The first issue to be discussed was the shortage of manpower. They were far short of the number of hands needed to take care of a herd as big as theirs, which was no doubt the reason Harlan Striker had thought he could overrun them. “We’re in a lot better shape than we were before Cord and Dooley came to help.” He turned aside to comment directly to Muriel, “Except for the loss of Mike, ma’am.” She nodded with a sad smile for his courtesy. He went on then. “We’re just gonna have to take care of the herd with the seven of us.”
“I can ride,” Birdie interrupted. “Muriel and Eileen don’t need me at the house, anyway. I’m just one more in the way. I can work in the barn, too. That would give you eight riders to watch the cattle.”
Her suggestion sparked a reaction from everybody. “I don’t know . . . ” Lem hesitated, caught by surprise. “Tendin’ cattle’s a cold, hard job this time of year,” he said, “not exactly right for a slim little lady.”
“I can ride and I can shoot,” Birdie insisted. “Ask Cord and Dooley.”
“That’s a fact,” Dooley quickly verified. “We’ve seen her in action. She didn’t back down when the shootin’ started.”
“I reckon I might be more help in the barn, or ridin’ herd, if one of the women wanted to do the cookin’ for the hands,” Slop volunteered as he carried his big gray coffeepot around the room, filling each outstretched cup.
All eyes shifted then to see Muriel’s reaction. It was Eileen who responded, however. “I can do the cooking,” she quickly agreed. “Mama can help, if I need it.”
Lem was astonished by the positive attitude exhibited by everyone. “I don’t know if we need to go that far,” he said. “Slop’s already got the rheumatize so bad he’s stove up pretty much, especially on these cold mornin’s we’re into now.” He looked around the room to judge their reaction. “I think with Birdie helpin’ out, the eight of us can handle it. Whaddaya think?” He saw nods of agreement from everyone. “Good. I’m sure we’ll get more help when Mr. Murphy comes home. He’ll most likely be hirin’ on some more men.”
The meeting had appeared to be over when Slop brought one more thing to their attention. “If I’m gonna keep feedin’ you boys, I’m gonna need somebody to go to town. I’m gettin’ mighty low on supplies, especially coffee, flour, and sugar. Mike usually sent one of you in with a wagon to pick up what I needed, but I reckon with him gone, we all forgot about it.”
“Well, we sure don’t wanna run outta grub,” Stony sang out. “I reckon we’d best send somebody in to town tomorrow.”
“I can do that,” Birdie popped up again. “I can drive a team of horses.”
As before, everyone looked at her in surprise. Then they shifted their gazes toward Dooley, who had vouched for her before. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I ain’t never seen her drive a wagon, but if she says she can, I sure as hell wouldn’t doubt it. I’ll ride in with her,” Dooley volunteered. He was thinking that it had been a little while since he had had a drink. And he had a couple of extra rifles he had gained from the battle with the Roman-3’s crew that he felt sure he could sell or trade. “I can give her a hand if she needs it, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a little extra protection along in case somethin’ comes up.”
“That sounds like a good idea to me,” Lem said. It would be a help if the young lady could pick up the supplies, and he was a lot more comfortable with someone along in case she needed help. “Let Slop make you a list to give Homer Tisdale at the general store. He’ll put it on Mr. Murphy’s bill.” He looked around then and noticed the look of dismay in Billy’s eyes, and couldn’t resist japing him. “We’da sent you, Billy, but you ain’t much good with just one arm.”
“This don’t slow me down none,” Billy immediately refuted. “It’s just about ready to come outta this sling, anyway.” He blushed when Birdie gave him a smile.
Outside, after the meeting, Cord had a quiet word with Dooley. “You sure you wanna be walkin’ around town carelessly? You know it ain’t been long since there were likely notices sent out about your little set-to with the army. I expect they might still be glad to have you show up.”
Dooley chuckled at the thought. “You’re startin’ to sound like an old mother hen,” he joked. “Don’t worry. I ain’t lookin’ to make any noise in town. I might have me one drink, but I’m just goin’ along to make sure Birdie’s all right.” Changing the subject abruptly when something caught his eye, he said, “Look yonder.” Cord turned to look in the direction Dooley indicated to see Birdie driving a team of horses toward a small farm wagon on the other side of the barn. Cord started to go help her, but Dooley caught him by the elbow. “Wait a minute. Let’s see if she can hitch ’em up to that wagon.” Cord humored him and they stood by while the frail-looking young lady backed the team on either side of the wagon tongue. “I swear,” Dooley marveled, “ain’t she somethin’?”
“She’s just full of surprises,” Cord said. The young lady did seem to know a little bit about damn near everything. He was beginning to wonder if she might be many years older than the sixteen years she claimed, and the thirteen years she looked. “Look after her,” Cord said, “and stay outta trouble.”
“Yes, ma’am, mother hen,” Dooley answered as Cord untied the reins and prepared to climb in the saddle.
• • •
They had gotten a later start than they would have liked, because of the meeting, but Dooley figured they could still get to Ogallala, get their supplies, and start back home in time to make supper—and this was with time to let him visit the Crystal Palace for a couple of snorts. Birdie insisted on driving the horses, intending, Dooley supposed, to demonstrate to him that she was capable of the task. It was all right with him. He contented himself to sit on the seat beside her and make sure she kept the wagon heading in the right direction, since she had never been to Ogallala. They pulled into the town after a two-and-a-half-hour drive, and went directly to the general merchandise store owned by Louis Aufdengarten. Homer Tisdale greeted them from behind the counter. “Howdy, folks. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve come to pick up some things for the Triple-T Ranch,” Birdie told him. She reached inside her coat pocket and produced the list Slop had told Muriel to write for him. “Lem Jenkins said you could just put it on Mr. Murphy’s account.”
Homer studied the note carefully, especially Muriel’s signature. He had seen her name on lists before, but he had never seen either of the two standing at the counter this day. “You folks must be new at the Triple-T,” he said.
“That’s a fact,” Dooley answered. “Me and Birdie ain’t ever been in your store before.”
“How’s Mike gettin’ along these days?” Homer asked as he pulled a flour sack from beneath the counter.
“Well, we hope he’s doin’ just fine,” Dooley replied, “since he’s been dead for a couple of months now, but I expect you already knew that.”
“Yes, I knew,” Homer sputtered. “No offense meant, it’s just that—”
“None taken,” Dooley interrupted. “You don’t know us from President . . .” He paused, trying to remember.
“Hayes,” Birdie prompted with an impatient shake of her head.
“Dog bite it,” Dooley snorted. “I can’t never get that feller’s name in my head.”
Homer had to laugh. “I reckon you folks are getting this list for the Triple-T, all right. I won’t have no molasses for a couple of days.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be in the business of buyin’ guns, would you?” Dooley asked then. “I’ve got two fine Winchester rifles in the wagon that I’d like to sell.”
“Tell you the truth,” Homer said, “this is a bad time to be trying to sell ’em. Right now there ain’t that many folks around looking for rifles. Now, it’d be a different story come spring and summer.”
“I ain’t lookin’ for much,” Dooley said, the disappointment evident in
his tone. “Maybe just enough to buy a little whiskey and some new britches. These is gettin’ wore down till they’re a mite breezy.”
Always interested in a bargain, Homer said he’d take a look at the weapons. So the three of them grabbed some sacks of supplies and went out to the wagon. While Birdie went back in for a second trip, Homer and Dooley looked at the Winchesters. “They’re in fine shape,” Dooley commented while Homer checked the action of one of them.
“If I had to guess, I’d say you came by these in that little war Triple-T had with Roman-Three,” Homer said.
“Maybe,” Dooley said.
Homer took a cautious look up and down the street to make sure no one was watching. “Tell you what. Let’s bring these inside and I’ll see if we can strike a deal. I know I can fix you up with a pair of new britches, maybe trade for some other things and a little cash money.” He took another look up toward the Crystal Palace, where there were three horses tied to the hitching rail. “You might wanna get all your stuff loaded and get on out of town, ’cause there’s three of Harlan Striker’s boys up at the saloon now. It wouldn’t do for them to get a look at these rifles. I don’t see anything on ’em that would identify ’em, but they might get an idea where you got the rifles if they know you’re from the Triple-T. And I’d hate to see you folks get into any trouble.” He didn’t mention it, but he didn’t think Striker’s men would look kindly on him for trading for the rifles, but it was too good a deal to pass up.
This was not good news to Birdie and Dooley. It was especially disappointing to Dooley because the main reason he volunteered to accompany Birdie was that he wanted to have a couple of drinks of whiskey. The Crystal Palace was the only saloon in town that remained open during the winter, and the possibility that he couldn’t get the whiskey he desired only made him want it more. “Dang,” he muttered, “I’ve had my mouth set for a shot of whiskey for quite a spell now.”
“Well, it doesn’t sound like a good idea to get one now,” Birdie advised.
The craving for strong spirits took hold in Dooley’s mind, and he started reasoning with himself, downplaying the potential hazard of a quick couple of shots. “Hell,” he suggested, “them fellers don’t know me from President What’s-his-name. All that shootin’ and killin’ that went on happened in the dark. They ain’t gonna know me any more than I’d know them.”
“What if it’s one of those three that jumped us when we got here that first night?” Birdie asked, aware that Dooley was letting alcohol do the thinking. “They saw us, all three of us, you, Cord, and me—came right up to that gully we were camped in.”
“Well, yeah . . . ” Dooley hesitated. “Maybe they did. But, hell, we shot two of them jaspers, and the other’n mighta been one of ’em that got shot in the fight with the cattle.”
It was plain to see that Dooley’s desire for a drink had grown into a genuine necessity, and Birdie was convinced it was due to the fact that it was denied him. “Why don’t I just go in the saloon and buy you a bottle?” she suggested. “They might not remember me, since I was scrunched down in the head of that gully.”
“No, I don’t want you to do that,” Dooley said emphatically, realizing that he was making noises like some liquor-craving drunk. “I ain’t sendin’ you in no damn saloon.” Growing more and more angry with himself and reluctant to turn tail and run to avoid contact with riders from the Roman-3, he decided a couple of shots of rye were all he had wanted right from the beginning, and he would get them if he wanted. “You put the rest of that stuff in the wagon,” he said. “I’m gonna walk up to the saloon and get me a drink of whiskey, and I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” That said, he didn’t allow time for further discussion, turning at once and striding purposefully toward the Crystal Palace, leaving Birdie to shake her head in frustration.
Mace Tarpley, Sam Plummer, and Tom Tyler sat at a back table, working on a bottle of rye whiskey and whiling away a couple of hours before starting back to the Roman-3. Striker had sent them into town to meet the noon train. But the train had come and gone with no sign of the hired killer from Cheyenne. There was a telegram, however, that told them that Strong would be on tomorrow’s train instead of today’s. “Striker ain’t gonna like this,” Sam said for at least the third time since the train left Ogallala.
“There ain’t nothin’ he can do about it,” Mace said. “The man wired him and said some unfinished business set him back a day. Ain’t no skin off our backs. Just means we get to come to town again. Beats doin’ chores back at the ranch.” He picked up the bottle and poured himself another shot, then held the bottle suspended for a few moments when something caught his attention. “Well, I’ll be damned. . . .” His voice trailed off as he tried to recall having seen the man who just came in the door and walked up to the bar. “You ever see that man before?” Neither Sam nor Tom had. “I have,” Mace continued. “I can’t say for sure whether it was in some other town or someplace, but I know damn well I’ve seen him before, and I’m thinkin’ it mighta been with some of that Triple-T outfit. I aim to find out.”
“What’ll it be, partner?” Clyde Perkins greeted Dooley when he approached the bar.
“I’ll just have a drink or two of some rye if you’ve got it,” Dooley said.
Clyde turned to select a bottle from the shelf behind him and poured the drink. “Ain’t seen you in town before. Just passin’ through?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Dooley replied, tossed his drink back, and set the empty glass on the counter. With a slight flick of his hand, he indicated a refill, his throat having been rendered too hoarse to speak by the scalding liquid. “Whew!” He exhaled and reached for his glass, suddenly aware of the three men who had now walked up behind him.
“I think I smell a stink like the Triple-T,” Mace said. “What about it, boys? You smell that stink?”
“I do, now that you mention it,” Sam said, moving up to the bar on one side of Dooley, while Tom moved up on the other.
“How ’bout it, mister,” Mace asked, “you ridin’ for the Triple-T?”
Painfully aware that his stubborn desire for a drink had resulted in placing his behind in imminent danger, Dooley continued to face the bar. After a few moments when he could think of no way to extricate himself from the situation he had gotten himself into, he answered, “Triple-T? Don’t believe I’m familiar with that outfit. You got me mixed up with somebody else. I’m just passin’ through on my way to Cheyenne.”
Mace’s brain was working fast, putting scraps of memory together, and it came to him then. “Mister, you’re a damn liar. The last time I heard you talk, you was aimin’ a rifle at my back and tellin’ me you was gonna shoot me.”
“Nah, that couldn’ta been me,” Dooley maintained. “I never been through here before. I’ll just finish my drink and be on my way.”
“Like hell you will,” Mace said, and grabbed the back of Dooley’s collar.
Knowing there was very little chance he would survive the confrontation, Dooley spent only a split second to rue his foolish decision before acting. One hand picked up the shot glass full of whiskey. With the other, he grabbed the nearly full whiskey bottle and in one swift move, he turned to splash the whiskey in Mace’s face and landed a blow to the side of Tom’s head with the bottle. The bottle bounced off Tom’s skull unbroken, sending him to his knees. Dooley turned as quickly as he could to swing the bottle at Sam, now behind him, but Sam stepped back out of reach, drawing his pistol as he did. With no option but to charge, Dooley did so in a desperate attempt to save his life. As he closed with him, Sam pulled the trigger, doubling Dooley over and dropping him to the floor.
Frantic, Mace grabbed Clyde’s bar rag and tried to wipe the burning alcohol out of his eyes. Furious, he drew his handgun and put another bullet in Dooley’s back while the wounded man lay helpless on the floor. Then he quickly turned to Clyde, who had backed away from the bar in fright. “You saw it,�
� Mace bellowed. “The son of a bitch attacked us. We didn’t have no choice.” Clyde showed no sign of protest. “So you just remember the way it was. You saw him try to kill me and Tom.” He glanced at the man holding his head and struggling to get up off his knees. “Come on, Tom. We’re done here. Ain’t nobody to blame. The bastard tried to kill us and got hisself kilt instead.” They walked out of the saloon, climbed on their horses, and left town, leaving the bartender to stand staring down at the still body of Bill Dooley.
Down the street, where Birdie was inside the store waiting, they heard the two gunshots. Immediately alarmed, she ran outside, looking toward the saloon, Homer Tisdale right behind her. Knowing the shooting had to involve Dooley, she started up the street, running. When halfway there, she saw the three Roman-3 riders hurrying from the saloon to jump in the saddle and hightail it out the end of the short street. She was not close enough to shoot with accuracy with the pistol she wore, even if she was sure who fired the shots and whether or not Dooley was the target.
Bursting through the door left open by the three riders, Birdie discovered Clyde Perkins still standing over Dooley, staring down as if deciding what he should do about him. “Dooley!” Birdie exclaimed, and ran to him. “Is he alive?” she demanded of Clyde.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I don’t reckon. He ain’t moved.”
“Go get the sheriff!” Birdie ordered. “They’re getting away!”
“Sheriff Gillan ain’t here,” Clyde told her. “He’s gone huntin’—said he’d be gone till tomorrow.”
“Damn!” Birdie swore, frustrated. “What good is he if he’s not around when you need him?”
“There ain’t much call for him to do much sheriffin’ this time of year,” Clyde answered. He didn’t bother to tell her that Barney Gillan had not been on the job for very long, anyway.
Mark of the Hunter Page 20