes with his usual grin, and then people seemed to forget about the incident for the most part. Cole Tyler halfway decided that he had been worried about nothing.
Then an eastbound train came through from Rock Springs, and one of the passengers—a salesman of ladies' corsets named Hopper—got off the train long enough during the stopover to pick up a discarded copy of the Sentinel in the depot waiting room. He read it during the journey to Rawlins, where he got off again, this time to spend the night and call on the owners of a couple of general stores who were clients of his.
He left the newspaper on the train, folded and stuffed down beside the seat he had occupied. The train pulled out of the station a little later, bound for Cheyenne and points east.
Chapter 10
Alexandra Fisk stepped out onto the porch of the big ranch house and looked up at the sky. The headquarters of the ranch were at the northern end of the valley, near where the mountains closed in, so large, snow-capped peaks rose up sharply around the house and blotted out some of the stars.
The skies were clear this evening, and Alexandra could see moonlight sparkling on the snow that formed a near-permanent mantle on the mountains. She drew in a deep breath of the clean, pine-scented air.
Wyoming Territory was lovely in a rugged sort of way, that was undeniable, but there were times when Alexandra still missed Kentucky with its rolling hills and valleys carpeted in lush, blue-green grass.
Her great-grandfather had been one of the men who came over the Wilderness Road with Daniel Boone to found Boonesborough, and there had been Fisks in Kentucky ever since. Alexandra's family and friends were still there, with the exception of her father and sister.
Her mother was still there, too, buried in a clearing not far from the house where Alexandra had grown up.
It was hard to believe that almost ten years had passed since her mother's death. Her passing had been so abrupt, so unexpected . . . a pleasant ride in the carriage on a sunny Sunday afternoon, a runaway team, a grinding crash as the carriage overturned . . . and just like that, with no warning, Eudora Fisk had been snatched away from her loving husband and two adolescent daughters, stolen away forever.
Austin Fisk had borne his loss well, or so everyone thought. No one except Alexandra had ever seen him sitting in his study in the middle of the night, the lamps all blown out, no sound except the low, wracking sobs that came from the shape huddled in a high-backed chair behind the desk.
Her father would have been mortified if he knew that anyone else was aware of his pain, even his daughter, so Alexandra had always kept her knowledge to herself. She had been glad when, after almost a decade, he had decided to come west, to make a new start for the family here in Wyoming. She was sure it was what he needed.
But at times like this, Alexandra still missed her mother with an urgency that pierced her painfully. On a night like this, she could have used a mother's wise counsel.
Because even though a week had passed, she could still feel the hot pressure of Frenchy LeDoux's mouth against hers as he kissed her.
That . . . that ungentlemanly bastard! she thought, knowing that her mother would have scolded her for even thinking such language. Frenchy deserved it, though, Alexandra told herself. He had forced his company on her when they brought those cattle back through the pass, and then he had forced his kiss on her as well, a most unwelcome kiss.
She should have drawn her pistol and shot him herself, that was what she should have done. But she had been so shocked when he leaned over and pressed his lips to hers that the violent thought had never occurred to her. Not until later.
At that moment, it was all she could do to gape at him and then watch, stunned, as he galloped off toward the pass. A few minutes later, she had still been staring after him when the group of her father's cowboys had gone racing past in hot pursuit of him.
One of them had stopped and asked her if she was all right, and that had finally brought her out of her near-trance. She looked in alarm toward the pass, hearing the continued crash of six-guns.
But Frenchy had gotten away; she knew that now. The Latch Hook punchers hadn't found any sign of blood, which meant that he had probably escaped unscathed.
In a way, Alexandra was glad of that. She wouldn't have wanted his death on her head.
But if he ever set foot on Latch Hook again . . . if he ever showed his face around here . . .
Well, he wouldn't, that was all. Even a . . . a Texan was too smart to push his luck that way.
A voice came from beside Alexandra, startling her. "What are you out here mooning about, Alex?"
Alexandra looked over and saw her sister. "I'm not mooning about anything, Catherine," she said sharply. "I'm just getting some fresh air after supper."
"Oh. Well, so am I." As usual, there was an undertone of mocking laughter in Catherine's voice, as if she found everything her sister said either unbelievable or vaguely-ridiculous.
It would be difficult to find two sisters more unalike, their mother had been known to say when she was alive. Alexandra was quiet and withdrawn, her moodiness matching her dark good looks. Catherine, on the other hand, was as bright and open as the sun.
Out of necessity, they had been friends and playmates as children, but Alexandra had always felt that there was more distance between them than there should have been. She wasn't sure how Catherine felt about the subject.
"It's a pretty night," Catherine said now, idly. She leaned on the railing around the porch and looked up at the stars. They shone brightly against the deep black sky.
"Yes, it is," Alexandra agreed. She pulled the shawl she wore a little tighter around her shoulders. "A bit chilly, though."
"I suppose." Catherine paused for a moment, then went on, "Thinking about your cowboy from the Diamond S?"
Anger and resentment flashed through Alexandra. "Stop it, Catherine," she snapped. "He's n
ot my cowboy, and you know it. Frenchy LeDoux is an awful man, he's . . . he—"
Her breath hissed between her teeth as she searched for the right words to properly convey her loathing for Frenchy. Fervently, she wished that the men who had seen what happened over there by the pass had kept their blasted mouths shut about it.
She was afraid that Catherine would continue to tease her about the matter, but suddenly, faintly, out of the night came the sound of gunfire. The shots made thin popping noises, unthreatening on the surface but carrying an undertone of menace and dread.
"My God," Catherine breathed. "It sounds like a war! What's going on?"
"I don't know," Alexandra said as she turned quickly toward the door of the ranch house. "But I'm going to tell Father!"
Austin Fisk was at the door before Alexandra could reach it. He had a rifle in his hands, and he said, "Get in the house, girls! Something's going on out there, and it's nothing good."
Alexandra and Catherine did as they were told, hurrying into the house as Fisk stepped aside, out of the doorway. He strode across the porch to the railing and stood there holding the rifle, his stance as stiff and straight as one of the rails. Alexandra turned and looked back out at him as the gunfire continued, somewhere in the hills above the house.
"Sounds like it's coming from the northwest pasture," Alexandra heard her father mutter.
The shots continued for several minutes, then died away without coming any closer. Several of the hands had emerged from the bunkhouse, their attention drawn by the distant gunfire, and Fisk called them over.
"Wilt," the ranch owner said to his foreman, "we have some boys up in the northwest pasture, don't we?"
Paxton nodded, his face grim in the light that came from the house, and said, "There's a branding crew up there. They were supposed to finish up and come back in tomorrow."
"You'd better get some men together and ride up there."
Paxton nodded and started to turn away, but as he did so, he stopped abruptly and lifted his head. "Somebody's coming," he said.
Fisk came down off the porch. "I hear them, too."
So did Alexandra. She stepped through the doorway again, tightening the shawl even more around her shoulders, and said, "Father . . .?"
Fisk's head snapped around. "Get in the house, I told you! You and Catherine go up to your rooms and stay there, Alexandra. Do as I say."
The sound of hoofbeats that floated through the night air was louder now. The hands ran back to the bunkhouse to fetch their guns, and Fisk came up onto the porch again. Inside the house, Catherine plucked at her sister's arm and said, "Come on. Father won't be happy if we don't do as we're told."
"All right," Alexandra agreed grudgingly. If there was trouble on the way, she didn't like the idea of hiding out in her room.
As the sisters hurried toward the staircase that led to the second floor of the house, Alexandra made a quick stop in her father's study. There were several weapons there, and she took a Henry repeating rifle from a cabinet on the wall. The Henry was already loaded, but Alexandra took a box of cartridges from her father's desk anyway. Catherine stared at the rifle as Alexandra rejoined her on the stairs.
"You don't really think you'll need that, do you?"
"I hope not," Alexandra said. "But I want to be ready in case I do."
"Should . . . should I get a gun, too?"
Alexandra considered, then shook her head. "Come to my room with me. I'll protect both of us if I have to."
They hurried up the stairs and into Alexandra's bedroom. Alexandra went to the window that looked out at the front of the house and pushed the curtain back, then raised the glass that had been freighted out here at such great cost. She stood beside the window, the Henry held ready in her hands, while Catherine waited nervously on the other side of the room.
Both of them could plainly hear the horses approaching the ranch.
Suddenly, the riders swept into view, vague shapes at first in the light from the moon and stars, then becoming more visible as they drew closer to the house. There were four of them, and they were riding hellbent-for-leather.
"Hold your fire!" Austin Fisk bellowed to his men.
Alexandra watched anxiously from the second-story window as her father hurried out into the open area between the house and the bunkhouse to greet the riders.
All four men were hunched over their saddles as if in pain, and they had trouble bringing their horses to a stop. As they did, two of the men slipped from their saddles and sprawled on the ground. The Latch Hook punchers came running from the bunkhouse to reach up and help the other two men down from their mounts.
"Those are some of our men!" Alexandra exclaimed, startled by the realization. She turned away from the window and headed for the door of her room at a near-run.
"Alex!" Catherine said. "Where are you going?"
"Down there to see if I can help," Alexandra said over her shoulder. She didn't wait to see if Catherine was going to follow her.
By the time she reached the front porch again, the two men who had fallen from their horses were being carried off solemnly by some of the punchers. One of the other men was being supported in a sitting position by Wilt Paxton and another cowboy, while Austin Fisk knelt in front of him. The fourth and final man lay motionless on the ground nearby.
"You're the only one left alive, Hank," Fisk was saying, confirming Alexandra's fears. "The other boys made it this far, but that was all. What happened out there, son?"
"They . . . they hit the herd . . . we'd gathered for brandin'!" the cowboy called Hank gasped out. In the light that came from the house, Alexandra could see the dark, ugly stain on the front of his work shirt. "Didn't see 'em comin' . . . the sons o' bitches . . . they opened up on us . . . never had a chance to fight back . . ."
"They stole the herd?" Fisk asked.
Hank managed a weak nod. "Ever' damn cow . . . sorry, boss . . . we should've . . . should've stopped 'em . . ."
"Don't worry about it, Hank," Fisk said. "You did your best. The boys will take you in the bunkhouse now, and I'll send for a doctor—"
Fisk stopped as Hank's head lolled loosely to the side. The ranch owner reached out, put his fingers against Hank's neck, and held them there for a moment. Then Fisk sighed and said bitterly, "Damn it. He's gone, too."
Alexandra felt tears on her face and had to choke back a sob. Four men dead, just like that. No warning. Just cold-blooded murder in the night and a stolen herd of cattle.
Wilt Paxton asked quietly, "Who do you think would do such a thing, boss?"
Fisk stood up. "I don't know, but I intend to find out. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if that damned Texan and his men were behind this rustling!"
Alexandra opened her mouth to say something, then stopped the words before they could leave her mouth. She realized she had been about to defend Frenchy LeDoux for some unfathomable reason.
True, he hadn't seemed to her like the kind of man who would murder from ambush, but she didn't really know him, couldn't be sure what he was capable of. Nor did she know anything about the rest of Sawyer's men, other than the fact that they all seemed to hate everyone connected with Latch Hook.
"We can't track that stolen stock in the dark," Fisk went on, "but I want men ready to ride at first light. Well get to the bottom of this."
"We'll be ready, Mr. Fisk," Paxton promised. "And if the trail leads to the Diamond S?"
"Then we'll even the score," Fisk said bleakly. "With more blood, if need be."
Chapter 11
"That was a mighty good lunch, Miss Rose," Lon Rogers told the proprietor of the Wind River Cafe as he pushed his plate across the counter. "Just like always."
Rose Foster smiled at the young cowboy. "Thank you, Lon," she said. "With Monty gone to visit his sister in Rawlins, I've been having to do all the cooking myself, so it hasn't been easy."
"No, ma'am, I expect not. But if anybody could do it, I reckon it'd be you."
Lon didn't want to pour the
flattery on too thick. He had already learned that Rose Foster felt uncomfortable with a lot of fancy compliments. It was hard not to flatter her, though, considering the way he felt about her.
With her thick strawberry-blond hair, her peaches-and-cream complexion, and her large green eyes, Rose was the prettiest woman Lon had ever seen. The curves of her body in the bright calico dress were mighty impressive, too.
She just about took Lon's breath away, and he was glad Mr. Sawyer had sent him into town today to wire a message to a cattle buyer in Cheyenne. The errand had given Lon a chance to have lunch here at the cafe and see Rose again.
He had already made it clear to her how he felt about her, and if she was still a mite standoffish, well, he could understand that. She was a successful businesswoman, after all, and he was just a forty-a-month-and-found cow-poke.
He was a little younger than her, too, although he wasn't sure just how much. But he could be patient, and sooner or later Rose would come around. She had let him walk her home a time or two when he happened to be in town at the time she closed up the cafe in the evenings. That was progress, Lon told himself.
At the moment, much as he regretted leaving, he had to get back to the Diamond S. He had the cattle buyer's return telegram in his pocket, and Mr. Sawyer would be waiting for the reply. Lon dug out some coins and laid them on the counter next to his empty plate, then drained the last of the coffee in his cup and reached for his hat.
"I got to be going, Miss Rose, but I'll sure stop by to see you next time I'm in town."
"You do that, Lon," she said, and she smiled again. Lon's heart felt like it was fixing to pop as he put his hat on and headed for the door.
He stepped outside into a warm spring afternoon that was overcast, thick, gray clouds building over the mountains to the north. Might be a thunderstorm later, Lon thought, as he started toward the stable where he had left his horse. He hoped the rain would hold off until he got back to the ranch.
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