Wind River

by L. J. Washburn

  Durand frowned blackly, thinking about the money that had been left behind in Wind River. Perhaps Strawhorn would split the part of the payroll they had been able to salvage, but even that wouldn't be enough for a proper stake to start over. Durand needed more money. . ..

  And he suddenly thought he might know where to get it.

  "Where are we?" he asked.

  Strawhorn shrugged. "Maybe eight miles northwest of town. I figured we'd push on for a few hours, then hole up for the night somewhere up in the foothills. If that storm comes on in, it'll wash out our tracks and those bastards'll never be able to trail us."

  "What about Marshal Tyler?" asked Durand. "He has something of a reputation as a scout and a frontiersman."

  Strawhorn snorted contemptuously. "I ain't worried about Tyler. He can chase us from here to kingdom come and not find us."

  "I hope you're correct. Do you know where the Diamond S ranch is?"

  "The spread started by that Texan?" Strawhorn frowned. "Not exactly. What's that got to do with us?"

  "I've done some business with Mr. Sawyer," Durand said. "He and I formed a limited partnership so that he could establish his ranch on some land I had bought from the railroad, and I happen to know that he brought quite a bit of money with him from Texas along with those ludicrous-looking cattle. The funds were for expenses encountered in setting up his new ranch. I imagine he still has most of the money."

  Strawhorn looked over at Durand and grinned. Clouds hadn't covered all the sky yet, and there was still enough moonlight to shine on his teeth as he asked, "And you figure to pay this fella Sawyer a visit 'fore we move on?"

  "I think we can put those funds to better use than he can, don't you?"

  "Damn right. Can you find the place in the dark?"

  "Perhaps. If we get close enough, we should be able to see their lights. . . ."

  They rode on, Durand hoping now that the storm would move down out of the mountains so that it would cover their tracks—but not until they had reached the Diamond S and left with the money Kermit Sawyer had brought from Texas.

  The lightning grew more intense but didn't seem to be moving any closer. Against the frequent glow in the sky from the electrical discharges, Durand spotted the ranges of hills with the bluff in between at the head of the valley where Sawyer's ranch was located. Strawhorn found the trail leading up to the top of the bluff, and just as Durand had thought, when they crested the rise, they were able to see the yellow glow from the windows of Sawyer's cabins.

  "We can't ride in there with the women," Strawhorn said when they were only half a mile or so from the ranch headquarters. "They'd give us away in a second." He reined in. "Miz McKay, you're going to get on that spare horse. Benton, take the women and circle around the ranch. We'll meet up with you at the other end of the valley."

  "What if the lady tries to run off?" Benton asked.

  "Shoot her," Strawhorn said simply. "I'd rather have two hostages than one, but I reckon we can make do with Miz Hatfield if we have to."

  Simone shuddered and kept her eyes downcast. "I won't give you any trouble," she said quietly. She slid down from Strawhorn's horse and moved over to the one he had been leading.

  Durand frowned. It wasn't like Simone to be so passive and accommodating. She might be up to something, he decided. Or it might be that everything she had gone through tonight had finally gotten to her, crushing that stubborn, independent nature of hers. After all, until recently she had always had Andrew to protect her and shield her from some of the harsh realities of life. Tonight she had learned that even the man she had loved had been a stranger to her.

  When Simone was mounted, Benton took the reins of her horse and moved off into the darkness. Durand watched them go and asked quietly, "Can we trust that man?"

  Strawhorn patted the saddlebags where the payroll money was cached. "As long as we got these, we can trust Benton," he said confidently. "He'll meet us at the other end of the valley, just like I told him to."

  Durand and Strawhorn rode toward the Diamond S headquarters, the lights gradually drawing closer. It took them a quarter of an hour to reach the cabins and corrals. Durand was no cattleman, but even in the dark, the ranch was taking on the look of a successful operation. It was a shame he wouldn't have the chance to take it over as he had planned, he thought.

  A dog was barking as Durand and Strawhorn rode up, and several men came out of the cabins to see what was going on. In the light that spilled through the open doors, Durand recognized one of them as Kermit Sawyer. The old rancher was carrying a rifle, and he called, "Who's out there? Better sing out before I start shootin'!"

  "It's William Durand, Mr. Sawyer," Durand replied hurriedly as he rode his horse into the light. "And this is my friend Mr. Strawhorn."

  "Durand?" Sawyer sounded surprised. "What are you doin' out here in the middle of the night, and with a storm comin' up at that?"

  "Business brings me out here, sir," Durand said smoothly. "I was wondering if we might have a talk with you—in private."

  Sawyer lowered the rifle. "I reckon that'd be all right," he said grudgingly. "Light and set a spell. There's a jug inside, if you'd like a drink."

  "That would be an excellent idea," Durand said as he dismounted. He had been counting on Sawyer's ingrained notions of western hospitality to get them into the cabin.

  "You boys go on back to the bunkhouse," Sawyer told the hands. "It'll be time to turn in soon."

  The cowboys said their good nights and did as Sawyer had instructed them. The cattleman tucked the rifle under his arm and jerked his head toward the door of the nearest cabin, indicating that Durand and Strawhorn were to follow him.

  The place wasn't fancy, Durand saw as they stepped inside, but it appeared to be comfortable. There was a single room inside the building, with a rug on the floor, some rough-hewn chairs, and a fireplace dominating the front half. In the back was a bunk and a small carved wooden chest. Pegs had been driven into the wall so that clothes and guns could be hung on them. Sawyer put the rifle on a couple of the pegs and then turned back to his visitors. "What can I do for you gents?" he asked.

  Then his eyes widened as he saw the gun that had appeared in Strawhorn's hand. "You can give us all the money you got here," the outlaw told him harshly.

  "What the hell are you talking about?" demanded Sawyer.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but we must ask you to cooperate with us," Durand said quietly. "Mr. Strawhorn and I need money, and I happen to know that you brought a considerable amount with you from Texas. You haven't deposited it in the bank, so I assume you still have it here with you."

  "You're crazy, both of you. I don't have any money, and if I did, I wouldn't just hand it over."

  Durand listened to Sawyer's angry words, but he also watched the rancher's eyes and saw them shift for a second toward the fireplace. "Please don't lie to us," Durand said. "We don't want to hurt you."

  "You can't do a damned thing to me. This is my spread, and if I yell, I'll have forty cowboys in here in no time. Same thing'll happen if you shoot off that gun." Sawyer sneered at them. "I don't know what's goin' on, Durand, but you and this other fella better get off my land pronto."

  "It's my land," Durand reminded him.

  "I don't reckon it'll stay that way much longer. You're on the run for some reason, or you wouldn't have come here lookin' for money." Sawyer grinned. "I've got papers on this ranch and I'd say I'll be takin' over this land 'fore you know it."

  Anger churned Durand's insides at the reminder of how his plans had fallen through. He growled, "There can't be that many hiding places in this cabin. Cover him, Deke, while I look around." He turned toward the fireplace.

  Sawyer exclaimed, "You son of a bitch!" and leaped forward, unable to control his rage any longer. Strawhorn met him, lashing out with the gun in his hand. The barrel thudded against Sawyer's skull and sent him tumbling to the puncheon floor. Blood leaked from the gash opened up by the gun barrel and ran into the rancher's thick whit
e hair.

  "Blast it," Strawhorn grated as he kept the gun trained on the unconscious Sawyer. "What do we do if you can't find that money?"

  "I can find it," Durand replied as he went to the fireplace and began testing the large flat stones of which it was built. It took him less than two minutes to find one that was loose, and when he moved it aside, he reached into the cavity that was revealed and took out a good-sized leather pouch. He opened it and saw the wads of greenbacks inside. "This is what we were looking for."

  "Damned lucky, if you ask me. Do I kill this old bastard?"

  Durand nodded. "But quietly. Use your knife."

  Strawhorn holstered his gun and reached for the blade sheathed on his other hip, but before he could draw it and plunge it into Sawyer's body, the clinking of spurs came from outside the door. "Mr. Sawyer," a voice called. "Hate to bother you, boss, but them cattle're gettin' mighty nervous 'cause of all that thunder and lightnin'. What should we do?"

  Durand motioned for Strawhorn to put the knife away, then he opened the door and said, "Come in, young man. Mr. Sawyer wants to see you."

  The cowboy stepped into the room, holding his hat in his hands. He stopped short when he saw the rancher's senseless form stretched out on the floor with blood on his head. But before he could do anything except gape, Durand had swept up one of the chairs and brought it crashing down on top of his head. The young puncher collapsed as Durand dropped the wreckage of the chair.

  "That almost felt good," Durand said with a savage grin. "It's been too long since I did something like that." His expression became more serious. "We've wasted enough time. Let's get out of here."

  "I can kill 'em both," Strawhorn offered, reaching for his knife again.

  Durand shook his head. "There's no need. I've thought of a way we can keep everyone busy for a long time." Carrying the pouch he had taken from the fireplace, he led the way out of the cabin, leaving the two unconscious men behind him.

  Most of the herd Sawyer had brought up with him from Texas had already been pushed out into the valley to run loose and fatten up on the good grass, but several hundred head were still confined in the corrals for one reason or another. Their long horns made clacking sounds as they hit against one another while the cattle stirred restlessly.

  As the cowboy had said, they were nervous because of the impending storm. Durand nodded in satisfaction as he looked toward the corrals. He mounted up and motioned for Strawhorn to do likewise. No one seemed to be paying any attention to them.

  "Come on," Durand said quietly, then led the way past the corrals. When he was just beyond them, he reined in and turned his horse. As Durand pulled a small pistol from his pocket, Strawhorn laughed softly.

  "Damn good idea," the outlaw said. "That'll keep 'em busy for a while." He drew his own gun.

  Then both men let out whoops and started firing over the heads of the startled cattle.

  The animals bawled frantically and surged against the pole sides of the corrals. The pens had been built securely, but with hundreds of maddened cattle pressing against them all at once, something had to give. The poles began snapping with loud cracks, the noise making the cattle even more frenzied. As the walls of the corrals collapsed the herd surged out and thundered around the cabins in a deadly wave of cow flesh.

  Durand and Strawhorn whirled their horses and galloped in the opposite direction as the small stampede poured out of the corrals. A glance back told them that the Diamond S cowboys who had come running out to see what was going on were ducking back into the buildings as quickly as they could. The cabins themselves might collapse under the onslaught; Durand hoped so. Either way, the cowboys would be much too busy to even think about giving chase. By the time anyone could come after them, they would be miles away.

  Earlier tonight everything had gone wrong, but now his luck was turning, Durand sensed. It was only a matter of time until he was as rich as ever. He gave a great booming laugh as he rode, full of godlike power. He might suffer a minor setback or two along the way, but there was no one who could stop him from achieving his destiny. No one.

  Chapter 16

  Cole was tired, bone-tired, as he led the posse back into Wind River with lightning flickering in the distance. The last four days had been frustrating and exhausting and at times dangerous, not to mention unproductive. He was looking forward to sprawling in his bed in the room at Lawton Paine's boardinghouse and not moving for the next eight or ten hours.

  But before he could do that, there was an unpleasant chore to take care of. He had to tell the Union Pacific supervisors that the payroll for their crews was gone.

  After burying the outlaws who had been killed, the posse had spent the better part of a day trailing the two men who had gotten away with the money. The tracks had finally petered out in a particularly rocky stretch, and search as they might, the men from Wind River had not been able to find them again. Finally, Cole had admitted defeat, as galling as that was for him, and turned back toward town before camping for the night. It had taken them all the next day and part of tonight to get here.

  The weather matched his mood, Cole thought as he reined up in front of the marshal's office—dark and threatening. He hipped around in the saddle to face his worn-out companions and said, "I want to thank all of you for sticking with me. I know it was a hard trail, and we didn't get what we went after. But you men gave it your best shot."

  "That's not good enough," Michael Hatfield said miserably. "The payroll's gone, and God knows what's going to happen now."

  "Amen, Brother Hatfield," rumbled Jeremiah. "God does know, and it's not for us to question His judgment."

  "Maybe not," Cole said, "but I'd sure like to have more to show for our trouble than what we got. Six dead owlhoots won't save this town."

  Hank Parker said, "At least nobody in the posse was killed. That's something to be thankful for."

  Cole stared at him. He wasn't used to Parker expressing such sentiments. But what the one-armed saloonkeeper said was true. They had been damned lucky. There were a few minor wounds among the men, mostly bullet burns from that ambush, and one horse had been killed, forcing a couple of the men to ride double. That was the extent of their casualties. It could have been worse, Cole thought, a lot worse.

  "You men can head on home and get some rest," he told them. "Like I said, I'm mighty grateful to you—"

  He broke off his thanks as a large group of men came out of one of the saloons down the street. Somebody spotted him and yelled, "There's the marshal! The posse's back!" The men hurried down the street, almost running.

  Most of them were railroad workers, Cole figured, anxious to find out if their missing payroll had been returned. He hoped they wouldn't riot and pull the town down around their ears when they found out the money was still gone. If they tried, he would do everything in his power to stop them, but he had seen in the past how futile it usually was for one man to try to stand up to a mob.

  "Marshal!" one of the men called excitedly as he ran up to the golden sorrel. Cole recognized him as the track layer called Dooley. "The doc said we was to send ye down to his office if any of us seen ye!"

  "Dr. Kent?" Cole asked with a frown. "What does he want with me?" It seemed to him that the work crews were in a little better mood than when he had left, and he had no idea why that would be the case.

  "Aye," Dooley said. "He's got yer dep'ty down there, patchin' him up again."

  "Billy!" Cole burst out, forgetting about his tiredness. "Billy Casebolt's back?"

  "Oh, aye, a lot's happened since ye've been gone, Cole, me boy. We got part of our wages back. Found half o' the lake from that robbery in Durand's hotel room, we did."

  Michael yelped, "Mr. Durand? What's he got to do with that payroll money?"

  Cole threw his right leg over the saddle and slid down. "Michael, you come with me," he barked. "The rest of you men go home and get some rest. I don't know what's going on here, but I'll tend to it."

  He didn't get any arguments
from most of the men, although some of them were muttering with curiosity. If they wanted to stay and talk to Dooley and the other railroad workers, that was their business. Cole wanted to get down to Dr. Kent's office and find out what the hell had happened in Wind River while he and the other men were gone.

  Michael hurried to catch up to him and match his long strides. The young editor was agitated as he said, "That man made it sound like Mr. Durand had something to do with the train robbery. Otherwise how would he have wound up with part of the money?"

  "That's a good question," Cole said. "Maybe Billy and Dr. Kent can give us some answers."

  All the lights seemed to be on at the doctor's place and the front room was crowded when Cole and Michael pushed their way into it a few moments later. A childish voice shouted, "Daddy!" Gretchen Hatfield ran across the room, holding up her arms to her father.

  Instinctively, Michael bent over and scooped her up, hugging her tightly as he frowned. "Gretchen?" he said. "What are you doing here? Where's your mama?"

  "Bad men took her!" Gretchen wailed, and Cole felt himself go cold at the child's words.

  He glanced around, saw that the room was filled with townspeople, gamblers, and soiled doves. He spotted Rose Foster and Lawton and Abigail Paine. Across the room Billy Casebolt was sitting up on Kent's examining table while the doctor finished putting some fresh bandages around his torso. A couple of the town's citizens were conspicuous by their absence, Cole suddenly realized—Simone McKay and William Durand.

  He stepped across the room and shook the hand Casebolt held out to him. "Are you all right, Billy?" he asked.

  "Mr. Casebolt will be fine," Kent answered before the deputy could speak. "He aggravated a previous injury tonight, but other than losing some more blood, he didn't do any further damage to the wound. With rest and proper care, he should make a complete recovery."

  "What happened to you?" Cole demanded.

  "That fella Strawhorn shot me," replied Casebolt. "Did his best to kill me a couple of times now. Wish I could catch up to him and settle the score."