Following the directions Lem had suggested, Cord rode west along the South Platte for about thirty-five miles looking for the point where Lodgepole Creek branched off. With one stop to rest his horse, he arrived at the confluence of the creek and the river a little before sundown, so he made his first night’s camp there. He started out early the next morning, leaving the South Platte and following Lodgepole Creek. Lem had told him that the creek would take him all the way to Cheyenne and to figure it to be a little over a hundred miles from that point. Cord planned to bite off the major portion of that distance in one day’s time, hoping to make Fort Sidney late that afternoon. With a good horse under him, and a dependable rifle now in his possession, he felt confident that he would somehow find the man he hunted. He was not flush with cash, but he had a little, thanks to his scrimping and saving, which had provoked predictions of eventual despair from Stony and Blackie. Slop had stuffed a sack of coffee beans in his war bag to be boiled in the small tin coffeepot he had been given by his grandmother. That, coupled with a supply of antelope jerky and a slab of sowbelly, he figured he had all he needed to survive, with the exception of maybe some dried beans. Lem had told him that there was a settlement near the fort, so he figured he could buy some beans there, and maybe a little bit of salt.
Created primarily to protect track-laying crews for the Union Pacific from Indian attacks, Fort Sidney had progressed from an original blockhouse with tents pitched nearby to a modern-day fort with quarters for three companies of soldiers. It appeared sizable to Cord at the end of a long fall day over a frosty prairie that seemed endless in all directions. With no business to conduct with the army, however, he guided his horses toward the town of Sidney and a stable, thinking they could use a night inside and a portion of grain.
He was greeted by the stable owner, Dewey Gillespie, when he pulled the bay to a halt and dismounted stiffly in front of the door. “How do?” Gillespie asked. “Looks like you’ve been ridin’ for a spell.”
“That’s a fact,” Cord responded.
“It’s startin’ to get a little chilly, ain’t it? We’re gonna turn around one of these mornin’s and find old man winter lookin’ right down our backs. I swear, this mornin’ there was a thin little layer of ice on that water trough out yonder.”
“Is that a fact?” Cord replied.
“Yes, sir,” Gillespie went on. “I can feel it comin’ in my bones. We’re in for a rough winter this year.” He paused to allow room for Cord’s comments. When there were none, he asked, “You lookin’ to stable your horses?”
“Yes, sir,” Cord answered, “if the rate ain’t too high.”
“Fifty cents with a ration of oats throwed in,” Gillespie said.
“Fair enough. How much for me and the horses?”
“Another fifty cents,” Gillespie said. “Same as the horse, only you don’t get no oats.” He laughed good-naturedly at his remark, then studied the somber young man as Cord fished in his coat pocket for the money. “First time in Sidney?” he asked. Cord nodded, and Gillespie went on. “You gonna stay awhile, or just passin’ through?”
“Just passin’ through,” Cord answered, “on my way to Cheyenne.”
“If you’re lookin’ for a place to get a hot supper, Maggie’s Diner is right up the street. That’s about the best place for the money, and the cookin’s better’n that over at the hotel—and a helluva lot better’n what you’d get at the saloon.”
Cord nodded again while he considered the suggestion. He had not planned to spend any more of his money than was absolutely necessary, and already he had decided to put his horse in the stable for the night. The prospect of a good hot meal was tempting. He had not been away from Slop’s cooking long enough to become fully adapted to camp meals of sowbelly and coffee again. “I might do that,” he finally said.
“Just tell ’em Dewey sent you,” Gillespie said, “and maybe they’ll shave a little more offa the price.”
“I’ll do that,” Cord said, and led the bay into the stable to the stall Gillespie pointed out, where he pulled the saddle off and dropped it in the back corner.
Gillespie picked up a pitchfork and tossed some more hay in the stall. “Make your bed a little softer,” he volunteered.
“Much obliged,” Cord said, pulled the Winchester from his saddle scabbard, and headed toward the door. “Dewey sent me, right?”
“Dewey sent you,” Gillespie confirmed. “She’ll take care of you.” He nodded toward the rifle in Cord’s hand. “I doubt you’ll need that in the diner.”
“This rifle don’t get outta my sight,” Cord replied. He had every intention of returning the Winchester to its owner.
There were two women cleaning up the small diner when Cord walked in. The only customers were four soldiers seated at a table near the front door. From the number of tables yet to be cleared of dirty dishes, it appeared that business had been brisk. “Looks like I might be a touch late to get somethin’ to eat,” Cord said, still holding the door open. “Dewey sent me,” he remembered to say then.
One of the women looked to be older than the other, so he assumed that she was Maggie, for whom the diner was named. She set the tray of dishes she was holding on one of the tables, wiped her hands on her apron, and looked beyond him to see if he was alone. When it appeared that he was, she took another moment or two to look him over. “No, we can still feed you.” She paused before commenting, “Dewey sent you, huh? Well, I reckon we can scrape you up a plate of food. Set yourself down right here and we’ll see what ain’t been throwed out yet.” She called out to her helper, who was just walking through the kitchen door carrying a tray of dirty dishes. “Bessie, you might as well put another pot of coffee on.”
In just a couple of minutes, the woman came back with a plate piled high with potatoes, beans, and two thick slices of ham. “This ain’t hardly had time to cool down yet. We just emptied it outta the pots.”
Bessie walked up beside her and filled his cup with the dregs of the old pot. “You’re new in town, ain’tcha?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cord said, “just passin’ through.”
As Maggie placed the plate before him, she introduced herself. “I’m Maggie Gillespie,” she said. “Did Dewey say he was comin’ to get his supper anytime soon?”
“Ah, no, ma’am, he didn’t say.” It was obvious to him now why Gillespie had recommended this diner so highly. Cord looked at the plate piled high with food, and imagined the woman in the kitchen scraping every scrap out of the pots and pans. “I hope there was a little bit left for his supper.”
Maggie chuckled. “Did he look like he was missin’ many meals?” Cord pictured the round little man he had just left in the stable, but Maggie didn’t wait for a response. “Dewey’s supper’s warmin’ in the oven. He oughta be here directly.”
Cord propped his rifle against the wall behind his chair and sat down to eat. After a few mouthfuls, he decided that Dewey wasn’t far off when he had praised the cooking at the diner. He wondered if that was the reason the four soldiers were eating there, instead of the mess hall at the fort, but it occurred to him then that at this hour the mess hall was probably closed. All four had turned to look him over when he had walked in, pausing in their conversation until he propped the rifle against the wall. Cord took a sip of the scalding-hot coffee, unable to prevent a grimace as he set the cup back on the table. Noticing his reaction, Bessie paused in her clearing of a table and grinned at him. “I expect that’s a little strong. It was the bottom of the pot I made about two hours ago.”
“It has got plenty of bite,” Cord replied. “That’s a fact.”
She laughed then. “I’ve got a fresh pot on the stove—oughta be ready in a minute or two.”
“Don’t even bring mine till it’s done.”
Cord turned to see Dewey coming in the door.
“Tell Maggie I’m about to starve to death, so hurry up with my supper.”
“Hmph,” Bessie grunted, “I believe we already throwed your supper out.” It was obvious that the women were accustomed to joking with the rotund stable owner.
Dewey sat down at the table with Cord. “Mind if I join you?”
“Reckon not,” Cord replied.
“How are the vittles?” Dewey asked. “Did I lie?” With his mouth full, Cord could only shake his head in response. “The little woman can cook,” he said, and leaned back to give his wife a wide grin as she approached with a plate piled equally high to the one she had served Cord. “I see you’re still feedin’ soldiers,” he said to Maggie.
“Yes,” she replied. “That’s the third bunch we’ve had tonight. If any more of ’em show up, they’re gonna be out of luck, ’cause we’re closin’ up as soon as those four are finished.” She returned to the kitchen to get the coffeepot.
“They’ve been lookin’ for an escaped prisoner,” Dewey explained. “They had ol’ Bill Dooley locked up in the guardhouse over at the fort for stealin’ a couple of horses, and I reckon they musta sent troopers out in all directions tryin’ to find him. They musta split ’em up in details of four men. I reckon they didn’t figure Dooley would be too tough to handle. From what I hear, some years back he was a real hell-raiser, though. Used to ride with that Sam Bass bunch. But I reckon a few years in the territorial prison softened him up a little. He musta had some fire left in him, though, ’cause he managed to steal a cavalry horse and take off. From what I hear, it was when they was escortin’ him to the hospital after he come down sick.” He gestured toward the soldiers at the other table. “I reckon they could tell you the straight of it, if you was interested.” Cord wasn’t. He continued eating, pausing only when Maggie came from the kitchen with the coffeepot and two clean cups.
They ate in silence for a while until both men began to get full, and then Gillespie rekindled the conversation. “Did you say you was on your way to Cheyenne?” Cord nodded, but continued eating. Dewey studied the face of the seemingly serious young man, especially the jagged scar across his forehead. It appeared to be an old scar and not from a recent injury. “You don’t talk very much, do ya?”
“Every time I got somethin’ I need to say, I reckon.”
Since Cord didn’t appear to be irritated by the questioning, Dewey asked another. “How’d you come by that scar on your forehead? That looks like it mighta hurt somethin’ fierce.”
Cord glanced up to meet Dewey’s gaze, the feeling finally striking him that the round little man was getting mighty inquisitive. “Got hit in the head when I was a kid,” he answered him.
Dewey waited a few moments for more, but when it appeared there were no details to follow, he shrugged and said, “I reckon I’m askin’ a lot of questions that ain’t none of my business. I better shut up and let you eat.”
Not wishing to seem unfriendly, Cord said, “Nothin’ to tell, just some tomfoolery kids get into.” He finished up his supper and had another cup of coffee before paying Maggie for the meal. Satisfied that he had gotten his money’s worth, he headed back to the stable to sleep. Dewey came by later to tell him to put the bar on the inside of the door, and to close the padlock on the outside if he should happen to leave before he came back in the morning.
• • •
Cord was saddled up and leading the bay out of the stable when Gillespie showed up the next morning. “Mornin’,” Dewey greeted him. “If you’re thinkin’ ’bout gettin’ some breakfast, Maggie will be open in about thirty minutes.”
“Thanks just the same,” Cord replied, “but I reckon I’ll be on my way. I’ll stop to eat somethin’ when I rest my horses.”
“Well, good luck to ya,” Dewey said. “Maybe you’ll get back this way again sometime.”
“Maybe so,” Cord said as he stepped up in the saddle, turned the bay back toward the wagon track by the creek, and started out again for Cheyenne.
Like on the morning before, there was a heavy frost on the rough road along Lodgepole Creek and a chilly wind sweeping across the prairie, unimpeded by the occasional bluffs of limestone. He pulled the collar of his heavy jacket up close around his neck, even as the sun reflected from the silvery whiteness of the frost-covered prairie caused him to squint. The big bay horse maintained a steady pace, seemingly unconcerned with the cold while his breath formed miniature clouds of white vapor around his muzzle. Thinking primarily about his packhorse, he decided not to push on too far before stopping to let it rest. After a ride of about three hours, the sun climbed high enough to take a little of the chill from the air, so Cord began to look for the best place to stop. He finally settled on a long grove of trees that formed a belt along the creek, thinking there would be wood there for a fire.
The sorrel was not carrying much of a load, because Cord had few possessions and not a great lot of supplies, but he took the packs off anyway. After pulling his saddle off the bay, he let the horses drink before building his fire and charging up his coffeepot. In a short amount of time, he was warming his insides with the fresh, hot coffee and chewing on a stick of antelope jerky.
By nature a man very much aware of his surroundings when away from other people, Cord felt the soft current of the creek and the slight rustle of cottonwood leaves overhead. He sat real still, absorbing the quiet that suddenly shrouded the creek bank when the breeze stopped for a few moments. There was something else he sensed, something that was not part of the creek or the trees, and he slowly pulled his rifle up to lie across his legs when he heard the bay whinny. Without moving, he spoke. “You gonna hang back there in the trees, or you gonna come on in by the fire?”
“I’m comin’ in,” a voice called from behind him. “Don’t shoot. I ain’t got no gun.”
“Come on, then,” Cord said, and turned to face the direction from which the voice had emanated. Although there was no outward sign, he was somewhat startled by the response because he had been going on nothing more than the sense of a presence. In a moment, a man came from behind a large cottonwood. On foot, and true to his word, without weapons of any kind, his visitor came eagerly toward the fire. Haggard and limping, he moved up beside the flame and reached for its warmth. “You look like you could use some coffee,” Cord said. He dumped the last little bit from his cup, refilled it with fresh, and handed it to the eagerly awaiting man.
“Lord bless you, friend,” the man croaked as he took the cup. After taking a few gulps of the hot liquid as fast as his lips would permit, he paused to look at his Samaritan. “How’d you know I was back there watchin’ you? You must have eyes in the back of your head.”
Instead of answering the question, one he had no explanation for, anyway, he made a statement. “You’d be Bill Dooley, I reckon.”
Dooley immediately tensed, certain that he had picked a lawman from which to seek help. “I reckon there ain’t no use to run for it now,” he said, discouraged, and eyeing the Winchester still lying across Cord’s thighs. “I’m ’bout run out, anyway.” He reached out eagerly to accept the piece of jerky Cord offered. “I’da got away from them damn soldiers if they hadn’t shot my horse—and hell, it was the army’s horse at that. I rode the poor ol’ horse with a bullet wound in his rump till he give out and left me on foot. I doubled back on them soldiers and headed the other way. I saw ’em when they rode past me. I coulda throwed a rock and hit one of ’em, but they just kept on chargin’ up the road, just like ol’ Custer at Little Big Horn.” He threw up his arm in a “what the hell?” gesture. “I shoulda knowed a marshal would be smart enough to know I’d double back. How’d you know I’d strike the creek about here?”
Cord was amazed by the man’s tendency to ramble on. The words fell out of his mouth like spent cartridges from a Gatling gun. When he paused to take a gulp of coffee, Cord answered his question. “I didn’t,” he said. “I ain’t a lawman.”
“You ain’t?” Dooley blurted, barely able to believe it. Relieved for a second, he frowned when it occurred to him. “You a bounty hunter? They already got a reward posted for me?”
“I ain’t a bounty hunter,” Cord replied calmly.
Confused, Dooley couldn’t talk for a moment. “Well, what the hell . . . ? You ain’t?” Unsure now what Cord intended to do with him, he asked, “What are you fixin’ to do?”
“I’m fixin’ to saddle my horse and get on my way to Cheyenne,” he stated matter-of-factly.
“You ain’t got no idea about takin’ me back to Fort Sidney?” Dooley could not believe the stoic stranger’s indifference.
“I could do that, if that’s what you want me to do,” Cord answered.
“No, hell no!” Dooley was quick to respond. “Why do you think I’m runnin’ around on this prairie on foot? That’s the last place I wanna go.”
“What did they arrest you for?”
“They said horse stealin’,” Dooley replied. “But I tried to tell ’em I wasn’t fixin’ to steal a horse. I just wanted to swap a couple of tired horses for some fresh ones, you know, even swap.” He couldn’t help grinning. “I just didn’t have the tired horses with me at the time they caught me, but I was goin’ to get ’em. I told ’em so.”
“Is that a fact?” Cord responded with an undisguised tone of skepticism. Dooley detected it, but made no attempt to protest. Instead, he shrugged and favored Cord with a sheepish grin, still waiting to see what his fate was to be at the hands of his benefactor. “Now that you’ve gotten away from the soldiers, what are you plannin’ to do? Where are you goin’?”
“I need to get someplace where I know I’ll be safe to lay low for a while,” Dooley said. “I know the place, if I can just get there before another patrol runs up on me.”
“Well, I don’t like to leave a man on foot,” Cord said, “even a damn horse thief. I’m headin’ toward Cheyenne, and you can ride my packhorse if you’re headin’ that way, too. She ain’t much of a horse, but she’ll beat walkin’.”
“Why, that’s mighty neighborly of you, young feller. I’ll sure as hell take you up on that and give you my thanks to boot.” His smile spread all the way across his whiskered face. “What is your name, if you don’t mind me askin’?”
“Cord Malone,” he replied as he slipped the Winchester back in the saddle sling.
“Malone,” Dooley repeated. “I used to ride with a feller named Malone. That was a few years back, when I wasn’t so down on my luck. Ned Malone was his name, and he was a hell-raiser. There ain’t no joke about that—don’t s’pose you’re any kin?”
“He’s my pa,” Cord replied.
“Well, I’ll be kiss a pig! You don’t mean it! You’re ol’ Ned Malone’s boy? I ain’t heard nothin’ about Ned for years. Some of the others from the old bunch are showin’ up ever’ once in a while. We figured Ned decided it was time to retire and just found him a hole somewhere to hide—maybe that little farm he had near that little town in Kansas.”
“Moore’s Creek,” Cord supplied, content to let Dooley ramble on.
“Yeah, Moore’s Creek,” Dooley continued. “Fact is, I recollect Levi Creed said your pa had gone back to that farm. I expect Levi’s the last one of the old gang to see Ned. Him and Ned was pretty good friends, but I reckon you’d know that. How is your pa? Is he still at that farm in Moore’s Creek?”
Cord did not flinch when Levi’s name was mentioned. He decided to play along with Dooley’s apparent assumption that the son of an outlaw was an outlaw, too. He hoped there was a chance to gain some clue as to Levi’s whereabouts. “He’s still there,” he said, answering Dooley’s question.
“I swear,” Dooley exclaimed in wonder for the coincidence. “If this ain’t somethin’—me hightailin’ it for my life, and runnin’ into Ned Malone’s son. And Ned Malone gone to farmin’.” He shook his head, chuckling at the picture. “But not you, huh, boy? Looks like you ain’t no more for farmin’ than I am. You’re more suited to the high life like me and your daddy was before we got too damn old.” Then an idea struck him. “You said you was headin’ to Cheyenne. You got some particular reason for goin’ to Cheyenne?”
“Nope, just thought I’d see what was what,” Cord replied.
“Well, if you’re lookin’ to get in with some boys that are still livin’ the easy life, where there ain’t no mules or plows, then you need to go where I’m headin’.”
“Where’s that?” Cord asked, thinking that he might have stumbled onto a road that would lead him to Levi Creed.
“Rat’s Nest on the Cache la Poudre,” Dooley announced grandly. He waited for Cord’s reaction, but when there was nothing more than a blank stare on the face of the young man, he asked, “Didn’t your pa ever tell you about Rat’s Nest?” Cord shook his head, so Dooley went on. “Rat’s Nest is a couple of log cabins back up in the mountains where more’n a few outlaws has hid out when the law got too hot on their heels. Your pa’s been there many a time. Levi Creed, Sam Bass, Joel Collins, Jim Murphy, Jim Berry, and a lot of the old gang that me and your pa rode with—they all used Rat’s Nest. It ain’t easy to find, and the Cache la Poudre is a pretty rough river to go up.” Seeing a definite spark of interest in Cord’s eyes, he continued. “Whaddaya say? Wanna go there with me?”
“Might as well,” Cord answered in as indifferent a tone as he could manage. Inside, he could feel an increase in his heartbeat for what might result in a face-to-face meeting with Levi Creed.
“Hot damn!” Dooley exclaimed. “Now you’re talkin’. We’ll lay up in the mountains for a spell and maybe you can catch on with some of the younger fellers that are workin’ the stage road from Cheyenne to the Black Hills.”
“Fine,” Cord said. “Where is this place?”
“From where we are here, I’d say it’s about three and a half days south and west.” He laughed. “It was gonna be a helluva lot farther on foot. It was a lucky day when I ran into you.”
Yes, sir, Cord thought, it was a lucky day, all right.