Hunkered down in the gully, Lem, Billy, and Dooley fought to hold out against the circle of Roman-3 riders assaulting their position. The gully offered adequate protection from those shooting at them, but they were helpless to stop the theft of their cattle as long as they remained pinned down in the gully. Of the three, only Billy had been hit, having caught a rifle slug in his shoulder. Not so fortunate, all three had lost their horses to the outlaws’ bullets. Their plight was not all one-sided, however, for Lem and Dooley had each emptied one of the saddles. Both of the victims had been hit as the last of the crazed cattle had swept past the gully, leaving Mace and his assassins more easily targeted.
Realizing he was more vulnerable now that he could not use the swirling cattle for cover, Mace shouted for his men to go after the cattle and forget the three men in the gully. As he dug his heels into his horse’s sides, he encountered two riderless mounts trailing off behind the herd, casualties that had to have been caused by someone other than the men trapped in the gully. A new sense of alarm gripped him now, since he and his men had been unsuccessful in killing the three he had pinned down in the gully. There was someone else moving in behind his men, and the thought that he had ridden into a trap leaped to his mind. Maybe the Triple-T had hired on more than the three he had encountered at the line shack to fight the Roman-3. It came back to his memory that he had not remembered having seen any of the three before that day. He was sure he would have remembered the one with the scar across his forehead. How many more had Willard Murphy’s foreman hired? And how many of his own men were left? At this point, he had no way of knowing. Suddenly the thought of a band of avenging killers working their way up behind him and his men took precedence over taking a herd of cattle for Harlan Striker. Maybe it was time to think about staying alive and to hell with the cattle.
He whipped his horse mercilessly as he fled past the rear half of the stampeding cattle when they were slowed by the creek crossing, straining to see clearly in the cloud of dust, snow, and water swirling about him. Off to his left, he saw one of the riderless horses, which caused him to flog his rapidly tiring horse even more. Then all of a sudden a form took shape in the darkness before him, heading straight for him, appearing to cut him off. Mace didn’t hesitate. Whipping his rifle around, he fired, and the rider doubled over in the saddle as his horse bolted to miss Mace’s. In the confusion of the moment, while he struggled to control his horse, and attempted to cock his rifle, he almost collided with the other horse. As it veered away, so close that he could see the wounded man holding on to the saddle horn with both hands, he recognized Johnny Dukes, one of his own men. Stupefied, Mace hesitated a split second before pumping another slug into Johnny’s chest, preferring not to chance any of the others finding out who had shot him. His senses told him now that the raid on the Triple-T herd had gone wrong and saving his life was now the number-one priority. There was no need for further speculation. He wheeled his weary horse away from the cattle and fled along the tree line that bordered the creek. They had ridden into a trap. He was convinced of that now. There was nothing for them but to escape while they could, every man for himself. Striker was going to need more men to fight the added numbers of the Triple-T. A few dozen yards behind him, Ben Cagle saw him head toward the creek, and being of like mind, he set off after him.
The cattle were well up in the northernmost portion of what was considered Triple-T range by the time Cord caught up with the leaders. Keeping well within the body of the herd to keep from being seen by the rustlers, he worked his way up to overtake the outlaws attempting to guide the leaders. If I don’t turn them pretty soon, they’re gonna be off our range, he thought. I’d better work fast while nobody can see very far in this mess. With that in mind, he kept pressing forward until he finally caught sight of the point men. There were two of them, one riding alongside the lead cattle, the other about thirty yards behind him. Both men seemed inclined to follow the direction already taken by the frightened beasts, firing an occasional shot in the air to keep them moving.
Cord slowly closed the distance between himself and the rearmost of the two rustlers. With the air not so congested from the swirling dirt and snow as that in the tail end of the mass of churning hooves, darkness was the only cover he could count on. He was bent upon surprising the outlaw as he had the others, but the man turned to see him when he was almost even with him. “Ben?” he called.
“Yeah,” Cord answered.
“The hell you are!” the rustler exclaimed a moment later when Cord drew closer. With his pistol already drawn, he quickly aimed it at Cord and pulled the trigger to discover he had been careless in counting his shots while discharging his pistol into the air before. The last sound he heard was the dull click of a firing pin on an empty chamber before Cord’s rifle slug knocked him out of the saddle. Cord looked quickly up ahead at the man’s partner, but he did not look back at the sound of the rifle, evidently thinking it just another shot to keep the cattle moving.
The trick now was to get the lead rider to help him turn the herd back upon itself. Cord figured it would be a lot easier than trying to turn them alone, and he had already seen that the sound of a gun would not get the man’s attention. So he closed the distance between them slightly and began to yell at him. After almost a full minute of yelling, the rustler finally looked back at him. When he did, Cord immediately started waving his arm toward the right, yelling, “Turn ’em!” Without thinking to question the signal, the rider pulled up to the lead cow’s nose and began shooting around its hooves. Behind him, Cord did the same on the cows following close behind. In a short time, their combined efforts proved effective to turn the stampeding herd and head them back the way they had come.
Once the cattle turned back on themselves, they were further slowed down when they came to the creek again, this time heading in the opposite direction. It finally occurred to the rider ahead of Cord what had happened. He turned to shout at the shadowy rider behind him, “What the hell are we doin’? We’re drivin’ ’em back the way we just came!” When there was no answer from his partner, he pulled up short to wait for Cord to catch up. It was then that he realized that the two of them appeared to be alone, and there should have been at least five or six bringing up the rear of the drive. “Where the hell is ever’body? Is that you, Mace?” He didn’t wait for an answer, for in the next instant he saw Cord’s face. His automatic reflex was to shoot, but Cord’s rifle was already trained on him. He rolled out of the saddle as the .44 slug ripped into his midsection. Suddenly the valley was quiet, Striker’s remaining men having fled in the opposite direction from that taken by Mace, convinced that superior numbers had overwhelmed them.
Back at the gully, the three Triple-T cowhands realized it was safe to come out of their defensive position. The tidal wave of crazed cattle had swept past them and the shooting had ceased altogether. Even the rain tapered off. Lem did what he could to tend to Billy’s shoulder wound, while Dooley took his .44 Colt and put the two horses still alive out of their misery. “That’s just a damn shame,” Dooley lamented. “I was gettin’ to where I was kinda fond of that horse.”
“Well, we’re on foot now,” Lem said, “and I ain’t sure if we lost the herd or not.” He paused then to peer out into the darkness. “It ain’t gonna be too much longer before daylight. I wonder how Cord made out. There was a helluva lot of shootin’. I hope he didn’t get shot.”
“That boy has a way about him,” Dooley said confidently. “He’ll show up directly. Then we’ll find out what happened after we drove those bastards off.” It was a little while yet, but his prediction finally proved to be valid, for Cord called out to them from the darkness.
“Dooley! Lem! Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, we hear you,” Dooley answered. He turned to give Lem a wink.
“I’m comin’ in, so don’t go shootin’ at me,” Cord called again.
“We ain’t makin’ no promises,” Dooley joked, gr
eatly relieved to hear his young friend’s voice again.
In a few minutes’ time, a large form materialized out of the darkness as Cord walked his bay gelding into the shallow valley, leading four riderless horses. He pulled up before them and looked around their embattled gully and the carcasses of three horses. “Damn,” he muttered quietly, then observed, “Looks like you fellers need some horses. I reckon it’s a good thing I rounded up these strays. We’ve got some cattle to drive back home, and I don’t know how good you fellers would be on foot.” Noticing Billy’s empty sleeve, he asked how bad it was.
“Ain’t nothin’ in it broke,” Billy replied. “The bullet musta just hit meat, but Lem made me stick my arm inside my shirt till we get back to the ranch where he can give it a better look. I can ride, if that’s what you’re wonderin’.”
“Good,” Cord said, “’cause we need to get those cows movin’ back down Triple-T range. What’s left of those rustlers musta took off, ’cause there ain’t no sign of any of ’em I can see right now. But I don’t advise us to wait around to see if they decide to take another turn at us.” He released the reins of the four rustlers’ horses. “Pick you out a horse and we’ll go get our cattle.”
• • •
After following Blue Creek, which ran roughly north and south for half a mile, Mace veered sharply to the north, heading in the general direction of the Roman-3. It was not until he left the tree line that he became aware of someone on his tail. At once alarmed, he pressed his already tired horse for more speed, a command the horse could no longer obey. Instead of increasing its speed, the horse began to falter, finally slowing down to a weary walk, no matter the flogging and cursing it endured. Mace was forced to dismount, and he could hear the sound of hoofbeats drawing steadily closer. Frightened now, with the image of the man with the scarred forehead seared on his brain, he drew his rifle from the saddle sling again. Using the weary horse for protection, he laid the rifle across the saddle, stood behind it, and waited. In a few moments, the rider appeared out of the fading darkness, riding head-on into the fatal ambush. When the rifle spoke, the rider was hit in the chest, causing his horse to run out from under him, dumping his body heavily to the ground.
“Ha!” Mace shouted gleefully. “You chased after the wrong man this time.” To be sure of his kill, he pumped another round into the motionless corpse. Still not certain, he hurried to stand over the body, only to draw back in alarm when he discovered the lifeless face of Ben Cagle staring up at him in eternal shock. Shocked as well, Mace felt his knees go weak for a moment. He had killed two of his own men on this ill-fated night. His first impulse was to look quickly around him to see if anyone had witnessed his latest assassination, even though he was sure there was no one else.
It’s his own damn fault, he thought, anxious to excuse his acts of cowardice. Come riding up on me in the dark like that, he should have had better sense. The problem facing him now was what to do next. The night sky was even then melting away to a lighter shade of gray, and looking back over the way he had run, he could see no sign of anyone else trailing him. While deciding what best to do, he took a look at Ben Cagle’s horse. A sorrel with white markings on the legs, it was not in much better shape than his own. Both horses needed rest. He took another long look back behind him, wondering just how many men might be scouring the prairie on both sides of the creek with the notion of finishing the job they had started. “I can’t stay here,” he decided aloud, but he was not sure which way he should go—back to the Roman-3 to face Striker’s wrath—or strike out for parts unknown? It occurred to him that he had no idea how the rest of the men had fared, or how many had survived. Two he had done for himself, and he had seen two other empty saddles. Of course, he told himself, those two might have been casualties for the other side. It was all perplexing to the simpleminded outlaw, and for want of a better alternative, he decided to go back to the Roman-3 and hope their casualties were not as severe as he feared. He took the time to relieve Ben Cagle of his gun belt, which he hung on the saddle horn. Then he searched his pockets for any money he could find. Lastly, he took a hard look at his late partner’s hand-tooled boots, but decided they were too small for his feet. Feeling a little more secure, since there was still no sign of anyone pursuing him, he took the reins of both horses and started walking toward the Roman-3.
Far behind him the large gang created in Mace’s imagination had thoughts only of moving their cattle back to a safer location near the Triple-T headquarters. It was a task not easily accomplished by four men—one of them wounded. Events of the night just passed would be remembered and referred to by local ranchers as the Second Battle of Blue Creek. While not on a scale of the first, when army troops attacked a village of two hundred and fifty Sioux over twenty years before that date, the nine bodies found later were hardly insignificant.
Chapter 12
The folks at the Triple-T Ranch awoke to find the leading cows of a herd numbering in the neighborhood of two thousand, five hundred head moving into the range close about the ranch headquarters. Already up and about their chores, Stony, Blackie, and Link were preparing to ride back out to Blue Creek to ride herd right after breakfast. “Looks like the cows came to us, instead of the other way around,” Blackie observed casually.
“Looks that way, don’t it?” Stony allowed. “I don’t know why in hell we didn’t move ’em back down this way before. I reckon we just liked gettin’ shot at.”
“I expect we oughta ride out and help ’em move ’em on in,” Blackie said.
“Best tell Slop we’ll be back a little later for breakfast,” Stony said. “Else he might throw it all to the hogs.”
At the house, Muriel came into the kitchen to find that Eileen had already built up the fire in the stove and had coffee on to boil. “Well, you’re up bright and early,” she said to her daughter. “I didn’t even hear you leave the room.”
“I didn’t see any sense in waking you,” Eileen replied. She had no intention of telling her mother that she was up earlier than usual strictly as a point of pride. She wanted to make sure she was up and stirring about in the kitchen before Birdie got up. This even though she told herself she had no reason to be competitive with their guest. “They drove the cattle in around us last night,” she went on to say. Muriel moved to the window to see for herself. At almost the same time, the door to the other bedroom opened and Birdie came to join Eileen at the stove, seeking its warmth.
“Good morning. Did you have enough quilts last night?” Muriel asked.
“Yes, ma’am, I did,” Birdie replied, still shivering a little.
“I see you put on a dress this morning,” Eileen commented.
Birdie laughed. “I just wanted you to see that I had one. I was getting tired of everyone thinking I was a boy.” She laughed again. “But I’ve still got those long pants on under this skirt.”
Muriel laughed with her. “I don’t blame you for that. It got cold last night. When it really starts getting cold, maybe you’d better crawl in with Eileen and me.”
“Maybe I’d better,” Birdie joked. “I don’t have much meat on my bones. Can I get in the middle?” Her reply evoked another laugh from Muriel, but no more than a polite smile from Eileen.
Being very much a woman, Birdie sensed the slight chill toward her, coming from Eileen, but she could not understand the reason for it. Hell, I haven’t been around long enough to make her mad at me, she thought. Maybe she thinks I’m a slut because I was riding with Cord and Dooley. Well, she can think what she wants, it’s no skin off my . . . Another thought occurred before she finished that one. Maybe that’s the problem—Cord. She smiled to herself then, understanding. Turning to Eileen, she favored her with a warm smile and said, “Can I help you with breakfast? I’m a decent cook.”
• • •
Stony and his two partners rode out to meet the four riders following along behind the herd. Catching sight of Billy’s
bloodied coat, he pulled up at once. “Trouble?”
“Well, I reckon,” Billy answered. “But we brought the herd back home with us. I just got a little nick in my shoulder, but it was a whole lot worse on that bunch of bushwhackers from the Roman-Three. You’ll notice ain’t none of us ridin’ our regular horses but Cord. They shot ours, so we came home on their horses, since they didn’t have no use for ’em anymore.”
“I see you even brought back an extra horse,” Stony said. “Does that mean you killed four of Striker’s riders?”
“I ain’t sure how many were killed, ’cause Cord got most of ’em, workin’ on his own while me and Lem and Dooley were holed up in a gully.” Obviously getting more and more pumped up over their successful clash with the Roman-3 crew, Billy went on. “They had the three of us pinned down, but we got two of ’em. Cord got the rest.” He turned to Cord then. “How many did you kill, Cord?” Lem looked quickly at his young friend, immediately concerned about the nature of his response.
Cord didn’t answer right away, uncomfortable with Billy’s apparent boastful accounting of the night’s violent results. When his words finally came, they were quiet and without emotion. “I don’t know. We were all shootin’ at everything that moved in the dark. I reckon we’ll see how many of Striker’s men show up durin’ the next few days.”
Disappointed that Cord didn’t share his triumphant high over such a victory against superior odds, Billy complained, “Come on, you tellin’ me you don’t know the number you killed? Hell, man, you were a damn killin’ machine.”
“It ain’t nothin’ to brag about,” Cord said.
“Cord’s right,” Lem interjected then. “It ain’t nothin’ anybody should wanna brag about. Best to not talk about it too much.” He knew that it would not do for talk to get around about the number of deaths Cord had accounted for.
Mark of the Hunter Page 17
