Cord agreed. Dooley had selected a good, stout horse with little time to look him over. A sturdy buckskin. Cord was confident that the horse was a gelding, but there had been no time, and not very good light, to confirm it at the moment of trade. Daylight confirmed his opinion when a brief inspection revealed the absence of reproductive equipment. “Looks like they gelded him pretty young,” Dooley remarked, “’cause he rides nice and gentle.” Cord tried to pacify his conscience by telling himself that it was Dooley who had stolen the rancher’s horse, but he couldn’t escape the knowledge that he was certainly an accomplice. He didn’t hold himself to be especially innocent in all his thoughts and actions, and surely his intention to kill a man was less than Christian. But in his mind, there were few men lower than a damn horse thief. Bill Dooley’s cheerful, guilt-free attitude, however, made it seem like nothing more than schoolboy high jinks and it was difficult to dislike the man.
Because of their delay to acquire Dooley’s buckskin, they did not reach Crow Creek until late morning the next day. The hardy creek, bordered by trees already shed of leaves, snaked its way across the prairie before them and confirmed Dooley’s prediction of available game—for there was ample evidence of recent deer activity at the very spot the two riders picked to cross the creek. They had obviously found a favorite watering hole. Thinking it a good time, and a perfect place to rest the horses while they tried their luck at possibly getting a shot at a deer, they led their mounts downstream and tied them in the bushes next to the water. Back at the water hole, they found some concealment in the midst of some berry bushes and sat down to wait.
It turned out to be a long wait. Sitting cold and still for over an hour, they were about ready to admit their poor luck when Cord sighted a small herd of deer approaching the creek from the west. At first, it appeared the animals were going to cross the creek a hundred or more yards north of the place where the two men sat huddled against the chill. “Damn,” Dooley whispered, “they ain’t comin’ this way.” It appeared that he might be correct; then the deer turned and came toward them, but stopped after closing the distance to within seventy-five yards. “Are you a good shot with that Winchester?” Dooley whispered.
“I don’t know,” Cord replied, also in a whisper. “I ain’t ever shot it before.”
Astonished, Dooley was about to express it, but Cord signaled for him to be quiet. The leader of the herd, a large buck, seemed reluctant to come closer, seeming to sense danger. At that unfortunate moment, Dooley’s new buckskin decided to call out with an inquiring whinny. Already sensing something amiss, the buck bolted, springing the rest of his herd in flight. Cord didn’t wait. Plunging out of the screen of bushes, he ran up the bank to get a clear shot at the fleeing animals, knowing he would have time for only one before they were out of range. He would have preferred a doe, but the best target he had was a young buck right behind the older leader. Cocking the rifle as he dropped to one knee, he took aim quickly and squeezed the trigger. The buck stumbled momentarily, wobbled drunkenly for a few more yards, before collapsing to the ground.
“Hot damn!” Dooley exclaimed. “That was a helluva shot! I swear, I’d already give up on havin’ venison for dinner.” He was satisfied that he would never have to ask again if Cord could handle a rifle. As for Cord, he held no illusions. He chalked it up for a lucky shot under the circumstances, but he saw no reason to volunteer that to his traveling companion. Like Dooley’s, his belly was grumbling for lack of attention and he was relieved that he would not have to hear it for much longer.
“Was you japin’ me when you said you ain’t ever shot that rifle before?” Dooley asked while they were skinning the deer.
“Nope,” Cord replied. “That was the first time. I just traded an old Henry rifle for it, and I ain’t had a chance to see how it shoots till now.”
“Kinda like I just traded for that buckskin,” Dooley said with a mischievous grin.
“Yeah,” Cord replied, “kinda like that.” He thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let Dooley think he stole the rifle. It might further satisfy the old outlaw that Cord was of the same stock as his father and the apple had not fallen far from the tree.
They delayed their trip a day to butcher the deer and smoke the greater portion of it over a fire to be tied up in packs. Dooley feasted on the liver and heart, while Cord contented himself with the animal’s flesh. The liver and heart were considered delicacies by most, especially Indians, but Cord would only eat the insides of an animal if starvation was the alternative. By the end of the day, both men were sufficiently sated. With bellies full, they turned in by the fire to give their overworked stomachs time to digest.
Ready to begin anew with morning’s first light, they continued their westward journey, crossing a sizable creek that Dooley called Owl Creek, then another about five miles past that he couldn’t call by name. Lofty mountains loomed in the distance, their snowcapped peaks testament to the fact that winter was already in the higher elevations. In spite of the weighty issues on his mind, Cord could not help a natural feeling of awe and an awakening of a latent desire to know their peaks and valleys. His mind, set adrift by the majesty of the distant horizon, was drawn back to his reality by a comment from Dooley.
“I expect we ain’t more’n a couple of miles from the road into Fort Collins,” he said. “Last chance to get some more coffee beans before we go up the river into the mountains.”
“I reckon we could,” Cord said. “But it might be the last coffee we’ll buy, ’cause I’m runnin’ short of money.”
“I need to do a little shoppin’ myself,” Dooley said. His comment brought an immediate reaction in the form of a questioning face on his partner. “I didn’t say I had any money to buy anythin’,” Dooley quickly explained. “I’m just curious about what’s for sale.” He flashed a wide grin to reassure Cord. “If I had a cent on me, I’da sure kicked in to buy some of the supplies.” Cord’s response was no more than a grunt. He was becoming accustomed to Dooley’s nonsensical remarks. Dooley went on. “It ain’t a good idea to ride on into Fort Collins—too big a risk of somebody wantin’ to ask a lot of questions. But there’s a saloon and a general store on the north end of town where we can make a quick stop and head right back outta town.”
“If you’re afraid somebody might recognize you, I can ride in alone and get coffee beans. You can wait for me on the edge of town.”
“Well, like I said,” Dooley replied, “I need to do a little shoppin’ myself. If we stay outta the middle of town, I ain’t too worried.”
They followed the road toward town until coming to a small store fifty yards from a saloon that appeared to be doing a fair business late in the afternoon. They pulled up in front of the store, but Dooley didn’t dismount. “I’m gonna look around a little while you’re in the store,” he said. “I’ll meet you back the way we rode in, if I ain’t back here when you’re finished.”
“Suit yourself,” Cord said. He could see that Dooley was eyeing the saloon, but he wasn’t about to spend any of the money he had left to buy any whiskey. He thought he knew what the scruffy old outlaw had in mind, but doubted his odds of having one of the saloon patrons spring for a drink. He looped his reins over the rail and went into the store.
“Afternoon,” a thin man with a shock of black hair and a mustache to match called out to him when he entered. “What can I do for you?” He laid a feather duster on the counter to give his full attention to his customer.
“Need some coffee beans,” Cord answered, then scanned the shelves while the store clerk went about the business of weighing out the beans. He decided he could also afford some dried beans to go with the smoked venison he was packing, so he told the clerk to weigh him out a couple of pounds.
His purchases completed, he stepped out on the front stoop and glanced at the saloon. He was startled by what he saw. There at the hitching rail where half a dozen horses were tied, he saw Dooley’s
buckskin pulled up to the rail in the middle. Hardly able to believe his eyes, he watched while Dooley unhurriedly pulled the saddle off a dun horse and nonchalantly threw it on the buckskin’s back. While he was tightening the cinch strap, a man walked out of the saloon and stood talking to Dooley. After a few short moments, Dooley stepped up in the saddle, turned the buckskin’s head toward the road, and rode away at a slow lope. Looking quickly back at the door of the saloon, Cord expected to see someone charging out to give chase, but there was no one. Dooley touched his finger to his hat as a salute as he rode by the store. After another look back toward the saloon, Cord wasted no time in jumping into the saddle and riding after him.
When out of sight of the store, Dooley kicked his horse into a full gallop. Cord urged his horse to catch him. After about a mile, racing north on the road, Dooley reined the buckskin back to a walk, allowing Cord to catch up to him. “We’d best leave the road now and head for the Cache la Poudre,” Dooley told him. “There’s gonna be some feller lookin’ for his saddle pretty soon.”
“I thought you’d gone loco,” Cord said, “in broad daylight, right out in front of that saloon.”
Dooley chuckled heartily. “Hell, nobody thinks you’re stealin’ somethin’ when you ain’t tryin’ to hide it and actin’ sneakylike.”
“I saw one fellow stop and ask you somethin’. What the hell did you tell him? He just walked away and let you steal that saddle.”
The question brought on an amused response and another chuckle. “He asked me what I was doin’,” Dooley said. “I told him that dun belonged to a feller in the saloon, and I was just leaving him there so he could pick him up. ‘So you’re leavin’ a horse,’ he says. I said I sure am—gonna tie him right here to the rail just as soon as I get my saddle off.”
“And he believed you?”
“I reckon so, ’cause he didn’t go runnin’ back in the saloon to tell nobody. I guess he was concerned about somebody stealin’ a horse, so when I didn’t take one, he figured everythin’ was all right.”
“Damn,” Cord swore, amazed by the blatant theft, performed with the same carefree attitude as his earlier horse trade. “Damn,” he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief.
“How you like my saddle?” Dooley asked then, still laughing at Cord’s amazement. “It came with a Winchester like the one you carry.” He pulled the rifle halfway out of the scabbard so Cord could see it.
“We’d better get the hell outta here,” Cord said, and nudged the bay with his heels.
• • •
They struck the river a little before sundown with enough daylight to set up their camp for the night. Peaceful and wide at this point after it flowed down from the mountains that spawned it, the river was bordered with a thick grove of trees that offered them protection from the chilly night. Once a good fire was going, and the coffeepot chuckling, they settled down in their blankets with time to talk about the events of the day. Dooley related the story of his acquisition of a saddle once again, enjoying it more than the first telling. “A man can get away with a helluva lot more in broad daylight than he would at night. Folks just get naturally suspicious when it’s dark.” He laughed good-naturedly when Cord told him he was crazy. “Me and your pa used to do a lot of things crazier’n that when we was a helluva lot younger.” He took a long swallow of coffee and lay back on his new saddle. “I’m gonna ride a lot better with my feet in the stirrups again. Tomorrow we’ll follow this ol’-lady river up Cache la Poudre Canyon where she’ll start showin’ her feisty side. When we get higher up to where we’re goin’, she’ll turn into a fickle bitch that had just as soon dump your ass as look at you.”
“How far is Rat’s Nest?” Cord asked.
“It’ll take us a day,” Dooley said. “It ain’t that it’s that far. It’s just that there’s a roundabout trail to find it. You ain’t likely to stumble on it accidental-like, and even if you did, there ain’t but one way into the clearin’. So any strangers comin’ in better have an invitation, or they’ll play hell tryin’ to get back out. You’ll see when we get there.”
“What makes you think there’ll be somebody up there now?” Cord wanted to know.
“’Cause there’s almost always somebody there,” Dooley replied. “There is a chance nobody’s there now, with winter comin’ on as close as it is. Most of the time the only fellers holin’ up there in the winter is fellers who’ve got the law hot on their trail.”
• • •
Cord found Dooley to be accurate in his speculation regarding the amount of time it would take to climb up to the outlaws’ hideout. The little man led him up a series of game trails, often coming back to the river, which became more and more defiant as the incline steepened, forming long areas of white-water rapids. Most of the day was spent climbing the mountain before they reached a stone ledge beside a waterfall, where Dooley announced, “Well, we made it. This is it.”
His announcement confused Cord, for he could not see that they had reached anything beyond yet another stretch of rough water, with a lot of mountain still to climb. There were no cabins, no clearing even. With a question on his face, he turned to see a grinning Bill Dooley. “There’s nothin’ here,” Cord commented.
“Ya see,” Dooley said with a chuckle, “I told you nobody ain’t found the Rat’s Nest that ain’t supposed to.” When he was satisfied that his new friend was properly baffled, he turned in his saddle and pointed toward what appeared to be the stone face of a cliff. “See that cliff yonder? We’re gonna ride right through it.” He laughed when Cord looked skeptical, then nudged his horse and rode straight for it. Cord followed, not seeing the narrow passageway hidden behind a large pine until Dooley guided the buckskin around to enter it.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Cord murmured to himself when he entered a crevice wide enough for a man on horseback to pass through, and about twenty yards long. When approaching the other end of the stone passage, Dooley reined his horse to a stop, pulled his rifle from the scabbard, and fired three times in the air in quick succession. “Hold on a minute,” he called back to Cord. They waited for what seemed a long time, standing in the dark passage, and then they heard one lone shot from the other side of the passage. “Somebody’s home, all right,” Dooley said to Cord. Then he called out loudly, “Bill Dooley and Cord Malone.” He was answered by a voice that Cord could barely hear, muffled by the thickness of the rock wall. “Come on,” Dooley said to Cord, and rode out of the passage.
Leaving the crevice, Dooley and Cord rode into a wide clearing surrounded by thick pine forests. There were two log cabins with a corral between them. The clearing itself was a field of stumps from which the logs to build the cabins came. Waiting on either side of the passage, each kneeling behind a stump, two men watched them carefully. “I swear,” Nate Taylor exclaimed, “it is Bill Dooley.” He got up and walked toward them. His partner on the other side of the opening got up as well. “Dooley, you ol’ buzzard, I heard you was in jail,” Nate said.
“Who’d you say this feller is?” his partner, John Skully, asked.
“This here is Ned Malone’s boy, Cord,” Dooley said. Turning to Cord then, he introduced his friends. “Cord, this is John Skully and Nate Taylor.” They both nodded to Cord and he returned the gesture. Dooley continued. “Cord here came along just in time to keep me from havin’ to run all the way up this mountain on foot. How ’bout you two? How come you’re holed up here?”
“’Cause Nate thought it’d be a good idea to hold up the stagecoach at Horse Creek,” Skully volunteered.
“There you go again,” Nate came back. “We both thought the two of us could take that stage, and we coulda if our luck had been a little better.”
“We was lucky to get outta there without gettin’ kilt,” Skully said. “Bob Allen was ridin’ shotgun, and a deputy sheriff from Cheyenne was inside the coach. We had to run for it, but the bad part was Bob recognized Nate, so
we had to make ourselves scarce, holed up here on this mountain.”
“It mighta been different if more of the old gang was still together,” Nate said. “We’da most likely shot Bob and the deputy and been done with it. Hell, Levi Creed passed through this way last week. If he’d been here when we held up the stage, it mighta been a whole different story.” A thought occurred to him then, and he said to Cord, “Levi and your daddy used to be big friends back when we had the old bunch together.”
“Most of the boys is dead, in prison, or hidin’ out like us now,” Skully commented. Neither he nor the other two outlaws noticed the slight twitch in Cord’s eye and the clenching of his fists when the name Levi Creed was dropped.
Feeling the increase of his heartbeat and the tightening of the muscles in his arms, Cord cautioned himself to calm down enough to play his part. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Levi Creed,” he said. “Did he say where he was headin’?”
“Well, not exactly,” Skully replied. “He was talkin’ about maybe headin’ back up in the Black Hills—said he’d had pretty good luck before up there, and he didn’t see nothin’ around Cheyenne any better. I think ol’ Levi don’t realize he’s gettin’ old, just like the rest of us. He asked me and Nate if we wanted to go with him. I know you and your daddy mighta been friends with Levi, but to tell you the truth, I never felt easy riding with that man. He’s liable to take a notion to shoot you, just ’cause he ain’t got nothin’ else to do.”
With his emotions more under control now, Cord asked, “Was he ridin’ a chestnut sorrel? He was ridin’ one the last time he came home with my pa. I think he always rode a chestnut.”
Skully looked at Nate and shrugged. “I never knew Levi to be partial to chestnuts or any other color horse. Did you, Nate?”
“Nope,” Nate replied. “He was ridin’ a dapple gray when he was here last week.”
Mark of the Hunter Page 8