Mark of the Hunter

by Charles G. West

  Equally aware of the problem that could be caused for Cord, Dooley spoke up when Billy seemed not to understand. “Cord did what he thought he had to do to keep all of us from gettin’ killed. It ain’t gonna do him no favor to go around braggin’ about how many men he shot—give him a reputation he don’t need and set him up for every two-bit gunslinger who wants a reputation for hisself.”

  The light of understanding shown in Billy’s eye and he nodded soberly. “Let’s take care of the horses and get us somethin’ to eat before Slop throws it out,” Lem said, satisfied that everyone understood the problem that could have been caused for Cord. Turning back to Billy again, he suggested, “Maybe you’d rather have Muriel take a look at that shoulder first.”

  “I’d rather eat first,” Billy said without hesitation.

  • • •

  Lem rapped lightly on the back door and waited for one of the women to answer. In a minute, the door opened and Muriel was standing there. “What is it, Lem?”

  “I come to ask you if you wouldn’t mind takin’ a look at Billy’s shoulder,” Lem said. “He got hit in the shoulder last night and the bullet’s still in there. He ain’t hurtin’ real bad, but I’m afraid if Slop or one of us other men goes diggin’ around in that wound, we’ll just make it a bigger mess.”

  “Why, of course I’ll look at it,” Muriel replied. “Where is he?” She was accustomed to being called on for the more serious doctoring.

  “Down at the bunkhouse.”

  “Bring him up to the house,” she said. “It’ll be easier to tend to him here where I’ve got everything I need.”

  Eileen and Birdie, both in the kitchen, overheard the conversation taking place at the back door. Still feeling a slight chill coming from Eileen, Birdie had made every effort to try to help out, but there was little that she had been able to contribute so far. She saw this as an opportunity, so when Lem left to get Billy, she offered her help. “I can tend to Billy’s wound for you. I’ve got small hands, so I won’t make too big a mess of the wound, and I’ve got a little experience tending bullet wounds.” She hoped they would not ask how she came by her experience, for she had no intention of admitting that it was two occasions when she had helped Mother Featherlegs remove lead from a couple of the madam’s outlaw customers.

  “Why, that would be very nice of you, Birdie,” Muriel said. “Are you sure you don’t mind doing it?” Birdie assured her that she did not, and Muriel chuckled as she added, “I’m sure Billy would prefer it.”

  “I’ll heat up a pan of water, if you’ll show me where some clean rags are,” Birdie said.

  “I’ve already put some water on the stove,” Eileen said. “I’ll get you some rags.” She went at once to the pantry.

  Eileen pulled some scraps of old shirts from the top shelf of the pantry and turned to find Birdie confronting her. “I wanted to say something to you,” Birdie told her. “I wanted to make sure I wasn’t stepping on your toes when I volunteered to take care of Billy.” Eileen met her statement with a puzzled expression. Birdie continued. “I think Billy’s kinda cute, but I don’t want to make you mad if you’ve got any notions about him.”

  Eileen’s puzzled expression transformed suddenly into one of pleasant surprise. “Billy?” she responded. “No, I’ve no notions about Billy one way or the other.” Still astonished to find that Birdie apparently had no designs upon Cord Malone, she sputtered for a moment before giving Birdie a genuinely friendly smile. “You’re right. Billy is cute, but don’t give it another thought. I’ll not be in your way.” She gave her a little squeeze on the arm. “Now, let’s get you all set up to take care of your patient.” Birdie returned Eileen’s warm smile and followed her back to the kitchen table, smug in the knowledge that she had thawed Eileen’s frosty demeanor toward her. Maybe Billy was cute, but she had no particular interest in him. As far as Cord was concerned, she hadn’t made up her mind. In the short time she had known him, she had to admit that she naturally looked to him for her protection. It was hard not to.

  Within a few minutes, Billy showed up at the kitchen door. As Muriel had suggested, he seemed very pleased to find out that his doctor was to be the sprightly young lady with the short hair. Birdie sat him down at the kitchen table, close to the stove, so he would not be too cold with his shirt off. She made short work of the procedure, probing quickly with a kitchen knife until she felt the nick of the blade on the slug, then grasping it with her slender fingers, extracted it and held it up for him to see. With nothing for the pain except one long pull from a bottle of rye whiskey and a splash on the wound after the extraction, Birdie soon had the wound dressed. Through it all, Billy, although experiencing considerable pain, did his best to remain silent in an effort to impress the ladies. As a reward for his valor, Birdie sat down at the table with him for a cup of coffee.

  “Have a cup of coffee with us,” Birdie offered when Eileen walked back in the kitchen. “I was just about to ask Billy if he and the others were heading back out tonight to watch the herd.” She was confident that the question would interest Eileen.

  “Not all of us,” Billy answered as Eileen poured herself a cup of coffee and sat with them. “Just Cord—he’s plannin’ on watchin’ the trail down along Blue Creek to see if they’re thinkin’ about tryin’ anything tonight.”

  His comment provoked Eileen’s attention. “He was out last night with Lem and the new man and you,” she said. “Shouldn’t it be someone else’s turn tonight?”

  “That’s what Lem told him,” Billy replied, “but it was his idea. He said he’d catch a little sleep this afternoon and head back out tonight.”

  Damn, she thought, wondering how she was going to accidentally bump into him if he was going to be sleeping most of the afternoon. Oh well, he’ll have to wake up to eat before he goes. I’ll think of some way to talk to him.

  • • •

  “I’m going down to the barn,” Eileen announced casually. “I believe those chickens are finding some new nesting places.” She could think of no other excuse.

  “I’ve got to go down to the smokehouse,” Birdie said. “I can go by the barn and check for you.”

  “No, I’ll do it,” Eileen said. “I wanna get outside for a few minutes to get some fresh air. Why don’t I cut the ham for supper, as long as I’m going anyway?” She had been beginning to fear that Cord was never going to come out of the bunkhouse. So when she had finally seen him walking down to the barn, carrying his rifle in one hand and a cloth bundle that Slop had undoubtedly given him in the other, she had hurriedly picked up her shawl and headed for the door.

  “You’re gonna need this,” Birdie said, holding out a butcher knife.

  “I guess that would be handy,” Eileen replied as she paused to take it, flushing slightly, hoping Birdie didn’t make anything of her apparent rush to get out the door. Hurrying through the chilled afternoon air, she went straight to the barn, passing the smokehouse on the way. Inside the barn, there was no sign of anyone, so she went to the last stall on the right, where Cord had sometimes kept his favorite, the bay. The stall was empty. “Damn!” she murmured, and thought, Where the hell did he go?

  “Whaddaya fixin’ to do with that knife?”

  Startled, she jumped, and turned to see him coming from the tack room with his saddle over his shoulder. “Use it on you, if you come up behind me like that again,” she informed him.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You didn’t scare me,” she immediately came back, reverting to the stony disposition she usually reserved for him. “I just didn’t know you were there.”

  “Sorry,” he repeated. “I’m fixin’ to get out of your way right now.” He turned toward the door, then paused and turned back to her. “Is there somethin’ I could help you with?”

  “No. Some of the chickens are building nests somewhere I haven’t been able to find, and I thought
they might be in some places I haven’t looked.”

  He cocked his head and attempted a smile. “What were you gonna do when you found ’em, kill ’em?”

  “No, Mr. Smart Aleck, this is to cut some ham for supper,” she replied. When he nodded and started to leave again, she stopped him once more. “We haven’t seen you up at the house since you came back—Lem and Billy, but not you.”

  “Well, I reckon I didn’t have any business up at the house,” Cord said.

  “I think I should tell you that Mama and I appreciate the fact that you came back to help the other men. I didn’t think to tell you yesterday.”

  “I figured I owed your daddy that much,” he said. Tiring from holding his saddle while they talked, he dropped it to the ground. “How are you folks gettin’ along with your daddy gone? Are you gettin’ along all right with Birdie?”

  “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 in
tensify 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.”