Mark of the Hunter (15 page)

“All right,” Mace directed. “It's time to do a little cattle drivin'. Bart, take five men and go on down along that line to the last hill yonder. You know what to do. Get in behind the cattle and start the whole damn herd runnin' toward the head of the valley. The rest of us will take care of those three settin' by the fire.” He was tired of picking away at small portions of Willard Murphy's cattle. It was time to go to war now, since they had brought in that hired gun, and time to kill the drovers and finish the Triple-T for good. In spite of Striker's concerns about attracting the attention of the law, Mace was of the opinion that nobody really knew or cared if there was a range war going on in the empty prairie north of Ogallala.

In the saddle then, seven of the thirteen men started out along the base of the hills, circling around to come up from behind the three seated around the campfire. When within one hundred yards of the herd, Mace started the shooting, aiming his rifle at one of the three men around the fire. Because of the difficulty of aiming accurately while riding a galloping horse, he missed all three, but his aim was good enough to kick up a double handful of burning branches in the fire, sending the three men scrambling. There followed an explosion of gunshots as every one of the outlaws fired their weapons, starting an instant stampede.

Diving into the gully to take cover, Lem and his partners strained to see from whence the shooting came. In the chaos of the initial moments of the stampede, with the air filled with thunderous gunfire, it was difficult to determine the point of attack as all three tried to hold on to their frightened horses. But soon they saw the line of riders cutting into the terrified cattle, and they began to return fire. “They're pushin' 'em up the valley!” Billy cried out.

“Get after 'em,” Lem yelled, “or we'll lose the whole damn herd!” But the rifle fire kicking up dirt around the gully made it suicide to even think about climbing in the saddle. The best they could do was to take what shots that were presented by the rustlers darting back and forth as they pinned the drovers down.

“By God, they ain't just after the cattle. They're out to kill us,” Dooley shouted. “If you're gonna steal the whole herd, you ain't gonna want no witnesses left to talk about it!” Unnoticed behind them, a line of six riders moved up from the rear of the frantic cattle—unnoticed except for one lone man.

Scrambling down the ravine to get to his horse, Cord thought the same as Dooley. He could see that the Roman-3 gang had split in two, with half driving the cattle, and the other half intent upon murdering the drovers. The thought hit him hard at that moment, one that had not occurred to him before. Although he had not known either for any length of time, two of those pinned down in that gully were the closest friends he had, Lem Jenkins and Bill Dooley. In the saddle then, he raced after the riders circling the gully, formulating his plan as he rode. In the chaos of dust kicked up by the startled cattle mixing with the now steadily falling rain, combined with the dark, it was difficult for one rider to identify another, so he would use that to his advantage. Selecting his first target, Cord pulled the bay up beside Lou Suggs.

“Keep throwin' lead at that gully!” Lou shouted to him. “Don't give 'em a chance to aim!”

“Right,” Cord answered and, with his rifle leveled at Lou's gut, pulled the trigger, knocking the rustler out of the saddle. He kicked his horse hard then to catch up with another of the riders.

Bart Smith pulled up short when he saw a riderless horse gallop past him. He looked around him from left to right to see if he saw anyone on foot. “Who's on the ground?” he called out to the rider catching up to him in the swirling cloud of mixed dust and snow.

“I don't know,” Cord answered as he closed the distance between them.

“It's damn hard to tell who's who in this mess,” Bart complained. “You couldn't recognize the devil himself if he was to ride right up to ya.” A few seconds later, as Cord drew up close to him, Bart was suddenly startled. “Who the hell are you?”

“The devil,” Cord replied as he pulled the trigger with his rifle leveled at him. He turned the bay's head then and cut through the swirling mass of cows to the other side of the herd. He worked his way clear of the stampeding herd just as the leading cows reached Blue Creek. Circling back the way he had come, he almost ran into another rider, who was firing his pistol into the air in an effort to prevent the cows from veering away from the water. The rider yelled at him for help in steering the wild mass of beef into the shallow creek. It was the last sound he made on this side of the divide between the living and the dead.

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, greatly 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.”