Wind River

by L. J. Washburn

  Delia's eyes were wide and terrified, and the little girl was sobbing and struggling in the grip of Benton, who had picked her up. Strawhorn still had his hand over Delia's mouth and his other arm locked tightly around her thick waist, pressing her up against him.

  "You want us to get rid of 'em like we did that old man?" Strawhorn asked as Durand shut the door, firmly this time.

  "I want you to handle this situation better than you did the one with Casebolt," Durand said. "Remember, you never found his body. You can't be certain that he's dead."

  "Oh, he's cashed in his chips, all right," Strawhorn said confidently. "He was bleedin' like a stuck pig the last I saw of him." He grinned down at Delia. "But you won't have anything to worry about this time, Mr. Durand. Benton and me'll make sure of that."

  Delia whimpered even more. All this casual talk of killing Billy Casebolt had to horrify her, and it was plain enough that her captors intended the same fate for her and her daughter. Again Durand felt the briefest flash of sympathy for them.

  But then he thought about the money he had made so far, and the money he would make in the future, and suddenly the lives of a few innocent people didn't seem so important.

  "Take your share of the money," he told Strawhorn, "and take the woman and the little girl. I'll trust you to take care of everything."

  Strawhorn just grinned and leaned his head closer to Delia's. "Oh, yeah," he said. "We'll take care of everything, all right."

  Chapter 14

  Simone McKay lifted the tumbler of brandy and sipped from it, enjoying the smooth taste. She had always liked brandy, but she had not been able to indulge herself as much when Andrew was alive.

  It was perfectly fine for gentlemen to adjourn to the library after dinner for brandy and cigars, but the women had to content themselves with sherry or perhaps port. Now Simone could drink whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. She could even smoke a cigar if she wanted to.

  She had to smile at the image of herself puffing away on a cheroot. It was ridiculous, of course.

  Sighing, she carried the brandy over to an armchair and sat down. She had explained her move to the hotel by telling the servants that she didn't want to rattle around in the big house by herself, and there was some truth to that, of course. But nothing had really changed. She was alone here, too.

  Alone .. . except for the brandy.

  With a rueful smile, Simone shook her head and downed the rest of the drink. She stood up and replaced the tumbler on the sideboard.

  It wouldn't do to sit here in solitude and get drunk. A man could do such a thing when the need hit him, but not a lady. Especially not a lady such as herself, who already had her hands full with all the changes that had come since her husband's death. She had to keep her wits about her at all times.

  A faint noise caught her attention, and Simone turned toward the doorway with a frown. It had sounded like the cry of a baby or a young child, she thought, but as far as she knew, there were no infants in the hotel. And the only young child belonged to Delia Hatfield, Simone recalled. She had been surprised that Delia had taken little Gretchen and moved into the hotel, leaving Michael. To all appearances, the Hatfields' marriage was a happy one, and Simone couldn't help but wonder what had caused the rift between them. She wasn't going to interfere, though; the young couple's personal problems were none of her business, and besides, Michael was an employee of hers now that she owned the newspaper. It was never wise to mix in the private affairs of one's employees.

  But still she was curious, and she went to the door and opened it, looking out to see if Gretchen Hatfield had slipped away from her mother and was wandering in the hallway.

  A door closed sharply, all the way down at the other end of the corridor. Simone caught just a glimpse of it swinging shut. She frowned; that was the door to the suite used by William Durand, she recalled. There was no reason for a young child to be in that room, and Simone didn't know whether Durand himself was in the hotel tonight or not.

  Curiosity deepened her frown. She had nothing to do tonight anyway—except drink, and she didn't want to do that—so she might as well see what was going on, she decided. After all, she had a right. This was her hotel now.

  Quietly, she closed her own door after stepping out into the hall. The blue silk dressing gown she wore swished around her ankles as she walked down the corridor. Her slipper-clad feet made little or no noise. When she reached the door of Durand's suite, she raised a hand to knock, then paused as she faintly heard voices coming from inside. They were male voices, she decided. She must have been imagining that she had heard a child.

  Leaning closer to the door, Simone put her ear against the panel. She felt more than a little ridiculous, eavesdropping like this, but she sensed somehow it might be important for her to know what Durand was up to. Durand and Andrew had been partners, but that was over. Simone viewed the man now as a rival, and quite a dangerous one at that. She held her breath and listened carefully.

  She heard two, perhaps three, different voices coming from inside the room, but the door was too thick for her to make out the actual words the men were saying. From the tone of the exchange, though, the men were tense, even a little angry at times. Simone kept an eye on the corridor as she listened. It wouldn't do for one of the townspeople to see her here with her ear pressed against someone else's door. The story would get around quickly and make her appear foolish. Simone couldn't abide that.

  But the hallway was deserted at the moment except for her, and she thought she would hear the footsteps if anyone started up the stairs from the lobby, even concentrating as she was on what was being said inside Durand's suite.

  One of the voices—she thought it was Durand's —suddenly sounded louder as he approached the door. Simone drew back quickly, ready to move away down the hall. She certainly didn't want Durand to catch her snooping around. She backed off several steps and then turned, ready to go back to her own suite. Her curiosity wasn't really satisfied, but she couldn't risk any more eavesdropping.

  That was when the woman screamed inside Durand's suite.

  * * *

  Dr. Judson Kent tried to hide the annoyance he was feeling. He knew full well, of course, that a doctor's calling was different from that of any other profession. He was expected to be on duty twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year. He had tended to patients at all hours of the day and night, delivered babies at every hour from midnight to high noon, worked for two and sometimes even three days with no sleep when he was serving as a field surgeon in the Crimea.

  But now that he was growing older, he had hoped that this new settlement on the American frontier would offer a somewhat more sedate existence, an opportunity to practice medicine during the day and relax at night.

  It hadn't always worked out that way, needless to say. Tonight, for example, he had returned to his office after leaving William Durand at the hotel and found two young women waiting for him. He had realized right away that they were of the fallen variety, but his oath did not allow him to use his skills only on those who met with his moral approval. He smiled and said, "Good evening, ladies. What can I do for you?"

  Their names, it developed, were Susie and Blaze—or so they claimed—and each of them had a medical complaint. Susie's was a simple case of the grippe, while Blaze had a minor infestation of a particularly nasty sort of vermin. Kent dealt with both of their problems as well as he could, giving Susie a bottle of tonic that would relieve at least some of her symptoms temporarily and prescribing a special soap and more frequent bathing for Blaze. That done, he faced the two young women across his desk and said, "Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"

  Susie shook her head. "I don't think so, Doc. At least we ain't come down with the ailment plaguin' poor ol' Becky."

  The two prostitutes looked at each other and giggled, and Blaze said, "Yeah, I hear the nine-month complaint is pretty bad."

  Kent looked down at the desk and frowned. His late-evening patients might b
e women of the world, at least in their own minds, but they were also little more than girls. He doubted if either one of them was more than seventeen, and he felt uncomfortable with their giggling and smirking. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," he muttered.

  "Oh, sure, you do, Doc," Susie said. "Becky told us she came to see you when she got sick."

  "Oh?" Kent raised an eyebrow, interested in spite of himself. He hoped Becky Lewis hadn't been doing too much talking about her condition. He still had not decided how to approach Simone about the delicate matter of the Lewis girl's child, and he didn't want Becky ruining everything by spreading rumors about Andrew McKay. "What else might she have told you?"

  "Well, she might've told us who the father was," Blaze said, "but she didn't. She can be a close-mouthed little bitch when she wants to."

  Thank heavens for small favors, Kent thought.

  "I figure she told the fella about it, though," Susie took up the story. "She rents the crib next to mine, down the alley, you know—"

  "No, I wouldn't know," Kent said, trying to maintain his dignity.

  "Well, anyway, she has the place next to mine, and those walls ain't thick. A while back I heard her really lightin' into some poor gent, tellin' him how it was all his fault and how he had to do the right thing by her. Of course, I reckon he told her to go to hell, because I ain't noticed a ring on her finger lately and she's still entertainin' as many fellas as ever."

  Kent's frown deepened as he thought about what he had just heard. He despised gossip, but in this case there might be something important to be gleaned from it. "You say Miss Lewis approached the gentleman who was most likely to, ah, be the father of her child?"

  Both young women nodded. "That's right," Blaze said. "Susie told me about it. It was right after that she came to see you."

  "Then she knew she was expecting before she came to see me?"

  Susie snorted. "Well, hell, of course she knew. Gals in our line of work find out how to tell things like that mighty quick. Anyway, we all talked about it. It was Blaze and me who told her she ought to go see a doc 'fore she waited too long." An expression of genuine concern appeared on her face. "Tell us, Doc, is she goin' to be all right?"

  "What? Oh, yes, physically she seems fine, quite sturdy. I'm sure she'll deliver a fine, healthy baby when the time comes."

  Blaze said, "Well, that's good to know. Say, Doc, what's eatin' you? You look like you got a lot on your mind all of a sudden." She leaned forward, allowing the already drooping neckline of her dress to sag a little more. "If you got some worries, we can sure help you forget 'em. We're good at that sort o' thing, ain't we, Susie?"

  Both girls giggled again.

  "No, no, that's all," Kent replied abruptly, standing up to show them that their visit was concluded. When they had paid him—Susie commenting that it seemed strange giving money to a man, instead of the other way around—he ushered them out of the office and sent them on their way, not caring whether they were offended by his brusque refusal of Blaze's offer. He had a great deal to think about, and he didn't want to be distracted.

  He sank slowly into his chair again, deep lines creasing his forehead. If what Susie and Blaze had told him was true—and they'd had no reason to lie

  about it—then Becky Lewis had not only been aware that she was pregnant before coming to see him, she had even confronted the man she suspected was responsible for her condition. Only after he had refused to do the right thing by her had she come to Kent's office, pretending ignorance about the child growing inside her. Just as Kent had suspected, her attitude was a sham. She had merely been laying the groundwork for the claim that Andrew McKay was the father of her child.

  Quite a convenient claim that was, Kent thought. McKay was dead and could no longer deny his involvement with Becky. She was a shrewd young woman and knew there was a good likelihood McKay's widow would pay to hush up even the slightest suspicion of anything that might blacken her beloved husband's memory. The real father of Becky's child was undoubtedly some railroad worker or cowhand, and she had made up the whole thing about McKay.

  But, Kent suddenly thought, what if she hadn't made it up? What if Andrew McKay really was the baby's father? That made things entirely different.

  Entirely different, indeed . . .

  * * *

  Delia Hatfield didn't think about what she was doing. As Strawhorn leaned against her, his breath hot in her ear, she let her instincts take over and sank her teeth as hard as she could into the palm of the hand he had pressed over her mouth.

  He yelped in pain and jerked his hand away. Her teeth came loose with a tearing of flesh and her mouth was suddenly filled with the hot, brassy taste of blood. Strawhorn's other hand suddenly slammed into the back of her head and knocked her forward. "You bitch!" the gunman gasped.

  Delia spat blood out of her mouth, pulled in a deep breath, and screamed as loud as she could.

  Durand lunged at her, exclaiming, "Stop her! Shut her up!" He grabbed her shoulder and jerked her toward him.

  The hardcase called Benton had his arms full with Gretchen, whose struggles grew even more frantic as the little girl saw her mother in trouble. Strawhorn shook his injured hand back and forth, slinging drops of blood onto the rug. His lips drew back in a snarl as he reached for Delia and got his hands around her neck.

  "I'll take care of her," he growled. "Lemme have her, Durand!"

  Suddenly the door to the corridor was thrust open, and Simone McKay stood there in a silk dressing gown that was belted tightly around her slender waist. Her lovely face was Rill of anger. "Let go of her!" she shouted at Strawhorn.

  "Simone!" Durand cried as the woman surged into the room like some sort of avenging angel. His bearded features were etched with stark dismay. Obviously, everything around him was suddenly going wrong.

  Delia didn't have time to notice any of that. She was too busy striking out at Strawhorn with her fists and trying futilely to drag some air into her lungs past his brutal grip on her throat.

  One of Gretchen's flailing legs connected by accident with Benton's groin. The outlaw groaned and doubled over, losing his grip on the child. As she started to slip away he snagged her arm and flung her savagely backward. She landed on the soft cushions of the sofa, but the impact was still enough to make her lie there, stunned.

  That left Benton free to get between Durand and Simone McKay, who was advancing on the businessman with her fingers hooked into claws, the long fingernails threatening to gouge out Durand's eyes if they found their targets. Benton grabbed her around the waist and swung her away from Durand. She turned her fury on the hardcase instead, slapping his hat off with one of her wild blows.

  Benton growled and let go with one arm so he could bring up a tightly clenched fist. The blow smacked into Simone's jaw and jolted her head back. Her eyes rolled up and she sagged against Benton, out cold.

  Strawhorn had Delia down on the floor by now, with a knee driven against the unborn baby and into her midsection while he choked her. He had intended to have a little fun with the pregnant young woman once he got her out of Wind River, before killing her. But his rage was too strong to be blunted by lust now. His hand throbbed with pain where she had bitten him, and he was going to return that pain a hundredfold and enjoy choking the life out of her.

  Durand grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him urgently. "Not here, man!" Durand said. "For God's sake, don't kill her here!"

  Strawhorn tried to shrug off Durand's grip, but after lowering Simone's unconscious body to the floor, Benton took hold of him from the other side. "Take it easy, Deke!" the outlaw warned. "Let's get 'em out of here and then take care of 'em!"

  "Damn it, let go of her!" Durand ordered.

  Their words finally got through to Strawhorn's fevered brain. He took a deep, ragged breath and pried his fingers loose from Delia's neck. Her head fell back against the floor with a thump and rolled limply to one side. Her neck was already showing bruises from Strawhorn's fingers, an
d one side of it was smeared with blood from the palm of the hardcase's hand.

  For a harrowing moment Durand thought she was already dead, but then he saw her chest rising and falling and heard the harsh sound of air making its way down her tortured windpipe.

  Strawhorn came to his feet and staggered back a step, glaring down at Delia's senseless form. "Damn bitch," he muttered as he looked at his wounded hand.

  "We've got to move quickly," Durand said. He was breathing heavily, and sweat stood out on his face. "Take the sheets off the bed and wrap them up, then take them down the back stairs. You have to get them out of town as quickly as possible before they cause more trouble. Once you're safely away, kill them and dispose of the bodies."

  "All three of them?" Strawhorn asked.

  "Of course," Durand panted.

  "Even Mrs. McKay?"

  "Especially Mrs. McKay." Durand wiped some of the sweat off his forehead and went on, "I've never trusted her, and I think the feeling is mutual. Now that she's seen the two of us together, she'll be nothing but a threat as long as she's alive. I don't know if she had time to notice the payroll money or not, but at this point it doesn't really matter, does it?"

  "I reckon not," Strawhorn said. He went over to the bed and tossed aside the expensive comforter, exposing the fine silk sheets underneath. He took out his knife and cut a strip off one of the sheets, then bound it tightly around his hand with Benton's help. Dryly, Strawhorn said, "Mighty fancy bandage, but I reckon that's all right. After all, we're all goin' to be rich men."

  "Only if you get rid of these damned females," said Durand.

  Strawhorn nodded, his face grim now. "Consider 'em dead," he said.

  * * *

  Just outside the western edge of Wind River, a group of about a dozen riders reined in. Only one of them rode a horse with a saddle and shod hooves. The others rode only with woven blankets thrown over the backs of their mounts. Each man wore buckskins and had eagle feathers adorning his long, dark hair. A couple of them carried rifles, but the others were armed only with bows, arrows, and knives.