Mark of the Hunter (20 page)

Frantic, Mace grabbed Clyde's bar rag and tried to wipe the burning alcohol out of his eyes. Furious, he drew his handgun and put another bullet in Dooley's back while the wounded man lay helpless on the floor. Then he quickly turned to Clyde, who had backed away from the bar in fright. “You saw it,” Mace bellowed. “The son of a bitch attacked us. We didn't have no choice.” Clyde showed no sign of protest. “So you just remember the way it was. You saw him try to kill me and Tom.” He glanced at the man holding his head and struggling to get up off his knees. “Come on, Tom. We're done here. Ain't nobody to blame. The bastard tried to kill us and got hisself kilt instead.” They walked out of the saloon, climbed on their horses, and left town, leaving the bartender to stand staring down at the still body of Bill Dooley.

Down the street, where Birdie was inside the store waiting, they heard the two gunshots. Immediately alarmed, she ran outside, looking toward the saloon, Homer Tisdale right behind her. Knowing the shooting had to involve Dooley, she started up the street, running. When halfway there, she saw the three Roman-3 riders hurrying from the saloon to jump in the saddle and hightail it out the end of the short street. She was not close enough to shoot with accuracy with the pistol she wore, even if she was sure who fired the shots and whether or not Dooley was the target.

Bursting through the door left open by the three riders, Birdie discovered Clyde Perkins still standing over Dooley, staring down as if deciding what he should do about him. “Dooley!” Birdie exclaimed, and ran to him. “Is he alive?” she demanded of Clyde.

“I don't know,” he answered. “I don't reckon. He ain't moved.”

“Go get the sheriff!” Birdie ordered. “They're getting away!”

“Sheriff Gillan ain't here,” Clyde told her. “He's gone huntin'—said he'd be gone till tomorrow.”

“Damn!” Birdie swore, frustrated. “What good is he if he's not around when you need him?”

“There ain't much call for him to do much sheriffin' this time of year,” Clyde answered. He didn't bother to tell her that Barney Gillan had not been on the job for very long, anyway.

Birdie bent down over Dooley, calling his name over and over, but there was no response from the still figure. Rolling him over on his back, she pulled his coat open and unbuttoned his shirt, which was already soaking in blood. She put her ear down on his chest and listened. After a long moment, she exclaimed, “He's alive! I hear his heart beating.” She looked up at Clyde then. “He needs a doctor. Somebody needs to go get the doctor.”

Clyde just shook his head sadly. “There ain't no doctor here, either, miss, not in the winter. Everette Hodge will be back in the spring, but he ain't no real doctor. He's a barber, but he can do a little doctorin' and pull teeth.”

“Well, I don't believe Dooley can wait that long,” Birdie said, making no effort to hide her irritation. “Isn't there anyone here who can help him?”

“I'm sorry, miss,” Homer Tisdale answered as he came in to see what had happened. “There ain't much anybody here now can do for him. He looks pretty far gone, anyway. There ain't much a doctor could do for him from the look of it. You might just as well let him pass on away.”

“The hell I will,” Birdie retorted. “I'm taking him home. Somebody there will know how to help him.” She could think of nothing else to do for him. “I'll bring the wagon up here and you two can help me get him in the back.” She quickly got to her feet and ran toward the door, not waiting for their response.

She was back in a short time with the wagon, and Clyde and Homer picked Dooley up and placed him in the bed. “Don't die on me, Dooley,” she ordered as she spread a horse blanket over him that Clyde got from his back room. With still no sign from Dooley to indicate he was alive or dead, she climbed up on the wagon seat and started her horses back the way she had come.

•   •   •

It was well after dark when Birdie drove the wagon into the barnyard of the Triple-T and pulled right up to the bunkhouse door. Ignoring the usual practice of no women in the bunkhouse, she jumped down from the wagon and burst through the door. “I need help!” she exclaimed. “Dooley's been shot!”

The response was immediate, as every man responded to her call, even Link and Blackie, who were lying on their beds in nothing but their long underwear. They gathered around the wounded man in the wagon bed, who was lying still and now half frozen from the long ride back from town. Last to come out was Slop, carrying a lantern, and those gathered around Dooley made way for him. The doleful cook stepped up to the side of the wagon and, holding his lantern close over Dooley, took a long, intense look at the wounds, before issuing instructions. “Couple of you boys slide him off the wagon and carry him in and lay him on his bed.” He held the lantern up a little higher, so they could see, and watched the process. “Take it easy,” he cautioned. “He ain't no sack of corn. Couple of you other fellers unload them supplies and pile 'em in the pantry.” They followed his orders without hesitation. When it came to most minor wounds and injuries among the men, Slop was the doctor. The more serious cases usually wound up under Muriel Duffy's care. After his first look at Dooley, however, he was not confident that he would be able to do anything for him. Dooley was gut-shot. Slop could probe for the bullet in Dooley's back, and sew the wound up, if need be, but the gut wound was beyond his expertise. “Somebody better go get Mrs. Duffy,” he said.

While Cord and Stony carried the wounded man inside, Lem asked Birdie what had happened. Worrying over Dooley as they carried him in, she tried to tell Lem and the others how he happened to get into it with three men from the Roman-3. “I wasn't there to see it,” she explained frantically, “but the bartender said they jumped him when he was minding his own business. All he wanted was a drink of whiskey, and then we were going to head back here.”

“Did you see the three riders?” Cord asked.

“I didn't get there in time to see their faces,” Birdie replied. “But the bartender said they rode for Harlan Striker. He said he heard one of them call the one that shot him in the stomach Sam.”

“Sam,” Cord repeated, staggered mentally for the moment, angered by the violent attack upon his friend, but not sure what he could do to punish those responsible—but punish them he must. Looking down at Dooley, he felt helpless. Desperate to do something to save his friend's life, he didn't know what to do to help him right now. Dooley looked near death, his eyes closed and not a sound from his lips, as Cord and Stony laid him on his bed as gently as they could.

Watching Cord's reaction closely, Birdie placed her hand on his arm. “I know what you're thinking, and you need to hold off a little before you do anything. Right now let's see about doing what we can for Dooley. All right?”

Cord paused to think about what she had said, then nodded to her when he realized she was right. “Whaddaya think, Slop?” he then asked anxiously. “Can you do something for him?”

“Let's get his shirt off,” Slop said, “so I can get a better look at him.” Cord helped him peel the shirt away, exposing the ugly hole in Dooley's abdomen. There was blood coming from the bullet hole, but not as much as one would expect from a wound in that location. Much of the initial bleeding had been slowed by the cold ride from town in the wagon. “I ain't got no way of knowin' what that bullet's done to his insides,” Slop said. “I know I can't do nothin' for it. We'll see what Mrs. Duffy says.” He looked up at the concerned faces gathered around and shook his head, then continued. “I'll do what I can with the shot in his back, but I reckon we'll just have to wait and see what happens after that.” He rolled Dooley on his side to look at the wound.

“He's got two wounds in his back,” Blackie blurted, pointing to a second hole lower down near his side. It had not been apparent before Dooley's shirt had been removed. “They shot him twice in the back.”

While it would have come to the others after a few minutes, Birdie realized it right away. “No, they didn't,” she exclaimed. “That's where they shot him in the stomach. The bullet went straight through him and came out the back.”

“That's a good thing, ain't it, Slop?” Stony asked.

“Maybe,” Slop allowed, “hard to say. Leastways, won't do no good to go diggin' around in his gut—do more harm than good.”

“Well, we oughta do something,” Birdie said as Eileen and her mother came in the door, just having been informed what was going on in the bunkhouse.

“We will,” Muriel said. “How bad is it?” When Birdie told her what had happened, and that the question now was how to treat Dooley's wounds, she offered her opinion. “I think you're right to leave the stomach wound alone. He's not bleeding from the mouth, is he? Maybe he was lucky, and the bullet went on through without hitting any of his organs.”

“Has he showed any signs of coming to?” Eileen asked.

“Ain't nobody give me a chance.” The feeble response came from the patient, startling all those hovering over him.

“Dooley!” Birdie exclaimed. “You're alive!”

“Well, I reckon,” he rasped weakly, grimacing now with the pain he had just become aware of, “but I wasn't sure for a long time when I heard you folks talkin' 'bout what to do with me.”

“Thank goodness you woke up,” Birdie said. “I was afraid you were dead.”

“Me, too,” Dooley answered, barely above a whisper. “But when you folks didn't start talkin' 'bout diggin' a grave, I started feelin' better.”

“Can you drink some water?” Slop asked, and drew an immediate reaction from several of the observers.

“Slop, you oughta know better'n to give a man water that's been gut-shot.” Blackie spoke for the crew.

“That's what they say,” Slop replied. “But if he takes a drink and it don't hurt him, then we'll know he ain't really gut-shot, just lucky as hell. Then we'll just have to wait and see what happens when he goes to the outhouse, and see if everythin' else is workin'. He might make it all right if that bullet that went through him didn't cause his insides to fester. We'll just watch him awhile before we go to gettin' the shovels out. Don't you think so, Mrs. Duffy?”

“Cord,” Dooley rasped, and his young friend bent low to hear him. “I'm hurtin' like hell. I wanna go back to sleep. Don't let 'em stick me in the ground without you makin' sure I'm dead.”

“Don't worry, partner,” Cord assured him. “I won't. Go ahead and go to sleep if you can. Mrs. Duffy will help you get well.” Dooley's talking indicated a positive sign to Cord. The wiry old outlaw was tough enough to pull through as long as his insides weren't torn up. And it looked as though Slop was right when he said there was nothing they could do for him but wait to see if he came through on his own. A doctor could probably do no better. He would have told Dooley as much, but he had already gone back to sleep by then. Muriel and Slop talked about digging the bullet out of Dooley's back, and decided it could wait until they knew for sure the stomach wound wasn't going to kill him.

With Dooley asleep, Muriel decided it best to leave him where he was, and the Triple-T settled in for the night once again. The women returned to the house, and Cord drove the wagon down to the barn and unhitched the horses. There were a lot of thoughts running through his mind as he put the harness away—the question of what retaliation he should take out on the men who shot Dooley. There had been no contact with any of the crew at Roman-3 since the decisive battle at Blue Creek. Right at this particular time, Triple-T seemed to control the activity over all the range they formerly grazed. He felt strongly that Dooley should be avenged, but if he set out to do so, would he be dragging the Triple-T back into another range war, where more of the crew would be killed? These were the things that were troubling his mind when Lem found him.

“I was wonderin' why it was takin' you so long to take care of the horses,” Lem said.

Cord shrugged. “I wasn't in any particular hurry,” he said.

“Helluva thing about Dooley,” Lem remarked.

“Yep, bad luck, all right,” Cord replied. He knew Lem well enough to know he didn't really concern himself with how long Cord took to unhitch the horses. “What's on your mind?”

“Well, I reckon I really wanna know what's on
your
mind,” Lem answered. “I know you and Dooley are pretty close partners, and I was afraid you were down here saddlin' up to go lookin' for some revenge for what they done to him.” He didn't mention the conversation he had had with Birdie and her concerns that he was on the verge of setting out for the Roman-3. “I don't blame you none for thinkin' that way,” Lem continued. “And I say, hell, I'll help you. I'm sure the rest of the boys feel the same way, and if you set out for the Roman-Three, it wouldn't be just me followin' you. Some of the others, Stony and Blackie for sure, would be right behind. What I'm hopin' you'll understand is that it wouldn't be a good thing to do right now. We ain't got enough men to take care of the cattle as it is, and now we've lost another one if Dooley don't pull through. If we get some more of us killed off, what's gonna happen to Mr. Murphy's cattle—the women up at the house—all of us? We'll have Triple-T cattle scattered all over the high plains.”

These were questions that Cord had already been struggling with in his mind. His initial impulse had been to saddle up, load up his Winchester, and ride into the Roman-3, shooting everyone he saw. He knew that would be the wrong thing to do, just as Lem was now trying to tell him, but it was his natural inclination. In view of that, he decided that he would agree to do as Lem requested for the time being, but he would exact the vengeance demanded from the ones responsible for trying to kill Dooley. He considered it his debt alone, however, and would make sure none of the other men were involved. “I see what you're sayin',” he told Lem. “Don't worry. I ain't gonna go off half-cocked.”