"You just go right on up to your room, Marshal, and if there's anything not to your liking, you just tell me and I'll take care of it right away. You can always find me or one of my young'uns in the kitchen back yonder."
"How many children do you have?" asked Cole.
"Six," Abigail replied, beaming. "And don't you go trying to flatter me by telling me I look too young to have that many children."
"You must've read my mind," Cole told her gallantly, even though he hadn't been about to say any such thing.
"Go on with you. The mister told you about supper?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'll be here if I can. I reckon a lawman never knows when he'll be called away, even though I haven't been one for very long."
"I heard about what you and Billy Casebolt did this morning, stopping that stampede and all. My, that must have been frightening."
"I've had easier mornings," Cole allowed.
"Well, go up and get settled in, and we’ll see you later. And don't mind Lawton's sour disposition. He's just like that sometimes."
Cole would have been willing to bet that Lawton Paine was like that most of the time, but he didn't say anything.
He went upstairs and found the room Paine had told him about. Like the man had claimed, it was clean, although the smell of sawed wood lingering in the air told him this part of the house had been only recently completed. Despite that, there was no sawdust on the floor.
A narrow bed took up about half the room; there was a chair and a washstand on the other side, along with an empty wardrobe. Nothing fancy about it, just a place to sleep—but that was all Cole needed. He tossed his saddlebags on the bed, put the Winchester and the wrapped-up Sharps in the wardrobe, and went downstairs again.
He didn't see either of the Paines as he left, although he heard what sounded like children shouting happily behind the house. Moving to Wyoming Territory had to be quite an adventure for the Paine youngsters, and Cole hoped their father's dissatisfaction didn't rub off on them. Life was hard sometimes, sure, but kids still deserved a chance to be kids and enjoy themselves.
As he walked downtown he passed the blacksmith shop and stopped to say hello to Jeremiah Newton. The massive smith nodded and said, "Good afternoon to you, Marshal. The Lord's given us a beautiful day today, hasn't He?"
Cole glanced at the blue sky with white clouds floating in it, felt a breeze with a trace of coolness in it to blend with the warmth of the sun. "It's mighty nice, all right, Mr. Newton," he agreed.
"Brother Newton, or just plain Jeremiah," the blacksmith told him. "The Lord loves a simple man."
"I've heard it said the Lord loves a poor man, and that's why He made so many of them."
Jeremiah was working the bellows on his forge, but he stopped at Cole's comment. "God helps those who help themselves," he said.
"And it's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven."
Jeremiah threw back his head and laughed, a rich, booming sound. "You know the Bible, my friend. That's good."
Cole shrugged. "I know some of it. My father was a mountain man, trapped beaver all over this part of the country and on up north to the Canadian border. He couldn't read a lick, but he could recite whole books of the Bible and some of Shakespeare's plays. I used to listen to him talk about how he and his friends would sit around a campfire and recite for hours all the things they'd memorized. I reckon when you're off by yourself, or nearly by yourself, in the middle of nowhere for months at a time, even being able to quote Bible verses is pretty entertaining."
"Better than guzzling whiskey and indulging the lusts of the flesh with poor, innocent Indian women," Jeremiah grunted.
Cole didn't say anything, but he reckoned his old pa had done his share of that, too. He didn't want to irritate the big blacksmith, though, especially when he was about to ask him another question.
"Not to change the subject," Cole went on a moment later, "but I was wondering if you rent this shop from Durand and McKay's land development company?"
"Indeed I do. My arrangement was with both Brother Durand and Brother McKay. I assume that Brother Durand will continue to honor the agreement now that Brother McKay has unfortunately passed on."
"Did you plan to buy the land when you came out here, instead of renting it?"
Jeremiah shrugged shoulders that seemed almost as broad as he was tall. "I don't concern myself that much with earthly possessions, Brother Tyler. I just want to help people and lay up treasures for myself in heaven."
If Jeremiah was telling the truth—and the sincerity in his voice was plain to hear—he was a pretty unlikely candidate to have killed Andrew McKay, Cole thought. Besides, the gun that had fired the fatal bullet had been a fairly small caliber, and such a weapon would have been almost lost in Jeremiah's hamlike hands. Cole could see Jeremiah Newton crushing the life out of somebody if he was provoked enough, but to do something as underhanded as shooting McKay during the confusion of the brawl at the railroad station . . . that just didn't seem believable.
He said his farewells and started to move on, but Jeremiah called after him, "Day after tomorrow is Sunday. Will I see you at services, Brother Tyler?"
"I'll try to be there," Cole promised.
"Under the big cottonwood on the western edge of town," Jeremiah told him. "You can't miss it."
"Thanks," Cole said with a wave. He didn't know if he would actually take Jeremiah up on the invitation or not. Despite the time he had spent listening to his father quote the Scriptures, he had never been a particularly religious man. Although there had been moments—usually when he was alone, far from anyone else in the high country—when he had felt a peculiar closeness with whoever had created the magnificent landscapes around him. For Cole, that had been enough.
During the rest of the afternoon, Cole continued his probing, walking around Wind River and talking to the various merchants, accepting their thanks and congratulations for turning the stampede away from town before getting on with his real reason for visiting them. He kept his questions fairly innocuous, but he discovered that what he had assumed was true: Durand and McKay— now Durand alone—owned practically the entire settlement.
A few of the business owners had had enough money to buy their land outright, although Durand and McKay had sold only grudgingly and at a high price. And there was a definite feeling in the community—resentment might have been too strong a word—that Durand and McKay had come out better on the deals than anyone else.
But did anyone in town feel so strongly that they would have pulled the trigger if they had the chance? Cole couldn't answer that question with his head, but his gut told him no.
Which left William Durand as the leading suspect in his partner's murder. If Andrew McKay had been murdered, as his widow claimed.
He'd been the marshal of Wind River for less than two full days, Cole thought, and already his head hurt from worrying at this problem. Between that and the stampede, the job sure hadn't turned out the way he had expected when he agreed to take it.
Late in the afternoon Cole saw Durand drive back into town, and he wondered where the land speculator had been for the past several hours. Durand lifted a hand in greeting as he drove past, and Cole thought he looked pleased with himself. Must've been working on a business deal of some sort, Cole thought. There probably wasn't anything else that would make a man like Durand seem so satisfied.
Abigail Paine's chicken and dumplings were as good as her husband had claimed, Cole discovered that evening when he returned to the boarding-house for supper. So were her greens and potatoes and biscuits and pie. The long table in the dining room was full, and the laughter and talk as the platters and bowls were passed around reminded Cole of other boardinghouses he had lived in briefly.
Abigail and the Paine youngsters were kept busy fetching more food from the kitchen, and Lawton Paine himself seemed to be in a better mood as he sat at the head of the table and ate with the other men.
After supper Cole walked downtown again and went into the marshal's office. Billy Casebolt sat with his chair leaned back and his boots on top of the desk, but he sat up hurriedly as Cole came in.
"Don't worry, Billy," Cole said with a grin. "I don't mind a man taking it easy every now and then. Everything been quiet around here?"
"Sure has," the deputy replied. "I swear, Marshal, this town's gotten downright tame since you been here. 'Cept for that stampede this mornin', there ain't been a lick of trouble. When I was the constable, seems like there was one or two fights every hour, and there weren't near as many saloons then as there are now. I reckon folks must be mindin' their manners since they know there's a real live lawman in Wind River now, 'stead of a broke-down ol' codger like me."
"I wouldn't count on that," Cole said dryly. "You ever heard of the calm before the storm? I reckon that's what we've got now."
Casebolt shrugged. "Maybe. But that fella Strawhorn ain't been around much since you had that run-in with him yesterday. If him and his pards lit out, that could be why things have gotten so peaceable."
"Well, we can hope," Cole said. "You had supper?"
"Yep. Hope that's all right."
Cole nodded. "Sure. I think I'll take a turn around town." He grinned. "Put your feet up and relax again. And don't jump up when I come in. You're liable to fall over in that chair and hurt yourself."
Casebolt gave the marshal a sheepish grin but nodded in agreement. Cole left him there in the office and strolled down the south side of Grenville Avenue.
Darkness had settled down over Wind River. The big emporium was still open for business, light spilling through its windows and .doors, but most of the other shops had closed for the night.
All the saloons were still open, of course, and so was the hash house. A wagon rolled by in the street every so often, and men on horseback rode past Cole as he ambled along the boardwalk.
Women were outnumbered by men by ten to one in Wind River, and decent women were even scarcer. All of them were at home now, behind the walls of tents or new houses. The only females in evidence were in the saloons, and Cole heard their shrill laughter from time to time as he walked past the places.
He firmly believed what he had told Casebolt. Just because things had been fairly peaceful around town for a couple of days, there was no guarantee they would stay that way. In fact, it was likely there would be more trouble, and sooner rather than later.
That was what Cole was thinking when orange flame geysered from the shadows between a couple of half-finished buildings and a slug whipped past his head. Instinct drove him forward and down and sent his right hand streaking toward the butt of his Colt. He twisted as he fell, palming out the revolver and lifting it toward the darkness.
Another gunshot hammered against his ears, the muzzle flash almost blinding in the gloom. Cole fired twice toward the spot, the heavy pistol bucking against his hand. He didn't wait to see if his shots had done any good, rolling over quickly a couple of times instead and lunging to his feet again.
There was another shot from the opening between the half-completed buildings, but this time the bullet didn't come close enough for Cole to hear it. He leveled his own gun and squeezed off a couple of shots, then threw himself behind a wagon -parked in front of one of the buildings. Since he kept the hammer of the Colt resting on an empty chamber, he only had one shot left without reloading.
Suddenly the sound of running footsteps came to Cole's ears. There was more than one set, and he frowned as he tried to sort them out. Several people were hurrying down the street toward him, coming to see what all the shooting was about, but he was convinced that one pair of feet was running down the alleyway between the buildings. And those steps were fading as the bushwhacker fled.
Cole didn't take the time to reload. He darted out from behind the wagon and ran toward the opening between the buildings. He might be running right into more trouble, he thought, but he didn't want the ambusher to get away if he could help it.
In the moonlight that was the only illumination in the alley, he spotted a running figure. "Hold it, you son of a bitch!" Cole shouted. The figure slowed and twisted toward him but didn't stop.
Cole went to one knee as the gunman fired again. The bullets went over his head. Cole steadied his aim and squeezed off his final shot, the explosion of black powder deafeningly loud in the close confines of the passage.
The bushwhacker kept running, never slowed down.
Cole bit back a curse and leaped to his feet, intending to give chase and try to reload as he ran. But then the fleeing footsteps halted abruptly, and a second later Cole heard the thud of a horse's hooves. The animal was galloping rapidly away from the settlement.
Cole grimaced in disgust, then heaved a frustrated sigh. The bushwhacker, whoever he had been, would be long gone before Cole could saddle up Ulysses and take off after him. There wasn't really any point to chasing him now. Out of habit, Cole reached for some fresh cartridges from his shell belt as he turned back to the main street.
"Marshal!" a voice shouted from nearby. "Marshal Tyler! You in there?"
"Down here, Billy," Cole called to his deputy.
Casebolt hurried down the alley to meet him, carrying a shotgun. "You all right, Marshal?" the older man asked anxiously.
"I'm not hurt," Cole told him. "Mad as hell, though. Somebody tried to bushwhack me from back here in the dark. I threw a few slugs at him as he ran off, but I don't think I hit him."
"Damn!" Casebolt said. "Who'd do a low-down thing like that?"
"I can think of somebody. Deke Strawhorn told me to watch my back."
"That's right!" Casebolt cursed. "If that no-good skunk shows his face in town again, I'll—"
Cole interrupted, "You won't do a thing unless he's breaking the law. I never got a good look at whoever shot at me. Can't accuse Strawhorn of it without any proof."
"No, I reckon not," Casebolt said reluctantly. He and Cole reached the mouth of the alley, where a curious crowd had gathered. The deputy raised his voice and told them, "You folks go on about your business! Ain't nothin' to see here."
The two lawmen walked back toward the office as the crowd broke up, muttering among themselves. Casebolt was doing some muttering, too, mostly about Deke Strawhorn and what he'd like to do to the drifting hardcase.
Cole wasn't paying much attention. He was thinking about the ambush attempt. A vengeful Strawhorn was the most likely one to be behind it, but the hardcase wasn't the only possibility. Cole had spent the day poking around in William Durand's business, and if somebody had told Durand about all the questions Cole was asking, the land speculator might have gotten nervous. If Durand was responsible for Andrew McKay's death . . . and if he thought that Simone suspected him and had enlisted Cole's help in an effort to prove his guilt . . . it was possible Durand might have decided getting rid of Cole would be better than waiting to be found out—even if it meant that Wind River would be without a lawman again. It was something to ponder, anyway.
"—figure it to happen so soon."
Cole looked up, aware that Casebolt was still talking to him. "What was that, Billy?" he asked. "Reckon my mind was wandering."
Casebolt snorted. "Hell, I wouldn't wonder, what with havin' to stop a stampede in the mornin' and then gettin' shot at this evenin'. I just said that when you said there'd be more trouble comin' along sooner or later, I didn't figure it'd be so soon."
"Neither did I," Cole admitted. "Well, it's been a pretty full day. We'll just have to wait and see what tomorrow brings."
More trouble? Cole wouldn't have bet against it, not with what he'd seen of Wind River so far.
Chapter 8
To Cole's surprise, and Billy Casebolt's as well, the next week passed peacefully in the railhead settlement. Of course, "peace" was a relative term, because Cole had to break up at least four fist-fights during that time. No one was hurt badly, though, and the damage to the various saloons was minor, so Cole was pretty well satisfied
with the way his duties had settled down. Nobody tried to ambush him again, either, and Deke Strawhorn seemed to have left town.
Less satisfying was Cole's investigation into Andrew McKay's death. His conversations with the citizens told him that both McKay and Durand had been respected by the townspeople, although not particularly well liked. Nobody seemed to have hated McKay enough to have killed him, and nobody Cole talked to who had been there on the station platform that day had seen who fired the fatal shot. Everyone had been too concerned with their own part in the brawl.
Unless, of course, somebody was lying to him. Cole thought that was pretty likely, but he had no idea how to prove it or even to identify the liar.
On Sunday, Cole and Billy both attended Jeremiah Newton's religious service under the huge cottonwood on the western edge of town. Quite a few people were there, and Jeremiah led them in the singing of several hymns before stepping up onto an empty nail keg and beginning his sermon. The Bible he waved around in his right hand as he spoke was dwarfed by the long, thick fingers wrapped around it.
Jeremiah was fairly soft-spoken when he was working in the blacksmith shop, but not during the service. He preached hellfire-and-brimstone in a loud, ringing voice, and his descriptions of the fate awaiting sinners were so vivid that Cole winced a time or two. Billy Casebolt had a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, as if he could feel the very flames of the pit itself.
Jeremiah got down to business at the end of the service, telling the congregation his idea of building a church in Wind River. A hat was passed and a collection taken up to buy lumber for the church, and several men volunteered their skills as carpenters. Watching Jeremiah work the crowd, Cole had no doubt that the church would indeed get built, and probably pretty soon. He even tossed a silver dollar into the hat when it came by.
Early on Wednesday morning, as Cole was walking from Paine's boardinghouse toward downtown, he saw that Rose Foster's cafe was open for business. The afternoon before he had seen workers putting up the sign on the awning over the boardwalk. It read WIND RIVER CAFE, not a very original name, to be sure, but one that summed up the nature of the establishment. Cole had already had breakfast—bacon and flapjacks and small mountains of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes dished up by Abigail Paine—but he crossed the street and stepped into the new business anyway. He could always use another cup of coffee.
Wind River Page 9
