Flo grimaced painfully. “If he ever comes back,” she said. “He stays gone most of the winter.” As soon as she said it, the realization of the town’s problem sank in—Strong could pretty much do whatever he wanted to unless someone shot him.
Chapter 15
Harlan Striker was not in a good mood on this chilly winter morning as he permitted himself to consider the events of the last couple of weeks. The cache of money that he had brought to this valley to commandeer a herd of cattle for himself was rapidly draining away, and he still had no herd. And now he was second-guessing himself over his handling of the situation with Strong. His high-priced gunman was enjoying his leisure in the hotel and saloon in Ogallala, apparently in no hurry to complete the job he was hired to do. Reconsidering now, Striker believed he should have charged Mace with the job of simply waiting in ambush near the Triple-T until he got a shot at Murphy’s hired gun. It would have cost him a great deal less money, and the problem might have already been solved by now. He had worried too much about his future relationship with the people of Ogallala. Well, he thought, it might not be too late to fix it. “Rena!” he yelled.
He had to yell a second time before the belligerent half-breed came into the parlor where he sat drinking coffee. “What you yellin’ about?” Rena demanded. “I wash your dirty clothes.”
“Go down to the barn and tell Mace I wanna see him.”
“I wash clothes,” she replied. “Why don’t you go? You not doin’ nothin’.” It was the wrong thing to say, for on this particular morning he was not of a disposition to tolerate her usual insolent attitude.
Infuriated, he glared at her, saying nothing for a full minute. She met his gaze with one of obstinate defiance. He smoldered for a long moment more before uttering the threat “If you don’t go down to that barn right now and get Mace, I swear I’ll kill you.”
She continued to gaze at him, her dark eyes narrow and challenging, but his eyes told her that this time it was no idle threat. Finally she shrugged and said, “I go.” Shaking with rage, he watched her go out the door.
Having been told by the dispassionate Indian woman that Striker was in no mood to be kept waiting, Mace dropped the harness he had been in the midst of repairing and hurried up to the house. He found Striker standing out on the porch waiting for him. “You wanna see me, sir?”
“Yeah, I got a job for you, one that oughta be to your liking, and I’m willing to pay you a little extra if you get it done proper.”
Mace was anxious to show his total attention as he stepped aside to let Rena pass when she went up the steps to the porch. She favored Striker with a sullen look when she walked past him to the door. “Yes, sir,” Mace said. “You can count on me.”
Striker continued. “I want you to saddle up and take a little ride over to the Triple-T. I made a mistake hiring Strong to do a job you could have done just as easily. I don’t care how it’s done, but I wanna get rid of that son of a bitch I brought Strong in here to kill. The only problem I have with Strong is that he’s lookin’ to enjoy himself on my money for as long as he can. I want him out of the way right now. So if you should happen to get a chance to put a bullet in Murphy’s hired gun before Strong does, then I think I’ll owe you the money and Strong can go to hell.”
“What if I put a bullet in that bastard’s back, and Strong starts to bitchin’ about it—wantin’ you to pay him anyway?” Mace asked. “I might have to put one in his back, too.”
“Might at that,” Striker replied. “I don’t see any problem with that. And if that happens, why, I think I ought to owe you full payment.”
The dollar signs began to swirl in Mace’s mind when he thought about the possibilities, especially since Striker had placed no restrictions on him as he had with Strong—namely that the killing should appear to be a fair gunfight. He was still reluctant to test his skill against Strong face-to-face, but back-shooting was right up his alley. “Consider the problem took care of,” he said. “I’ll head out in the mornin’.”
• • •
“Lem wants me to swing over by the south range to see what kinda shape that grass is in after that last snow,” Stony said as he popped the horses’ croups with his reins. “Take us a little out of the way, but won’t take us but a little bit longer to get to town. So I hope you ain’t in a hurry.”
“I wondered where the hell you were headin’, but I didn’t care. I got all day,” Cord said, his mind still occupied with his conversation with Eileen. There was another decision waiting for him, and that was when his search for Levi Creed should begin again. There had been no more raiding in days now, but he didn’t think he could consider the problem solved. Besides that, there was still the matter of a shortage of cowhands to work the ranch.
Five hundred yards northeast, on a rocky mesa overlooking the main trail, Mace Tarpley lay in wait. Lying flat on his belly where he had scraped out a shallow gully in the light coat of snow, he rested his rifle upon the ground, ready to fire. Having stiffened considerably from the cold, he began to rub his hands together vigorously when he saw the wagon finally leave the barn. At that distance, he could not be sure it was his intended target, but he would soon know, for the trail passed right below his perch. At the closest point, he would have a shot of no more than seventy-five yards. It would be hard to miss at that range.
“What the hell?” he suddenly blurted when the wagon veered off at the ranch house gate and headed straight down the river. “Where the hell are they goin’?” He got up on one knee, straining to see if the wagon was going to change direction to again return to the main trail, but it continued on, following the river. “Son of a bitch!” he swore, undecided what he should do. He was still not sure the man with the scar was one of the men on the wagon. What if he ain’t? he thought. Looking back at the barn, he saw no sign of anyone else about, and the wagon was getting farther away while he tried to decide what to do. It’s a fifty-fifty chance he’s one of the men on the wagon, he thought, and hustled back down the slope behind him to get to his horse. Even if the hired gun was not one of those on the wagon, it would help square things if he bushwhacked two of Murphy’s hands.
The problem facing him at this point was the difficulty in following the wagon without being seen, a problem made tougher by the flat, snowy prairie. Mace figured his best bet was to take a wide circle around to the east, in an effort to get ahead of the slower-moving wagon, and move back to the river bluffs ahead of them. So he whipped his horse into a steady lope away from the back slope of the mesa. He loped recklessly over the stark white prairie until satisfied that he was well ahead of his intended targets. Then he cut back to the river when he came to a line of high bluffs that promised cover and protection. Leaving his horse to paw in the snow for grass on the riverbank, he positioned himself where he could aim his rifle along the line he figured the wagon would probably take.
About a quarter of a mile short of the bluffs where Mace lay in ambush, Stony turned his horses east, away from the river in order to take a look at the part of the range they were planning to move the cattle to. He and Cord agreed that the snow was not too deep on the grass, so they could go ahead as planned. Continuing on, on a more direct line to Ogallala, they rode only a short distance before they crossed the line of tracks left by Mace in his effort to get in front of them. Curious, Stony pulled up and both he and Cord jumped down to take a look.
“Now, who do you suppose left those tracks?” Stony wondered aloud. “We ain’t got nobody workin’ out this way. Hell, that’s the reason we had to come over here to look things over.” He looked back the way the tracks had come, then turned to look where they headed. “Kinda looks like they’re running right along beside us. Reckon it’s an Injun?”
“Ain’t but one horse,” Cord said, “and he was movin’ pretty fast.” He got down to take a close look at a hoofprint that had landed solidly on a frozen patch. “I doubt it’s an Injun. He’s ridin�
�� a shod horse.”
“You reckon it’s somebody tailin’ us?” Stony asked. “’Cause if it is, what’s he doin’ over here? If he’d followed our trail, he’da done caught us a ways back.”
“Unless he didn’t want us to see him tailin’ us,” Cord said. “And it looks pretty much like he was hightailin’ it like he wanted to get ahead of us.” Both men arrived at the logical conclusion.
“Son of a bitch,” Stony swore softly. “Somebody’s tryin’ to get up ahead to bushwhack us, sure as hell.” He looked at Cord and gave a shake of his head. “I reckon we figured wrong when we thought Striker was done with the fight. If we hadn’t turned off when we did, we mighta drove right into an ambush.”
“Looks that way,” Cord agreed. “Maybe our luck’s holdin’ out this mornin’.” He took a moment to think it over. “If we’re right, then this back-shooter is most likely up ahead somewhere, waitin’ for us to show up. After a while, it’s gonna dawn on him that we musta turned off, and he’s gonna backtrack to see where we went. I figure I’ll just wait for him while you drive on in to town.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” Stony responded. “It’s five miles from here to Ogallala and you ain’t got no horse. Why don’t we both just hold up here and see if he comes after us?”
“’Cause if he sees us waitin’ for him, he ain’t gonna keep comin’,” Cord said. “Best you go on toward town—give him a trail to follow. Then I’ll know for sure he’s out after us. I’ll be better off findin’ a place to hide on foot.”
“Yeah, but it’s five miles to town,” Stony repeated.
“I reckon I can walk five miles if I have to.” He climbed back onto the wagon. “Let’s get goin’ now.” He pointed to a low ridge about half a mile distant. “I’ll jump off by that ridge yonder, and we’ll see who’s so interested in where we’re goin’.”
When they approached the ridge, Cord spotted a gully at the foot that appeared to be the perfect spot for what he had in mind. He directed Stony to drive the wagon close by it, then told him to pull up long enough to let him jump off. When Stony began to object to his strategy again, Cord said, “We may have this thing upside down and plumb backward. If that’s the right of it, then the worst is I’ll have a little walk to town. Now, get goin’ before he catches sight of the wagon.”
He stood watching Stony drive away for a moment before looking around the spot he had picked for his ambush. Satisfied that he was not likely to be seen by anyone riding a horse, he stepped carefully up to the narrow head of the short gully, trying to leave as few tracks as possible in the light snow. Nothing to do now but wait, he thought as he squatted on his heels.
• • •
“Where the hell are they?” Mace grumbled. He was sure the wagon should have caught up to him thirty minutes ago, but there was no sign of it for as far as he could see. Knowing they had to have changed direction, he got to his feet and brushed the snow off his clothes. They had either turned around and headed back to the ranch or cut over to head for town. Either way, he had to hurry to catch up to them if he was going to get a shot before they reached town. He hurried down the bluff to get to his horse.
Riding warily back along the riverbank, he kept a sharp eye for the first sign of the wagon until he finally found what he was looking for. “They’re headin’ for town,” he announced aloud as he took only a brief moment to verify it by the tracks where the wagon had turned away from the river. He set off after it immediately, hurrying to overtake the two men, while still keeping a cautious eye ahead to make sure he wasn’t seen by them. Knowing the distance from there to town was not that great, he couldn’t ignore the sense of urgency to get the job done before reaching the settlement. It barely registered in his mind when he crossed over the tracks he had left before, when he had raced to get ahead of the wagon—such was his desperation to catch his intended victims.
Up ahead, it appeared the trail he followed turned at the foot of a low ridge. With no way of determining how fast he was catching them, he deemed it best to slow to a walk until he could get a look beyond the turn around the base of the ridge. Reining back on his horse, he leaned forward in the saddle in an effort to see what might lie ahead, oblivious of the form that rose silently in the gully just passed. “You lookin’ for somebody?” Cord asked.
Shocked, Mace jerked around in the saddle to discover the scar-faced demon standing in the snow with his rifle trained upon him. Terrified, he jerked his pistol from his holster and fired frantically, his shots spraying wildly on either side of the man calmly aiming his rifle and squeezing off the round that knocked him out of the saddle.
Ejecting the spent cartridge, Cord walked cautiously toward the body lying still in the snow. With his rifle aimed at the body, he stood over him, watching for any sign of movement. Cord remembered the face. It was the one who did all the talking when three of Striker’s men jumped Dooley, Birdie, and him on the night they arrived on Triple-T range. By all appearances, the man was dead, but Cord discharged his rifle once again to be sure. Then after stripping the body of arms and ammunition, he proceeded to approach Mace’s horse in an attempt to calm the nervous animal. Once aboard, he rode the sorrel toward town, where he saw the wagon standing in front of the general store.
“Damn,” Stony said when Cord walked into the store. “You walk fast.”
“Didn’t have to,” Cord replied. “I had a horse.”
“I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard gunshots when I was still a little ways from town.” He didn’t express it, but he could have also told him how relieved he was when he turned around just then to see him walk in. “Roman-Three?”
“Yep,” Cord answered. “If I ain’t wrong, I believe it was Striker’s foreman. I reckon he was set on gettin’ the two of us.”
“He was after us,” Stony said. “Then maybe there’s some of the rest of his men plannin’ to hit the ranch. But, hell, he ain’t got no men left but two or three. I reckon it’d be best if we load the wagon and head on back home.” He flashed a broad smile and added, “Course we can take a minute or two to have a drink and say hello to Flo. She’d be irritated to find out I was in town and didn’t bother to stop by.”
“Yeah, I reckon,” Cord allowed. “But like you say, we’d best not hang around too long. So why don’t you go on over to the saloon and be gettin’ your visitin’ done while I get Slop’s list of supplies? Homer can give me a hand with the barrels.” He gave Homer a questioning look.
“Be glad to,” Homer immediately replied.
Grinning sheepishly, Stony said, “Well, if you insist.” He handed Cord the list and headed for the door.
• • •
Clyde Perkins busied himself over a dozen shot glasses in a pan of water, drying each one nervously while keeping a cautious eye on the sullen brute seated at his back corner table. He had hoped the man called Strong would not return to his establishment again after the incident with Flo the other night. But there he was, bold as brass, sitting there as if he owned the town, and Clyde guessed he pretty much did as long as Sheriff Gillan was away. If Ogallala ever needed a full-time deputy, it was on times such as this. He hoped the women had sense enough to stay upstairs until Strong left. He had no sooner given birth to the thought than Betty Lou appeared at the top of the stairs. She happened to glance over toward the bar before starting downstairs and saw Clyde shaking his head in warning. Looking over the barroom then, she saw Strong seated at the corner table, and immediately pulled her foot back from the top step, then hurried back down the hall to alert Flo.
Clyde exhaled a sigh of relief, and looked again at the unwelcome guest at the back table. Patiently waiting, for he had nothing else to do, Strong drank straight from the bottle on the table, taking long pulls of the fiery liquid. In between, he amused himself with a twenty-dollar gold coin. Propping it up on edge with one finger, he gave it a thump with the index finger of his other hand, then watche
d the coin spin. He figured the women would show themselves before long, even though it was still a little shy of noon. He counted on the sight of that twenty-dollar gold piece to overcome any hesitation owing to his last visit to the saloon. This time he had Betty Lou in mind for his amusement.
Clyde turned to stack the clean shot glasses on the shelf behind him. When he turned back to the bar, he recoiled, startled to see Flo on her way down the steps. The look on her face told Clyde that she had murder on her mind, even as she cocked her head to one side to see clearly, one eye having swollen shut. Clyde quickly shifted his gaze back to the corner table. Strong saw the angry woman also, but seemed amused by the sight of her obvious rage. He continued to play with the gold coin until she descended the steps. “You look like you mighta fell off the bed,” he remarked sarcastically, “and landed right on your face.”
“You son of a bitch!” Flo charged, and brought up a two-shot derringer from the folds of her skirt.
His eyes suddenly wide as saucers, Strong came out of his chair and pulled the table over to protect himself. The tiny weapon fired twice, ripping two bullet holes, spaced wide apart, into the table. Furious now, his initial fright over, he lunged to his feet and charged toward her. “You just dug your grave, bitch!” She tried to back away, her face still twisted in defiance, but he was on her too quickly. He grabbed one of her wrists, but she snatched her hat pin from her hair and sank it in the back of his hand, causing him to roar out in pain. In quick retaliation, he slugged her with his fist, driving her to the floor. While she struggled helplessly to regain her senses, he went to her and grabbed her arm, preparing to drag her to her feet.
“Let her go!”
Strong turned to see Stony Watts standing in the doorway, his hand resting on the handle of his Colt .44. Pulling Flo up before him, Strong took a good long look at the man threatening him. He saw no scar that would proclaim him to be the gunman he was here to kill. “Or you’ll do what, cowboy?” he spat at Stony. “This ain’t none of your affair, so you’d best take yourself outta here while you still can, and go stick your nose in somebody else’s business.”
Mark of the Hunter Page 23
