He saw a line of brush along the banks of a creek as he drew closer. There were even a few scrubby trees sucking life-giving water out of the rocky ground along the stream. Casebolt thought he caught a glimpse of some riders under the trees, but he couldn't be sure. When he estimated that he was only a few hundred yards away from the spot, he dismounted and led his horse forward on foot.
This was just like the old days, Casebolt thought, slipping around like some sort of redskin himself. Of course, when he was scouting for the army, he had been hunting hostile Indians, and now he was trailing white renegades. But the game was sort of the same, still mighty exciting—and mighty dangerous.
He started up a last shallow slope and knew that on the other side of the little hill was the creek he had seen earlier where Strawhorn had stopped. At least he hoped the dust had been coming from Strawhorn's bunch. He was going to feel like seventeen different kinds of fool if he had been following the wrong trail all the way from Wind River.
That wasn't the case, he saw when he reached the top of the rise and bellied down to study the scene spread out before him. The creek was there, about seventy-five yards away, and four riders were sitting their horses in the sparse shade of the little trees. Casebolt recognized Strawhorn's hat and knew the other three men had to be the hardcase's friends.
But Strawhorn's presence wasn't the most interesting thing; Casebolt had been expecting that.
What he hadn't expected was that William Durand would be sitting there beside the creek in his fancy buggy, talking loudly and gesturing emphatically as he spoke to Strawhorn.
Casebolt frowned. What in blazes did Durand have to do with an owlhoot like Strawhorn? The drifters weren't holding up the businessman, that much was certain. Strawhorn and the others all had their guns holstered, and they seemed to be listening intently as Durand spoke. Billy wished he was close enough to hear what Durand was saying.
Twisting his head, Casebolt looked back down the slope to where he had tied his horse well out of sight of the other men. The animal was contentedly cropping on a little patch of cheat grass.
What little breeze there was blew out of the west, toward Casebolt, which meant that the horses down there wouldn't be able to smell his mount and start whinnying. The slope leading down to the creek was dotted with brush, enough so that Casebolt thought he would have plenty of cover if he tried to sneak closer on foot.
It would mean running a risk, but hell, he had run plenty of risks in his life. And he wanted to know what the connection was between Strawhorn and Durand. He sensed that it was mighty important, whatever it was.
He moved back to his horse and took off his hat, hanging it on the saddlehorn. "You just stay right here for a spell," he told the horse quietly as he patted its flank. "I'll be back for you."
Then he returned to the crest of the hill, took a deep breath, and catfooted his way over the top, crouching so that he was behind a greasewood bush.
Carefully, Casebolt worked his way down the slope toward the creek. He could see that Strawhorn and Durand were still talking. The other men seemed to be concentrating on the discussion, and none of them was looking in his direction. Excitement grew in Casebolt. Pretty soon he was going to be close enough to hear what they were saying. . . .
". . . sure of the schedule." The words came faintly to Casebolt's ears. Durand had spoken them, and the deputy heard part of Strawhorn's reply.
"Damn well better . . . riding on this . . ."
". .. need to worry . . . be rich men soon enough."
Casebolt's eyes narrowed. Sounded like Strawhorn and Durand were planning some sort of business deal. Billy knew about Durand's business, but he was damned if he could see where Strawhorn had any profession except being a gunman and probable outlaw. If he and Durand were mixed up together in something, it had to be a crooked deal.
That was news Cole Tyler had to hear, and as soon as possible. Casebolt started backing up. He had seen and heard enough.
He never knew where the snake came from. Slithered out from under one of the bushes he had passed, more than likely. But suddenly it was there, under his boot as he took a careful step backward, and as it whipped and coiled around his booted ankle, Casebolt's instincts took over and sent him jumping backward with an involuntary yelp.
He landed hard on his rump as the offended snake slid off under another bush. He got a good enough look at it to recognize it as a harmless bull snake. But the real danger had never been from the snake. It came from the men involved in the clandestine meeting nearby. At the sound of Casebolt's outcry, the heads of Strawhorn and Durand had jerked around, and Durand leveled a pointing finger and said harshly and angrily, "There!"
"I see him!" Strawhorn yelled. Casebolt scrambled to his feet and turned to run. He didn't know if Strawhorn and the others had seen him well enough to recognize him, but that didn't matter. If they were up to no good, they wouldn't want anybody spying on them. Casebolt knew he had to reach his horse.
He threw a glance over his shoulder, just in time to see Strawhorn leveling the Winchester he had pulled from his saddleboot. Billy saw smoke spurt from the barrel of the rifle and a split second later heard the sharp crack of its report. At the same instant something slapped him hard in the right side.
Casebolt spun half around, staggered, and almost lost his balance. He stayed upright somehow and kept running toward the spot where his horse was tied. His whole right side was numb, and he couldn't lift his arm. He reached across his body with his left hand and felt the sticky wetness soaking his shirt. There was no way of knowing if the slug from the Winchester had torn all the way through him or was still lodged in his body. Either way, he was hurt bad.
As he stumbled over the top of the rise, he looked back again and saw Strawhorn and the other men riding after him. Durand's buggy was rolling east, bouncing over the rough spots on the ground as Durand whipped the black to greater speed. Durand was heading back to Wind River, Billy figured, leaving Strawhorn and the others to take care of this minor distraction.
Casebolt struggled to reach across his body again and snag the butt of the pistol on his right hip. He lifted it, the gun feeling awkward in his left hand, and triggered off a couple of shots at Strawhorn and the other riders.
He didn't expect to hit any of them, but he wanted them to know he still had fangs. He turned and staggered downhill to his horse, which shied away from him at the smell of blood. Jerking loose the reins from the small bush where he had tied them, Billy grasped the saddlehorn with his good hand and tried to get a foot in the stirrup.
It seemed to take forever, but finally he had his foot in place and used it to lift him. He swung his other leg over the horse's back and settled down in the saddle. Pain doubled him over as the horse leaped into motion, but he managed not to fall off. He turned the horse and headed east as his eyesight began to blur crazily.
At least he thought it was east, but when his vision cleared somewhat a few minutes later, the country in front of him didn't look familiar. Maybe he was headed in some other direction. Maybe he had gotten turned around and was riding right into the guns of Strawhorn's bunch. He peered up, trying to find the sun, but a gray haze seemed to have been drawn across his eyes.
Casebolt let out a groan as he realized that somewhere along the way he had dropped his gun. Now he couldn't even defend himself if he ran into Strawhorn.
Luckily, the horse underneath him was running well. It took the dips and rises of the ground in stride. The terrain around here might look flat, but it was surprisingly rugged. Gradually, Casebolt became aware that his surroundings were growing even rougher.
He didn't remember crossing the roadbed of the Union Pacific, which meant he was probably heading south. Unless of course he simply hadn't noticed the route of the railroad, and given his condition, that was all too possible. His head was spinning and it was all he could do to hang on to the saddlehorn and stay on top of the horse.
He looked around from time to time, whenever his head
cleared a little, and saw no sign of Strawhorn. Had he managed to give the slip to his pursuers? If so, it was either a miracle or a pure-dee accident, because he hadn't been coherent enough to know what he was doing.
Pain washed through him with every jolting step of the horse. His right side felt like liquid fire was flooding over it. He felt himself slipping and knew that regardless of how much of a lead he had on Strawhorn, he had to slow down or be bounced out of the saddle. Pulling back weakly on the reins, he called out to his mount, "Whoa there . . . steady . . . steady . . ."
The horse eased back to a walk, and Casebolt tried to heave a sigh of relief. It hurt too much to do so, however, so he settled for slumping over the saddlehorn and drawing in short, gasping breaths. His sight seemed to be going again. Everything was darker than it had been only moments earlier, even though he knew it was still a long time until sunset.
He was dying, Casebolt thought. He had failed in the job Cole had given him, and now the marshal wouldn't find out until it was maybe too late that Durand and Strawhorn were working together.
More than anything else in the world, he wanted to hang on and make it back to Wind River so that he could warn Cole. But it was no use. Billy felt himself slipping again, and this time he was too weak to hold himself in the saddle. He fell, and it seemed to take forever for him to hit the ground.
In fact, he never did feel it when he landed. . . .
Time passed, and the bloody, huddled figure still lay on the Wyoming prairie, unmoving. The horse wandered away, looking for some grass on which to graze, and a few prairie dogs stuck their heads up from their burrows to study the strange shape on the ground nearby. Once they had decided that it did not represent any sort of threat, they emerged from their holes to scurry around looking for food.
Suddenly one of the prairie dogs jerked its head up and emitted a loud, startled squeal. All of them bolted for safety, diving back into the burrows they had come from. The warning had done its job. Someone was coming.
The sun beat down on Billy Casebolt's face, and he never stirred as several pairs of moccasin-clad feet slowly surrounded him.
Chapter 12
"Damn it, Billy, where the hell are you?" Cole muttered to himself as he stood in front of the livery stable and frowned toward the prairie west of Wind River.
It had been nearly twenty-four hours since Casebolt had ridden out of town on the trail of Deke Strawhorn, and there had been no sign of the deputy since then.
The evening before, when Cole realized that he hadn't seen Billy since that morning, he had gone to the livery stable to see if the deputy's horse was gone. The hostler had told him about Casebolt's questions and the fact that the deputy had ridden out right after Strawhorn, and Cole had leaped to the reasonable conclusion. Billy was keeping an eye on the hardcase, just as Cole had asked him to.
But he hadn't returned, and Cole was getting downright worried. He had just checked at the livery stable to make sure Casebolt's horse was still gone, and it was, along with the mounts of Strawhorn and his friends.
Had something happened to Casebolt out there on the plains? Cole didn't want to think so, but it was becoming more likely with each passing moment.
Grim lines around his mouth, Cole stalked down the street toward Hank Parker's tent saloon. When he reached the place, he pushed aside the flap and stepped inside. At this time of day there were fewer customers, but still more than half a dozen men stood at the bar and an equal number were seated at the tables scattered around the room. The burly, bullet-headed Parker was behind the bar, and Cole had to wonder if the man ever slept.
Parker looked up as Cole came over to the bar, and the saloonkeeper grunted. "I suppose it'd be too much to hope that you just came in here for a drink."
"Have you seen Strawhorn last night or today?" Cole asked, ignoring Parker's comment.
"Why?"
"Just answer the question," the marshal said coldly.
Parker shrugged his broad shoulders. "I've had other things on my mind. Look around, Tyler. Folks are getting edgy because that payroll train still hasn't gotten here."
"That's the Union Pacific's worry, not mine."
"It'll be yours if those Irishmen start to thinking they're not going to get paid," Parker said. "They're liable to tear this town up."
"I'll deal with that if it happens," Cole snapped. "What about Strawhorn?"
"Haven't seen him," Parker said with another shrug. "Like I said, I've got other things to worry about."
"Thanks," Cole said grudgingly. "If he happens to come in, will you send somebody to let me know?"
"So you can come over and start some more trouble?" Parker held up his hands at the blaze of anger in Cole's eyes. "All right, all right," he said. "I'll let you know."
Cole nodded and left the saloon. Parker's place seemed to be Strawhorn's favorite watering hole, but there were plenty of other saloons in Wind River where the hardcase and his friends could have gone. Cole moved on down the street, stopping in at each saloon to ask if Strawhorn had been seen in the past day.
By the time he had gone halfway down the street, it was obvious a pattern was developing. No one had seen Strawhorn or any of the drifter's friends since the previous morning. It could be they had simply left Wind River, but if that was the case, Billy Casebolt should have turned back by now and returned to town. He wouldn't still be trailing them.
Cole decided that he would finish his questioning of the bartenders and saloonkeepers, then, if no one had seen Strawhorn, he would have to think about organizing a search party. Casebolt could have run into some hostile Indians, or his horse could have thrown him. There were several possible explanations for his disappearance.
And Strawhorn could have discovered him and taken exception to being spied upon, too. If that was the case, Cole thought grimly, then he was partially to blame for whatever had happened to his deputy. He had given Casebolt the job of watching Strawhorn.
Before Cole could continue down the street, he heard a sound that made him lift his head and frown in surprise. It was a high, distant keening, almost like the wail of a lost soul. A few seconds passed before he realized the noise was the steam whistle of a locomotive. The whistle grew louder and didn't tail off, and Cole knew the engineer must be hanging on to the cord for all he was worth.
That meant trouble. Cole broke into a run toward the train station.
He wasn't the only one. The shrill sound of the whistle had alerted other citizens, who hurried toward the depot out of concern or simple curiosity. Cole saw Michael Hatfield emerge from the newspaper office and look around in confusion until he located the source of the commotion. Then the young editor joined the flow of people toward the station.
Quite a few people were on the platform by the time Cole got there, gesturing along the tracks to the east and talking excitedly. Cole made his way to the edge of the platform and looked along the tracks, spotting the billowing clouds of steam from the big Baldwin locomotive as it rolled toward Wind River. The stationmaster and telegrapher, a man named Barkley, stood nearby with a worried frown on his face. Cole caught his eye and asked, "What's going on?"
"I don't know," Barkley replied with a shake of his head. "My key went dead a little while ago, so the lines must be down somewhere east of here."
Cole scanned the horizon. Sometimes prairie fires burned the telegraph poles, making them fall and snapping the wires. There was no pall of smoke to be seen in the sky, though. In the past, the Sioux had sometimes pulled down the lines after learning that the so-called singing wires were important to the white men. There hadn't been any reports of trouble like that for a while, and Cole hoped it wasn't about to begin again.
Obviously, there was a connection between the downing of the telegraph lines and the train that was rolling in with its whistle screaming. The train would be there soon enough—it was less than half a mile away now—and Cole was anxious to question its engineer.
Cole and Barkley moved people back from the edge of
the platform as the locomotive approached. Anybody who was bumped from behind and fell under those wheels would be killed instantly. Cole turned to watch grimly as the train slowed to a stop. The whistle was still blowing, and it was almost deafening now at this close range. The locomotive rolled past the platform. Cole peered into the cab and saw the arm hanging limply through the window. There was a dark stain on the upper part of the man's sleeve.
"Son of a bitch!" Cole exclaimed.
He broke into a run again, this time alongside the cab. The train was moving slowly enough now for him to risk vaulting up into the cab. He latched onto the grab bar and pulled himself up with his left hand while his right palmed out the Colt on his hip, just in case.
The danger was over, he saw immediately. There were two men in the cab, the engineer and the fireman, but neither of them was in any shape to threaten anybody. The fireman was the one with an arm dangling out the window of the cab. His coat was sodden with blood, and his eyes were glazed over in death. Somehow the fingers of his right hand were still wrapped around the whistle cord, locked tightly there, and the weight of his arm held it down.
The engineer was still alive, but he was hunched over against the pain in his midsection. He was probably gut-shot, Cole realized from the way he seemed to be trying to hold himself together with an arm pressed over his belly. With his other hand, the engineer had managed to work the throttle and brake well enough to bring the train into Wind River.
Now that he had done his job, the man's stamina played out. He let go of the brake lever and slumped heavily to the iron floor of the cab. Cole holstered his gun and pried the fireman's dead fingers off the whistle cord, silencing it abruptly and making an eerie silence fall. Quickly, Cole knelt beside the wounded engineer.
"What happened?" he asked urgently, hoping the engineer could still hear and understand him. The man's eyes were closed now. "Who did this to you?"
The engineer's eyes fluttered open weakly. "Eight of 'em . . ." he gasped. "Stopped the train . . . five miles east . . . burning logs on the track . . . damn near derailed us . . . Had to stop . . . and then they come up with guns."
Wind River Page 14
