Wind River

by L. J. Washburn

  One of them spun around a couple of times before falling limply, while another simply pitched forward on his face as Cole's bullets drilled into him. The shotgun boomed again behind Cole, and he twisted his head long enough to see Jeremiah firing the scattergun one-handed. Anyone else might have wound up with a broken wrist from trying such a stunt, but the blacksmith's massive hand and arm were strong enough to withstand the recoil.

  Michael Hatfield appeared next at the top of the path. He was still struggling to control his mount. Hank Parker was right behind him, the rifle in his hands spitting smoke and fire as he sent bullets among the rocks where the bushwhackers had hidden.

  Cole was drawing a bead on one of the outlaws when a man suddenly appeared on top of a large rock and launched himself at the marshal in a desperate dive. The man crashed into Cole, wrapping long arms around him, and drove him off the sorrel's back. Cole slammed into the ground with the outlaw on top of him, knocking the breath out of his lungs. The Winchester skittered away on the rocky ground as Cole lost his grip on it.

  Gasping for air, Cole saw the man slashing at his head with the barrel of a pistol. He jerked his head aside as the gun barrel thudded against the hard-packed earth. The blow would have crushed his skull if it had landed. Twisting his body, Cole brought up a leg, hooked it around the man's neck, and thrust savagely, throwing the outlaw off to the side.

  As he rolled over. Cole's left hand found the leather-wrapped hilt of the Green River knife sheathed on his left hip. With a whisper of cold steel, he brought the knife out and up as the outlaw leaped at him again. The razor-sharp point of the blade caught the man just below the sternum and slid smoothly into him, angling up to pierce his heart. His eyes opened wide with pain and surprise as he died.

  The body sagged limply against Cole, who shoved it aside, ripped the knife free, and came to his feet, looking for another enemy. That familiar red haze had slid down over Cole's vision again. He was panting with the need to strike out, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a grimace. He spun around sharply as he sensed as much as heard movement behind him.

  "Brother Tyler!" Jeremiah exclaimed as he saw the killing rage in Cole's eyes. "It's just me, Brother Tyler!"

  "Take it easy, Marshal," Michael put in as he finally brought his horse under control enough for him to dismount. "It's all over."

  Cole drew in a deep, ragged breath. "The bushwhackers?"

  "All dead," replied Hank Parker. "You did for three of 'em yourself, and Newton and me finished off the other three."

  Cole shook his head, forcing the last of the cobwebs out of his brain. "Six of them?" he asked. "We've been following eight men."

  "Well, there's only six here, and none of 'em got away that I saw," Parker said. "There's only six horses, too."

  Cole rubbed a weary hand over his face and then looked around. Like the others had said, there were six bodies scattered around here at the top of the bluff. Cole checked them to make sure they were all dead. He recognized several of them.

  "These men rode with Deke Strawhorn," he said grimly.

  Parker nodded. "I recall seeing them with him, too."

  "But Strawhorn's not here, Marshal," Michael said.

  "I can see that." Cole peered toward the west. "I reckon if we look, we'll find the tracks of two horses heading that way. But we won't find that railroad payroll. Strawhorn and the other man will have taken it with them. They left these men here to deal with anybody who was following them. Probably planned to meet later and split up the money. It damned near worked. We were lucky to survive that ambush, even luckier to have downed all these owlhoots."

  "The Lord was on our side," Jeremiah said simply.

  "You may be right," Cole said, "but He hasn't delivered that payroll into our hands yet. We've still got work to do." At that moment a voice called out from below, asking what was going on up there, and Cole swung toward the edge of the bluff. "Come on. We'd better see how much damage those bushwhackers did."

  Chapter 13

  Delia Hatfield paced anxiously back and forth over the rug on the hotel-room floor. Her arms were crossed and her forehead was creased in a frown of worry. This was the third night since Michael had impulsively ridden out of Wind River along with the posse pursuing the train robbers, and none of the men had come back to town.

  She wondered if her husband was still alive, or if Michael was lying out there on the prairie somewhere, his lifeless body torn by outlaw bullets. A sob tried to well up her throat, but she swallowed it, determined not to let Gretchen see just how upset and frightened she was.

  Gretchen was sitting on the floor beside the bed talking nonsense to a rag doll. Ever since the little girl had begun talking, Delia hadn't had to watch her to keep track of her. Gretchen usually stopped talking only when she was eating or sleeping, and not always then. One time at the supper table, Delia remembered, Gretchen had pointed to the food on her plate after jabbering for several minutes and asked, "Hot?" And Michael, with that grin of his, had answered, "It shouldn't be. The wind from your flapping tongue should have cooled it off by now, Gretchen."

  The child hadn't understood the joke and had just sat there glaring at her father, but Delia had laughed and laughed . . . .

  And now she sobbed, despite all her best intentions, as the memory of that moment pierced her like a dagger. She and Michael had argued more and more since she became pregnant, culminating in her moving out and renting this room in Simone McKay's hotel, but she still loved Michael, loved him desperately. If anything happened to him, she didn't know how she would be able to go on.

  Delia caught hold of one of the posts at the foot of the bed and hung on to it for a moment as she fought off the attack of tears that threatened to overwhelm her. She couldn't allow this to happen. If Gretchen saw her like this, the little girl would be scared, and Delia didn't want that. She wanted Gretchen to be safe and secure and happy—

  The silence suddenly assaulted Delia's ears. There was no sound in the room except her harsh breathing.

  She turned around quickly, expecting—hoping— that Gretchen had simply gone to sleep on the rug next to the bed. That wasn't what had happened, though, Delia saw to her shock.

  The door into the hotel corridor was standing open about six inches, and Gretchen was nowhere to be seen.

  William Durand and Dr. Judson Kent came to a stop on the boardwalk in front of the hotel entrance. They had run into each other at Rose Foster's cafe, eaten supper together, then strolled back down to the hotel. The two men had never been close friends, but as two of the civic leaders of Wind River, there was a surface politeness between them.

  And tonight both of them shared a concern for the young town's continued well-being as well. An air of tense expectancy hung over the settlement. More than forty-eight hours had passed since the train bringing the Union Pacific payroll to Wind River had been stopped and held up.

  The UP crews had not rioted, but work on the line had ground to a virtual standstill as the Irish laborers converged on the saloons to drink and wait to see if their wages were going to be recovered. Most of the saloon owners were letting them drink on the cuff, hoping to keep them happy for a little while longer. The saloonkeepers would recoup their losses quickly enough once the payroll money was brought back.

  But if the posse led by Cole Tyler didn't recover the money . . . well, then, that would be a disaster, and Durand and Kent both knew it.

  "Did Marshal Tyler give you any indication before he left of how long he expected to be gone?" Durand asked as he and Kent paused on the boardwalk to mull the situation over one last time before going their separate ways for the night.

  "None," replied Kent. "He said something about taking enough provisions for several days, though." The physician sighed. "I hope he returns soon and brings that payroll with him. Those railroad men are liable to go on a rampage if they find out they won't be paid anytime in the near future."

  "I appreciate what you've done to keep them calm, Doctor. I know you'
ve been going around town and talking to them, steadying them."

  Kent shrugged. "Cole asked me to try to keep a lid on things, I believe was how he phrased it. I've given the task my utmost effort."

  "I would hate to see this town torn down around our ears after all the time and money Andrew and I spent on establishing it. Of course, we all have a stake in seeing that the peace is kept."

  "Indeed," Kent agreed. He frowned slightly. "You haven't seen Deputy Casebolt the past few days, have you? He didn't ride out with the posse, I'm sure of that. It might help if he was here."

  Durand shook his head and waved a hand in contempt. "Billy Casebolt is a worthless old man," he said harshly. "I haven't seen him, but I know I wouldn't feel any more secure if he were here."

  "Still, he is one of our legally appointed guardians of the peace."

  "He's probably drifted off somewhere and forgotten all about his responsibilities," snorted Durand. "I'm not going to hold my breath waiting for him to show up again."

  "No, none of us can afford to do that." Kent nodded at the businessman and went on, "Well, I'll say good night, Mr. Durand. The town has survived this long. Perhaps it can muddle along a bit longer, eh?"

  Durand just grunted and nodded his own good night. He turned and went into the hotel as Kent proceeded down the street toward his combination office and living quarters. Durand nodded to the clerk behind the desk and then went up the stairs to the second floor. He could have gone down the street to his own house, but he didn't want to be alone in the big house tonight. There was a hot, dry wind blowing outside, but somehow it made Durand feel cold.

  When he and Andrew McKay had built this hotel, they had seen to it that each of them had a suite permanently reserved for their private use. The plan had been that important guests, such as politicians and officials of the railroad, could stay there when they visited Wind River. Since McKay's death, however, his widow had been staying in the hotel, probably because she didn't want to be alone in her house except for the servants. Durand had decided that he would stay in his suite tonight; if there was a riot, he might be safer here than in his house—as if anywhere in Wind River would be safe under those circumstances.

  He reached the suite, which was at the far end of the second-floor corridor, and unlocked the door. As he stepped inside a match flared suddenly. Durand jerked to a stop, and his hand darted toward the small pistol underneath his coat.

  "You won't need that, Durand," a familiar voice said. "It's just me and Benton."

  Durand relaxed slightly as the match was brought over to the wick of a lamp on a side table. The lamp caught and flared up, the yellow glow-revealing the dusty, stubbled face of Deke Strawhorn. The outlaw looked gaunt and tired, as did his companion, a dark-haired man in faded range clothes. Both men had their guns drawn, but Strawhorn holstered his and Benton followed suit.

  "My God," Durand said hoarsely. "What are you two doing here?"

  Strawhorn gestured lazily at the canvas pouches lying on the sofa in the suite's sitting room. "Reckon you know that," he said. "We brought the money, just like it was agreed."

  "You were supposed to deliver it to my house," Durand hissed. "You weren't supposed to take a chance on coming here."

  Strawhorn shrugged. "You weren't home. Figured we'd find you here. We rode mighty hard to get back here ahead of that posse, Durand. We took a lot of chances for that money. Weren't in much of a mood to wait for our share."

  Durand sank down in a heavily padded armchair and passed a hand over his face. "What about the other men?" he asked.

  Strawhorn's features took on a grim cast. "Dead, all of em," he said bluntly. "There's nobody left but Benton and me."

  "Dead?" echoed Durand. "But how—"

  "That bastard Tyler," Strawhorn spat. "I set up an ambush for him, but he got out of it somehow. Not only that, but him and that posse killed all the boys I left behind. We watched the whole thing from a ridge about half a mile off, didn't we, Benton?"

  "That marshal's a lucky son of a bitch," grated the other hardcase. "I don't reckon I want to go up against him again. I'm pullin' up stakes."

  "You can't do that," Durand snapped. "We had an agreement."

  "And it's a good thing for you that I'm an honorable man, Durand," Strawhorn said dryly. "Benton wanted to take all the money and light a shuck for the high lonesome, but I wouldn't let him. A deal's a deal, says I, and we had a deal, you and me and McKay. The two of you were to bring the money out here with the town and the railroad, and me and my boys'd help you steal all of it."

  "Yes, yes, I know," Durand said impatiently. "Didn't I tip you off that that payroll was about to come in? It wasn't easy finding out exactly which train the money was going to be on, I can assure you. But my information was correct, wasn't it?"

  Strawhorn inclined his head. "Can't argue with that."

  Durand thumped a fist down on his leg. "What are we going to do now? With your gang destroyed—"

  "I can get other men," Strawhorn cut in. "Benton here'll stay if there's enough good payoffs down the road, and there ought to be. I can find plenty of other boys who'll be downright eager to ride with us. This is going to be rich country, and we'll be the first ones to loot it proper like, Durand, just you and me and my boys now that McKay's gone. There's just one thing. . . ."

  "And what might that be?" Durand asked coldly.

  "We're going to have to have a bigger cut."

  "It was agreed we would split three ways," Durand said without hesitation, "and with Andrew dead, his share goes to me." He shrugged his heavy shoulders. "It's not my fault those were the terms of the partnership agreement."

  "Yeah, I'll bet you didn't have anything to do with settin' it up that way"—Strawhorn chuckled— "just like you didn't have anything to do with McKay gettin' hisself shot." He held up a hand as Durand flushed and opened his mouth to deny the accusation. "Don't waste your breath and my time. We split fifty-fifty from now on, or I'll just take all this payroll money and you'll never see me again, Durand."

  "That. . . that's robbery!" sputtered Durand.

  "Well, what the hell do you expect from a gent like me?" Strawhorn laughed, but there was nothing in the sound except menace. "You still come out ahead, Durand, because I'll take care of my boys out of my half. But it's an even split from now on or nothing."

  Durand sighed, ran his hand wearily over his face once more, and then nodded. "All right. An even split. Just be careful slipping back out of town. We can't be connected in any way."

  "Those Irish apes goin' to riot if they don't get paid?" Strawhorn asked idly.

  "I don't think so. In the long run it won't really matter. The Union Pacific will bring in troops to put down any riot and see that the work resumes. The government wants this railroad built, no matter what the disturbances along the way."

  Strawhorn nodded and turned toward the sofa. He picked up one of the pouches and opened it, ready to get started splitting up the stolen money.

  A new voice suddenly came to Durand's ears as he sat in the chair. A high-pitched, childish voice that came from the direction of the doorway. Durand's head snapped around and his eyes widened slightly as he saw that in his surprise at finding Strawhorn and Benton in the suite, he had neglected to close the door completely. It was open a couple of inches, and it abruptly swung open even more as someone in the hall pushed on it.

  Strawhorn whirled around, his gun appearing in his hand with a flicker of motion. Durand stared in horror at the young blond child standing in the doorway as the muzzle of Strawhorn's pistol lined up on her. A fraction more pressure on the trigger would blast a slug right into the child's startled face.

  "No!" Durand cried in a choked voice.

  Strawhorn held off on the trigger at the last possible instant, his face blanching as he realized that he had nearly gunned down a toddler. In the next instant a voice exclaimed in the hall, "Gretchen! There you are! Thank God, for a minute I didn't know where you had gotten off to."

  De
lia Hatfield stepped into view and reached down to pick up her child. She glanced through the open doorway and went on, "I'm sorry if Gretchen bothered you folks—"

  The words froze in her throat as her eyes took in the scene before her. There was William Durand, the town's leading businessman, sitting calmly in a chair while also in the room were the notorious Deke Strawhorn holding a pistol and another man who looked like a desperado, and there on the sofa were several pouches with UNION PACIFIC stenciled on them, one of which was open and had fallen over or been dropped, so that wads of money were spilling out of it. . . .

  "Oh, my God," Delia whispered.

  "Get them!" snapped Durand as he leaped to his feet.

  Strawhorn was across the room in a flash, his free hand shooting through the open doorway to close over Delia's arm and jerk her roughly into the room. The man called Benton darted forward and grabbed Gretchen at the same time. Strawhorn holstered his gun and clapped his hand over Delia's mouth so that she couldn't scream. Benton did likewise with the child.

  Durand cursed bitterly to himself. He did not know Delia Hatfield all that well and wasn't sure just how intelligent the woman was, but he had seen the realization dawning in her eyes. She had seen him together with Strawhorn, just as that damned Billy Casebolt had a few days earlier, and even worse, she had seen the stolen payroll.

  Those facts had come together in Delia's mind like the pieces of a puzzle, and she hadn't been able to hide her surprise at the conclusions to which they led her, namely that Durand was involved in the payroll robbery right up to his eyebrows.

  Of all the damned bad luck!

  "I'm truly sorry about this, Mrs. Hatfield," Durand told her as he faced her. "I never intended for anyone to find out about the arrangement Mr. Strawhorn and I have, certainly not someone such as yourself." He sighed. "Now we'll have to do something about this, won't we?"