Mark of the Hunter (17 page)

“Of course we are,” she answered quickly. “Birdie's just fine, and she seems more than willing to take care of Billy.” Her earlier jealousy flared slightly in spite of Birdie's professed interest in Billy. She couldn't help it. “Is that your main concern right now, Birdie?”

He studied her intently for a few moments, wondering why she always seemed to be angry about something he said or did. Why, he wondered, did she even bother to talk to him if she was uncomfortable around him? He thought of the kiss she left him with when he had taken his leave to go after Levi Creed. He couldn't explain it when considering her almost militant attitude toward him from the first day they met. Finally he answered her question. “I hope Birdie's doin' all right. She's a fine little lady, but she ain't my main concern.”

“What is, then?” Eileen asked as he took a step toward her.

Without answering, he reached out for her, pulled her up toward him, and kissed her hard. Her body, rigid at first, relaxed as she responded to his embrace. He released her and stepped away. “Those rustlers tryin' to steal our cattle, that's what,” he said, answering her question.

“Why, you brazen jackass,” she fumed indignantly, “you've got your nerve!”

“I figured you gave that kiss to me when I left here before, so I figured I'd return it to you.” He gave her a genuine grin. “I brought Lem's rifle back, and I brought your kiss back, so I reckon I'm all square with everybody.” Without waiting for her retort, he picked up his saddle and headed for the door.

She hurled it after him anyway. “Don't you ever think you can do something like that again,” she cried. “If I'd wanted a kiss from you, I'd have let you know.” He continued on his way, never looking back. “You're lucky I'm going to let it pass this time, instead of telling Lem and Stony. They mighta had something to say about how you treat a lady.”

“'Preciate it,” he said, still without looking back. He climbed over the top rail of the corral and called the bay to him. When he slipped his bridle on the patient horse and proceeded to saddle him, he was careful to keep his back turned toward the perturbed young woman, lest she read the indecision in his eyes.
Well, that ought to just about take care of that for good and all,
he thought. At least now he would know why she always seemed angry with him.
But why did she kiss me the first time?
Maybe it was because she figured never to see him again. That seemed as good an explanation as any, so he decided to attribute it to the mysterious mind of a woman, a phenomenon that God had created most likely to forever confuse man.

Eileen stomped into the kitchen, trying to be angry at the same time she was still feeling the strength of his kiss. Seeing Birdie standing there expectantly, she told her, “I didn't find any new nests. Maybe I was wrong.”

Birdie waited a little while for her to continue, but she didn't, so Birdie asked, “Where's the ham?”

“Oh, fiddle!” Eileen exclaimed angrily. “I forgot. I'll go back right now and get it.”

“I can get it,” Birdie called after her, but Eileen was already storming toward the smokehouse.
She forgot it,
Birdie smiled to herself. She, like Eileen, had noticed the broad-shouldered young man when he went toward the barn as well.
Big ol' good-looking fellows will make you lose your memory, even the ones with big scars across their foreheads
.

Out by the corral, Bill Dooley approached Cord, who was tightening the bay's girth strap. “What's wrong with the little missy? She got away from here like somebody slipped a hornet in her underdrawers.”

“Don't know,” Cord claimed. “Just a woman thing, I reckon.”

“I'm thinkin' I'll go with you tonight,” Dooley said. “Maybe keep you from stickin' your neck out too far.”

“You'd be welcome,” Cord said, “but I thought you might wanna hang around here in case we get some more folks showin' up to visit Mr. Murphy's cows. I ain't plannin' on stickin' my neck out. I just thought I'd try to take a look to see how many men Striker's still got. We mighta cut him back enough so he'll give it up and move on to somewhere else.”

“I don't know,” Dooley said. “This feller might not be used to gettin' his ass whipped like he did last night—might not like it. I doubt he's finished with us yet.”

“Well, we'll go see,” Cord said. “It'd help to see what we're up against.”

•   •   •

In contrast to the triumphant return that morning at the Triple-T, it was a different scene at the Roman-3. Harlan Striker walked out on the front porch of his partially finished ranch house, a cup of hot coffee in his hand, and looked out across the prairie to the south. Troubled, because he had expected to see his drovers bringing in a sizable addition to his herd by this time of morning, but all was quiet. “Where the hell are they?” he demanded. “Rena!”

In a few minutes, the imperturbable half-breed woman came to the front door. “What you want? I busy.”

“I don't give a damn if you're busy or not,” Striker replied gruffly. “Get me some fresh coffee. This is cold.”

She came out on the porch and took his cup, dumped the cold coffee off the edge of the porch, and said, “You don't stand out here in the cold, your coffee don't get cold.” She held the cup up and added, “I put it on the table. You want hot coffee, you come inside to drink it.”

He didn't retort as he usually did, for his mind was occupied with the matter of his missing crew, and the lateness of the hour. But a thought flashed briefly through his mind as he followed the belligerent woman inside, that he had had enough of her abrasive attitude, and he was reaching the point where she had outlived her usefulness. She was not that good a cook, and he felt he was ready to find a younger woman to take her place.
It'll be a pleasure to cut her sassy throat,
he thought.

It was midmorning when Sam Plummer, Tom Tyler, and Robert Marsh straggled back to the Roman-3, looking for some breakfast. They dutifully reported to the ranch house to face Striker's wrath. Furious to hear the results of a planned raid designed to finish Will Murphy's grip on the range below Blue Creek, he railed against the three stragglers. “Where are the rest of the men?” Striker demanded.

“We don't know,” Sam replied when the other two declined to answer. He was about to suffer another blast from his outraged employer when Mace finally showed up, leading Ben Cagle's horse, and diverting Striker's wrath toward him.

Like the other three, Mace suffered his boss's rage meekly, and when his explanation was demanded, he tried to excuse his and his men's lack of success. When Striker asked him where the other men were, Mace admitted what he now knew to be true. “There ain't no more. The four of us is the only ones left.”

His answer almost staggered Striker. “How can that be?” he demanded. “Are you telling me that we sent thirteen men down there, thirteen supposedly experienced gun hands, against five common cattle drovers, and they killed all but you four?”

“Yes, sir,” Mace replied, “and Bo.” This reminder of the wounded man lying in the bunkhouse seemed to intensify Striker's irate frustration. “But it ain't all like it looks,” Mace was quick to implore. “Most of our men were killed by that hired gun they brought in this week. Our men didn't have a chance. That devil ain't like a real man. He's a high-priced killer, and they brought him in here to rub us all out. Scar-faced feller—I don't know who he is, but I don't know of but one other man that could do what he did, and I've seen him. So it ain't him.”

“Who paid him?” Striker demanded, unable to understand. “Murphy's not even in the country, and Mike Duffy's dead, so who paid for a hired killer?”

“I don't know,” Mace answered meekly, “but somebody did.”

Striker didn't say anything for a long moment, unable to think clearly in the face of the devastating and unbelievable facts presented him by gunmen he had hired for the purpose of wiping out the Triple-T. Finally he seemed to have settled down, for he spoke calmly and under control. “If it's a contest of assassination they're playin' now, then two can play that game. Who is this other famous gunman you referred to, and how can I get in touch with him?”

“Well,” Mace replied, “I ain't sure if it's his real name, but Strong is the only name I've ever heard him called. I met him one time in Custer City, up in the Black Hills, but I think he spends most of his time ridin' outta Cheyenne, over in Wyomin'. Another feller I rode with then, and that was a year and a half ago, said anybody wantin' to hire Strong left him a message at the telegraph office in Cheyenne. I don't have any idea if you could still get in touch with him there.”

“Well, I intend to find out,” Striker decided. “I'm gonna send you to Cheyenne to find this Strong fellow. You tell him I've got a job for him here that'll pay him five hundred dollars just to kill one man.” Then, considering the dependability of the man he was sending on this errand, he offered an incentive for Mace to complete it. “I want you to leave for Cheyenne today and I'll pay you a bonus of one hundred dollars when you bring Strong back here to do the job.”

“Yes, sir,” Mace responded immediately, thinking it was better than hanging around the Roman-3 for the next few days, waiting to see if that gunman with the scar was going to show up there to finish the job. “What if he ain't there when I get there? He might be outta town. I can leave him a message at the telegraph office, but I ain't got no way of knowin' when he might get it.”

Striker considered that possibility for a moment. “I'll give you two weeks to get back here with Strong. After two weeks, the deal is off. So you'd best get goin'.”

“Yes, sir, I'll get goin' right away, but I ain't got no money to buy supplies and feed myself while I'm lookin' for this feller.”

“All right,” Striker conceded. “I'll give you twenty dollars to take care of what food you'll need. When that runs out, steal what you need. You're a damn outlaw, ain't you?”

•   •   •

“Look yonder,” Dooley said, and pointed toward a stand of willows on the bank of Blue Creek. Grazing peacefully on the grass between the willows, Cord saw four saddled horses. The two men reined their horses back for a few minutes while they scanned the creek bank carefully, looking for riders, but it was plain to see that the horses were not tethered or hobbled. “Looks like there ain't nobody ridin' 'em.” He glanced at Cord. “Some more of them saddles you emptied last night,” he said.

“Or some of 'em you and Lem emptied,” Cord replied.

“Shit,” Dooley scoffed. “Between the three of us in that damn gully, I only know of two men we shot.”

“I didn't shoot that many,” Cord said. “Somethin' don't add up. We brought four horses back last night, and now we find four more. I know for a fact that I didn't shoot but five men, and if you're sure you and Lem and Billy got two, then that's two that somebody else did for. You sure you didn't hit but two of 'em? It was awful hard to see what was goin' on in the middle of all that shootin'.”

“I'm damn sure,” Dooley stated emphatically. “I got one and Lem got one. Billy didn't hit nothin'.” He stared perplexed at Cord for a few moments; then his face broke out in a wide grin. “They musta been shootin' at each other.” He shook his head, chuckling. “It was so damn dark in that mess that they was helpin' us out.”

“Maybe so,” Cord said. “It was hard to tell who was who.” There was no other way to explain it. “I reckon we just picked us up four more horses.”

“And four saddles and whatever's in those saddlebags,” Dooley reminded him. “And we need to scout out that whole trail from here back to where the stampede started. I'm thinkin' we oughta find some extra rifles and handguns if we find the bodies—kinda like goin' over a battlefield, ain't it?”

They stretched a length of rope between two cottonwood trees on the creek bank and tied the four stray horses to it to make sure they wouldn't have to round them up after scouting the area for weapons. Riding about forty yards apart, they swept the area over where the attempted stampede had taken place. Three sweeps of the prairie along the creek turned up seven bodies and four rifles. Relieving the bodies of anything of value, they then tried to wipe the mud and moisture from the weapons before taking them back to fit in the empty saddle scabbards on the horses. As a matter of habit formed many years before, Dooley kept a running account of the value of the spoils. By the time they were finished, the sun was sinking low on the western horizon, so Cord suggested that Dooley should take the horses back to the Triple-T. “What are you gonna be doin'?” Dooley asked.

“Well, like we said when we rode out here, it'd help to know what's goin' on up at the Roman-Three after last night's try at our cattle. So I think I'll take a ride up that way and see what I can see.”

“Don't you think it'd be a good idea if there was somebody with you?” Dooley asked.

“I ain't gonna get close enough to run into anybody,” Cord assured him, “just close enough to put an eye on the ranch, in case they're fixin' to mount up another gang of men and head this way. Maybe I'd have a chance to hightail it back to let everybody know they're comin'.”

It was only a four-mile ride west of Blue Creek to the ranch Harlan Striker had built on a nameless creek that flowed down to the North Platte. Cord reached a pair of low buttes overlooking the barn and partially built ranch house just as dusk settled upon the valley. He decided he couldn't find a better place to keep an eye on the ranch, so he dismounted, tied his horse to a clump of sage, and settled down to watch. His intention was to see how many men he and his friends at the Triple-T might be facing if Roman-3 was preparing to make another attempt at Triple-T cattle.