Whispers on the Wind

by Brenda Jernigan

  “Carter, why are you carrying me?”Judith’s groggy voice broke through the silence as they entered an examining room.

  Relieved to hear her voice, Carter glanced down at her. “Because you didn’t seem to be able to stand on your own two feet And dragging you out of the theater was out of the question,” he teased.

  “That’s ridiculous. I was just a little dizzy, that’s all. I heard some loud noises which sounded like gunfire, and then I simply fainted. I must have been too excited.”

  “Enough, Judith,” Doc Moore said in a very firm voice. He turned to Mary. “Sit up here.” He patted a table. “I’ll be with you in a moment” Then he turned his attention back to Judith. “I’m going to give you something for that fever of yours, and then I want you to be quiet and lie on the table while I look at the girl’s arm.”

  “You’re so bossy,” Judith stated in a very weak voice. “I’ll be just fine. Nothing a little rest won’t cure. And what is wrong with Mary?”

  Carter helped his mother seat herself on the table. “She was shot.”

  “Shot?”

  Doc Moore shoved a spoonful of medicine at Judith. “Here, swallow this. It will help you sleep.”

  “But—” She shook her head and tried to push the spoon away. “I don’t want to sleep. Who shot Mary?” She turned toward Mary. “How are you, dear?”

  Doc Moore frowned. “Do as you’re told, woman.” He shoved the spoonful of medicine into Judith’s mouth when she opened it to protest “There is more than one way to get something in you,” he said, smiling.

  A commotion sounded in the outer office, and then Rick and another man rushed through the door. Rick glanced at Mary, and the older man strode over to Judith. “What have they done to you?” the older man said.

  Doc Moore swung around to the intruders. “Well, Hank O’Tool, you finally done and gave Judith the grippe.”

  Hank frowned at the doctor. “She wasn’t shot?” Doc Moore looked over his glasses. “Nope. Were you not listening? She’s got the grippe.”

  “I warned her to stay away, but you know how hardheaded she can be.” Hank looked down at Judith. “Do you feel poorly?”

  “I do not appreciate you calling me hardheaded, but I will admit that I’ve felt better,” Judith said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine by tomorrow. Should you be out of bed so soon?”

  “Just like you”—Hank smiled as he took her hand—“to worry about others. I hope to get back to work by the end of the week.”

  Judith yawned. “I’m so drowsy. I can’t seem to keep my eyes open,” she mumbled, then twisted around to try and see what was happening with Mary. “Are you all right, child?”

  “I’ll be fine, Judith. You should get some rest,” Mary told her as Judith’s eyes drifted shut. Hank held Judith’s hand and Mary could see the affection that he felt for her. But she’d also heard Hank say that he would return to work soon. Did that mean that Carter would be leaving, as well?

  Mary looked around. She noticed that the doctor’s office was very neat and clean. A cabinet with a glass front held most of his instruments. Two shelves in the comer held bottles of various shapes and colors; she assumed that was where he kept his medicine.

  “Let me see what we have here,” the doctor said, placing a pan of hot water on the table next to her.

  Mary winced as he touched the wound and felt down in the hole. He wasn’t very gently.

  “I think the bullet went straight through,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “You were lucky.”

  “I was very lucky,” Mary agreed.

  “Well, I’m going to have to cleanse the wound, bullet or no. And it’s going to need a few stitches.” He poured a brown liquid over the wound as he spoke. Mary cried out and tried to jerk her arm away, but the doctor had a tight grip for an old man.

  Her arm felt like it was on fire. She breathed rapidly and gritted her teeth as she tried not to cry. She could feel the tears pooling in her eyes, but she fought them because she didn’t want to embarrass herself by behaving like some silly, weak female.

  Finally the sting eased, and Mary saw that Doc Moore was threading a needle—a very big needle, she thought. Panic set in. Her desperate gaze darted toward Carter, and she tried to say, “I—I—”

  “Do we have any whisky?” Carter asked Moore.

  “Nope, just used the last on her wound. If we can get her to hold still, it will only take a minute. I’m afraid I’m fresh out of ether—expecting some in next week—but it won’t do the girl much good tonight.”

  Carter stepped up to the table where Mary was sitting. “Why don’t you lean on me and hold my hand,” Carter suggested.

  Mary bit her lip and nodded as she took his hand. It looked so small in Carter’s big hand, but being near him gave her more strength than she had on her own.

  “This is going to hurt, little lady, but I promise that I will be as quick as I can,” Doc Moore told her.

  Mary didn’t think that he sounded sorry at all.

  “You’ll have to hold very still,” the doctor cautioned her.

  Mary took a deep breath and squeezed Carter’s hand as hard as she could. She pressed her head against his chest while he tightened his other arm around her. The needle pierced her skin, and she bit down on her lip, hard. She felt the thread sliding through her skin ever so slowly. Oh God, it hurt. She squeezed Carter harder.

  When the doctor took the second stitch, Mary felt the blackness settling in over her, and she thankfully left the pain behind.

  “She passed out,” Carter said.

  “Good,” Doc Moore replied. “It will be much easier on her now.” After a few more stitches he said, "There.” He finished tying off the thread. “Well now, looks like you are going to have two patients on your hands for the next few days. I believe Mary will feel better by tomorrow, but your ma is going to take a week.”

  “Maybe more,” Hank added. “I sent Rick for the buggy and the men. I’ll help you get the women outside.” Hank scooped Judith up in his arms. “Do you need me to ride with you to the ranch?”

  Carter lifted Mary, her head resting limply on his shoulder. Thanks, Doc.”

  As they left the office, Carter said to Hank, “You know, I brought some men with me so we would be safe, but it didn’t help, did it?”

  Hank shook his head but said nothing.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow to see if we can figure out who did this. Do you have any ideas?”

  “Not a one,” Hank admitted. “I did catch a glimpse of a stranger in a green coat, but it was only a glimpse. I could have been mistaken.”

  “Green coat? Mary said something about seeing a green coat when I reached her on stage.”

  “Good heavens,” Rick said as he opened the door to the buggy so Hank could place Judith on the rear seat. “This isn’t the way I pictured us going home. I didn’t get a chance to ask before. How is your ma?”

  “She has a case of influenza, but she wasn’t shot,” Carter said as he placed Mary on the front seat. “Mary was wounded, but it was minor. She passed out when Doc started stitching her up.” Carter leaned on the buggy. “What did you find out?”

  Rick shrugged. “Actually, the answers I got were damned strange. A few men said they thought they had seen a stranger standing in the doorway, but they couldn’t remember what he looked like. They would start to say, ‘He looked like...’ and then they stopped right in the middle of their sentences and got the most puzzled looks on their faces. It was as if they knew what he looked like but couldn’t remember, so I basically got nowhere. Sorry.”

  “Strange.” Carter leaned against the buggy. “I shouldn’t have let my guard down,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I couldn’t have imagined that something like that would happen in Windy Bend. I guess I know better now.” He frowned. “I keep seeing the scene over and over in my head, and now that I’m thinking about it when I first reached Mary she said someone was trying to kill her.” Carter looked hard at Rick. “Maybe she was right�
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  “We haven’t had a shooting in six months until I got shot” Hank spoke up. “I thought I’d pretty much cleaned up the town, then somebody shot me and now the girl... Well, I’ll tell you, I’m not going to have this kind of thing going on in my town.” Hank swore. “We will find out who did this. Whoever it was had all gurgle an’ no guts.”

  Carter placed a hand on Hank’s arm. “Tomorrow will be time enough. You get some rest, and we’ll see what we can figure out in the morning.”

  Carter climbed up into the buggy, reached under the seat, and placed his gun next to him on the seat. Just in case, he thought. “Boys, you ready?”

  “Yes sir, boss.”

  “If you see anything strange, shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “Yes sir,” Stanley said. “We heard what happened, and we’ll be sure to keep our eyes open.”

  Carter urged the horses forward. As they started back toward the ranch, Carter glanced over at Mary. She looked so innocent in her sleep. He’d placed her head on his lap so she wouldn’t bang her head on the side of the buggy as they rode. He liked feeling her scant weight against him.

  Carter wondered if someone really was trying to kill Mary, and if so why. It had been his experience over the years that men killed for three reasons: revenge, greed, and because someone knew too much. Mary didn’t appear to have any money. One could look at her hands and tell that she had worked hard, so that left him feeling that Mary knew something she shouldn’t.

  Lord, it would help if he knew what.

  He wasn’t sure how he was going to protect her from the unknown. But he sure as hell was going to try, because he’d realized something tonight that surprised the hell out of him.

  Mary had come to mean something to him, whether he liked it or not

  He cared for her—maybe he even loved her.

  Wouldn’t that be a hell of a note?

  Chapter Ten

  By the time Thunder and Forester reached Gregory Gulch, they had struck up a mutual trust of one another.

  Thunder observed the rough sod mining camp as they rode through. There were two rows of rough-hewn log cabins on each side of the road. A young man who looked to be about eighteen, tall, broad-shouldered, with heavy black hair hanging shaggily about his face and head, was trudging down the road. He was wearing a big, floppy hat pulled down over his head. He looked up as they passed and said, “Howdy, Marshal.”

  “Are you going to the mine, Daniel?”

  “Yep. Had to go buy a new rocker. My other one got busted up.”

  Thunder couldn’t imagine why Mary had ever wanted to live in such a place. The cabins’ windows were grimy and a few cabins didn’t even have windows. He had lived in places like this, but Mary was different.

  Today was the first day of May, and the ground looked it with the muddy puddles in the ruts in the road. Thunder was thankful the snow had almost melted away. Nothing was left except the dirty stubborn spots in the shade that refused to leave. So far, the weather this year had gone from bitterly cold to warm with nothing in between. Crazy weather, he admitted. Thunder’s Cheyenne grandfather had once told him when one season is skipped, trouble is on the horizon. Now Thunder realized how true his grandfather’s words were.

  “Here we are,” Forester said as he dismounted in front of a log cabin that looked slightly bigger than the rest.

  Thunder followed the marshal into Mary’s cabin. It was dark inside and smelled musty, so they had to stop and light several kerosene lamps. After the last one was lit, Thunder picked up a kerosene lamp and looked around. The first thing he saw was blood—on the table, on the chairs, everywhere.

  Forester pointed to a spot in front of the fireplace. “We found him right here.”

  Thunder nodded. A large red stain indicated the spot where Big Jim had died. This didn’t look like a simple shooting or a simple argument. It appeared more like cold, calculated murder. There was so much blood in too many places. “Did you find a weapon?”

  “Nope.”

  Thunder held the lantern down toward the hardwood floor where the scene looked even more grisly. “These look like bloody footprints.” He glanced up at Forester.

  “Same thing I thought They’re headed that way.” Forester pointed to his left

  Thunder followed the footprints into a small bedroom where the scene looked even worse— blood-soaked sheets, blood on the pillow, blood on the blankets. “My God,” Thunder finally said as a chill ran over him. It had been a long time since he’d seen a man’s blood. “Was this Big Jim’s room?”

  Forester shook his head. “It was Mary’s. I found Big Jim’s things in the other room.”

  Thunder stared at the bed. “I sure hope that Mary is alive, but from what I see, she could very easily be dead.”

  “Why leave one body and not the other?” Forester asked.

  “Good point.” Thunder looked back to the fireplace and then the bedroom. “It appears that she killed him, and then stumbled to bed.” Thunder turned to make eye contact with Forester. “You did notice that I said appears?”

  When Forester didn’t say anything, Thunder continued. “I know Mary wasn’t capable of doing something like this unless she was attacked, and from what you tell me of Big Jim, he wouldn’t do such a thing. So what else could have happened?”

  That’s what I’ve been asking myself over and over again,” Forester admitted. “I asked everyone who was around both of them that day to see if anyone had heard any arguments. No one did.” Thunder searched all around the room trying to find some clue. Next to the wall, he spotted something that looked like a nightgown. He bent down and picked up the garment. Under it was a box, and beside the box, next to the wall, lay something shiny. “You said that you haven’t found the murder weapon?”

  That’s right.”

  “Well, I think we have now,” Thunder told him as he reached down to retrieve the knife, still covered with blood.

  Forester frowned. “That’s Big Jim’s knife. He carried it with him everywhere. See the ‘J’ on the handle?”

  “So why would the killer leave it behind?”

  “Good question.”

  Thunder contemplated the knife. “I have two thoughts. First, it would take somebody pretty strong to take this knife from Jim. Second, perhaps the knife was left behind to frame Mary.”

  “That’s what I’d like to think,” Forester admitted. “But we have no proof. We gotta find somebody with a motive to kill Jim.” Forester contemplated for a moment. “I almost forgot,” he said thoughtfully, “right after the funeral, Jim’s brother came over and asked me questions about the mine.”

  “Do you know him?” Thunder asked.

  “Nope. Just showed up in camp the day before the murder. He said that Jim had asked him to come work in the mine.”

  “The day before?” Thunder arched his brow. “Interesting. Where is he now?”

  “Gone. I had no reason to hold him, and he needed to make a living. Seems like he’s some snake oil salesman, but I told him to swing back by this way.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to talk to him. What’s his name?”

  “John McCoy.”

  “I’ll find him. But I think the best way I can help you is to find Mary.” Thunder sighed. “And hopefully alive.”

  “How are you going to find her? I’m sure the trail has gone cold by now.”

  Thunder smiled. He draped his arm across Forester’s shoulder. “I grew up with the Cheyenne. I’ll find her.”

  John McCoy was going to get damned good and drunk, but not in Windy Bend. He wasn’t stupid. He’d managed to hypnotize the two men in the back of the theater so that they could never identify him, but he didn’t want to take the chance of staying in town and having someone ask who the stranger was. His best bet was to lie low and then return once everything had blown over.

  Propped upon the Alamo’s brown, wooden barstool in Mountain City, McCoy called for a second bottle of whisky. While he waited
for the bartender, he tried to form a plan. He might not have succeeded in his last attempt, but he wasn’t giving up so easily. He was a man of many disguises, and he’d make sure he used a different one when he returned to get the girl.

  Hellfire. He’d had a clear shot of her, but she’d moved at the last minute, so he was pretty sure he hadn’t killed her. If he had, all his problems would have been over by now. Then he could head back to claim the mine as his.

  The next time he wouldn’t fail.

  The girl needed to die. He was pretty sure that he could control her mind if he could get to her. Hypnotism was one of his many talents, and he was damn good at it

  The problem was getting to her.

  Of all the confounded luck for Mary to end up with a U.S. Marshal who evidently had no idea who she was or that she should be in jail.

  “Damn Carter Monroe,” McCoy grumbled before snatching up the shot glass and spilling whisky on his hand.

  “Are you a friend of Monroe’s?”

  “What’s it —” McCoy cut short his question when he turned and saw it was a gunslinger who’d asked. He’d seen the man before. He was tall and spare and stood about six feet, two inches. Dirty auburn hair fell to his shoulders and his face was covered by a full beard. “You’re Sammy Carlson?”

  “What of it?”

  “Just like to know who I’m talking to,” McCoy said, then shoved the bottle toward him. “Have a drink.”

  “Obliged. This here is my brother Randy,” Sammy said as he reached for the brown bottle. “And who might you be?”

  “Nobody as famous as yourselves. Name is John McCoy.”

  “Well, now that we know each other”—Sammy gave him a slight smile—“how about answering my question about Monroe.”

  “Hell, no, I ain’t no friend of Monroe. Don’t even know him. But the fact that he’s a marshal lends to the fact that we ain’t never goin’ to be friends. It’s just that he’s got something I want.”

  “He’s been a thorn in our side for the last few years,” Sammy said, jerking his head toward his brother. Then he tossed the whiskey down in one gulp. “Last time I seen Monroe was in Texas. Ain’t sure where he’s lurking nowadays.”