Medicine Creek (Wind River Book 4)

by James Reasoner

  Michael's jaw tightened. There was no point in fooling himself. What was going to happen tonight would take place because he wanted it to happen. To believe anything else would just be lying to himself.

  But that might make it easier, he thought.

  Finally, the show was over, after an interminable period in which people had lined up to purchase more bottles of the potent elixir. The crowd drifted away, and Michael stood under the trees, cloaked in the thick shadows, as they left. He would give Deborah, the professor, and the other members of the troupe a few minutes to relax, then he would knock on the door of the wagon that Deborah and her uncle shared. He would invite Deborah to go for a walk with him, and then they would go back to the newspaper office and—

  Suddenly, he felt cold all over and began to shiver. If he hadn't known better, he would have said that he had caught a chill. However, no illness could strike so suddenly. Although he wanted desperately to push the knowledge out of his head, the reason for this feeling crowded relentlessly into his brain.

  It was guilt, pure and simple. He was about to do something he would regret for the rest of his life, and he knew it. He was going to give in to his own selfish lust and ruin forever any chance of lasting happiness with his family.

  Because Delia would know what had happened. God, even if he never said anything, she would know.

  Michael leaned against a tree, grimaced, and pounded his fist against the rough bark of the trunk for a long moment. Guilt, love for his family, desire, frustration, anger . . . they all warred violently inside him. Damn, how he envied people who could just do things, rather than thinking them to death first!

  But he was the way he was, and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing except give up the foolish idea that had brought him here tonight, go home, and beg Delia's forgiveness. A wave of relief washed through him as he made his decision. He took a deep breath and started to step away from the tree.

  That was when he saw the shadowy figures slipping up toward the medicine show wagons.

  There were two of them, and something about them made Michael tense in the deep gloom underneath the trees. Their furtive movements were suspicious, to say the least.

  Professor Munroe had taken in a great deal of money during the past few days, Michael knew, probably over a thousand dollars, perhaps even more. The two men sneaking up on the wagons could be thieves intending to rob the professor.

  Michael had seen Marshal Cole Tyler and Billy Casebolt riding out of Wind River earlier in the day, and he didn't know if they were back yet, nor where they had been going. But Jeremiah Newton looked after things in town when the two lawmen were gone, and it would take Michael only a few minutes to run over to the blacksmith shop and fetch Jeremiah. The massive smith had his living quarters in back of the shop.

  But to do that, Michael would have to leave the concealment of the shadows, and if the two skulkers saw him, they might abandon their plan and run off to try again some other time. Worse yet, they might even take a shot at him.

  Once again, indecision paralyzed Michael. He wished he had a gun. If he had been armed, he could have stepped out from the trees, called out to the men to stop, and covered them while someone else fetched Jeremiah.

  He had to do something soon. The two men had reached the rear of the professor's wagon. One of them reached up stealthily—

  And knocked on the door on the side of the wagon.

  Michael heard the faint, surreptitious rapping, and he stood frozen in surprise as the door quickly opened. The gap was there only for an instant, because the two late-night visitors stepped inside the vehicle quickly, but during that instant, lantern light spilled out of the wagon and washed over the faces of the two men climbing inside. Michael recognized both of them.

  The formerly crippled old drifter called Otis Stokes—and Dr. Bramwell Carter, noted physician from Philadelphia.

  What the devil were they doing here?

  Michael could understand why Otis Stokes might have come to the professor's wagon. After all, Munroe's tonic had healed the old man's legs. Stokes could have come to express his gratitude once more. But Carter and Munroe were bitter enemies. There was no reason for Carter to be here, and there was certainly no reason for the two men to have been skulking around together like thieves in the night.

  Unless, Michael thought suddenly, that was exactly what they were.

  He gave a little shake of his head. He didn't want to believe that. But he was a newspaperman, a journalist, and he knew he had to find out the truth. He took a step, then another, moving quickly but silently across the clearing toward the wagons.

  When he reached the one where Carter and Stokes had gone, he stepped up onto the narrow platform built underneath the door into the wagon. There were a few cracks around the door, and by leaning his head against one of them, he could make out some of what was being said inside. He heard Professor Munroe saying, "—nobody following you?"

  "Don't worry, Nicodemus, I'm sure. Everyone has left, and no one is around outside."

  That voice belonged to Dr. Carter, Michael realized. And it certainly sounded friendly, too, not at all as if Munroe was the bane of the physician's existence.

  The words faded again as Munroe replied, but then Michael caught,"—cleaned up in this town . . . more than two thousand . . ."

  Somebody laughed. "Most of it on account o' me." That was Otis Stokes. "You sure were right, Perfessor. The way them joints o' mine slip in an' out makes it mighty easy to pretend I'm all crippled up!"

  "And it's always good for even more when I watch Otis being cured and then look so flabbergasted," Carter added with a chuckle of his own. "Well, Nicodemus, what do you say? Are we about ready to move on?"

  "Just about," Munroe replied.

  As he eavesdropped, Michael's heart thudded heavily in his chest. He could barely believe what he was hearing. The whole thing had been some sort of swindle. Carter and Stokes were partners with the professor. The Chippewa Tonic was probably completely worthless, no matter how smoothly it went down. They were thieves, the whole lot of them!

  Even . . . even Deborah? Michael asked himself.

  He didn't get the chance to try to figure it out. Suddenly, strong arms went around him from behind and tightened in a vise-like grip. Michael tried to jerk free, and he opened his mouth to let out a howl for help.

  Before he could make any noise, however, something wet and sickly sweet-smelling was clapped across his face, covering his nose and mouth. He tried to draw a breath, but the stuff made him gag. He writhed and twisted to no avail against the arms holding him.

  The smell that filled his senses was familiar somehow, and abruptly he realized what it was. Ether! Someone was holding a cloth soaked with ether over his face.

  That thought did him no good, because it was the last one he had before darkness swept up, washed over him, and carried him away.

  * * *

  The first thing he knew when he regained consciousness was that he was sick, sicker than he had ever been in his life. He had read that ether could do that to a person, and as his head began to clear and sensation returned to him, he knew what he was feeling came from the ether.

  Some of it, anyway.

  The rest of the sickness inside him came from the knowledge that he was nothing but a damned fool.

  Memories of what he had overheard before he was knocked out came flooding back in on him. Of course, Deborah had been a part of the scheme from the first; he knew how close she and her uncle were. All of them, all the members of the medicine show, were crooks, as well as Dr. Carter and Otis Stokes.

  Michael wondered if Carter was even really a doctor. It was doubtful, he decided; nobody had even thought to check the man's credentials. Everyone had just accepted him for who he claimed to be. He was just another thief with a smattering of medical knowledge, like the professor. Both of them knew just enough to sound like they knew what they were talking about.

  Those thoughts flashed through Michael'
s head in a matter of instants as his eyes flickered open. Bright light struck them like a blow, and he winced. That made his head spin even more, and he let out a groan.

  "Our young friend seems to be awake," a voice said. "Keep an eye on him, Chief."

  Michael became aware that he was lying on his back, on something soft. A bunk of some sort, he decided. And there was a lantern hanging over the bunk and that was what was blinding him. He blinked rapidly until his eyes began to adjust to the light.

  Something blocked it off abruptly, and he focused blearily on the object. It was a face, the face of someone leaning over him.

  "Hello, Michael," Deborah said. "I'm glad to see you're awake. Sometimes ether can be dangerous."

  Michael moaned again. It was bad enough to have figured out what was really going on here; to have it confirmed so blithely by Deborah was doubly painful.

  He tried to move but found that he couldn't. He was tied up, bound hand and foot. Deborah moved a little so that the light struck him in the face again. She put her hand against his cheek. Her fingers were cool and soft.

  "Please don't struggle, Michael. You'll only make things worse for yourself."

  He licked dry lips and tried to ignore the pain in his head and the roiling ball of nausea in his stomach. "What . . . what are you going to . . . do to me?" he managed to rasp out. His throat hurt from breathing the ether.

  A different voice answered him, a voice he recognized as Bramwell Carter's. "We're going to have to kill you, of course."

  "No!" Deborah cried. "Uncle Nicodemus—"

  "I'm afraid Bramwell is correct, my dear," Munroe said. Michael's vision was still a little fuzzy, but he could see the professor now, along with Carter, Stokes, the Dumonts, and Chief Laughing Fox. All of them were crowded into the wagon. Munroe went on, "Michael knows the truth about us now, and he can't be allowed to spread that information. We're ready to move on from Wind River and begin again somewhere else, and we can't very well do that with a mob on our heels howling for our blood, now can we?"

  "I suppose not," Deborah said gloomily. "But I wish there was some other way,"

  Michael swallowed and said, "How . . . how did you know—"

  "That you were outside eavesdropping on us?" Munroe smiled. "I heard the platform creak and felt the shift in weight when you stepped up on it, so I knew that someone might be sneaking around out there. I sent the chief and Deborah out through the front of the wagon to check on things and deal with the intruder, if there was one. Deborah can be quite light on her feet, as you know, and the chief . . . well, he's an Indian. What more do I need to say?"

  Michael closed his eyes. A bitter taste filled his mouth, and it had little or nothing to do with the drug that had knocked him out. He said, "It was all a fake from the start, wasn't it?"

  "If you mean the Chippewa Tonic, I suppose it might have some slight medicinal value. It makes people believe they feel better, whether they really do or not."

  "Why did you come to Wind River?"

  "It was a natural," Munroe said as he leaned over the bunk. "When I read that newspaper story in Cheyenne about the miraculous healing of Deputy Casebolt's ailment, I knew your little community was ripe for us to visit."

  "You were never here before, were you?" Michael accused. "That story about finding Medicine Creek years ago and being inspired by it to create your tonic—"

  "Was just a story," Munroe finished. "But an effective one, you'll have to admit. Of course, we all knew things would be even better once Bramwell arrived and we went through with our little performance. No one makes a better witness on one's behalf than a converted enemy. And with the aid of Otis, we were able to convert the eminent Dr. Carter."

  Michael looked over at the old drifter. "You weren't ever crippled at all!"

  Stokes cackled. "It's all in the joints, kid, all in the joints."

  "Otis used to be a member of a traveling carnival before I persuaded him to join us," Munroe said. "He doesn't have to work nearly as hard, and the pay is ever so much better."

  Calvin Dumont grunted. "There's been too much talk already. Let's kill him and get it over with."

  "You're right, Calvin," Bramwell Carter said. "Deborah, get some more of that ether. That'll be the quietest way to get rid of him."

  "No!" Deborah said firmly. "I won't let you kill him."

  "My dear," Munroe said, his voice growing impatient, "we've been all through this—"

  "You don't have to kill him to stop him from being a threat. Let's take him with us. We were leaving anyway. We can turn him loose when we have a big enough lead so that no one can come after us."

  Carter and Dumont both started to shake their heads, but Munroe frowned and said, "I suppose that might work. But you'll be responsible for seeing that he doesn't cause any trouble, Deborah."

  She nodded eagerly in agreement. "Of course."

  "I don't like it," Carter said. "It's much more certain if we just go ahead and—"

  "I said we would do it the way Deborah suggested," Munroe snapped, and there was no doubt he was in charge here, despite his mild appearance. "As long as Michael cooperates, I don't mind giving him a chance for life." Munroe came a step closer to the bed. "What about it, Michael? Do you want to die now—or would you rather live?"

  Michael took a deep breath and fought down the sickness again. "I want to live," he said.

  "Now you're being smart." Munroe turned to the others. "Let's get ready to pull out, shall we?"

  They filed out of the wagon while Deborah held her hand over Michael's mouth, just in case he decided to cry out. She leaned over closer to him and smiled. "I'm almost glad things worked out this way," she said in a whisper. "Now we'll get the chance to have some fun after all."

  Michael's eyes widened.

  Chapter 26

  Alexandra Fisk patted the smooth wooden stock of the Winchester that was snugged in the saddleboot under her leg and felt better about being out here in the darkness.

  Her father would have pitched a fit if he had known where she was. Despite the fact that Austin Fisk was growing more convinced the men from the Diamond S didn't have anything to do with the rustling, he still hated Kermit Sawyer. He wouldn't want either of his daughters anywhere near Sawyer's ranch, especially after dark like this.

  Of course, Alexandra told herself, she wasn't on the Diamond S. She was just near the entrance to the pass that led through the mountains to Sawyer's spread.

  When she got back to the ranch, she would tell her father that she had been out for a ride. He would be angry enough about that, but he knew his eldest daughter's restless nature.

  Alexandra had never been one to allow herself to be penned up. Besides, it would probably be safe enough. The rustlers had struck only the night before, so they wouldn't push their luck by trying something again so soon. And if they ran true to form, they would raid the Diamond S next, anyway.

  But if the thieves were out and about tonight, they might use this pass, and if that was the case, Alexandra intended to trail them this time and find out where they went.

  She was sitting on horseback in a thick stand of pines, using their shadows to hide herself. The night was alive with noises, as it usually was, but suddenly she heard something out of place. It was the clink of a steel-shod hoof against rock, she decided after a moment, and as she listened intently, it came again several times. Someone was riding not far from here.

  Alexandra slipped down from her horse and moved silently on foot to the edge of the trees. She peered through the darkness in the direction of the sounds and after a moment spotted a couple of moving shapes. Riders, she realized with a mingled thrill of anticipation and fear rippling through her. And they were headed in her direction.

  The two figures on horseback veered to the side before they reached the pines, however. They rode toward a towering bluff north of the pass, but they stopped when they had gone a short distance. One of the riders reached over and grasped the reins of the other's horse, jerking the ani
mal to a halt. They were several hundred yards away, but Alexandra's keen eyes could make out that much. She frowned. What was going on?

  The two people stayed where they were, evidently deep in conversation. Alexandra took a chance and darted back to where she had left her horse.

  There were a pair of army field glasses in the saddlebags, a legacy of the Late Unpleasantness in which her father had served as an officer in the Confederate Army. When she had the glasses, she ran back to the edge of the trees, not worrying as much now about being quiet.

  There was a bright moon tonight, another reason to suspect that rustlers would not be abroad. Alexandra lifted the field glasses to her eyes and tried to locate the two riders through them. It took her a moment, but suddenly she saw them, her eyes drawn by the moonlight shining on long, fair hair.

  Catherine! One of the riders was her sister, Catherine!

  And unless Alexandra missed her guess, the other was her father's foreman, Wilt Paxton. It was difficult to make out many details in the poor light, but she thought she recognized the shape of his high-crowned hat.

  Without warning, Paxton reached over and grasped Catherine's arm. Alexandra gasped as she watched through the glasses. Paxton moved the horses closer together, pulled Catherine to him, and kissed her.

  Kissed her, for God's sake!

  Alexandra didn't know whether to gasp again or laugh out loud. Flighty little Catherine, who had never met a man she couldn't flirt with, seemed to have met her match. Her arms went around Paxton's neck as they kissed. Alexandra felt her own face growing warm.

  She had no right to spy on them like this, she told herself. Obviously, they had come out here to get away from the eyes of Austin Fisk. Alexandra knew her father probably wouldn't like it if he was aware that his younger daughter was carrying on so shamelessly with his foreman.

  Alexandra lowered the glasses and chuckled. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Alexandra Fisk," she told herself aloud. "How would you like it if you were—"