“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.
There was almost no activity around the barn, bunkhouse, or house, with only an occasional person moving between the buildings. It was almost like a ghost town, so much so that Cord had to wonder if most of the men were off on another raid. He had seen no one during his ride from Blue Creek, so if rustling was the plan for this evening, they must have taken a different path. The longer he sat and watched, however, the more he became convinced that Striker had no more than a handful left of his original crew. Sitting cross-legged, Indian fashion, in a dry wash that gave him some protection from the cold wind, he ate the biscuit and ham that Slop had given him, wishing he had a cup of hot coffee to wash it down with.
He remained on his perch at the top of the butte until all signs indicated that the Roman-3 was settled in for the night. During the entire time, he had counted no more than three or four men. No one had ridden out, and no one had come in. If he still has a gang of men, they’re sure as hell somewhere else, he thought. He decided then that he and his friends had successfully ended the threat from the Roman-3. He got to his feet, untied the bay, and started back to the Triple-T.
Chapter 13
While peace returned to the Triple-T, and the small victorious crew settled back into the routine of keeping the cattle alive during the coming winter, Mace Tarpley rode into Cheyenne on a matter that would impart great impact upon the late Mike Duffy’s cowhands. He wasted no time in going directly to the telegraph office to learn if the operator had had any communication with a man known simply as Strong. “That man,” the operator responded, “yeah, he comes in here from time to time—scary-lookin’ man—told Polly over at Strutter’s place that he’s a lawman workin’ for the government.”
When told that Strong had been in the day before to inquire about his messages, Mace was afraid he might have been a day too late. “Probably not,” the operator told him. “He didn’t have any messages, but he likes to stay a couple of days at Strutter’s when he comes to town. I expect you might find him there playing cards.” Curious, the operator asked, “What line of business is Strong really in? He doesn’t ever say much, just picks up an occasional message somebody’s left him and walks out. I’d ask him what he does, but he doesn’t look like the kind of man who likes questions.”
Mace grunted in response. “Huh, he’s the kind of man that minds his own business, which I reckon we all oughta do.” He turned and went out the door.
Mace was very familiar with Strutter’s Gentlemen’s Club across the tracks from the depot. He had spent time there himself when he had some money in his pocket. It was the middle of the afternoon when he looped his reins over the hitching rail before the large two-story house and stepped up on the porch. He walked into the front hall and was met almost immediately by a large woman named Polly, who greeted him cordially, even while eyeing him skeptically from head to toe. “Hey, honey,” she said with an obvious lack of enthusiasm, “you look like you might be lost. You lookin’ for a drink, or a card game, or something else?”
Mace flashed his tobacco-stained grin for her, oblivious of her look of disdain. “I might be lookin’ for a drink or two at that, but first I’m lookin’ for a feller that usually stays here when he’s in town—feller name of Strong. I’ve got some business to talk over with him. Is he here?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said. “What kinda business have you gotta talk over with him? You’ll have to take off that pistol you’re wearin’ and park it in the closet before you can go into the parlor. The owner don’t allow any weapons in the parlor.”
Mace snorted a chuckle. “Hell, lady, I ain’t lookin’ to shoot him. I just wanna talk some business.” He unbuckled his gun belt and held it out to her.
“Put it in there,” she said, and pointed toward the closet, preferring not to take it herself. When he had dropped it on the floor, he followed her to the parlor. She held the door open for him, but when he stepped inside, she disappeared.
Mace stood near the door and looked the room over. There were four tables at one end of the room. Three of them were in use with poker games in progress. Two of the three tables had the usual spectators, while the other had no lookers standing around. This was the table that attracted Mace’s attention, for he recalled something that he had been told by someone—he didn’t remember who. Strong did not tolerate spectators hovering around the table when he played poker, especially the women who worked at Strutter’s—with their subtle signs; the raising of an eyebrow, the tug of an ear, the wink of an eye, and any number of signals employed to separate the unwary stranger from his cash. The soiled doves that hovered over the tables at Strutter’s were well aware of the man’s violent temper, so there was little need to warn them to give him space.
Ignoring the players at the other two tables, Mace sidled over closer to the one with no spectators and four players. He had seen the man once before, but even had he not, Strong would have been easy enough to pick out. Big, even sitting down, he dwarfed the other three cardplayers at the table. A seemingly permanent scowl upon his face relaxed only slightly whenever he won a hand, as deep-set eyes, dark as coal, watched every movement made by his opponents. It was hard to guess the age of the time-weathered face, but the gray in his mustache was testimony that he was not a young man. It also told Mace that whatever the number of gunfights he had been engaged in, he had obviously come out on top. He seemed to take no notice of Mace standing there until he declined to call the bid and tossed his cards in. Then he fixed his cruel eyes upon Mace and growled, “Find you someplace else to stand gawkin’.”
Mace’s initial impulse was to withdraw immediately, but the promised payment of one hundred dollars made him stay to deliver his message. “I need to talk some business with you,” he said.
This caught Strong’s attention. “Is that so?” He took a moment to give Mace another looking-over. “Who sent you lookin’ for me?”
“I met you once up toward Custer City,” Mace said, hoping it would jog his memory, but there was no indication of it in the eyes glaring at him from under bushy black eyebrows.
“What’s your name?” Strong demanded.
“Mace Tarpley,” he replied. There was still no recognition apparent in the impatient face. “I got some important business to talk over with you, but it needs to be done in private.”
Strong glared at him then, trying to decide. After glancing at his modest stack of chips on the table, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to hear what the scruffy-looking jasper had to say. “After this hand, and one more, I’ll hear what you’ve got to say. But, damn it, don’t stand there gawkin’. Go over to the bar and wait.”
“Right,” Mace replied dutifully, and retreated to the bar. The bartender said nothing, but stared at him, awaiting his pleasure. “Gimme a shot of whiskey,” Mace demanded, trying to regain some measure of bravado. He finished his first drink and ordered another before Strong threw his hand in after five more had been dealt.
He got to his feet so abruptly that he knocked his chair over, and without bothering to set it upright again, he strode over to the bar. “Buy me a drink,” he ordered. Mace immediately nodded to the bartender. When Strong had his drink, he picked it up and moved down to the end of the bar, out of earshot of the bartender. “Now, what’s this business you’re talkin’ about?”
Mace told him of the range war over near Ogallala and the paid killer the Triple-T had brought in to kill off his boss’s ranch hands. Strong had gotten propositions similar to that before, so he was only mildly interested until Mace told him the payoff was five hundred. That got his complete attention. “Five hundred, huh?” Strong responded. “Cash money or gold coin?”
“Whatever way you want,” Mace said, even though he didn’t know how Striker was going to give it to him, and he figured it didn’t matter. That would be Striker’s problem.
Strong nodded thoughtfully to himself. The timing was right. He was running out of money fast, and had considered heading back up in the Black Hills. “This feller you want me to take care of, what’s his name?”
“I don’t know his name,” Mace answered. “Tall feller, almost as big as you, has a scar runnin’ across his forehead from here to here.” He indicated on his own forehead. “But I ain’t heard what his name is.” He shrugged indifferently. “That sound like anybody you know?”
Strong thought for a few moments before replying, “No, don’t call to mind anybody I’ve ever run across. If he was anybody worth worryin’ about, I’da heard of him.” He nodded confidently to assure Mace. Then he asked, “Five hundred, right? Just for killin’ one man?” When Mace guaranteed him that was the deal, he nodded again, satisfied that it was going to be an easy way to make a payday.
“I’m gonna need some supplies. I expect you’ll be buyin’ everythin’ I need, cartridges and so forth.”
“Hell, man,” Mace replied. “Ain’t you got a cent to pay for your own supplies? I ain’t got no money. My job was to bring you Mr. Striker’s offer. He didn’t give me enough money to buy food for myself, let alone give you money for supplies.” He was already tiring of Strong’s money-grabbing ways.
Strong didn’t say anything for a long moment while he fixed his gaze upon Mace, much as a bobcat measures a rabbit. “A man has expenses in this business,” he said in a low, calm voice. “And he expects to be paid for those expenses. The five hundred is for the job. I’ll need money for my expenses. That’s money above the price for the job.”
“I expect you can take that up with Mr. Striker,” Mace said. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with that part of it.”
Strong took another minute to study this messenger from Harlan Striker. Judging from the appearance of the man, Mace was the typical outlaw, thief, or gunman Strong had ridden with over the years. His curiosity was aroused. “Just this one jasper? Why don’t you shoot him?”
Mace wasn’t prone to tell him that he had no desire to meet face-to-face with the man who had almost single-handedly rubbed out almost all of Striker’s gang. He wouldn’t say that he hadn’t given the idea some thought, but the memory of that dark, stormy night when his men’s saddles kept coming up empty had etched an image on his brain of a demonic killer straight from hell. To answer Strong’s question, however, he tried to show his indifference with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “I offered to, but Mr. Striker had this notion that it would be best to hire it done by an outside man, who would do the job and be gone the next day in case the law came nosin’ around.”
“Is that a fact?” Strong replied with skepticism. “Well, I’ll go shoot this gunman for your boss.” He had an idea as to why Mace didn’t do the job himself, and it was considerably different from the way Mace told it. This problem that Mace’s boss wanted eliminated must be a genuine hell-raiser of a gunman. Striker might be ripe for money over and above the five hundred. After all, that was his initial offering, so it was important to make him know that he wasn’t dealing with any ordinary assassin. “Here’s the way this deal is gonna be handled,” he told Mace. “There’s a lot of folks wantin’ my services. I ain’t just settin’ around here playin’ cards. I’ve got a job I’ll have to take care of before I leave town.” He didn’t, but it was the picture he wanted to paint for Harlan Striker. “I�
�m not gonna waste my time on somebody’s promise to pay me, so when your boss wires me one hundred dollars, I’ll be on the next train to Ogallala, ready to get the job done.”
“I thought you’d ride back with me,” Mace replied.
“When I get an advance on the job is when I’ll know for sure your boss is a man of his word,” Strong told him. “He might as well know that if he wants the best professional, it’ll cost him more than the piddlin’ amount he has to pay a common bushwhacker. And from what you’re tellin’ me, this jasper’s too much for the common back-shooter to handle, and I’ll guarantee your boss that I’ll get the job done. If I don’t, it won’t cost him nothin’. Now, that’s the way I work, so you’d best jump on your horse and get back to your boss. I ain’t gonna waste my time around here for long.”
“Hell, it’s a three-and-a-half-day ride back to the Roman-Three from here,” Mace complained.
“Then you’d better get started.”
• • •
Lem Jenkins, as the eldest of Will Murphy’s ranch hands, called a meeting of the remaining crew, thinking it a good idea to see where they stood now that they had apparently defeated Harlan Striker’s move to consume the Triple-T. The past week had brought no new attacks on the men or the cattle, so everyone was in attendance, even Muriel, Eileen, and Birdie. “I ain’t tryin’ to take over Mike’s job,” Lem started out, “but I thought we oughta see what’s what before Mr. Murphy gets back in the country. If somebody else wants to do the talkin’, that’s fine by me.” There was quick and unanimous agreement by all present that he was the logical choice to assume the position as foreman until Murphy returned. This was due primarily to the reason that, at thirty-eight years of age, he was by far the oldest and most experienced, with the exception of Bill Dooley and Slop. Dooley was older than Lem, but he was just newly arrived at the Triple-T. He was hardly likely to accept such a position at any rate, even had it been offered. And nobody knew exactly how old Slop was, but he already stood slightly bent over because of what he said was rheumatism. “All right, then,” Lem continued, “let’s get started.”
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