Cord found the little town of Ogallala relatively peaceful on this day in early September, in sharp contrast to the noisy, brawling cattle center for which it had gained a reputation. The trail-hardened cowpunchers who drove the herds up from Texas were gone now until next summer when they would once again repeat the cycle and descend upon the saloons and hotel like an annual visit of locusts. With the cattle now grazing on the ranges of the cattle barons like the Bosler brothers, who filled huge contracts to supply beef to the Indian agencies, Ogallala had reverted to a nearly deserted little settlement in the valley between the forks of the Platte River. Cord knew very little about the cattle business, but he figured that with the great herds awaiting shipment on ranches around Ogallala, he should be able to find work at one of them. He worked well with horses, thanks to his uncle Jesse, so he was confident that he could learn to drive cattle.
Looking at the sleepy town now, however, he found it hard to imagine there could be any work for a willing hand. One hotel, one saloon, and one general merchandise store were the only businesses open, the others having evidently closed until summer. He was beginning to wonder if he should just move on to Cheyenne, or Omaha. He had been undecided where he was going when he left his grandmother’s farm; he just knew that it was time to go. But now he was beginning to realize just how naive he was to set out to search for a man who might be anywhere from Texas to Canada. “What the hell?” he muttered, and turned the sorrel toward the saloon. “I reckon I can afford a glass of beer.” He figured he could justify it as an official start of a quest that might take many years to fulfill.
Like every place else in town, the Crystal Palace was empty of patrons. The bartender got up from a table where he had been drinking a cup of coffee. “Howdy,” he offered unenthusiastically. “Getcha somethin’?”
“I reckon I’d like to have a glass of beer,” Cord answered.
The bartender set a glass on the bar, and watched with mild interest as Cord dug in his pocket for a coin. “I don’t remember seein’ you around here before,” the bartender remarked, already deciding that the stranger wasn’t likely to spend much more than the price of one beer.
“Ain’t ever been here before,” Cord said.
“On your way back to Texas?” the bartender asked, assuming that his customer was from one of the outfits that had driven cattle up from the south.
“Ain’t ever been there, either,” Cord replied.
His reply caused the bartender to chuckle. “Well, if you rode in lookin’ for a wild town, you got here at the wrong time of the year. Course, it’ll pick up a little next month for a spell when the big outfits bring their cattle off the grass and ship ’em east to the markets. Then it’ll be dead again till summer.”
“What I’m lookin’ for is work,” Cord said.
“Is that a fact? What kinda work you lookin’ for?”
“Anything that’ll pay a decent wage,” Cord answered.
Convinced then that Cord was not the typical aimless drifter he was accustomed to seeing this time of year, the bartender offered his hand. “My name’s Clyde Perkins. I run the Crystal when the owner ain’t here.”
Cord shook his hand and responded, “Cord Malone.”
“Where you from, Cord?”
“Moore’s Creek,” Cord replied. When Clyde’s expression registered no recognition of the name, Cord added, “About thirty miles south of here.”
“Must not be a very big town,” Clyde remarked.
“It ain’t,” Cord confirmed.
Clyde smiled. He was thinking the young stranger didn’t waste a lot of words, and was probably serious about finding honest work. “If you’re lookin’ to work for one of the cattle outfits, you might be able to get on with the Bosler brothers. They’re a big outfit, supply a lot of beef to the Red Cloud and Spotted Tail Indian agencies. I expect they’re always lookin’ for good hands. If they ain’t hirin’, you can try John Coad, or Joseph Carey. There’s a few more outfits holdin’ thousands of head of cattle on the grass that’ll be drivin’ ’em in to the shippin’ pens in about a month.”
“Much obliged,” Cord said. “Reckon you could point me in the right direction to find one of those outfits?”
Clyde hesitated for a moment when a thought struck him. “You know, your best bet might be Willard Murphy. He ain’t as big as Bosler Brothers, and I know for a fact that he had a couple of men leave his outfit to go with the Boslers. Murphy might need some help.”
“Sounds like what I’m lookin’ for,” Cord said. Clyde gave him general directions to Willard Murphy’s range on the North Platte near the mouth of Blue Creek and wished him good luck. Standing in the doorway, watching the somber stranger step up in the saddle, he couldn’t help thinking that the young man would need to get himself a stouter horse. The sorrel he was riding didn’t look to be much of a working horse.
• • •
Clyde Perkins was not the only one who held a critical opinion of Cord’s tired old sorrel. “You’re gonna have to get a better horse under you,” Willard Murphy, owner of the Triple-T, informed his new hire. “That damn nag is kinda gray around the muzzle, ain’t she? She’s gotta be close to twenty years old.”
“She’s eighteen, accordin’ to the man who sold her to me,” Cord replied. “She’s better’n walkin’, and she don’t complain.”
Murphy shook his head and laughed. “Go on down to the south pasture and find Mike Duffy. Tell him I said for you to pick out a good horse. You can let that old mare retire and take it easy for a while. Tell Mike I sent you down there to work with his crew. He’ll fix you up with a bed in the bunkhouse.”
“Yes, sir,” Cord said. “I ’preciate it.” He climbed back into the saddle and urged the sorrel into a comfortable lope to show Murphy the old girl wasn’t quite ready to fall over and die. “I hope he didn’t hurt your feelin’s,” he told the mare as he rode away.
• • •
Mike Duffy, a short, wiry man with a shock of red hair and a full beard, seemed not at all surprised when Cord showed up. It was not the first time Will Murphy had hired a man to work with his crew without getting Mike’s prior approval. Mike could usually use an extra man, and more times than not, the new hire didn’t stay with the job for very long, anyway. A couple of the bigger spreads paid more money than the wage that Willard Murphy paid. He had just lost two men over the summer. After talking to Cord for a few minutes, he figured that he would have offered him a job as well. This new hire looked as if he had worked hard before. His hands were callused and tough, his eyes were clear and alert, and he was certainly big enough. Mike helped him pick out a good horse from the herd grazing near the creek. Cord’s pick, a bay gelding, would serve as replacement for his tired old sorrel. When it was time to move the cattle down to the holding pens in Ogallala, he would pick out a string of horses to work. For the time being, however, he would simply be riding herd, watching for strays, keeping an eye out for wolves, and ensuring that Murphy didn’t lose any cattle. With a good horse under him, Cord felt a real sense of confidence, and he was sure he was going to get along well with Mike Duffy.
Mike rode back to the barn with him and waited while Cord turned the bay out in the corral. Then they walked to the bunkhouse where a tall, gaunt man Mike introduced as Slop was busy cooking supper in the kitchen at one end of the long building. Cord would find out later that Slop’s real name was Sloope; it had been shortened by the men he cooked for. Slop paused briefly to give Cord a nod of his head before returning his attention to his oven and the biscuits that were browning inside. “They come and they go,” he muttered to himself when Mike and Cord proceeded to the far end of the room, where Cord threw his modest possessions on one of four empty cots.
“Mind if I take a look at that?” Mike asked, nodding toward Cord’s Henry rifle. Cord handed the rifle to him. Mike sat down on one of the bunks and looked the weapon over with interest, hefting it up to his shoulder, aiming at a rack of deer antlers on the wall at the end of the building. “That’s one of the old ones,” he commented. “Looks like one of the sixty models.” When Cord nodded in confirmation, Mike said, “Everything you’ve got is old, that mare, your rifle. Was this a hand-me-down from your pa?”
Cord almost grunted aloud in response when a picture of Ned Malone flashed across his mind, and he tried to recall anything his father had given him other than a hard time. His answer was calm, however. “No, it’s just the best I could buy with the money I had. I’ll get a better one when I’ve got the money.”
Duffy handed the rifle back, studying Cord’s ex- pressionless face. “You ain’t ever worked cattle before, have you?”
“No, I ain’t,” Cord replied. “I never told Mr. Murphy I had. I just told him I needed work.”
“That’s what I figured. I just had a feelin’,” Mike said with a smile. “Well, it don’t make no difference. I think you’ll be just fine.” He got up to leave. “You just take it easy. The rest of the crew will be gettin’ back before long and we’ll be eatin’ some supper.” He left Cord to pass the time until supper while he attended to a few chores.
The smell of baking biscuits reminded Cord of how little he had eaten that day, but he figured he’d best not ask for anything before supper was announced by the sour-looking man in the kitchen. He turned his attention to the cot he had selected, unrolled the straw tick mattress, and spread the blanket over it. There was no pillow. Looking at the other beds, he saw a variety of makeshift pillows, most of which consisted of rolled-up shirts and trousers, although one of the beds sported a fancy, fringed silk pillow with the words Chicago Stock Fair 1869 embroidered across it. Cord had never seen a pillow like that before, and he moved closer to admire it.
“That there’s Slick’s pillow.” The voice came from behind him, startling him. He turned to see Slop standing between him and the kitchen. Before Cord could respond, the doleful cook tossed an object at him. Reacting quickly, Cord caught it. It turned out to be a hot biscuit, fresh from the oven. “You look like you ain’t et in a while,” Slop said. “You might as well try the cookin’ before you start complainin’ about it.” He turned abruptly and returned to his kitchen.
Somewhat astonished, Cord called out after him, “Much obliged,” and hurriedly consumed the biscuit. There was nothing to complain about, he immediately decided. It was as good as his grandmother’s. When he finished it, he walked back to the kitchen and said as much to Slop. There was no way to tell by the slothful cook’s expression, but Cord had made a friend from that point on.
In twos and threes, the rest of Mike Duffy’s crew arrived back at the ranch until all twelve were assembled to gather around the table. Thinking it best not to seat himself in someone’s customary position on the long benches on either side of the table, Cord waited until it appeared all were present. He was met with open-eyed curiosity by the hungry cowhands as they filed by him, with a few nods from some. Mike walked in the next moment, saving Cord the task of introducing himself. “Say howdy to Cord Malone,” Mike announced. “He’s just hired on. Set yourself down anywhere you can find a space,” he told Cord.
Cord chose a spot at the end of the bench next to a thin, sallow man with a dark, drooping mustache that gave him a constant expression of sadness. Looking to be one of the elder drovers, he offered Cord his hand. “Lem Jenkins,” he said. “You come up with one of the herds?”
“Nope,” Cord replied, “I’m from Kansas.”
“Well, we ain’t gonna hold that against you,” a broad-shouldered, solidly built young man, sitting across the table from him, said. With a friendly smile, he offered his hand as well. “My name’s Stony Watts. I’m glad to see Mike’s finally hired somebody to help shape up this sorry crew.” He laughed at his attempt at humor.
“I might have to hire a dozen to shape this crew up,” Mike replied, also chuckling.
Cord was immediately at ease. Having never worked with a crew of cowhands before, he wasn’t sure what to expect, halfway anticipating the necessity to prove himself before being accepted—and possibly being tested by a resident bully. But that seemed not to be the case with Mike Duffy’s crew. It was a practice not tolerated by Duffy. By the time supper was over, and the three men riding night herd that night departed, everyone made it a point to say howdy. With his positive introduction to Mike’s crew, Cord felt he had taken a step in the right direction. He looked forward to learning the ropes in his new job, and even for a short time forgot the primary reason he had come to Ogallala, to begin a search for Levi Creed.
When Lem Jenkins got up from the table, he remarked that he was one of the men whose turn it was to ride night herd. “You probably got your own way of doin’ things,” he told Cord. “But if you wanna ride night herd, I’d be glad to show you how we do it here.”
Cord glanced at Mike Duffy before responding. Mike shrugged indifferently, so Cord replied, “I ain’t got no set ways. Sounds like a good idea to me.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me, too,” Mike said. “Lem’s a good one to show you the ropes.” So far, Mike was satisfied with the new man’s attitude, especially considering that he volunteered to ride night herd his first night on the job. He had a good feeling about the somber young man, but he sensed there was something deeper driving him than a simple need for a job. He was not discounting the fact that he had briefly considered the possibility of an ulterior motive behind Cord’s request for employment. It would not have been the first time a band of cattle rustlers sent one of their gang seeking a job with a big ranch, only to cut out a large portion of the herd to drive away in the middle of the night. He wasn’t sure why the thought had occurred to him. Maybe it was the cheerless countenance of the young man, or possibly the jagged scar across his forehead. He soon discarded the notion after a few minutes’ conversation with him, however. He might have fooled me, he thought, but if he did, he fooled Will Murphy, too. His boss was a pretty good judge of men.
“Come on,” Lem said, nodding to Cord to follow him to the kitchen, where Stony Watts and a short, dark-haired man with a bushy beard stood by the stove. “Slop will fix you up with a little somethin’ to keep your belly from curlin’ up before breakfast.”
Stony turned to grin at Cord when he and Lem walked up. “You get the privilege of ridin’ night herd with me and Lem on your first night. Course, you have to ride with Blackie here, too, so it ain’t all good.”
Blackie shook his head in mock disgust. “You’re about as funny as a saddle sore on the crack of my ass, Stony. Come to think of it, there’s a right smart resemblance there, too.” They all laughed. “You’re lucky you’re ridin’ with Lem,” he told Cord. “Before the night’s over, the cows will be comin’ to Mike to complain about Stony’s jokes.”
“Here,” Slop said, handing Cord a biscuit with a slab of bacon in it. “Find you somethin’ to wrap this up in. And don’t pay no attention to them two.” Indicating Blackie and Stony.
“Much obliged,” Cord said.
• • •
The night passed peacefully enough, with Lem showing Cord the boundaries of the range the cattle were grazing. They met Stony and Blackie several times before dawn as they circled the herd. It was only necessary to drive a small number of strays back to the herd on two occasions before darkness set in for the night. On the first occasion, Lem suggested that Cord should cut the strays off and push them back to the main herd. Cord managed to get the job done, but with a lot of extra trouble to Lem’s way of thinking. “That horse you’re ridin’ is a cow pony,” Lem told Cord after it was done. “He knows what to do, if you’ll just let him know where you want ’em to go.” On the second bunch, Lem led off so Cord could watch him turn them back. “Ain’t much to it,” Lem said. “Horse does all the work.” As far as Cord ever knew, Lem made no mention of his inexperience working cattle to any of the other men.
In the weeks that followed that first night with Lem, Stony, and Blackie, Cord developed into a first-rate cowhand. It seemed to come naturally to him, and it suited his lonesome disposition. By the time the crew drove the cattle into the holding pens in Ogallala, Duffy knew he had himself a top hand. Cord soon gained a reputation with the other men as a hard worker, uncomplaining, even when called upon to ride night herd in the brutal winter that followed his first fall in Ogallala. Mike Duffy’s daughter, Eileen, had taken notice of the quiet young man. “He never goes into town with the other men on payday,” she commented. “Is he a religious man?”
Mike had to think about that. “Well, I never thought about it,” he said, “but I don’t think so. At least he ain’t never talked about his religion.” He paused again, this time to chuckle over his remark. “Course, he don’t say much about anythin’. I don’t think religion’s got anythin’ to do with why he don’t go to town with the other men, though. I think he’s just savin’ up his money.” Mike happened to glance at his wife, who had paused in the midst of drying the dishes Eileen was washing. He immediately picked up on the look of concern in her eyes, causing him to question his daughter. “How come you’re so interested in Cord, anyway?”
Eileen shrugged indifferently. “I’m not interested in him,” she asserted, emphasizing the word. “He just seems like a nice man—quieter than the others.”
Mike was quick to warn his daughter. “Well, quiet don’t always mean nice. A rattlesnake’s pretty quiet till he’s fixin’ to strike. Don’t you go gettin’ interested in that man. We don’t know a thing about him before the day he set foot on this ranch. One thing for sure, though, that boy’s got somethin’ locked up inside him that he don’t wanna talk about.”
“I thought you liked him,” Eileen protested.
“I do,” Mike said, “but somethin’s eatin’ inside him, and I’d just as soon not know what it is.” For all practical purposes, that pretty much ended all discussion concerning Cord Malone, but it was not enough to curb Eileen’s curiosity—a fact that her mother continued to notice, even if her father did not.
• • •
After a winter that Mike Duffy claimed to be one of the hardest since sixty-eight finally gave way to spring, work on the ranch turned to repairs and preparations for the arrival of the herds coming up the Western Trail from Texas. The cabin that housed Mike and his wife and daughter was one of the buildings in need of repair. The job had been given to Stony and Blackie, but Stony recruited Cord to help them, knowing that his quiet friend never shied away from hard work. He justified it by pointing out that Cord was a good bit taller than Blackie and would, consequently, make it easier to hand up shingles from the wagon. So when Cord came in after helping move some twenty-five hundred head of stock cattle to a new range, Stony gave him barely enough time to grab a biscuit before riding down to the boss’s house to work on the roof. Blackie had just returned from Ogallala, where he had picked up the new shingles at the railroad, and Stony was hoping to finish the repair job before dark. As he expected, Cord made no complaint, although he was going without supper. “Don’t worry,” he told Cord. “Mrs. Duffy will most likely offer us some coffee or somethin’, and we might even get a peek at Eileen.”
Cord had paid very little attention to Duffy’s young daughter on the few occasions he had seen her—those times usually at a distance, even though there had been one morning he had been in the barn when she came in searching for some chicken nests. She had wished him a good morning, and he had returned the same. There was no conversation beyond that and he had led his horse outside and ridden off to his assigned work.
On this afternoon, knowing that Mike was not around, Stony made it a point to knock on the door, telling Cord and Blackie that it was the proper thing to do to let the ladies know they were going to work on the roof. His real purpose was the chance for an opportunity to get a look at Eileen. When he returned to tell his two partners what success he had, he was grinning from ear to ear. “Mrs. Duffy said she’d put some coffee on after a while, when we was ready to take a rest.” He looked at Cord then and winked. “I saw her,” he said. “She was standin’ in the kitchen door, lookin’ at me while I was talkin’ to her mama. I swear, she’s lookin’ fine. She’s got herself a fair-sized pair of chest warts since last summer, ’cause somethin’ was makin’ that apron poke out in the front.” His mischievous chuckle brought a like reaction from Blackie, but an unintentional scowl from Cord.
“Whaddaya doin’ eyein’ the boss’s daughter?” Blackie said, enjoying the mischief. “I thought your true love was big ol’ Flo down at the Crystal Palace. Now, there’s a real pair of chest warts, and Flo will let you see ’em for two dollars.”
His remark brought forth a chuckle from Stony. “Well, now, that’s a fact. The trouble is, Flo will let you see ’em, too, if you’ve got two dollars, but I’d pay a heap more’n that to take a little peek at Eileen’s.”
“Ha,” Blackie huffed. “You ain’t gonna get a look inside that bodice for a year’s pay.”
“Let’s get it done,” Cord finally interrupted, and climbed up on the roof. Stony’s harmless remarks were not meant to vilify the young lady. He knew Stony well enough by then to know he would never do anything to disrespect the boss’s daughter. It was just typical male bluster, but Cord was suddenly chilled by the reference to her body, and his thoughts were drawn back to the little regard his father had shown for his mother’s feelings. The peaceful months he had spent working for Mike had dulled the intensity he had left home with, and the vow he had made to avenge his mother. It now surfaced once more to remind him never to forget. “Hand up that hammer,” he ordered Blackie.
“Damn,” Stony swore softly, surprised by Cord’s sudden irritation, “what did you say to him?”
“Nothin’,” Blackie replied. “I reckon he just wants to get this roof fixed.”
Working at a pace set by the determined quiet man, ripping up rotted shingles and replacing them with new ones, they repaired the weakened places in the roof in about half the time calculated. When they started throwing their tools down into the bed of the wagon, Muriel Duffy came out to take a look. “Knocking off already?” she asked while she stared up at the roof, shielding her eyes from the sun still high above the horizon.
“Done finished,” Stony replied as he hopped down from the roof.
“Well, my goodness,” she said. “I expected it would take you till dark. I just made some fresh coffee I was fixing to offer you, and some sugar cookies to go with it.” She interrupted herself to call back inside to her daughter. “Eileen, see if those cookies are ready to come out of the oven.” Turning back to the three workers, she said, “I guess, if you’re not in a hurry to get back, you can take a little time for a cookie.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Stony answered for the three. “We’ve got time for a cookie, all right.” He favored her with a warm smile.
Eileen came out the door then, carrying three coffee cups in one hand, and the large coffeepot in the other. “We don’t have a big tray,” she explained as she set the cups and the pot down in the wagon bed. She grabbed Cord by the elbow. “Come on, you can help me bring out the cookies and some dishes.”
“I doubt we’ll need any dishes,” her mother quickly remarked.
“Well, he can carry out the plate of cookies,” Eileen countered, and continued on toward the door with Cord still in tow. She was still curious about the quiet young stranger with the cruel scar across his forehead, and she didn’t expect many opportunities to observe him up close. She smiled at Cord and asked, “You can do that, can’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied dutifully, unaware of the game of wits being played between mother and daughter.
Taking no chances with her daughter’s immaturity, Muriel followed them into the cabin. In her mind, there was no reasonable explanation for Eileen’s interest in the strangely serious young man, so she had to credit it as just that, immaturity. She had shown not the slightest awareness of any of the young men hired by her father before this seemingly aimless stray showed up at the ranch. Muriel’s concern was to make sure no foolish mistakes were made before Eileen got over her fascination, so she planted herself between Cord and Eileen when they got to the kitchen. “Go ahead and pull them out of the oven if you think they’re done,” she instructed her daughter. When Eileen pulled the pan out, Muriel quickly slid the cookies off onto a plate and handed it to Cord. “There you go,” she said, and nodded toward the door. “I hope you and the boys enjoy them.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cord said, still without a clue, “I’m sure we will. Thank you, ma’am.”
Fully aware of her mother’s concern, and finding it amusing, Eileen caused him to pause at the door when she asked a question. “Papa said you were from Kansas. Is that right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where in Kansas?” Eileen persisted.
“Moore’s Creek.”
“I guess you still have family there. What brought you up here to Ogallala?” She could see right away that it was going to be difficult to pry conversation out of the stoic young man.
“I needed a job,” was all he offered.
She gave up for the time being, but his reluctance to talk only increased her curiosity. Her mother and father’s suspicions that an unwillingness to talk probably meant he had something to hide was not shared by Eileen. To the contrary, she saw honesty in the somber face, despite the granitelike features and the scarred forehead. She gave her mother a smile and held the door open for Cord, stood in the open doorway for a moment to watch Stony and Blackie assault the plate of cookies, then returned to the kitchen to clean the pan and mixing bowl.
“Honey,” Muriel said, “you need to leave that boy alone. He’s got trouble written all over him.”
Eileen only smiled in response and went on with her cleanup.