She took hold of him again as he stood up, balancing himself unsteadily on his feet. It was awkward, because he was more than a foot taller than her, but once she had slipped under his right arm, draping it over her shoulders, they were able to walk together toward the cabin. The children ran ahead, making sure nothing was in the way.
Polly took him to her own bed, which was in a corner that could be closed off with a blanket draped over a cord strung from wall to wall. The children's bunks wouldn't be anywhere near big enough to accommodate him, she knew.
When they reached the bed, Rowlett grunted, "I'll get your linens all bloody, ma'am."
"Don't concern yourself with that. Just lie down carefully . . . yes, just like that."
Rowlett sagged onto the bunk, finally letting out a groan. He must have been in great pain the whole time, but he had been able to keep from showing it until now.
Polly glanced back at her children. Words snapped from her. "Andrew, fetch that water. Martha, build up the fire in the stove. And Francie, you bring me my sewing basket."
The youngsters all leapt to obey. Polly took the wicker basket Francie brought to her and lifted a pair of scissors from it. She pulled back Rowlett's coat, peeling it away from his shoulder as far as she could, since she wasn't sure the small scissors would even pierce the thick bearskin. She was able to use them to cut away the man's woolen shirt, however, and in a matter of minutes she had the wound exposed. There was a huge, ugly gash on top of Rowlett's shoulder. As far as Polly could tell, though, the bullet must have glanced off when it hit him. She didn't think it had lodged in his body. The thick bearskin had probably robbed the slug of some of its force, and luckily it hadn't struck Rowlett a direct blow. Polly's hopes rose.
Still, he had lost an awful lot of blood, and he needed the attention of a real doctor. When Andrew came back into the cabin carrying the bucket of water he had brought from the creek, she took it from him and said, "Do you remember how to follow the trail from here to Wind River, Andrew?"
His eyes widened at the unexpected question, but he bobbed his head up and down and said excitedly, "Yes, ma'am! I can find the town all right. You want me to ride for help?"
"That's exactly what I want. Take one of the mules and saddle it up. But Andrew—you'll have to be very careful. I don't want anything to happen to you."
"I'll be fine," he assured her. "All I have to do is follow Yancy's tracks from when he rode out here this morning, and they'll take me straight to Wind River."
That was right, Polly decided. The day had been calm, with little wind and no new snow, so Andrew wouldn't have any trouble following Rowlett's back trail.
But that would take him right past the spot where Rowlett had been ambushed.
Polly glanced at the big man on her bunk. She felt confident that she could patch up his wound—but what if she was wrong? What if he died because he didn't get the attention of a real doctor in time? She didn't want to live with that on her conscience.
"Get your father's pistol from the trunk, Andrew," she said as she came to a decision. "Load it and take it with you when you ride to town."
He nodded in understanding, his eyes still wide.
"And when you get there, find the doctor and bring him back out here. If you can't find the doctor, look for Marshal Tyler or Deputy Casebolt."
"Yes, Ma."
"And Andrew . . . be careful. Be very careful. But ride as quickly as you can."
"Don't you worry," he assured her. "I ain't about to let you down, Ma. You . . . or Yancy."
With that, he hurried back outside to saddle up one of the mules, and Polly took the bucket of water Martha had already warmed up without being told to. She dipped a cloth in the water and started gently washing away the dried blood on Rowlett's shoulder.
He opened his eyes a moment later and looked up at her, his expression full of confusion at first. Then he seemed to remember what had happened and where he was, and he said, "Miz Dillon . . . Polly . . . I don't know what to say—"
"Don't say anything," she told him. "Just lie there and rest, and we'll take care of you. You're going to be fine, Mr. Rowlett, just fine."
"Reckon you ought to call me . . . Yancy . . ."
And considering that he was lying in her bed with his shirt half cut away while she washed his wounded shoulder, Polly supposed he was right.
"All right," she whispered. "Yancy . . ."
Chapter 12
For a variety of reasons, Andrew's heart pounded heavily in his chest as he rode toward Wind River. He was worried about Yancy Rowlett, of course, but he was also proud that his mother had trusted him with the responsibility of fetching help from town. And the same thing had occurred to him that had evidently occurred to his mother—the trail would take him right past the spot where somebody had bushwhacked the big mountain man.
His eyes darted from side to side, pausing on every hill or clump of bare-limbed trees where gunmen might be hiding. Rowlett had said that one of the men who'd attacked him was dead and that the other had fled after being wounded. But the one who had survived might have come back with other men, anxious to settle the score. Andrew might have to fight his way through them to reach Wind River. It was a thrilling thought, but also a frightening one.
The vast emptiness of the snow-covered landscape got to him as well. Andrew had never minded being by himself, but he had never been quite this alone before.
He held the reins in his left hand and moved his right to the butt of the pistol tucked inside his coat. The feel of the hard, smooth walnut grips was somehow comforting. Andrew had practiced with that pistol. His father had taught him how to shoot. He'd use it if he had to, he told himself.
He spotted something on the ground up ahead, a pair of dark shapes that sprawled ominously on the snow. As he rode closer, the shapes resolved themselves in the bodies of a man and a horse.
Andrew reined in to stare at the corpses. He swallowed hard. He had never witnessed this much carnage. The blood on Rowlett's shirt had shocked him, but that had been mild compared to this scene. Blood had pooled around the dead man and the horse, and the eyes of both were wide open, staring glassy and sightless at nothing. Andrew hunched over in the saddle as his stomach twisted and jerked.
Tearing his gaze away from the bodies, he opened his mouth and gulped down some of the cold air, swallowing the sour taste in his mouth in the process. His heels dug into the flanks of the mule, goading it into motion again. Andrew looked off to the side until he was sure he was well past the grisly sight. Then he fixed his eyes on the horizon in front of him again and urged the mule on to greater speed. Its gait was uncomfortable, but Andrew didn't care. He wanted to reach Wind River as soon as possible.
But he knew, deep inside his mind, that he would never forget what he had seen today. Those dead, staring eyes were a memory that would stay with him forever.
* * *
Cole Tyler was leaning against the railing along the boardwalk in front of the marshal's office when he saw two familiar figures emerge from a building across the street. Simone McKay was arm in arm with Dr. Judson Kent, and her head was thrown back slightly as she laughed at something the British physician had said.
Cole frowned. Simone and Kent were mighty friendly these days, he thought. The shop they had just come out of sold ladies' hats and dresses, and Kent was carrying a hatbox in his other hand.
Obviously Simone had asked him to accompany her on a shopping trip. That made sense, Cole supposed. Out of all the men in Wind River, the doctor probably knew more about ladies' fashions than anybody else, since he had lived in England and then spent quite a bit of time in the East before coming out here to the frontier. If Simone wanted a man's opinion on a new hat, then it was logical she would choose Kent.
Logical or not, that didn't mean Cole had to like it.
A sudden shout took his attention away from Kent and Simone, and it was almost a welcome distraction. Almost, but not quite, because Cole could tell from the way the youn
gster rode hurriedly down the street on a rangy mule that there was some sort of trouble going on.
"Marshal! Marshal Tyler!"
Cole stepped out into the street as he recognized Polly Dillon's son. Andrew, that was his name, recalled Cole. He held up a hand to stop the frantic youngster and said, "Hold on there, Andrew! Here I am. What's wrong?"
Andrew pulled the big mule to a stop and said breathlessly, "I got to find the doctor!"
"Somebody hurt out at your place?" Cole asked sharply.
"It's Yancy," Andrew said. "Somebody shot him!"
Cole stiffened in surprise. "Yancy Rowlett?"
"Yeah. He's hurt, Marshal, and my ma sent me to fetch the doctor."
Judson Kent had already heard the commotion from the opposite boardwalk and was crossing the street toward Cole and the boy. Simone stayed on the boardwalk, a worried frown on her face. Kent came up to the mule, the muddy slush of Grenville Avenue clinging to his boots, and asked, "What's all this about someone being shot?"
Andrew turned to face him. "You're the doc?"
"Indeed I am."
"This is Dr. Judson Kent, Andrew," Cole told the youngster. "If you need help, he's your man."
"A friend of ours has been shot," Andrew said to the medico. "Can you come out to our cabin and take a look at him?"
"I most certainly can," Kent replied briskly. "Where is the injury?"
"In his left shoulder." Andrew touched the spot on his own body.
Kent nodded. "I'd best go out and have a look. I'll fetch my buggy. Wait here, young man."
As Kent hurried off, Cole asked, "What happened to Yancy, Andrew? How'd he get shot?"
"I don't know for sure," the boy said. "He told us a couple of men bushwhacked him. I . . . I saw one of them on the way into town. Yancy killed him."
Cole nodded. That was a grim thing for someone as young as Andrew to have seen. But the frontier had a way of forcing people to grow up fast. "Let me saddle Ulysses," he said. "I'll ride out there with you and the doc."
He ducked back into the marshal's office for a moment before heading for the livery stable. Billy Casebolt wasn't around at the moment, but Cole left a note for him on the desk, telling the deputy where he was going and why. Casebolt could take care of things here in Wind River while he was gone.
By the time Cole had saddled up the big golden sorrel and rejoined Andrew in front of the marshal's office, Kent was there in his buggy. The damage the vehicle had sustained in the accident a couple of weeks earlier had been repaired, and a new horse, a big roan this time, was hitched to it. Kent nodded to indicate his readiness and said to Andrew, "Lead on, my young friend."
As they rode out of town, Cole saw Kent tip his hat to Simone McKay, who was holding her own hatbox now. After a couple of minutes, Cole couldn't stop himself from asking a question as Ulysses trotted alongside the doctor's buggy.
"Helping Simone do a little shopping, were you, Judson?”
Kent glanced at him, looking somewhat surprised by the question. “She wanted my opinion on a hat she wished to purchase. I told her I was hardly the one to advise her on such things, but she was insistent. And you know how Simone can be when she wants something.”
Cole nodded. He knew, all right. If it hadn’t been for Simone, he probably wouldn’t be wearing a marshal’s badge right now. To Kent, he said, “Could be she’s set her cap for you. Her husband’s been gone for a while.”
Kent laughed, but there was a bitter sound to it. “Hardly. When we were at the milliners, she asked me if I thought you would like the hat she picked out.”
“Me?” Cole’s eyes widened. He sure hadn’t expected something like that.
“Indeed. I’d say, old boy,” drawled Kent, “that you’re the one our good Mrs. McKay is taken with.”
Cole shook his head, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. There had been a few times in the past when he had thought . . . when he had hoped . . . that Simone was showing a glimmer of interest in him, but he had convinced himself every time that he was wrong. It had only been his imagination, he told himself.
But now, according to what Kent was saying, there was some truth to those hopes. There was no mistaking Kent’s own disappointment, and Cole knew the doctor was attracted to Simone, too. Hell, what man with eyes in his head and a lick of sense wouldn’t be attracted to her?
He was going to have to do some serious thinking about this, Cole decided. But for the time being, there was the matter of Yancy Rowlett being bushwhacked to deal with. They left the town several miles behind them as they followed the trail leading to the Dillon place, and after a few more minutes, Andrew slowed his mule and pointed ahead of them.
“There’s the . . . the dead man, and a horse, too,” he said.
“You and the boy swing on around ‘em, Judson,” Cole said. “I’ll take a look, then catch up with you.”
“An excellent suggestion,” agreed Kent. He swung the buggy to the side and took Andrew with him, skirting the corpses by a good hundred yards while Cole rode directly toward them.
When he reached the bodies, he reined in and leaned forward in the saddle, frowning as he studied the features of the dead man. Ulysses moved nervously back and forth a little, spooked by the lingering smell of blood.
To the best of his memory, Cole had never seen the dead man before. The bushwhacker had been young, with the coarse, beard-stubbled countenance of a hardcase. This fella might be a stranger, but Cole had seen hundreds, maybe thousands, just like him. He had no trouble believing that the man and a companion had ambushed Rowlett.
But as for their motive, that was another question. Robbery was always a possibility, but in his old bearskin coat Rowlett wouldn’t have appeared very likely to be carrying much gold or money. Cole had a feeling the big mountain man had done well for himself in the gold fields of Montana Territory, but that certainly wasn’t apparent from looking at him. He asked himself what other reason there could have been for bushwhacking Rowlett but failed to come up with an answer.
Heeling the sorrel into an easy lope, Cole rode after Dr. Kent and Andrew, who were still in sight up ahead. He caught up to them a few minutes later and they continued on toward the new cabin where the Dillon family was living. Cole asked Andrew, “Did Yancy say anything about why those men jumped him?”
Andrew shook his head. “Not while I was there.”
Cole nodded. He wasn’t satisfied, though. He hadn’t been a lawman for long, but already he was developing instincts that told him when things didn’t quite add up. And there was something wrong about this situation, he sensed.
Maybe Rowlett would have some answers.
They arrived at the cabin a half hour later, and Polly Dillon must have heard them coming because she emerged from the door to wave at them as they rode up. “Thank God,” she said fervently as Cole and Andrew dismounted and Kent stepped down from the buggy. “I was worried that something might have happened to Andrew.”
“Aw, I told you I wouldn’t have any trouble, Ma.”
Cole said, “He came right to town to fetch us, Mrs. Dillon. I reckon you can be proud of him.”
“I am,” she said as she slipped an arm around the youngster’s shoulders. “But right now I’m worried about Mr. Rowlett. He lost a great deal of blood.”
“I’m Dr. Judson Kent, madam,” the Englishman told her. “If you’ll show me to the patient . . .”
“Of course. Come on in.”
Kent went straight to the bed in the corner where Rowlett lay. He pulled up a chair and sat down as he lifted away the pad of cloth Polly had placed on the wound. His gray eyes were intent as he studied the injury.
Cole moved over beside Kent while Polly drew her children to the other side of the room, out of the way. Rowlett managed to grin weakly as he looked up at Cole. “0l’ Drago’d be plumb disappointed in me,” he said. “I rode right into an ambush with my eyes wide open.”
“I saw the other fella on the way out here. Looked like you plugged him thro
ugh the heart.”
Instead of shrugging, Rowlett wiggled his bushy eyebrows. “Lucky shot,” he said. “The other one like to did me in. He lost his nerve after I clipped his leg with a ball from my old horse pistol.”
“Got any idea why they bushwhacked you?” asked Cole.
Rowlett shook his head. “Nary a one. I was a mite too busy to study on ‘em, but I don’t think I ever saw either one of them before. Reckon they were just owlhoots, looking for somebody to hold up.”
“Maybe so,” Cole said slowly. “No offense, Yancy, but you don’t look like the sort to be carrying a lot of loot.”
“Lobos like that don’t care. They’ll kill a man and take whatever he’s got, even if it’s only a handful of pennies.”
“True enough.” Cole glanced at the doctor, who was opening up his black bag and taking out a brown bottle and some cotton pads. “How’s it look to you, Judson?”
“Your friend is indeed a lucky man, Marshal.” To Rowlett he said, “That bullet might as easily have killed you as glanced off, you know.”
Rowlett grinned again. “One of the blessings of having a tough hide, I guess.”
“Yes, quite. It appears that Mrs. Dillon has done an admirable job of cleaning the wound, but I’m going to disinfect it with carbolic acid anyway and then bind it up. With plenty of rest and fluids and good food for the next few days, you should recover splendidly, Mr. Rowlett. Your arm and shoulder will, however, be quite sore for a time.”
“I can live with that,” Rowlett said. “Thanks, Doc.”
Kent went to work cleaning and bandaging the bullet crease. From the other side of the room, Polly asked, “Does he need to be traveling, Dr. Kent?”
The physician looked back over his shoulder. “Well, it would be best, I suppose, if he didn’t, although I believe we could take him into town without much risk of further injury.”
“There’s no need for that,” Polly said firmly. She stepped closer and went on, “You can stay right here, Mr. Rowlett.”
Wolf Shadow (Wind River Book 3) Page 16
