Wolf Shadow (Wind River Book 3)

by James Reasoner

  Rowlett's smile widened into a grin. "Well, ma'am, if you're going to tempt me like that, I do believe I'll join you. Coffee and biscuits sounds mighty good. I rode off from Wind River this morning without stopping for breakfast."

  "Oh?" Polly stepped back to let him come past her into the cabin. She closed the door behind him. "You must have been in a hurry."

  Rowlett turned to face her and said in tones that were as quiet as he could manage, "I was a mite worried about the four of you out here in that storm last night. It blew mighty hard for a while, and the snow was coming down fast."

  "As you can see, the cabin you and your friends built kept us snug and comfortable." Polly gestured around at the log dwelling. "We can't thank you enough for what you did."

  "Shoot, I was glad to do it." Rowlett looked uncomfortable, and he changed the subject by continuing, "Where are those biscuits you were telling me about?"

  Sensing that praise and expressions of gratitude made him uneasy, Polly didn't say anything else about the matter. But she was grateful to him, very grateful. His kindness, and the kindness of the other townspeople from Wind River, made her think that maybe, just maybe, she and the children might be able to make it out here after all.

  Over the next half-hour, the atmosphere inside the cabin seemed to warm up, even though it was doubtful the actual temperature rose any. The children all laughed and talked, each of them trying to monopolize Rowlett's attention but not succeeding.

  He seemed to have a laugh and a wink and a smile for each of them, not to mention an endless supply of tall tales about previous cold snaps in this part of the country. To hear him tell it, this had been a minor storm indeed compared to the blizzards that had piled up the snow a mile deep and gotten so cold that the mountains grew brittle and broke into pieces. Andrew, Martha, and Francie listened in rapt attention to the yarns.

  Pollys mind wandered, though, and she found herself thinking about Yancy Rowlett himself, rather than the tall tales he was spinning. What sort of man was he, she wondered. He looked big and dangerous, the sort of man anybody would cross at their own risk, and yet he had been nothing but kind to them.

  Obviously, he had run into quite a bit of trouble in the past—his nose had been broken more than once, Polly judged, and there were other scars around his face to show where he had been battered by life. And his eyes had a certain quality to them . . . a wariness, as if he was in the habit of watching for trouble, even in the least likely places.

  She had seen something of the same expression on the faces of Cole Tyler and Billy Casebolt, but that was understandable since they were lawmen.

  Yancy Rowlett was no lawman, and yet he was just as cautious and watchful as men who wore a badge. Maybe that meant he was on the other side of the law.

  Polly caught her breath as that thought occurred to her. She lifted her coffee cup to her lips and took a quick sip to cover up her reaction. Rowlett didn't seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary, however. He was still talking animatedly to the children.

  Could he be an outlaw of some sort? Polly didn't want to think so, and yet she had to admit that she barely knew this man. And her first instinct when she had noticed him staring at her had been fear. She had passed off the feeling later as a result of the strain she had been under since Jason's death, but maybe there was something to it after all.

  If Rowlett was a wanted man, though, would he be spending so much time with the local marshal? Polly relaxed a little. Of course the friendship between Rowlett and Cole Tyler meant that he was no outlaw. She told herself she had been worrying for nothing.

  ". . . could use another one of them biscuits," Rowlett's words broke in on her thoughts. "More'n one if you've got em."

  "Of course," Polly said with a smile. "Let me just get them—" She stood up and turned toward the stove, then stopped as she saw the pan was empty. She had to turn back to Rowlett and say, "I'm sorry. We've eaten them all."

  "Well, I ain't surprised, as good as they were. You're a fine cook, ma'am."

  "Thank you, Mr. Rowlett."

  "Why don't you call me Yancy?"

  "I . . . I don't think that would be proper, Mr. Rowlett." Although the idea did appeal to her, Polly had to admit to herself.

  "Well, how 'bout the young'uns?"

  Andrew said, "Yeah, Ma, we can call him Yancy, can't we?"

  "It's not very respectful . . ." Polly began with a frown, then she smiled and nodded. "But I suppose it would be all right, if it's all right with Mr. Rowlett."

  "Sure don't bother me none." He grinned.

  "Tell us some more stories," piped up little Francie. "I never heard nobody who could tell stories as good as you."

  Polly corrected her. "I never heard anybody who could tell stories as well as you."

  Francie just looked at her. "That's what I said, ain't it?"

  Polly smiled. If Rowlett was around very much, she was going to have make an extra effort to correct the children's grammar, because they would undoubtedly continue to pick up the man's uneducated speech patterns.

  But that would be a small price to pay, she suddenly realized, to have Yancy Rowlett around more often. And she found herself hoping it would be the case . . .

  * * *

  Rowlett didn’t much want to leave, but he didn’t want to wear out his welcome, either. It was obvious Polly Dillon and her children had come through the storm just fine. But they might not have if not for the cabin that had been built at Rowlett’s urging. He was glad the idea had occurred to him.

  He drank some more coffee and talked to the youngsters, well aware that although Polly was pretty quiet for the most part, she was watching and listening, too, as he spun his yarns. He knew it was past time for him to be getting along back to town, but it was just so blasted pleasant sitting here at this rough-hewn table with the children while Polly puttered around the cabin. He felt all settled, as if he had found the home that had eluded him all those long years in the wilderness . . .

  Suddenly, Rowlett stiffened. Such thoughts were dangerous, he told himself, damned dangerous. He was already risking everything by staying so long in Wind River. He had played a hunch. If the pursuit was close behind him, he wanted it to catch up while he was some place he had allies. He could do worse than to have Cole Tyler and Billy Casebolt on his side if trouble came calling.

  The arrival of Polly Dillon in the area had just made him drag his feet about leaving that much more. He knew he should have been in St. Louis by now.

  But maybe that bastard Turner wasn’t really after him. Maybe he’d lost the trail and given up. Those thoughts came to Rowlett sometimes in the middle of the night, when he was trying to sleep.

  For a long time, hope had been a stranger to him. He wasn’t sure how to handle it now.

  He drew a deep breath and said, “Well, I’d best be moving on. I’ve sure enjoyed spending the morning with you folks.”

  “You don’t have to leave yet, do you, Yancy?” Andrew objected quickly. “Please stay a while longer.”

  “Yes,” Martha echoed. “Please stay.”

  Francie just came over to him and grabbed hold of his arm, as if she wasn’t going to allow him to leave.

  Polly said, “Now, children, if Mr. Rowlett says he has to leave, we have to thank him for visiting us and then let him go. I’m sure he has business of his own to tend to.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’d better get back to Wind River.” He winked at the youngsters. “Town can’t get along without me now, specially Marshal Tyler.”

  “Are you a deputy now, Yancy?” asked Andrew.

  “Nope, but that don’t mean folks aren’t depending on me.” He put his hands on the table and reluctantly shoved himself to his feet. To Polly, he said, “Is there anything you need, anything I can bring you next time I’m out this way?”

  She looked at him for a moment before asking, “Are you going to be riding this way again?”

  He nodded. “I reckon you can count on that.”

&nbs
p; “There’s nothing we need, but . . . I hope you will visit us again.”

  Rowlett smiled at her, and shyly she returned the expression.

  The children all hugged him before he left. He knew better than to expect such a gesture from Polly, but at least she held her hand out to him and said, “Good-bye, Mr. Rowlett.”

  He took her hand, careful not to squeeze it too hard. “So long, Miz Dillon,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  They all came to the doorway to wave farewell as he mounted up and turned the horse toward Wind River, and when he looked back he saw they were still standing there despite the cold. He gave them a last jaunty wave as he rode out of sight.

  Maybe one of these days, Rowlett thought, he wouldn’t have to ride away. Maybe he could just stay there and have a family, even a young’un of his own—

  Abruptly, he laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. Yancy Rowlett settling down with a family? Not damned likely, he told himself. And it wasn’t smart to be thinking about such things. There were too many men who wanted to nail his hide to the wall. If he stayed, he might even be putting Polly and her kids in danger.

  He was so deep in thought that he didn’t see the warning glint of sunlight on metal until it was almost too late. The flash came from a small hill he was about to pass, and he saw it just in time to lean forward on the neck of the horse, making himself a smaller target. The crack of a rifle suddenly split the cold air.

  What felt like a giant fist slammed into Rowlett’s left shoulder. The startled horse leaped under him, and the impact of the slug driving into his body knocked him back and to the side, out of the saddle. He felt himself falling and kicked his feet free of the stirrups. A split-second later he crashed into the frozen ground, knocking the breath out of him.

  The snow cushioned his fall a little, but not enough to keep him from being stunned. His left shoulder and arm were numb. The pain would come later, he knew—if there was a later. Even though his brain was swimming, he was still clearheaded enough to know that more bullets might smash into him at any moment.

  Instead of gunshots, he heard jubilant whoops and then the sound of hoofbeats. Instead of sitting up there on the hill and putting a dozen more slugs in his body, as they should have, the bushwhackers were coming to check on him close up.

  Stupid bastards.

  Stupid, dead bastards in a few minutes, if he had anything to say about it.

  His face was pressed against the ground so that his mouth and nose were clogged with snow. He turned his head just a little, risking that much movement so that he could breathe. Other than that he lay utterly still, as if the bullet that had knocked him off his horse had killed him. He felt the snow melting underneath him, getting his shirt wet. As long as the moisture didn’t penetrate to the powder in the chambers of the old cap and ball revolver tucked under his shirt and behind his belt, he would at least have a chance to fight back. He had to wait for the would-be killers to get closer, though.

  Pain started seeping into his shoulder. He could feel something else seeping now, too, and he knew the hot sticky dampness was blood. There was no way of knowing just how badly he was wounded. He hadn’t come too far from the Dillon place; if he could take care of the men who had ambushed him, he might be able to make it back there.

  The hoofbeats were louder now. Rowlett heard the men talking and laughing as they approached. Two of them, he judged. He hoped there weren’t any more than that. Healthy, he might have been able to take on three or four of the bushwhacking skunks, but wounded like he was, that would be impossible. He wouldn’t be able to move fast enough to handle more than two.

  “Look at the old son of a bitch! Looks sort of like a dead buffalo, don’t he, layin’ there like that?”

  “Naw, that’s a bear hide he’s got on. He looks like an ol’ grizzly somebody’s shot.”

  They were young, just as Rowlett had figured. He could tell that from their voices. Young and full of themselves, thinking that they were immortal. They were about to find out how wrong they were.

  * * *

  "Turner ain't goin' to be too happy that he's already kilt. You should've tried to just wing him, Coy."

  "Hell, that's what I was doin'. He jumped a little just as I pulled the trigger. Must've leaned right into the bullet."

  No, that wasn't the case, Rowlett thought fuzzily. If he hadn't leaned forward, the bullet would have drilled through his arm and into his left side, probably killing him. Coy wasn't as good a shot as he thought he was. Anyway, trying to shoot him out of the saddle and just wound him in the process was getting too blasted fancy. If they wanted him alive, they should have just shot the horse out from under him and put him afoot. They could have captured him at their leisure.

  Not for the first time, Rowlett was grateful for foolish kids who thought they were gunmen. They were going to be surprised as hell when they got closer . . . just a little closer . . .

  The hoofbeats stopped, and the voices were much closer now as one of the men announced, "I'm goin' to shoot him a few more times, just to make sure."

  "You should have done that a long time ago, sonny," Rowlett said.

  Then he was flipping over, pushing himself into a roll with his good arm. As he came over, his hand flashed to his midsection and delved under his shirt. He ripped the revolver free as one of the ambushers let out a yelp and threw a hurried shot at him. The bullet thudded into the snow-covered ground a good two feet away from Rowlett.

  He thumbed off a shot at the nearest rider. There were just two of them, as he had hoped. Then suddenly there was only one, as the heavy lead ball from Rowlett's gun drove into the chest of one of the young men, knocking him back out of the saddle as his nervous horse pranced around.

  Crimson droplets splattered on the snow, landing a split-second before the limp body of the dead man. At this range, the old pistol had blown a fist-sized hole right through him.

  The second man's mount was spooked by the gunfire, too. He hauled back on its reins and tried to bring it under control at the same time as he was attempting to line his sights on Rowlett. The big mountain man rolled over again. The horseman's gun banged, but Rowlett couldn't tell if he was hit or not. Blood was roaring in his ears as he came up on his good elbow and fired again.

  The horse twisted at that instant, and the ball struck it in the neck. The animal screamed and staggered as blood spurted from its throat. The rider cursed bitterly and kicked his feet loose, flinging himself out of the saddle as the horse crashed over onto its side. Rowlett fired again, still prone on the ground.

  The shot clipped the man on the outside of the right thigh as he tried to climb to his feet. Even the glancing blow was enough to knock him down again. He dropped his pistol as he clapped both hands to his wounded leg and rolled over a couple of times in the snow.

  Rowlett tried to draw a bead on the man, but the mortally wounded horse was in the way and still thrashing around. Rowlett was unable to push himself to his feet. He held the old revolver ready to fire, waiting for another shot.

  Instead, as the uninjured horse danced skittishly past the wounded man, he reached up and grabbed a dangling stirrup. Rowlett saw what was about to happen and bit out a curse. He fired at the horse itself, but the shot missed as the animal darted out of the way.

  The gunman was pulling himself up now, using the horse for cover. He reached up and grasped the saddlehorn and drew himself alongside the animal's body, hanging from it much like some of the Sioux did in their raids. As the horse leaped away from the scene that reeked of powder smoke and death, the surviving gunman climbed awkwardly onto its back, hanging on for dear life.

  Rowlett didn't waste any more time trying to bring down the man or the horse. He knew what was likely to happen next, because he had seen the butt of a rifle sticking up from a sad-dleboot on both horses. The rider might have dropped his pistol, but he was still armed with a long gun. Rowlett started to crawl toward the wounded horse, which gave a massive shudder and died while he was still a f
ew feet away.

  By this time the man on horseback had galloped off some thirty yards on the mount that had belonged to his dead partner. He reined in and yanked the horse around as he pulled the rifle from its sheath. "You son of a bitch!" he screamed back at Rowlett.

  The mountain man crawled into the pool of blood that colored the snow crimson all around the dead horse. He ducked his head down and huddled against the carcass as the other man's rifle began to spit lead and noise and flame. Bullets thudded into the dead horse, and Rowlett was pressed so closely against it that he could feel the animal's corpse jerking from the impacts.

  The body stopped the slugs, though, and even though the gunman emptied the rifle, Rowlett wasn't hurt any more than he had already suffered. He was waiting for the man to reload and charge him, but instead the gunman just sat out there on horseback, screaming curses as he lowered the empty rifle.

  "You killed Coy!" the man howled. "I'll see you in hell, you ugly bastard! Turner's goin' to kill you!"

  With that threat still echoing in the frigid air, the man whirled the horse and sent it into a gallop, riding hard toward the north. Rowlett risked raising up enough to watch him depart. The bushwhacker was leaning far forward over the neck of the horse, probably in great pain from the wound in his leg.

  Served the bloodthirsty peckerwood right, Rowlett thought. His own shoulder was hurting like blazes now.

  He stuffed the revolver back behind his belt and pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the dead horse to keep his balance as he climbed upright. He was lucky the second ambusher hadn't had any more sand than he did. Otherwise he wouldn't have ridden off and left Rowlett there like that. But the man had seen Rowlett kill his companion and he had taken a slug himself. All the fight had gone out of him after that fusillade from horseback hadn't done any good.

  But he was probably running back to Turner right now, Rowlett thought. If that murderous son of a bitch was anywhere close by, Rowlett was a dead man—and he knew it. He scanned the landscape around him, looking all the way to the distant horizons. The horse he had rented in Wind River was nowhere in sight. It had probably taken off for home as soon as the shooting started. Wounded and on foot, Rowlett wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight if Turner and the other men showed up any time soon.