While peace returned to the Triple-T, and the small victorious crew settled back into the routine of keeping the cattle alive during the coming winter, Mace Tarpley rode into Cheyenne on a matter that would impart great impact upon the late Mike Duffy’s cowhands. He wasted no time in going directly to the telegraph office to learn if the operator had had any communication with a man known simply as Strong. “That man,” the operator responded, “yeah, he comes in here from time to time—scary-lookin’ man—told Polly over at Strutter’s place that he’s a lawman workin’ for the government.”
When told that Strong had been in the day before to inquire about his messages, Mace was afraid he might have been a day too late. “Probably not,” the operator told him. “He didn’t have any messages, but he likes to stay a couple of days at Strutter’s when he comes to town. I expect you might find him there playing cards.” Curious, the operator asked, “What line of business is Strong really in? He doesn’t ever say much, just picks up an occasional message somebody’s left him and walks out. I’d ask him what he does, but he doesn’t look like the kind of man who likes questions.”
Mace grunted in response. “Huh, he’s the kind of man that minds his own business, which I reckon we all oughta do.” He turned and went out the door.
Mace was very familiar with Strutter’s Gentlemen’s Club across the tracks from the depot. He had spent time there himself when he had some money in his pocket. It was the middle of the afternoon when he looped his reins over the hitching rail before the large two-story house and stepped up on the porch. He walked into the front hall and was met almost immediately by a large woman named Polly, who greeted him cordially, even while eyeing him skeptically from head to toe. “Hey, honey,” she said with an obvious lack of enthusiasm, “you look like you might be lost. You lookin’ for a drink, or a card game, or something else?”
Mace flashed his tobacco-stained grin for her, oblivious of her look of disdain. “I might be lookin’ for a drink or two at that, but first I’m lookin’ for a feller that usually stays here when he’s in town—feller name of Strong. I’ve got some business to talk over with him. Is he here?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said. “What kinda business have you gotta talk over with him? You’ll have to take off that pistol you’re wearin’ and park it in the closet before you can go into the parlor. The owner don’t allow any weapons in the parlor.”
Mace snorted a chuckle. “Hell, lady, I ain’t lookin’ to shoot him. I just wanna talk some business.” He unbuckled his gun belt and held it out to her.
“Put it in there,” she said, and pointed toward the closet, preferring not to take it herself. When he had dropped it on the floor, he followed her to the parlor. She held the door open for him, but when he stepped inside, she disappeared.
Mace stood near the door and looked the room over. There were four tables at one end of the room. Three of them were in use with poker games in progress. Two of the three tables had the usual spectators, while the other had no lookers standing around. This was the table that attracted Mace’s attention, for he recalled something that he had been told by someone—he didn’t remember who. Strong did not tolerate spectators hovering around the table when he played poker, especially the women who worked at Strutter’s—with their subtle signs; the raising of an eyebrow, the tug of an ear, the wink of an eye, and any number of signals employed to separate the unwary stranger from his cash. The soiled doves that hovered over the tables at Strutter’s were well aware of the man’s violent temper, so there was little need to warn them to give him space.
Ignoring the players at the other two tables, Mace sidled over closer to the one with no spectators and four players. He had seen the man once before, but even had he not, Strong would have been easy enough to pick out. Big, even sitting down, he dwarfed the other three cardplayers at the table. A seemingly permanent scowl upon his face relaxed only slightly whenever he won a hand, as deep-set eyes, dark as coal, watched every movement made by his opponents. It was hard to guess the age of the time-weathered face, but the gray in his mustache was testimony that he was not a young man. It also told Mace that whatever the number of gunfights he had been engaged in, he had obviously come out on top. He seemed to take no notice of Mace standing there until he declined to call the bid and tossed his cards in. Then he fixed his cruel eyes upon Mace and growled, “Find you someplace else to stand gawkin’.”
Mace’s initial impulse was to withdraw immediately, but the promised payment of one hundred dollars made him stay to deliver his message. “I need to talk some business with you,” he said.
This caught Strong’s attention. “Is that so?” He took a moment to give Mace another looking-over. “Who sent you lookin’ for me?”
“I met you once up toward Custer City,” Mace said, hoping it would jog his memory, but there was no indication of it in the eyes glaring at him from under bushy black eyebrows.
“What’s your name?” Strong demanded.
“Mace Tarpley,” he replied. There was still no recognition apparent in the impatient face. “I got some important business to talk over with you, but it needs to be done in private.”
Strong glared at him then, trying to decide. After glancing at his modest stack of chips on the table, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to hear what the scruffy-looking jasper had to say. “After this hand, and one more, I’ll hear what you’ve got to say. But, damn it, don’t stand there gawkin’. Go over to the bar and wait.”
“Right,” Mace replied dutifully, and retreated to the bar. The bartender said nothing, but stared at him, awaiting his pleasure. “Gimme a shot of whiskey,” Mace demanded, trying to regain some measure of bravado. He finished his first drink and ordered another before Strong threw his hand in after five more had been dealt.
He got to his feet so abruptly that he knocked his chair over, and without bothering to set it upright again, he strode over to the bar. “Buy me a drink,” he ordered. Mace immediately nodded to the bartender. When Strong had his drink, he picked it up and moved down to the end of the bar, out of earshot of the bartender. “Now, what’s this business you’re talkin’ about?”
Mace told him of the range war over near Ogallala and the paid killer the Triple-T had brought in to kill off his boss’s ranch hands. Strong had gotten propositions similar to that before, so he was only mildly interested until Mace told him the payoff was five hundred. That got his complete attention. “Five hundred, huh?” Strong responded. “Cash money or gold coin?”
“Whatever way you want,” Mace said, even though he didn’t know how Striker was going to give it to him, and he figured it didn’t matter. That would be Striker’s problem.
Strong nodded thoughtfully to himself. The timing was right. He was running out of money fast, and had considered heading back up in the Black Hills. “This feller you want me to take care of, what’s his name?”
“I don’t know his name,” Mace answered. “Tall feller, almost as big as you, has a scar runnin’ across his forehead from here to here.” He indicated on his own forehead. “But I ain’t heard what his name is.” He shrugged indifferently. “That sound like anybody you know?”
Strong thought for a few moments before replying, “No, don’t call to mind anybody I’ve ever run across. If he was anybody worth worryin’ about, I’da heard of him.” He nodded confidently to assure Mace. Then he asked, “Five hundred, right? Just for killin’ one man?” When Mace guaranteed him that was the deal, he nodded again, satisfied that it was going to be an easy way to make a payday.
“I’m gonna need some supplies. I expect you’ll be buyin’ everythin’ I need, cartridges and so forth.”
“Hell, man,” Mace replied. “Ain’t you got a cent to pay for your own supplies? I ain’t got no money. My job was to bring you Mr. Striker’s offer. He didn’t give me enough money to buy food for myself, let alone give you money for supplies.” He was already tiring of Strong’s money-grabbing ways.
Strong didn’t say anything for a long moment while he fixed his gaze upon Mace, much as a bobcat measures a rabbit. “A man has expenses in this business,” he said in a low, calm voice. “And he expects to be paid for those expenses. The five hundred is for the job. I’ll need money for my expenses. That’s money above the price for the job.”
“I expect you can take that up with Mr. Striker,” Mace said. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with that part of it.”
Strong took another minute to study this messenger from Harlan Striker. Judging from the appearance of the man, Mace was the typical outlaw, thief, or gunman Strong had ridden with over the years. His curiosity was aroused. “Just this one jasper? Why don’t you shoot him?”
Mace wasn’t prone to tell him that he had no desire to meet face-to-face with the man who had almost single-handedly rubbed out almost all of Striker’s gang. He wouldn’t say that he hadn’t given the idea some thought, but the memory of that dark, stormy night when his men’s saddles kept coming up empty had etched an image on his brain of a demonic killer straight from hell. To answer Strong’s question, however, he tried to show his indifference with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “I offered to, but Mr. Striker had this notion that it would be best to hire it done by an outside man, who would do the job and be gone the next day in case the law came nosin’ around.”
“Is that a fact?” Strong replied with skepticism. “Well, I’ll go shoot this gunman for your boss.” He had an idea as to why Mace didn’t do the job himself, and it was considerably different from the way Mace told it. This problem that Mace’s boss wanted eliminated must be a genuine hell-raiser of a gunman. Striker might be ripe for money over and above the five hundred. After all, that was his initial offering, so it was important to make him know that he wasn’t dealing with any ordinary assassin. “Here’s the way this deal is gonna be handled,” he told Mace. “There’s a lot of folks wantin’ my services. I ain’t just settin’ around here playin’ cards. I’ve got a job I’ll have to take care of before I leave town.” He didn’t, but it was the picture he wanted to paint for Harlan Striker. “I’m not gonna waste my time on somebody’s promise to pay me, so when your boss wires me one hundred dollars, I’ll be on the next train to Ogallala, ready to get the job done.”
“I thought you’d ride back with me,” Mace replied.
“When I get an advance on the job is when I’ll know for sure your boss is a man of his word,” Strong told him. “He might as well know that if he wants the best professional, it’ll cost him more than the piddlin’ amount he has to pay a common bushwhacker. And from what you’re tellin’ me, this jasper’s too much for the common back-shooter to handle, and I’ll guarantee your boss that I’ll get the job done. If I don’t, it won’t cost him nothin’. Now, that’s the way I work, so you’d best jump on your horse and get back to your boss. I ain’t gonna waste my time around here for long.”
“Hell, it’s a three-and-a-half-day ride back to the Roman-Three from here,” Mace complained.
“Then you’d better get started.”
• • •
Lem Jenkins, as the eldest of Will Murphy’s ranch hands, called a meeting of the remaining crew, thinking it a good idea to see where they stood now that they had apparently defeated Harlan Striker’s move to consume the Triple-T. The past week had brought no new attacks on the men or the cattle, so everyone was in attendance, even Muriel, Eileen, and Birdie. “I ain’t tryin’ to take over Mike’s job,” Lem started out, “but I thought we oughta see what’s what before Mr. Murphy gets back in the country. If somebody else wants to do the talkin’, that’s fine by me.” There was quick and unanimous agreement by all present that he was the logical choice to assume the position as foreman until Murphy returned. This was due primarily to the reason that, at thirty-eight years of age, he was by far the oldest and most experienced, with the exception of Bill Dooley and Slop. Dooley was older than Lem, but he was just newly arrived at the Triple-T. He was hardly likely to accept such a position at any rate, even had it been offered. And nobody knew exactly how old Slop was, but he already stood slightly bent over because of what he said was rheumatism. “All right, then,” Lem continued, “let’s get started.”
The first issue to be discussed was the shortage of manpower. They were far short of the number of hands needed to take care of a herd as big as theirs, which was no doubt the reason Harlan Striker had thought he could overrun them. “We’re in a lot better shape than we were before Cord and Dooley came to help.” He turned aside to comment directly to Muriel, “Except for the loss of Mike, ma’am.” She nodded with a sad smile for his courtesy. He went on then. “We’re just gonna have to take care of the herd with the seven of us.”
“I can ride,” Birdie interrupted. “Muriel and Eileen don’t need me at the house, anyway. I’m just one more in the way. I can work in the barn, too. That would give you eight riders to watch the cattle.”
Her suggestion sparked a reaction from everybody. “I don’t know . . . ” Lem hesitated, caught by surprise. “Tendin’ cattle’s a cold, hard job this time of year,” he said, “not exactly right for a slim little lady.”
“I can ride and I can shoot,” Birdie insisted. “Ask Cord and Dooley.”
“That’s a fact,” Dooley quickly verified. “We’ve seen her in action. She didn’t back down when the shootin’ started.”
“I reckon I might be more help in the barn, or ridin’ herd, if one of the women wanted to do the cookin’ for the hands,” Slop volunteered as he carried his big gray coffeepot around the room, filling each outstretched cup.
All eyes shifted then to see Muriel’s reaction. It was Eileen who responded, however. “I can do the cooking,” she quickly agreed. “Mama can help, if I need it.”
Lem was astonished by the positive attitude exhibited by everyone. “I don’t know if we need to go that far,” he said. “Slop’s already got the rheumatize so bad he’s stove up pretty much, especially on these cold mornin’s we’re into now.” He looked around the room to judge their reaction. “I think with Birdie helpin’ out, the eight of us can handle it. Whaddaya think?” He saw nods of agreement from everyone. “Good. I’m sure we’ll get more help when Mr. Murphy comes home. He’ll most likely be hirin’ on some more men.”
The meeting had appeared to be over when Slop brought one more thing to their attention. “If I’m gonna keep feedin’ you boys, I’m gonna need somebody to go to town. I’m gettin’ mighty low on supplies, especially coffee, flour, and sugar. Mike usually sent one of you in with a wagon to pick up what I needed, but I reckon with him gone, we all forgot about it.”
“Well, we sure don’t wanna run outta grub,” Stony sang out. “I reckon we’d best send somebody in to town tomorrow.”
“I can do that,” Birdie popped up again. “I can drive a team of horses.”
As before, everyone looked at her in surprise. Then they shifted their gazes toward Dooley, who had vouched for her before. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I ain’t never seen her drive a wagon, but if she says she can, I sure as hell wouldn’t doubt it. I’ll ride in with her,” Dooley volunteered. He was thinking that it had been a little while since he had had a drink. And he had a couple of extra rifles he had gained from the battle with the Roman-3’s crew that he felt sure he could sell or trade. “I can give her a hand if she needs it, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a little extra protection along in case somethin’ comes up.”
“That sounds like a good idea to me,” Lem said. It would be a help if the young lady could pick up the supplies, and he was a lot more comfortable with someone along in case she needed help. “Let Slop make you a list to give Homer Tisdale at the general store. He’ll put it on Mr. Murphy’s bill.” He looked around then and noticed the look of dismay in Billy’s eyes, and couldn’t resist japing him. “We’da sent you, Billy, but you ain’t much good with just one arm.”
“This don’t slow me down none,” Billy immediately refuted. “It’s just about ready to come outta this sling, anyway.” He blushed when Birdie gave him a smile.
Outside, after the meeting, Cord had a quiet word with Dooley. “You sure you wanna be walkin’ around town carelessly? You know it ain’t been long since there were likely notices sent out about your little set-to with the army. I expect they might still be glad to have you show up.”
Dooley chuckled at the thought. “You’re startin’ to sound like an old mother hen,” he joked. “Don’t worry. I ain’t lookin’ to make any noise in town. I might have me one drink, but I’m just goin’ along to make sure Birdie’s all right.” Changing the subject abruptly when something caught his eye, he said, “Look yonder.” Cord turned to look in the direction Dooley indicated to see Birdie driving a team of horses toward a small farm wagon on the other side of the barn. Cord started to go help her, but Dooley caught him by the elbow. “Wait a minute. Let’s see if she can hitch ’em up to that wagon.” Cord humored him and they stood by while the frail-looking young lady backed the team on either side of the wagon tongue. “I swear,” Dooley marveled, “ain’t she somethin’?”
“She’s just full of surprises,” Cord said. The young lady did seem to know a little bit about damn near everything. He was beginning to wonder if she might be many years older than the sixteen years she claimed, and the thirteen years she looked. “Look after her,” Cord said, “and stay outta trouble.”
“Yes, ma’am, mother hen,” Dooley answered as Cord untied the reins and prepared to climb in the saddle.
• • •
They had gotten a later start than they would have liked, because of the meeting, but Dooley figured they could still get to Ogallala, get their supplies, and start back home in time to make supper—and this was with time to let him visit the Crystal Palace for a couple of snorts. Birdie insisted on driving the horses, intending, Dooley supposed, to demonstrate to him that she was capable of the task. It was all right with him. He contented himself to sit on the seat beside her and make sure she kept the wagon heading in the right direction, since she had never been to Ogallala. They pulled into the town after a two-and-a-half-hour drive, and went directly to the general merchandise store owned by Louis Aufdengarten. Homer Tisdale greeted them from behind the counter. “Howdy, folks. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve come to pick up some things for the Triple-T Ranch,” Birdie told him. She reached inside her coat pocket and produced the list Slop had told Muriel to write for him. “Lem Jenkins said you could just put it on Mr. Murphy’s account.”
Homer studied the note carefully, especially Muriel’s signature. He had seen her name on lists before, but he had never seen either of the two standing at the counter this day. “You folks must be new at the Triple-T,” he said.
“That’s a fact,” Dooley answered. “Me and Birdie ain’t ever been in your store before.”
“How’s Mike gettin’ along these days?” Homer asked as he pulled a flour sack from beneath the counter.
“Well, we hope he’s doin’ just fine,” Dooley replied, “since he’s been dead for a couple of months now, but I expect you already knew that.”
“Yes, I knew,” Homer sputtered. “No offense meant, it’s just that—”
“None taken,” Dooley interrupted. “You don’t know us from President . . .” He paused, trying to remember.
“Hayes,” Birdie prompted with an impatient shake of her head.
“Dog bite it,” Dooley snorted. “I can’t never get that feller’s name in my head.”
Homer had to laugh. “I reckon you folks are getting this list for the Triple-T, all right. I won’t have no molasses for a couple of days.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be in the business of buyin’ guns, would you?” Dooley asked then. “I’ve got two fine Winchester rifles in the wagon that I’d like to sell.”
“Tell you the truth,” Homer said, “this is a bad time to be trying to sell ’em. Right now there ain’t that many folks around looking for rifles. Now, it’d be a different story come spring and summer.”
“I ain’t lookin’ for much,” Dooley said, the disappointment evident in his tone. “Maybe just enough to buy a little whiskey and some new britches. These is gettin’ wore down till they’re a mite breezy.”
Always interested in a bargain, Homer said he’d take a look at the weapons. So the three of them grabbed some sacks of supplies and went out to the wagon. While Birdie went back in for a second trip, Homer and Dooley looked at the Winchesters. “They’re in fine shape,” Dooley commented while Homer checked the action of one of them.
“If I had to guess, I’d say you came by these in that little war Triple-T had with Roman-Three,” Homer said.
“Maybe,” Dooley said.
Homer took a cautious look up and down the street to make sure no one was watching. “Tell you what. Let’s bring these inside and I’ll see if we can strike a deal. I know I can fix you up with a pair of new britches, maybe trade for some other things and a little cash money.” He took another look up toward the Crystal Palace, where there were three horses tied to the hitching rail. “You might wanna get all your stuff loaded and get on out of town, ’cause there’s three of Harlan Striker’s boys up at the saloon now. It wouldn’t do for them to get a look at these rifles. I don’t see anything on ’em that would identify ’em, but they might get an idea where you got the rifles if they know you’re from the Triple-T. And I’d hate to see you folks get into any trouble.” He didn’t mention it, but he didn’t think Striker’s men would look kindly on him for trading for the rifles, but it was too good a deal to pass up.
This was not good news to Birdie and Dooley. It was especially disappointing to Dooley because the main reason he volunteered to accompany Birdie was that he wanted to have a couple of drinks of whiskey. The Crystal Palace was the only saloon in town that remained open during the winter, and the possibility that he couldn’t get the whiskey he desired only made him want it more. “Dang,” he muttered, “I’ve had my mouth set for a shot of whiskey for quite a spell now.”
“Well, it doesn’t sound like a good idea to get one now,” Birdie advised.
The craving for strong spirits took hold in Dooley’s mind, and he started reasoning with himself, downplaying the potential hazard of a quick couple of shots. “Hell,” he suggested, “them fellers don’t know me from President What’s-his-name. All that shootin’ and killin’ that went on happened in the dark. They ain’t gonna know me any more than I’d know them.”
“What if it’s one of those three that jumped us when we got here that first night?” Birdie asked, aware that Dooley was letting alcohol do the thinking. “They saw us, all three of us, you, Cord, and me—came right up to that gully we were camped in.”
“Well, yeah . . . ” Dooley hesitated. “Maybe they did. But, hell, we shot two of them jaspers, and the other’n mighta been one of ’em that got shot in the fight with the cattle.”
It was plain to see that Dooley’s desire for a drink had grown into a genuine necessity, and Birdie was convinced it was due to the fact that it was denied him. “Why don’t I just go in the saloon and buy you a bottle?” she suggested. “They might not remember me, since I was scrunched down in the head of that gully.”
“No, I don’t want you to do that,” Dooley said emphatically, realizing that he was making noises like some liquor-craving drunk. “I ain’t sendin’ you in no damn saloon.” Growing more and more angry with himself and reluctant to turn tail and run to avoid contact with riders from the Roman-3, he decided a couple of shots of rye were all he had wanted right from the beginning, and he would get them if he wanted. “You put the rest of that stuff in the wagon,” he said. “I’m gonna walk up to the saloon and get me a drink of whiskey, and I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” That said, he didn’t allow time for further discussion, turning at once and striding purposefully toward the Crystal Palace, leaving Birdie to shake her head in frustration.
Mace Tarpley, Sam Plummer, and Tom Tyler sat at a back table, working on a bottle of rye whiskey and whiling away a couple of hours before starting back to the Roman-3. Striker had sent them into town to meet the noon train. But the train had come and gone with no sign of the hired killer from Cheyenne. There was a telegram, however, that told them that Strong would be on tomorrow’s train instead of today’s. “Striker ain’t gonna like this,” Sam said for at least the third time since the train left Ogallala.
“There ain’t nothin’ he can do about it,” Mace said. “The man wired him and said some unfinished business set him back a day. Ain’t no skin off our backs. Just means we get to come to town again. Beats doin’ chores back at the ranch.” He picked up the bottle and poured himself another shot, then held the bottle suspended for a few moments when something caught his attention. “Well, I’ll be damned. . . .” His voice trailed off as he tried to recall having seen the man who just came in the door and walked up to the bar. “You ever see that man before?” Neither Sam nor Tom had. “I have,” Mace continued. “I can’t say for sure whether it was in some other town or someplace, but I know damn well I’ve seen him before, and I’m thinkin’ it mighta been with some of that Triple-T outfit. I aim to find out.”
“What’ll it be, partner?” Clyde Perkins greeted Dooley when he approached the bar.
“I’ll just have a drink or two of some rye if you’ve got it,” Dooley said.
Clyde turned to select a bottle from the shelf behind him and poured the drink. “Ain’t seen you in town before. Just passin’ through?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Dooley replied, tossed his drink back, and set the empty glass on the counter. With a slight flick of his hand, he indicated a refill, his throat having been rendered too hoarse to speak by the scalding liquid. “Whew!” He exhaled and reached for his glass, suddenly aware of the three men who had now walked up behind him.
“I think I smell a stink like the Triple-T,” Mace said. “What about it, boys? You smell that stink?”
“I do, now that you mention it,” Sam said, moving up to the bar on one side of Dooley, while Tom moved up on the other.
“How ’bout it, mister,” Mace asked, “you ridin’ for the Triple-T?”
Painfully aware that his stubborn desire for a drink had resulted in placing his behind in imminent danger, Dooley continued to face the bar. After a few moments when he could think of no way to extricate himself from the situation he had gotten himself into, he answered, “Triple-T? Don’t believe I’m familiar with that outfit. You got me mixed up with somebody else. I’m just passin’ through on my way to Cheyenne.”
Mace’s brain was working fast, putting scraps of memory together, and it came to him then. “Mister, you’re a damn liar. The last time I heard you talk, you was aimin’ a rifle at my back and tellin’ me you was gonna shoot me.”
“Nah, that couldn’ta been me,” Dooley maintained. “I never been through here before. I’ll just finish my drink and be on my way.”
“Like hell you will,” Mace said, and grabbed the back of Dooley’s collar.
Knowing there was very little chance he would survive the confrontation, Dooley spent only a split second to rue his foolish decision before acting. One hand picked up the shot glass full of whiskey. With the other, he grabbed the nearly full whiskey bottle and in one swift move, he turned to splash the whiskey in Mace’s face and landed a blow to the side of Tom’s head with the bottle. The bottle bounced off Tom’s skull unbroken, sending him to his knees. Dooley turned as quickly as he could to swing the bottle at Sam, now behind him, but Sam stepped back out of reach, drawing his pistol as he did. With no option but to charge, Dooley did so in a desperate attempt to save his life. As he closed with him, Sam pulled the trigger, doubling Dooley over and dropping him to the floor.
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.”