Mark of the Hunter (21 page)

The eastbound Union Pacific train pulled into Ogallala shortly after noon. Robert Marsh and Tom Tyler got up from the bench at the station, where they had been lolling around, waiting to meet the special passenger scheduled to arrive. Striker had ordered Marsh and Tyler to meet the train instead of sending Mace and Sam Plummer again, thinking it best to keep the two involved in the shooting at the Crystal Palace out of Ogallala for a while. He had prepared his men to expect retaliation from the Triple-T, but the attack never came. After a couple of days had passed with nothing from the Triple-T, Striker came to believe that the fight might have died in Murphy's men, and the possibility of overrunning their range might not be lost after all. That possibility looked even stronger if Murphy's hired gun was eliminated. After Strong did the job he was contracted to do, there should be little opposition left to impede Striker's plans to build a cattle dynasty to rival that of the Boslers. Then there would be time to make efforts to make his peace with the people of Ogallala.

Out of habit, the dark, brooding man inside the passenger car did not get up from his seat as soon as the train stopped in the station, taking a moment to take in the scene outside his window. There were no other passengers getting off in Ogallala, so the two men he saw standing by the track had to be his reception committee from the Roman-3. He took another moment to make sure they did not appear to be lawmen instead. Satisfied, he got up then and proceeded to the door. A big man, he seemed to fill the steps down from the passenger car, and he dwarfed the conductor waiting for him to detrain.

“Damn,” Tyler swore. “The son of a bitch is big enough, ain't he?”

“I reckon,” Marsh agreed as they waited while the ominous-looking man said something to the conductor before approaching him.

“Strong?” Tyler asked when the conductor left him and walked toward a cattle car farther back in the train.

“You from the Roman-Three?” Strong responded.

“That's right,” Tyler replied. “I'm Tom Tyler. This is Robert Marsh.” He waited for Strong to introduce himself, but there was no sign of interest from the imposing man, indicating that he cared not at all who they were.

Saying nothing more, Strong turned to follow the conductor. Tyler and Marsh exchanged puzzled glances, but saw no choice but to follow him. On a signal from the conductor, the engineer pulled the train a few feet forward to line the cattle car up with a stock ramp. When the door was opened, Strong walked up the ramp into the car. Moments later, he led a dappled gray horse down from the car and climbed in the saddle. “Let's go,” he said, sending the two men running for their horses.

The only words exchanged during the three-hour ride to the Roman-3 were “How far?” from Strong—and the answer, “'Bout three hours,” from Marsh. The baneful stoic astride the dingy gray horse positioned himself so as not to have his back toward either man as they rode a worn trail across the plains. By the time they reached the ranch, Marsh and Tyler were halfway convinced that they were escorting a man less than human, simply by his demeanor.

Striker walked out to meet them, less intimidated by a man he paid to do a job. “Well, I see you finally decided to show up,” he said.

“I showed up when I said I would,” Strong replied. “Where can I find this gunman you want killed?”

“I know where you can find him,” Striker responded, “but I don't think it would be a good idea to go ridin' into their ranch lookin' for him. You'd most likely get shot on sight. Besides, I don't want this killin' to look like a planned assassination. I plan to build this ranch after Triple-T goes under, so I don't want the town of Ogallala against me. I'd druther you make this a gunfight just between the two of you, so nobody thinks I ordered it done.”

“I ain't plannin' to set around on a damn rock somewhere waitin' for the son of a bitch to ride past me. Sounds to me like the best way to get at him is in town. He goes to town sometimes, don't he?”

Striker shrugged. “Hell, I don't know—like anybody else, I reckon.”

“Well, I'd rather bide my time in town. He's bound to show up before too long, and when he does, him and me will have a little problem, and we'll settle it in the street.” Striker looked undecided, so Strong continued. “That way, ain't nobody got any complaint, even if the sheriff's in town. He drew on me, so I killed him.”

Striker still wasn't sure. He finally gave in. “I reckon you know your business.” When he thought about it, what Strong said might, in fact, be the better plan. If Strong provoked the man into a gunfight in town, there would be no reason to think Striker had anything to do with it, and no reason for the Triple-T to retaliate against the Roman-3.

“Damn right I do,” Strong said. He had already decided he'd rather spend his time waiting in town where there was a hotel and a saloon to pass his time comfortably. “Now, what's this feller's name and what does he look like?”

“We don't know his name,” Striker replied, “and I ain't ever seen him.” Strong jerked his head back, impatient with Striker's reply, but before he had time to make the caustic remark he was thinking, Striker turned to Tyler. “Go get Mace.” Back to Strong, he said, “I'll let the man who
has
seen him tell you.”

“He's comin' now, Mr. Striker,” Tyler said, and gestured toward the barn when he saw Mace already striding their way.

Mace could not mistake the look of contempt that Strong bestowed upon him as he joined them. He tried to convey an attitude of indifference to the assassin Striker had seen fit to hire. “Well, I see your high-priced gunman finally got here,” he slurred to his boss. “I coulda saved you a lot of money if you'd just gave me the word.”

“Is that a fact?” Strong retorted. “Maybe we can settle that right now.” His hand dropped to the handle of the .44 Colt he wore. Mace stiffened, surprised by the immediate challenge to his bluster.

“Just hold it right there,” Striker ordered. “I didn't pay all that money just so you two can kill each other. Damn it, I ain't got enough men now.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Striker. You're the boss,” Mace was quick to reply, thankful that Striker stepped in. He had no honest desire to face off against a man that looked like the devil's agent. Strong only smiled at him, already thinking about another killing after he was done with the one he was being paid to do.

“Tell him who he's looking for,” Striker ordered.

“Yes, sir,” Mace replied. “Tall feller, almost as tall as you, maybe not as big, hard to tell with that heavy coat he was wearin' when I saw him. But ain't no mistakin' his face, 'cause he's got a scar across his forehead above his left eye, runnin' across, all the way up in his hair. Wears a flat-crown hat, pretty much like the one Tyler there is wearin'. You won't have no problem knowin' him.”

Strong nodded, satisfied. “Then I reckon I'll ride back into town and wait for him to show up,” he said to Striker. “Soon as he does, you'll need to have the rest of my money ready, 'cause I won't be hangin' around after I'm done.”

Striker couldn't help the feeling that he might have acted too quickly when he contracted with the sullen man, but he felt he was too heavily invested in him to change his mind now. “I hope to hell I ain't made a mistake,” he said. “Hell, that son of a bitch might not come into town before spring. How the hell do we know? If you hang around that damn saloon all winter, you're gonna have to pay for it yourself. You ain't gettin' another cent outta me till he's dead.”

Strong showed no concern over his remark. “He'll show up. I'd bet on it. I've seen a hundred like him. They all show up in the saloon sooner or later to brag about how many men they've gunned down. That's how they get a reputation and have people like you pay 'em to do the killin' for 'em. If I'm wrong, and he doesn't come into town before long, then I'll do it the other way. Ride out to the Triple-T and kill him. One way or another, you'll get what you're payin' for.”

That seemed to placate Striker's doubts for the moment, and when Strong told him he would start back to Ogallala right away, he called for Rena to fix the assassin some food to take with him. “It'll be a little late to get supper by the time you get there,” Striker said.

•   •   •

Dooley surprised them all, including himself, when he began to pull through by the morning of his second day after his frosty ride in the back of the wagon. Muriel and Slop were amazed that he felt well enough to take a little food, and was able to hold it down. There was no sign of blood other than a little still seeping from the wounds. Lem pronounced it a miracle. “I ain't never seen anybody get gut-shot before that didn't cough up all kinds of bloody mess. You must have somebody lookin' out after you, for a fact.” He gestured toward the ceiling.

Dooley managed a weak grin for the folks hovering over him. “I reckon it's because of my saintly ways and the good life I've always led,” he murmured.

Stony, Muriel, and Eileen laughed at his remark. “I believe you must have led an honest life, all right, for those bullets to have missed anything fatal,” Muriel said. Only Cord and Birdie realized the irony of Dooley's comment, knowing the man had lived outside the law for a good part of his life. There was enough good in the man, Cord figured, that the good Lord saw fit to give him a little more time.

“Well, I ain't got time to stand around this bunkhouse and watch you women make a fuss over Dooley,” Stony announced. “Slop said he ain't gonna cook no more if I don't go into town and get that molasses and cornmeal he needs.” He turned to Cord. “How 'bout it, partner? You wanna go along? I might need some help with those barrels.”

“I reckon so,” Cord said. “I was fixin' to ride over to the lower range to see if I could pick up any strays that mighta wandered off toward those buttes again, but I reckon Blackie and Link don't need my help. Let me pull the saddle off my horse and turn him in the corral. I'll meet you by the barn.”

He walked outside, pulling his coat collar up around his neck when the chilled air of the morning met him in the face. He heard the bunkhouse door open and close behind him. Thinking it was Stony, heading for the wagon, he didn't bother to turn to see. “It won't be so bad a day when that sun gets up a little higher, so maybe we won't freeze our behinds off.”

“No clouds to amount to much,” a feminine voice replied.

Surprised, he looked around then to discover Eileen following him. “I thought that was Stony behind me,” he said, clearly embarrassed.

“I guessed as much,” she said. “But I wouldn't want you and Stony to come back without your behinds.” He started to apologize, but she stopped him. “Don't let it worry you.” She caught up to him and walked with him to the barn, where he had left his horse with the reins looped over a rail of the corral.

“Somethin' I can help you with?” he asked.

“Nope, I just wanted to talk to you without everyone else around, that's all.”

“Oh? If it's about that kiss in the barn that night, I reckon I owe you an apology.” He got no further than that before she interrupted.

“Well, maybe it is about that kiss a little bit,” she said. “But first, I want to know what your plans are as far as the Triple-T is concerned. Now that Dooley's been shot, are you planning to ride off after the men who shot him? Or are you going again in search of whatever that big important mission is you think you have to do? And I want to know about that kiss, too. What did you kiss me for? Did you think I was like one of those whores that work in the saloon in town—that you can just have your way with, and no commitment at all?”

“Why, no, ma'am,” he sputtered, completely disarmed by the unexpected verbal assault. “I don't think you're like any of those women. I'm sorry if I—”

“Then why did you kiss me?” she interrupted.

“I don't know,” he replied, unable to give her any plausible reason. “I just wanted to, I reckon.”

“You just wanted to,” she echoed, continuing to scold him as if questioning an irresponsible child. “So you're trying to tell me you have feelings for me?”

“I guess so, maybe,” he answered honestly.

“Well, let me tell you, Cord Malone, I would never allow a man to court me unless he had decided he was going to settle down in one place, and not go riding off to chase after some chore he can't even talk about.”

Her blunt statement caught him completely by surprise. Courting Eileen Duffy was something he had never given thought to. Dumbfounded, he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Words failed him. Even his thoughts were tangled in a web of uncertainty, for he didn't know what his proper response should be. Deep down, he knew that she occupied a special place in his heart. But it had always been a fantasy place, like a fairy tale that had no connection to reality. It was too complicated for him to understand, but one thing he had assumed from the beginning was that she was much too good for someone of his station in life—a twenty-five-dollar-a-month cowpoke. And her almost abrasive attitude toward him had seemed to confirm that impression. She stood now, hands on hips, apparently waiting for him to say something.

After a long moment while he was trying to decide what he could say to her, he finally responded, “Are you sayin' you wouldn't be insulted if I was to ask you if I could court you?”

“I'm more likely to be insulted if you didn't,” she shot back. “Are you asking?”

“I'm askin',” he said at once, still in a minor state of shock to find himself in this unlikely conversation, and still uncertain about the possibility.

“What about this secret mission you set off on before?” she asked then. “Are you done with that, or are you going to ride off to who knows where again?”