Mark of the Hunter by Charles G. West Page A

there was folks comin’ from miles around to trade there at that time.”
    â€œWell, good,” Lem remarked, “maybe these two jaspers we’re trailin’ decided to stop there awhile and wait for us.”
    â€œMaybe so,” Hughes said. Then he glanced over at Cord, riding silently beside him, his gaze focused on the water tower that now seemed to be rising higher as the three riders steadily closed the distance. “Damned if you ain’t the gabbiest feller I’ve ever rode with,” he joked. Shifting his gaze back to Lem then, he asked, “Does he ever say anythin’?”
    Lem chuckled. “Once in a while he’ll say somethin’ if he’s got a good enough reason. Ain’t that right, Cord?”
    â€œIf you say so,” Cord answered, unperturbed by Hughes’s attempt to jape him.
    A little closer to the water tower now, the rooftops of a handful of buildings pushed up out of the prairie. “I believe they
have
added some folks since I was here,” Hughes remarked. “Maybe those outlaws mighta stopped here awhile to spend some of them gold coins they stole.” Thinking then of the possible confrontation that might occur as a result, he asked Cord, “You any good with that old Henry rifle?”
    â€œFair, I reckon,” Cord replied. “Least I most times hit what I’m aimin’ at if I’m huntin’ deer or antelope. Course a deer ain’t ever been shootin’ back at me,” he answered honestly. “Once in a while it misfires. I think I need a new firin’ pin.”
    â€œWell, you might get a chance to find out if we catch up with these two,” Hughes said, shaking his head in astonishment.
    â€œI wouldn’t worry about Cord,” Lem felt compelled to comment, having seen how he responded to danger before.
    As it turned out, there would be no occasion to test Cord’s proficiency with the old Henry rifle, for the little settlement that had risen around Buffalo Station appeared as peaceful as a town could be. There was no activity on the short, dusty street when the three riders pulled up before a newly constructed building that proclaimed itself to be the Water Hole. “What’ll it be, boys?” Wally Simon, the short, rotund bartender asked when the three strangers walked into his establishment.
    â€œSomethin’ strong enough to cut the dust in my throat,” Lem replied.
    Wally laughed and set three shot glasses on the bar. “Come a long way?” he asked as he poured.
    â€œA piece,” Hughes answered. “We’re lookin’ for somebody we think rode through here a couple of days ago.”
    Aware immediately what the strangers’ business was in his sleepy town, Wally informed them, “You’re a day late on the excitement, if you’re chasin’ them train robbers.”
    â€œWhaddaya mean?” Hughes asked.
    â€œTwo of ’em, Joel Collins and Bill Heffridge, was here, all right, right here in my saloon, but the sheriff from over in Ellis County and ten soldiers from Fort Hays came and arrested ’em. They was peaceful enough at first, went along with the sheriff with no trouble a’tall. I reckon they figured they was done for, though. And one of ’em, I think it was Collins, pulled his pistol. He didn’t get off a shot. Them soldiers cut down on the both of ’em, killed ’em deader’n hell.”
    â€œWell, I’ll be . . . ,” Lem started, never finishing. Hughes, obviously disappointed, said nothing, as did Cord. “Looks like we just rode a long way to get a drink,” Lem said then. “Might as well have another’n. We got a long ride back to Ogallala.”
    â€œHow’d the sheriff and the soldiers know it was them two?” Hughes asked. “Somebody know ’em?”
    â€œYeah,” Wally replied, “feller named Levi Creed—been hangin’ around