Mark of the Hunter (23 page)

“Yeah, I reckon,” Cord allowed. “But like you say, we'd best not hang around too long. So why don't you go on over to the saloon and be gettin' your visitin' done while I get Slop's list of supplies? Homer can give me a hand with the barrels.” He gave Homer a questioning look.

“Be glad to,” Homer immediately replied.

Grinning sheepishly, Stony said, “Well, if you insist.” He handed Cord the list and headed for the door.

•   •   •

Clyde Perkins busied himself over a dozen shot glasses in a pan of water, drying each one nervously while keeping a cautious eye on the sullen brute seated at his back corner table. He had hoped the man called Strong would not return to his establishment again after the incident with Flo the other night. But there he was, bold as brass, sitting there as if he owned the town, and Clyde guessed he pretty much did as long as Sheriff Gillan was away. If Ogallala ever needed a full-time deputy, it was on times such as this. He hoped the women had sense enough to stay upstairs until Strong left. He had no sooner given birth to the thought than Betty Lou appeared at the top of the stairs. She happened to glance over toward the bar before starting downstairs and saw Clyde shaking his head in warning. Looking over the barroom then, she saw Strong seated at the corner table, and immediately pulled her foot back from the top step, then hurried back down the hall to alert Flo.

Clyde exhaled a sigh of relief, and looked again at the unwelcome guest at the back table. Patiently waiting, for he had nothing else to do, Strong drank straight from the bottle on the table, taking long pulls of the fiery liquid. In between, he amused himself with a twenty-dollar gold coin. Propping it up on edge with one finger, he gave it a thump with the index finger of his other hand, then watched the coin spin. He figured the women would show themselves before long, even though it was still a little shy of noon. He counted on the sight of that twenty-dollar gold piece to overcome any hesitation owing to his last visit to the saloon. This time he had Betty Lou in mind for his amusement.

Clyde turned to stack the clean shot glasses on the shelf behind him. When he turned back to the bar, he recoiled, startled to see Flo on her way down the steps. The look on her face told Clyde that she had murder on her mind, even as she cocked her head to one side to see clearly, one eye having swollen shut. Clyde quickly shifted his gaze back to the corner table. Strong saw the angry woman also, but seemed amused by the sight of her obvious rage. He continued to play with the gold coin until she descended the steps. “You look like you mighta fell off the bed,” he remarked sarcastically, “and landed right on your face.”

“You son of a bitch!” Flo charged, and brought up a two-shot derringer from the folds of her skirt.

His eyes suddenly wide as saucers, Strong came out of his chair and pulled the table over to protect himself. The tiny weapon fired twice, ripping two bullet holes, spaced wide apart, into the table. Furious now, his initial fright over, he lunged to his feet and charged toward her. “You just dug your grave, bitch!” She tried to back away, her face still twisted in defiance, but he was on her too quickly. He grabbed one of her wrists, but she snatched her hat pin from her hair and sank it in the back of his hand, causing him to roar out in pain. In quick retaliation, he slugged her with his fist, driving her to the floor. While she struggled helplessly to regain her senses, he went to her and grabbed her arm, preparing to drag her to her feet.

“Let her go!”

Strong turned to see Stony Watts standing in the doorway, his hand resting on the handle of his Colt .44. Pulling Flo up before him, Strong took a good long look at the man threatening him. He saw no scar that would proclaim him to be the gunman he was here to kill. “Or you'll do what, cowboy?” he spat at Stony. “This ain't none of your affair, so you'd best take yourself outta here while you still can, and go stick your nose in somebody else's business.”

“Let her go,” Stony repeated.

Strong drew Flo up closer in front of him, using her body as a protective shield. Confident now that Stony would hesitate to chance hitting the woman, he snarled, “You ready to die for this bitch's honor? Well, I'll be glad to accommodate you.” He reached down with his free hand and pulled his pistol from his holster, taking his time in the process, enjoying the sudden look of desperation on Stony's face. Stony pulled his Colt, but still hesitated to use it for fear of hitting Flo. “This is the end of the line, cowboy. You shouldn'ta never drawed on me,” Strong said as he raised his pistol and took dead aim, failing to notice the gradual returning of awareness in the injured woman. Just then realizing what was about to happen, Flo kicked backward as hard as she could manage, bringing her heel up sharply between Strong's legs just as he squeezed the trigger. The surprised brute recoiled, emitting a painful grunt, as his shot missed his mark, catching Stony in the leg and dropping him to the floor.

Staggered by the kick that caused him to double over in severe pain, Strong released Flo and strained to straighten up again to finish Stony, who was trying to reach the pistol he had dropped when shot. Cursing the woman still at his feet, Strong managed to recover enough to gain control again—only to find himself facing a tall man with a scar across his forehead and a rifle leveled at his belly. “You!” he blurted.

Cord was almost staggered by the confrontation as well. Many years had passed, but the image was close enough to the one carried in his brain to make him certain. “Levi Creed,” he pronounced solemnly, causing Creed to hesitate. A long moment followed when the two men stared at each other. Cord became aware of a feeling of numbness throughout his entire body, from his boots to his brain, unaware that he had pulled the trigger until he felt the rifle buck in his hands. Creed grunted when the .44 slug ripped through his insides and he sank slowly to his knees, a look of profound disbelief etched upon his face. Rendered shocked and helpless by the bullet's damage, he was unable to resist when Cord walked up to him, pulled the pistol from his hand, and said, “Lottie Malone sends you her greetings.” Still on his knees, Creed attempted to speak, but could not. His wide, staring eyes seemed to be trying to ask a question, but the ribbon of blood that seeped from the corner of his mouth prohibited his ability to talk. Sensing his intent, Cord answered his unspoken question. “Cord Malone,” he said, “Ned's son, the one you left for dead when you put this scar on my head.” Levi's eyes seemed to open wider still, telling Cord that he remembered. “Good,” Cord said, and raised the pistol he had just taken from the dying man. Very deliberately, he pressed the muzzle against Creed's forehead and pulled the trigger. Then he stepped back and placed his foot against the dead man's chest and shoved the corpse over on the floor.

With a sudden need for air, Cord turned and walked out the door into the street. Behind him, he left a barroom rendered totally silent for a few moments until it then erupted with excited voices as Flo and Betty Lou hurried to Stony's side, and Clyde came from behind the bar to look at Levi Creed's corpse. He stood for a long moment, looking at the wide pattern of evil brain matter left upon his floor, unaware of the story it told.

He suddenly felt exhausted. His neck and shoulders were stiff and sore, a result of the tense moments just past, and he decided he'd better sit down somewhere before his legs refused to support him.
Levi Creed is dead and on his way to hell right now,
he told himself, still finding it difficult to believe. And suddenly he was without direction as to what he was going to do for the rest of his life. He thought about Stony, now under Flo's and Betty Lou's care. He thought about Lem and Blackie and the others. And he thought about Eileen. Unless he was completely loco, she had dangled the possibility of marriage before him. Maybe she was just having him on, taking advantage of his naïveté to amuse herself. Then, unexpectedly, Birdie came to mind, and the picture of her bravely firing her pistol from the narrow part of that gully near the river—and her eager willingness to help in any endeavor. Why that came to mind now was something he couldn't explain.
What in hell have I got to offer a woman in exchange for her hand in marriage?
he asked, and immediately answered,
Nothing
. “I ain't ready to get married, anyway,” he thought aloud.

He was still debating his future plans with himself when Betty Lou came out of the saloon looking for him. “Flo dug the bullet outta Stony's leg,” she said when she found him sitting on the edge of the short boardwalk. “He's gonna be all right, but we think maybe it would be best if he stayed here for a day or two to make sure he doesn't come down with lead poisoning or something.” When Cord made no reply in response, she said, “He wants to see you.”

“All right,” Cord said, and got to his feet. He followed Betty Lou back inside, where he found Stony sitting in a chair with his wounded leg propped on the table. He didn't appear to be suffering overly from his injury.

“I need you to help me get him upstairs to my room,” Flo said. “He'll need to take it easy for a couple of days.”

Stony did his best to affect a pitiable smile, but Cord wasn't convinced that his wound was that serious. “Sorry, Cord,” he said. “I ain't doin' so good right now. I reckon they're right. I better take it easy with this wound. I reckon you're gonna have to drive them supplies back to the Triple-T. You know I would try to make it if I thought I could.”

Cord smiled, just short of a smirk. “I know you would, Stony. You must be sufferin' somethin' awful.”

“I hate to put the job off on you,” Stony said, “but I knew you'd understand, the shape I'm in.” He paused to affect a painful expression. “With this wound and all,” he added.

“Oh, I understand,” Cord assured him. “Don't worry. You can count on me to get the supplies back to Slop. I'll leave that sorrel I rode in on at the stable, and you can ride him home when you're ready. The previous owner ain't got no use for him anymore.” He looked over at Flo, who seemed genuinely concerned. “Let's get him upstairs and put him to bed.” He glanced at Clyde, who was still standing beside Creed's body, gawking at the size of it. “Let me help get Stony upstairs, and I'll help you drag that piece of shit outta here.”

“I'd appreciate it,” Clyde said, still fascinated by the portion of Levi's brain that lay scattered across his floor. “Big as he is, we might need to hitch up a mule to do the job.”

•   •   •

Thinking the time might be right to make a little visit to the Roman-3, Cord drove the wagon back following the same route he and Stony had driven into town. When he reached the foot of the low ridge where the confrontation with Mace had taken place, he stopped and loaded the body in the wagon. Then he continued on to the Triple-T.

When he pulled up to the barn, Birdie came to the door of the hayloft where she had been working with a pitchfork, throwing hay in the stalls. “Oh my Lord!” she exclaimed in alarm upon seeing the corpse in the back of the wagon and thinking it was Stony. “Is he dead?” Not waiting for an answer, she ran back to the ladder and hurried down to help.

Cord waited to answer until she appeared in the barn door. “Yeah, he's dead, but that ain't Stony.” He was about to explain when Lem and Blackie came running from inside, so he waited to tell them all what had happened.

“Well, I'll be!” Blackie exclaimed. “Stony shot, too. How bad is it?”

“Not bad enough to slow him down much. He's healin' up just fine in the lovin' arms of two whores,” Cord said with a chuckle.

More concerned with another matter, Lem asked, “What did you bring that body here for?”

“Him?” Cord asked, and turned to glance at Mace's corpse. “I'm fixin' to return him to his owner.”

“Now, damn it, Cord,” Lem started to scold, but that's as far as he got before Cord held up his hand to silence him.

“No use wastin' your breath, Lem. I'm figurin' on endin' this damn range war with Roman-Three. That murderin' cattle rustler has gotten away with his killin' and changin' brands long enough, and I've had enough of it.”

“It ain't up to you alone,” Lem said. “All of us here have a part in it.” He looked at Blackie for confirmation. “It appears that the war is over, anyway. There ain't been no trouble for a few days now.”

“Whaddaya call that?” Cord asked, pointing to the corpse in the back of the wagon. Lem had no answer, and Cord continued. “As long as Striker is still on that piece of land, he's gonna be lookin' to hire on more men, and we're gonna go over the same ground again.”

“So you're fixin' to ride over to Roman-Three and kill him?” Lem asked. “That don't seem like war to me. That sounds more like murder. Maybe you oughta think about this some more.”

“Well, I'm thinkin' more about askin' him politely if he wouldn't mind packin' up and movin' someplace else,” Cord replied. When he saw Lem shake his head, disappointed, he said, “This is somethin' I'll be doin' alone.”

“It sounds like a dangerous thing to do,” Birdie commented, a genuine look of concern on her face.

“Maybe,” Cord replied, “if I get careless. We need to know what's goin' on over there just to be sure. We've all been sittin' around the last couple of days, pattin' each other on the back, sayin' we won us a range war.” He motioned toward Mace's body again. “It doesn't look like they've given up after all, does it? I'm just fixin' to do something one of us has to do.”

“Getting ready to ride off and do something that must be done again. Is that what I heard?” They all turned to see Eileen approaching from the house, her expression one of impatience. When no one answered her question, she leveled an accusing gaze at Cord. “Who is that?” She pointed to Mace's body.

“One of Striker's men,” Birdie answered. “He tried to kill Cord and Stony. Stony's shot.” She took a few steps away from Cord then in case Eileen thought she was too close.

“Oh,” Eileen responded when she heard Birdie's answer, realizing that she had come on a little strong. “Where is Stony? Is he all right?”

“He's fine,” Cord said. “I expect he'll be home in a day or two.”

“Good,” she replied. “Thank goodness for that.” She looked directly at Cord then. “One of the other men can go over to the Roman-Three to see what's going on. I think you've done more than your share.”

Cord shrugged. “I expect I'd better go, since it was my idea.”

She fixed him with a hard stare. “But I want you to stay here,” she said.

“I'll be careful,” he replied.

She gave him a long, searching look before softly speaking, her voice barely above a whisper. “You don't understand. If you ride off again after I've asked you to stay, then there may not be any reason for you to come back at all.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Birdie cringed while Lem and Blackie stared wide-eyed at the impetuous young woman. Astonished by what could only be an ultimatum, Cord could only gape in disbelief for a moment before speaking. “Well, I'd best be gettin' my horse saddled if I'm gonna make it to Roman-Three before hard dark. Blackie, gimme a hand throwin' that body on the back of a horse and tyin' it down, will you?”

“Sure thing,” Blackie responded, pretending not to notice when Eileen stalked off toward the house in anger.

•   •   •

It took a little longer than he planned before he was ready to ride. The primary cause of the delay was due to the stiffness of Mace's body and the difficulty of securing it to the horse's back. After hours lying in the snow, the progress of rigor mortis was well advanced and helped along by the cold. When he was finally satisfied that the body was secure, he headed out the gate, leading his grim cargo behind him.

He had not ridden but a couple of miles when he was alerted to a rider coming up fast behind him. One of the hands from Triple-T, or another one of Striker's bushwhackers? He couldn't say, but the rider was definitely following his trail, so he figured it wise to prepare for the latter. Nudging the bay to pick up its pace, he headed toward a narrow ravine that led to a gentle rise in the prairie and followed it until it took a sharp bend. As soon as he rode around the turn, he hauled back on the reins, pulling the bay around so that he was facing the way he had just come. He pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard and waited.

In a few minutes' time, he heard the beat of hooves on the snowy floor of the ravine. A few seconds later, the rider swung around the bend and pulled back hard on the reins to avoid colliding with him. Astonished, Cord blurted, “Birdie! Where the hell are you goin'?”

“I'm going with you,” she replied, once she recovered from the shock of almost running into him. She pulled the chestnut mare up beside his horse, gazing frankly into his face, waiting for his response. When he was too astounded to reply, she continued. “I figured you might need some help, even though you said you didn't.”

Finally finding words, he said, “Birdie, this doesn't make sense. You shouldn't be goin' with me. I don't know for sure, but I expect there's gonna be some real trouble before I'm through tonight. And I can't have you mixed up in it.”

She patted the six-gun holstered on her side. “You'll have an extra gun now.”

“Well, I appreciate it, but if I thought I needed another gun, I'da most likely asked Blackie or Lem to come with me. I can't take a chance on somethin' happenin' to you.” He shook his head and told her, “Tell you the truth, I was thinkin' I might decide not to even go back to the Triple-T.”

“That crossed my mind, too,” Birdie said. “That's the main reason I came after you.”

“To make sure I came back?”

“To make sure you didn't leave me, if you didn't come back,” she confessed.

Dumbfounded, and not sure she was really telling him what it sounded like, he asked, “Are you sayin' you wanna go with me to, you know, be with me?”

“I don't know,” she answered honestly. “I know that I don't want to be without you. I
decided that much is true.”

There was a long awkward moment of silence following her statement, with both parties surprised by the sudden turn of events. He gazed deeply into her eyes and suddenly she looked different to him as she returned his gaze. For the first time, he was aware of her intense blue eyes, the fine delicate nose and mouth, framed by her short dark hair that tended to curl over the top of her ears. “Your hair is growin' pretty fast,” he finally blurted, aware immediately after that it was a dumb thing to say at this moment.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” she replied. “I may really look like a girl before long.”

Still finding it hard to believe, he had to ask again, “Why do you wanna go with me? I'm not sure where I'm goin' from here. I might even go back to the Triple-T.”

“I just feel safe with you,” she said. “I'm not saying take me as a woman, if you're not interested in that. I'll just go with you as your partner, just like Dooley, or someone else. And if things work out for us to be more than that, then I'm all right with that, too. But if you don't want me to go with you, just tell me, and I'll go back.”

He realized at that moment, when she had given him a choice, that it was difficult to tell her to go back. After a moment's hesitation, he said, “Go on back to the house. I promise that when I'm through here, I'll come back and we'll talk it over.”

“You'll come back?” she asked. “You swear?”

“I swear,” he said, “if I have to walk.”

She gave him one emphatic nod to seal their agreement, then turned her horse around and headed back to the Triple-T. He watched her until she was out of sight, then turned the bay to the north again.

•   •   •

Finding it hard to clear his mind of his startling conversation with Birdie, Cord rode up the slope of the same twin buttes he had watched the Roman-3 from before. Darkness was setting in quickly now as he tied the horses to a clump of sage. It was his intention to lead the packhorse in after hard dark and dump the body on Striker's front porch, so he settled down to wait for the proper time. After approximately thirty minutes had passed, it occurred to him that he had seen no sign of activity around the house or barn. It caused him to sharpen his focus on the buildings. Still after another long wait, there was no one evident, no lantern light in the bunkhouse or the main house. The ranch seemed deserted, but where were they? His first thought was the Triple-T. But if Striker and his men were off to raid the Triple-T, he would probably have met them on the trail beside Blue Creek. Maybe the seemingly deserted ranch was in reality an ambush, a trap waiting to close on him when he rode in. He quickly discarded that notion. There was nothing that would lead them to think they were going to be raided, and there was no way they could know that he had planned a visit. Thinking of his promise to Birdie, he decided to play it safe and do nothing more than watch the place.