Wind River

by L. J. Washburn

  Luckily, the Colt hadn't fallen out of its holster. Cole's fingers closed around the butt and jerked the weapon free. He fetched up to a stop against the low boardwalk and blinked rapidly until his vision cleared. He spotted the feet and legs of his assailant as the man hurried along the other side of the wagon toward the front of the vehicle.

  Cole eared back the hammer and fired, rewarded instantly by a howl of pain that blended with the roar of the shot. The man's feet went out from under him and he rolled in the street, clapping a hand to the calf Cole's bullet had just ripped through. Cole fired again and then again, the attacker's torso giving him a bigger target now. He heard both slugs thud into flesh. The man shuddered under the impact, rolled onto his back, and lay still with his arms outflung.

  Feeling was coming back into Cole's left arm, and he used it to balance himself as he scrambled to his feet. He kept the revolver trained on the dark bulk of the ambusher as he stepped over the wagon tongue and approached the fallen man. People were coming on the run to investigate the shooting. Cole called out to them, "Stay back! This is Marshal Tyler talking!"

  The townspeople stopped in their tracks as Cole cautiously approached the man he had shot. He prodded the bushwhacker in the side and got no response, then knelt and used his left hand to check for a pulse. He wouldn't have risked coming this close if he hadn't spotted the man's gun lying a dozen feet away where it had fallen when Cole's first shot dropped him.

  The bushwhacker was dead, all right, no doubt about that. He'd had two good chances at Cole, but failing both of them had been his death warrant. He just hadn't been lucky.

  And, Cole saw in the moonlight, he wasn't Deke Strawhorn, either. In fact, Cole didn't recall ever seeing him before.

  "Need some light over here," Cole called to the bystanders. "And somebody fetch Deputy Casebolt."

  "Right here, Marshal," Billy replied as he pushed his way through the crowd and then hurried over to join Cole. Casebolt dug a block of lucifers out of his pocket, broke off one of the soft sulfur matches, and scraped it into life. The glare that came with the stink of brimstone illuminated the face of the dead bushwhacker.

  "Who in blazes is that?" Casebolt asked.

  "You don't know him, either?"

  "Never seen him before, not that I recollect, anyway." Casebolt looked around. "What're all them barrels doin' layin' in the street?"

  Cole straightened and gestured at the dead man. "He tried to dump them on my head, and when that didn't work, he tried to finish me off with a bullet." He rubbed his shoulder, which was starting to ache. There would probably be a pretty bad bruise on it tomorrow, Cole thought.

  Casebolt glared down at the corpse. "What'd he want to go and do a thing like that for?" he asked.

  "Don't know. I figured somebody would make another try for me, but I thought it would be Strawhorn."

  "Strawhorn?" exclaimed Casebolt. "Is that sidewinder back in town?"

  "I had a run-in with him in Parker's place less than an hour ago," Cole explained. "He and three of his partners were there."

  "You should've sent for me then, Marshal. We'd've cleaned out that rat's nest in a hurry."

  Cole shrugged. "I figured Strawhorn couldn't resist coming after me. Looks like I was wrong."

  "'Less'n he sent this hombre after you," Casebolt speculated as he rubbed the silvery bristles on his jaw.

  "You might have something there, Billy." Cole looked up to see the livery-stable owner, who doubled as the town's undertaker, approaching. "Got a job for you," he told the man. "Reckon you can go through this gent's pockets and claim whatever he's got on him as the price of planting him."

  "Sure, Marshal." The liveryman nodded. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," Cole said.

  To tell the truth, he was far from fine, even though the banged-up shoulder was his only physical injury. But he was mad as hell, both at the attempt on his life and the fact that the dead man had turned out to be somebody besides Deke Strawhorn.

  It was possible, even likely, that the bushwhacker was a new member of Strawhorn's gang. Strawhorn could have sent the man after Cole, or he could have made the attempt on his own, hoping to impress Strawhorn by killing the marshal. Either way, the end results were the same. The man was dead, and Strawhorn was still alive to cause trouble.

  In fact, Cole saw, Strawhorn was sauntering down the boardwalk toward the scene of the shooting, his men ambling along with him. He paused on the boardwalk and called over, "What happened, Marshal? Have some trouble?"

  Cole stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. He took a step toward Strawhorn, but Billy Casebolt put a hand on his arm and stopped him. In a low voice, the deputy said, "I ain't anxious to stick up for that ranny, Marshal, but if you was thinkin' straight, you'd see that he wants you to come after him. He'd have plenty of witnesses that you started the fight."

  Cole dragged a deep breath into his lungs and then jerked his head in a nod. "You're right, Billy," he said. Keeping a tight rein on his temper, he indicated the dead man. "You know this man, Strawhorn?"

  "Now, why in the world would you figure a thing like that, Marshal?" Strawhorn asked, his cool arrogance grating on Cole. "The only souls I know in this whole town are my three friends here. I never saw that gent before."

  "Take a good look at him," Cole ordered. "Billy, strike another match."

  "That ain't necessary—" Strawhorn began, but Casebolt had already struck another lucifer. The deputy knelt beside the body and held the flame so that its glow washed starkly over the contorted features of the dead man.

  Cole thought he saw a muscle twitching in Strawhorn's jaw, but he couldn't be sure. The drifter's voice was flat and hard as he said, "I told you I don't know the man, Marshal. Now, if you're through with us, we got places to go and things to do."

  "Sure." Cole waved them on, then called after them, "Just remember how bushwhackers wind up in this town."

  Strawhorn might have broken his stride just for an instant; Cole couldn't tell. But then he strode on, accompanied by his friends, and turned a corner, going out of sight.

  "That fella don't like you, not even a little bit," Casebolt said worriedly.

  "The feeling's mutual," Cole snapped. He nodded to the liveryman to get on with the job of dragging away the corpse, then started toward the marshal's office. Casebolt fell in step beside him, and Cole went on, "I've got a special job for you, Billy."

  "Sure, Marshal, anything you want."

  "You said you did some scouting for the army. I reckon you're pretty good at keeping an eye on somebody without him knowing that anybody's watching."

  Casebolt nodded and said proudly, "I can track a flea through a sandstorm without him ever seein' me, Marshal, and that ain't a brag."

  "Think you can watch Strawhorn and find out what he's up to?"

  "Sure. But don't you figure he came back to Wind River to have another go at you?"

  "Could be," Cole said as his brow furrowed in thought. "Could be that's just part of it, though, and he's really here for some other reason. A man like that's usually looking for some sort of payoff."

  "Yep, that's true," Casebolt mused. "Don't you worry. If he's up to any mischief, I'll find out about it."

  "Be careful, Billy," Cole advised as they reached the marshal's office. "I figure Strawhorn would be glad to shoot any lawman he could get in his sights, and you're the best deputy I've got."

  "'Course, I'm the only deputy you've got"—Casebolt grinned—"but still the best one you're ever likely to have."

  Chapter 11

  Billy Casebolt hummed silently through his teeth as he slouched against the wall of a newly built hardware store and watched the saloon across the street. Deke Strawhorn and his cronies had gone in there an hour earlier. From where he stood, the deputy could see both the batwinged main entrance of the saloon as well as the side door. Strawhorn hadn't come back out, and Casebolt intended to stay where he was until the hardcase emerged.

  There had been no mor
e trouble since the attempt on Cole Tyler's life the night before, but Billy shared Cole's opinion that it was only a matter of time. He also thought there might be something to the marshal's theory that Strawhorn had returned to Wind River for some other reason than revenge. Strawhorn wasn't likely to pass up the opportunity to settle the score with Cole, however.

  Casebolt had picked up Strawhorn's trail the night before, locating the hardcase and his friends in one of Wind River's many saloons. Strawhorn and the other three drifters had made the rounds of several barrooms before settling down for the night at a so-called hotel that was little better than a flophouse frequented by out-of-work railroad men, down-on-their-luck gamblers, and assorted shady characters.

  Casebolt would have figured Strawhorn was the type to seek out better accommodations, but maybe he was low on cash right now. That could be why he had returned to Wind River to start with.

  So far this morning, Strawhorn and his friends had eaten breakfast at the hash house, then immediately started hitting the saloons again, despite the early hour. Most of the places never closed; a man could drink twenty-four hours a day in a railhead town if he wanted to.

  Casebolt had gotten his own breakfast at the Wind River Cafe, although he hadn't eaten it there. Rose Foster had wrapped up some biscuits and sausage for him and he had taken the food with him so that he could keep an eye on Strawhorn. Cole had given him this responsibility, and Billy didn't want to let the marshal down.

  The saloon across the street was the third one Strawhorn and his companions had visited today. The morning was well advanced, and Casebolt was beginning to get hungry again. He was considering going across the street and into the saloon to try out the free lunch. That would put him in the same room as Strawhorn and the others, but Casebolt didn't think that would alarm the hardcases.

  He had stayed out of sight so far during his surveillance of them, so they oughtn't to think anything of him stopping into a saloon for a drink and some hard-boiled eggs and ham and stale crackers.

  "Good day to you, Deputy."

  The unexpected greeting made Casebolt jump a little. He looked around and saw William Durand standing there on the boardwalk. "Oh . . . Howdy, Mr. Durand. Didn't see you comin'."

  "I certainly didn't mean to startle you, Deputy." Durand had an amused expression in his eyes.

  Casebolt swallowed the anger that welled up inside him. He knew that Durand thought he was barely competent as a lawman; the businessman had made that clear enough when he relieved him of his duties as constable, before Cole Tyler's arrival in town. But to give Durand credit, he was the one who had suggested that Billy might make a good deputy for the new marshal. Still, Casebolt didn't particularly like the man.

  "What are you doing?" Durand went on, gesturing at the wall where Casebolt was leaning. "Is the building in some danger of collapsing?"

  "Not that I know of," Casebolt answered. "I'm just standin' here keepin' an eye on the town, Mr. Durand. That's what you folks pay me for, ain't it?"

  "Yes, indeed. And I'm sure we all sleep better at night knowing that you're watching out for us." Durand lifted a finger to the brim of his bowler hat. "Good day."

  Billy watched the land developer move on down the boardwalk, then step off at the end of the walk and cross to the livery stable. The deputy wondered where Durand was going, and his curiosity grew even more when Durand drove out of the stable in a finely appointed buggy a few minutes later. Durand turned the big black horse toward the western edge of town and drove briskly along Grenville Avenue.

  His house was in the other direction, Casebolt knew, and anyway, Durand wouldn't have bothered getting his buggy out of the livery stable just to go home.

  Durand followed the trail to the west out of town and dwindled out of sight as Casebolt watched. Maybe he was going out to have a talk with the railroad construction foreman about something, the deputy decided. He knew the work crews had already laid several miles of track to the west.

  It was none of his business what Durand did, Casebolt reminded himself. His job was to watch Deke Strawhorn.

  And by letting himself get distracted, he realized a second later, he had almost made a big mistake and allowed Strawhorn to get away from him. The drifter and his friends had left the saloon and were walking along the opposite side of the street.

  Casebolt was about to turn and trail them from across the street when Strawhorn suddenly stepped off the boardwalk and started toward the livery stable, trailed by his friends. Stepping back quickly, Casebolt put himself in the recessed doorway of the hardware store, where he wouldn't be so visible.

  Through the front window of the store, he watched Strawhorn and the other three men angle across toward the stable and disappear. When Billy leaned out from the doorway, he spotted the last of the men entering the barn.

  They were probably getting their horses, he thought. There was no other reason for them to be going to the stable in the middle of the day. And there was no reason to get their horses unless they were planning on leaving town.

  Which meant he had to be ready to ride, too, or he was going to lose them.

  Casebolt moved out of the doorway and went quickly to an alley that led him to the area behind the buildings along Grenville Avenue. He hurried toward the rear of the livery stable. There was a back door to the place, but it was closed. Casebolt came to a stop beside the door and leaned his ear against it. A few moments later he heard the thud of hoofbeats as several men rode out of the barn.

  As soon as those hoofbeats had faded, he jerked open the back door and went into the stable. The young hostler looked around at him in surprise as Casebolt asked, "Did four men just leave here, boy?"

  "Yeah, that fella Strawhorn and his friends," the youngster replied. "What's the matter, Mr. Casebolt? You after 'em for something?"

  "That's law business," muttered Casebolt. "You just get my horse ready to ride, quick like."

  The boy nodded his head. "Sure, Mr. Casebolt."

  Casebolt watched approvingly as the hostler saddled up his horse. At least some people in this town still knew how to treat their elders with respect, he thought. It took only a couple of minutes for the hostler, who was experienced despite his youth, to get Billy's horse ready to ride.

  The deputy nodded his thanks, took the reins, and swung up into the saddle. As he rode toward the front entrance he asked the hostler, "Did you see which way Strawhorn and the rest of 'em went?"

  "They headed west," the boy said. "Seemed like they were in a little bit of a hurry, too."

  Casebolt nodded again, waved a hand, and then turned his mount to the west and heeled it into a trot. A few people on the street gave him curious glances as he rode purposefully out of town. They probably weren't used to seeing him moving so fast. At his age, Casebolt liked to maintain a deliberate pace whenever he could.

  No time for that now, though. As he left Wind River eyes that were still keen in spite of his age scanned the horizon, and it didn't take him long to notice the thin plume of dust rising to the west of town. Casebolt rode toward the dust, knowing it probably came from the hooves of the horses ridden by Strawhorn and the other drifters.

  The country here was fairly flat, so Casebolt hung back a good distance and didn't push his horse for fear of raising a dust cloud of his own. Men like Strawhorn were in the habit of watching their back trails, and Casebolt didn't want to alert him that he was being followed. Once Strawhorn and the others stopped, then there would be time to catch up to them and see what they were doing.

  The telltale plume of dust gradually veered a little south of west, away from the route of the Union Pacific. They were already past the last point where the tracks extended, although the roadbed had been graded beyond that for a considerable distance.

  As he rode, Casebolt's stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He had followed Strawhorn out of town before he could implement his plan to sample the free lunch at that saloon where Strawhorn had been drinking. With a sigh, Casebo
lt told himself he would just have to put up with the hunger pangs. He wasn't going to turn back until he had tracked Strawhorn to wherever the hardcase was going.

  And the way Strawhorn and the others were riding, they had some definite destination. They weren't just ambling across the prairie. For another thing, most folks wouldn't come so far from town in this direction without a good reason, because even though peace treaties had been signed with the Sioux and the Shoshone, there was always a chance the Indians would momentarily forget about those treaties if they saw a small group of whites traveling alone.

  Casebolt kept an eye on the dust he was following, but he was watchful of his surroundings, too. Hills rose to the north and south, with mountains looming in the distance to the north. Somebody in the hills could be watching him, just as he was watching Strawhorn.

  The rolling plains seemed deserted, and gradually Casebolt relaxed. Once he knew what Strawhorn was up to, he decided, he would head back to Wind River as fast as he could and tell Cole all about it. That thought reminded him that he hadn't told the marshal where he was going. Cole might worry about him dropping out of sight this way. But Cole would also know that Billy had been shadowing Strawhorn, and he might assume that the deputy's disappearance was related to that chore. Besides, if Cole got to worrying too much, he would likely go to the livery stable to see if Casebolt's horse was still there, and the hostler would tell him about Casebolt riding out right after Strawhorn and the others had left.

  As he topped a small rise Casebolt reined in abruptly. The dust he was following had stopped rising, but a faint haze of it hung in the air about half a mile ahead of him, indicating that was where Strawhorn's bunch had come to a stop. Casebolt thought about it for a minute, then heeled his horse into a walk. He would take it slow and easy now as he approached the spot where Strawhorn had halted.