Wind River

by L. J. Washburn

Casebolt let go of the saddlehorn, took off his hat, and sleeved sweat from his forehead. As he replaced the battered hat he said, "Wonder who all them beeves belong to?"

  "I was just asking myself the same thing," replied Cole. "Let's go see if we can find out." He lifted the reins and turned Ulysses toward the railroad tracks again. A few cowboys passed him as he rode toward the rear of the herd, but Cole didn't bother trying to get their attention. He was looking for a chuck wagon.

  He located it a few moments later, parked on the north side of the tracks where the cook had driven it to get out of the path of the stampede. A young man was sitting on the driver's seat looking relieved as the herd milled on past the town without causing any damage.

  "You the cook for this outfit?" Cole called to the young man as he and Casebolt reined up on the south side of the tracks.

  "That's right." The youngster nodded. His voice was excited as he went on, "You're the gents who turned the herd! I thought you were goners for sure."

  Cole replied dryly, "The thought crossed our minds, too. Where's your trail boss?"

  "Over yonder somewhere," the young cook answered as he waved a hand toward the cattle. "Mr. Sawyer took off after the leaders as soon as the herd spooked. Reckon you must've passed him."

  Cole grunted. This Sawyer, whoever he was, would return to the chuck wagon sooner or later, unless some accident had befallen him in the effort to stop the stampede. Cole hoped that wasn't the case; he didn't want Sawyer getting off that easily.

  "What the hell happened?" Cole demanded. "Did you see what started the stampede?"

  The cook shook his head. "No, sir, I didn't. We bedded down the herd a couple of miles south of here last night, didn't know we were so close to the railroad or a town. This morning I came on ahead of the herd, just like usual, but I hadn't gone a mile when I heard 'em start running behind me. I took off in this direction as fast as I could, hoping I'd find some place the herd wouldn't go. I figured these railroad tracks would stop em."

  "They didn't stop, they just turned and headed straight for town," Cole pointed out. "That accent tells me you're from Texas."

  "Yes, sir. We brought the herd from Mr. Sawyer's ranch on the upper Colorado River. A mighty long drive, it was."

  "Come to sell those cows to the railroad for fresh meat?" asked Cole. "If you did, you're liable to be disappointed. There's still plenty of buffalo in these parts to provide all the meat the track layers need."

  "No, sir," the young man said. "We came to start a new ranch."

  Cole frowned. He knew that a few cattlemen had been moving into the Wyoming Territory from Nebraska, but they hadn't yet come this far west. And why would anybody drive a herd all the way from Texas?

  Before he voiced those questions, the cook pointed and said, "You can ask Mr. Sawyer about it, mister. Here he comes now."

  Cole and Casebolt looked around and saw a man riding toward them. The newcomer was older, with white hair and a deeply lined face about the same color as the leather of his saddle. He wore a dark suit and hat that looked gray now from the thick coating of dust that had settled on them. As he drew rein wary eyes looked intently at Cole and Casebolt.

  "Who're you?" he asked without preamble.

  The cook spoke up, calling across the tracks, "They're the gents who rode out from that town and turned the herd, Mr. Sawyer. They ain't told me their names."

  "Helped turn the herd, you mean, Lon," Sawyer said. He regarded Cole and Casebolt with a cold stare and went on, "My boys would've got that stampede under control sooner or later."

  "After it had torn up the town and likely killed some innocent folks," Cole snapped. "What the hell's going on here, mister?"

  The Texas cattleman shrugged. "A stampede's just one of the risks of driving a herd thousands of miles. If you'd ever worked much with cattle, you'd know that. And just who in blazes are you to be talking to me like that?" His voice crackled with indignation.

  Cole was pretty upset himself after the close call. He said, "My name's Cole Tyler. I'm the marshal of Wind River, that town over there your herd nearly destroyed. This other fella's my deputy, Billy Casebolt."

  The Texan grunted in acknowledgment of the introductions. "Kermit Sawyer, from West Texas. I thank you for your help turning the herd, Marshal, but you'd best back off a mite. We didn't stampede that stock on purpose, and we didn't even know your town was here."

  Cole felt an immediate dislike for Sawyer. The man had an arrogance about him that he had seen in other cattle barons. Sawyer thought he was the cock of the walk, that everybody else had been put on earth to follow his orders and help him establish his own private little empire. It was an attitude especially common to Texans, Cole had found, but Sawyer was going to discover that it wouldn't wash here in Wyoming.

  Still, it wouldn't help matters for him to lose his temper, Cole realized. Holding his irritation in check, he asked, "What started them running?"

  "Who the hell knows?" Sawyer shot back. "We were getting the herd moving this morning like we have every morning since we left Texas. Maybe one of 'em stepped on a snake, or one of those damned prairie dogs popped his head up from his hole at the wrong time. Something spooked 'em, and that was all it took. They'd likely still be running north if they hadn't come upon these railroad tracks."

  Sawyer was right, Cole knew. It had been pure bad luck that the herd had gone wild, and more bad luck that the settlement had been in the way. But now that the animals were beginning to come under control again, it was important to know Sawyer's plans.

  "What are you going to do now?" Cole asked.

  The cattleman shrugged. "We'll bunch 'em up again and drive 'em north of the rails. They'll cross all right when they're calm. Then I intend to look for a place to start my new ranch."

  "You're settling around here?"

  "Damn right I am. From what I've seen, there's good grass, even if it is a mite sparse in places. And with the railroad right here, it'll be easy to ship the cattle back east to market."

  That was another point in Sawyer's favor, Cole thought. In fact, Andrew McKay and William Durand had planned from the first for Wind River to serve as a shipping point for the herds of cattle that would be coming to this part of the territory. That much was clear from the loading pens that had already been built north of the depot.

  "All right, blast it," Cole said impatiently. "But make sure you bed down those cattle well away from the town while you're looking around. I don't want any more stampedes threatening Wind River."

  "You just do your job, Marshal, and let us do ours," Sawyer replied coldly. "And one more word of advice . . . don't cross me too often, Tyler. I'm not used to it, and I don't intend to get used to it."

  With that, Sawyer jerked his horse around and headed back to the herd, which had slowed considerably and was now just milling around aimlessly while Sawyer's cowboys gathered up the strays and prodded them back with the other stock.

  As Cole glared after Sawyer, Casebolt cleared his throat and commented, "That old boy ain't too friendly."

  "No, he's not," Cole agreed. "But I'll be damned if I let him run roughshod over me or the town. Come on, let's see if things are settling down."

  Cole urged Ulysses into a trot and headed for Wind River, not looking back to see if Casebolt was following him.

  Chapter 6

  Not surprisingly, a delegation of relieved citizens was waiting in the street when Cole and Casebolt rode back into town. William Durand and Dr. Judson Kent were in the forefront of the group as they came out to meet the lawmen.

  "That was magnificent," Kent said with enthusiasm. "I've never seen anything like it. You gentlemen risked your lives to stop those beasts from rampaging through town."

  Cole and Casebolt reined in and dismounted in front of the land development company with the marshal's office in the front room. Turning to face the townspeople, Cole raised his voice and said, "You don't have to worry now, folks. The fella who owns those cattle is going to drive 'em on north of town
and keep them there. I reckon you can go on about your business." He wasn't sure, but it seemed like reassuring the townspeople in times of trouble ought to be part of the marshal's job.

  "But what in God's name are all those cattle doing here in the first place?" demanded Durand.

  "You were hoping that some ranches would be established in the area so you'd have something to ship out from those pens north of the tracks, weren't you?"

  "Yes, of course. You mean—"

  Cole nodded. "The fella who owns that herd, a man named Sawyer, brought them up from Texas to start a ranch here in Wyoming. He'll be looking for a spot that suits his fancy while he's camped to the north."

  Cole didn't mention the hostility that had sprung up immediately between himself and Sawyer, that was none of Durand's business. As long as Sawyer kept his herd—and his cowboys—under control, Cole didn't expect to have any more dealings with the man.

  Having a bunch of proddy cowhands nearby was worrisome, though. The atmosphere in Wind River was already strained enough due to the continuing conflicts between the railroad workers and drifters like Deke Strawhorn. Throwing some wild Texans into the volatile mixture was almost asking for trouble.

  Maybe it wouldn't come to that, Cole told himself. He could always hope so, at least.

  Michael Hatfield was also in the crowd. He spoke up. "Did this man Sawyer know what caused his cattle to stampede?"

  Cole shook his head. "Claimed he didn't. And it doesn't really matter. All that's important is that they didn't run wild here in town. Now, if you folks will excuse me, I haven't had any breakfast yet."

  The crowd broke up quickly. As it did, Michael came over to Cole and asked, "Do you think I should go out and interview Mr. Sawyer for the newspaper?"

  "You're the editor," Cole said with a shrug. "I don't know much about the newspaper business, remember?"

  Michael flushed a little. "I thought you and I had declared a truce, Marshal Tyler."

  "We have," Cole told him. "Do what you want about talking to Sawyer. I warn you, though—he's a Texan, and that means he's pretty damned sure of himself. If he doesn't want to talk to you, he won't hesitate to run you off. And he might not be too gentle about it."

  "I'm not afraid of him," Michael insisted. "But it might be wise to let him get his herd settled down completely before anyone bothers him."

  "Yeah, that'd be a good idea," Cole agreed, a hint of a smile on his face.

  Leaving Billy Casebolt at the office to handle any problems that came up, Cole returned to the hotel, put on his socks, hat, and gunbelt, and went looking for some breakfast. He had eaten at the hash house several times since arriving in Wind River, so he decided to try to find someplace different. As he looked down the street he spotted the strawberry blonde he and Casebolt had seen the day before. She was watching as several men unloaded a large iron stove from a wagon bed and wrestled it into the building. Cole started in that direction.

  She noticed him coming, and he saw that she had a carefully neutral expression on her face, as if she was deliberately covering up her feelings. He nodded to her as he stepped onto the boardwalk. "Good morning, ma'am."

  "Good morning," she returned, her voice as cautious as her face.

  "I'm Cole Tyler, the marshal here in Wind River—as of yesterday morning. From the looks of things, we're both newcomers around here."

  The woman nodded. "Yes. I'm new in town, too." She didn't offer her name.

  Cole didn't let that bother him. Now that the harrowing encounter with the stampeding herd of cattle was fading into the background, he was getting back to normal, and that included being stubborn when there was something he wanted to know. He looked steadily at the woman and said, "And you would be . . . ?"

  "Rose Foster," she replied as the men who had unloaded the stove reappeared from the building. Rose turned away from Cole and said to the leader of the other men, "Thank you for delivering my stove, Mr. Dunleavy. And thank you for keeping it in your freight warehouse until I got here."

  "Glad to do it. Miss Foster," the boss of the freighters replied. "To tell you the truth, I'm glad for all the business I can get these days. We were really hoppin' when my wagons were haulin' all the stuff out here to set up this town, but now that the railroad's got here at last . . ." Dunleavy shook his head. "Well, there won't be as much wagon traffic in these parts, that's for sure."

  "Thank you again," Rose Foster said, then she didn't add anything until Dunleavy and his men had climbed back onto the wagon and driven off. She turned to Cole once more and asked, "Was there something you wanted of me, Marshal? If not, I really have a great deal of work to do here."

  "Moving in?" Cole asked. It seemed unlikely when all he had seen unloaded was a stove. If Rose was going to live here, she would need furniture, too, and dishes and rugs and all sorts of household goods.

  She was moving in, but not to live here, he found a moment later as she said, "I'm going to open a restaurant in this building, Marshal. I'm leasing the place from Mr. Durand."

  Cole nodded. "I see. When do you expect to be open for business?"

  "Oh, not for another week or so. There's still a great deal to do."

  He lifted a finger to the brim of his hat. "Well, good luck to you, ma'am. From what I've seen, Wind River can use a good eating place. I'll probably be taking some of my meals with you."

  Rose put a perfunctory smile on her face. "That would be fine," she said.

  She didn't sound very enthusiastic, though, Cole thought as he strolled on past the building and resumed his search for somewhere to eat breakfast. The way his stomach was growling, he wasn't going to be able to wait a week until Rose Foster opened her eatery. But then again, the food might not be any good.

  But he would have been willing to bet that it would be, Cole mused with a slight grin.

  * * *

  That afternoon a finely appointed buggy rolled out of Wind River with William Durand at the reins, guiding a big, sleek black horse. Durand crossed the railroad tracks and drove north, quickly picking up the broad band of tracks left by the herd of cattle.

  It had taken nearly an hour for the two thousand head to pass by the town once the herd was under control again. The cattle were out of sight now, and as Durand studied the gently rolling landscape to the north, he didn't see any dust cloud hanging in the sky. That meant the cattle had already come to a stop again.

  A slight feeling of nervousness went through Durand as he left the settlement behind and passed out of sight of it. He had been raised in Baltimore and then spent time in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia before coming west, and he was still somewhat unaccustomed to all these wide-open spaces. He would always be a city lad at heart, he supposed.

  But there was a fortune to be made here in the West, and besides, not all of those cities back east would welcome him if he returned to them. In fact, there were places where the only ones waiting for him with open arms would have been the authorities. . . .

  Durand shook his head and scowled. He needn't worry about such things, he told himself, not as long as he remained here in Wyoming.

  The tracks of the herd were easy to follow, even for a civilized man such as himself. The buggy rolled along briskly, and several miles north of town, at the top of a rise, Durand saw the cattle spread out over the broad valley in front of him. A tiny creek ran through the valley, providing enough water for a few scrubby trees along its banks and a thin coating of grass on the hillsides. Durand was not a cattleman by any stretch of the imagination, but even he could tell that there wasn't sufficient graze here for the herd to make a permanent home. This would be a temporary stop at best.

  And since that fit right in with his plans, he allowed a momentary smile to touch his broad, bearded face.

  He drove down the hill into the valley, and as he approached, several of the cowboys tending the now docile herd saw him coming and rode over to the chuck wagon to alert their employer. The wagon was parked at the eastern end of the valley, where the creek
ran through a small saddle in the hills. Durand drove toward it, handling the reins skillfully.

  A man wearing what appeared to be all black mounted up and rode out to meet him. As Durand pulled back on the reins and brought the buggy to a stop, he saw that the man had white hair and a weathered face. "Hello," he called when the rider was in earshot. "Would you be Mr. Sawyer, from Texas?"

  The white-haired man reined in next to the buggy and nodded. "I'm Kermit Sawyer," he said. "And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't bring that buggy any closer, mister. Those cattle are nice and calm again, and I'd like to keep 'em that way."

  "I agree completely," said Durand, smiling. He leaned over on the seat of the vehicle and held out his hand. "William Durand is my name. I'm from that town you passed earlier, Wind River."

  Sawyer grunted, hesitated for an instant, then took Durand's hand and shook it. "What can I do for you, Mr. Durand?"

  "I'm told by our marshal that you've come to the Wyoming Territory to establish a ranch, Mr. Sawyer. Is that correct?"

  "Yep. Pardon me for being blunt, Mr. Durand, but what business is that of yours?"

  Durand's smile widened. "Business is exactly what it is, sir. I've come to make you a proposition that could prove profitable for both of us." He saw the skepticism creeping into the Texan's eyes, so he hurried on, "You see, my late partner and I are the ones who established Wind River, and we had high hopes for its future as a center of the growing cattle industry here in the territory. I still have those hopes, despite Andrew's recent untimely demise. Andrew McKay, that is, my late partner. At any rate, perhaps you saw the loading pens north of the railroad station in town . . . ?"

  Kermit Sawyer nodded. "I saw 'em. Looked like you were ready for us, all right. That's pretty forward thinking, Durand."

  "Exactly," Durand said, warming to his subject. "Right now there are no regularly scheduled trains passing through Wind River, since the railhead arrived only a few days ago, but soon there will be. You'll be able to ship your beef back to the markets in Kansas City with a minimum of trouble. That is, if you have plenty of beef to ship."