Wild Side of the River

by Michael Zimmer

  “Not quite,” Ethan replied gruffly. He swung his legs carefully off the bunk and sat up.

  “What happened?”

  “Palmer says you got feisty and he had to cold cock you.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Ethan chuckled. “Is that what he said?”

  Jeff shrugged without interest. “Palmer and one of his hired men toted you over. Palmer wanted to press charges, but I told him I’d have to think about it.”

  Ethan didn’t try to deny any wrongdoing on his part, having never developed the habit of lying to excuse his actions. The fact was, he’d lost his temper when Palmer reached for the gun in his drawer, and that was the long and short of it right there. “You made up your mind yet?” he asked.

  “I ought to keep you locked up. It would make my job simpler. I hear you paid Lou Merrick a visit, too, and scared his wife half out of her mind. Is that true?”

  “I was there. I couldn’t say about Missus Merrick. Did anyone mention he had a rifle pointed at my belly?”

  “He didn’t mention a rifle.”

  “I’d wager there’s a lot of things Lou Merrick ain’t mentioned,” Joel said from the next cell. “Especially about me ’n’ that girl of his.”

  “Shut up, Joel,” Jeff said mildly. He studied Ethan quietly for another minute, then sighed and straightened. “I need some more time to think about those charges. Until I make up my mind, you get out of here. Just don’t go back to Merrick’s or Palmer’s, savvy?”

  “I savvy.”

  “Shy clear of the Bullshead, too.”

  Ethan stood, exited the cell on wobbly legs.

  “Ethan!” Joel hissed, pressing tightly against the flat straps of iron holding him prisoner. “Get us outta here. Burke’s gonna run when Kestler comes in, and that son-of-a-bitch and his cowboys are gonna hang me ’n’ Ben for sure.”

  “I’m not going to tell you again to shut your trap,” Jeff growled. “Another word out of you and I’ll come in there and put a gag on you.”

  “Stay out of trouble,” Ethan told his brothers, then followed the sheriff into the front room. His hat and gun belt were sitting on the desk. He strapped the belt around his waist, but held off putting on his hat. “Did Palmer tell you about the blood on those saddles, or that Nolan Andrews has been paying the stable bill for those hardcases over at the Bullshead?”

  “He mentioned it. As long as the bill gets paid, it’s none of my business who shells out the money, and getting blood on saddle leather is hardly new.”

  “Those men work for Andrews, Jeff. That’s got to mean something.”

  Burke flopped into his chair. “I’ll tell you the truth, Ethan . . . right now I’m too damn’ tired to even jump to a conclusion about what Nolan Andrews and those boys over at the Bullshead are up to, let alone walk over there to find out.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to sit here and wait for Charlie Kestler to come in. Then I’m going to try like hell to keep a lid on his temper, because the word is, Charlie’s bringing a couple of strong ropes with him. When I’ve got that situation under control, and had a few hours sleep in my own bed, I’ll start looking at those bloody saddles and maybe ask Andrews what he knows about them. But right now, I’m staying put.”

  The impatience that had been growing against the sheriff disappeared. “I reckon that makes sense,” Ethan conceded.

  “I’m glad you approve,” Jeff replied cynically. “Now why don’t you make my job easier and get out of town for a spell?”

  “I’m not going anywhere until this is settled.”

  “Then go over to Doc Carver’s and sit with Vic. And keep a halter on that temper of yours. It’ll only make things worse if you don’t.”

  Ethan didn’t reply. His attention had been captured again by the map above the sheriff’s desk. Mentally he traced the line of murders and disappearances in the breaks. For a moment, he thought he’d spotted something, but, when he looked closer, it was gone.

  “Go on, Ethan,” Jeff said gently. “Go look in on Vic . . . .”

  The sheriff’s words trailed off, and a funny look came to his face. In that same instant, Ethan became aware of a faint vibration through the soles of his boots.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Jeff said, standing and going to the door. As he pulled it open, a gust of fresh air swept into the room, bringing with it a faint rumble, like a stampede over the horizon. Without looking back, he said: “Get out of here, Wilder. Use the back door and stay out of sight.”

  “I can help.”

  “If you want to help, get out of here now.” Jeff slammed the front door closed and bolted it, then went to the gun rack on the wall and lifted a double-barreled shotgun from it. Flashing Ethan a warning look, he added: “I mean it. If you aren’t out of here by the time I get this scatter-gun loaded and closed, I’m going to throw you back in that empty cell beside your brothers and lock the door.”

  “All right, but I’ll be close,” Ethan said. He went out the back door, and Jeff locked it after him. In front, the sound of approaching horses grew steadily louder. Hurrying over to the high windows that allowed fresh air into the cells, Ethan called: “Joel, Ben, can you hear me?”

  Fists appeared at both windows, knuckles tightening as the two prisoners hauled themselves up high enough to see out. “Ethan,” Ben cried, “what’s going on?”

  Joel was more to the point. “God dammit, Eth, get us outta here.”

  “Listen, Kestler’s here, and it sounds like he’s got a full crew.”

  “It sounds like he’s got an army,” Joel said.

  “Dammit, listen to me,” Ethan said impatiently. “I’ve two horses in the barn behind Carver’s house. If things get out of hand and I have to break you out of here, remember that. I’ll make sure they’re saddled and bridled. If you have to make a run for it, head for Elk Camp. I’ll join you there as soon as I can.”

  “Things are already out of hand,” Joel said desperately. “Get us outta here!”

  “Not yet,” Ethan replied. “Let’s see what Jeff does before we dig ourselves in any deeper.”

  “Ethan,” Ben said plaintively.

  “Yeah, little Brother?”

  “Ethan, I don’t wanna die.” Ben sounded close to tears, fear thrumming his voice like chords on a guitar.

  Ethan’s fists clenched in frustration. “Remember those horses, Ben. If you have to run, grab one and don’t look back. I’ll be close behind you.”

  * * * * *

  Ethan kept to the alleys and back lots as he made his way around to Sam Davidson’s Mercantile. He entered through the rear door, then followed a narrow aisle to the front of the store.

  Davidson and his sallow-faced clerk were at the window, staring down the street toward the sheriff’s office. There were no customers, and Sam’s glare seemed to indicate he considered Ethan to be the cause.

  “Hell’s about to break loose now, Wilder,” Sam said accusingly. “We’ll be lucky if Kestler doesn’t take a torch to this town.”

  “Kestler isn’t interested in destroying Sundance,” Ethan replied. “He wants Joel.”

  “And what do you think he’ll do if he doesn’t get him?”

  “If he’s the gentleman you seem to believe he is, he’ll go home and wait until Burke finishes his investigation.”

  Sam snorted derisively. “Charlie Kestler is a lot of things, but I don’t know anyone who’d consider him a gentleman. You don’t build a ranch the size of the Lazy-K by waiting for someone else to do your dirty work. Kestler wants Joel, and he’ll raise holy hell until he gets him, including turning his cowboys loose on the town.”

  Ethan stared out the window to where Kestler had halted his crew in front of the sheriff’s office. He was startled by the size of the rancher’s command. The last he’d heard, Kestler ran a small but growing spread northwest of Sundance, supplying beef to the Blackfoot Reservation and the Army at Fort Shaw. He’d had only three or four men working for him then, including his son N
ate.

  There were at least twenty men sitting, tight-reined and flint-eyed, behind the rancher today. Nate was there, mounted on a flashy palomino at his father’s side, taller and slimmer than Ethan remembered him, a revolver on each hip.

  “When did Charlie Kestler get so big?” Ethan asked.

  “Working from dawn until after dark, while you Wilders were chasing squaws down in the breaks,” Sam replied curtly. Ethan turned slowly, and Davidson gulped and took a step back. “I, ah . . . I didn’t mean it to sound like that, Ethan. I just meant to say Kestler’s been working hard, bringing in fresh stock from Oregon to build up his herd, things like that.”

  “I used to consider you a friend,” Ethan said softly. “That’s why I’m not going to break your jaw right now. But if you ever say anything like that again, I will. Not your arm or a rib, but your jaw, so you can think about that big mouth of yours while sipping soup for a couple of months. Do you believe me, Sam?”

  The shopkeeper’s face had faded to the color of quartz. “Yeah, I believe you,” he croaked.

  Ethan glanced at Davidson’s clerk, standing motionlessly behind his boss. Becoming aware of a faintly acidic stink, Ethan glanced at the clerk’s trousers. A dark stain had appeared under the fly, spreading slowly. Wrinkling his nose, Ethan said: “Go home, and keep your head down. Things are going to get ugly around here real soon.”

  * * * * *

  Kestler reined up in front of the sheriff’s office, his men coming to a rough stop behind him. The fine dust from the street swirled forward, enveloping the horsemen in a powdery fog. No one spoke until it settled. Then the jailhouse door swung open and Jeff Burke stepped onto the boardwalk. He carried his shotgun muzzles down in his right hand, his left hooked by the thumb to his gun belt. His voice carried faintly to those waiting and watching in Davidson’s store.

  “You’re wasting your time, Mister Kestler. I’m not going to turn Joel Wilder over to you or anyone else.”

  “I didn’t come here just for Joel Wilder, Jeff. I came to bring justice to this land. I want ’em both.”

  “Bastard,” Ethan mouthed.

  “They’ll stand trial for their crimes, and, if they’re found guilty, they’ll be punished in accordance with the law.”

  “A jury of their peers?” Kestler asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Men from the community.”

  “Men like these?” Kestler tipped his head toward the cowboys behind him.

  “No, sir. Men who are court appointed, who live and work in Sundance, and have a vested interest in seeing law prevail over revenge. All you have here is a mob.”

  “It took a mob to clean up Ruby Gulch.” Kestler’s voice rose dramatically. “A mob of citizens willing to do what a bunch of timid lawmen were either powerless to do, or too damn’ faint-hearted.”

  “Those days are over,” Jeff replied firmly. “We have an established law now, and a judicial system to see that it’s carried out properly. I won’t tolerate vigilantism in Sundance. Go home, Charlie. Let me handle this.”

  Kestler leaned forward in his saddle, reminding Ethan of a vulture readying itself for flight. His men waited expectantly, hands hovering near their guns. For one agonizing moment, Ethan thought Kestler was going to give the command to swarm the jail. Then, just as suddenly, the rancher leaned back, seemingly growing smaller before Ethan’s eyes. But he wasn’t cowed. Even from Davidson’s, Ethan could tell he hadn’t given up.

  “We’ll talk later, Jeff,” Kestler said, raising his voice once more for the benefit of those who watched from behind closed doors. “After my boys have had a couple of drinks.”

  Jeff’s shoulders twitched at the implication. “Keep your men sober, Kestler. I don’t want a bunch of drunken cowboys shooting up the town.”

  Ethan felt Davidson’s eyes shift toward him, as if to say I told you so. Ethan didn’t return the look.

  Kestler jerked his horse around and trotted it down the street to the Bullshead. His men came after him, filling the hitching rails on either side of the saloon. Jeff remained on the boardwalk another minute, then went inside.

  When he was gone, Ethan made his way to the back door. He half expected some scathing remark from Davidson, but only the echo of his own boots accompanied him outside.

  He took the back way to Carver’s, staying out of sight of anyone lingering along the main thoroughfare, and knocked softly on the window glass to Doc’s office.

  The physician opened the door. Eyeing Ethan’s bare head, he said: “You’ve got straw in your hair, Ethan.”

  “I’ve got a lump up there, too.”

  “You Wilders have been good for business lately. I wish you’d quit it. Let me have a look.”

  “Kestler’s in town.”

  “You think I don’t know that? Sit down.”

  Ethan hung his hat on a rack made of antelope horns, then folded himself wearily into a chair.

  Doc probed gently at the hardened knot at the back of Ethan’s skull, then wiped his hands on a towel. “I’m assuming you were poking your nose where it didn’t belong.”

  “Depends on your point of view.”

  “Well, I don’t know if you’ll live or not, but it won’t be that bump on your head that kills you.”

  “How’s Vic?”

  Carver’s expression relaxed in a faint smile. “He’s been awake off and on. Would you like to see him?”

  “I would.” Ethan pushed to his feet and followed Carver into the small room off of his office. Vic was lying on his back, blankets folded down to his waist. He looked pale and wasted, and Ethan’s smile dimmed. “Hey, little Brother, how are you feeling?” he asked gently.

  Vic’s gaze shifted listlessly toward the sound of his voice. His eyes were dull and pain-filled, but at least they were open.

  “Can you hear me?” Ethan asked.

  After a pause, Vic’s head moved in a small nod. He didn’t try to speak.

  Leaning close, Ethan said: “Vic, I need to know. Did you see the man who shot you?”

  There was another long silence, followed by a faint scowl and a barely perceptible nod. Then Vic’s eyes rolled back in his head and Ethan’s heart felt like it had stopped beating until he noticed the steady rise and fall of his brother’s shrunken torso.

  “Jesus,” Ethan gasped.

  “He’s sleeping,” Doc said. “That’ll do him more good than anything I can give him. Let’s let him rest.”

  “I need to know who shot him, Doc. For Ben’s sake.”

  “I know, but it’ll have to wait.”

  Ethan nodded, eyes blurring as he followed Carver back to his office. He knew that, with Kestler in town, time was running out. Despite his vow to Joel and Ben to break them out if he had to, he knew pulling off a jailbreak would be next to impossible. There had to be another way.

  “Doc, you said Vic was shot with a small-caliber gun?”

  “In my opinion, yes. Of course, I haven’t seen the bullet.”

  “Pa was shot with a small caliber, too. Could it have been the same gun?”

  “It’s not only possible, I made note of it in the sheriff’s report I filled out on Vic.”

  “What caliber?”

  “I still have the bullet I dug out of your father, if you’d like to see it.” Doc was already moving toward the big roll-top desk against the wall.

  Ethan followed, his expression wooden as the physician dropped a lead slug into his palm.

  “About a Thirty-Two,” he heard himself say above the roaring in his ears. And deep in his mind, Ben’s voice: Pa bought himself a neat little rifle, a Thirty-Two pump, and he caught me using it to shoot flies off the ceiling in the kitchen.

  This had all started because of that little .32 pump-action rifle, Ethan reflected, but where was it now? He hadn’t seen it when he and Vic were straightening up the house. He rolled the half-flattened slug under his thumb.

  “It killed Pa, but it didn’t kill
Vic,” he pondered aloud.

  “That’s because your father was shot at pointblank range,” Doc said. “Vic was shot from farther away.”

  “Yeah, from the barn.”

  “What are you driving at?”

  Ethan shook his head. “I don’t know. Do you mind if I keep this?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Thanks.” Ethan dropped the bullet in his pocket, lifted his hat from the wall rack, then hesitantly put it back. “Would you mind if I stayed here a while?”

  “I’d consider it a wise decision,” Doc replied solemnly. “Claudia is preparing supper. She mentioned she invited you to share it with us.”

  Ethan nodded. “If that’s all right.”

  Doc smiled and grasped his shoulder with affection. “Of course it is, and about time we repaid a fraction of our debt to the Wilders.”

  “You don’t owe us anything, Doc, especially after what you’ve done for Vic. I’m obliged for that.” Moving toward the back door, he said: “I’ll check on the horses if there’s time.”

  “Plenty of time. Supper won’t be ready for another couple of hours.”

  Ethan paused with his hand on the knob. “If Vic wakes up and I’m not here, ask him to describe the man who shot him, would you?”

  For a moment, Doc looked like he was going to refuse. Then his features softened. “I won’t do anything that might cause him discomfort, but . . . if I can, I will.”

  Ethan nodded his thanks and exited the office. In Doc’s barn, he found the Appaloosa and sorrel still tied off in separate stalls, hay and fresh water within easy reach. Pulling a currycomb from a box nailed to the wall, he began working on the Appaloosa’s rust-spotted coat. The horse was just green-broke, skittish at the unfamiliar sensations of the brush, but Ethan took his time, enjoying the simplicity of the chore, the calming effect it had on him as much as the horse. On just the ride in from the Bar-Five, he’d already grown fond of the animal. It was easily the equal of his bay, and better than any of the other horses in his personal string. If things worked out—meaning he didn’t end up dead in the next few hours or days—he wanted to put more work in with the Appaloosa, train it gently.

  He curried the sorrel next, then saddled and bridled both horses, drawing the cinches tight because he knew that, if Joel and Ben needed mounts, they would need them in a hurry.