Medicine Creek (Wind River Book 4)

by James Reasoner

  "Hope those fellers don't get too proddy," Casebolt said. "We got enough on our plate right now. And speakin' of plates, I'd better let you get on to your supper. Didn't tell you about that medicine show yet, but it can wait."

  "Medicine show? What—" Cole held up a hand. "No, you're right. It can wait. I'll see you later. Take care of Ulysses for me?"

  "Sure."

  Cole waved and started toward the boardinghouse where he had a room. Abigail Paine would probably still feed him, even if the other boarders had already eaten. She was pretty understanding of the unusual demands on a lawman's time.

  And from the looks of things in Wind River tonight, Cole thought, it seemed that the demands were about to get even more unusual.

  * * *

  Frenchy slouched in his saddle as he rode along Wildcat Ridge. Overhead, stars glittered brightly in the night sky. There was still a definite hint of coolness in the breeze, which Frenchy suspected wasn't unusual here in this high country, even during springtime.

  Sheer restlessness had brought him out here tonight. Like all the rest of the hands, he had been ready to charge over to Fisk's ranch when he heard about what had happened to Lon in Wind River. They could show those damned Latch Hook riders how a bunch of Texas boys raised hell and shoved a chunk under the corner!

  But cooler heads—most notably Cole Tyler's—had prevailed, and Kermit Sawyer had promised to let things lie for the time being. Frenchy hoped that wasn't a mistake.

  At the same time, he didn't want a shooting war with Latch Hook, either. Every time he thought about that, the image of Alexandra Fisk appeared in his mind, bringing with it memories of how sweet her lips had tasted and how soft they had been.

  Trouble between Diamond S and Latch Hook would wind up hurting Alexandra some way; Frenchy was sure of it.

  And somehow, he couldn't stand the idea of anything hurting Alexandra. . . .

  So he had come out here alone to ride and think and try to come up with some way of heading off the trouble between the two spreads. So far, he hadn't come up with a blessed thing. But he had enjoyed the moonlight and the smell of the pines and the cool evening breeze on his face.

  Suddenly, that breeze brought a sound with it. The night was full of sounds, of course—the hoot of an owl, the far-off bugle of an elk, the sighing of the wind in the trees, the rustle of ground squirrels diving for their holes as the rider approached—but this was different.

  Hoofbeats. Quite a few of them. But the rest of the Diamond S punchers were back at the bunkhouse tonight.

  And that meant somebody was moving around on the ranch who had no business being here.

  Frenchy reined in and listened intently. It was impossible to tell how many riders he was hearing, but he figured there had to be at least a dozen. They were still several hundred yards away, beyond the end of the ridge. But they were coming closer, and Frenchy knew it would be a good idea if he got out of sight.

  He dropped down from his saddle and clenched the horse's reins tightly in his left hand. His right hand hovered over the butt of his gun. He led the horse toward a large stand of aspen that would offer some concealment.

  A part of him wanted to challenge the men and demand to know what they were doing here. But if he did that and they were up to no good, they would probably open up on him as soon as he started to ask questions. That would be a quick way of getting killed. Better to lie low and find out just what the hell was going on.

  Frenchy had been hidden in the aspens for only a few minutes when the mysterious horsemen swept out of the night and rode past his position. He couldn't tell much about them in the darkness, and he was able to make only a rough count of them. He numbered them at fourteen, pretty close to what he had estimated. They were headed north along the ridge.

  He wasn't sure where they were going, but he couldn't help but remember how close the pass leading to the next valley was to the southern end of Wildcat Ridge. Some of Fisk's men could have easily come through there, even in the dark. Sawyer had never put a guard on that pass, but he might have to consider doing so in the future, Frenchy thought. That wouldn't help with the situation tonight, however.

  When the strangers had moved on past, Frenchy mounted up again and eased out of the trees. He rode after them, following more by sound than by sight. After a few minutes, the group moved down off the ridge and into a wide, grassy meadow where more than a hundred of Kermit Sawyer's longhorns were grazing.

  Frenchy's jaw tightened. It was pretty obvious what the men intended to do. They were spreading out, circling the cattle, gradually working them into a tighter, more manageable bunch.

  They were rustling that stock, right in front of Frenchy's eyes!

  The question was—what was he going to do about it?

  He was sure none of the wideloopers had seen him. He could hang back, stay out of sight, and let them take the cattle. That might be the smartest thing to do, because then he could follow them and see where they were taking the stolen cows.

  But if they gave him the slip somehow, Sawyer would lose a hundred head of prime longhorns. Regardless of what was most logical or most practical—or least dangerous—

  Frenchy knew he couldn't stand by and allow that to happen. He just couldn't.

  The rustlers had the herd just about bunched up enough to drive without much trouble. Frenchy slipped his revolver from its holster and looped his thumb over the hammer. He lifted the gun, stood up in his stirrups, and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Hit 'em all at once, boys! Now!"

  He loosed a couple of shots as he raked his mount with his spurs. The horse lunged forward and pounded down the slope toward the rustlers. Frenchy hauled it to the left, veering off to the side as he triggered the remaining three cartridges in his gun. Moving at an angle like that in the darkness, he might fool the cow thieves into thinking that there was more than one of him. He gave a high-pitched rebel yell as he guided the sure-footed pony with his knees and began to reload.

  Return fire was coming from the rustlers by now, muzzle flashes bright in the night as guns crashed and boomed. When Frenchy's revolver was loaded again, he pulled his horse into a tight turn that sent him galloping back in the other direction. Again he began to fire, spacing his shots irregularly so that the rustlers couldn't detect a pattern in his attack.

  There was no way he could outfight fourteen men; he knew that. But he was hoping that he could spook them and force them into fleeing. They were probably already a little nervous simply because of the dishonest errand that had brought them here to the Diamond S tonight. Frenchy wanted to play on that nervousness.

  But if the rustlers didn't cut and run . . . if they didn't believe they were under attack by a large force of cowboys. . . then Frenchy was in trouble—bad trouble.

  And in the next few moments, it quickly became obvious that was the case.

  Several of the rustlers broke away from the others and charged toward him, guns blazing. Frenchy was no fool. He bit back a curse, jammed his gun in its holster, and wheeled his horse around. He used his spurs again and sent the animal leaping back toward Wildcat Ridge. If he could reach the top of the ridge, he could lose his pursuers in the heavy timber up there.

  The rustlers' guns kept barking, and fingers of hot lead reached out in the night. One of them drew a fiery line of pain across Frenchy's upper right arm. He gasped, his lips drawing back from his teeth, but he kept riding and the horse underneath him didn't even break stride. He reached the ridge, started up the slope.

  Still the rustlers came after him, whooping and shouting. He wondered if Wilt Paxton was among them. Would Austin Fisk send some of his men over here to steal cattle in retaliation for the raid on Latch Hook? Frenchy thought that was more than possible.

  Latch Hook had lost four men in that raid, and every man on the spread blamed the Diamond S for the deaths. Frenchy knew he could expect no mercy from the men chasing him, especially if they were some of Fisk's crew.

  He rode hunched low in the saddle to
make himself a smaller target, but that wasn't enough. A rustler's bullet suddenly clipped his left shoulder and went on to crease the neck of his mount.

  The impact of the slug drove Frenchy forward onto the neck of the horse even as it let out a shrill whinny of pain and leaped forward wildly. It was all Frenchy could do to hang on for dear life. The horse was out of control now. Frenchy felt blood trickling down his side from his wounded shoulder, and his head spun crazily.

  Suddenly he realized he was among the trees again, as his mount reached the top of the ridge and darted into the thick stands of pine there. Darker shadows closed in around him. He had to trust the horse not to run headlong into one of the pines.

  The animal slowed slightly. Frenchy pushed himself straighter in the saddle and lightened his grip on the reins. He fought off the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. The shots from the rustlers had slowed, and he knew they could no longer see him.

  He wondered if they would pursue him into the trees. To do so would be to expose themselves to an ambush if he turned and made a fight of it. He suspected they might abandon the chase and return to their companions. They had to know that all the shooting might have been heard at the ranch headquarters, even though it was several miles away. Loud noises carried a long way at night in this thin, dry air.

  Frenchy became aware that no one was shooting anymore, and he knew his guess must have been right. The raiders had returned to the task that had brought them here to the Diamond S. They would push those cattle through the pass as quickly as they could and put the ranch behind them.

  And there wasn't a damned thing he could do to stop them, not with the bullet crease in his shoulder still welling blood and pain jarring through him with every step of the horse. In fact, he was swaying in the saddle now, and he had to grab at the horn to keep from falling.

  The next time a wave of dizziness hit him, he wasn't quite quick enough. He felt his fingers slide off the saddle-horn, and then he was falling. He had the presence of mind to kick his feet free of the stirrups, so that the horse couldn't drag him if it bolted. An instant later, he crashed to the ground, his fall cushioned only slightly by the carpet of pine needles that had fallen here under the trees.

  The horse didn't bolt. Frenchy felt it nuzzling him curiously, and he tried to murmur a few words of reassurance. He didn't know if they came out of his mouth or not.

  By that time, he didn't know anything.

  Chapter 15

  It was his job to be here, Michael Hatfield told himself. The visit of the medicine show to Wind River was news, and news was his business, after all.

  The fact that he was enjoying himself immensely didn't change the fact that he was actually working.

  Those thoughts went through his head as he grinned and clapped along with the music coming from the squeeze box being played by Calvin Dumont. For such a huge man, Dumont had a delicate touch with the instrument and could coax a variety of tunes from it, ranging from melancholy dirges that brought tears to the eyes of his listeners to rollicking jigs such as the one he was playing now.

  His wife, Letitia, was dancing on the lowered tailgate of the wagon as Dumont played. The tiny woman moved with grace and dexterity, her legs and arms flashing as she darted about in time to the music in a different low-cut, spangled costume.

  When the dance was over, Letitia took a bow as the audience applauded appreciatively. Dumont put the squeeze box aside and said in a high-pitched voice that was incongruous for his size, "Now, ladies and gentlemen, for your enjoyment, Chief Laughing Fox of the Chippewas will demonstrate his amazing skills with the tomahawk!"

  Dumont waved an arm the size of a small tree trunk, and Chief Laughing Fox walked out from behind the wagon, pacing off some fifty feet and then turning to face the wagon. The audience shifted so that they could see better.

  A broad plank with the crude outline of a man on it had been set up against the side of the wagon. Laughing Fox was carrying six small tomahawks in his left hand. One by one, he took them in his right and threw them, the solemn expression on his face never varying as the weapons spun through the air and thudded into the target.

  He threw quickly, sending all six tomahawks into the target in less than a minute. When he was done, the tomahawks outlined the figure drawn on the plank. The men who had been watching broke into applause and whistles of admiration.

  As stolid as ever, the Chippewa chieftain walked to the target and retrieved the tomahawks. The sharp heads of the weapons had sunk deeply into the wood, and he had to grunt a little as he wrenched some of them loose. Then he turned and walked back to his previous spot.

  Michael wondered what Laughing Fox was going to do next. He didn't expect to see Deborah Munroe emerge from the wagon and walk over to the target, but that was exactly what happened. She had changed her costume, too, and was wearing a dark-blue outfit that was even more daring, revealing practically all of her lovely legs in dark-blue mesh stockings.

  With a smile on her face, she stood in front of the target and leaned back against it, spreading her arms and legs slightly so that she was lined up with the figure drawn on the plank. Michael's eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen.

  He wanted to cry out for them to stop the act, but Laughing Fox already had one of the tomahawks in his hand and his arm was drawn back.

  If Michael shouted, it might throw off the Indian's concentration. All he could do was watch in hushed, shocked silence—like the rest of the men in the audience—as the Chippewa's arm flashed forward and the tomahawk tumbled through the air toward Deborah.

  The blade thumped into the wood about four inches from Deborah's right ear. The smile on her face never wavered, nor did she flinch. She stood there like a statue as the other five tomahawks struck the target around her, one on the other side of her head, two on either side of her torso, two flanking her lush hips.

  Michael thought that was the end of the act, but Deborah didn't move. From a sheath on his belt, Laughing Fox produced a Bowie knife with a long, heavy blade, and he threw it with the same blinding speed and lack of emotion with which he had tossed the tomahawks. The tip of the Bowie's blade dug into the wood of the target between Deborah's slightly spread thighs, the handle quivering from the impact.

  The spectators were silent for a couple of seconds, then thunderous applause burst from them, along with shouts and whistles.

  Deborah stepped away from the target, still smiling broadly, and took a bow. As Michael clapped, his eyes were drawn to the dark valley between her full breasts that was revealed as she leaned over. He felt a flush of embarrassment—but he kept looking anyway.

  Professor Nicodemus Munroe came around the other side of the wagon, clapping just like everyone else. After a moment he held up his hands for silence, and the applause gradually died away.

  He took his niece's hand and led her to the tailgate of the wagon, where both of them climbed the portable steps that had been set up there. The professor said loudly, "Thank you, my friends, thank you. Another hand for Chief Laughing Fox of the Chippewas and his lovely assistant, my niece Deborah!"

  There was another round of applause, and then Munroe continued, "Now, for your pleasure, Deborah will entertain you with a song."

  Calvin Dumont began playing the squeeze box again, but more quietly this time so as not to overpower Deborah's voice. She sang an old ballad about lost loves and men going off to war, and more than one man in the audience was blinking rapidly and trying to surreptitiously brush away a tear when she was finished. Michael thought he had never heard a prettier song.

  Nor seen a prettier singer . . .

  He was glad his wife, Delia, had chosen not to come with him tonight. She would have probably dug an elbow into his side when she saw how raptly he was watching Deborah.

  Delia could be jealous at times, although Michael had never given her any reason to be, of course. He had always been faithful to his pretty, redheaded wife, the mother of his two small children. He intended to re
main faithful to her.

  But still, a man could look, couldn't he? Look, and maybe dream a little bit . . . even if it did get him a sharp elbow in the ribs every now and then.

  Deborah launched into another song, and as she did her eyes met Michael's. He had the uncanny feeling that she was singing to him and him alone.

  He liked that feeling. He liked it a lot.

  And now he wasn't even thinking about Delia anymore.

  * * *

  Dr. Judson Kent was at the desk in his office, going over the notes he had made as he saw patients during the day and entering them into his permanent records. Most doctors were not so meticulous, but Kent had always found it helpful to be able to look up what he had done in the past.

  The front door was unlocked, of course. Kent left it that way until he was ready to retire for the night. A doctor never knew when someone might have need of his services and come looking for him. So he wasn't surprised when he heard the door open and someone came into the foyer. Kent laid his pen aside and looked up.

  A solidly built man of medium height stood there, a serious expression on his face. He had a short, ginger-colored beard, and wore a brown tweed suit and a derby. Kent had never seen him before.

  "Dr. Kent?" the man asked.

  "That's right," the physician replied. "What can I do for you, sir?"

  The man came into the room and held out a hand. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Dr. Bramwell Carter."

  Kent stood up and shook hands with Carter. "Another medical man, eh?"

  "That's right," Carter said with a nod. "Harvard, class of' ‘48."

  "Oxford, '46," Kent said. He smiled. "I'm very glad to meet you, Dr. Carter. What brings you to Wind River? Have you come to establish a practice?"

  Carter grinned. "No, I'm not after your patients, Doctor. I've plenty of my own back in Philadelphia. I'm just taking a bit of a sabbatical, if you will, in order to investigate something that interests me."

  "And what would be . . . ?"