Mark of the Hunter (9 page)

Farther up the street was a livery stable, and this was where the deputy took Dooley's buckskin. In a few minutes, the deputy came out of the stable and walked back to the sheriff's office, leaving Cord to think about the best way to solve his problem. Giving the bay a gentle nudge, he slow-walked the horse down to the corner of the street and stopped again to think about the situation. He noticed a small diner a little way up the street that proclaimed itself to be the Supper Table, and thought,
If you lock him up, you gotta feed him
. And maybe that little café was the place that took care of that.

He tied the bay at the rail and stepped inside the door. A pleasant aroma of food cooking teased his nostrils as he stood for a moment deciding which of the empty tables he would choose. The choice was his because he was the only customer in the place. A pleasant-looking lady, appropriately plump, with her gray hair pulled back in a bun, came from the kitchen, having heard him come in the door. “Good afternoon,” she said cheerfully. “You're either late for dinner or early for supper.”

“Yes'um, I guess I am at that. I was just hopin' I could maybe get a cup of coffee if it wouldn't be too much trouble.”

She smiled cordially. “No, of course not. I'd be glad to get you a cup of coffee. Would you like a slice of apple pie to go with it?”

“Uh, no, ma'am. Like you say, it's a little early for supper.”

She disappeared into the kitchen to reappear a few minutes later with a steaming cup of coffee and a saucer with a slice of pie on it. “You take sugar and cream with your coffee?” she asked.

“No, ma'am, just black, but I didn't order the pie,” he replied.

“I know,” she said, “but you looked to me like you needed a slice of my apple pie, so I'm giving it to you. There's no charge.”

“That's mighty kind of you, ma'am. That pie sure looks good, all right, but I can pay you for it.” The pie did look good to him, and it had been a long time since he had had anything to eat other than deer jerky and beans. But he had already spent more of his money than he had intended on some beer and a shot of whiskey for Dooley.

“Nonsense,” she told him. “I want you to have it—no charge, but you have to tell me that it's the best apple pie you've ever eaten.” Something about the solemn young stranger aroused the motherly instincts in her soul, for she certainly knew nothing about the character of the man. With his broad shoulders and square jaw—and the ominous scar across his forehead, he could have been the most vile of outlaws. But somehow she didn't think he was—just a young cowboy down on his luck.

Her comment brought a grin to his face. “Yes, ma'am,” he said. “I can tell that just by lookin' at it.”

“I think I'll have a cup of that coffee with you,” she said, and went back into the kitchen to get a cup. “If you don't object, I'll sit down with you,” she said when she returned. Without waiting for his reply, she pulled a chair out and sat down. “This way I can make sure you eat every crumb of that pie.”

He grinned at her again. “You don't have to worry about that.”

She smiled and took a tiny sip of the hot coffee. “Mighta let this boil a little too long, Fanny,” she said as a girl passed by with an armload of dishes for the long table in the center of the room. “It's a bit strong.” Turning her attention back to Cord, she asked, “You're new in town, aren't you?”

“Yes, ma'am, I'm just passing through.”

“Going to the Black Hills?”

“Yes, ma'am. How'd you know that?”

She laughed. “That's where everybody's going.” She took another sip of her coffee, glanced over her shoulder to see if Fanny needed any help, then turned back to her guest again. “My name's Ocilla Bussey. If you end up staying in town longer, this is the best place to eat.” She favored him with a warm smile and asked, “What's your name, son?”

“Cord Malone,” he said, “and you're right—this is the best apple pie I ever ate.”

Pleased by his comment, she sat there a few minutes more before picking up her cup and getting to her feet. “Well, Cord Malone, it's been real nice talking to you, but I'd best get back to my kitchen. Fred Beasley will be in here soon to let me know how many prisoners I have to fix for. I hope I'll see you again sometime. Fanny will get you more coffee, if you need it.”

“No, thank you, ma'am,” he said. “One cup's all I wanted. How much do I owe you?” He would have enjoyed another cup, but he had been right when he speculated that Ocilla might be the cook for the jail. And he didn't want to be there when the deputy came in to give her a head count for supper, preferring to let the sheriff think he had left town.

She paused a moment, then said, “Just forget about it. That coffee sat on the stove too long, anyway. Take care of yourself, Cord Malone.” Then she spun on her heel and headed toward the kitchen before he could protest.

•   •   •

While Cord was enjoying a slice of Ocilla Bussey's apple pie, Dooley was being introduced to his place of confinement, which was the log building behind the jail. Not at all comfortable with the accommodations, and more than a little wary of the reason for locking him in the log enclosure instead of the jail, Dooley was inclined to complain. “What the hell are you stickin' me in here for? There ain't even no windows,” he protested, looking at the narrow slits on the side of the building.

“Quit your bellyachin',” Fred told him. “They're tearin' up the insides of the jail to add more room for cells. This is the old jail, the first one they built. We've been usin' it for a storeroom, but we're holdin' prisoners in here again till the construction is done. You'll be just fine. There ain't but one other prisoner in here now, ol' Martin Boaz, so you've got the place to yourself.”

“What's he in here for?” Dooley asked.

“Drunk and disorderly conduct,” Fred replied. “He's still sleepin' it off.”

As the deputy had said, Boaz was curled up on one of the half dozen cots in the dark room, close to a small stove. “Damn, man,” Dooley protested to Fred, “it ain't humane to keep a man locked up in a place like this, 'specially since I ain't done nothin' to get locked up for.”

“You'll get used to it,” Fred said. “Look at ol' Martin over there. He spends about as much time here as he does in his own shack.”

After Fred had closed the door and secured a huge padlock on it, Dooley looked around him to see where he had landed. As his eyes gradually grew accustomed to the darkened room, he took inventory of what was available to him. There was a stack of firewood piled against a back corner, so he fed a couple of pieces into the stove. An examination of the log walls quickly told him that they were still solid and strong. There was a table in the middle of the room, a water barrel stood in a front corner of the room, and a foul-smelling bucket was opposite it, for depositing the water once it had gone through the prisoner. He tried the back edge of the door to see if the hinges outside might be weak. They were not. He was peering up at the roof when Boaz woke up. “Pine boards,” he volunteered, startling Dooley, “with shingles nailed on top—pretty stout.”

Recovering, Dooley asked, “You tried 'em?”

“Hell no,” Boaz retorted. “What the hell would I wanna get outta here for? Warm place to sleep, and fine cookin' by Ocilla Bussey—it's a damn sight better'n what I've got when I'm sober. Matter of fact, it oughta be gettin' around time for supper.” He drew up closer to the stove. “My name's Martin Boaz. What's your'n?”

“Bill Dooley,” he answered. “I reckon you're right. Might as well settle down and wait for somethin' to eat.”

The wait was not long, but it seemed long. By the time the deputy opened the door and stood back while the sheriff took a look at the prisoners, with the help of a lantern, Dooley was beginning to fear he and Boaz had been forgotten. “Stand back by the stove,” Sheriff Draper ordered. Once Fred had placed a tray on the table holding two plates of food and two cups of coffee, the two lawmen backed out and locked the door again. After holding a wood splinter in the stove until it caught fire, Martin proceeded to light a candle on the table, and the two prisoners attacked the food.

After a few bites of the corn bread, Dooley was inspired to comment, “You sure weren't lyin' when you said the victuals was good. What did you say her name was?”

“Ocilla Bussey,” Boaz said, “and I'd marry her if she'd have me.”

Dooley paused, cocked an eyebrow, and took another look at the whiskey-soaked wreck of a human body with gravy dripping from his chin. “I can't understand why she wouldn't crave a fine-lookin' gentleman like yourself,” he said. The sarcasm went unnoticed by Boaz.

Long after the supper was finished, Dooley waited impatiently for the sheriff, or his deputy, to come to tell him what they were going to do with him, but no one came. After using the bucket in the corner, emptying bodily contents from both ends, Martin curled up on his cot again to sink back into the stupor he had been in. Before resuming a steady drone of snoring, he made one final comment. “They'll be back in the mornin' with breakfast.”

Resigned to a long night, Dooley tried to tell himself to relax and go to sleep, but he had no confidence that he would be able to. He wasn't fond of close confinement, and being closed up in the windowless cabin was like being in a hole in the ground. With the little stove glowing cherry red, the room was warm and snug against the cold night outside. However, the tiny slits for windows were not capable of providing proper ventilation, resulting in a smoky interior that made breathing difficult. Afraid to go to sleep then, fearing that he might suffocate before morning, he quit stoking the fire in the stove and attempted to stay awake. As the night deepened, and Martin's steady snoring droned on, Dooley's resolve to remain awake faded, and he finally gave in to the irresistible urge to close his eyes.

He awoke to lie tense in the darkness, pulled from his sleep by a noise overhead that he at first mistook for the sound of rain or hail on the roof of the building. He lay still for a moment, listening. Then suddenly he was startled by a sharp crack of splitting wood, and he rolled off the cot, thinking the roof was caving in. It was enough to awaken Martin as well and he sprang from his cot in alarm. “The damn roof is comin' down!” Boaz cried in panic, and backed away from the center of the room.

His warning was followed by one more crack like thunder and they both looked up to see a gaping hole in the roof and stars shining above. “Dooley?” a voice called in a loud whisper.

Astonished, Dooley answered, “Cord?”

“Yeah. Here, grab hold of this rope, and I'll pull you up. I think the hole's big enough to let you through. Did you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Dooley replied, “I heard you.” He hurried to take hold of the rope that dropped down to the floor. While he quickly wrapped it firmly around his wrists, he looked over toward the corner at a confused Boaz. “You wanna get outta here, too?”

“Hell no, I'm waitin' for breakfast,” Martin said. “They'll let me out in the mornin', anyway.”

“All right, Cord, I'm ready. Haul away!” He was immediately jerked off the floor and up he went through the hole and onto the roof. Unable to keep from giggling like a truant schoolboy, he had to be cautioned to be quiet. “I had a feelin' about you, boy,” he chortled delightedly. “Right through the damn roof! Hot damn! How the hell did you break through?” he asked, seeing no tools of any kind.

“It's mostly rotten,” Cord said as he quickly coiled his rope. “Let's get the hell down offa here.”

Below them, inside the storeroom, Martin Boaz returned to his cot and curled up under his blanket.
I hope it don't rain before morning,
was his only concern and his last thought before falling asleep.

Cord's bay gelding was waiting behind the building and Dooley climbed on behind him. They rode down the street until entering an alley that ran behind Eddy Street. Once Cord was satisfied that no one had witnessed the bold escape, he pulled up and questioned Dooley. “You were slick enough to steal that buckskin the first time. Do you think you can steal him again? I know where he is, and I know where your saddle is.”

“Hell yes,” Dooley exclaimed, “just take me to him.” He paused a moment then to say, “You can't steal a horse but once, so I'm just goin' after my own horse. Besides, I never stole that horse in the first place. I traded your old sorrel for him.”

“I reckon that would make him mine, then,” Cord couldn't resist saying.

Dooley grinned. “Maybe, but the saddle ain't. I stole that fair and square.”

•   •   •

“They didn't even put him inside,” Dooley observed when they pulled up behind the stables and found his buckskin in the corral with several other horses. “Gotta thank 'em for makin' it easy for us.” He hesitated a moment when an ambitious thought entered his mind. “It'd be just as easy to steal the whole damn bunch of 'em. Ain't nobody here to stop us.”

“You just worry about findin' your saddle. I ain't drivin' half a dozen stolen horses down the main street in the middle of the night,” Cord told him.

“It was just a thought,” Dooley said. “Kind of a habit, I reckon.” He gave Cord another grin and asked, “You sure you're Ned Malone's son?”

It appeared that Dooley had been right when he said there was no one there, for there was a padlock on the front door and the back door was barred from the inside. This did not pose much of a problem, however, for the hayloft door was open a crack. Noise from a saloon some one hundred yards down the dark street could be heard clearly, but there was no one in sight as Cord led his horse under the hayloft door. Dooley stood on the saddle and easily reached the hayloft and, with a considerable amount of grunting and struggling, pulled himself up. “Damn,” he swore, “I ain't as young as I used to be.”