Medicine Creek (Wind River Book 4)

by James Reasoner

  Suddenly, several men stepped out of a saloon as Lon passed, and they blocked his path. He veered to the edge of the boardwalk to try to go around them, but the men moved as well. They were dressed in range clothes, and Lon recognized them as some of Austin Fisk's Latch Hook riders. Cold fingers began to tickle up and down his backbone.

  "Excuse me, fellas," he muttered, hoping they would get out of his way and not force a confrontation. It was a futile hope, though, and he knew it even as he spoke.

  "Thought I smelled a damned Texan," one of the men said. Paxton, that's who he was, Lon thought. Fisk's segundo. A dangerous man, according to Frenchy.

  Lon suddenly wished that Frenchy was with him right now.

  He was on his own, though, and he would just have to make the best of it. He drew a deep breath and said, "I'm not looking for any trouble."

  "Well, maybe we are," Paxton shot back. "Four of our pards died last night, men who rode many a night herd with all of us, and you and the rest of that Diamond S outfit are to blame, mister."

  Lon had to frown. "I don't know what in blazes you're talking about."

  One of the other men stepped forward and prodded him roughly in the chest with a finger. "The hell you don't!"

  Paxton said, "Somebody hit our herd last night and killed four of our men. Bushwhacked 'em, never even gave 'em a chance."

  Lon shook his head. "Sony to hear it, but I don't know a thing about it," he said. "You don't think that the Diamond S—"

  "Never was a Texan who wasn't a rustler at heart," Paxton cut in. "We know you bastards are to blame, we just can't prove it. We followed the trail into the mountains between Latch Hook and the Diamond S, but it petered out in that rugged country."

  "Doesn't matter," one of the other men said. "We still know who killed our boys." He put his hand on the butt of his gun. "And I say we start settlin' the score right now."

  Lon felt a mixture of fear and anger coursing through his veins. He wanted to reach for his own gun, but he knew that if he did, the Latch Hook men would cut him down. They were three to his one, and they were obviously in the mood to kill somebody from the Diamond S.

  "I don't know anything about any rustling or bushwhacking," he said quickly. "We didn't have anything to do with it. Except for a couple of nighthawks, our whole crew was in the bunkhouse last night."

  Paxton laughed humorlessly and shook his head. "You don't expect us to believe you, do you, boy?"

  "Let's ventilate the son of a bitch," one of his companions added.

  "No," Paxton said firmly. "We're not going to kill him. We're going to let him take a message back to Sawyer for us."

  With no more warning than that, Paxton's fist suddenly lashed out and slammed into Lon's jaw, driving him back on the boardwalk.

  One of the other Latch Hook men let out a whoop and swung a roundhouse blow of his own. Lon had no chance to block the punch, and when it crashed into his mouth, Lon felt himself sailing toward the edge of the walk. He hit the railing and went over it to land heavily in the street.

  The three men were after Lon before he had a chance to recover. Booted feet smashed into him, the kicks jolting him and rolling him over a couple of times. He slapped desperately at his holster, but his gun wasn't there; it must have fallen out when he flipped over the railing, he realized.

  He threw up his arms in an attempt to block some of the kicks, and his fingers scraped against somebody's boot. He grabbed hold of it as hard as he could and heaved. There was a wild, angry yell as Lon's unexpected move toppled one of the attackers. That gave Lon a little breathing room, and he was able to roll away from the other two and come up on one knee in a crouch.

  He lifted his head just in time to get a fist in the face. The blow knocked him back onto his rump, and the other man—Paxton, Lon saw—tried to kick him again.

  Lon dove to the side, causing Paxton to miss and throwing the Latch Hook foreman off balance. Lon lunged at him, tackling him around the thighs and bringing him down.

  A lot of people were shouting, Lon realized, and he heard running footsteps all around. A good fight always attracted plenty of attention. He jerked a punch into Paxton's stomach, but before he could follow up somebody else landed on top of him, then yet another heavy weight crashed down on him. All four men were rolling around frenziedly now in the dust of Grenville Avenue.

  Suddenly, Lon caught a glimpse of a gun being lifted in an upraised hand. If it fell on him in a savage blow, as its wielder obviously intended, the barrel might well crush his skull. Lon tried desperately to squirm out of the way, but the other two men had hold of him and he couldn't throw them off. The gun barrel slashed toward his head.

  A hand came out of nowhere, the fingers locking in an iron grip around the wrist of the man holding the revolver. Lon's rescuer gave the wrist a brutal twist, and then there was the sound of a fist cracking against bone. Part of the crushing weight left Lon.

  "I'll shoot the next man who throws a punch or goes for a gun!" a familiar voice said angrily. "Now get the hell off that cowboy!"

  The other two men let go of Lon and rolled away from him. A hand grasped Lon's arm and helped him to his feet. He found himself being supported by Billy Casebolt, Marshal Tyler's deputy.

  Cole himself was standing a few feet away, .44 in his hand and trained on the Latch Hook men who were climbing unsteadily upright. It was Cole who had saved him, Lon realized, stopping the blow that had been about to fall and knocking the man off of him.

  "What's going on here, Rogers?" the marshal demanded. Quite a few other people were standing around, too, the fight having caused a considerable commotion.

  Lon took hold of his jaw and worked it back and forth for a moment, making sure it wasn't broken, then he said, "Paxton and those other Latch Hook men jumped me. Said Diamond S raided their ranch last night, rustled some of their stock, and killed four of their men."

  "That's what happened, damn it!" Paxton blazed.

  "You'd be Fisk's foreman, wouldn't you?" Cole said coolly. "You got any proof of those charges, Paxton?"

  "We don't need proof—"

  "The hell you don't," Cole cut in. "The way it looks to me, Rogers here could charge you boys with assault and attempted murder if he wants to. I imagine there are witnesses who saw the whole thing and can tell me for sure who threw the first punch. Besides, there are three of you and only one of him."

  There was no love lost between Marshal Tyler and Mr. Sawyer, Lon knew. In fact, the marshal wasn't too fond of anybody from the Diamond S. But Cole was fair, and he wasn't going to let his dislike of the Texans blind him to the facts of what had happened here.

  "I don't want to press charges, Marshal, not as long as you know I'm telling the truth," Lon said after a moment.

  "And I can promise you, we didn't have a thing to do with any raid on Latch Hook."

  "You going to believe that lyin' Texan, Marshal?" one of the Latch Hook men asked hotly.

  Cole nodded. "Until I see proof of something different, I am. Kermit Sawyer's an arrogant, stiff-necked old moss-back, but he never struck me as a rustler. I want you Latch Hook riders to pick up your guns and get the hell out of Wind River."

  Paxton glowered at him for a second, then said, "You haven't heard the last of this, Marshal."

  "No, I reckon I probably haven't," Cole replied with a sigh. "But there won't be any more trouble today."

  Still grumbling, Paxton and the other two Latch Hook men retrieved their weapons from the street and went to their horses. Cole and Casebolt kept their guns drawn until the angry cowboys had ridden away and disappeared at the far end of the street.

  Then Cole holstered his revolver and turned to Lon. "You all right, Rogers?" he asked.

  "Just bunged up a little," Lon replied. "I've been hurt worse."

  "What are you doing here in town?"

  "Mr. Sawyer had me come in and send a wire for him, then wait for the reply."

  "Have you got it?"

  Lon nodded as he patted his shi
rt pocket and heard the rustle of paper. "Yep, right here. I was just about to start back out to the Diamond S when those fellas jumped me."

  "All right. You're going back to the ranch—and I'm going with you. I want to have a talk with Sawyer about this trouble between him and Fisk. Besides, if you start back out there by yourself, Paxton and his friends might take it in their heads to do a little target practice—with you as the target."

  Lon paled, knowing that Cole might be right. He wouldn't put backshooting past Paxton and the other men.

  "It's all Latch Hook's fault, Marshal—" Lon began.

  Cole held up a hand to stop him. I'll hash that out with Fisk. You feel up to riding?"

  "Sure."

  "I'll go saddle Ulysses while you get your horse from the stable."

  Lon nodded, then looked around and found his gun lying in the street beside the boardwalk. He picked it up and shoved it back in its holster.

  Mr. Sawyer wasn't going to like it much when he showed up with the marshal, he knew, but somebody had to tell the owner of the Diamond S about the rustling that had taken place on the neighboring spread. If there was a gang of wideloopers operating in this part of the territory, then every cattleman would have a stake in tracking them down.

  Lon just hoped Marshal Tyler really believed that the Diamond S hadn't had anything to do with the raid on Latch Hook.

  * * *

  Cole and Lon Rogers rode out of Wind River a little later, the marshal leaving Billy Casebolt in charge of the office while he was gone.

  Casebolt stood on the boardwalk in front of the land development company building and hoped that Cole could get to the bottom of this trouble before it turned into a full-scale range war between the Diamond S and Latch Hook spreads. Casebolt had seen such bloody conflicts before and knew how they could draw everyone in an area into them, and then the innocent and the guilty alike suffered.

  Casebolt sighed and leaned on the railing along the edge of the boardwalk. His muscles and joints were a little more stiff and sore today than they had been for the past week. He hoped his rheumatism wasn't coming back.

  It would be a shame if the waters of Medicine Creek proved to be only a temporary cure. He worried, too, about that mysterious fever returning, although so far there had been no signs of a relapse.

  "You're frettin' about nothin', Billy," he muttered to himself. "Ever'thing's goin' to be just fine . . ."

  That was when he heard the commotion at the eastern end of the street.

  Chapter 12

  Casebolt wasn't the only one to notice that something was going on. The sound of music and the happy, excited shouts of children drifted in through the open door of the newspaper office and caused Michael Hatfield to look up sharply from his desk.

  He was tired, having stayed up most of the night before to print the latest edition of the Sentinel, the one that had gone out on the streets today. But even tired, he sensed that the noises he was hearing meant a story.

  Michael stood up and went to the door, looking east along Grenville Avenue. He saw two large wagons rolling along the street. The vehicles had brightly painted wooden sides and tops, instead of the usual canvas coverings. Garish red letters looped and swirled boldly against a vivid background of blue, yellow, and green. The writing on the side of the lead wagon proclaimed:

  PROFESSOR NICODEMUS MUNROE's TRAVELING MEDICINE SHOW AND REVIEW

  THRILLS AND ENTERTAINMENT!!!

  WORLD-FAMOUS GENUINE CHIPPEWA MIRACLE TONIC!! CURES ALL ILLS!!

  Michael watched, wide-eyed, as the wagon rolled past. A small man in a fancy suit and a top hat was handling the reins, and next to him was a solemn-faced Indian in buckskins and a large feathered headdress. The Indian's arms were folded across his chest, and he stared straight ahead, never looking to the side.

  The tailgate at the rear of the wagon was down, and a young woman stood on it, waving to the crowd that was gathering. Thick masses of blond hair were piled on her head, and she wore a breathtaking red costume that was cut daringly low and clung to every curve of her body. The costume's skirt ended high on her thighs, revealing shapely legs in spangled tights like dancing girls in the best saloons wore.

  Michael had never seen anyone like her, and as she looked over at him and waved, his eyes met hers. The hair on the back of his neck stood up like the air was filled with the tingle of an impending lightning strike.

  The blonde in the skimpy red outfit stunned him so that he almost didn't notice the occupants of the second wagon, which was as garishly painted as the first. But it was difficult not to notice a man who had to weigh at least three hundred pounds and who was so broad that he filled almost the entire wagon seat.

  Perched on the huge man's shoulders, also waving at the crowd, was a little girl in a costume similar to that of the blonde. No, Michael realized a moment later with a shock, she wasn't a little girl at all. She was a fully grown woman—who happened to be less than four feet tall.

  Quite a few children were running alongside the wagons. The fat man driving the second wagon reached into a box on the seat beside him from time to time and brought out handfuls of hard candy.

  He tossed it to the children, which brought shouts of laughter and encouragement from them. The blonde standing on the lowered tailgate of the second wagon was eliciting whoops of approval from many of the men on the boardwalks as she waved and smiled at them.

  The man in the top hat tipped it to the ladies, most of whom sniffed and frowned in disapproval. Medicine shows appealed primarily to men and kids, Michael thought, as he watched.

  "Lordy, did you ever see anything like it?" a voice asked from beside him.

  Michael looked over and saw that Deputy Billy Casebolt had come along the boardwalk to join him in front of the newspaper office. Casebolt gaped at the wagons and their occupants as they moved on down the street.

  "I've seen medicine shows before," Michael said. "There was one in Omaha when Delia and Gretchen and I were on our way out here from Cincinnati. We didn't stop to see it, though, so this is the closest I've actually been to one."

  "Some of 'em can put on a humdinger of a show," Casebolt said. "Looks like they don't have but a few performers with this one, but if the folks are good at what they do, a medicine show don't need many."

  "If the job of that, ah, blond young woman is to look lovely, she certainly handles that well," Michael said with a smile.

  Casebolt grinned back at him. "That she does. Wonder what brings 'em to Wind River?"

  "I imagine they're just traveling along the railroad, stopping in all the towns. That's what these itinerant shows usually do, I understand."

  Down the street, the wagons came to a stop in front of the Wind River Land Development Company. Simone had emerged from the office and was standing on the boardwalk with her clerks. The man driving the first wagon leaped down agilely from the seat, swept his hat off, and spoke to Simone. She said something in return, then lifted her hand and pointed.

  Michael realized with a shock that Simone was pointing at him.

  No, not at him, but at Casebolt, Michael figured out a moment later. Casebolt muttered, "They must be lookin' for the marshal, but he's gone out to Sawyer's spread. Reckon I'd best go see what they want."

  "I'm coming with you," Michael said immediately.

  "Suit yourself." Casebolt started along the street toward the wagons. Michael trotted with him, hurrying to keep up with the deputy's long-legged strides.

  As Casebolt and Michael came up, the man holding the top hat gave a little bow and said to Casebolt, "Good day to you, sir. I'm told that you represent the constabulary hereabouts?"

  "I'm deputy marshal of Wind River," Casebolt admitted. "Name's Billy Casebolt. Marshal Tyler ain't in town right now, but he'll be back later today, I reckon."

  The man stuck out his hand. "Allow me to introduce myself. Professor Nicodemus Munroe, at your service, Deputy Casebolt."

  Munroe was several inches under medium height and slightly built, w
ith graying blond hair. His face was lined, but the features had a gentle cast to them. He was around fifty, Michael judged.

  Casebolt shook hands with the man and said, "What can I do for you, Professor?"

  "I just wanted to make the local authorities aware of our presence in this lovely community," Munroe said. "I make a practice to follow that rule because, to be honest with you, Deputy, some so-called medicine shows are rather haphazard in their adherence to local laws and ordinances. Professor Nicodemus Munroe's Traveling Medicine Show and Review, on the other hand, is always honest and above-board and strictly legal."

  "You're sayin' you ain't a bunch of crooks like some of them snake-oil shows."

  Munroe beamed. "Precisely, Deputy! And if I could impose on you for a moment, perhaps you could tell me where a good spot would be for us to set up our wagons . . . ?"

  Simone answered before Casebolt could. "Down at the west end of town under the trees would be a likely place. There's a large open area, and we sometimes hold worship services there."

  "We would never interfere with something like that," Munroe said quickly.

  "I reckon it'd be all right," Casebolt said, "long as you ain't sellin' medicine whilst Jeremiah's tryin' to preach. I don't think he'd take kindly to that, and once you see him, you'll know why you don't want to get him riled."

  "I assure you. Deputy, it's not our intention to upset anyone. If we're still here on the Sabbath, we'll be very circumspect."

  "I figger it'll be all right for you to park these wagons down yonder, then."

  Michael stepped closer and extended his hand to Munroe. "I'm Michael Hatfield, editor of the Wind River Sentinel, Professor Munroe."

  "A gentleman of the press!" Munroe exclaimed as he grabbed Michael's hand and pumped it. "So very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. Allow me to present the rest of my troupe." He turned and waved expansively at the wagons. "My bosom companion of the red-hued visage and solemn demeanor is Chief Laughing Fox of the Chippewa Nation."

  The Indian was still sitting impassively on the wagon seat, and he made no acknowledgment of Munroe's introduction. The professor leaned closer to Michael and went on in a stage whisper, "You'll have to excuse the chief. Despite his name, he's a bit dour over the plight of his people. Always sends every bit of his part of the proceeds back to them, you know, to help them out in their time of need."