Mark of the Hunter by Charles G. West

we’d best get our business done before she comes up.” So, walking and leading the horses, they made their way back up the wide draw where the remuda was gathered. When Dooley deemed it close enough, they stopped to watch the herd for a few minutes. “Yonder he goes!” he whispered. “Just like I told you, he’s gone to get hisself some coffee or somethin’ to eat.” Cord nodded. The man charged with watching the horses did, in fact, get on his horse and ride off toward the main cattle herd. Dooley turned quickly to Cord and whispered, “You change your mind about another horse?” When Cord said no, Dooley jumped on the mare’s back and headed toward the horses.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    â€œI believe I picked a good’un,” Dooley boasted, “even if I do say so, myself. The only thing better woulda been if he had a saddle on him. I ain’t all that partial to ridin’ bareback. Got too comfortable settin’ in a saddle over the years, I reckon.”
    Cord agreed. Dooley had selected a good, stout horse with little time to look him over. A sturdy buckskin. Cord was confident that the horse was a gelding, but there had been no time, and not very good light, to confirm it at the moment of trade. Daylight confirmed his opinion when a brief inspection revealed the absence of reproductive equipment. “Looks like they gelded him pretty young,” Dooley remarked, “’cause he rides nice and gentle.” Cord tried to pacify his conscience by telling himself that it was Dooley who had stolen the rancher’s horse, but he couldn’t escape the knowledge that he was certainly an accomplice. He didn’t hold himself to be especially innocent in all his thoughts and actions, and surely his intention to kill a man was less than Christian. But in his mind, there were few men lower than a damn horse thief. Bill Dooley’s cheerful, guilt-free attitude, however, made it seem like nothing more than schoolboy high jinks and it was difficult to dislike the man.
    Because of their delay to acquire Dooley’s buckskin, they did not reach Crow Creek until late morning the next day. The hardy creek, bordered by trees already shed of leaves, snaked its way across the prairie before them and confirmed Dooley’s prediction of available game—for there was ample evidence of recent deer activity at the very spot the two riders picked to cross the creek. They had obviously found a favorite watering hole. Thinking it a good time, and a perfect place to rest the horses while they tried their luck at possibly getting a shot at a deer, they led their mounts downstream and tied them in the bushes next to the water. Back at the water hole, they found some concealment in the midst of some berry bushes and sat down to wait.
    It turned out to be a long wait. Sitting cold and still for over an hour, they were about ready to admit their poor luck when Cord sighted a small herd of deer approaching the creek from the west. At first, it appeared the animals were going to cross the creek a hundred or more yards north of the place where the two men sat huddled against the chill. “Damn,” Dooley whispered, “they ain’t comin’ this way.” It appeared that he might be correct; then the deer turned and came toward them, but stopped after closing the distance to within seventy-five yards. “Are you a good shot with that Winchester?” Dooley whispered.
    â€œI don’t know,” Cord replied, also in a whisper. “I ain’t ever shot it before.”
    Astonished, Dooley was about to express it, but Cord signaled for him to be quiet. The leader of the herd, a large buck, seemed reluctant to come closer, seeming to sense danger. At that unfortunate moment, Dooley’s new buckskin decided to call out with an inquiring whinny. Already sensing something amiss, the buck bolted, springing the rest of his herd in