Mark of the Hunter

by Charles G. West

  The months turned into years. The changes in the undersized boy for the most part went unnoticed by those seeing him every day until Jesse took a good look at the two boys as they walked toward the house for supper. “You noticed Cord lately?” he asked his mother as she and Cindy set the table. “He’s shootin’ up like a weed. He’s taller than T.G.”

  “I noticed,” Nettie replied. She had been aware of the boy’s growth spurt, but had not made mention of it, thinking it best not to, in case T.G. was concerned about it. She had suspected that Cord would eventually develop, even though he was still small at age twelve, for his father was a huge man and his mother was not a small woman. And now it was obvious to her that Cord was going to be a sizable man when he reached his full height—just like his father. The only trait he inherited from the evil man, she prayed.

  The late Horace Anderson’s small parcel of land was easily farmed by the three men of the family, so much so that as time went on, Cord spent a good portion of his time working on the parcel that became his with the death of his mother and father. It was a poor piece of land, evidence of his late father’s lack of knowledge of farming and his reluctance to work for a living. Cord and his mother had done the best they could, which amounted to little more than a vegetable garden and a cornfield. He had no real interest in holding on to the land. It contained too many bad memories. Besides that, he was just biding his time until he felt ready to begin what was likely to be a long, long quest—to find Levi Creed.

  Just after his nineteenth birthday, Cord decided it was time for him to leave his grandmother’s house. T.G., having courted the preacher’s daughter in Moore’s Creek for over a year, finally popped the question, and the young lady said yes. While the family was pleased with the union, it did cause some problems. T.G. naturally planned to build his own house on his grandmother’s farm, but initially, he and his bride would have to move into his grandmother’s house, or his father-in-law’s. And T.G. was not at all favorable toward moving in with the preacher. The problem was solved when Cord announced that he was leaving, making his room available for T.G. and his new wife.

  Nettie was immediately concerned, for she feared the ever-somber, seldom-speaking young man would fare better close to the family that knew him and his tragic past. Jesse attempted to sway Cord’s thinking, telling him that he was needed to work the farm with him and T.G. But Cord knew better than that. Jesse and T.G. could manage very well without him. “I know you’re leavin’ just so Mary Ann and I can have your room,” T.G. told him. “You know I appreciate it, but I don’t want you to leave on my account.”

  “You’re givin’ me too much credit,” Cord said. “I was fixin’ to go ever since my corn crop came in. I wouldn’t have cared if you and your little wife had to sleep on the kitchen table.”

  “Liar,” T.G. replied. “I know you better’n that.”

  Serious again, Cord said, “It’s time I moved on. There’s parts of the territory I ain’t ever seen, and I reckon I’m ready now—matter of fact, I’ve been thinkin’ that I’ve already stayed too long. I’ve got a little saved up to hold me for a little while till I find something else.”

  “It’s that thing with your mother, ain’t it?” He could tell by his cousin’s expression that his guess was accurate. “Damn, Cord, that’s been so long ago you’d do well to let it go for good. That feller’s most likely dead by now, shot by one of the scum he rides with. You probably don’t even remember his name.”

  “Levi Creed,” Cord responded. “That’s his name, and I got a feelin’ he’s still alive. He ain’t gonna die till I kill him.”

  Frustrated with his cousin’s stoic indifference to probability, T.G. continued to argue. “What are you gonna do, just ride from town to town askin’ folks if they’ve seen Levi Creed? That don’t make a bit of sense.”

  “I’ll find him if he’s still standin’,” Cord said, with a patient smile for his cousin and friend. “Good luck on your weddin’. I’m proud of you. Mary Ann’s a fine girl, and you might decide you wanna build a house on my mother’s piece of land. That would be all right with me.” There was a familiar sense of finality in his tone that T.G. had learned to recognize over the years. It meant the discussion was over.

  The September morning that Cord left his home of seven years dawned cloudy and gray, which somehow seemed appropriate to Nettie Anderson, for it reminded her of the dark circumstances that had brought the doleful young man into her home. Maybe it’s best he leaves, she thought, for his presence kept the grief for her daughter always fresh in her mind. She stood by the porch with Cindy, T.G., and Jesse as Cord led his old sorrel up to bid them farewell. He had bought the horse with a little of the money he had saved from his corn crop over the last few years. She watched as Jesse and T.G. gave him a strong handshake, and he turned to face her.

  “I wanna thank you for everything you did for me, Grandma,” he said.

  “Come here,” she said, fighting back a tear, her arms outstretched. She gave him a firm hug, holding him close for a few moments before stepping back to arm’s length where she continued to hold him while she gazed up into his face. It was hard to remember him as the shy, undersized boy she had taken in. Tall and powerfully built, he towered over her. She reached up with one hand and touched the jagged scar running across his forehead, and her tears started in earnest. Wiping her eyes with her apron, she attempted to pull herself together. “You take care of yourself,” she said. “And remember, you’ve always got a home here.”

  He nodded somberly. Then without another word, he climbed in the saddle and turned the sorrel northward, toward Ogallala, never looking back. The wild little cow town across the Nebraska line was as good a place as any to start his search for Levi Creed. The odds were slim that he would find the murderous outlaw there, but it was a possibility. And he knew for certain that he was never going to find him if he remained on his grandmother’s farm.

  Nettie stood on the porch and watched him until he rode out of her sight, for she had a feeling that it was the last time she would ever see her grandson. Sorrow’s son, she thought, because she sensed that Cord Malone was destined to live a violent life. It seemed to her as if God had placed a mark on the young man, and pointed him down a troubled path. Maybe that was what the scar on Cord’s forehead really was, a mark of violence. The troubled boy was now a troubled man. God help him, she silently prayed.

  Chapter 2

  Cord found the little town of Ogallala relatively peaceful on this day in early September, in sharp contrast to the noisy, brawling cattle center for which it had gained a reputation. The trail-hardened cowpunchers who drove the herds up from Texas were gone now until next summer when they would once again repeat the cycle and descend upon the saloons and hotel like an annual visit of locusts. With the cattle now grazing on the ranges of the cattle barons like the Bosler brothers, who filled huge contracts to supply beef to the Indian agencies, Ogallala had reverted to a nearly deserted little settlement in the valley between the forks of the Platte River. Cord knew very little about the cattle business, but he figured that with the great herds awaiting shipment on ranches around Ogallala, he should be able to find work at one of them. He worked well with horses, thanks to his uncle Jesse, so he was confident that he could learn to drive cattle.

  Looking at the sleepy town now, however, he found it hard to imagine there could be any work for a willing hand. One hotel, one saloon, and one general merchandise store were the only businesses open, the others having evidently closed until summer. He was beginning to wonder if he should just move on to Cheyenne, or Omaha. He had been undecided where he was going when he left his grandmother’s farm; he just knew that it was time to go. But now he was beginning to realize just how naive he was to set out to search for a man who might be anywhere from Texas to Canada. “What the hell?” he muttered, and turned the sorrel toward the saloon. “I reckon I can afford a glass of beer.” He figured he could justi
fy it as an official start of a quest that might take many years to fulfill.

  Like every place else in town, the Crystal Palace was empty of patrons. The bartender got up from a table where he had been drinking a cup of coffee. “Howdy,” he offered unenthusiastically. “Getcha somethin’?”

  “I reckon I’d like to have a glass of beer,” Cord answered.

  The bartender set a glass on the bar, and watched with mild interest as Cord dug in his pocket for a coin. “I don’t remember seein’ you around here before,” the bartender remarked, already deciding that the stranger wasn’t likely to spend much more than the price of one beer.

  “Ain’t ever been here before,” Cord said.

  “On your way back to Texas?” the bartender asked, assuming that his customer was from one of the outfits that had driven cattle up from the south.

  “Ain’t ever been there, either,” Cord replied.

  His reply caused the bartender to chuckle. “Well, if you rode in lookin’ for a wild town, you got here at the wrong time of the year. Course, it’ll pick up a little next month for a spell when the big outfits bring their cattle off the grass and ship ’em east to the markets. Then it’ll be dead again till summer.”

  “What I’m lookin’ for is work,” Cord said.

  “Is that a fact? What kinda work you lookin’ for?”

  “Anything that’ll pay a decent wage,” Cord answered.

  Convinced then that Cord was not the typical aimless drifter he was accustomed to seeing this time of year, the bartender offered his hand. “My name’s Clyde Perkins. I run the Crystal when the owner ain’t here.”

  Cord shook his hand and responded, “Cord Malone.”

  “Where you from, Cord?”

  “Moore’s Creek,” Cord replied. When Clyde’s expression registered no recognition of the name, Cord added, “About thirty miles south of here.”

  “Must not be a very big town,” Clyde remarked.

  “It ain’t,” Cord confirmed.

  Clyde smiled. He was thinking the young stranger didn’t waste a lot of words, and was probably serious about finding honest work. “If you’re lookin’ to work for one of the cattle outfits, you might be able to get on with the Bosler brothers. They’re a big outfit, supply a lot of beef to the Red Cloud and Spotted Tail Indian agencies. I expect they’re always lookin’ for good hands. If they ain’t hirin’, you can try John Coad, or Joseph Carey. There’s a few more outfits holdin’ thousands of head of cattle on the grass that’ll be drivin’ ’em in to the shippin’ pens in about a month.”

  “Much obliged,” Cord said. “Reckon you could point me in the right direction to find one of those outfits?”

  Clyde hesitated for a moment when a thought struck him. “You know, your best bet might be Willard Murphy. He ain’t as big as Bosler Brothers, and I know for a fact that he had a couple of men leave his outfit to go with the Boslers. Murphy might need some help.”

  “Sounds like what I’m lookin’ for,” Cord said. Clyde gave him general directions to Willard Murphy’s range on the North Platte near the mouth of Blue Creek and wished him good luck. Standing in the doorway, watching the somber stranger step up in the saddle, he couldn’t help thinking that the young man would need to get himself a stouter horse. The sorrel he was riding didn’t look to be much of a working horse.

  • • •

  Clyde Perkins was not the only one who held a critical opinion of Cord’s tired old sorrel. “You’re gonna have to get a better horse under you,” Willard Murphy, owner of the Triple-T, informed his new hire. “That damn nag is kinda gray around the muzzle, ain’t she? She’s gotta be close to twenty years old.”

  “She’s eighteen, accordin’ to the man who sold her to me,” Cord replied. “She’s better’n walkin’, and she don’t complain.”

  Murphy shook his head and laughed. “Go on down to the south pasture and find Mike Duffy. Tell him I said for you to pick out a good horse. You can let that old mare retire and take it easy for a while. Tell Mike I sent you down there to work with his crew. He’ll fix you up with a bed in the bunkhouse.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cord said. “I ’preciate it.” He climbed back into the saddle and urged the sorrel into a comfortable lope to show Murphy the old girl wasn’t quite ready to fall over and die. “I hope he didn’t hurt your feelin’s,” he told the mare as he rode away.

  • • •

  Mike Duffy, a short, wiry man with a shock of red hair and a full beard, seemed not at all surprised when Cord showed up. It was not the first time Will Murphy had hired a man to work with his crew without getting Mike’s prior approval. Mike could usually use an extra man, and more times than not, the new hire didn’t stay with the job for very long, anyway. A couple of the bigger spreads paid more money than the wage that Willard Murphy paid. He had just lost two men over the summer. After talking to Cord for a few minutes, he figured that he would have offered him a job as well. This new hire looked as if he had worked hard before. His hands were callused and tough, his eyes were clear and alert, and he was certainly big enough. Mike helped him pick out a good horse from the herd grazing near the creek. Cord’s pick, a bay gelding, would serve as replacement for his tired old sorrel. When it was time to move the cattle down to the holding pens in Ogallala, he would pick out a string of horses to work. For the time being, however, he would simply be riding herd, watching for strays, keeping an eye out for wolves, and ensuring that Murphy didn’t lose any cattle. With a good horse under him, Cord felt a real sense of confidence, and he was sure he was going to get along well with Mike Duffy.

  Mike rode back to the barn with him and waited while Cord turned the bay out in the corral. Then they walked to the bunkhouse where a tall, gaunt man Mike introduced as Slop was busy cooking supper in the kitchen at one end of the long building. Cord would find out later that Slop’s real name was Sloope; it had been shortened by the men he cooked for. Slop paused briefly to give Cord a nod of his head before returning his attention to his oven and the biscuits that were browning inside. “They come and they go,” he muttered to himself when Mike and Cord proceeded to the far end of the room, where Cord threw his modest possessions on one of four empty cots.

  “Mind if I take a look at that?” Mike asked, nodding toward Cord’s Henry rifle. Cord handed the rifle to him. Mike sat down on one of the bunks and looked the weapon over with interest, hefting it up to his shoulder, aiming at a rack of deer antlers on the wall at the end of the building. “That’s one of the old ones,” he commented. “Looks like one of the sixty models.” When Cord nodded in confirmation, Mike said, “Everything you’ve got is old, that mare, your rifle. Was this a hand-me-down from your pa?”

  Cord almost grunted aloud in response when a picture of Ned Malone flashed across his mind, and he tried to recall anything his father had given him other than a hard time. His answer was calm, however. “No, it’s just the best I could buy with the money I had. I’ll get a better one when I’ve got the money.”

  Duffy handed the rifle back, studying Cord’s ex- pressionless face. “You ain’t ever worked cattle before, have you?”

  “No, I ain’t,” Cord replied. “I never told Mr. Murphy I had. I just told him I needed work.”

  “That’s what I figured. I just had a feelin’,” Mike said with a smile. “Well, it don’t make no difference. I think you’ll be just fine.” He got up to leave. “You just take it easy. The rest of the crew will be gettin’ back before long and we’ll be eatin’ some supper.” He left Cord to pass the time until supper while he attended to a few chores.

  The smell of baking biscuits reminded Cord of how little he had eaten that day, but he figured he’d best not ask for anything before supper was announced by the sour-looking man in the kitchen. He turned his attention to the cot he had selected, unrolled the straw tick mattress, and spread the blanket over it. There was no pillow. Looking at the other beds
, he saw a variety of makeshift pillows, most of which consisted of rolled-up shirts and trousers, although one of the beds sported a fancy, fringed silk pillow with the words Chicago Stock Fair 1869 embroidered across it. Cord had never seen a pillow like that before, and he moved closer to admire it.

  “That there’s Slick’s pillow.” The voice came from behind him, startling him. He turned to see Slop standing between him and the kitchen. Before Cord could respond, the doleful cook tossed an object at him. Reacting quickly, Cord caught it. It turned out to be a hot biscuit, fresh from the oven. “You look like you ain’t et in a while,” Slop said. “You might as well try the cookin’ before you start complainin’ about it.” He turned abruptly and returned to his kitchen.

  Somewhat astonished, Cord called out after him, “Much obliged,” and hurriedly consumed the biscuit. There was nothing to complain about, he immediately decided. It was as good as his grandmother’s. When he finished it, he walked back to the kitchen and said as much to Slop. There was no way to tell by the slothful cook’s expression, but Cord had made a friend from that point on.

  In twos and threes, the rest of Mike Duffy’s crew arrived back at the ranch until all twelve were assembled to gather around the table. Thinking it best not to seat himself in someone’s customary position on the long benches on either side of the table, Cord waited until it appeared all were present. He was met with open-eyed curiosity by the hungry cowhands as they filed by him, with a few nods from some. Mike walked in the next moment, saving Cord the task of introducing himself. “Say howdy to Cord Malone,” Mike announced. “He’s just hired on. Set yourself down anywhere you can find a space,” he told Cord.