The building was less than a month old and solidly constructed, made to last. It was a trifle dusty inside because dust had a tendency to get in everywhere in this country, no matter how tightly closed up it was, and it didn't take long, either. But all in all, Rose was pleased with her choice. She could make the cafe a success; she was sure of it.
A smile appeared on her face. The past was behind her, and all she had to do now was look toward the future.
There was a step outside, and a voice said heartily from the doorway, "Ah, Mrs. Foster, there you are."
Rose jumped a little. She had been daydreaming, she supposed, and the man had startled her. "Mr. Durand!" she exclaimed.
William Durand stepped into the building. If he had noticed the way she reacted, he didn't say anything about it, and Rose was grateful for that. He took off his derby, gestured around him with it, and said, "I hope you're satisfied with the place."
"Oh, yes, very much so," Rose said quickly. "It'll do just fine. I ought to be open for business in a week or so, as soon as I can have some tables and chairs and a counter made."
"Well, you'll find no shortage of skilled carpenters here in Wind River. I'm sure you'll have no trouble getting the work done, Mrs. Foster."
Rose hated to take a chance on offending him by reminding him of his mistake, but she didn't want him to keep on making it, either. She said, "Perhaps you've forgotten, Mr. Durand, but it's Miss Foster."
"Oh, yes, that's right. You're not married, are you?" Durand smiled. "Forgive me, my dear. I suppose that when I see a young woman as lovely as yourself, my natural assumption is that some lucky man has already snatched her up for himself."
"That's all right, Mr. Durand."
He came a step closer to her and motioned toward the broom in her hands. "Could I send someone over to help you?" he asked.
"No, that's not necessary. I don't mind, really. It's just a little sweeping out."
Durand sighed. "Yes, the dust is rather persistent around here, isn't it? Well, I suppose I should be going. . . ." He hesitated, then said, "I hope that you won't mind if I'm one of your first customers when you open for business. I'd like to think that my late partner and I helped contribute to your success by leasing this building to you."
"Certainly, and your first meal will be on the house," Rose said magnanimously. It never hurt to stay on the landlord's good side. Suddenly the implications of something Durand had said soaked in on her, and she asked with a frown, "Did you say your late partner?"
A shadow of grief crossed Durand's face. "You mean you haven't heard about poor Andrew?"
"I got into town with my wagon late last night and went straight to the boardinghouse you recommended. What happened?"
Grimly, Durand replied, "Mr. McKay was killed yesterday in an accident. A shooting."
Rose's grip on the broom loosened and it clattered to the floor. One hand went to her mouth, muffling the exclamation that came from her. Her fair skin turned even more pallid and her eyes widened in horror. She swayed like a sapling in a blue norther.
Durand stepped forward hurriedly and grasped her arm. "Miss Foster!" he said. "What's wrong?"
She forced herself to answer him. "I . . . I don't like guns," she choked out. "When you told me about . . . about poor Mr. McKay . . . I . . . I can't stand to think about it!"
Durand looked around the room, which was bare at the moment, not even a chair on which the distraught woman could sit. He kept his grip on her arm and used his other hand to pat her awkwardly on the shoulder as he muttered, "There, there."
Rose took a deep breath and struggled to bring her rioting emotions under control. There was no logical reason why she should be reacting this strongly to the news of Andrew McKay's death, she told herself. She had barely known the man, and their association had been strictly business. They were landlord and tenant, nothing else.
Yet the revelation that McKay had been shot to death—and only the day before at that—made her sick to her stomach and sent fingers of ice tickling along her nerves. This was the sort of town she had come to, a part of her brain screamed. A place where one of the leading citizens, one of the founders, could be gunned down with impunity.
An accident, Durand had called it.
Perhaps she was leaping to conclusions. She made herself ask, "Did . . . did he shoot himself? While he was cleaning a gun, perhaps?"
"I'm afraid not," Durand answered reluctantly, as if worried that his reply would set off a round of hysterics. "There was a brawl at the railroad depot yesterday when the first train arrived, and someone fired a shot. Andrew was struck by the stray bullet."
"Dear God," breathed Rose. "He was married, wasn't he?"
"Indeed he was." Durand nodded. "His wife is grieving terribly, of course. But we've taken steps to see that such a tragedy doesn't occur again. The town has hired a marshal."
The businessman's words reminded Rose of the two men she had seen looking at her earlier as she drove up to the vacant building. She remembered now that one of them, the younger man with the long brown hair and the hat hanging on his back by its chinstrap, had been wearing a badge of some sort. He had looked competent enough, from the brief glimpse Rose had gotten of him, and she hoped he would be able to bring law and order to Wind River.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Durand," she said shakily as she managed to summon up a faint, apologetic smile. "I didn't mean to fall all to pieces like that."
"That's quite all right, my dear." Durand still had his hand on her shoulder, and Rose became more aware now of its weight and the slight caressing motions his fingers were making against her flesh. He went on, "Don't trouble yourself about such matters. Just concentrate on opening your cafe and making a success of it." He paused, then added, "If there's anything I can do to help, please feel free to call on me anytime, day or night."
She thought he placed a slight emphasis on "night," but she couldn't be sure. At any rate, she couldn't afford to act insulted, even if he was being a bit too forward. After all, with Andrew McKay dead, William Durand was her landlord now; it was stretching things only a little to say that he held her fate in his hands.
"Thank you, Mr. Durand." She smiled. "I'll remember that. But right now I have to get back to sweeping or I'll never get all this dust out of here."
"You're sure you're all right?"
"I'm sure."
"Very well." He released her and stepped back, picked up the derby he had dropped on the floor when she had looked as if she was about to faint, and placed it on his head again. "I wish you the very best of luck, Miss Foster, and I'll be checking on you, just to make sure there's nothing you need."
"That's very kind, but not necessary. I'll be all right."
"It's no trouble. I insist." Durand took her hand, and for a second Rose thought he was actually going to kiss it. But he settled for a brief clasp and then turned to the door. Rose didn't relax until he was gone. Then she picked up the broom once again.
She wasn't completely at ease even now. The shot she had heard earlier, the news of Andrew McKay's death, the uncomfortable feelings Durand had stirred in her . . . they all combined to make her doubt the wisdom of coming here to Wind River.
But she hadn't really had any choice in the matter. For better or for worse, Wind River was her home now.
She hoped that lawman Durand had mentioned knew how to do his job—but not too well . . . .
* * *
Cole Tyler and Billy Casebolt were walking down Grenville Avenue after leaving Hank Parker's tent saloon when Cole heard footsteps rapidly approaching behind them. Deke Strawhorn's not-so-veiled threat was fresh in his memory, so Cole turned quickly, the .44 sliding smoothly from its holster as he drew it. His thumb went naturally over the hammer, ready to cock and fire.
Michael Hatfield stopped short and then stepped back quickly, eyes bugging out in surprise. "Don't shoot, Marshal Tyler!" he said. "It's just me!"
The young newspaperman was wearing town shoes, brown twill pants and matchin
g vest, and a white shirt. A string tie was looped around his neck. He had a pad of paper in his left hand and a stubby pencil in his right.
Cole sighed in exasperation. "Not a good idea to come running up behind a man," he advised. "What do you want?"
"I'm told that you just performed your first official duty as Wind River's new marshal. Would you care to comment on that?"
Billy Casebolt jerked a thumb at Parker's tent. "You mean breakin' up that little fracas in yonder? Shoot, boy, there weren't nothin' to that. Just had to pound a little sense into some stubborn skulls."
Michael looked at Casebolt and saw the bruises and scratches on the deputy's face. "Looks like it was quite a fight," he said. "What about it, Marshal?"
Cole shrugged and said, "The town pays me to keep the peace, not to talk about it. A saloon fight's not news."
"No offense, sir, but don't you think that I'd be a better judge of what's newsworthy than you? After all, I am the editor of the Sentinel."
For a moment Cole just looked at him without saying anything, then asked curiously, "How old are you, son?"
Michael flushed. "I don't see as how that has anything to do with it, but I'm twenty-four."
Cole nodded and looked at Casebolt. "Twenty-four, he says."
"I heard him," Casebolt said with a chuckle.
The reddish tinge in Michael's features deepened. "Now see here, I'm a journalist. I've got a job to do, Marshal, just like you do. If you don't want to answer my questions, you don't have to, but I might just see fit to include your reticence in my forthcoming editorial on the coming of law and order to Wind River."
Cole folded his arms across his chest and regarded the young man stonily. "You might see fit to do that, eh?"
Michael swallowed hard, opened his mouth a couple of times, then finally managed to say, "If you think you can intimidate the press—"
"Ease up, Hatfield," Cole cut in. "I reckon you're right."
Michael blinked stupidly, as if he couldn't quite comprehend what he had just heard. "You mean . . . ?"
"I mean I'll answer your questions," Cole told him, "within reason. Come on."
He and Casebolt started down the street again, and Michael fell in step beside them. "What about that fight?" the newspaperman asked.
"Just a typical brawl between the railroad workers and some of the drifters that always follow the railroad. It didn't amount to much, and the boys passed a hat to pay for the damages when it was over."
"Who instigated the disturbance?"
"Instigated," Casebolt drawled. "I like that un."
Cole ignored the comment. "I don't know who started it. Doesn't really matter, does it?"
"There have been quite a few fights lately, the one yesterday at the railroad station, for example," Michael said. "I just wondered if it was your opinion that one element in the community is responsible for the trouble."
"There's probably more'n enough blame to go around," Cole said. "Everybody needs to behave while they're in town, or they'll wind up in jail—as soon as we get one built," he added with a glance at Casebolt to forestall another explanation of Wind River's lack of a lockup.
"Do you think there will be more trouble?"
"Trouble's never in short supply, most places. I'd be surprised if Wind River was any different. But Deputy Casebolt and I intend to see that anybody who raises too much of a ruckus will regret it."
Michael was scribbling furiously on his pad as he hurried along beside the two lawmen. "I want to make sure I quote you accurately in the paper," he explained.
"Take this newspapering mighty serious, don't you?" Cole asked.
That question brought Michael to an abrupt stop. He stared at Cole and said, "Of course I do. It's my job. More than that, it's my calling. Don't you feel the same about what you do?"
"Not so's you'd notice," Cole replied.
But that wasn't strictly true, he thought. He had understood the importance of scouting for the army and guiding wagon trains to Oregon. In his small way, he was doing his part to help civilization spread across the continent. Now, whether or not that was a good thing, Cole couldn't have said. He remembered the times when he had topped some ridge and looked out over a beautiful valley where maybe few white men had ever passed. If enough settlers came out here, then one day places like that would be no more. That would be a day of regret for men like himself, who had known this land when it was wild and free.
But would he think of what he had done in the past, or what he was doing now, as a calling? Michael Hatfield made newspaper work sound like some sort of divine calling. Cole wouldn't dignify packing a badge in a railhead town by using such high-flown terms.
Before Michael could ask anything else, Cole said, "How about if 1 ask you a question or two?"
"Well. . . sure, I suppose. If you want to."
"Did Mr. Andrew McKay own the newspaper?"
"As a matter of fact, he did," Michael replied. "How did you know?"
"Just a guess." Cole shrugged. "He and his partner seem to own just about everything around here, either separately or together. The hotel, the livery stable, the general store—all owned by McKay and Durand, right?"
Michael nodded. "And most of the buildings where the other businesses are located are leased from their company. What's wrong with that?"
"Didn't say anything was wrong with it," Cole answered mildly. "The paper's owned by the widow now, is that right?"
"Mrs. McKay inherited the newspaper, yes. And she's made it clear to me that she wants me to continue editing the paper and supervising its day-to-day operation, just as I did when her husband was still alive. It's quite a vote of confidence, you know."
"Where are you from?"
"Cincinnati, Ohio," Michael answered proudly. "My wife Delia and I were both raised there."
"Coming out here to Wind River was your first trip west?"
"That's right." Michael frowned. "Say, you're asking all the questions now. That's not fair."
Casebolt laughed."Pretty slick, though. The marshal kept you from pryin' too much into what ain't your business."
Michael paid no attention to the mild rebuke. "I'd like to know more about you, Marshal Tyler," he said. "Your background, where you came from, what you've done in the past."
"Those aren't always considered polite questions out here," Cole pointed out. "In fact, they can get a slug put through you pretty quick like, happen you start asking them of the wrong man."
"I suppose I have a lot to learn yet," Michael admitted. "Please, Marshal, don't let my wife hear you saying things like that. She already thinks we should have stayed back in Cincinnati. Delia says it's a much safer place in which to raise a family."
"I don't know that I can disagree with her," Cole said.
"And I already had a job on one of the papers there."
"Doin' what?" asked Casebolt. "Was you the editor there, too?"
Michael muttered something, and Casebolt leaned closer to him, cupping a hand behind his ear. "Speak up, boy. I couldn't quite hear you."
"I was a printer's devil," Michael said miserably.
"Well, you've come up in the world considerably," Cole told him dryly. "Sorry to hear your missus doesn't like living out here. Billy and I will do our best to bring some law and order to Wind River and make it a more civilized place. Just don't hold your breath waiting for it to happen."
Michael nodded and headed along the street toward the Sentinel office, saying that he had enough material in his notes for a story on the brawl at Parker's saloon. When he was gone, Casebolt asked Cole, "You reckon we picked on him too much?"
"Nope. The sooner he learns he's not in Cincinnati anymore, the better off he'll be."
Casebolt looked around at the bustling community and asked, "Just how far off you reckon that civilization is, Marshal?"
"A ways yet, Billy," Cole said. "A ways."
* * *
Cole spent the rest of the day walking around the town, getting more familiar with Wind
River and its inhabitants, while Billy Casebolt hurried off to tend to an idea that had occurred to him.
The deputy kept quiet about what he was up to, so it came as a surprise to Cole when he went back to the offices of the land development company late that afternoon and found Casebolt standing proudly under a new sign that hung from the awning over the plank boardwalk.
The sign was made from a thick length of wood in which letters had been burned. Casebolt pointed up at it with his thumb and grinned. "Whatdaya think, Marshal?" he asked, pride in his voice.
"'Wind Riwer Marshels Office,'" Cole read aloud. "Thanks, Billy. It looks mighty nice." He didn't say anything about the spelling on the sign.
"Figured now that we had an honest-to-Pete marshal here in town, folks ought to know where to find him. I asked Mr. Durand about it and sort of let him think it was your idea. Anyway, he said it was fine, so I went over to Jeremiah's and had him heat up an iron so's I could burn the letters in myself."
"You did a fine job," Cole told him. "Why don't you go get something to eat, and I'll stay here in case somebody comes looking for me."
"That's a good idea, a mighty good idea. I'll be back in a spell."
"No need to hurry."
Cole went into the building's front room, the one Durand had said he could use as an office. There wasn't much in the way of furnishings: an old desk with a scarred top, a couple of straight-backed chairs with covers made from a buffalo hide, a small cabinet, and a spittoon. It wasn't elegant, but it would do, Cole decided.
The door leading to the other offices was in the back of the room, and it opened as Cole came in. Simone McKay came out, followed closely by Durand. Simone was in either the same mourning dress and veil she had worn the night before or another outfit just like it. She stopped when she saw Cole and nodded to him, but she didn't say anything.
"Hello, Marshal," Durand greeted him effusively. "How was your first day on the job? I heard something about a skirmish with that fellow Strawhorn. . . ."
"Didn't amount to anything," Cole said shortly, not bothering to mention the hard feelings Strawhorn had expressed when he was kicked out of Parker's place. He nodded solemnly to the widow. "Anything I can do for you, Mrs. McKay?"
Wind River Page 5
