Dutchmans Flat (Ss) (1986) (35 page)

"Look," he said, "I'd like to see you again. I'd like to see more of you."

"If you're still standing here when I come back," she told him, "you can see me leave town."

With that she walked on by and into the post office.

Croft stood still. He was shaken. He was smitten. He was worried. Leaving town was forgotten. The twinge of warning from the gods of the lawless had been forgotten.

He waited.

On her return, Margery Furman brushed past him and refused to stop. Suddenly, he was angered. He got quickly to his feet. "Now look here," he said, "you-!"

Whatever he had been about to say went unsaid. A rider was walking a horse down the street. The horse was a long-legged buckskin; the man was tall and wore a flat-brimmed, flat crowned black hat. He wore two guns, hung low and tied down.

Suddenly, Montana Croft felt very sick. His mouth was dry. Margery Furman had walked on to her buckboard, but now she looked back. She saw him standing there, flat-footed, his face white. She followed his eyes.

The tall newcomer sat his buckskin negligently. He looked at Croft through cold green eyes from a face burned dark by the sun and wind. And he did not speak. For a long, full minute, the two stared. Then Croft's eyes dropped and he started toward the buckboard, but then turned toward the livery stable.

He heard a saddle creak as the stranger dismounted. He reached the stable door and then turned and looked back. Margery Furman was in her buckboard, but she was sitting there, holding the reins.

The stranger was fifty yards from Montana Croft now, but his voice carried. It was suddenly loud in the street. "Heard there was a gent in town who called himself Kilkenny.

Are you the one?"

As if by magic, the doors and windows were filled with faces, the faces of the people he had robbed again and again. His lips tried to shape words of courage, but they would not come. He tried to swallow, but, gulp as he would, he could not. Sweat trickled into his eyes and smarted, but he dared not move a hand to wipe it away.

"I always heard Kilkenny was an honest man, a man who set store by his reputation.

Are you an honest man?"

Croft tried to speak but could not.

"Take your time," the stranger's voice was cold, "take your time, then tell these people you're not Kilkenny. Tell them you're a liar and a thief."

He should draw ... he should go for his gun now ... he should kill this stranger ... kill him or die.

And that was the trouble. He was not ready to die, and die he would if he reached for a gun.

"Speak up! These folks are waitin'! Tell them!"

Miraculously, Croft found his voice. "I'm not Kilkenny," he said.

"The rest of it." There was no mercy in this man.

Montana Croft suddenly saw the truth staring him brutally in the face. A man could only die once if he died by the gun, but if he refused his chance now he would die many deaths ...

"All right, damn you!" He shouted the words. "I'm not Kilkenny! I'm a liar and I'm a thief, but I'll be damned if I'm a yellowbellied coward!"

His hands dropped, and suddenly, with a shock of pure realization, he knew he was making the fastest draw he had ever made. Triumph leaped within him and burst in his breast. He'd show them! His guns sprang up ... and then he saw the blossoming rose of flame at the stranger's gun muzzle and he felt the thud of the bullet as it struck him.

His head spun queerly and he saw a fountain of earth spring from the ground before him, his own bullet kicking the dust. He went down, losing his gun, catching himself on one hand. Then that arm gave way and he rolled over, eyes to the sun.

The man stood over him. Montana Croft stared up: "You're Kilkenny?"

"I'm Kilkenny." The tall man's face was suddenly soft. "You made a nice try."

"Thanks ... "

Montana Croft died there in the street of Boquilla, without a name that anyone knew.

Margery Furman's eyes were wide.
"You ... You're Kilkenny?"
For this time it was there, that something she had looked for in the face of the other man. It was there, the kindliness, the purpose, the strength.

"Yes," he said. And then he fulfilled the tradition. He rode out of town.