Mark of the Hunter

by Charles G. West

  “Who’s your friend?” Mickey asked as he drew a glass of beer and poured a shot for Dooley.

  “Cord Malone,” Dooley answered, then tossed his whiskey down. Banging the glass down on the bar, he smacked his lips loudly and sighed as if lamenting a long-lost friend. “Whaddaya mean, the town’s gettin’ respectable?”

  “There’s a lot of honest businesses movin’ into town,” Mickey said. “There’s more law than we used to have when you boys were runnin’ so free. Hell, half the whores and gamblers have left and gone up to Deadwood. That’s the hot spot now, and a better place for fellers in your line of business. Friend of yours passed through here a few days ago. I told him the same thing.”

  “Levi Creed?” Dooley asked.

  “Yeah, Creed,” Mickey replied, surprised. “You fellows tryin’ to catch up with him?”

  “Yep,” Dooley said. “We were hopin’ to catch up with ol’ Levi right here in Cheyenne.”

  “Well, you’re about three days too late. He’s already gone. At least, he ain’t come back in here. It might be just a coincidence, but a masked man stuck a gun in Jack Thompson’s face and made him open the hotel safe. He cleaned out a pile of money and some valuables, then pistol-whipped poor Jack and left him lying in front of the safe with a cracked skull. Sheriff didn’t have no idea who to go after, but it happened the night Levi left here, and like I said, he ain’t been back in.”

  “Did you tell the sheriff that Levi had been in town?” Dooley asked.

  “He didn’t ask me,” Mickey said. Dooley nodded his approval.

  “Where did Levi say he was headin’?” Cord spoke up for the first time.

  Mickey glanced at Dooley to get a nod from him before answering, “He didn’t come right out and say where he was goin’, but he talked a lot about Deadwood and all the folks headin’ up that way. Does he know you’re tryin’ to catch up with him?”

  “No,” Dooley drawled, “we just thought we’d surprise him, since we’re headin’ up that way, too.”

  Suspecting that there was an underlying reason they were trying to overtake Levi, Mickey remarked, “If I remember right, you and Levi were never real close friends—I mean, like him and Ned Malone were.” As soon as he said the name, he remembered then, and looked quickly back at Cord. “Did you say your name was Malone?” Cord did not speak, but nodded slowly. Concerned then that he might be asking too many questions, the bartender said, “Ain’t none of it any of my business, but I hope you catch up with Levi. He didn’t have no cause to crack Jack Thompson’s head like that.” Seeming to have a sudden change of heart, he volunteered, “Why don’t you fellows have another drink? This one’s on the house.”

  “Well, now, that’s bein’ right neighborly,” Dooley said. “We’ll take time for one more, won’t we, partner?”

  “I reckon,” Cord replied. None of the three noticed one of the men at the table in back when he quietly got up and slipped out the back door of the saloon.

  Outside the saloon afterward, Dooley said, “Levi’s headin’ for the Black Hills, all right, and it sounds like he picked up a little money while he was here. Ain’t no use hangin’ around any longer. The horses are in good shape. We can get halfway to Horse Creek before sundown before we need to rest ’em again.”

  That suited Cord. He was anxious to close the distance between Levi and himself. He shoved his rifle back in the saddle scabbard and had one foot in the stirrup when he heard the voice behind him in the street. “Let’s just hold it right there, fellows.” He turned to see Sheriff George A. Draper and one of his deputies come from behind his horse. Although they both had guns drawn and leveled at them, the sheriff addressed them in a civil tone, almost approaching apology. “You’ll be Bill Dooley,” he said. “I’ve got paper on you, for stealing horses and escaping U.S. Army custody, and stealing a horse belonging to the army in the process. If I ain’t mistaken, I believe I’ve got some old papers that link you to the Sam Bass gang of stagecoach robbers.” He looked at Cord then. “As for you, young fellow, I don’t know if you’re wanted or not. I’ll have to look into it.”

  There was no use to think about resisting. The two lawmen had them at a distinct disadvantage. Dooley looked at Cord with an expression that could almost be described as pride in the knowledge that he had a name that was recognized. He turned to address the sheriff. “You’re right, Sheriff. I rode with Sam and some of the old bunch, but that was a while back. I’ve reformed since then, and I ain’t never killed nobody. Now, this boy here, he ain’t no outlaw. He just hired me to take him up to Fort Laramie. That’s the kinda work I do now. I’ve give up my sinful ways, and that’s a fact. Ask anybody. Ask Mickey in the saloon. He’ll tell you that I ride on the right side of the law now. I was just foolish in my younger days.”

  A smile slowly formed on Draper’s face. “Is that a fact? Well, I’m mighty pleased to know that you’ve mended your ways, but I think it’d be a good idea for you to spend a little time in my jail till we find out a little bit more about what you’ve been up to lately.” He nodded toward his deputy. “Put them irons on him, Fred, and put him in the storeroom while I find out a little bit more about his partner. After you lock him up, take his horse down to the stable.”

  Cord watched helplessly as the deputy led Dooley away. “Now, young fellow, let’s start with your name.” When Cord told him, Draper paused as if trying to remember. “Cord Malone, huh? I don’t recall any recent notices on you.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “And you’re too young to have run with Sam Bass when they were workin’ this part of the territory. “Where’d you hook up with Bill Dooley?”

  “Fort Collins,” Cord said. “Like he said, I paid him to guide me to Fort Laramie.”

  “You didn’t know you were dealin’ with an outlaw?”

  “No, sir,” Cord answered respectfully.

  “Where you from?”

  “Moore’s Creek, Kansas Territory,” Cord said.

  “Hell, Sheriff,” Dooley said, “he didn’t have no idea who I was. He sure as hell ain’t done nothin’ to go to jail for. He don’t even know how to get to Fort Laramie without a guide.” He looked over at Cord then and said, “I’m sorry, Cord. I shoulda told you I was wanted by the law, but if I had, you might notta hired me to take you to Fort Laramie.”

  His soulful apology was convincing enough to sway Sheriff Draper’s opinion toward giving the young man the benefit of the doubt. Draper took another long look at Cord while he made up his mind. Finally he released him. “All right, young fellow, I reckon I ain’t got nothin’ to hold you for, so I’m gonna let you go on about your business. It’d be a good idea to mind who you’re dealin’ with from now on.” He started to follow his deputy, who was herding Dooley toward the jail, but stopped to make one more comment. “If you’re still goin’ to Fort Laramie, you don’t need a guide. Just follow the stagecoach road. It’s about ninety miles from here, give or take a few miles.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cord replied politely. “Thank you, sir.” He stood there, holding the bay’s reins, and watched the two lawmen march Dooley off to jail. Now what the hell am I going to do? The sheriff was right, he didn’t need a guide to find Fort Laramie, or to ride all the way to Deadwood, for that matter. What he needed, however, was his guide to take him to the outlaws’ favorite haunts and hideouts. He had a decision to make and he didn’t have to think about it for very long. He needed Bill Dooley more than the law needed to hold him. He felt that he knew Dooley well enough by now to know that the aging outlaw was no threat to anyone as long as that person wasn’t careless about keeping an eye on his possessions. So the real problem was how to free him without causing serious harm to anyone. I’ll have to think about this, he told himself as he stepped up in the saddle, and started out in the opposite direction when the sheriff glanced back at him.

  He didn’t know where the jail was, so when he got almost to the end of the street, he tur
ned between two stores and rode back up the alley until he caught sight of the three men and the horse between the buildings. Holding the bay back by the corner of a dry goods store, he watched when the sheriff led his party down a side street toward a one-story building boasting a sign that said SHERIFF’S OFFICE. Instead of taking Dooley inside the jail, however, the deputy took him around behind the building to a small log building. That must be the storeroom, Cord thought, remembering the instructions the sheriff had given his deputy. Why didn’t he put him in the jail?

  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.