Dutchmans Flat (Ss) (1986) (34 page)

Cat Morgan sat very still. His back was toward the door, his eyes on Laurie's face.

He was thinking desperately.

"Looks like this is the showdown." That was Dorfman's voice. He stepped through the door and shoved the girl. She stumbled back and sat down hard on her chair. "You little fool! You wouldn't take that ticket and money and let well enough alone! You had to butt into trouble! Now you'll die for it, and so will this lion-huntin' friend of yours."

The night was very still. Jeb lay on the floor, his head flattened on his paws, his eyes watching Dorfman. Neither man had seemed to notice the parrot. "Allen will be askin' why you let Dorfman out," Morgan suggested, keeping his voice calm.

"He don't know it," Vetter said smugly. "
Dorf'll
be back in jail afore mornin', and in a few days, when you don't show up as a witness against him, he'll be freed. Your witnesses won't talk unless you get Dorf on trial. They are scared. As for Dave Allen, we'll handle him later, and that breed, too."

"Too bad it won't work," Morgan said, yet even as he spoke he thought desperately that this was the end. He didn't have a chance. Nobody knew of this place, and the two of them could be murdered here, buried, and probably it would be years before the valley was found. Yet it was Laurie of whom he was thinking now. It would be nothing so easy as murder for her, not to begin with. And knowing the kind of men Dorfman and Vetter were, he could imagine few things worse for any girl than to be left to their mercy.

He made up his mind then. There was no use waiting. No use at all. They would be killed; the time to act was now. He might get one or both of them before they got him. As it was, he was doing nothing, helping none at all.

"You two," he said, "will find yourselves lookin' through cottonwood leaves at the end of a rope!"

"Horse thief!"

Pancho screamed. "Durned horse thief." Both men wheeled, startled by the unexpected voice, and Cat left his chair with a lunge. His big shoulder caught Dorfman in the small of the back and knocked him sprawling against the pile of wood beside the stove.

Vetter whirled and fired as he turned, but the shot missed, and Morgan caught him with a glancing swing that knocked him sprawling against the far wall. Cat Morgan went after him with a lunge, just as Dorfman scrambled from the wood pile and grabbed for a gun. He heard a fierce growl and whirled just as Jeb hurtled through the air, big jaws agape.

The gun blasted, but the shot was high and Jeb seized the arm in his huge jaws, and then man and dog went rolling over and over on the floor. Vetter threw Morgan off and came to his feet, but Morgan lashed out with a left that knocked him back through the door. Dorfman managed to get away from the dog and sprang through the door just as Ad Vetter came to his feet, grabbing for his gun.

Cat Morgan skidded to a stop, realizing even as his gun flashed up that he was outlined against the lighted door. He felt the gun buck in his hand, heard the thud of Vetter's bullet in the wall beside him, and saw Ad Vetter turn half around and fall on his face. At the same moment a hoarse scream rang out behind the house, and, darting around, Morgan saw a dark figure rolling over and over on the ground among the chained lions!

Grabbing a whip, he sprang among them, and in the space of a couple of breaths had driven the lions back. Then he caught Dorfman and dragged him free of the beasts. Apparently blinded by the sudden rush from light into darkness, and mad to escape from Jeb, the rancher had rushed right into the middle of the lions. Laurie bent over Morgan. "Is-is he dead?"

"No. Get some water on, fast. He's living, but he's badly bitten and clawed." Picking up the wounded man, he carried him into the house and placed him on the bed. Quickly, he cut away the torn coat and shirt. Dorfman was unconscious but moaning.

"I'd better go for the doctor," he said. "There's somebody coming now, Cat. Riders."

Catching up his rifle, Morgan turned to the door. Then he saw Dave Allen, Tex, and Loop with a half-dozen other riders. One of the men in a dark coat was bending over the body of Ad Vetter.

"The man who needs you is in here," Morgan said. "Dorfman ran into my lions in the dark."

Dave Allen came to the door. "This clears you, Morgan," he said, "and I reckon a full investigation will get this lady back her ranch, or what money's left, anyway.

And full title to her horses.

"Loop," he added, was suspicious. He watched Vetter and saw him slip out with Dorfman and then got us and we
fool
lowed them. They stumbled onto your trail here, and we came right after, but we laid back to see what they had in mind."

"Thanks." Cat Morgan glanced over at Laurie, and their eyes met. She moved quickly to him. "I reckon, Allen, we'll file a claim on this valley; both of us are sort of attached to it."

`Don't blame you. Nice place to build a home." "That," Morgan agreed, "is what I've been thinkin'."

And they were tough!

Virgil Earp, ambushed on the streets of Tombstone, was shot in the back with a charge of buckshot, exposing a part of his backbone. A second charge shattered his left arm.
Virgil crossed the street to the Oriental Saloon to inform his brother Wyatt of what had happened, then went to his room in the Cosmopolitan Hotel, where he was attended by Drs. Matthews and Goodfellow.

The condition of his arm was immediately obvious, but the wound in his back was not discovered until his shirt had been removed. Dr. Goodfellow removed considerable buckshot from the elbow, as well as several inches of bone. Virgil assured his wife he still had one good arm with which to hug her.

The details are recounted in the diaries of George Parsons, as well as in the columns of the Tombstone Epitaph.

Nobody had ever said that Montana Croft was an honest man. To those who knew him best he was a gunman of considerable skill, a horse and cow thief of first rank, and an outlaw who missed greatness simply because he was lazy. Montana Croft was a tall, young, and not unhandsome man.

Although he had killed four men in gun battles, and at least one of them a known and dangerous gunman, he was no fool. Others might overrate his ability, but Montana's judgment was unaffected.

He had seen John Wesley Hardin, Clay Allison, and Wyatt Earp in action. This was sufficient to indicate to him that he rated a very poor hand indeed. Naturally, Montana Croft kept this fact to himself. Yet he knew a good thing when he saw it, and the good thing began with the killing of Johnny Wilder.

Now Wilder himself was regarded as a handy youngster with a gun.
He had killed a few men and had acquired the reputation of being dangerous.
At nineteen he was beginning to sneer at Billy the Kid and to speak with a patronizing manner of Hardin. And then the stranger on the black horse rode into town, and Johnny took in too much territory.

Not that Johnny was slow-in fact, his gun was out and his first shot in the air before Croft's gun cleared leather. But Johnny was young, inexperienced, and impatient.

He missed his first shot and his second. Montana Croft fired coolly and with care-and he fired only once.

Spectators closed in, looking down upon the remains. The bullet had clipped the corner of Johnny Wilder's breast pocket, and Johnny was very, very dead.

Even then, it might have ended there but for Fats Runyon. Fats, who was inclined to view with alarm and accept with enthusiasm, looked up and said, "Only one man shoots like that! Only one, I tell you!

That's Kilkenny!" s The words were magic, and all eyes turned toward Croft. And Montana, who might have disclaimed the name, did noth
ing
of the kind. Suddenly, he was basking in greater fame than he had ever known. He was Kilkenny, the mysterious gun fighter whose reputation was a campfire story wherever men gathered. He could have disclaimed the name, but he merely smiled and walked into the saloon.

Fats followed him, reassured by Croft's acceptance of the name. "Knowed you right off, Mr. Kilkenny! Only one man shoots like that! And then that there black hat, them black chaps-it couldn't be nobody else. Sam, set up a drink for Kilkenny!"

Other drinks followed ... and the restaurant refused to accept his money. Girls looked at him with wide, admiring eyes. Montana Croft submitted gracefully, and, instead of riding on through Boquilla, he remained.

In this alone he broke tradition, for it was Kilkenny's reputation that when he killed, he immediately left the country, which was the reason for his being unknown.

Montana Croft found himself enjoying free meals, free drinks, and no bill at the livery stable, so he stayed on. If anyone noticed the break in tradition, they said nothing.
Civic pride made it understandable that a man would not quickly ride on.

Yet when a week had passed, Montana noticed that his welcome was visibly wearing thin. Free drinks ceased to come, and at the restaurant there had been a noticeable coolness when he walked out without paying. Montana considered riding on. He started for the stable, but then he stopped, rolling a cigarette.

Why leave? This was perfect, the most beautiful setup he had ever walked into. Kilkenny himself was far away; maybe he was dead. In any event, there wasn't one chance in a thousand he would show up in this border jumping-off place on the Rio Grande. So why not make the most of it?

Who could stop him? Wilder had been the town's toughest and fastest gun.

Abruptly, Croft turned on his heel and walked into the hardware store. Hammet was wrapping a package of shells for a rancher, and when the man was gone, Croft looked at the storekeeper. "Hammet," he said, and his voice was low and cold, "I need fifty dollars."

John Hammet started to speak, but something in the cool, hard-eyed man warned him to hold his tongue. This man was Kilkenny, and he himself had seen him down Johnny Wilder. Hammet swallowed. "Fifty dollars?" he said.

"That's right, Hammet."

Slowly, the older man turned to his cash drawer and took out the bill. "Never minded loaning a good man money," he said, his voice shaking a little.

Croft took the money and looked at Hammet. "Thanks, and between the two of us, I ain't anxious for folks to know I'm short. Nobody does know but you. So I'd know where to come if it was talked around. Get me?" With that, he walked out.

Montana Croft knew a good thing when he saw it. His first round of the town netted him four hundred dollars. A few ranchers here and there boosted the ante. Nobody challenged his claim. All assumed the demands were for loans. It was not until Croft made his second round, two weeks later, that it began to dawn on some of them that they had acquired a burden.

Yet Croft was quiet. He lived on the fat of the land, yet he drank but sparingly.

He troubled no one. He minded his own affairs, and he proceeded to milk the town as a farmer milks a cow.

Nor would he permit any others to trespass upon his territory.
Beak and Jesse Kennedy discovered that, to their sorrow. Two hard cases from the north, they drifted into town and after a drink or two, proceeded to hold up the bank.

Montana Croft, watching from the moment they rode in, was ready for them. As they emerged from the bank he stepped from the shadow of the hardware store with a shotgun.

Beak never knew what hit him. He sprawled face down in the dust, gold spilling out of his sack into the street. Jesse Kennedy whirled and fired, and took Croft's second barrel in the chest.

Montana walked coolly over and gathered up the money. He carried the sacks inside and handed them back to Jim Street. He grinned a little and then shoved a hand down into one of the sacks and took out a fistful of gold.

"Thanks," he said, and walked out.

Boquilla was of two minds about their uninvited guest. Some wished he would move on about his business, but didn't say it; others said it was a blessing he was there to protect the town. And somehow the news began to get around of what was happening.

And then Montana Croft saw Margery Furman.

Margery was the daughter of old Black Jack Furman, Indian fighter and rancher, and Margery was a thing of beauty and a joy forever-or so Montana thought.

He met her first on the occasion of his second decision to leave town. He had been sitting in the saloon drinking and felt an uneasy twinge of warning. It was time to go. It was time now, to leave. This had been good, too good to be true, and it was much too good to last. Take them for all he could get, but leave before they began to get sore. And they were beginning to get sore now. It was time to go.

He strode to the door, turned right, and started for the livery stable. And then he saw Margery Furman getting out of a buckboard. He stared, slowed, stopped, shoved his hat back on his head-and became a man of indecision.

She came toward him, walking swiftly. He stepped before her. "Hi," he said, "I haven't seen you before."

Margery Furman knew all about the man called Kilkenny. She had known his name and fame for several years, and she had heard that he was in Boquilla. Now she saw him for the first time, and confessed herself disappointed. Not that he was not a big and fine-looking man, but there was something, some vague thing she had expected to find, lacking.