"Sure, Brother Judson," Jeremiah said with a grin. He stood up. "How much do I owe you?"
Kent waved a hand. "Don't worry about that. Consider your treatment a charitable contribution on my part."
"That's not right," Jeremiah said. "You'll never get rich doing things like that."
Kent put a hand on the shoulder of Jeremiah's uninjured arm. "My friend, I didn't come to Wind River to get rich. Far from it, in fact. I simply wanted a place where I could practice medicine, do some good for people, and make some friends. I've been able to do all of those things in abundance in our fair community."
Jeremiah nodded slowly and said, "Reckon I know what you mean. I feel the same way. About preaching and blacksmithing, I mean, not doctoring."
"I know what you mean," Kent assured him.
Jeremiah thanked him again and left. Kent went to the window of the office and watched the big man stride away on the boardwalk outside.
Jeremiah had gone less than a block when he was intercepted by a group of men coming from the other direction. Kent frowned slightly. He saw Michael Hatfield in that group, as well as Harvey Raymond, the manager of the general store, Lawton Paine, who owned the boarding house where Cole Tyler lived, and Nathan Smollett, the manager of the bank. There were several other men with them, all of whom Kent recognized as merchants and leading citizens of Wind River.
Jeremiah was talking animatedly with the men, and suddenly he turned and pointed in the direction of the doctor's office. Kent took a step back, feeling as if Jeremiah was pointing straight at him.
A moment later he saw that that might have been true. Jeremiah started back toward the office, accompanied now by the men who had been talking to him.
"Odd," Kent muttered to himself. "I wonder what that was all about."
There was a good chance he was going to find out, he realized. The group led by Jeremiah turned in at the entrance to the doctor's office.
Jeremiah was grinning as he and his companions trooped into the office to face Kent. "There's your man, right there," he said as he pointed again at Kent. "They asked me, Brother Judson, but I told them they needed to come and see you."
"What about?" Kent demanded, confused by this turn of events.
Harvey Raymond spoke up. "We want you to run for mayor, of course," the store manager said.
"Run for mayor!" exclaimed Kent. "Me? You must be joking."
"No, we're not, Doctor," Michael said excitedly. "Like Jeremiah said, we asked him first, but he pointed out that you'd be much better for the job."
"I'm a preacher, not a politician," Jeremiah said, still grinning.
"And I'm a doctor," Kent snapped. "I know nothing about running a town."
"You're an honest man," Lawton Paine said. "I can't think of a better qualification than that. You're educated, and you care about Wind River. Nobody can argue with that. Jeremiah was right when he told us that if he ran, folks would be liable to think he was doing it just because he's been squabbling with Parker over that land. Nobody can say that about you. You don't have any ax to grind with Parker—other than that he's a low-down skunk and probably a crook."
That speech was longer than any Kent had ever heard the normally dour and taciturn Lawton Paine make. And everything Paine said made sense, too, Kent had to admit. But . . . mayor? Him? Such a possibility had never even entered his mind.
"Look, Dr. Kent," Michael said, "if you don't run, Parker's going to win. You said so yourself when we were talking with Marshal Tyler a while ago. In fact, that's what gave me the idea of trying to find another candidate to replace Mrs. McKay. There's no one better qualified than you."
"But . . . but what about Marshal Tyler?" Kent suggested. "He could run."
"A good lawman has too many enemies to make a successful politician, and there's not a better lawman in the territory than Marshal Tyler. He's just stepped on too many toes in the course of his job. But a man like you, Doctor, who's admired by practically everybody in town, you could win, even getting into the race now."
Kent rubbed a hand over his bearded jaw and frowned deeply as he thought about what Michael and the others were saying. It was true that with Simone out of the election, Parker would win easily . . . unless someone else opposed him. And it was also true that Kent had no real enemies in Wind River. He had never believed in false modesty; he knew he was looked up to by most of the citizens in the settlement. Yes, he thought, he could indeed win. But did he want to?
Even if the alternative was Hank Parker?
"Yes." Kent heard the word come out of his mouth, and it surprised him a little, as did the ones that followed it. "Yes, I'll do it. I suppose I have little choice. Someone has to prevent Hank Parker from being elected."
His visitors clustered around him, congratulating him and slapping him on the back. "It's about time somebody decent threw his hat in the ring," one of the men said.
"We'll start spreading the word right away. Michael, you can print up some flyers, can't you?"
Michael grinned and said, "Sure. What I'm wondering is, after the election, do we call you Dr. Kent or Mayor Kent?"
"I suppose that would depend on whether I was drafting an ordinance or setting a broken leg," Kent replied dryly.
He just hoped that after the election they wouldn't be calling him the biggest damned fool in all of Wyoming Territory.
* * *
Cole was standing on the boardwalk in front of the marshal's office that evening when Billy Casebolt came up to him. The deputy was just getting back from supper, and Cole was trying not to think about Simone McKay sitting in the cell block, eating her own meal from a tray Cole had brought over from the cafe. Brooding over the situation wasn't going to help it any.
"Well, the whole town's sure a-buzzin'," Casebolt commented as he leaned on the railing along the edge of the boardwalk. "From what I've heard, Doc Kent ain't goin' to have no trouble whippin' Parker day after tomorrow."
"I wouldn't count on it being that easy," Cole said. "Nothing ever is. Still, I'm glad Judson is running. He's got a good chance of beating Parker."
Casebolt studied the marshal shrewdly. "I got the feelin' you and the doc ain't gettin' along so good these days."
Cole shrugged. He wasn't even going to attempt to explain all his contradictory feelings about Simone and Kent to Billy. Cole didn't know himself what they all meant. "I think Judson will do a fine job as mayor," he said. "I intend to vote for him."
"Oh, I reckon I do, too. Sure ain't votin' for no skunk like Parker, even though I reckon he's got a head start on most politicians."
Cole looked over at the deputy. "A head start? How do you figure that?"
"He's already a low-down crook. He don't have to waste time gettin' that way whilst he's holdin' office."
"I guess you've got a point," Cole chuckled. He stepped down off the boardwalk. "Think I'll take a turn around the town, even if it is a little early. Mrs. McKay ought to be finishing her supper soon."
"I'll tend to it," Casebolt said with a nod. When Simone was finished eating, he would retrieve the tray from the cell and take her to the outhouse behind the jail. It was a far cry from the fancier facilities of the Territorial House or Simone's own mansion, but she had been arrested for murder, after all. A few hardships were to be expected.
That didn't mean Cole had to like what Simone was going through. He felt a touch of impatience as he wondered if Bud had had that discussion with Hank Parker yet, telling Parker that Marshal Tyler had come poking around and asking questions.
He crossed the street and then ambled along the opposite boardwalk toward the Pronghorn, not really thinking about where his steps were taking him.
It was almost full dark, with only a faint red glow left in the western sky from the sunset. The saloon was on the eastern end of Grenville Avenue, along with most of the other drinking establishments, dance halls, bordellos, and the like. Lights, music, and laughter began to fill the oncoming night.
Cole was passing the mouth of an
alley when he heard a man's voice call softly, "Hey, Marshal!"
He had swung halfway toward the sound of the voice before instinct took over and pitched him forward, off his feet. The Colt was in his hand before he landed on the dirt in the alley mouth.
A roaring blast of exploding gunpowder slapped against his ears as twin tongues of flame leaped from the muzzle of a shotgun. Cole felt a stinging sensation in his shoulder and another in his side as buckshot lanced into him. But there was no time to worry about that because the .44 was bucking in his hand as he triggered three shots toward the spot where the shotgun blast had come from.
His ears were ringing from the gunshots, but he still heard a loud clatter, as if somebody had knocked over some barrels or crates. Cole rolled to the side of the alley, trying to be as quiet about it as possible, and pressed himself against the foundation of the building there. He had his thumb on the hammer of the Colt, ready to drop it again if he saw anything to shoot at. The ringing in his ears began to die away.
That let him hear the shouts of alarm coming from Grenville Avenue, as well as the sound of running footsteps from farther along the alley. The bushwhacker might be trying to lure him into a trap, but Cole didn't think so. The steps had an erratic, frantic quality to them, like the gunman was wounded and trying desperately to get away while he still had the chance. Cole came silently to his feet and moved down the alley, the heavy revolver held steady in his fist in front of him.
A moment later he came to a jumble of knocked-over crates, just as he had suspected. His foot struck something else on the ground, and as he leaned over to pick up the object with his free hand, his fingers encountered something wet and sticky on it. Blood, from the feel of it, Cole thought. And the thing he picked up off the floor of the alley was a greener, all right. At least one of his slugs had found its target.
He dropped the shotgun and broke into a run, unwilling to let the ambusher get away. The running footsteps still sounded faintly. Cole dashed along the narrow alley and came out into a wider lane at the rear of the buildings. The steps came from his left. He swung in that direction and caught a glimpse of a running figure, silhouetted against a lighted rear window in a building down the street.
"Hold it!" Cole shouted.
The figure stopped and turned, and orange muzzle flame licked into the darkness once again. Cole could tell from the sound of it that this shot came from a pistol. The slug went wild, though, whining far over Cole's head. The man was hurt too badly to aim very well.
"Drop the gun!" Cole ordered. He wanted to take the bushwhacker alive if possible.
But the man fired again and again, and the second shot kicked up dust from the ground not six feet to Cole's left. He grated a curse and squeezed the trigger of his own revolver.
The gun cracked, and Cole heard a grunt of pain. The shadowy figure flew backward, flopping onto the ground. Cole ran toward him, one chamber in the Colt's cylinder still loaded and ready to fire. Didn't look like he was going to need it, though, he thought as he came closer. The fallen bushwhacker sprawled motionless. Cole kept the gun trained on him anyway.
A lanky form pounded out of an alley down the street, and Billy Casebolt's voice yelled, "Hey! What's goin' on back here?"
"Down here, Billy," Cole called to the deputy. "It's all right now. Looks like the shooting's over."
Casebolt came up to him and asked anxiously, "You all right, Marshal?"
"I picked up a couple of pellets of buckshot, but other than that I'm fine. Got a match, Billy?"
Casebolt lowered the shotgun he was holding and fumbled in his shirt pocket. "Yeah, just a minute . . . there."
He struck the match on the breech of the greener and held it low enough so that Cole could see the face of the ambusher. The features were coarse, the jaw covered with several days' worth of beard stubble. The rough range clothes and the worn but well-cared-for six-gun lying next to the man's body confirmed Cole's first impression.
"Looks like one of those hard cases who drift through here," Cole said. He hunkered on his heels next to the dead man and quickly checked the man's pockets. He didn't find anything except the makin's—and a roll of greenbacks.
"Hired gun," Casebolt said contemptuously.
"I reckon you're right. I wish I hadn't killed him, though, so I could ask who hired him. I tried to shoot low, but he must have crouched or stumbled just as I squeezed the trigger. Bullet took him right under the heart."
Casebolt spat into the dirt. "I can make a pretty good guess who paid this lobo to come after you, Marshal. I got a feelin' you can, too."
Cole nodded. Casebolt didn't know the half of it, he thought.
This ambush attempt had to be Hank Parker's way of pushing back.
Chapter 15
The buckshot wounds in Cole's shoulder and side were minor, just as he had thought. Judson Kent cleaned them and bandaged them, then gave Cole a perfunctory warning about taking it easy for a couple of days. His tone made it clear that he knew the marshal would disregard the caution.
Cole wasn't just about to take it easy. His instincts told him that he was making progress, and he had no intention of letting up on Parker. At first he had been convinced that Simone was guilty of killing Becky Lewis, probably in a fit of anger, but now he wasn't so sure.
Parker wouldn't have sent somebody to ambush him unless Cole was getting closer to something Parker didn't want uncovered.
Unfortunately, there was no way to prove that Parker had sent the bushwhacker after him, Cole realized by the middle of the next day. The dead man's body was at the undertaker's, but no one had claimed it or even identified him yet.
Billy Casebolt recalled seeing the man around town over the past few days, as did Cole himself, but neither of them had noticed him hanging around the Pronghorn. Nor had anyone else who was willing to admit to having seen him.
The consensus seemed to be that he had done his drinking in some of the smaller, more squalid dives on the eastern edge of town. That didn't mean much, however. Parker wouldn't have been likely to hire someone who could be tied to him too easily.
Cole hadn't told Simone about the ambush attempt, not wanting her to leap to the same conclusions he had and get her hopes up when they might not pan out. But as he brought the tray containing her noon meal into the cell block, she came to the door of her cell and asked worriedly, "Are you all right, Cole? I heard that there was some trouble last night."
He bit back a curse and asked, "Where'd you hear about that? I told Billy to keep quiet—"
"It wasn't Deputy Casebolt who told me. Judson mentioned it when he came by to visit me a little while ago. He said that someone tried to kill you, that you were wounded twice."
Cole grimaced. "I've had mosquito bites that were worse," he said. "It's nothing you need to worry about."
"I see." She didn't sound convinced, but she changed the subject by saying, "I'm glad that Judson has taken my place in the election, aren't you? I think he's going to be a fine mayor."
"He's got to get elected first." Cole put the tray down on a three-legged stool and unlocked the cell door. He swung it open, picked up the food, and carried it into the steel-barred enclosure.
"Just set it on the end of the bunk," Simone told him. "I'm not very hungry right now, but I'll eat it later."
"All right." Cole did as she had told him, then straightened and said, "I'm sorry about all this. I know how uncomfortable it must be for you to stay in here."
"It's not very pleasant," she admitted. "In fact, I was wondering if you might consider taking me over to my suite in the hotel instead."
Cole frowned. "Couldn't very well do that. You're a prisoner, after all—"
"And I'd be under house arrest. You've heard of that, surely."
"Well, yeah, but that's usually done in the army. I don't have a bunch of troopers to stand guard over you day and night."
"You could lock me into my suite," she said. "If I didn't have a key, I'd be just as secure there as I am here. The
re's no balcony outside the windows, so I hardly think I'd attempt to clamber out of them and jump two stories to the ground, do you?"
"I reckon not," Cole allowed. "I don't know how it'd look, though. Folks might think I was giving you special treatment because of who you are. And that's what I'd be doing, when you get right down to it."
"That's true. You do whatever you think is best, Cole. I'll abide by your decision."
Her attitude just made it more difficult, he thought with a scowl. He said, "I'll think on it and let you know later."
"Of course." Simone smiled.
Her request was a reasonable one, Cole told himself as he left the cell block. She had spent two nights in jail already, which was enough to prove to anybody that he was serious about his job, and she would be a lot more comfortable in the hotel.
If anybody didn't like it, well, he was the marshal and it wasn't really anybody else's business, was it? He almost had himself talked into it.
Later, when Billy Casebolt got back, he would have the deputy transfer Simone over to the hotel and take care of locking her into her suite. That would be better than if he handled the chore personally, he decided. Hell, it was just a matter of common sense. A lady like Simone couldn't stay in a drafty, uncomfortable jail cell for two weeks or more waiting for the circuit court judge to arrive and hold a trial.
With that issue resolved, Cole felt a little better, but not much.
It was less than twenty-four hours until the voting began, and Cole had a feeling that in Wind River, Election Day might turn out to be more like judgment day.
* * *
One of the advantages of throwing one's hat into the ring so late in the game was that a great deal of campaigning wasn't required, Judson Kent reflected that evening in his office. There simply wasn't time for a lot of speech-making. He had agreed to run the day before, and the election was tomorrow. If one had to become involved in politics, that was the way to do it.
Still, he was tired. The fact that he was running for office didn't mean that he could ignore his medical practice, and he had seen quite a few patients today. Now, the last one had left, and Kent was ready to get some supper, perhaps do some reading in his medical journals, then retire early. Tomorrow would be a long day.
Judgement Day (Wind River Book 6) Page 15
