Mark of the Hunter (11 page)

Having seen for himself the reason for Bug Eyed Alice's name, Cord was curious enough to ask the origin for Mother Featherlegs. Dooley laughed. “Ol' Mother Featherlegs,” he repeated. “I don't know who give her the name, but it was because of them bloomers she wears, makes her legs look like feathered chicken legs. But, anyway, I'll bet Levi stopped there. He won't get away with beatin' up on any of Mother's girls. He knows he'd have a passel of outlaws lookin' for him in a hurry.”

•   •   •

The ride to Rawhide Buttes was uneventful, with no sign of anyone following them. Whether that was because they had been so efficient in hiding their trail, or the owner of the missing gold had not checked his saddlebag, was hard to say. The important thing was they arrived at Colonel Charles F. Coffee's Rawhide Ranch stage stop just as the stagecoach pulled in from the north in time for the midday meal. They decided to treat themselves to a good meal, since they now had financial resources, thanks to the unintentional generosity of Charley Patch and Ford Wilson. They had dust to spare, but most of it was going to be used for necessary supplies, which were available there as well.

They tied their horses up before the main house, which was called an inn, and followed the passengers in the door to the dining room. “Got room for a couple more mouths to feed?” Dooley asked cheerfully when they met a stern-looking woman standing inside the door.

Her stern features gave way at once to a warm, welcoming smile, and she greeted them cordially. “We sure do,” she said. “We've got room for a dozen more.” Their rough, trail-hardened appearance, in sharp contrast to that of the passengers on the stage, seemed not to concern her. Or at least she did not show it. She had not exaggerated about the accommodations, for the passengers plus the two of them took up only half of the long table.

“Much obliged, ma'am,” Dooley said. “We're only carryin' dust. All right if we pay you with that?”

“That's no problem,” the lady said. “We have scales. We deal with prospectors all the time.”

Cord and Dooley sat down at the end of the table, opposite the passengers, and waited for the food to be brought in. A few disapproving glances from the passengers did not go unnoticed by Cord, but he allowed that he and the shaggy-looking Dooley probably looked as though they had not been housebroken, and they both smelled like a horse—Dooley more than he, of that he was certain. When the bowls and platters began to arrive, his thoughts went immediately to the food. It was pretty simple fare, but it looked like a banquet to Cord.

“If you two gentlemen would move a little closer to the other folks, it'll be a little bit easier to pass the bowls around,” the stern-looking woman suggested.

“Why, sure,” Dooley said. “I reckon it would make it a little easier at that.” And he got up right away. “Maybe we'll leave a little space between us, though. Me and Cord are kinda dusty.” The young couple closest to them looked relieved to hear his remark.

Once they were settled again, and the eating got under way, further interest in the two waned, but Cord was still mindful of the contrast. The young couple had captured his attention. They looked not much older than he, and he guessed that they had been married fairly recently. The young lady looked fresh and clean, considering that she had been riding in a stagecoach all the way from Deadwood or Custer. It was in sharp contrast to the women he had seen most recently, and whom he would see that afternoon when they went to Mother Featherlegs's parlor. She glanced up from her plate at that moment to meet his gaze. Embarrassed, he quickly averted his eyes, but not quick enough to miss a shy smile before she looked away. He could not help thinking of Eileen, someone he had not allowed himself to think about for a long time. The young woman here on this day reminded him very much of the precocious daughter of Mike Duffy. He wondered if she regretted kissing him so unexpectedly on that last day. Suddenly the thought struck him that he wanted to be like the young husband sitting across the table from him. He only allowed the thought to live for a few moments before reminding himself where he was and what he had come to do.

Dooley, who had been noisily absorbed in his eating, glanced at Cord and ceased his gnawing on a pork chop. Curious, he then followed Cord's gaze to stare at the young bride, then looked at Cord again. “Huh,” he grunted, and resumed his noisy attack on the pork bone. “Ain't no use in folks like us thinkin' 'bout things like that,” he told Cord in a whisper.

“Reckon not,” Cord said, and returned his thoughts to his plate.

•   •   •

After their dinner was finished and paid for, they went to the general store there and stocked up on the basic supplies they needed to survive—coffee, dried beans, bacon, salt, and a little bit of sugar for Dooley. Any other food needed would be supplied by their rifles. With their purchases secured on the horses, they set out on the short ride to Ol' Mother Featherlegs's dugout haven for outlaws.

Dooley had not lied when he said Mother's place was not much more than a dugout. In fact, most of her dwelling was dug out of a slight rise in the ground near a spring, and a room had been built on the front of it. It was home, however, to four people at that time, Mother, her companion, and two prostitutes. One of them, a rawboned woman named Lucy, was filling a bucket at the spring when Cord and Dooley rode up. She straightened up and put her hand over her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun as she watched them approach. After a few moments, she turned toward the house and yelled, “Company!” She took a few steps back and placed her water bucket on the stoop at the front door, then turned to face the visitors again.

“Howdy, darlin',” Dooley greeted her as he pulled the buckskin up to the porch. “Won't be long before that spring will be froze.”

“I thought it was froze this morning,” Lucy replied. “It probably ain't water you two are looking for, I bet.”

“Why, no, ma'am, it ain't,” Dooley replied. “We was just cravin' the company of some charmin' young ladies who might be wantin' to entertain two fine gentlemen like ourselves—and maybe take a sip or two of whiskey if you have some on hand.”

Lucy laughed, shaking her head from side to side, then called back over her shoulder again, “Ma, Bill Dooley has come to see ya, and he's as full of shit as ever.”

“It's nice to be remembered so fondly,” Dooley said with a wide smile parting his whiskers.

A short, heavyset woman with a shock of red hair walked out to greet them. She was followed by a slip of a younger woman with her hair cut off like a man's. “Bill Dooley!” Charlotte Shepard called out to him. Known only by the name of Mother Featherlegs, she knew practically every outlaw, horse thief, and road agent in the territory. And she enjoyed their trust, so much so that she was often trusted with the care of stolen jewels, money, and gold. “Where the hell have you been? I ain't seen you in I don't know when.”

“I ain't been up in these parts for a spell,” Dooley said, “else I'da sure been callin' on ya.”

“Who's your friend?” Mother asked. “Don't recollect seein' him before.”

“Cord Malone,” Dooley answered, “Ned's boy.”

“Ned, huh?” Mother responded. “Ain't seen him lately, but his sidekick, ol' Levi Creed, came by here day before yesterday.” She paused to remember. “Ain't that right, Lucy? Or was it two days ago? Anyway, he ain't changed much. Kinda like you, lotta snow in his hair and beard, and a little more beef on the hoof. He ain't sweetened up any since the old days, but he knows better'n to show his ass around here. Dick would kill him.”

“Where is Dick?” Dooley asked. “He ain't finally run off and left you, has he?”

“Hell no. You know I couldn't run him off. He's gone down to Cheyenne to do some horse tradin'.”

“Ain't he afraid to leave you defenseless ladies here all alone?” Dooley asked. He nudged Cord and said, “Dick is Mother's . . .” He paused. “What is he? Are you two married yet?” When she responded with a “hell no,” he went on. “He calls hisself Dangerous Dick Davis. He lies around the house most of the time. The only thing dangerous about him is you might trip over him and break your neck.” Cord glanced at Mother, but she apparently didn't disagree with Dooley's assessment of her paramour.

“Well, let's don't stand out here in the cold,” Mother said. “Are you fellers lookin' for some dinner?”

“We've done et,” Dooley replied. “You ain't told us who this young thing with no hair is. She weren't here the last time I rode through.”

“Her name's Birdie. She's Lucy's cousin, come to live with us awhile, since my other girls went down to Cheyenne for the winter.”

“Howdy, Birdie,” Dooley said. “You look a mite young to be in this business. What happened to your hair? Looks like you got your head caught in a threshin' machine.”

Birdie responded with a scowl. “I ain't in this business, and I like my hair like it is,” she told him curtly.

“Oh,” Dooley cried, feinting fear, “she's got some bite. I best not mess with her no more.”

Lucy laughed. “I guess you best not. Birdie ain't made up her mind what she wants to do yet.” She reached over and playfully ruffled Birdie's shortened locks. “She got hold of my scissors and whacked off her hair after some cowboy grabbed her and tried to tote her off to the bedroom—thinks it makes her look like a boy.” She smiled wistfully at her cousin. “I wish I was as young and pretty as she is.”

Dooley, always the diplomat, hastened to tell her, “Young and pretty is sure nice, but it ain't always what a man wants in a horse or a woman. Sometimes a horse with a few more years on her is broke in to a more comfortable gait. I've always said that you've got a real comfortable gait, and that makes for a more satisfying ride.” He looked at Cord and winked.

Lucy shook her head and laughed. “Dooley, you're so full of shit. It ain't gonna get you no discount on the price.”

“Let's go in the house,” Mother repeated. “It's cold out here.”

As soon as the door was closed, Cord was eager to get the information they had come for, so the first thing out of his mouth was a question. “Did Levi Creed say where he was headin' when he left here?”

Mother Featherlegs looked surprised. “Well, bless my soul, he talks after all.” She smiled at Dooley, then turned back to Cord. “No, Levi didn't say where he was headin', and nobody cared enough to ask him. Was you wantin' to catch up with him?”

Cord shrugged indifferently, feeling no reason to tell the women why he was trailing Levi. Her answer to his question told him that the only thing he and Dooley had gained by coming here was verification that Levi had been there. As far as he was concerned, there was no need to waste any more time with Mother Featherlegs and her girls. He knew, however, that he was going to have to give Dooley time to satisfy his desires. He was the one who stole the gold dust. It was his right to spend some of it foolishly.

Fully aware of what Cord was thinking, Dooley said, “Cord ain't much in the mood to do no partyin', but you're welcome to turn your full attention on me. He's got a lotta years to get his sap to runnin'. I ain't got that many more. So whaddaya say, Miss Lucy? Let's have us a little drink of likker and then go to the bedroom for a little tussle.”

“Sounds like just what you need,” Mother said, and got a bottle from the cupboard and a couple of glasses.

When she placed them on the table and started to pour, Cord held his hand over one of them. “Not for me, thanks, but I'd just as soon have a cup of coffee if you've got some. I'll pay you the same as I would the whiskey.”

Mother looked at him as if unable to believe her ears. She glanced at Dooley. He just grinned and shook his head. “All right,” she said. “I'll put on a pot of coffee.” She returned her gaze to Dooley again. “How in the world did you two hook up? You ain't brought no preacher in my little home, have you? Him and Birdie would make a good couple. They wouldn't say more'n two words between 'em.”

Lucy led a grinning Dooley off to her room, and Mother went into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, leaving the two young people to wait out an awkward silence. After a few minutes, Mother came back to tell Birdie to keep an eye on the coffeepot to make sure it didn't boil over. “Why don't you two go sit at the kitchen table where you can watch it?” she said. “I was fixin' to wash my hair when you and Dooley showed up. I think I'll go ahead and do that now while Dooley is busy and my water's still hot. Birdie, you can entertain Cord.” She threw a towel over her shoulder and led them into the kitchen, where she picked up a kettle of water that had been heating on the stove. Birdie held the door open while Mother carried the kettle out to the small porch.

“Watch you don't catch your death of pneumonia out there,” Birdie said, and closed the door.

The big gray coffeepot was beginning to grumble by the time Mother came hurrying back from the porch. She paused long enough to set the kettle on the table, then went at once to her room to dry her hair. Alone again, the quiet couple sat at the table without exchanging a word of conversation until the coffeepot began bubbling rapidly and Birdie got up to move it to the edge of the stove. She returned to the table with two cups of fresh coffee and sat down. After another long silence, she could tolerate the vacuum no longer. “Why are you trying to find that fellow, Levi?”

“He took somethin' from me,” Cord replied, “and I reckon I need to take it back.” She wasn't curious enough to press him further on the subject, which satisfied him. When she got up to fill the cups again, he asked, “Why are you livin' here with your cousin? From what you said before, it doesn't sound like you're thinkin' about whorin' for a livin'.”