Cord 9 Read online

  “Cut him out of the pack,” Chi said from the side of her mouth. “I’ll cover the others.”

  “Hope so,” Cord said.

  Stringer rode to the center of the yard, staring down at Cord all the time. “How’s your hand, son?” he inquired. He climbed off, sidled away from his horse. Cord stepped down from the porch. Chi moved off to the side where she could keep an eye on all involved.

  Stringer removed his hat and wiped a sleeve across his brow. His bullet head was mostly bald, his scalp freshly reddened by the new spring sun.

  “I should have killed you first chance I had,” Stringer said. “But I decided you weren’t worth rocking the boat over.” He flung the hat away, moved his hand carefully to near his gun butt. “Guess I was wrong.”

  Every eye was on them except Chi’s, and Cord felt acutely self-conscious. His hand: damn but he hoped it would not betray him.

  “Well, that is one mistake I can fix easy enough,” Stringer said and slapped for his gun.

  On the porch, Chi fired first.

  Cord drew at the same moment, but he rushed the move, and as he brought up the gun he fumbled it and it arched away from him. Cord dove for it, and whatever Chi had shot, it wasn’t Stringer, because his shot came off right as rain, slicing the air where Cord had been.

  Cord stared at his gun, a yard away in the dirt. Stringer thumbed back the hammer of his weapon and lined down on Cord.

  Behind Stringer someone loosed a strangled animal cry. Stringer spun on his heel, keeping half an eye on Cord. Up in the bam loft, Pincus rose from behind a bale, a rifle in his hands: a moment before it had been aimed at Cord, ready to kill him dead if Stringer bungled the job. Pincus half stood, twisting as he stumbled over the bale, and lurched out of the loft. He struck the hard-packed dirt like a sack of winter spuds.

  Stringer said, “Well, son of a bitch,” and turned back to Cord as he scuttled to his fallen Colt.

  Chi put a shot into the dirt at Stringer’s feet. “That’s enough gunfighting for this afternoon,” she said. “You boys can have your fun some other time.”

  “You afraid of a fair fight?” Stringer said.

  Chi shrugged. “All right, cabrón, go ahead and kill him. Still won’t be a fair fight, because I will shoot you down an instant later.” She showed Stringer her gun. “See if I won’t.”

  Cord’s gaze was riveted on Stringer’s hand and his thumb, poised on the hammer of his revolver, and Cord thought, Jesus Christ, he does not believe her. Cord looked into Stringer’s deadly scowl. Cord’s left hand was around the butt of his own gun, but his arm felt weak and fluttery: He was staring at his death and could not move, a character in his earliest worst nightmare.

  A gun went off.

  For an instant not a soul moved. Then one of the horsemen behind Stringer slumped forward onto the neck of his animal, a gun hanging from limp fingers. The man’s weight slid over out of the saddle and he landed on his back in the dust. The front of his blouse was soggy with blood where the bullet had come out. Another bushwhacking son of a bitch out of the way, Cord thought.

  “Let’s everyone drop their guns,” someone hollered. “Just for the time being.”

  Cord got to his knees. Over the riderless horse he made out the newcomer, astride a big white horse. His name was Nick Oakley, and he had partnered Wee Bill Blewin on and off. Cord knew him and hated running into him again.

  Oakley worked the lever of his rifle. “This is a Winchester repeater,” he called, “and I got the drop. Take out two-three of you boys at least, shoot you in the back before you ever get to see my face. Who wants to gamble it won’t be him?”

  Handguns dropped to the dirt, and men muttered in low voices. “You too, Baldy,” Oakley called.

  Cord raised his gun. “Do it,” he ordered. He sounded unconvincing even to himself. “Come on now,” he added, and felt conspicuous and foolish.

  Stringer dropped his gun.

  A sickening wave of humiliation washed over Cord. He detested this moment, kneeling in the dust in front of all these men, especially Oakley. His heart thumped in his chest, and only force of will kept his hands from trembling. He had been horribly frightened, and he detested that worst of all.

  Cord climbed to his feet. Not another man moved, and every eye drilled into him. Cord imagined their disdain, exaggerating it in his mind until it seemed to fairly sear his skin. Cord looked through the line of men at Nick Oakley.

  Oakley was a few years younger than Cord, somewhere in his early thirties, slim and dark and tanned with wise handsome features. He wore black leather gloves, and when he raised his left hand and touched two fingers to his hat brim, he gave Cord a smile in which contempt was all too real.

  “Let’s get moving,” Chi said. Her gun was still on Stringer.

  Cord could not stand the expression on Oakley’s face, not on top of the fright that had jolted him, and knew he must act, right here and quickly.

  “Let’s ride,” Chi said.

  Nick Oakley smiled at Cord.

  “No!” Cord said, much louder than he meant. Who was he hollering at? But that wasn’t actually the point. Staring down Stringer, Cord put his Colt away and unbuckled his gun belt, lowered it to the ground and moved away.

  Stringer smiled brightly and did likewise. Cord glanced at Chi. She nodded to him with the slightest smile; she understood. Cord managed to work his bandaged right hand into a passable fist. “Keep a sharp eye, Oakley, now that you’ve dealt yourself in.”

  “I’m still deciding who to root for,” Oakley said laconically. But Cord saw that Oakley kept his rifle in position for quick restoration of order if necessary.

  Stringer put up his dukes and grinned his mean grin. “By rights, I ought to tie one hand behind my back,” Stringer said. “Guess I won’t.” He closed, circling slowly, playing for an opening.

  Cord feinted right and went in with his left.

  Stringer caught the punch on his big ropy forearm and hit Cord squarely in the jaw, driving his fist from the shoulder.

  Cord spun around and fell, instinctively breaking the fall with his right hand and taking a jolt of sting through it for his trouble. Tears of pain smeared his vision. He blinked them clear in time to see Stringer swing back a leg, and then the battering-ram-lined toe of his fighting boot coming at his face.

  Cord rolled away, and the boot sole brushed his hair. He rolled another turn and to his feet, shaking off the grogginess.

  Stringer closed again. Cord ducked under his roundhouse right and followed with a combination to Stringer’s belly. The bastard’s stocky trunk was hard as wood, and Cord’s right hand throbbed. Stringer grunted sour breath in Cord’s face.

  Stringer dropped his shoulder and hit Cord in the stomach, lifting him to his toes and bending him over. Stringer swung from his knees and caught Cord under the point of the chin. Cord staggered back. Stringer waded in, jabbed Cord in the face again. Cord’s head swam with pain, and it was difficult to get his arms up. He went back another step, and while he was off-balance Stringer hit him in the face a third time, pile-driving his big meat hook hand into Cord’s mouth. Cord sat down hard in the dirt.

  Stringer laughed and came on.

  Cord crab-scuttled back. Gravel worked under the dressing and pressed into his palm. Stringer plodded after him like a grizzly on a scent.

  Cord forced himself to focus: Nothing but this battle existed, no Chi or Oakley or anyone else, and no pain. The world was tiny, only him and Stringer, and as that world contracted, only one could survive.

  Cord’s back hit the side of one of the watering troughs. He got himself to a sitting position, took a deep breath, concentrated on getting his feet under him, levering himself upright to carry on the fight.

  Stringer was over him, eclipsing the daylight. “This has been a lot of fun,” Stringer said, “but I got to be going now.”

  Stringer swung back his arms and one leg, poised for a moment with all of his weight brought to bear, and launched a terrific kick at C
ord’s breastbone.

  Cord threw himself to the side, and Stringer’s weighted boot slammed into the side of the watering trough with tremendous force. Planks creaked and splintered, and Stringer’s weight carried him through into the water as it sluiced out, its pressure throwing him off-balance.

  Cord swung around and chopped the edge of his left hand into Stringer’s shin. The big man howled, instinctively jerking up his leg. Cord threw his weight into Stringer’s other leg, tackling and holding on, lifting Stringer and throwing him forward onto his hands and knees.

  Cord flung himself on Stringer’s back, his weight driving Stringer’s face down into the sudden pool of mud surrounding them. Cord hit Stringer in the base of his skull. Stringer moaned.

  Cord climbed up Stringer’s torso, got hold of his head by both ears. He rammed Stringer’s face down into the mire, again, a third time, a fourth. Cord raised Stringer’s head once more, bending his limp neck backward.

  Cord gasped. He lay Stringer down on his cheek so his nose was out of the puddle. A long run of shuddering shook Cord’s body, and he had to let it pass before he was able to climb raggedly to his feet. He jerked Stringer over on his back. Stringer’s nose was broken and bleeding, his face a hash of mud and blood and purpling bruises.

  Chi watched Cord from the porch, and in her soft brown face was compassion and understanding. Another massive wave of trembling ran over Cord like an earth tremor. He had nearly killed a man with his hands—would have if he hadn’t stopped himself. It seemed a descent into an extraordinary sort of savagery, quite beyond what Cord believed himself capable of.

  Mallory Bliss and F. X. Connaught stood on the porch before the great oak door. Connaught looked saddened, but Bliss was pale and drawn. Cord felt as if he had been caught performing an unnatural act.

  Cord wiped mud from his face. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Chi brought over the horses. “Okay,” Cord muttered. “Fine.” He swung into the saddle and rode down the line of men. In their faces Cord saw a mixture of puzzlement, curiosity, and respect, and he felt a little better. He reined up and looked at Oakley. “Come along.”

  Oakley frowned.

  “Not a word,” Cord said. “Just shut up and do as you are told.”

  Oakley looked past Cord at Chi. Cord jerked his bay around and let everyone have his back. Behind him he heard Oakley say something in a low voice and fall in line. Cord spurred the gelding and led them away from there and out into the bowl of grassland at a hard gallop.

  Chapter Nine

  “Let’s not talk,” Cord said. “it makes my mouth hurt.”

  “You pretty sure nothing’s busted?” Chi asked.

  Cord worked his jaw with his fingers. Though it was sore, and his upper lip split and his lower tom by his own teeth, the bones seemed in one piece. He spit out a trace of blood.

  “I guess,” he said thickly. “The more I get hit in the head, the harder it gets.”

  “That’s good,” Chi said solemnly. “Man who gets in as much trouble as you, he needs a hard head.”

  Cord unfolded his hands from over his face and sat up. From this little rise by the road, they could see miles in any direction, and were safe from ambush as they would be anywhere this side of Helena. The ranch headquarters to the north was about the same distance as the windmill to the south. Their horses were grazing on the green spring grass nearby.

  Oakley sat crouched on his haunches to one side. He had listened quietly to Cord’s account of the hanging of Wee Bill Blewin. Now Cord took his pouch from his shirt pocket and tossed it to Chi. “You got any questions?” he asked Oakley.

  “I do.” Oakley worked a blade of grass between his front teeth. “You think you will run out on me if we get boxed in?”

  Cord forced himself not to look away. In fifteen years of hard adventure, Cord had committed few acts he now regretted. Of them, the one involving Nick Oakley he regretted most.

  “No,” Cord said firmly. “I owe you.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “I’m thinking on ways to pay you back.”

  “What’s between you two is for later.” Chi handed cigarettes to Cord and Oakley, put one between her own lips. “Right now we got business to see to. Wee Bill was telling the truth, wasn’t he? You two haven’t taken to rustling, have you?”

  “Yeah,” Oakley said. “Meaning no.” He took a light from Cord, cupping it within both hands against the hot wind. “Wee Bill told the truth about us working for this Canaday hombre. We’d been on the trail for better than a week, and that empty cabin with the corral looked like the place to rest us and the stock for a day.”

  Oakley blew out a thin stream of smoke. “An hour after we drove them in, I caught someone snooping around the corral. He howdied me friendly enough, and we talked horses some, but me and Billy didn’t like his looks. We’d heard the stories of night riders in these parts, same as everyone, but after encountering this fellow, we were more apt to credit them.”

  Off across the prairie the whitetails grazed among the placid cattle. “We figured a way to avoid trouble was to ride in to town—we’d seen the road sign—and present the bill of sale to the sheriff. Turns out they ain’t got a sheriff. What they got is a saloon.”

  “Handy,” Cord said.

  “I like saloons in the afternoon,” Oakley said dreamily. “I like the cool and the quiet, and the old smoky smell, in the air and in the whiskey. This was a funny little place, run by a bartender who thinks he’s a librarian, and an adventuress who thinks she’s a doctor.”

  “With a snake who thinks he can strike through glass.”

  “So you been there. Anyway, I drank more than somewhat and didn’t eat anything, and by and by I flopped in one of the rooms they got upstairs. I woke up maybe three in the morning, sober and worrying about Wee Bill. I should have done that some earlier.”

  “You didn’t know,” Chi said. “You weren’t against the law.”

  “Law is for who makes it,” Oakley said. “And that’s not ever us.”

  Cord crushed out his cigarette and shredded the butt. “No law wants us for anything.”

  “Guess you are sitting pretty then, Cord,” Oakley said. “Anyway,” he went on, “I took a look at the burned-out cabin and Wee Bill’s body, and I rattled hocks out of there. I’m not so proud that I didn’t take time to bury him proper, but I was scared. One of them saw me, I was dead. I thought I couldn’t take them all on.”

  “But you’ve changed your mind.”

  Oakley shook his head. “I still don’t think I got a chance—not by myself.”

  “Now wait up,” Cord said. Partnering wasn’t a proposition he’d expected from Nick Oakley, not after what happened.

  “Hear me out,” Oakley said, quietly but firmly.

  Chi gave Cord a look and he shut his mouth.

  “I served some time once, Cord. You maybe remember.” Oakley put a sarcastic twist on it. “But nowadays no law has a call on me neither. So why should I let hooligans run me like a monkey?”

  “Where did I hear that lately?” Chi said, smiling at Cord.

  “There is more,” Oakley said. “I told a man in Wyoming I would do a job, and I shall do my best to keep my word. And this Mallory Bliss had my partner killed. I can’t let that pass. Would you?”

  “Never mind me,” Cord said, a little sharply.

  “Try this,” Oakley said. “Maybe we used to ride outside other men’s laws, but we acknowledged some rules. Now comes this Bliss, thinking he is God Almighty and his word is scripture, rules be damned. So what does he get: these night riders, and the worst sort of chaos.”

  “And you propose to rectify it?”

  “Someone ought to,” Oakley said earnestly. “Someone must.”

  “He is right,” Chi said. “You want to settle, Cord, you got to be willing to do your part as a citizen.”

  “Huh?” Cord said. “What’s that?”

  “The right thing,” Chi said.

  Cord stared o
ff north at Bliss Ranch headquarters, serene as its grazing cattle, yet about to explode hot as the wind. “Okay,” Cord said wearily. “What do you propose?”

  “First of all, I mean to get that old man.”

  “It’s Stringer you want,” Cord said carefully. “Same as me.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I was there, damn it, and I say Stringer is your man.”

  “Bliss hired him.”

  “And then Stringer got out of control—and it was him who killed your partner.”

  “How’d you live through the fun?” Oakley asked.

  “I was born lucky,” Cord snapped. “Now I’m telling you: Stay away from that old man.”

  Oakley looked at Cord for a long moment, then glanced at Chi. Chi nodded, barely moving her chin. Oakley shrugged. Nice how she could calm boys down so easily, Cord thought with some resentment. She had a way with all the men.

  “All right,” Oakley said. “Since we’re letting our hair down, I got one more piece of news. While I was panicked and on the run, heading toward the North Gap, I nearly overcame a herd of horses and cows being driven that way. I circled around. After a time I stopped at a roadhouse in a little town called Geraldine. The bartender told me herds had been passing through for a couple of weeks.”

  “And Stringer and his boys were driving them, probably up into Canada,” Cord said. “That’s not news to us.”

  “Did you know Stringer was gathering them in gulches in that breaks country near the river up along the northwestern rim of this basin?”

  “Didn’t know,” Cord said. “Don’t much care.”

  Chi understood. “Maybe your stock is up there,” Chi suggested.