Durand clapped Cole on the back and said, "You two go ahead and take a turn around the town, get acquainted with it and each other. You can use the front room here as your office if you have need of one, Cole."
This was all going a little fast, but Cole supposed there was no real reason for delay. He nodded and said, "Thanks. Come on, Mr. Casebolt."
"Ah, hell, call me Billy. Ever'body does. I'll show you around. This here's a fine town, Marshal Tyler, a fine town. . . ."
Cole let Billy Casebolt lead him out of the office, and they began their tour of the town.
Cole's town, at least for now.
* * *
Wind River had almost everything a frontier community needed to function. Timber and stone for the buildings had been carted down from the mountains to the north, and freight wagons had brought in the inventories for the local stores and saloons.
As Cole and Billy walked along Grenville Avenue they passed an apothecary, a saddle-and-tack shop, a gunsmith, and the huge, block-long Wind River General Store—Andrew McKay and William Durand, Proprietors, according to the sign on the front of the building—where virtually anything the citizens needed could be purchased. Cole already knew about the livery stable, where Ulysses was being cared for, and he saw now that there was a blacksmith's shop next door.
"There's Jeremiah," Billy said, pointing to the smithy. "Come on, I'll introduce you."
Cole heard the ringing of hammer on anvil as they approached the squat, sturdy building that housed the smithy. Heat from the furnace came out the open double doors and made Cole wince slightly. In the red-lit shadows inside the building, he saw a massive shape, saw the man's arm rise and fall as he hammered out what appeared to be some sort of harness fitting.
"Howdy, Jeremiah!" Billy called over the noise of the hammer. "Want you to meet the new marshal!"
The blacksmith stopped hammering and turned to face his visitors. He wore a heavy apron to protect his body from sparks. His moon face under thinning pale hair was flushed from the heat. He regarded Cole and Billy solemnly and stuck out a hand the size of a small ham.
"Pleased to meet you," he rumbled. "Name's Jeremiah Newton."
Cole took the smith's hand, expecting a crushing grip, but instead he got a quick, perfunctory shake. "Cole Tyler," he said. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Newton."
"Call me Jeremiah."
"Jeremiah here's been holdin' services the past couple o' weeks," Billy said. "Reckon he's the closest thing Wind River's got to a preacher."
"We're all charged with spreading the Gospel wherever we can," Jeremiah said. "A man's soul is more important than the shoes on the hooves of his horses."
Cole glanced at Billy, then said, "I reckon I can't argue with that. Hadn't really thought about it until now, but Wind River doesn't have a church, does it?"
"Not yet," the blacksmith replied. "I'm going to build one."
From the looks of him, Jeremiah Newton could build just about anything he wanted, Cole thought. He nodded and said, "Let me know if you need a hand."
"I’ll do that, brother."
"We'd best be movin' on," Billy put in. "I'm showin' Marshal Tyler around town."
Jeremiah nodded. "God be with you," he said to Cole. "Smite the wicked." He turned back to his anvil and lifted the hammer again, brought it down with a ringing crash.
As they left the smithy Cole said in a low voice, "Looks like that big fella could do some pretty good smiting himself."
"Naw, Jeremiah's a peaceable sort. Just don't go to arguin' the Bible with him. He can be pretty stubborn 'bout the Good Book."
"I'll try to avoid any theological discussions," Cole said dryly. He pointed with a thumb toward the other end of the street, where the already established saloons had been joined by the hell-on-wheels tents brought over from Laramie. "I imagine Brother Newton's not real fond of that part of town."
Billy chuckled. "Lots of sinnin' goin' on down yonder, that's for sure. But Jeremiah tends to leave those folks alone, long as they leave him alone."
Cole nodded, but he resolved to keep an eye on Jeremiah Newton anyway. He had read enough history to know that religion had caused just as many violent disagreements as politics, and he didn't want any holy wars breaking out in Wind River while he was the marshal.
The two lawmen moved on, and as they passed what seemed to be a vacant building across the street, a woman driving a team of mules brought a wagon to a stop in front of the structure. She handled the mules easily, but that wasn't what caught Cole's eye. His attention was drawn by the thick, strawberry-blond curls cascading out from under the woman's bonnet, and the peaches-and-cream complexion of her strong-featured but attractive face. She glanced toward Cole and Billy, and even at a distance, the new marshal could tell that her eyes were a startling green.
Cole paused and nudged Billy in the ribs with an elbow. "Who's that?" he asked, jerking his chin toward the woman. She had gotten down from the wagon and was going over to the door of the building. When she got there, she took a key from her bag, unlocked it, and went inside. The door closed behind her.
"Don't know," Billy admitted. "Can't say as I've ever seen her before. Quite a looker, though, ain't she?"
"Yeah," mused Cole. "I wonder what she's doing in Wind River."
"Well, you're the marshal. Go on over there and ask her."
Cole shook his head. "This badge doesn't give me the right to poke into people's business as long as they're not causing trouble. If she stays around town, I reckon I'll get to know her." He turned his gaze away from the building where the woman had disappeared. "Let's go."
They walked on down the street, and as they ambled along Cole asked idly, "How'd you get to be the constable here, anyway?"
"Mr. Durand and Mr. McKay wanted somebody who knew their way around the frontier. Reckon I fit the bill. I been wanderin' around out here since the spring of thirty-eight. Did some fur trappin' up in the mountains and got in on the last of the old-time rendezvouses. Went to work for the army after that. Civilian scout."
"I did the same thing for a while."
Proudly, Billy said, "There ain't hardly a place 'twixt the Rio Grande and the Canadian border where I ain't set foot. I've fought the Injuns and lived with 'em, too. Been to see the elephant more'n once, let me tell you. No, sir, there just ain't a more seasoned frontiersman than ol' Billy Casebolt." He sighed. "I guess that don't mean as much these days as it used to, though. This town livin' ain't like gettin' along out in the wilderness. I reckon that's why Mr. Durand and them others decided I wasn't cut out to be anything but a deputy."
"Well, you know these folks and the country hereabouts," Cole told him. "I'll be relying on you for a lot of help, Billy."
At least partially he was just trying to make the old man feel better. It was too soon to tell if Billy Casebolt would be any help as a deputy or if he would just make Cole's job more difficult. But for now, there was no point in being too hard on the old-timer. Cole felt a sense of satisfaction as Billy nodded emphatically and said, "You can count on me. Marshal."
They swung around and headed back toward the other end of town, Billy reminiscing about some of his adventures as an army scout as they walked. Cole was only half paying attention to the yarns, so he spotted the trouble right away when a man came flying out through the canvas flaps over the entrance to one of the tent saloons.
The man's strident yell was cut off abruptly as he slammed into the ground and rolled over.
Cole tensed as he remembered the man tossed off the railroad station platform the day before. That had been the beginning of quite a brawl, and this incident might signal the same thing.
"Come on," he snapped, breaking into a trot as he interrupted Casebolt's story. "There may be trouble up here."
Billy hurried after him, and by the time they were within fifty yards of the big tent, they could both hear the cursing and yelling and thudding of fists coming from within. A crash that was probably a poker table collapsing under a man's weight soun
ded clearly.
Cole reached the entrance and thrust the canvas aside, plunging into the melee within the tent. It was yesterday's brawl all over again, he saw immediately. Workers from the railroad were slugging it out with hard-faced men wearing range clothes. The painted ladies in their spangled dresses and the gamblers in their expensive suits had moved to the sides of the tent to give the fighters more room and to stay out of harm's way. That was an option Cole no longer had, not since he had put on the badge.
The long bar running down the right side of the tent was made of wide, thick planks placed atop whiskey barrels. A man was standing on top of the bar, holding a bungstarter and using it to club any of the combatants who came within reach of him. He was shouting curses at them, ordering them out of his place, and he seemed equally angry at both sides in the skirmish. Cole recognized him right away. Hank Parker was hard to miss. He was a hulking, broad-shouldered man with heavy dark eyebrows and not another strand of hair on his head. His left arm was gone, amputated above the elbow, a grisly souvenir of the battle at the Shiloh meetinghouse during the war.
Before Parker had brought it to Wind River, this tent saloon had been set up in Laramie, the latest in a series of railhead settlements where he had done business. Cole had had a few run-ins with the man before, and neither of them had much use for the other.
But that was in the past, and it was Cole's duty now to break up this fight before Parker's saloon was destroyed. He reached for his revolver, intending to squeeze off a couple of shots to bring the men back to their senses as he had done at the railroad station, but just as his hand closed around the butt of the Colt, something slammed into his back and drove him forward off his feet.
Cole landed on the hard-packed dirt floor and rolled over, and as he did so several booted feet thudded against his ribs. He couldn't tell if the kicks were deliberate or accidental, but it didn't really matter. Pain shot through him as he gasped for air to replace what had been knocked out of his lungs. He managed to get his hands and knees under him, then surged up onto his feet just in time to run into a punch.
He staggered back, his vision blurring, but he still caught a glimpse of the man who had hit him. He saw a tall man with a drooping mustache and longish blond hair. The man still held a chair leg in his left hand, and Cole knew the blow that had felled him had been that chair crashing against his back. The man came after him, whipping the chair leg back and forth.
Cole ducked, feeling the chair leg brush his hair as it slashed just above his head. He drove forward with his legs, barreling into the man and hooking a couple of punches to his body.
In these close quarters, the chair leg wasn't as effective a weapon as it might have been otherwise, so Cole pressed his advantage, rocking his opponent again and again with blows to the midsection.
In desperation, the man thrust a boot between Cole's calves, throwing him off balance. Cole fell forward, knocking both of them down. The blond man twisted and somehow managed to land on top. He had lost the chair leg, but that just gave him both hands free to lock around Cole's neck.
Luckily, Cole had grabbed a breath of air just before the man's long fingers closed cruelly around his windpipe. But that air wouldn't last long, and he was already feeling the first stirrings of panic. He brought up cupped hands and slapped them against the man's ears, drawing a howl of pain and a loosening of the grip on his neck. A knee sharply jabbed into the blond man's groin finished the job. He groaned and let go of Cole's neck.
Cole thrust him aside and rolled over. He was on top now, and he struck again and again, smashing his fists into the man's face. The badge he wore was forgotten, his duties as marshal washed into insignificance by the tide of anger flooding through him. It was only after long seconds of battering the man beneath him that Cole realized what he was doing.
He shoved himself to his feet, looking down at the bruised and bloody features of the man, who was only half-conscious and gasping for breath through smashed lips. The brawl was still going on all around him, Cole saw as he glanced around. He had to put a stop to the fracas before he did anything else.
A few yards away Billy Casebolt was struggling in the grip of one of the hardcases while another man slugged him, rocking his head back and forth.
Cole went to his deputy's aid, slipping out his revolver and bringing the barrel down on the head of the man who was handing out the beating. The man sagged, his legs folding up under him.
With that respite, Billy was able to pull free from the other man's grip, and he whirled around and slammed a blow to the man's jaw with surprising speed and strength.
Figuring that Billy could handle himself all right now that the odds were even, Cole pushed past the struggling men and reached the bar. As he started to vault onto the planks Hank Parker turned toward him and lifted the bungstarter to strike him back down. Cole reached up and caught Parker's wrist even as the blow started to fall, stopping the bungstarter abruptly.
"Hold it!" Cole bellowed.
"Tyler!" Parker exclaimed. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Cole nodded to the badge on his chest. "I'm the law in Wind River now," he told the saloonkeeper, shouting over the bedlam inside the tent. "Put down that bungstarter!"
"If you're the law," Parker shot back, "stop these bastards! They're tearing up my place!"
"That's just what I intend to do," Cole said grimly. He lifted his pistol and triggered off two shots.
The tactic worked just as effectively as it had the day before. A shocked silence fell over the saloon, a quiet that was broken a few seconds later by Hank Parker growling, "You just put two holes in my tent, Tyler. You'll pay for patching them."
Cole gave him an icy glance, then shouted to the crowd, "The next man who throws a punch will spend the night in jail!"
Billy Casebolt spoke up, saying hesitantly, "Uh, Marshal, Wind River ain't got a jail yet."
Cole swallowed his impatience and snapped, "I saw a smokehouse down the street. That'll do for locking up any troublemakers." Now that he had their attention, he lowered the gun but didn't holster it. He went on, "You boys may not know it, but Wind River's got law and order now. There won't be any more of these brawls, understand? Now somebody pass a hat. I want all of you men to chip in and pay for the damages you've done here."
"You can go to hell!" an angry voice shot back, the words sounding a little thick and strained. Cole looked down and saw the blond man who had taken the brunt of his rage a few minutes earlier. The man was on his feet again, if somewhat shaky, standing between two of his friends.
"You're not a damned judge," the man continued, "and you can't make us pay one red cent."
Cole saw his point, but he wasn't going to back down. He said, "You're right, I'm not a judge. But if you don't want to pay up, I reckon I'll just have to look the other way while Parker here takes the costs out of your hide."
A little surprisingly, there were shouts of agreement with Cole's decision. The railroad workers began tossing coins into a cap produced by one of them. The blond man looked around and must have sensed that the mood in the saloon wouldn't allow him to do anything except cooperate.
"All right, damn it," he grated, reaching into his pocket and producing a coin that he tossed into the cap. He motioned for his friends to do the same, demonstrating that he was the leader of this bunch of hardcases. Then he glared up at Cole and said, "I ain't going to forget this, Marshal. You'll be sorry you crossed Deke Strawhorn."
"I already am," Cole shot back. "Now get out of here and find someplace else to do your drinking for a while. Don't let me catch you causing trouble there, either."
Somebody handed Strawhorn a white hat with a tightly rolled brim. He winced as he settled it on his head. "You won't catch me, Marshal," he said. "You won't even see me comin'."
With that, he turned and stalked out, his men following him.
Billy Casebolt let out a low whistle as Cole climbed down from the bar. "Sounded to me like that Strawhorn fella was threatenin'
you, Marshal. You best watch your back from here on out."
"I intend to, Billy," Cole said with a nod as he took the cap full of money and handed it to Hank Parker, who accepted it with poor grace. He had been wearing a badge less than two hours, Cole suddenly realized, and already it seemed like he had more enemies than friends here in Wind River. "I sure intend to."
Chapter 4
Rose Foster heard the gunfire as she was sweeping out the building. She had opened the front door to let the dust out, and the pair of shots sounded clearly. Even though the explosions came from down the street and were nowhere near the building where she was working, Rose's head lifted sharply and her eyes widened. Her full lips compressed as she tightened them and her nostrils flared with the deep breath she took. She hated guns, absolutely hated them.
Which was yet another reason she sometimes asked herself why in heaven's name she had come to such a wild place as Wyoming Territory to open a cafe.
There were no more shots, and after a few seconds Rose relaxed slightly. She had tied a strip of cloth around her thick reddish-gold hair before starting to work, but a few strands had escaped and fallen down over her forehead and eyes. She pushed them back and retied the cloth.
She had taken off her jacket before starting to work, too. Her long gray skirt and white blouse were not fancy, and they showed signs of long wear. But they were clean and well mended. A woman without an abundance of worldly possessions, Rose knew how to care for what she did have.
As she leaned on the broom, taking an extra moment before she went back to work, she looked around at the place and saw all of its possibilities.
There was plenty of space here in this front room for tables and chairs, and she could have a counter built along the back wall so that customers could sit there on stools if they wanted. There were two rooms in the rear, one of them plenty big for the kitchen, the other handy for storage. She would make some red-and-white-checked cloths for the tables and curtains to match for the windows—something to cheer things up a little.
Wind River Page 4
