The reactions told Cole what he wanted to know. Turner had given his men orders not to start any trouble while they were in town, and obviously his hold on them was strong enough that they were obeying.
That eased Cole’s mind a little. He was still convinced that Turner and his gunmen were up to no good, but at least there was a good chance trouble wouldn’t break out while they were here in Wind River.
He drained the last of his beer, placed the empty mug on the bar, and rattled a coin down beside it. Then he turned and walked slowly out of the saloon, feeling the glances that some of the men threw at his back. No one tried to stop him.
When he stepped outside, he saw that Turner was gone. Billy Casebolt stood nearby, however, and Cole knew the deputy had disregarded his orders to stay at the office. Cole couldn’t hold that against him; Casebolt had just wanted to be close at hand if there was any trouble.
“Where’d the gent go who was standing out here?” Cole asked.
Casebolt nodded toward the most impressive structure in town. “Over to the Territorial House. Reckon he’s lookin’ for rooms for him and his boys. What’d you think of ‘em, Marshal?”
“They’re looking for trouble, all right,” Cole said with a nod, “but maybe not here. Their boss has got them on a tight rein.”
Casebolt spat and said dubiously, “Just the same, I’ll be glad when they ride out of here.”
“So will I, Billy. So will I.”
* * *
A few days passed, and with each hour that went by, Rowlett felt strength flowing back into him. Just as Dr. Kent had predicted, his arm and shoulder were sore as blazes, but that didn't stop Rowlett from using them. He knew the pain would just be worse if he let the injury stiffen up.
By the second day he was up and walking around inside the cabin, over Polly's objections, and on the third day he stepped outside for the first time since he had been wounded. The sun was out, and for a change it held some actual warmth. It felt good on Rowlett's face.
"What are you doing out here?" Polly asked from behind him. "You're supposed to be resting!.
Rowlett turned to look at her and had to smile at the stern expression on her face. "A man can't just lie abed all the time, Polly," he told her. "He's got to get up and move around.
You ever heard of cabin fever?"
"I have, and you haven't been inside nearly long enough to develop a case of it. Now you march right back inside, Yancy Rowlett."
His smile widened into a grin. "You're bossy, Polly, but you're mighty pretty, too."
She flushed underneath the bonnet she wore tied over her dark hair, then said, "Flattery isn't going to make you recover any more quickly."
"No, but it might get me out of that bunk. Where are you going?"
"The children and I are taking the wagon into Wind River this morning. We need some more supplies, and besides, it will do the children good to get out for a while. They've been cooped up so much with all this bad weather—"
She stopped short at the triumphant look on Rowlett's face and realized that she had just made his argument for him. "It's not the same thing at all," she went on quickly. "You suffered a gunshot wound—"
"That bullet just grazed me," Rowlett pointed out. "I lost some blood, but the way you've been feeding me the past few days, I've just about got all my strength back. And the wound's healing up clean; you said so yourself when you changed the dressing this morning."
"Yes, I suppose I did," Polly admitted. She sighed. "I'm wasting my breath arguing with you, aren't I?"
"You surely are, ma'am."
She returned his smile and said, "All right, you can come with us. But you have to promise that when we get back, you'll rest for the remainder of the day."
Rowlett nodded and said, "Sure."
He hated to lie to her like that, but he didn't have any intention of returning to the cabin with them. Once he was in town again, he planned to stay there and finish recovering from his wound in Wind River. That would be safer for all of them . . . although he would sure miss Polly and her youngsters. He had enjoyed having Andrew and Martha and Francie around, and Polly was just about the best cook he'd ever run across, not to mention how pretty she was. He could sure as hell have gotten used to staying here, Rowlett thought. If things had just been different—
But they weren't, and he knew it.
He shook off the grim mood that threatened to claim him as the children came out of the cabin, laughing and excited about going to town. When they saw that Rowlett was going to accompany them, they were even happier.
He climbed carefully onto the seat, and Polly settled herself beside him as the children piled into the back of the wagon. Polly flapped the reins and got the mules moving. The trail was still muddy in places from the melted snow, but it was drying out rapidly in the warm wind. Fluffy white clouds scudded past in the deep blue sky overhead. Winter probably wasn't over yet, but Rowlett thought he caught a hint of spring in the air.
Yes, sir, he thought as the wagon rolled toward Wind River, it was sure a beautiful day.
Cole was surprised when he saw the massive figure in the bearskin coat climbing down from the wagon parked in front of the Wind River General Store. He recognized Rowlett immediately, as well as Polly Dillon and her kids. The youngsters were laughing and chattering, having a fine time on this trip to town. As they disappeared into the store, Cole heard the boy say excitedly, "I'm going to buy some licorice!"
Rowlett was still standing on the emporium's porch. Cole strode quickly along the boardwalk, across the mouth of an alley, and up the side steps onto the porch. He raised a hand in greeting. "Howdy, Yancy. What brings you to town?"
Rowlett jerked a thumb toward the big, canvas-covered vehicle parked in the street. "The Dillon wagon," he said dryly.
"You know what I mean. How's your shoulder?"
Rowlett rolled the wounded shoulder and didn't flinch. "Still twinges a mite when I move it, but it's getting better all the time. The way Polly—Miz Dillon—and her young'uns have been spoiling me, I've been able to rest up and get my strength back. Hell, Cole, I feel almost like a new man."
"Glad to hear it. You going to stay on out there?"
A cloud seemed to darken Rowlett s bearded features. He said, "No, I reckon not. They don't know it yet, but I'm not going back out there with them today. I've imposed on 'em enough."
Cole frowned a little. "When Mrs. Dillon asked you to stay, I didn't figure she felt it would be imposing on them."
"No, that ain't it at all. They're liable to be upset with me when they find out I'm not going back with them. But I ain't never been one to wear out my welcome. I can take care of myself now."
Cole nodded slowly. So it was a matter of pride, he thought. Rowlett didn't like being in debt to anyone, no matter how freely their help was given. That fierce independence had been a common trait among the mountain men, otherwise they never would have been able to spend months at a time tramping through the Rockies, sometimes without ever seeing another human being for that time.
"I guess the decision's up to you," Cole said. "Say, you haven't come up with any other reason those two hombres might've bushwhacked you, have you?"
"Nope, can't think of a thing," replied Rowlett, almost too quickly.
Once again, Cole was struck by the impression that Rowlett knew more than he was saying—but there was no way to prove that, and confronting Rowlett with his suspicions would probably just make the big man more close-mouthed than ever.
Andrew appeared in the doorway of the store and asked, "Hey, Yancy, you want any licorice?"
Rowlett looked back over his shoulder and grinned at the boy. "No, thanks, son. My ol' teeth can't abide the stuff. Thanks for asking, though."
Andrew grinned and ducked back into the store.
Cole leaned his head toward the building. "I'd say there are some folks in there who like you, Yancy."
"And I like them. I've gotten right fond of those little ones."
"What about Mrs. Dillon?"
Rowlett frowned. "Well, she's still in mourning for that husband of hers."
"She's a mighty handsome woman," Cole pointed out.
"Yep, that she is. And she can cook, too." Rowlett changed the subject abruptly by asking, "Has there been anybody around looking for me?"
The question took Cole by surprise and made his suspicions that much stronger. "No, not that I recall," he said. "Were you expecting somebody to be looking for you?"
"No, it's just that there were some pards of mine up there in Montana who said they might come on down this way. I just thought they might have drifted in."
Cole couldn't tell if he was lying or not. Rowlett's story was feasible enough. Cole shook his head and said, "The only strangers who've been around haven't asked about you. They haven't asked about anybody, in fact, and I'm a mite worried about why they're here. They just hang around the saloons and the hotel and keep their eyes open . . . like they're waiting for somebody."
"That so?" Rowlett tried to adopt a casual tone, but he wasn't entirely successful. "What do they look like?"
"Like trouble, to be honest about it. Hardcases, hired guns. And the man ramrodding them is maybe the toughest of the bunch. His name's Turner."
Cole saw the flare of alarm in Rowlett's eyes. The big man wasn't able to hide it this time. Rowlett glanced around sharply, as if he expected to see somebody pointing a gun at him. At that moment, a figure stepped out onto the hotel porch down the block. The man was tall and lean, and Cole recognized him as Turner.
Rowlett saw him at the same time. His hand swept under the bearskin coat, and Cole knew he was reaching for that old cap and ball revolver. Some instinct must have warned Turner, because he suddenly pivoted in the direction of the general store, and he spat out the name "Rowlett!" as if it was a curse. His hand flickered toward the holstered gun on his hip.
And Polly Dillon chose that instant to step out onto the porch of the general store, directly between the two men going for their guns.
Chapter 14
Cole's eyes took in the scene in a split-second, and his instincts sent him lunging forward, his left hand outstretched, his right reaching for his gun. He shoved Polly through the open doorway, shouting, "Get back!" At the same time, his Colt flashed into his other hand, beating the draws of both Rowlett and Turner. "Hold it, Yancy!" he rapped over his shoulder, at the same time training his gun on Turner, whose pistol was halfway out of its holster. "Don't try it, mister!"
The three men seemed to freeze there like that, Turner's gun half-drawn, Cole's revolver trained on him, Rowlett behind Cole with the old cap and ball drawn but pointed toward the ground. Rowlett said harshly, "Get out of the way and let me kill him, Cole. You don't know what's going on here."
"No, but I damn sure mean to find out," Cole snapped. To Turner he said, "Holster it, mister, now!"
Turner was too far away for Cole to see what was going on in his eyes, but the marshal could tell from Turners taut stance that the man was calculating the odds, trying to figure out if he could finish his own draw in the face of a leveled gun, down Cole, and then fire at Rowlett. The odds were against that, and Turner had to know it.
He wasn't going to just give up, though. His voice hoarse with emotion, he said, "You're shielding a killer, Marshal. You know that, don't you?"
"All I know is that nobody's going to start slinging lead out here on the street where innocent folks could get hurt," Cole said. "This is your last chance, Turner. Put that gun away."
For a moment more, Turner hesitated, then abruptly he let the pistol sag back into its holster. He tucked his thumbs behind his belt and strode forward. "You're making a big mistake, Marshal," he called out. He seemed calmer now, more in control of himself.
That was because he felt more in control of the situation, Cole realized a second later. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the men on the boardwalk across the street—Turner's men, three of them, and they all had their guns out. If any shooting started, they were in perfect position to cut down both Cole and Rowlett.
Turner came down off the boardwalk and then up the steps onto the far end of the general store's porch. "You'd better listen to me, Marshal," he said. "You're sworn to uphold the law, and Rowlett's nothing but a cold-blooded murderer. You ought to be pointing that gun at him, not me."
"He's crazy, Cole," Rowlett said. "He's been chasing me for weeks now, trying to kill me. You'd better lock him up. Either that, or step aside and let me finish this."
"You do that, and my men will kill both of you," Turner warned.
Cole glanced at the men on the other side of the street. Rowlett had to have noticed them, but he obviously didn't care. If Turner had been after him for weeks, as Rowlett claimed, then he was probably so fed up with the pursuit by now that he was willing to risk death to put an end to it.
But if a hail of bullets came across the street, some of them were likely to penetrate the front wall of the store, and there were quite a few innocent people in there, Cole knew, including Polly Dillon and her children. He reminded Rowlett of that fact by saying, "You don't want to do that, Yancy. Other folks would get hurt."
Cole hadn't taken his eyes off Turner, but he could hear the heavy sigh that came from Rowlett. "You're right. But I ain't going to stand by and let them gun me down like a dog."
A new voice called from across the street, "Won't have to, Yancy! These boys ain't goin' to do anything 'cept drop their guns."
Cole's eyes flicked in that direction, and he saw that Billy Casebolt had stepped out of the mouth of an alley near the trio of Turner's hired guns. The deputy had a greener in his hands, and both barrels were cocked and aimed at the hardcases. Casebolt must have spotted the trouble and circled around to get the drop on Turner's men, and Cole was damned glad Billy had been so observant and quick-thinking.
"Looks like a stand-off," he said coolly to Turner. "If we all start shooting, Yancy just might survive; you never can tell. But you'll die for sure, Turner. I won't miss at this range."
Turner glared at him for a long moment, then slowly lifted his left hand and made a flicking motion with it. His men hesitated, then one by one they leaned over and placed their pistols on the boardwalk.
Casebolt moved in front of them and motioned with the barrels of the shotgun for them to step away from the weapons.
Cole relaxed a little, but he didn't holster his gun. "Where are the rest of your men?" he asked Turner.
"Inside the hotel."
"You'd better hope they stay there and don't try anything."
"They won't." Turner was still glowering. "I'm sorry this turned ugly. It's just that I've been after that murdering son of a bitch for so long, I couldn't think straight when I first saw him."
"You're a damn liar, Turner—" Rowlett began.
"That's enough," Cole cut in sharply. He glanced at the windows of the general store and saw anxious faces peering out, faces that belonged to Polly Dillon and her children. He wanted to find out what was going on here, but a hunch told him that it would be better to get the answers in private. "Come on," he said, swinging half-around so that the command took in both Rowlett and Turner. "We're going down to my office. I want to get to the bottom of this."
Turner stiffened. "I won't be under the same roof with that killer."
"You don't have any choice," Cole told him. He called out to his deputy, "Billy, keep those men covered until we're inside."
"Sure thing, Marshal," Casebolt replied without taking his eyes off the men he was covering with the double-barreled scattergun.
As Cole started toward the marshal's office, Rowlett said, "You really don't want to listen to this fella's half-baked lies, Cole."
"I'm willing to listen to anything that'll clear this up. Come on, Yancy." His eyes narrowed. "Unless you want me to hear Turner's side of it and not yours."
Rowlett pointed a blunt finger at Turner. "Don't let him anywhere close to me. I ain't going to be responsible for what h
appens if he comes after me again."
His voice icy, Cole said, "Let's go . . . both of you."
"He killed my son," Turner said. "Murdered him in cold blood, then stole a fortune in gold."
"That's a damn lie!" Rowlett thundered, slamming an open hand down on Cole's desk.
Cole was standing behind the desk. He snapped, "Hold it, both of you! I didn't bring you here so you could yell at each other." He pointed at Turner. "You go first. Tell me your story."
Rowlett opened his mouth to object, but Cole silenced him with a hard look. Turner glanced at Rowlett, gave a contemptuous snort, then began, "Rowlett worked for me up in Montana Territory. I own the Providence mine near Bannock."
"I never—"
"That's enough, Yancy," Cole said. "Let Turner finish, then you can talk. I'm not making up my mind about anything until I've heard all of it."
Rowlett growled, "Hell of a way to treat your pa's old partner."
Cole frowned. The same thing had occurred to him, and he didn't like even giving the appearance of siding with Turner against the big mountain man. But at the same time, he wanted to be fair about this. A lawman sometimes had to ignore his own wishes. He said, "Go ahead, Turner."
"Rowlett was one of my miners, but he kept causing trouble, getting into fights, things like that."
"The only fella I ever got in a fight with was that sorry son of yours!"
Turner trembled with anger. "Arthur was the mine supervisor. He had every right to tell you what to do."
"He was an overbearing little piss-ant who didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. And by God, when you're digging for gold that's one thing you damn well ought to know!"
Cole sighed wearily and held up his hands. "You reckon we can get through this without you interrupting all the time, Yancy? I told you I'd hear you out when Turner's finished."
Rowlett slumped down in one of the chairs in front of the desk, crossed his arms, and scowled. "I'm finished now. I ain't paying attention to any more of his lies."
Wolf Shadow (Wind River Book 3) Page 18
