Sawyer jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the cattle behind him. "Two thousand head, give or take a few. And the herd'll grow."
"I don't claim to be a cattleman, Mr. Sawyer, far from it, in fact. But even I know that there's not enough grass in this valley to support your herd at its present size, let alone a larger one."
"Maybe not," Sawyer allowed curtly. "What's your point?"
"I know where you can find plenty of grass for your stock, plus good water and protection from the weather during the winter. The land would make a fine ranch."
Sawyer rested his hands on the saddlehorn and leaned forward. "I'm figuring on looking around until I find a place like that myself."
"Why waste time doing that when I can take you directly to the most suitable spot in the entire territory?"
The cattleman's bushy white eyebrows came down in a frown. "Now, just why is it that you're so anxious to help me out, Mr. Durand?" he asked, his tone shrewd.
Durand saw no point in being coy. He said bluntly, "I happen to have put in a claim on the land in question. I'm proposing a partnership between us. Your cattle on my land should provide sufficient profits for both of us."
Sawyer shook his head and said harshly, "I didn't come all the way up here to go in partners with anybody. No offense, mister, but I've always been my own man, and I aim to stay that way."
Durand held up his hands, palms out. "You misunderstand, sir. As I told you, I'm no cattleman, and I've no interest in becoming one. You would be, in effect, leasing the land from me, and the payment would be a percentage—a small percentage, mind you—of the money you make from your ranch."
"I thought this was open range up here."
"Some of it is," Durand said with a shrug. "But much of it was granted to the Union Pacific by the government, more than was necessary for the actual building of the railroad, since it was not determined at the beginning what the route of the line would be. The Union Pacific has, in turn, disposed of some of its holdings that are no longer needed."
"Disposed of 'em to gents like you," said Sawyer. "I reckon I'm starting to see how it works now. A little deal under the table here and there never hurt nobody."
Durand flushed, but he kept a tight rein on his temper. "I didn't come out here to debate the ethics of the business world with you, Mr. Sawyer. I merely want to present you with an opportunity that, frankly, I think you would be a fool to pass up."
For a moment Sawyer looked as if he was about to tell his visitor to go to hell. But then his expression became more speculative, and he asked, "Where is this property of yours?"
"In the foothills to the northwest, about ten miles from Wind River. Would you like to see it?"
"Reckon it wouldn't hurt to take a look," grunted Sawyer. "Come on."
"Right now?" Durand asked, surprised.
"Why not? If it's as good as you claim it is, I want to see it for myself."
"Oh, it's good range, I assure you," Durand said. "Very well, I'll show you." He flicked the reins and got the horse moving again, turning the buggy toward the northwest.
They followed ridges and valleys, the ride a fairly easy one. The terrain grew considerably more rugged to the north, where several ranges of mountains, including the Wind River range itself, were visible on the horizon. The country around here was still quite amenable to ranching, however, Durand thought. At least he had been told that it was.
The creek on which Sawyer's temporary camp was located veered off to the north, but after a mile or so Durand and Sawyer rode up to another small stream and began following it. "This creek leads into the valley I told you about," Durand said. "We'll be there shortly."
"I still say I can find some open range that'll be just as good," Sawyer replied. "But I'm willing to take a look at this place of yours."
The ground began to rise in a gentle slope that gradually grew steeper. The creek still bubbled and chuckled beside them. There were more trees along the banks now, and the grass under the hooves of the horses was thicker. The creek twisted to the north, away from the path Durand was following, and several hundred yards away it was visible tumbling down a steep bluff in a short waterfall.
Durand pointed and said, "The stream curves back to the west at the top of that bluff and runs through the valley. You'll see it in a few minutes."
They followed a winding path up to the top of the bluff, then Durand hauled the buggy to a stop and waved a hand at the scene spread out before them. "Did you ever see a more beautiful spot, Mr. Sawyer?" he asked the cattleman.
Sawyer had reined in beside the buggy. The Texan's keen eyes swept over the valley, taking in the thickly wooded hills rising to each side and the broad, level plain in between. The creek meandered through the approximate center of the valley, its banks lined with cottonwood and aspen. Thick green grass carpeted its floor, which was perhaps five miles wide and twenty miles long.
Durand could tell from the way Sawyer caught his breath that the man was impressed by the sight. He waited for a few moments, letting Sawyer drink it all in, then said quietly, "Well, was I correct?"
"It's a mighty pretty place, all right," Sawyer admitted. His stubbornness reasserted itself, however. "But I still figure I can find some open range just as good."
"You won't," Durand said bluntly. "Not this close to a settlement and the railroad. Just think of the advantages, Mr. Sawyer. A short ride into town for all the supplies you might ever need, an easy drive to reach the railroad and ship your cattle to market. Plenty of water and grass, and those taller hills at the other end of the valley will block the worst of the storms in winter. It's ideal for a ranch such as the one you want to establish."
"Could be," mused Sawyer. "How big a percentage would you want?"
Durand tried not to smile in triumph. Just like an experienced fisherman, he knew when the hook was set firmly. "One fourth of your profits is all I ask, and at the end of five years, I deed the land over to you free and clear."
"I run things, and you keep your nose out of it?"
Durand spread his hands. "As I told you, I've no wish to become a cattleman. Besides, I'll continue to make money from the fees you pay to use my loading pens in town once the ranch is completely yours." He made his voice as sincere as possible as he went on, "No, I can promise you that you'll have a free hand. I'm a businessman, not a rancher."
For a long moment Sawyer made no reply. Then he said, "I'll think about it. I want to take a look around for myself before I decide on anything, though."
"Of course. But I can tell you right now, you won't find anyplace as suitable as this one."
"We'll see," Sawyer said. "I'd better be heading back to my herd."
"I'll go with you part of the way, then there's a shorter route to town. Take all the time you like, Mr. Sawyer. My office is on Grenville Avenue, across from the hotel in Wind River. Feel free to drop in anytime."
Sawyer nodded and turned his horse, but before he heeled it into a trot, he looked back at the valley. He was trying not to show how impressed he was with the location, Durand could tell. It was only a matter of time now, and it wouldn't be very long. The grass in that lower valley where Sawyer's herd was camped would only last a short while, then the cattle would have to be moved. Durand was confident that Sawyer would accept his proposal.
Then Durand would draw up an agreement they would both sign, and the real work would begin. By the time the five years were up—perhaps even before that—Sawyer would have been smoothly edged out of the arrangement, and William Durand would own the largest and best ranch in this part of the territory, in addition to controlling the town that was the hub of the whole thing.
Yes, indeed, Durand thought as he drove the buggy along beside the unsuspecting cattleman, everything was working out just fine.
* * *
That pudgy little townie figured he was really putting something over on the dumb ol' cowboy from Texas, Kermit Sawyer thought, keeping his gaze straight ahead so he wouldn't have to look at Durand's
smirk. Thing was, he wasn't as dumb as Durand obviously believed him to be. The businessman probably planned to put some highfalutin legal language in the contract between them so that he could steal the ranch right out from under his "partner" after Sawyer got it established.
Sawyer wasn't going to have any of that. In fact, if he played his cards right, that valley would wind up belonging to him free and clear, just like Durand had said, only Sawyer wouldn't have to turn over any twenty-five percent of his profits for five years in order to claim it. And if Durand didn't like it. . .
Well, Sawyer had dealt with plenty of trouble in the past from redskins and wideloopers and all sorts of scalawags. He figured he could handle one overconfident city slicker, even if it came down to showing Durand the barrel of his gun and letting him know who was really boss. Sawyer wasn't worried overmuch about the law. He could handle that two-bit marshal in Wind River.
As soon as he had seen that high valley, he knew he'd found what he had come all this way to find. This was going to be his new home.
And anybody who got in his way could just watch out, including William Durand and Marshal Cole Tyler. Especially that high-and-mighty lawman . . .
Chapter 7
Cole was standing on the boardwalk in front of the hotel when he saw William Durand drive out of town in the fancy buggy. He had his saddlebags slung over his shoulder and the Winchester '66 tucked under his arm along with the big, oilcloth-wrapped Sharps.
The rest of his gear, consisting mainly of his saddle, was stored at the livery where Ulysses was stabled. Cole had never been one to burden himself with too many possessions; he liked to travel light, since it made moving a lot easier. He was on his way to Wind River's only boardinghouse to claim the room Durand had promised him as one of the benefits of the marshal's job.
The sight of Durand reminded Cole of the visit Simone McKay had paid him the night before. With all the uproar caused by the stampede that morning, the matter of Andrew McKay's death had receded to the back of Cole's mind. He hadn't forgotten entirely about it, however, and as he walked toward the boardinghouse he thought about the widow's claim that Durand had murdered her husband.
A frown creased Cole's forehead. He didn't know how the hell to go about proving a thing like that. Maybe a place to start would be to ask a few questions of folks.
The clerk at the hotel had told him where to find the boardinghouse. It was on one of the side streets, just around the corner from Grenville Avenue east of the hotel and the marshal's office. Construction was still going on, even though the house's owner was already accepting boarders. It would be a substantial three-story structure when it was finished, Cole saw. Several men were on the roof, hammering wooden shingles into place, while a couple of others were whitewashing the walls. Nearby, a man stood leaning on a cane, watching the work. Cole walked over to him and nodded.
"Howdy," Cole greeted the man. "Would you be Lawton Paine?"
"That's right." The man turned to face Cole. His features were those of a young man, but his hair was mostly white. He leaned heavily on the cane, using it to support the weight that his twisted right leg wouldn't. He went on, "What can I do for you?"
"I was told you rent out rooms. I'm the new marshal, and Mr. Durand said the town would pay for me to stay here."
Lawton Paine's lips tightened and he grudgingly admitted, "Yes, Durand came by and made the arrangements with me. My wife's got your room ready, Marshal."
Cole sensed that Paine had taken an almost instant dislike to him, and it had started with his mention of William Durand. Shifting his saddlebags slightly on his shoulder, he asked, "Don't you and Durand get along, Mr. Paine?"
The boardinghouse owner looked sharply at him. "What business is that of yours?"
Cole shrugged. "None, really, but I was curious. I got the feeling Durand's not one of your favorite people."
Paine looked away. As he stared up at the men working on the roof, he said, "I've got to get along with Durand. I'm still paying off what I owe him on this place."
"You bought the boardinghouse from Durand? I thought—"
"I bought the land," Paine cut in. "Or rather, I'm buying it. If I miss a payment, Durand'll take it over in a second. But at that, I'm lucky. Durand and McKay at least let me buy the land. A lot of the businesses in town are having to lease their locations from the development company."
This wasn't the first time Cole had heard such a comment. He said, "Durand and McKay bought up a lot of land before the railroad ever got here, didn't they?"
"Damn right. While I was still in a hospital in Washington City, they were bribing somebody connected with the Union Pacific to find out where the route was going to go so that they could buy up all the good land through here. Then they advertised for settlers to come out and populate their new town. Made it sound like people could be independent and work toward bettering their own future." Paine laughed bitterly. "Too bad it didn't work out that way."
Cole shook his head. "I don't understand. The town's here, and it looks to be thriving. Folks are doing business—"
"And most of the money they make goes to either pay the rent that Durand and McKay charge them, or else to make payments on their notes. It'll be years before folks are out from under Durand's thumb, if then."
"So you didn't like McKay, and you don't care for Durand. Why don't you go back east?" Cole thought he already knew the answer to that question, but he wanted to hear it from Paine.
"I don't have enough money to go back," the man replied. "It took all I had, and all I got from the government after the war, to pay for coming out here and building this boardinghouse." Paine shook his head. "Did you ever hear of an indentured servant, Marshal? That's what I feel like."
Cole didn't say anything for a moment, then he asked, "What happened to your leg? Hurt in the war?"
"A Reb musketball broke the thighbone at Pea Ridge. They took me prisoner and shipped me off to a camp in Georgia called Copperhead Mountain. Ever hear of it?"
Cole grimaced. He had heard of the prison camp at Copperhead Mountain, all right. Most folks considered the hellhole at Andersonville to have been the worst of the Confederate prison camps, but Copperhead Mountain had been almost as bad. "Sorry," he muttered.
"So was I. Didn't get much medical care there, nor much to eat, and the leg didn't heal right. Never will be the same. But I didn't lose it, and I suppose I should be grateful for that. I'm told that one of the men who brought those tent saloons to town had his arm sawed off by some butcher in a field hospital at Shiloh."
Paine was talking about Hank Parker, and Cole knew he was right. That was one of the causes of the hostility Parker had always felt toward him; Cole had ridden for the South, and Parker blamed everyone who ever wore butternut gray for the loss of his arm. Paine likely felt the same way.
"Might as well get this straight since I'm going to be staying here," Cole said, his voice hardening. "I was a Confederate, Paine. I've tried to put all those old hard feelings behind me, but if you can't abide a Reb under your roof, just say so and I'll find someplace else to live."
Without hesitation, Paine shook his head. "Hell, no. Your money spends as good as anybody's, Marshal. Or in this case, the town's money. Which means Durand's money, and I've got to admit, I sort of like taking it from him." He fixed Cole with a stony stare. "No, I'd be obliged if you'd stay. The room's clean and comfortable, and my wife's a good cook."
"That's all I ask." Cole put out his hand.
Paine hesitated, then took it briefly. The handshake was short and without much feeling, but at least it was a start, Cole thought.
He pressed on by asking, "What do you think about Andrew McKay getting shot?"
Paine shrugged. "I feel sorry for his wife. Mrs. McKay seems like a fine lady. But I didn't shed any tears for McKay. Not after he and Durand gobbled up the whole town like they did."
Cole thought Paine was letting his bitterness color his thinking a little too much. True, from everything he had seen
and heard so far, Durand and McKay were smooth customers, maybe even a little on the shady side in their dealings with the railroad. That didn't make them any different from hundreds, maybe thousands, of other entrepreneurs who had come west to make their fortunes.
But it cast an interesting light on McKay's death. If some of the other citizens of Wind River felt about the land speculators the way Lawton Paine did, that broadened the list of people who might have wanted to see Andrew McKay dead. For that matter, Paine himself might have been bitter enough to have pulled a trigger, had the opportunity presented itself. . . .
Trying to sound idly curious, Cole asked, "Did you go down to the railroad station the other day for the arrival of that first train?"
"No, I was busy here. Besides, with my leg like this—" Paine slapped his withered leg and grimaced. "I don't like to get in a big crowd. I'm not that steady on my feet, and if I fell, I might get trampled."
He had a point there, Cole decided—not to mention an alibi for the time of McKay's death. But there had been plenty of other people on that platform, and some of them could have resented Andrew McKay as much as Paine seemed to, maybe even hated him.
Cole hitched up the rifles under his arm. "Well, if you'll tell me where to find my room, I'll take my gear up there."
"Sure. We're going to put you in the second floor front, on the south corner, if that's all right with you. The room's ready."
Cole nodded. "That'll do fine, I reckon. Durand's already taken care of paying you?"
"Yeah. You've missed lunch already, but supper will be at six sharp." A slight smile tugged at Paine's mouth, and his grim demeanor lessened a little. "It's chicken and dumplings tonight, and you haven't eaten until you've tried Abigail's chicken and dumplings."
Cole grinned back at him. "I'll be here," he promised.
He went inside and encountered Abigail Paine on his way through the foyer to the staircase leading up to the second floor. She came out of a partially furnished parlor and introduced herself. Cole liked her right away. She was a blond, plump, friendly woman with none of her husband's dourness.
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