Judgement Day (Wind River Book 6)

by James Reasoner

  He was sitting at his desk, his sleeves rolled up, his boots propped on a footstool. It felt good to simply sit there and relax. Kent looked up at Reginald and grinned. "A quiet moment, eh, old boy? Not many of those these days, are there?"

  The skeleton didn't answer.

  The sound of quick footsteps on the boardwalk outside made Kent look toward the front window. The curtain was drawn tightly over the glass, so he couldn't see whoever was out there. He hoped the steps didn't belong to a late patient, and he said aloud, "Keep going, keep going . . ."

  He let out a little groan as he heard the footsteps slow, then stop. Then the front door of the building opened. Two men appeared in the foyer. They peered into the office, and one of them said anxiously, "Are you Doc Kent?"

  The Englishman got to his feet and nodded. "I am indeed Dr. Judson Kent. What can I do for you gentlemen?"

  "You got to help us, Doc," the second man said. "Our pard Red got hisself kicked in the belly by a horse. I'm afraid he's hurt bad."

  Kent frowned. "Where is he?"

  "Down the street," said the first man, "behind the hardware store. He's holdin' himself and moanin' awful bad, and we were afraid to move him."

  Kent reached for his medical bag, not bothering with his hat and coat. "You were wise not to disturb your friend," he said. "He may have internal injuries, from the sound of the accident you describe. Take me to him."

  "Thanks, Doc," the second man said fervently. "I don't know what we'd do if ol' Red was to up an' die on us."

  "Well, I'll certainly do whatever I can for him," Kent said as the two men led him out of the office.

  They hurried down Grenville Avenue, Kent studying his companions as they moved along the street. Both men looked like cowboys. He didn't know them, but there was nothing unusual about that.

  Grub-line riders drifted in and out of the area all the time, finding work on the Diamond S, the Latch Hook, and the other ranches that had been established around Wind River. Kent knew only a few of them well, such as Lon Rogers and Frenchy LeDoux from Kermit Sawyer's spread.

  Dusk had settled down over the settlement, and shadows were thick in the alley down which the two cowboys led Kent. "Red's right back here," one of the men said, gesturing toward the rear of the building.

  "Your friend was kicked by a horse, you said?"

  "That's right, Doc. It was the damnedest thing. We were takin' a shortcut through the alleys back yonder when Red got down to check a shoe on his hoss. That critter had hauled off and kicked him 'fore any of us knew what was happenin'."

  "How unfortunate," Kent muttered. He had seen men kicked by horses before, and he knew the injuries suffered in such an accident could be quite serious. Men had died from such a kick.

  They reached the rear of the building and rounded the corner. The two cowboys stopped short, and Kent came to a halt as well, expecting to see a man curled up on the ground in pain. Instead there was nothing back here but some empty barrels, not even the horse that had supposedly kicked "ol' Red."

  "Where is your friend?" Kent asked. "Surely he didn't get up and wander off, not if he was hurt as badly as you said."

  "I don't reckon his health is what you ought to be concerned about right now, Doc," the taller of the two men said.

  "What do you mean by that?" demanded Kent. He was beginning to get worried about this situation.

  "We mean it's goin' to be mighty tough for a feller like you to be mayor around here," the second man said. "You're plenty busy with doctorin'. You don't need to take on any other chores, not if you know what's good for you."

  Kent drew himself up to his full height. He couldn't see the faces of the other men very well in the gathering gloom, but there was no mistaking the air of menace that had sprung up in the twilight. "Are you threatening me?" he asked angrily.

  "Just givin' you some advice, Doc. For your own good, you'd better get up bright an' early in the morn in' and tell everybody you ain't runnin' for mayor no more."

  "I'll do no such thing! Hank Parker sent you to intimidate me, didn't he? The man is despicable!"

  "Nobody sent us," the second man said. "We're just a couple o' public-spirited citizens, I guess you'd say. Just tryin' to help you, Doc. You goin' to listen to reason or not?"

  "What I'm going to do," Kent snapped, "is find the marshal and report this outrage! You lied to me and threatened me, and I won't have it!" He started to push past the men.

  One of them grabbed his shoulder. "Thought you was smarter'n that, Doc. Get him!"

  The other man, the shorter of the pair, suddenly slammed a punch into Kent's back, just above the waist. Kent gasped in pain from the blow and would have staggered forward except for the painfully tight grip on his shoulder. The first man jerked him around. Kent sensed the punch coming more than he saw it. He flung his arm up to block the attack.

  That hand was the one holding the medical bag, and the black leather satchel happened to hit the taller man in the jaw, throwing off his aim. The punch he had thrown glanced off Kent's shoulder.

  The second man hit the doctor in the back again before Kent could catch his balance. This time Kent did stumble forward a couple of steps.

  "We'll teach you a lesson, you son of a bitch!" grated the taller of the pair. He sank a fist in Kent's unprotected midsection.

  Kent doubled over, the breath knocked out of him, and tried to drag air back into his lungs. Fists struck him on the back of the neck, driving him to his knees. A booted foot crashed into his side and sent him sprawling.

  "We'll stomp you good, you bastard!"

  And they would do it, too, Kent knew. They would beat him within an inch of his life, perhaps even kill him, all because he had had the audacity to run for mayor against Hank Parker.

  Kent had no doubt Parker was behind this attack. The saloonkeeper hadn't been able to resort to open violence as long as he was running against a woman, but now that he was opposed by a man, everything was different. Parker would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, not even murder.

  Those thoughts flashed through Kent's mind in an instant, in less time than it took for the shorter man to draw back his foot for another kick. When the man's leg flashed forward again, Kent twisted, snapped his arm up, and with a flick of his wrist threw his medical bag in the face of the taller man, then grabbed the ankle of the other one. With a strength born of desperation, he heaved upward. He was no brawler, but damned if he was going to let these roughnecks assault him without fighting back!

  The man let out a surprised yelp as he found himself flying backward. He fell heavily to the ground and rolled over. Now he was the one gasping for air. Kent was scrambling in the other direction, putting a little distance between himself and the taller of the two assailants. Kent was able to get to his feet in time to meet the man's charge.

  For a moment they stood there, slugging back and forth, and Kent realized with a savage exultation that he was giving as good as he got. It didn't last, though. One of the man's roundhouse punches connected with Kent's jaw, driving the doctor back against the wall of the building.

  Stunned, Kent was unable to block the next two punches, a wicked left-right combination that whistled into his belly and his solar plexus. Pain washed over him, and he was unsteady on his feet. The only thing holding him up was the wall. He felt himself starting to slip down it. Once he fell, the fight would be over. He had already done the best he could against these bruisers.

  This time, he thought grimly, when he went down he would likely stay down—maybe forever.

  * * *

  Cole and Casebolt were on the boardwalk in front of the marshal's office when Cole spotted Brenda Durand and Margaret Palmer coming along the street toward them. Casebolt saw them, too, and muttered, "Uh-oh."

  "Miss Durand doesn't look too happy," Cole agreed.

  "I ain't talkin' about the girl. It's that old lady who's got me buffaloed." Casebolt glanced over at Cole, his lean, grizzled features wearing a solemn expression. "She's got her ca
p set for me, you know."

  Cole tried not to grin. He knew Billy was right. Margaret did seem to be pursuing him, although for the life of him he couldn't see why a sophisticated Eastern woman like Mrs. Palmer would be interested in a codger like Casebolt. Billy had to have an appeal that Cole had never seen. Cole said, "If you want to, go through the jail and slip out the back. I reckon you can get a head start on her that way."

  "Thanks, Marshal," Casebolt said fervently. He disappeared inside the building, and a moment later Cole heard the rear door slam.

  Brenda and Margaret reached the marshal's office a couple of minutes later, and the older woman said, "Good evening, Marshal. How are you?"

  "Oh, just fine, I reckon," Cole replied. "And you ladies?"

  "We're fine," Brenda said impatiently. "I want to talk to you."

  "Go right ahead," Cole told her.

  Before Brenda could proceed, Margaret said, "I thought I noticed Deputy Casebolt out here with you just a moment ago."

  "Billy went inside," Cole said, jerking a thumb toward the door. "You're welcome to see if he's still in there, Mrs. Palmer. There's no prisoners locked up right now, so you don't have to worry about that."

  "That's what I want to talk to you about, Marshal," Brenda said. "Do you think it's wise letting Simone McKay go like that? After all, she's been accused of murder!"

  "I'll just step inside and see if the deputy is there," Margaret said as she moved past Cole.

  "I didn't let Simone go," Cole said to Brenda. "She's locked up in her suite at the hotel, under house arrest. Or hotel arrest, I reckon you could say."

  "But that's not the same as being in jail!" protested Brenda. "Mrs. McKay's suite at the Territorial House can't compare to a . . . a cell!"

  "Begging your pardon, Miss Durand, but what business is that of yours?" Cole asked coolly. "As long as Simone is in custody until the circuit judge gets here and conducts a trial, what does anything else matter?"

  "I just don't want her running away and trying to escape justice. I'm a citizen of this town now. I have a right to worry about such things."

  Cole shrugged. "Maybe you do. You've voiced your concern, Miss Durand, and I'll take note of it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a few things to do."

  Brenda glared at him. It was obvious she was just being spiteful, Cole thought. She had enjoyed the idea of Simone being behind bars.

  If for no other reason, Cole was glad now that he'd had Casebolt take Simone over to the hotel earlier, simply because this spoiled little brat was irritated by it. Annoying Brenda Durand was worth something by itself.

  Margaret Palmer came out of the marshal's office. "Deputy Casebolt doesn't seem to be in there," she said. "I looked all over."

  Cole raised his eyebrows and said, "Fancy that. He must've left out the back door. No telling where he's got off to, I suppose. If I see him, you want me to tell him you were looking for him?"

  "Oh, no, that's not necessary." Although it was difficult to tell for sure in the fading twilight, Cole thought Margaret might be blushing as she went on, "I'm sure I'll encounter him again soon enough."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Brenda spoke up again. "When that judge gets here, I intend to tell him how you gave special treatment to Mrs. McKay."

  "You tell him anything you want to, miss." Cole had reached the end of his patience. "Good evening to you." He strode away down the boardwalk.

  He wasn't going anyplace in particular, just away from Brenda. As he walked down Grenville Avenue habit made him check the doors of the businesses that had already closed down for the night.

  He passed the hardware store and stepped down off the boardwalk to cross the mouth of an alley beside the building.

  A noise made Cole stop in his tracks.

  His mind flashed back to the night before, when a soft-voiced call had made him stop in front of another alley. That had been an attempt on his life. This was something completely different.

  It sounded like somebody else was in danger tonight.

  Cole heard the distinctive thud of fists against human flesh, the grunts of effort as punches were thrown, the rasp of air in a man's throat as he struggled to catch his breath.

  There was a fight going on back there in the near-darkness, Cole realized—or an outright beating, from the sound of it. Whoever was on the receiving end of those blows wasn't putting up much resistance.

  And he was facing at least two opponents, too, because in the next moment Cole heard a harsh voice say, "Hold him up! He ain't learned enough yet!"

  Cole had heard enough, though. He broke into a run down the alley.

  Chapter 16

  Despite the haste with which he went down the alley, Cole moved quietly, so the two men beating up a third one were completely surprised when the marshal shouted, "Hold it, damn you! I'll shoot the next man who moves!" He had his revolver cocked and leveled to back up the threat.

  The two cowboys froze, just as Cole had ordered. The taller one had been holding the arms of their victim while the shorter one pounded punches into the man's belly. The taller one let go, and the victim slumped to his knees. He almost fell forward onto his face, but he caught himself as he swayed back and forth.

  The light was bad, but there was still enough brightness in the sky for Cole to recognize the bearded face of Dr. Judson Kent. The physician's face was bloody and swollen from the battering he had received.

  "Judson!" Cole exclaimed. "What the hell—!"

  Kent staggered to his feet and stumbled forward. "M-Marshal . . .," he mumbled.

  "No, Judson, stay back!" Cole said urgently as he realized that Kent was getting between him and the two men.

  It was too late. The taller man planted a hand in Kent's back and gave him a hard shove that sent him careening straight at Cole. Then both cowboys slapped leather.

  Cole couldn't fire with Kent right in front of him. His left hand darted out and closed over the doctor's right arm. Cole threw himself to the side, dragging Kent with him. Both of them went down, falling heavily to the dirt floor of the alley, as the two attackers opened fire.

  Slugs ripped viciously through the space where Cole and Kent had been only an instant earlier.

  The barrel of Cole's revolver was lifting even as he fell, and he was squeezing the trigger as he hit the ground. The impact threw his aim off and sent his bullet whining past the two would-be killers. He thumbed back the hammer of the .44 and fired again, squinting against the dust that had been kicked up in his eyes by a bullet plowing into the ground not far from his head.

  He didn't know if he had hit anything or not, but evidently his shots had come close enough to discourage the two cowboys. They turned tail and ran.

  Cole came up on hands and knees next to Kent, who was lying face down. He put a hand on the doctor's shoulder and rolled him over. "Judson! Are you hit?"

  "No, I . . . I'm all right," Kent choked out. "Go . . . go after those bounders!"

  "I'd call 'em something a mite stronger, but that's what I intend to do," Cole said. He got to his feet and helped Kent into a sitting position. "Billy ought to be here in a minute or two. He'll come a-running when he hears those shots. You'll be all right until then?"

  Kent waved a hand urgently. "I'm all right now. Just go! Catch those men!"

  Cole nodded and broke into a run again. He could still faintly hear the scurrying footsteps of the fleeing men.

  He spotted them a moment later as they darted around the corner of a building up ahead and cut through another alley toward Grenville Avenue. The boots the men wore weren't made for running. Cole's boots had lower heels, and he had always been a fast runner, ever since he was a kid. He reached the alley in time to see them emerging from the other end. They swung east onto Grenville Avenue.

  Cole was less than half a block behind them when he reached the main street. He was vaguely aware that some of the bystanders were yelling questions at him, but he ignored them.

  His attention was focused instead on his qua
rry, and that was a good thing because the two men suddenly stopped and snapped a couple of shots at him. Cole threw himself against the front of a building to let the slugs whine past him.

  Somewhere a woman screamed, and Cole hoped one of the stray bullets hadn't hit her. He returned the fire of the gunmen, sending a couple of shots at them but aiming low to cut down on the chances of a tragic accident. The lawman's bullets chewed splinters from the planks of the boardwalk at the feet of the two cowboys and sent them sprinting on down the street. Cole ran after them, aware that only one chamber in the cylinder of his .44 was loaded now. Nor was there time to reload.

  One bullet . . . two gunmen. That could make for an interesting confrontation, Cole thought grimly. He would deal with the problem when he caught up to it.

  Several men got out of the way of the fleeing cowboys. Cole had hoped that somebody would pitch in and lend him a hand, but he couldn't blame the townspeople for not wanting to tangle with a couple of wild-eyed, gun-waving hombres like that.

  The two men suddenly angled toward one of the buildings, and Cole realized with a shock that they were heading for the Pronghorn Saloon.

  Maybe that was a stroke of luck, he thought. Maybe those rannies were going to lead him straight to the man who had hired them to beat up Judson Kent.

  From the moment Cole had seen whom the men were assaulting back in that alley, he had known who had to be behind the attack.

  Hank Parker.

  One of the men slapped the batwings aside and pounded on into the Pronghorn, but the other one, the taller of the pair, stopped on the boardwalk in front of the saloon. He swung around toward Cole again and lifted his gun, yelling curses as he did so. Cole was only about fifty feet away now, a good target with the lights from the other buildings behind him. He flung himself forward.

  As he went down onto the boardwalk he resisted the impulse to pull the trigger of his Colt. He had only one shot, so it had to be a good one. The tall cowboy was silhouetted, too, by the lights of the saloon spilling out the entrance behind him. Cole skidded to a halt, his belly pressed against the boardwalk, and lined his sights on the gunman. He did his best to ignore the lead whipping through the air above his head as he eared back the hammer of the .44 and pressed the trigger.