"I reckon if I kill you, those hired guns of yours have orders to cut me down?"
Even in the faint light, Rowlett was close enough now to see the bleak smile that curved Turner's mouth. "Of course. I'll go to my death knowing that you're right behind me, Rowlett."
"That don't strike me as fair."
"Neither was my son's murder."
"I don't have a whole lot to gain in this gun-fight, then do I?"
"Only the satisfaction of knowing you put me down first—if you can." Turner came to a stop.
Rowlett stopped, too. Only about twenty feet separated them now. Rowlett had moved his cap and ball revolver to the outside of his shirt, and the bearskin coat hung open so that he could easily snatch the gun from behind his belt. But Turner would probably beat him to the draw. Rowlett's only real chance to kill the man would be to take a bullet and stay on his feet long enough to put a ball through him.
He thought he could do that.
"Let's get it done," Turner grated.
The sound of hoofbeats suddenly drifted up the trail.
"Riders from Wind River, boss!" called one of the gunmen.
"Damn it!" Turner exclaimed. "I won't wait anymore!" He snatched at the gun in his holster.
Rowlett's hand swept up, his fingers closing on the butt of the old revolver. As he jerked it free, he saw Turner's gun coming clear of the holster. The barrel tilted up and flame bloomed from the muzzle. Rowlett felt something smack into his chest.
The impact staggered him but didn't put him down. He raised the revolver and thumbed back the hammer, somehow keeping his hand rock steady.
The cap and ball boomed and bucked against his palm. Turner's hat came off and he spun half around as the ball slammed into him, but he stayed on his feet, too. His gun blasted a second time. Rowlett heard the bullet whine past him, a clean miss.
Rowlett cocked the cap and ball again. He was going to kill Turner if it was the last thing he ever did. A sound like thunder filled his head, but he didn't know if it was his own pulse hammering inside his skull or the hoof-beats of the riders from Wind River.
Then the horsemen swept by him, and more shots crashed. Muzzle flashes from the guns of Turner's men lit up the night. Bullets thudded into Rowlett's tall, broad figure. He ignored them and squeezed off his second shot. Turner doubled over this time as the ball caught him in the stomach.
But somehow Turner stayed on his feet. He had dropped his gun, but with one hand pressed to his midsection to hold himself together, he drew a knife with the other hand and stumbled toward Rowlett, a thin, eerie cry pealing from his mouth. One of the bullets flying around wildly tore across the back of Rowlett's gun hand, cutting a deep gash and making him drop the old revolver. He didn't care. He would finish this the way Turner wanted, hand to hand, the only weapon the long, heavy blade Turner was waving around.
Rowlett met his charge head-on. He tried to knock the knife aside, but he was a fraction of an instant too slow. The steel felt cold and hot at the same time as it pierced Rowlett's chest. Turner was panting breathlessly as he drove the knife home.
Rowlett's left hand shot out, a twinge of pain going through his injured shoulder as it did so. But there was so much pain now that a little more didn't matter.
All that mattered was the feel of Turner's throat in his hand as his fingers closed around it. Rowlett locked his grip tight and didn't budge it as Turner ripped the knife free and plunged it into him again and again. Finally, after Turner had driven the blade all the way to the hilt in Rowlett's chest, his fingers slipped off it and he began to paw futilely at the fingers around his throat. Turner's struggles grew more and more feeble as the fighting flowed around the two men who swayed together in the middle of the trail.
Then they fell, still together, and the gunfire gradually died away.
Cole Tyler reined in Ulysses and dropped from the saddle to run over to the dark, huddled shape that had been two stubborn men. "Yancy!" he called. "Damn it, Yancy—"
A low groan came from the shape on the ground.
Cole went to a knee beside them, grasped Turner's shoulders, and rolled him away. The man's head lolled loosely in death.
Rowlett was still alive, though—somehow. It seemed incredible that he could be clinging to life when the whole front of his shirt was sodden with blood. Cole could tell that much even in the dim light from the stars and the slice of moon.
"Damn it, Yancy, you should have waited for us.
Rowlett's eyes flickered open. He strained to get words out, finally said thickly, "Didn't . . . didn't want nobody else . . . to get hurt . . ."
"You knew you couldn't take on Turner and his men by yourself."
"Didn't . . . care . . . Wanted it . . . over . . ."
"It's over, all right. Turner's dead as hell."
"G-good . . ." Rowlett's voice strengthened a little. "Hope there ain't too many others hurt."
Cole glanced up as Casebolt and Kermit Sawyer rode over to him. "How's it look?" he asked them.
"Couple o' them hardcases are dead," replied Casebolt, "and the rest of 'em are shot up a mite. They ain't goin' to give any more trouble. All the fight's gone out of 'em."
"Some of my men are wounded," Sawyer said, "but none of them are hurt too bad." There was a note of pride in his voice as he went on, "Those bastards are good at bullyin' women and children, but they found out it's a hell of a lot different goin' up against a bunch of Texas boys."
Cole didn't feel very proud of anything that had happened tonight. He looked down at Rowlett again and said, "We were lucky, Yancy. Nobody was killed except a couple of Turner's men . . . Yancy!"
A low, bubbling breath told him Rowlett was still alive. The big mountain man's voice was so low that Cole had to lean closer to hear him. "Tell Polly to . . . look under the floor . . . in her cabin. Fire might've burned the bag . . . and melted some of it . . . but the gold's still there."
Cole's eyes widened in shock. "Gold?" he whispered.
"Cached it there . . . when we was building the cabin. Twenty thousand . . . dollars worth . . . It’s . . . hers now . . . by rights.”
“Damn it, Yancy . . .”
“Never meant for . . . Arthur to die . . . Just wanted . . . what was coming to me . . . Little piss-ant found me there . . . wouldn’t stop raising a ruckus . . . I had to hit him . . . Never meant for it to happen . . . never meant to cause trouble for . . . for you, Cole, or for . . . anybody else . . . don’t tell Polly . . .”
It was hard for him, but Cole nodded. “I won’t,” he promised. He was leaning so close to Rowlett now and the big man’s voice was so soft, he knew that none of the others would have been able to hear what was being said. “Just tell her . . . I . . .” Death rattled in Rowlett’s throat.
After a long moment, Cole drew a deep breath and straightened. He climbed wearily to his feet.
“What’d he say there at the end?” Casebolt asked quietly.
“He never finished,” Cole said. “But I know what he meant.” He reached for the sorrel’s reins. “Gather up the prisoners and get the bodies on some horses.” He glanced off at the dark hills to the north as a wolf howled somewhere far in the distance. Then he said, “Let’s go home.”
* * *
Michael Hatfield came out of the newspaper office and stood on the porch in front of the Sentinel building to watch as the wagon carrying Polly Dillon and her children rolled past. Polly's face was solemn and the youngsters seemed subdued, but Michael supposed that was only natural. They had all been through a great deal. He lifted a hand as the wagon went past, and the youngest girl—Francie was her name, Michael remembered—returned the wave shyly. She even smiled a little.
Kids recovered quickly from most things. Michael knew that already from his own limited experience as a parent. He hoped the Dillon children would be all right.
As for Mrs. Dillon . . . well, that might be a different story.
Once the wagon was past, Michael looked across Grenville Avenue and
saw that Cole Tyler was watching it, too. The young newspaperman crossed the street and raised a hand in greeting. "Good morning, Marshal," he said.
Cole nodded. "Morning."
"I just saw the Dillons leaving. Are they going back out to their farm?"
Cole's eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you interviewing me for the paper, Michael?"
"Well, you have to admit it's an interesting story. Tragic, of course, but still interesting."
"Maybe," Cole said with a shrug. "But no, they're not going back out there. They're heading on over to Rock Springs to settle there. Mrs. McKay gave them back the money they'd paid on the land here."
"I can understand why they'd want to live somewhere else. I imagine their old place holds some bad memories for them, what with that fire and those gunmen terrorizing them. But are they going to be able to afford to start over?"
"I reckon they'll manage just fine," Cole said.
There was something in the marshal's voice that made Michael sense there was more to this than Cole was saying. However, a look at his face made Michael decide it might be best not to pry too much. Sometimes those newspaperman's instincts just had to be reined in.
"What are you going to do with Turner's men, the ones you took prisoner?"
Cole shrugged again. "Let 'em go, I suppose. Hell, I was out of my jurisdiction when I arrested them. But they weren't in much of a mood to argue the matter at the time."
"I imagine they just wanted somebody to patch up their bullet holes."
"Something like that," Cole said dryly.
"Aren't you afraid they'll cause more trouble?"
Cole shook his head. "They knew the risks when they hired on with Turner. They're professionals. They don't fight to settle a personal grudge. They'll drift on out of here and find some other place to sell their guns." He paused, then added meaningfully, "At least if they know what's good for them."
Michael hesitated, then said, "There's just one other thing I was wondering about."
Cole chuckled. "Well, spit it out. I know you won't be satisfied until you do."
"What happened to Yancy Rowlett's body? I know he wasn't buried here in the local cemetery with the others."
Cole lifted his head and looked off toward the mountains, a faint blue line on the horizon. "He's out there somewhere. I knew a man like him wouldn't want to rest in a town." He shook his head slowly. "And that's all I figure to say about it."
Michael nodded. "Thanks, Marshal."
Cole shrugged out of his sheepskin coat and draped it over one arm. "Warm again today," he said with a smile. "I reckon spring must be coming."
WIND RIVER SERIES:
The compelling frontier saga of a Wyoming town at the crossroads of destiny!
#1 WIND RIVER
No sooner does the very first train roll into Wind River than mayhem erupts, and a prominent citizen lies dead on the platform. Marshal Cole Tyler finds himself facing a ruthless killer as Wind River becomes a town with its own brand of justice.
# 2 THUNDER WAGON
Trouble is brewing in Wind River. The Irish and Chinese are up in arms, and the friendly Shoshone stand accused of stealing cattle. Marshal Cole Tyler sets out to track down the saboteurs-lighting a fuse that will set off a bloody massacre.
#3 WOLF SHADOW
A stranger brings a blizzard of trouble to Wind River. Two men are dead, and hell freezes over as Cole Tyler investigates the case. But as the bullets fly, Tyler learns it is one thing to stop the slaughter—and another to learn the truth.
#4 MEDICINE CREEK
Things don't stay peaceful for long in Wind River as an ancient Shoshone legend sparks a deadly rivalry. Cattlemen face off against each other—and the mysterious powers of Medicine Creek.
#5 DARK TRAIL
No one is laying out the welcome mat for the latest visitors to Wind River. These revenge-seeking New Orleans natives send bullets flying in a deadly showdown that could change the face of Wind River forever.
#6 JUDGMENT DAY
Not everyone is glad to see the railroad coming to Wind River. Caught in the middle of those for and those against, Marshal Cole Tyler must keep the peace even as events force him to choose sides in the battle for the future of the town.
About the Authors
A lifelong Texans, James Reasoner and L.J. Washburn have been husband and wife, and professional writers for more than thirty years. In that time, they have authored several hundred novels and short stories in numerous genres.
James is best known for his Westerns, historical novels, and war novels, he is also the author of two mystery novels that have achieved cult classic status, TEXAS WIND and DUST DEVILS. Writing under his own name and various pseudonyms, his novels have garnered praise from Publishers Weekly, Booklist, and the Los Angeles Times, as well as appearing on the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists.
Livia J. (L.J.) Washburn has been writing professionally for over 30 years. Washburn received the Private Eye Writers of America award and the American Mystery award for the first Lucas Hallam mystery, WILD NIGHT.
They live in the small Texas town they grew up in.
Other EBooks By James Reasoner
THE HUNTED
COSSACK THREE PONIES
THE WILDERNESS ROAD
UNDER OUTLAW FLAGS
REDEMPTION: KANSAS
RANCHO DIABLO:HANGROPE LAW as by Colby Jackson
DRAW: THE GREATEST GUNFIGHTS OF THE AMERICAN WEST
TEXAS WIND
DIAMONDBACK
DUST DEVILS
DEATH HEAD CROSSING
Other EBooks By Livia J. (L.J) Washburn
HALLAM
WILD NIGHT
DEAD-STICK
DOG HEAVIES
GHOST RIVER
MENDING FENCES
SPIRIT CATCHER
ALURA’S WISH
YESTERDAY’S FLAME
WITCH GOT YOUR TONGUE
Wolf Shadow (Wind River Book 3) Page 21
