Mark of the Hunter (5 page)

“I wasn't worried about any such thing. . . .” Muriel's voice trailed off as she called after her, even though her face flushed slightly in embarrassment over her obvious ploy to get her daughter's mind off of the quiet young man.

•   •   •

“Mike said you ain't gonna be ridin' night herd tonight,” Stony said when he walked into the bunkhouse, where Cord was packing up his few belongings in his saddlebags. He watched Cord for a few moments, then commented, “Looks like you're fixin' to pack up and go somewhere.”

“That's a fact,” Cord said. “That's the reason I ain't gonna ride night herd.”

“Where you goin'?”

“Got somethin' I need to tend to,” Cord replied.

“What?” Stony persisted. “You ain't said two words ever since you and Lem came back.” When Cord merely shrugged in reply, Stony asked sarcastically, “You on some secret business for the government, or somethin'?”

“Personal business,” Cord replied, stuffed his clean shirt into the saddlebag, and headed toward the door. “If I get it done, I'll most likely be back.”

“Damn, Cord,” was all Stony could think to say. His quiet friend sometimes confounded him.

On his way to the barn, Cord saw Lem Jenkins coming to meet him. He was carrying his rifle. “I was just comin' to find you,” Lem said. “You all set to leave in the mornin'?”

“I reckon,” Cord replied. “Figured I'd best take a look at my saddle and see if it'll hold up for a while yet. What are you fixin' to do with that rifle?”

“Like I said, lookin' for you,” Lem said. “See if I can talk you into a trade for that old Henry you're carryin'.”

Cord was confused. “My rifle? What are you talkin' about? Why do you wanna trade for this old rifle? That's a Winchester '73 you're totin'.”

“I ain't talkin' about tradin' for good,” Lem was quick to explain. “I'm just talkin' about loanin' it to you till you get back. If you wind up findin' the feller you're goin' after, you're gonna need a weapon you can count on, and that still might not be enough to keep you from gettin' yourself shot. But it'll sure as hell give you a rifle you can depend on, better'n that old rifle that don't shoot half the time.”

Cord was dumbfounded. “I can't take your rifle. I don't know how long I'm gonna be gone. Hell, I might not come back at all.”

“Don't argue,” Lem insisted. “It'll make me feel better, knowin' I could help you out a little bit.” He shoved the Winchester in Cord's hand and took Cord's Henry before his confused young friend could resist. “Now, good huntin' and be careful you don't get yourself killed.” Not waiting to hear Cord's protests, he turned and continued on toward the bunkhouse, leaving his friend to stand amazed.

Standing in the kitchen door, Eileen saw Cord come from the bunkhouse and head toward the barn. She threw her shawl over her shoulders, grabbed the egg basket, and got as far as the kitchen door again before hesitating when she saw Lem approach him. Impatient, she waited for the two men to finish their conversation, and when they parted, she stepped out the back door and headed to the barn. She found him in the tack room, checking the girth strap on his saddle. “Looks like you're gonna have to repair that pretty soon,” she said, startling him.

“Sorry,” he apologized for jumping. “I didn't hear you come in the barn.” He looked at the strap again. “I reckon I'd better before I find myself sittin' on the ground one day.”

“Papa says you're thinking about leaving us.” She made an effort to be cheerful in her tone.

“Did he?”

“Are you?” she pressed when he failed to answer her question.

“Leavin'? Yes, ma'am,” he replied, “after breakfast in the mornin'.” He glanced around him in the tack room, wondering if there was something he wasn't noticing. “Was there somethin' you needed help with?”

“No. I was just checking to see if the chickens had laid any more eggs in the barn. A couple of them made some new nests here.” Without pausing, she returned to her questioning. “Papa said you aren't telling anyone where you're off to and why. Is that so?”

He hesitated to answer, not wanting to appear to be rude. “It's somethin' that needs to be done, that's all. And I reckon I'm the only one who can do it.”

“My goodness,” she remarked, “it sounds important, and you're the only one who can do it?” There was a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

He wasn't sure if she was being sarcastic or not, and he wished at this point that he had simply left without telling anyone he was going. But he knew that wasn't the proper way to quit his job. “Look, miss, I don't want—” That's as far as he got before she interrupted him.

“When are you going to stop calling me miss or ma'am? My name is Eileen. You must think I'm about forty years old.”

“No, ma'am, I don't think you're hardly that old.”

“Then call me Eileen.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Exasperated, she demanded, “What's my name?”

“Eileen,” he answered, perplexed by her seemingly disturbed attitude.

“Well, there, you said it. I was beginning to think you couldn't form the word
Eileen
. But you can, so from now on that's what you must call me.” She took a step back and looked at him as one would gaze at a problem child. “You are planning to come back, aren't you? I mean, whenever you finish with this important job you have to do.”

He took a minute to answer, unable to understand why she was interrogating him in such fashion. Stony and Slick were always talking about what a fine-looking woman Eileen was, but no one ever suggested that she was a little bit loco. It would be a shame if she was touched in the head, because Stony and Slick were right. She was a fine-looking woman. He was not at all blind to that, but he never fantasized anything about her for the simple reason that he figured she was far above men like him—that and the fact that, for some reason he could not explain, he always felt uncomfortable when she came around. There was no room in his life for a woman, anyway, as long as he had his vow to complete. “I reckon I'll be comin' back,” he finally said. “I ain't got nowhere else to go.”

“And that's the only reason you'd come back here—because you don't have anywhere else to go?” She was pressing him hard, hoping he might realize there was a better reason to return to the Triple-T.

“I guess so,” he answered, puzzled by her question.

“Well, when you're deciding whether you are or not, here's something to think about.” She stepped quickly to him, rose on her tiptoes, and kissed him hard. She stepped away then, spun on her heel, and was gone, leaving him standing, confused and dazed, trying to figure out what had just happened. Whatever possessed her to kiss him, and why? Of all the issues he had encountered in his young life, women were the subject he knew the least. He suddenly had a strong desire to change his mind and forget about leaving. After a few moments of indecision, however, he reminded himself of his sworn obligation to find Levi Creed and punish him for the death of his mother. He knew there would never be peace in his mind until that promise to her was fulfilled. He hesitated a moment more when another thought occurred. There was a good possibility that Mike's daughter, Eileen, might be
tetched in the head
. He decided on that explanation for her impulsive kiss, although it would be difficult to dismiss the strange tingling he imagined he still felt on his lips.

Equally uncertain about what had just happened in the tack room, Eileen questioned her sanity as she walked back to the kitchen.
What on earth was I thinking?
she asked herself. The trouble was, and she knew it, that she was not thinking rationally. The sudden impulse to kiss him was the only way she could think to shock him out of his constant emotionless detachment. She smiled to herself when a picture of her horrified mother formed in her mind.
She would have had a cow,
she thought. She shook her head then, wondering if she had just opened a door that would have best remained closed. After all, her mother was right—they had known absolutely nothing about Cord Malone before he set foot on their ranch. But she had to admit that the strange young man had stirred feelings in her, at least enough so that she wanted to know more about him. Maybe she was wrong, but she thought that she sensed a decent soul behind the scarred forehead—
and malleable enough so that I could shape him any way I wanted,
she thought. “Hell,” she swore aloud, “he's leaving and we'll probably never see him again. It was just a kiss, anyway.”

“What did you say, dear?” Muriel Duffy asked when Eileen walked into the kitchen.

“Oh, nothing,” Eileen said. “I was just thinking that it's getting colder outside.”

•   •   •

The morning broke chilly and clear, and Cord was saddled up soon after taking advantage of a hearty breakfast provided by Slop, who was one of the few, along with Stony and Blackie, who made it a point to offer Cord a casual “so long.” Settled in the saddle, Cord nodded to Lem, who was standing near the corner of the house, as he rode out toward the road. Lem returned the nod and stood watching him for a few moments as he led the tired old sorrel he had first ridden in on behind him. He chuckled to himself when he thought about it. Mike had told Cord he needed a packhorse, and he might as well take his old sorrel since the horse wasn't of much use as a cow horse. A few more moments passed before he realized that Eileen had come out on the porch and stood watching Cord's departure. It occurred to him then that it was not typical of the young lady, and it got him to thinking. After a few more moments, he walked over to stand at the corner of the porch. “He'll be back,” he said.

Startled by his comment, for she had not seen him at the corner, her mind having been occupied with other thoughts. “How do you know that?” she asked.

“He's got my rifle, and he's too doggoned honest not to bring it back.”

Following the directions Lem had suggested, Cord rode west along the South Platte for about thirty-five miles looking for the point where Lodgepole Creek branched off. With one stop to rest his horse, he arrived at the confluence of the creek and the river a little before sundown, so he made his first night's camp there. He started out early the next morning, leaving the South Platte and following Lodgepole Creek. Lem had told him that the creek would take him all the way to Cheyenne and to figure it to be a little over a hundred miles from that point. Cord planned to bite off the major portion of that distance in one day's time, hoping to make Fort Sidney late that afternoon. With a good horse under him, and a dependable rifle now in his possession, he felt confident that he would somehow find the man he hunted. He was not flush with cash, but he had a little, thanks to his scrimping and saving, which had provoked predictions of eventual despair from Stony and Blackie. Slop had stuffed a sack of coffee beans in his war bag to be boiled in the small tin coffeepot he had been given by his grandmother. That, coupled with a supply of antelope jerky and a slab of sowbelly, he figured he had all he needed to survive, with the exception of maybe some dried beans. Lem had told him that there was a settlement near the fort, so he figured he could buy some beans there, and maybe a little bit of salt.

Created primarily to protect track-laying crews for the Union Pacific from Indian attacks, Fort Sidney had progressed from an original blockhouse with tents pitched nearby to a modern-day fort with quarters for three companies of soldiers. It appeared sizable to Cord at the end of a long fall day over a frosty prairie that seemed endless in all directions. With no business to conduct with the army, however, he guided his horses toward the town of Sidney and a stable, thinking they could use a night inside and a portion of grain.

He was greeted by the stable owner, Dewey Gillespie, when he pulled the bay to a halt and dismounted stiffly in front of the door. “How do?” Gillespie asked. “Looks like you've been ridin' for a spell.”

“That's a fact,” Cord responded.

“It's startin' to get a little chilly, ain't it? We're gonna turn around one of these mornin's and find old man winter lookin' right down our backs. I swear, this mornin' there was a thin little layer of ice on that water trough out yonder.”

“Is that a fact?” Cord replied.

“Yes, sir,” Gillespie went on. “I can feel it comin' in my bones. We're in for a rough winter this year.” He paused to allow room for Cord's comments. When there were none, he asked, “You lookin' to stable your horses?”

“Yes, sir,” Cord answered, “if the rate ain't too high.”

“Fifty cents with a ration of oats throwed in,” Gillespie said.

“Fair enough. How much for me
and
the horses?”

“Another fifty cents,” Gillespie said. “Same as the horse, only you don't get no oats.” He laughed good-naturedly at his remark, then studied the somber young man as Cord fished in his coat pocket for the money. “First time in Sidney?” he asked. Cord nodded, and Gillespie went on. “You gonna stay awhile, or just passin' through?”

“Just passin' through,” Cord answered, “on my way to Cheyenne.”

“If you're lookin' for a place to get a hot supper, Maggie's Diner is right up the street. That's about the best place for the money, and the cookin's better'n that over at the hotel—and a helluva lot better'n what you'd get at the saloon.”

Cord nodded again while he considered the suggestion. He had not planned to spend any more of his money than was absolutely necessary, and already he had decided to put his horse in the stable for the night. The prospect of a good hot meal was tempting. He had not been away from Slop's cooking long enough to become fully adapted to camp meals of sowbelly and coffee again. “I might do that,” he finally said.

“Just tell 'em Dewey sent you,” Gillespie said, “and maybe they'll shave a little more offa the price.”

“I'll do that,” Cord said, and led the bay into the stable to the stall Gillespie pointed out, where he pulled the saddle off and dropped it in the back corner.

Gillespie picked up a pitchfork and tossed some more hay in the stall. “Make your bed a little softer,” he volunteered.

“Much obliged,” Cord said, pulled the Winchester from his saddle scabbard, and headed toward the door. “Dewey sent me, right?”

“Dewey sent you,” Gillespie confirmed. “She'll take care of you.” He nodded toward the rifle in Cord's hand. “I doubt you'll need that in the diner.”

“This rifle don't get outta my sight,” Cord replied. He had every intention of returning the Winchester to its owner.

There were two women cleaning up the small diner when Cord walked in. The only customers were four soldiers seated at a table near the front door. From the number of tables yet to be cleared of dirty dishes, it appeared that business had been brisk. “Looks like I might be a touch late to get somethin' to eat,” Cord said, still holding the door open. “Dewey sent me,” he remembered to say then.

One of the women looked to be older than the other, so he assumed that she was Maggie, for whom the diner was named. She set the tray of dishes she was holding on one of the tables, wiped her hands on her apron, and looked beyond him to see if he was alone. When it appeared that he was, she took another moment or two to look him over. “No, we can still feed you.” She paused before commenting, “Dewey sent you, huh? Well, I reckon we can scrape you up a plate of food. Set yourself down right here and we'll see what ain't been throwed out yet.” She called out to her helper, who was just walking through the kitchen door carrying a tray of dirty dishes. “Bessie, you might as well put another pot of coffee on.”

In just a couple of minutes, the woman came back with a plate piled high with potatoes, beans, and two thick slices of ham. “This ain't hardly had time to cool down yet. We just emptied it outta the pots.”

Bessie walked up beside her and filled his cup with the dregs of the old pot. “You're new in town, ain'tcha?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Cord said, “just passin' through.”

As Maggie placed the plate before him, she introduced herself. “I'm Maggie Gillespie,” she said. “Did Dewey say he was comin' to get his supper anytime soon?”

“Ah, no, ma'am, he didn't say.” It was obvious to him now why Gillespie had recommended this diner so highly. Cord looked at the plate piled high with food, and imagined the woman in the kitchen scraping every scrap out of the pots and pans. “I hope there was a little bit left for his supper.”

Maggie chuckled. “Did he look like he was missin' many meals?” Cord pictured the round little man he had just left in the stable, but Maggie didn't wait for a response. “Dewey's supper's warmin' in the oven. He oughta be here directly.”

Cord propped his rifle against the wall behind his chair and sat down to eat. After a few mouthfuls, he decided that Dewey wasn't far off when he had praised the cooking at the diner. He wondered if that was the reason the four soldiers were eating there, instead of the mess hall at the fort, but it occurred to him then that at this hour the mess hall was probably closed. All four had turned to look him over when he had walked in, pausing in their conversation until he propped the rifle against the wall. Cord took a sip of the scalding-hot coffee, unable to prevent a grimace as he set the cup back on the table. Noticing his reaction, Bessie paused in her clearing of a table and grinned at him. “I expect that's a little strong. It was the bottom of the pot I made about two hours ago.”

“It has got plenty of bite,” Cord replied. “That's a fact.”

She laughed then. “I've got a fresh pot on the stove—oughta be ready in a minute or two.”

“Don't even bring mine till it's done.”

Cord turned to see Dewey coming in the door.

“Tell Maggie I'm about to starve to death, so hurry up with my supper.”

“Hmph,” Bessie grunted, “I believe we already throwed your supper out.” It was obvious that the women were accustomed to joking with the rotund stable owner.

Dewey sat down at the table with Cord. “Mind if I join you?”

“Reckon not,” Cord replied.

“How are the vittles?” Dewey asked. “Did I lie?” With his mouth full, Cord could only shake his head in response. “The little woman can cook,” he said, and leaned back to give his wife a wide grin as she approached with a plate piled equally high to the one she had served Cord. “I see you're still feedin' soldiers,” he said to Maggie.

“Yes,” she replied. “That's the third bunch we've had tonight. If any more of 'em show up, they're gonna be out of luck, 'cause we're closin' up as soon as those four are finished.” She returned to the kitchen to get the coffeepot.

“They've been lookin' for an escaped prisoner,” Dewey explained. “They had ol' Bill Dooley locked up in the guardhouse over at the fort for stealin' a couple of horses, and I reckon they musta sent troopers out in all directions tryin' to find him. They musta split 'em up in details of four men. I reckon they didn't figure Dooley would be too tough to handle. From what I hear, some years back he was a real hell-raiser, though. Used to ride with that Sam Bass bunch. But I reckon a few years in the territorial prison softened him up a little. He musta had some fire left in him, though, 'cause he managed to steal a cavalry horse and take off. From what I hear, it was when they was escortin' him to the hospital after he come down sick.” He gestured toward the soldiers at the other table. “I reckon they could tell you the straight of it, if you was interested.” Cord wasn't. He continued eating, pausing only when Maggie came from the kitchen with the coffeepot and two clean cups.

They ate in silence for a while until both men began to get full, and then Gillespie rekindled the conversation. “Did you say you was on your way to Cheyenne?” Cord nodded, but continued eating. Dewey studied the face of the seemingly serious young man, especially the jagged scar across his forehead. It appeared to be an old scar and not from a recent injury. “You don't talk very much, do ya?”

“Every time I got somethin' I need to say, I reckon.”

Since Cord didn't appear to be irritated by the questioning, Dewey asked another. “How'd you come by that scar on your forehead? That looks like it mighta hurt somethin' fierce.”

Cord glanced up to meet Dewey's gaze, the feeling finally striking him that the round little man was getting mighty inquisitive. “Got hit in the head when I was a kid,” he answered him.

Dewey waited a few moments for more, but when it appeared there were no details to follow, he shrugged and said, “I reckon I'm askin' a lot of questions that ain't none of my business. I better shut up and let you eat.”

Not wishing to seem unfriendly, Cord said, “Nothin' to tell, just some tomfoolery kids get into.” He finished up his supper and had another cup of coffee before paying Maggie for the meal. Satisfied that he had gotten his money's worth, he headed back to the stable to sleep. Dewey came by later to tell him to put the bar on the inside of the door, and to close the padlock on the outside if he should happen to leave before he came back in the morning.

•   •   •

Cord was saddled up and leading the bay out of the stable when Gillespie showed up the next morning. “Mornin',” Dewey greeted him. “If you're thinkin' 'bout gettin' some breakfast, Maggie will be open in about thirty minutes.”

“Thanks just the same,” Cord replied, “but I reckon I'll be on my way. I'll stop to eat somethin' when I rest my horses.”

“Well, good luck to ya,” Dewey said. “Maybe you'll get back this way again sometime.”

“Maybe so,” Cord said as he stepped up in the saddle, turned the bay back toward the wagon track by the creek, and started out again for Cheyenne.

Like on the morning before, there was a heavy frost on the rough road along Lodgepole Creek and a chilly wind sweeping across the prairie, unimpeded by the occasional bluffs of limestone. He pulled the collar of his heavy jacket up close around his neck, even as the sun reflected from the silvery whiteness of the frost-covered prairie caused him to squint. The big bay horse maintained a steady pace, seemingly unconcerned with the cold while his breath formed miniature clouds of white vapor around his muzzle. Thinking primarily about his packhorse, he decided not to push on too far before stopping to let it rest. After a ride of about three hours, the sun climbed high enough to take a little of the chill from the air, so Cord began to look for the best place to stop. He finally settled on a long grove of trees that formed a belt along the creek, thinking there would be wood there for a fire.

The sorrel was not carrying much of a load, because Cord had few possessions and not a great lot of supplies, but he took the packs off anyway. After pulling his saddle off the bay, he let the horses drink before building his fire and charging up his coffeepot. In a short amount of time, he was warming his insides with the fresh, hot coffee and chewing on a stick of antelope jerky.

By nature a man very much aware of his surroundings when away from other people, Cord felt the soft current of the creek and the slight rustle of cottonwood leaves overhead. He sat real still, absorbing the quiet that suddenly shrouded the creek bank when the breeze stopped for a few moments. There was something else he sensed, something that was not part of the creek or the trees, and he slowly pulled his rifle up to lie across his legs when he heard the bay whinny. Without moving, he spoke. “You gonna hang back there in the trees, or you gonna come on in by the fire?”

“I'm comin' in,” a voice called from behind him. “Don't shoot. I ain't got no gun.”

“Come on, then,” Cord said, and turned to face the direction from which the voice had emanated. Although there was no outward sign, he was somewhat startled by the response because he had been going on nothing more than the sense of a presence. In a moment, a man came from behind a large cottonwood. On foot, and true to his word, without weapons of any kind, his visitor came eagerly toward the fire. Haggard and limping, he moved up beside the flame and reached for its warmth. “You look like you could use some coffee,” Cord said. He dumped the last little bit from his cup, refilled it with fresh, and handed it to the eagerly awaiting man.