Whispers on the Wind (16 page)

“Strange.” Carter leaned
against the buggy. “I shouldn’t have let my guard down,” he
muttered, shaking his head. “I couldn’t have imagined that
something like that would happen in Windy Bend. I guess I know
better now.” He frowned. “I keep seeing the scene over and over in
my head, and now that I’m thinking about it when I first reached
Mary she said someone was trying to kill her.” Carter looked hard
at Rick. “Maybe she was right”

“We
haven’t had a shooting in six months until I got shot” Hank spoke
up. “I thought I’d pretty much cleaned up the town, then somebody
shot me and now the
girl...
Well, I’ll tell you, I’m not going to have this
kind of thing going on in my town.” Hank swore. “We will find out
who did this. Whoever it was had all gurgle an’ no
guts.”

Carter placed a hand on
Hank’s arm. “Tomorrow will be time enough. You get some rest, and
we’ll see what we can figure out in the morning.”

Carter climbed up into the
buggy, reached under the seat, and placed his gun next to him on
the seat. Just in case, he thought. “Boys, you ready?”

“Yes sir,
boss.”

“If you see anything
strange, shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Yes sir,” Stanley said.
“We heard what happened, and we’ll be sure to keep our eyes
open.”

Carter urged the horses
forward. As they started back toward the ranch, Carter glanced over
at Mary. She looked so innocent in her sleep. He’d placed her head
on his lap so she wouldn’t bang her head on the side of the buggy
as they rode. He liked feeling her scant weight against
him.

Carter wondered if someone
really was trying to kill Mary, and if so why. It had been his
experience over the years that men killed for three reasons:
revenge, greed, and because someone knew too much. Mary didn’t
appear to have any money. One could look at her hands and tell that
she had worked hard, so that left him feeling that Mary knew
something she shouldn’t.

Lord, it would help if he
knew what.

He wasn’t sure how he was
going to protect her from the unknown. But he sure as hell was
going to try, because he’d realized something tonight that
surprised the hell out of him.

Mary had come to mean
something to him, whether he liked it or not

He cared for her—maybe he
even loved her.

Wouldn’t that be a hell of
a note?

Chapter Ten

By the time Thunder and
Forester reached Gregory Gulch, they had struck up a mutual trust
of one another.

Thunder observed the rough
sod mining camp as they rode through. There were two rows of
rough-hewn log cabins on each side of the road. A young man who
looked to be about eighteen, tall, broad-shouldered, with heavy
black hair hanging shaggily about his face and head, was trudging
down the road. He was wearing a big, floppy hat pulled down over
his head. He looked up as they passed and said, “Howdy,
Marshal.”

“Are you going to the
mine, Daniel?”

“Yep. Had to go buy a new
rocker. My other one got busted up.”

Thunder couldn’t imagine
why Mary had ever wanted to live in such a place. The cabins’
windows were grimy and a few cabins didn’t even have windows. He
had lived in places like this, but Mary was different.

Today was the first day of
May, and the ground looked it with the muddy puddles in the ruts in
the road. Thunder was thankful the snow had almost melted away.
Nothing was left except the dirty stubborn spots in the shade that
refused to leave. So far, the weather this year had gone from
bitterly cold to warm with nothing in between. Crazy weather, he
admitted. Thunder’s Cheyenne grandfather had once told him when one
season is skipped, trouble is on the horizon. Now Thunder realized
how true his grandfather’s words were.

“Here we are,” Forester
said as he dismounted in front of a log cabin that looked slightly
bigger than the rest.

Thunder followed the
marshal into Mary’s cabin. It was dark inside and smelled musty, so
they had to stop and light several kerosene lamps. After the last
one was lit, Thunder picked up a kerosene lamp and looked around.
The first thing he saw was blood—on the table, on the chairs,
everywhere.

Forester pointed to a spot
in front of the fireplace. “We found him right here.”

Thunder nodded. A large red
stain indicated the spot where Big Jim had died. This didn’t look
like a simple shooting or a simple argument. It appeared more like
cold, calculated murder. There was so much blood in too many
places. “Did you find a weapon?”

“Nope.”

Thunder held the lantern
down toward the hardwood floor where the scene looked even more
grisly. “These look like bloody footprints.” He glanced up at
Forester.

“Same thing I thought
They’re headed that way.” Forester pointed to his left

Thunder followed the
footprints into a small bedroom where the scene looked even worse—
blood-soaked sheets, blood on the pillow, blood on the blankets.
“My God,” Thunder finally said as a chill ran over him. It had been
a long time since he’d seen a man’s blood. “Was this Big Jim’s
room?”

Forester shook his head.
“It was Mary’s. I found Big Jim’s things in the other
room.”

Thunder stared at the bed.
“I sure hope that Mary is alive, but from what I see, she could
very easily be dead.”

“Why leave one body and
not the other?” Forester asked.

“Good
point.” Thunder looked back to the fireplace and then the bedroom.
“It appears that she killed him, and then stumbled to bed.” Thunder
turned to make eye contact with Forester. “You did notice that I
said
appears
?”

When Forester didn’t say
anything, Thunder continued. “I know Mary wasn’t capable of doing
something like this unless she was attacked, and from what you tell
me of Big Jim, he wouldn’t do such a thing. So what else could have
happened?”

That’s what I’ve been
asking myself over and over again,” Forester admitted. “I asked
everyone who was around both of them that day to see if anyone had
heard any arguments. No one did.” Thunder searched all around the
room trying to find some clue. Next to the wall, he spotted
something that looked like a nightgown. He bent down and picked up
the garment. Under it was a box, and beside the box, next to the
wall, lay something shiny. “You said that you haven’t found the
murder weapon?”

That’s right.”

“Well, I think we have
now,” Thunder told him as he reached down to retrieve the knife,
still covered with blood.

Forester frowned. “That’s
Big Jim’s knife. He carried it with him everywhere. See the
^‘
J’ on the
handle?”

“So why would the killer
leave it behind?”

“Good
question.”

Thunder contemplated the
knife. “I have two thoughts. First, it would take somebody pretty
strong to take this knife from Jim. Second, perhaps the knife was
left behind to frame Mary.”

“That’s what I’d like to
think,” Forester admitted. “But we have no proof. We gotta find
somebody with a motive to kill Jim.” Forester contemplated for a
moment. “I almost forgot,” he said thoughtfully, “right after the
funeral, Jim’s brother came over and asked me questions about the
mine.”

“Do you know him?” Thunder
asked.

“Nope. Just showed up in
camp the day before the murder. He said that Jim had asked him to
come work in the mine.”

“The day before?” Thunder
arched his brow. “Interesting. Where is he now?”

“Gone. I had no reason to
hold him, and he needed to make a living. Seems like he’s some
snake oil salesman, but I told him to swing back by this
way.”

“I don’t know about you,
but I’d like to talk to him. What’s his name?”

“John McCoy.”

“I’ll find him. But I
think the best way I can help you is to find Mary.” Thunder sighed.
“And hopefully alive.”

“How are you going to find
her? I’m sure the trail has gone cold by now.”

Thunder smiled. He draped
his arm across Forester’s shoulder. “I grew up with the Cheyenne.
I’ll find her.”

John McCoy was going to get
damned good and drunk, but not in Windy Bend. He wasn’t stupid.
He’d managed to hypnotize the two men in the back of the theater so
that they could never identify him, but he didn’t want to take the
chance of staying in town and having someone ask who the stranger
was. His best bet was to lie low and then return once everything
had blown over.

Propped upon the Alamo’s
brown, wooden barstool in Mountain City, McCoy called for a second
bottle of whisky. While he waited for the bartender, he tried to
form a plan. He might not have succeeded in his last attempt, but
he wasn’t giving up so easily. He was a man of many disguises, and
he’d make sure he used a different one when he returned to get the
girl.

Hellfire. He’d had a clear
shot of her, but she’d moved at the last minute, so he was pretty
sure he hadn’t killed her. If he had, all his problems would have
been over by now. Then he could head back to claim the mine as
his.

The next time he wouldn’t
fail.

The girl needed to die. He
was pretty sure that he could control her mind if he could get to
her. Hypnotism was one of his many talents, and he was damn good at
it

The problem was getting to
her.

Of all the confounded luck
for Mary to end up with a U.S. Marshal who evidently had no idea
who she was or that she should be in jail.

“Damn Carter Monroe,”
McCoy grumbled before snatching up the shot glass and spilling
whisky on his hand.

“Are you a friend of
Monroe’s?”

“What’s it —” McCoy cut
short his question when he turned and saw it was a gunslinger who’d
asked. He’d seen the man before. He was tall and spare and stood
about six feet, two inches. Dirty auburn hair fell to his shoulders
and his face was covered by a full beard. “You’re Sammy
Carlson?”

“What of it?”

“Just like to know who I’m
talking to,” McCoy said, then shoved the bottle toward him. “Have a
drink.”

“Obliged. This here is my
brother Randy,” Sammy said as he reached for the brown bottle. “And
who might you be?”

“Nobody as famous as
yourselves. Name is John McCoy.”

“Well, now that we know
each other”—Sammy gave him a slight smile—“how about answering my
question about Monroe.”

“Hell, no, I ain’t no
friend of Monroe. Don’t even know him. But the fact that he’s a
marshal lends to the fact that we ain’t never goin’ to be friends.
It’s just that he’s got something I want.”

“He’s been a thorn in our
side for the last few years,” Sammy said, jerking his head toward
his brother. Then he tossed the whiskey down in one gulp. “Last
time I seen Monroe was in Texas. Ain’t sure where he’s lurking
nowadays.”

John laughed. “Try the next
town, Windy Bend.”

Sammy turned to look at
John. Sammy had a hard, cold-eyed smile. “What do you say we call
the marshal out? He’s been dogging our tracks for a couple of years
now.”

“Sounds good to me. But I
figure we need a plan. Maybe I can help both our causes,” McCoy
added. He raised his glass in a toast. “Do you want to just kill
the lop-eared mule or make him sweat a little?”

Sammy chuckled. “You’re
faster than a lizard giving up its tail to a hawk.”

McCoy
smil
ed at them. “Let’s see what we
can come up with.”

Three days had passed and
Judith’s fever still ran high. But today Mary and Maria, the
housekeeper, had gotten Judith to drink a little chicken
broth.

“At least she stayed awake
long enough to eat,” Mary said as she placed the bowl on the night-
stand.

Maria nodded. “I believe
I’ll bathe Miss Judith with some cool water and change her gown
when she wakes up,” she said as she straightened the
sheets.

“I’ll help you,” Mary told
her.

“You have been in here
every day since you’ve been injured, senorita,” Maria said as she
plopped down in the chair beside the bed. “I think you need to get
some rest Your arm is still sore and needs to heal.” She gave Mary
a knowing nod. “I saw you wincing a couple of times earlier. Now,
you go—run along, and I’ll stay right here with Miss
Judith.”

Mary smiled. “If you
insist. I will be in my room if you need me.” Maria had been
correct Mary’s arm was sore, but it felt much better now than it
did the night of the opera. She was thankful that whoever had tried
to kill her was a sorry shot.

As she climbed the stairs
to her room, Mary felt so weary that her legs were like stiff
sticks. She’d spent the last two nights sitting at Judith’s
bedside, because she’d been so sick to her stomach that neither of
them had gotten any sleep.