"You're right about that," the man muttered. "Look, this has gotten all turned around, and I'll do what I can to straighten it out. My name's Henry Turner." He stuck up a hand, extending it toward Orrin.
Orrin ignored the hand as he threw a leg over the saddle and slid down to the ground, still holding the Winchester where he could use it in a hurry if he needed to. His boy Seth was bent over Buffalo, and after a moment Seth looked up and said, "Doesn't look like he's hurt too bad, Pa. The bullet just tore a gash on his shoulder and knocked him for a loop."
"That's one piece of luck," Orrin bit off as he faced Henry Turner.
One of the men on horseback said, "Luck's got nothin' to do with it, mister. Chad Riley don't kill kids or dogs, not if he can avoid it."
Orrin looked at the man who had spoken. "You're Riley?"
The man nodded, his face dark and narrow. "That's right. You heard of me?"
"No. But then, I haven't heard of every no-account gunman in this part of the Territory."
Riley stiffened in his saddle, but before he could move his hand toward the butt of his Colt, Turner said sharply, "That's enough, Riley. You acted too quick once already. Don't do it again."
Turner swung back to face Orrin again and went on, "You don't have anything to worry about from us, mister . . . ?"
"Sutherland," Orrin snapped. "Orrin Sutherland. This is my ranch."
"Figured as much." Turner indicated his men and their mounts with a sweep of his hand. "Our horses are played out. We need to make a swap. But before we talk about that, you'd best go inside and see how your boy's doing."
I’ll do that," Orrin said with a curt nod.
He started toward the door of the ranch house, but before he could reach it, Phyllis appeared and hurried to meet him. He held the Winchester in his right hand as he put his left arm around her and drew her to him tightly. "How's Tommy?" he asked in a hollow voice.
She looked up at him, and he saw the tears on her face. But they were tears of relief, he saw after a bad couple of seconds. She smiled and nodded and said, "He's going to be all right."
Orrin looked over his shoulder at Turner. "You are a lucky man."
Turner grunted. "Told you we weren't looking for trouble. Now, about swapping those horses . . ."
Orrin took a deep breath. He wanted to tell Turner to go to hell. No, he wanted to put his fist right in the middle of the man's face and then run him off the place. But Phyllis had said Tommy was going to be all right, and by now Seth had picked up Buffalo and was carrying the big dog toward the shed, staggering a little under the animal's weight. Buffalo had recovered enough to lick Seth's face enthusiastically.
Luck had been with all of them, Orrin realized. And there was still the matter of being outnumbered, outgunned, and generally outclassed by this group of hardcases. Maybe the best thing to do would be to cooperate with Turner, no matter how bitter a pill that was to swallow.
Besides, one glance was enough to tell Orrin that even though the horses Turners men were riding were exhausted, they were fine animals, better really than any he had on the place.
"Maybe we can work a swap," he said grudgingly.
Turner nodded. "Glad to hear it." He motioned for the rest of his men to dismount.
Twenty minutes later, the transaction was complete. Turner's men had unsaddled their horses and transferred the saddles to new mounts taken from the remuda in the Sutherlands' corral. The tired horses on which they had ridden in were turned in with the others in the corral.
Orrin had spent part of that time with Phyllis and Tommy inside the house. As Phyllis had said, the boy looked like he was going to be all right. The crease in his side had been cleaned out and bandaged up, surprisingly enough, by the men called Carlin and Ordway, who had brought him inside.
"I reckon they know a lot about patching up gunshot wounds," Orrin told his wife in a quiet voice. "Men like that would."
From what he had seen of Turner's riders, they were all gunmen, hardcases who made their living with the irons sheathed on their hips. The kind of men you didn't cross, not if you wanted to live very long.
Turner wasn't exactly the same sort, Orrin judged, but he just as dangerous. Orrin was beginning to realize just how bad things could have been if Turner hadn't kept a tight rein on his men. They could have raided the ranch and taken anything they wanted—including Phyllis. Orrin's arm tightened around her shoulders as they went back outside.
Turner and his men were mounted up again, and the gray-haired man gave Orrin a nod and touched the brim of his hat as he looked at Phyllis. "I'm mighty sorry for all the trouble, ma'am," he said, "especially with you being in the family way and all."
She just looked at him, her lips compressed in a thin line.
After a moment, Turner looked at Orrin again and said, "There's just one more thing."
"What else do you want?" Orrin asked coldly.
"I'm looking for a man, and I was just wondering if you'd seen him passing through these parts. A big man wearing a bearskin coat. You wouldn't forget him if you'd ever seen him."
Orrin frowned and shook his head. "Doesn't sound familiar."
"You're sure?"
"I'm certain."
Turner nodded, disappointment evident on his weathered face. "He was heading in this direction when he left Montana Territory, and I've heard that he was seen north of here a while back. But I reckon he might've swung around this spread."
Knowing the question might be a little unwise, Orrin asked it anyway. "Why are you looking for him?"
Turners eyes narrowed. "Well, sir, that's my business. But when I find him—and I will find him—I intend to kill him. Him, and anybody foolish enough to help him."
Then Turner wheeled his horse and rode away, taking his men with him, and as Orrin Sutherland watched them go, he was damned glad he wasn't that big man in a bearskin coat.
He wouldn't have traded places with that gent for anything in the world.
Chapter 7
Cole Tyler was glad that Yancy Rowlett had come to Wind River. Not only because the big man had helped rescue Dr. Judson Kent from the overturned buggy—although the entire town felt a debt of gratitude toward Rowlett for that—but because for the first time, Cole was beginning to sense that he really, truly knew his father the way Drago had been during all those years in the mountains. Rowlett's colorful, rip-roaring stories had shown Cole a Drago Tyler he had never really known before.
Almost a week had passed since Rowlett's arrival in Wind River. Dr. Kent was back on his feet, although his leg was still quite sore and caused him to walk with a limp. A warm wind from the south had melted the snow and dried up some of the mud, and the trains were running regularly again.
Rowlett hadn't left, though. "Hell, why should I?" he asked Cole. "I'm enjoying myself right here."
Cole couldn't argue with that. The Paines had found a room for Rowlett in their boardinghouse, and between the meals Abigail Paine prepared and the food at the Wind River Cafe, Rowlett claimed he was eating better than he had for years. And he had quickly become friends with Billy Casebolt, spending hours in the marshal's office with the deputy.
On another sunny morning that was unseasonably warm, Cole and Rowlett were strolling up the boardwalk toward the big emporium owned by Simone McKay when Cole took the bull by the horns and broached a subject that had occurred to him the night before. "You're not really in a hurry to leave here, are you, Yancy?" he asked.
"No, I reckon not," Rowlett answered without hesitation.
"Then I've got a proposition for you."
Rowlett looked over at him. "What've you got in mind, son?"
"Why don't you just stay here in Wind River for a while? I could use another deputy. I don't reckon the town council would be willing to pay much, but—"
Rowlett came to a halt and held up a hand. "Hold on there a minute, Cole," he said with a frown. "You're asking me to be a lawman?"
"I'm wearing a badge," Cole pointed out, stiffening a little at the tone in Ro
wlett's voice. "Nothing wrong with that, is there?"
"Hell, no. It's just something that I never thought about in all my borned days." Rowlett rubbed his bearded jaw. "Me a lawman. Huh! It's a mighty strange notion, I got to say."
Cole shrugged. "Not so strange. You wouldn't be the first mountain man to pin on a badge. Joe Meek was a U.S. marshal over in the Oregon Territory, and I'm sure there have been others. It's something to think about anyway, Yancy."
Rowlett nodded slowly. "Yeah, I reckon I can think about it." He pointed down the street toward a wagon that had just come to a stop in front of the general store. "But I'd rather be thinking about somebody like that. Is yonder lady from around here, Cole?"
Cole turned and looked where Rowlett was pointing. He saw the prairie schooner, a smaller version of the mammoth Conestogas used by freighters, and the woman who was perched on its seat with the reins of the mule team in her hands. She wore a gingham dress and a coat to ward off the chill that remained in the air, even though the weather was warm for this time of year. A few curls of dark hair peeked out from under her blue bonnet. Cole put her age at around thirty. She was a stranger to him.
He said as much to Rowlett, then went on, "That's an immigrant wagon. If I had to guess, I'd say she and her husband are planning on settling around here."
Rowlett watched the woman set the brake on the wagon, then climb down from the high seat. A pair of girls about six and eight emerged from the canvas-covered bed of the wagon, and the woman helped them down. A boy around twelve years old hopped down from the back and joined the rest of the family.
"I don't see no husband," Rowlett commented.
"Maybe he rode ahead and came into town earlier. Could be one of those horses tied at the hitch rack is his."
"Yeah, could be," Rowlett said, but he didn't sound convinced. "Come on."
He started down the boardwalk, his long strides carrying him quickly toward the emporium. Cole sighed, gave a little shake of his head, and started after Rowlett. The big man was impulsive, and he had obviously taken a shine to the woman from the wagon.
If she did have a husband around, there might be trouble, Cole thought. It all depended on how Rowlett acted toward her. Cole hoped he would show at least a little restraint.
The woman paused on the porch outside the general store with her children and glanced toward the massive individual sweeping toward her. Rowlett was wearing his bearskin coat, as usual, although it was hanging open today and the hood was thrown back. His hair and beard were as bushy as ever, since he had scoffed at the notion of paying a visit to the local tonsorial parlor. To an immigrant from back east, Rowlett probably looked like some sort of wild man, and as Cole hurried along behind him, he hoped Rowlett’s appearance wouldn't terrify those youngsters—or their mother.
As Rowlett started up the steps from the boardwalk to the taller porch in front of the store, the woman said firmly to the boy and the two girls, "Stay here, children." Then she started forward, evidently intending to meet Rowlett. Cole frowned. What the hell . . . ?
Then she said, "Excuse me," to a surprised Rowlett, who stopped in his tracks, and brushed past him to confront Cole. "Are you the marshal here?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, coming to a stop in surprise himself.
"Good," the woman said briskly. She was even more attractive now that he got a closer look at her. She went on, "You can help me, then. I'm looking for Mrs. McKay."
"Simone McKay?" Cole asked.
"That's right." The woman reached inside a canvas bag she was carrying. "I have a letter here from her in which she agrees to the details of a land transaction. I've brought my payment, and all I need to do now is see Mrs. McKay to make the deal final."
Cole nodded in understanding. "You're buying some land from Mrs. McKay. Come out here to farm, did you?"
"That's right." The woman sounded slightly impatient, as if she considered her plans none of Cole's business. And in truth, unless she figured on doing something illegal, she was right. She went on, "Can you tell me where to find Mrs. McKay?"
"Sure. Fetch your husband and I'll take both of you right to her, Mrs . . . ?"
"My name is Mrs. Polly Dillon, and I'm a widow." She made the statement calmly, with no change of expression. "Now, if you'll please take me to Mrs. McKay, Marshal, I'd appreciate it."
Cole glanced over her shoulder and saw the look on Rowlett's face.
The big man had heard the news that Polly Dillon didn't have a husband, and he was obviously pleased by it. He started to move toward the woman again, all but licking his lips in anticipation as he came, but before he could reach them, Cole stepped up beside Mrs. Dillon and took her arm. "Come along with me, ma'am. I'll be glad to escort you."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rowlett come to a stop, put his hands on his hips, and glare at them. Cole turned his back on the trapper and led Polly Dillon down the street toward the Wind River Land Development Company. Even without turning around, he could see the cold anger in the stare that Rowlett sent toward his back.
"The marshal's office is in the front room of the building where we're going," he told Mrs. Dillon, "if you ever have need of the law. Mrs. McKay will either be in her office or down at the hotel. She owns it, too. Either way, it won't take but a few minutes to find her."
Polly Dillon cast a worried look over her shoulder. "Will my children be all right at the general store? There was a horrible looking man there on the porch. I was afraid for a moment that he was going to try to speak to me."
"Don't worry about your kids. They'll be fine. As for that big gent in the bearskin coat, you don't have to worry about him. He's not nearly as wild as he looks."
"Thank goodness for that. When I first saw him, I was afraid the whole town might be full of ruffians."
"No, I reckon we're only about half ruffians," Cole said dryly.
Polly Dillon had the grace to blush a little. "I'm sure this is a fine settlement. It's just that I don't know much about it. My husband handled all the correspondence with Mrs. McKay concerning the land we're going to homestead."
"I thought you said—"
"My late husband," Polly added. "He was killed in an . . . an accident on the way out here. He was swept off by the current and drowned when we were crossing the Platte River."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Cole murmured. "The river must've been up. Normally the Platte doesn't run fast enough or deep enough to be dangerous. It was a wet autumn, though." For a moment, he was quiet, then he went on, "I'm a little surprised to see any immigrants coming into town at this time of year. Most folks on their way west have already stopped for the winter."
"We might have, too, if Jason had not been killed. But once he was gone, I wanted to get to where we were going as quickly as possible. We had to wait in Rawlins for the snow to melt, but the trail wasn't too bad once it had dried for a day or two."
Cole nodded, feeling some admiration for Polly's determination, if not for her judgment. The family might have been better off waiting for spring to complete their journey. But that was really beside the point now; they were here, after all, and had to get on with the business of making a life for themselves.
Polly looked over her shoulder again at Rowlett, and her voice dropped to a whisper as she said to Cole, "That man is following us. Are you sure he's harmless?"
"You're in no danger from him, ma'am."
"All right. I'll take your word for it, Marshal. But I'll be glad when we get to Mrs. McKay's office."
They reached the land development company a couple of minutes later, and Cole ushered Polly through the foyer and past the entrance to the marshal's office. He knocked on the door of Simone’s office and heard her voice inside, telling them to come in. She was behind her desk, and she looked up with a smile as Cole brought Polly Dillon in.
"Hello," Simone said. "Who is this, Marshal?"
"Like for you to meet Mrs. Dillon," Cole said. "She's got some business to talk over with you."
&n
bsp; Polly stepped up to the desk and put out her hand as Simone stood up. "I'm Polly Dillon," the immigrant woman said forthrightly. "My husband was Jason Dillon."
Simone took her hand and said, "I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Dillon. But your husband .. ."
"Is dead," Polly said bluntly. "He passed away several weeks ago. He was . . . he was killed in an accident on our journey west."
"I'm so sorry. Please, sit down."
Cole put his shoulders against the wall next to the door. This discussion between Simone and Polly was none of his business, of course, but since neither woman had asked him to leave, he decided to stay until the conversation was concluded. Then he could walk Polly back to the general store, since Rowlett had obviously made her nervous.
"I remember your husband from the letters we exchanged," Simone said once Polly had settled herself in the chair in front of the desk. "We came to agreement on a parcel of land northwest of here."
Polly nodded. "That's right. I have your last letter right here, and I have the money we were to pay you." She reached into her bag and brought out the letter and a small leather pouch that clinked and jingled as she placed it on the desk in front of Simone. "That's half the price, and we'll pay out the rest, as agreed."
Simone opened the pouch and poured the contents on the desk, nodding as she quickly counted the coins. "That's correct," she said. "But if your husband isn't . . . I mean, under the circumstances . . ."
"My children and I intend to farm the land, just as Jason planned."
Cole spoke up, asking quietly, "Have you given any thought to going back east?"
Polly turned her head to look at him, and for the first time, he caught a hint of bleak desperation in her eyes. "We have nothing to go back to, Marshal. We sold our farm in Illinois, sold everything we possibly could in order to outfit ourselves for the journey. Everything my children and I own is in that wagon."
Cole nodded. It was a common story. Contrary to what some people thought, most of the time it wasn't poor folks who came west. It took at least a little money to be able to afford the trip; wagons and supplies didn't come cheap. But often it took all the funds a family of immigrants could raise, so that when they finally got out here, they were strapped for cash for a while, until they could harvest a crop or two. Polly Dillon and her kids were in that same situation.
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