Medicine Creek (Wind River Book 4)

by James Reasoner

  Frowning, Casebolt said, "That'll lead to a whole mess of trouble. You see, Two Ponies, as far as the folks who are lookin' for Medicine Creek are concerned, the place don't belong to the Shoshones. It don't belong to anybody, because it's on what they consider open range. I understand what you're sayin', and I know the marshal would, too, but all them other folks don't."

  Two Ponies took a deep breath. "Then there will be war."

  Casebolt stood up hurriedly, shaking his head. "Nope, we can't let that happen. There's got to be some way to head this off."

  "Already the white men are on Shoshone land," Two Ponies said emphatically. "It is too late. Soon they will find the creek. Some of my warriors have gone there to guard it, and when the white men arrive, they will fight."

  "Damn it!" Casebolt exclaimed as he brought his fist down on the desk. "How could you let your warriors do something like that?"

  "How could I stop them? Would you have me tell them that the white man must be allowed to do whatever he wishes, that the Shoshones have no right to stop them from ruining one of our most sacred places?"

  Casebolt sighed. "No, I reckon you couldn't do that. But we better get out there while we still can. Maybe we can stop things from gettin' too bad."

  And if they weren't in time, Casebolt thought as he hurried out of the office with Two Ponies . . .

  Well, then, the waters of Medicine Creek might run red with blood before this day was over.

  * * *

  Cole followed the road that led to the Diamond S for several miles after leaving Wind River, then branched off on a smaller trail that angled to the northeast. This path would take him to Austin Fisk's Latch Hook spread, he knew.

  He rode easily, letting Ulysses stretch out and gallop part of the time. The long-legged golden sorrel didn't take kindly to being stabled, and he liked to work the kinks out every chance he got.

  Cole wouldn't have minded working out some kinks himself. Thoughts of Simone McKay and Judson Kent, of medicine shows and rustlers and range wars, all made him wish that he could just put those things behind him and spend about a month in the high country hunting and fishing and not even seeing another human being.

  Until the past year, his had been a solitary life for the most part, with few close friends and long stretches when he was by himself. Did he really want to trade that for what he had found in Wind River?

  He couldn't answer that question. All he knew for sure was that he wasn't ready to leave the settlement for good. If he had, he would have felt like he was running away from a job left unfinished. And that was one thing Cole Tyler had never done.

  The trail wound into the foothills and then reached the valley where Fisk's ranch was located. The headquarters were all the way at the other end of the ten-mile-long valley, so Cole still had a ways to ride. As he did, he saw quite a few cattle, some of them still rather thin but most fattening up nicely on the good grazing to be had here.

  This valley wasn't as good as the one Kermit Sawyer had—Sawyer's place was as prime a piece of ranching land as could be found in the territory—but a man who was willing to work could make quite a success here.

  Cole barely knew Austin Fisk, but the Kentuckian struck him as a man who didn't mind hard work. The idea that he was behind the rustling on Sawyer's ranch seemed wrong to Cole, just as turning things around the other way did.

  He hadn't yet come in sight of the ranch house when several men rode out of some nearby timber and galloped toward him. He noticed that they had their rifles across their saddles in front of them, ready to be used, and as he reined in he kept his hands in plain sight. No telling how trigger-happy these punchers might be, so he didn't want to do anything to spook them.

  The riders reined in about twenty yards from Cole, except for one man who trotted his horse forward. "This is Latch Hook range, mister," he called out. "What are you doing here?"

  Cole had already seen the brands on their horses and knew they were some of Fisk's men. He said, "I'm Marshal Tyler from Wind River. I came up here to talk to Austin Fisk."

  "Marshal, eh?" The spokesman for the group, a well-built man with blond hair under the hat that was cuffed back on his head, rubbed his jaw in thought. "You got any proof of what you say?"

  Cole jerked a thumb at the badge pinned to his buckskin shirt. "This badge and my word. That's always been good enough."

  The man nodded. "I reckon it still is. I'm Wilt Paxton, Mr. Fisk's foreman, and I seem to recollect seeing you around the settlement before. Come on, we'll take you to the house."

  The tension that had been in the air as the confrontation began relaxed as Cole fell in with the other riders. He said, "You boys out looking for strays?"

  "Looking for rustlers is more like it," Paxton replied.

  "You haven't had any more trouble, have you?"

  Paxton shook his head. "Not since that raid where we lost four men. Four good men."

  "I hear your boss blames Kermit Sawyer for that."

  "Damn right. That Texan never has liked us over here on Latch Hook."

  Cole asked, Did you know rustlers hit Sawyer s spread last night? They got off with a hundred head of cattle and wounded his foreman."

  "LeDoux got himself shot?" Paxton sounded genuinely surprised. "He's not killed, is he?"

  Cole shook his head. "Just a bullet hole in the shoulder. He'll be all right. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Paxton?"

  The Latch Hook foreman snorted in disgust. "I wouldn't mind settling things with LeDoux, but when I do it'll be face to face, Marshal. And none of us take kindly to being accused of rustling."

  "Neither do the boys who ride for Diamond S," Cole pointed out.

  Paxton and the other Latch Hook punchers glared at him, but nothing more was said until they all reached the headquarters of the ranch. Austin Fisk must have seen them coming, because he strode out onto the porch to greet them.

  "Hello, Marshal Tyler," he said with a curt nod to Cole. "What brings you out here?"

  Before Cole could answer, Paxton said, "He's come to accuse us of rustling Sawyer's cattle and shooting his foreman, boss."

  Fisk frowned darkly. "Is that true, Marshal?"

  "Not exactly," Cole snapped. "You going to keep me sitting on my horse, Mr. Fisk?"

  "Step down and come up here on the porch," Fisk said grudgingly. "I'll have something to drink brought out." He turned and called into the house. "Catherine! Bring us some lemonade, girl."

  Cole climbed down from the saddle and stepped up onto the porch. Still with ill grace, Fisk motioned for him to sit down in one of the straight-backed rockers.

  As Cole did so, an attractive, young, blond woman brought a tray from the house with a pitcher of lemonade and several glasses on it. Cole recognized her as Catherine Fisk, the rancher's younger daughter. The older one, a cool-looking brunette whose name Cole couldn't recall at the moment, didn't seem to be around.

  Fisk sat down as Catherine poured lemonade for both of them. The punchers, with the exception of Wilt Paxton, had headed for the bunkhouse. The foreman dismounted, and Catherine handed him a glass of lemonade as well. Cole thought her hand touched Paxton's for a little longer than was necessary as she did so, but that was none of his business.

  "All right, Marshal," Fisk said curtly. "Explain what brings you here. What's this about rustlers hitting Sawyer's ranch?"

  Quickly, Cole filled him in on what had happened on the Diamond S the night before. Cole concluded by saying, "Sawyer's convinced you're behind the rustling because you blame him for the raid on your ranch."

  "Preposterous!" Fisk snorted. "None of my men would do such a thing, and I certainly wouldn't put them up to it. We abide by the law on Latch Hook, Marshal—unlike those wild Texans who think they're a law unto themselves."

  "Sawyer and his men do act like that sometimes," Cole admitted. "But they're not rustlers, Mr. Fisk. I'm sure of that."

  "Well, then, who is responsible for these depredations?"

  "That's
what I intend to find out," Cole declared. "The real reason I rode out here today is to ask your permission to do some poking around."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm pretty good at reading signs. I thought I'd look around the area where you lost those cattle and check out Sawyer's place, too. Maybe I can pick up a trail, find out where those wideloopers took that stock they stole."

  Slowly, Fisk nodded. "I suppose that's a reasonable request. Somewhat out of your jurisdiction, though, isn't it? I was under the impression you were just the town marshal."

  "Yep, that's true, but I'm also the only duly-appointed lawman in these parts, and if Latch Hook and Diamond S wind up at war with each other, it's bound to cause trouble in my town." Cole finished his lemonade, which was cool and sweet, and added flatly, "I don't want that."

  "Neither do I," Fisk admitted. "Sawyer's a jackass, but I'd rather get along with him than have to shoot him, I suppose." The rancher nodded decisively. "You have my permission to ride wherever you like on my ranch, Marshal. Wilt, you spread the word among the men. Marshal Tyler has our cooperation."

  "Sure, boss," Paxton said.

  Cole stood up and handed his empty glass to Catherine, who had stood by silently during the conversation. "Thank you, ma'am," he said. "That was mighty good." To Fisk, he continued, "I'll start by taking a look around your spread."

  "That's fine. Wilt can tell you exactly where the cattle were when we lost them."

  Cole extended a hand to Fisk, who had been more reasonable about everything than he had expected. "Thanks. I'll let you know if I find out anything."

  "And if you find that the trail of those stolen cattle leads to the Diamond S . . . ?" Fisk asked as he shook Cole's hand.

  "Then I'll handle it."

  "See that you do. If not . . ." Fisk shrugged and left the rest unsaid, but his meaning was clear.

  For the sake of this whole part of the territory, Cole hoped he was right and Fisk was wrong.

  Chapter 19

  Not surprisingly, word had traveled quickly around town about the proposed visit to Medicine Creek by Professor Munroe and Dr. Carter, and quite a crowd of curiosity seekers and people desperate for a cure of some sort were following along behind as one of the professor's wagons and the buggy rented by Dr. Carter rolled out of Wind River. Michael rode alongside the medicine show wagon on his horse.

  Munroe was handling the reins with Deborah sitting beside him. Michael rode on that side of the wagon so that he could see her better, and they kept up a conversation as they headed southwest out of town.

  It was fairly innocuous, of course, since Deborah's uncle was sitting right beside her, but Michael enjoyed it anyway. He enjoyed any time he was able to spend with Deborah, no matter what they were doing.

  He wondered fleetingly if he should have told Delia where he was going before he rode out of town. Then he dismissed that concern. The way she had felt about him lately, Delia wasn't likely to even care where he was, he told himself.

  "Are you sure you can find this place, Mr. Hatfield?" Munroe asked when they had gone several miles.

  "We're going in the right direction," Michael said. "We'll know it when we see it."

  "I'm sure Michael is right," Deborah declared, and her support of him made a surge of warmth go through him.

  Michael wished he was as confident as he sounded. He would look utterly foolish in Deborah's eyes if he took them off out here into the wilderness and got them lost. But he wasn't going to let that worry show on his face. He wore a smile instead as he continued to lead the procession.

  He wasn't sure how far they had come when he spotted an Indian sitting on horseback on a rise about two hundred yards away. Michael took that as a good sign, even though it made him nervous. They had to be going the right direction if there was a Shoshone warrior keeping an eye on them.

  "Does any of this look familiar to you, Professor?" Michael asked a little later. "After all, you've been to Medicine Creek before."

  "That was a long time ago, my boy. I'm afraid that even with the benefits of my own tonic, my memory isn't what it once was. But rest assured. As you say, I'll know the place when I see it."

  There was a great deal of excited talk coming from the group trailing along behind. Some of them were townspeople from Wind River, while others were strangers who had been drawn to the community by the widespread newspaper reports about the miracle of Medicine Creek.

  Some of them were old and wanted relief from the infirmities of age; others were much younger and had been stricken by a variety of ailments. Some were lame and some were wracked by coughs. Others were blind or deaf or had withered limbs. Some were only children, and those were the most affecting of all.

  When Michael looked at them, he thought of Gretchen and Lincoln and how he would feel if some serious illness befell either of them, and at those moments he felt a hope far beyond the desire for another good story that he could print in the Sentinel. He hoped for the sake of those children that the waters of Medicine Creek really did contain a miracle or two.

  A little later, from the top of a rise, Michael spotted the lodges of the Shoshone village clustered on the banks of a creek. He held up a hand to stop the others. Professor Munroe hauled back on the reins, bringing the wagon team to a halt, and said excitedly, "Is that it?"

  "No, we have to go past the village a ways," Michael explained. "That's what Deputy Casebolt said. That creek is just the normal one they use for water."

  "Well, as I said, my memory's not what it once was. Besides, things have changed since I've been in these parts."

  That sounded reasonable enough to Michael. He thought about what Cole Tyler or Billy Casebolt would do if one of them were leading this little expedition, and he said, "We'd better swing wide around the village. We don't want to stir up the Shoshones."

  "An excellent idea, young man," Bramwell Carter called dryly from the seat of his rented buggy.

  Michael flushed and swung his arm, indicating to the others that they should turn to the south. That was the easiest way to skirt the Shoshone village. The terrain to the north was more rugged.

  Of course, it was too late to keep the Shoshone from seeing them, Michael knew. The Indians had probably known for a long time where they were and what their destination was.

  It was difficult to do anything in this part of the territory without the Shoshones knowing about it. But so far no one had challenged them, and Michael hoped that luck would continue to run in their favor.

  Some twenty minutes later, he knew that was not going to be the case. The group from Wind River had topped another rise, and this time there was no mistaking the scene before them. The narrow creek that meandered through a shallow valley, the pool from which it sprang at the base of a bluff, the faint wisps of steam rising off the hot surface of the water . . .

  They had found Medicine Creek.

  And sitting on horseback near the pool were about a dozen Shoshone warriors, each man holding either a lance or a bow. The warriors had stripped off their buckskin shirts and painted their torsos with various designs, including symbols to indicate bears, snakes, and buffalo. Their arms were marked with short vertical slashes of paint, and some of the men had their hands painted as well.

  "Good Lord!" Munroe exclaimed. "They look as if . . . as if they're painted for war!"

  "Is that true, Michael?" Deborah asked anxiously.

  Michael swallowed hard and hesitated before answering. Cole or Casebolt could have glanced at those warriors and known immediately what the painting meant, but he had to guess. He said, judging from the stiff attitude with which the warriors watched them, "I don't think they're happy to see us." His eyes searched among the warriors for Two Ponies, but he didn't see the chief anywhere.

  Michael glanced back at the others. They had picked up even more stragglers during the journey out here, as people who were already looking for Medicine Creek joined the larger group. Now everyone was crowding the top of the rise, eager to get down there an
d find out for themselves if the waters of the creek were as miraculous as they'd heard.

  But if they rushed the creek, those Shoshone warriors might fire arrows into them, or charge with those war lances lowered. The bloodshed would be horrible, and it would only be the beginning.

  And the worst of it, Michael realized, was that everyone here was looking to him to tell them what to do. How in blazes had he gotten himself into this?

  "I'm not sure we should go down there—" he began tentatively.

  "Nonsense!" That came from Dr. Bramwell Carter, who snapped the lines of his buggy against the back of the horse pulling it. The buggy rolled forward. "I came out here to prove once and for all that there are no magical cures to be found in either that creek water or this charlatan's so-called tonic! I intend to do just that. Get up there!"

  He slapped the horse with the reins again, and the buggy started down the slope toward the creek. That was all it took to get the others moving again. They surged over the top of the rise and headed for the creek, some in wagons and buggies and buckboards, the others on horseback. Professor Munroe's wagon was among them, with Deborah looking back and calling urgently, "Come on, Michael!"

  He had no choice but to go after them. He urged his horse into a trot, hurrying to catch up. On the banks of the creek, the Shoshone warriors were standing firm.

  The ones with lances lowered the sharp tips of the weapons so they pointed toward the oncoming whites, while the men holding bows drew arrows from their quivers and made ready to fire.

  Yells of anger rose from the people who had come looking for Medicine Creek. Several men riding on wagons lifted rifles to defend themselves and their families. The two sides were only moments away from coming together in a bloody confrontation, and there didn't seem to be a damned thing Michael could do to stop it.

  Suddenly, gunfire crashed behind him. Three shots rang out, and a voice bellowed, "Stop! Stop, you damned fools!" It was followed by another voice shouting something in Shoshone.