Mark of the Hunter Read Free Page B

there, but it was a possibility. And he knew for certain that he was never going to find him if he remained on his grandmother’s farm.
    Nettie stood on the porch and watched him until he rode out of her sight, for she had a feeling that it was the last time she would ever see her grandson.
Sorrow’s son,
she thought, because she sensed that Cord Malone was destined to live a violent life. It seemed to her as if God had placed a mark on the young man, and pointed him down a troubled path. Maybe that was what the scar on Cord’s forehead really was, a mark of violence. The troubled boy was now a troubled man.
God help him,
she silently prayed.

Chapter 2
    Cord found the little town of Ogallala relatively peaceful on this day in early September, in sharp contrast to the noisy, brawling cattle center for which it had gained a reputation. The trail-hardened cowpunchers who drove the herds up from Texas were gone now until next summer when they would once again repeat the cycle and descend upon the saloons and hotel like an annual visit of locusts. With the cattle now grazing on the ranges of the cattle barons like the Bosler brothers, who filled huge contracts to supply beef to the Indian agencies, Ogallala had reverted to a nearly deserted little settlement in the valley between the forks of the Platte River. Cord knew very little about the cattle business, but he figured that with the great herds awaiting shipment on ranches around Ogallala, he should be able to find work at one of them. He worked well with horses, thanks to his uncle Jesse, so he was confident that he could learn to drive cattle.
    Looking at the sleepy town now, however, he found it hard to imagine there could be any work for a willing hand. One hotel, one saloon, and one general merchandise store were the only businesses open, the others having evidently closed until summer. He was beginning to wonder if he should just move on to Cheyenne, or Omaha. He had been undecided where he was going when he left his grandmother’s farm; he just knew that it was time to go. But now he was beginning to realize just how naive he was to set out to search for a man who might be anywhere from Texas to Canada. “What the hell?” he muttered, and turned the sorrel toward the saloon. “I reckon I can afford a glass of beer.” He figured he could justify it as an official start of a quest that might take many years to fulfill.
    Like every place else in town, the Crystal Palace was empty of patrons. The bartender got up from a table where he had been drinking a cup of coffee. “Howdy,” he offered unenthusiastically. “Getcha somethin’?”
    â€œI reckon I’d like to have a glass of beer,” Cord answered.
    The bartender set a glass on the bar, and watched with mild interest as Cord dug in his pocket for a coin. “I don’t remember seein’ you around here before,” the bartender remarked, already deciding that the stranger wasn’t likely to spend much more than the price of one beer.
    â€œAin’t ever been here before,” Cord said.
    â€œOn your way back to Texas?” the bartender asked, assuming that his customer was from one of the outfits that had driven cattle up from the south.
    â€œAin’t ever been there, either,” Cord replied.
    His reply caused the bartender to chuckle. “Well, if you rode in lookin’ for a wild town, you got here at the wrong time of the year. Course, it’ll pick up a little next month for a spell when the big outfits bring their cattle off the grass and ship ’em east to the markets. Then it’ll be dead again till summer.”
    â€œWhat I’m lookin’ for is work,” Cord said.
    â€œIs that a fact? What kinda work you lookin’ for?”
    â€œAnything that’ll pay a decent wage,” Cord answered.
    Convinced then that Cord was not the typical aimless drifter he was accustomed to seeing this time of year,