Kilkenny 02 - A Man Called Trent (v5.0) (16 page)

The wagon was loaded with water—not heavily, but three good kegs of it. With Bartram on the driver’s seat, they started. Kilkenny led the way down the steep trail, Quince behind him. He reined in once and watched the wagon trundle over the first stones and past the ruin of the great tree. Then he continued on. For better or worse, they were committed now.

He led the way slowly, stopping often, for it was slow going for the wagon. He watched it coming and watched the mules. They were good mules; Hale himself had no better. They would need to be good.

At the bottom of the road he swung down, and, standing there with Quince Hatfield, he waited, listening to the strange, lonely sighing of the mysterious wind that flowed like a slow current through the dusty depths of the sink.

Bartram was a hand with mules. He brought the wagon up beside them, and Kilkenny indicated the
mules. “Soak those cloths in water an’ hang one over the nose of each of them. We better each wear a handkerchief over the nose and mouth, too.”

He was riding the buckskin, and he got down and hung a cloth over the horse’s nostrils, where it would stop part of the dust at least without impeding the breathing. Then they started on.

From here, it was guesswork. He had a compass, and, before leaving the cliff top, he had taken a sight on a distant peak. How closely the trail would hold to that course he did not know, or if any trail would be visible once they got out into the desert. Walking the buckskin, he led off into the dust. The wind did not howl. It blew gently but steadily, and the dust filled the air. Much of it, he knew, was alkali. Behind him, Quince Hatfield rode a raw-boned roan bred to the desert.

Fifteen minutes after leaving the cliff, they were out of sight of it. Overhead the sky was only a lighter space dimly visible through a hanging curtain of dust. Dust arose in clouds from their walking horses and from the wagon, fine, powdery, stifling dust. Over and around them the cloud closed in, thick and prickly when the dust settled on the flesh. Glancing at Quince during one interval, Kilkenny saw the man’s face was covered with a film of dust; his eyelashes were thick with it; his hair was white.

When they had been going an hour, he reined in and dismounted. Taking a damp cloth, he sponged out the buckskin’s nostrils and wiped off the horse’s head and ears. Quince had drawn abreast and was doing likewise, and, when the others came up, they worked over the mules.

The dust filled the air and drew a thick veil around
them, as in a blizzard. Saul drew closer. “What if the wind comes up?” he asked.

Bartram’s face was stern. “I’ve been thinking of that,” he said. “If the wind comes up, in all of this, we’re sunk.”

“Where are we now?” Jackie asked, standing up on the wagon.

“We should have made about three or four miles. Maybe more, maybe less. We’re right on our course so far.”

They rested the mules. The wagon was heavy, even though it was not carrying a load now. The dust and sand in places were a couple of feet deep, but usually the wheels sank no more than six inches into the dust. The animals would all need rest, for the air was heavy with heat, and there was no coolness here in the sink. The dust made breathing an effort.

Kilkenny swung into the saddle and moved out. The flatness of the desert floor was broken now, and it began to slant away from them toward the middle. Kilkenny scowled thoughtfully, and rode more slowly. An hour later, they paused again. This time there was no talking. All of the men were feeling the frightful pressure of the heat, and, glancing at the mules, Kilkenny could see they were breathing heavily. Streaks marred the thick whiteness of the dust on their bodies.

“Well have to stop more often,” he told Bartram, and the farmer nodded.

They rode on, and almost another hour had passed before the buckskin stopped suddenly. Lance touched him gently with a spur, but Buck would not move. Kilkenny swung down. Ahead of him—and he could see for no more than fifty feet—was an even,
unbroken expanse of white. It was not even marred by the blackish upthrust of rock that had occasionally appeared along the back trail.

Quince rode up and stopped. “What’s wrong?” he asked. Then he swung down and walked up.

“Don’t know,” Kilkenny said. “Buck won’t go on, something wrong.” He stepped forward and felt the earth suddenly turn to jelly under his feet. He gave a cry and tried to leap backward, but only tripped himself.

Quince helped him up. “Quicksand,” he said, “an’ the worst I ever see. Must be springs under.”

The wagon drew up, and then Saul and Jackie. “Stay here,” Lance told them. “I’ll scout to the left.”

“I’ll go right,” Quince suggested. “Might be a way around.”

Kilkenny turned the buckskin and let him have his head. He walked at right angles to the course and then, at Kilkenny’s urging, tried the surface. It was still soggy. They pulled back and rode on. In a half hour he reined in. There was still no way around, and the edge of the quicksand seemed to be curving back toward him. Only the sagacity of Buck had kept them out of it. He rode back.

“Any luck?” he shouted as he saw Quince waiting with the wagon.

“Uhn-huh. It ends back there about two mile. High ground, rocky.”

They turned the wagon and started on once more. They would lose at least an hour more, perhaps two, in skirting the quicksand.

Hour after hour they struggled on. Weariness made their limbs leaden. The mules were beginning to weave a bit now, and Kilkenny found himself sagging
in the saddle. His sweat-soaked shirt had become something very like cement with its heavy coating of white dust. They stopped oftener now, stopped for water and to sponge the nostrils of the mules and horses.

At times the trail led through acres upon acres of great, jagged black rocks that thrust up in long ledges that had to be skirted. All calculations on miles across were thrown out of kilter by this continual weaving back and forth across the desert. Time had ceased to matter, and they lived only for the quiet numbness of the halts.

All of them walked from time to time now. Time and again they had to get behind the wagon and push, or had to dig out rocks to roll them aside to clear the only possible trail. The world had become a nightmare of choking, smothering, clinging dust particles, a nightmare of sticky heat and stifling dust-filled air. Even all thought of Hale was gone. They did not think of food or of family, but only of getting across, of getting out of this hell of choking white.

Kilkenny was no longer sure of the compass. Mineral deposits might have made it err. They might be wandering in circles. His only hope was that the ground seemed to rise now, seemed to be slanting upward. Choking, coughing, they moved on into the dust blizzard, hearing the lonely sough of the wind. Dazed with heat, dust, and weariness, they moved on. The mules were staggering now, and they moved only a few yards at a time.

The black upthrust of the cliff loomed at them suddenly, when all hope seemed gone. It loomed, black and sheer, yet here at the base the dust seemed a little less, a little thinner.

Kilkenny swung down and waited until the rest came up. “Well,” he said hoarsely, “we’re across. Now to get up.”

They rested there under the cliff for a half hour, and then his own restlessness won over his weariness. He had never been able to stop short of a goal; there was something in him that always drove him on, regardless of weariness, trouble, or danger. It came to the surface now, and he lunged to his feet and started moving.

He had walked no more than 100 yards when he found it. He stared at the incredible fact, that through all their weaving back and forth they had held that close to their destination. The road looked rough, but it was a way up, and beyond the hills, but a little way now, lay Blazer.

It was dusk when they reached the top of the cliff and drew up under the pines. Digging a hole in the ground among some rocks, they built a fire in the bottom and warmed some food and made coffee. The hole concealed the flames, and using dry wood they would make no smoke.

Kilkenny drank the strong black coffee and found his hand growing lax and his lids heavy. He got up, staggered to his blankets, and fell asleep. He slept like he was drugged until Saul Hatfield shook him from his slumber in the last hours of the night to take over the watch.

Lance got up and stretched. Then he walked over to the water casks, drew water, and bathed himself, washing the dust from his hair and ears. Stripping to the waist, he bathed his body in the cold water. Refreshed, he crossed to the black bulk of the rocks and seated himself.

In the darkness thoughts come easily. He sat there, his eyes open and staring restlessly from side to side, yet his thoughts wandering back to Cedar Bluff. They wanted him to fight Tombull Turner. He had decided to take the fight. Sitting here in the darkness with the wind in the pines overhead, he could think clearly. It was their only chance of getting to the Santa Fé officials. He knew how men of all sorts and kinds admire a fighting man. The Santa Fé officials, especially if one of them was Halloran, would be no exception. He would be going into the fight as the underdog. Hale wanted him whipped, but King Bill’s power was destroying his shrewdness.

Halloran, or whoever came, would know about Tombull. The man had been fighting, and winning, all through the West. Any man who went against him would be the underdog, and the underdog always has the crowd with him. Kilkenny knew there was scarcely a chance that he would do anything but take a beating, yet he believed he could stay in there long enough to make some impression. And between rounds—that would be his chance.

If ever, he would have a chance to talk then. King Bill would have his guests in ringside seats. He would be expecting a quick victory. Coldly Kilkenny appraised himself. Like all fighting men, he considered himself good. He had fought many times in the rough and tumble fistfights of the frontier. As a boy he had fought many times in school. During the days when he was in the East, he had taken instruction from the great Jem Mace, the English pugilist, who was one of the cleverest of all bare-knuckle fighters. Mace was a shrewd fighter who used his head for something aside from a parking place for two thick ears.

King Bill did not know that Kilkenny had ever boxed. Neither would Tombull know that. Moreover, Kilkenny had for years lived a life in the open, a life that required hard physical condition and superb strength. He had those assets, and above all he had his knowledge of Turner, whereas Turner knew nothing of him. Turner would be overconfident. Nevertheless, in all honesty, Kilkenny could find little hope of victory. His one hope was to make a game fight of it, to win the sympathy and interest of the officials before he spoke to them, as he would.

He would rest when he returned to the cup. He would soak his hands in brine, and he would wear driving gloves in the ring. Some of the younger fighters were wearing skintight gloves now, and Mace had told him of their cutting ability.

There was no sound but the sound of the forest, and he relaxed, watching and awaiting the dawn. When it came, they ate a hurried breakfast. They were rested and felt better. Kilkenny cleaned his guns carefully, both pistols and his rifle. The others did likewise.

“Quince,” Kilkenny said as he holstered his guns. “You know Blazer. What d’you think?”

Hatfield shrugged. “I reckon they won’t be expectin’ us from hereabouts. I been takin’ some bearin’s, an’ I reckon we will come into town from the opposite side. We got us a good chance of gettin’ in afore they know who we are.”

“Good!” Kilkenny turned to Bartram. “You know the team. You stay by the wagon an’ keep your gun handy. Stay on the ground where you can either mount up or take cover. Saul, you an’ Jackie hustle
the grub out to the wagon, an’ Quince will stand by to cover you.”

“How about you?” Bartram asked, looking up at him.

“I’m goin’ to look around for sign of the other wagon. I want to know what happened to Lije an’ them. They may be all right, but I want to know.” As they mounted up, he turned in his saddle. “Quince, you ride with me. Saul an’ Jackie will bring up the rear.”

They started out, and less than a mile from where they had come from the desert they rode down into the trail to Blazer. As Quince Hatfield had suggested, they were coming in from the opposite side.

Two rows of ramshackle saloons, cheap dance halls, and stores made up the town of Blazer. These two rows faced each other across a river of dust that was called a street. The usual number of town loafers sat on benches in front of the Crossroads, the Temple of Chance, and the Wagon Wheel.

It was morning, and few horses stood at the hitching rail. There was a blood bay with a beautifully handworked saddle standing in front of the Crossroads, and two cow ponies stood three-legged before the Wagon Wheel.

Lance Kilkenny rode past the Perkins General Store and swung down in front of the Wagon Wheel. Bar-tram stopped the wagon parallel to the hitching rail and began to fill his pipe. His rifle leaned against the seat beside him.

Saul and Jackie walked into the store, and Quince leaned against the corner of the store and lighted a cigarette. His rifle lay in the wagon, but he wore a huge Walker Colt slung to his belt.

A horseman came down the trail and swung down in front of the Wagon Wheel and walked inside. Quince straightened and stared at him, and his eyes narrowed. The man was big and had red hair and a red beard. Kilkenny stared at the man, and then, as Quince motioned with his head, he idled over toward him.

“That
hombre
was wearin’ an ivory-handled Colt
with a chipped ivory on the right side,” Hatfield said. His narrow face was empty and his eyes bitter.

“A chipped ivory butt?” Kilkenny frowned, and then suddenly his face paled. “Why, Jody Miller had a gun like that. An’ Jody was with the first wagon.”

“Uhn-huh. I reckon,” Hatfield said, “I better ask me a few questions.”

“Wait,” Kilkenny said. “I’m goin’ in there. You keep your eyes open. Remember, we need the grub first. Meantime, I’ll find out somethin’.”

He turned and walked over to the Wagon Wheel and ambled inside. Two cowpokes sat at a table with the bartender and a man in a black coat, a huge man, enormously big and enormously fat. That, he decided, would be Sodermann.

The red-bearded man was leaning on the bar. “Come on, Shorty,” he snapped. “Give us a drink! I’m dry.”

“Take it easy, Gaddis,” Shorty barked. He was a short, thick-set man with an unshaven face. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Kilkenny leaned against the bar and looked around. It didn’t look good. If the big man was Sodermann—and there was small chance of there being two such huge men in any Western town—that placed Sodermann and Gaddis. The cowpokes might be mere cowhands, but they didn’t look it. One of the men might be Ratcliff. And there was still Rye Pitkin. But he knew Rye, and the rustler was not present.

Judging by appearances, Shorty could be counted on to side Sodermann, and, if that was Jody Miller’s gun, it meant that the other wagon had been stopped, and the chances were that the men who accompanied it had been wiped out.

Slow rage began to mount in Kilkenny at the thought of those honest, sincere men who asked only the right to work and build homes, being killed by such as these. He was suddenly conscious that Sodermann was watching him.

Shorty got up and sauntered behind the bar. “What’ll you have?” he asked, leaning on the hardwood. His eyes slanted from Gaddis to Kilkenny.

“Rye,” Gaddis said. He turned abruptly and gave Kilkenny a cool glance, a glance that suddenly quickened as he noticed the dusty clothing and the tied-down guns. He stared at Kilkenny’s face, but Lance had his hat brim low, and this man had never seen him before, anyway.

“Make mine rye, too,” Kilkenny said. He turned his head and looked at Sodermann. “You drinkin’?”

“Maybe.” The fat man got up, and he moved his huge bulk with astonishing lightness. Kilkenny’s eyes sharpened. This man could move. “Maybe I will. I always likes to know who I’m drinkin’ with, howsoever.”

“Not so particular where I come from,” Kilkenny said softly. “A drink’s a drink.”

“I reckon.” Sodermann nodded affably. “You appear to be a stranger hereabouts. I reckon every man who wears a gun like you wear yours knows Doc Sodermann.”

“I’ve heard the name.” Kilkenny let his eyes drift to the table. One of the men was sitting up straight rolling a smoke, the other idly riffling the cards. Either could draw fast. Red Gaddis had turned to face them.

The whole setup was too obviously ready to spring. He was going to have to relax them a little. He would have to relieve this tension.

“Heard there might be a job up this way for a man,” he said slowly, “an’ I could use a job up here where it’s quiet.”

“Away from the law, you mean?” Sodermann laughed until he shook all over. Kilkenny noticed there was no laughter in his eyes.

“Uhn-huh. Away from everythin’.”

“We got law here. King Bill Hale runs this country.”

“Heard of him.”

“You hear a lot,” Gaddis suggested. His eyes were mean.

“Yeah.” Kilkenny turned a little and let his green eyes stare from under his hat brim at the red-headed man. “Yeah, I make it my business to hear a lot.”

“Maybe you hear too much!” Gaddis snapped.

“You want to show me how much?” Kilkenny’s voice was level. He spoke coolly, yet he was sure there would be no shooting here, yet. He was wondering if Sodermann knew Hatfield was outside beside the window.

Gaddis stepped away from the bar, and his jaw jutted. “Why, I think you’re…”

“Stop it!” Sodermann’s voice was suddenly charged with anger. “You’re too anxious for trouble, Gaddis. Someday you’ll get yourself killed.”

Gaddis relaxed slowly, his eyes ugly. Yet, watching the man, Kilkenny could sense a certain relief in him, also. Gaddis was a killer, but not a gunman in the sense that he was highly skilled. He was a paid killer, a murderer, the sort of man who would dry-gulch men around a wagon. And he wore a chipped gun.

“Your friend’s right proddy,” Kilkenny said softly. “He must have a killin’ urge.”

“Forget it,” Sodermann said jovially. “He’s all right. Just likes to fight, that’s all.”

Kilkenny stared at Gaddis. “Seems like you should be somebody I know,” he drawled slowly. “I don’t recognize that face, but I do know you. But then, I never remember a face, anyway. I got my own methods of knowin’ a man. I look at the only thing that’s important to me.”

“What’s that?” Sodermann asked. He was studying Kilkenny, curiosity in his eyes and some puzzlement.

“I always remember a man’s gun. Each gun has its own special look, or maybe it’s the way a man wears a gun. Take that one now, with that chipped ivory on the side of the butt. A man wouldn’t forget a gun like that in a hurry.”

Gaddis stiffened, and his face turned gray. Then the tip of his tongue touched his lips. Before he could speak, Sodermann looked straight into Kilkenny’s eyes.

“An’ where would you see that gun?”

“In Santa Fé,” Kilkenny drawled, remembering that Miller had once lived there. “It was hangin’ to a man they said was comin’ West to farm. His name was Jody Miller.”

“You talk too much!” Gaddis snarled, his face white and his lips thin.

“It was in Santa Fé.” Kilkenny was adding a touch now that he hoped would worry Sodermann. Only a word, yet sometimes…“Miller stopped off in Santa Fé to see some folks at the fort there an’ to talk to Halloran an’ Wallace. Seems they was old friends of his.”

Sodermann’s face sharpened, and he turned. His raised hand made Gaddis draw back a little.

“You’re talkin’ a lot, stranger,” he said smoothly. “You say this Miller knowed Halloran an’ Wallace?”

“Uhn-huh.” Kilkenny motioned to Shorty to refill his glass. “Seems he knowed them back East. One of ’em married a sister of his, or somethin’. I heard ’em talkin’ in a saloon once. Heard Halloran say he was comin’ out here to visit Miller.” Kilkenny glanced at Gaddis, his face expressionless. “I reckon you’ll be plum glad to see him, Miller. It’s mighty nice to have an official, big man like that for a friend.”

Lance could have laughed if he hadn’t known what he knew now, that the wagon had been waylaid and that Miller was probably dead. There would be no other reason for Gaddis’s looking as he did. The man was obviously afraid. Sodermann was staring, keen-eyed, yet there was uncertainty in the big man. When that uncertainty ended, there would be danger, Kilkenny knew.

“Funny,” Kilkenny said softly, “I don’t remember Miller havin’ red hair. Seemed to me it was black. That’s what it was. Black.”

“It was yel…!” Gaddis began.

“Yellow. That’s right. It was yellow. Strange, I couldn’t remember that. But you, stranger, you’ve got Jody Miller’s gun. How d’you explain that?”

Suddenly the door behind Kilkenny opened. He felt the flesh along the back of his neck tighten. He dared not turn. He had been deliberately baiting them, hoping for more information, yet baiting them, too. Now, suddenly, there was a man behind him.

Sodermann seemed to make up his mind. Assurance returned to him, and he spoke low, almost amused. “Why, howdy, Rye! I reckon you should come in an’ meet our friend, here. Says he recognizes this gun Red’s a-wearin’.”

Rye Pitkin walked past Kilkenny and then turned.

His jaw dropped as though he had seen a ghost, and he made an involuntary step backward, his face slowly going white. “You!” he gasped. “You!”

“Why, yes,” Kilkenny said. “It’s me, Pitkin. Long ways from the Pecos country, isn’t it? An’ a sight farther from the Brazos. Now, Pitkin, I’ll tell you somethin’. I’m not real anxious to kill anybody right here an’ now. If I start shootin’, two of you are goin’ to die. That’ll be you, Rye, and Sodermann here. I couldn’t miss him. An’ if I am still shootin’, as I will be, I’m goin’ to take care of Gaddis next. Gaddis because he killed Jody Miller. But that comes later. Right now I’m leavin’, an’ right now you better impress it on your friends that reachin’ for an iron won’t do any good.”

He stepped back toward the door, and his eyes shifted under the hat brim from one face to the other. Sodermann’s eyes were narrowed. Pitkin’s obvious fear put doubt in the big man. Who was the stranger? Red Gaddis shifted toward the center of the room, his eyes watchful.

Rye stiffened as Red moved. “Don’t, Red! That’s Kilkenny!”

Gaddis stopped, and his face turned blank with mingled astonishment and fear. Then glass tinkled from the front of the room, and a long Kentucky rifle barrel slid into the room. Kilkenny stepped back to the door.

“Now, if you
hombres
are smart, you’ll just hole up here for the time bein’. We don’t want trouble, but we may have it!”

Kilkenny stepped through the door and glanced quickly up and down the street. Bartram was on the wagon seat, his rifle across his knees. Jackie Moffitt
was standing by his horse, his rifle in his hands, and Saul was across the street. Kilkenny smiled in narrow-eyed apprehension. They were fighters, these men.

“Start the wagon,” he said, “down the Cedar trail. Jackie, stay with Bartram.”

He walked out and swung into the saddle, and then slid a rifle from the boot. “All right, slide!”

He wheeled the buckskin and whipped down the street. A shot rang out from behind him, and he twisted to look. Saul was mounted, but Quince had turned and thrown up his rifle. He fired. A man staggered from the shelter of the Wagon Wheel and spilled on his face in the dust. The next instant there was a fusillade of shots from the Wagon Wheel and nearby buildings. The gunmen had slipped out the back way and were getting into action.

Kilkenny reined in behind the last building and swung to the ground. Then, with careful fire, he covered the Hatfields as they raced up the street to join him.

Quince was smiling, his eyes hard. “That was Red Gaddis,” he said coolly. “He won’t take no more dead men’s guns.”

“Give the wagon a start,” Kilkenny said. “We three are going to make some buzzard bait! We have to come back to this town, and we might as well let them know what the score is.”

Every time a head moved, one of them fired. While they stayed where they were, no man dared enter that street, and no man dared try the back way in this direction.

Leaving the two Hatfields, Kilkenny sprinted down behind the buildings toward the Wagon Wheel. The men there were killers. He did not know what had
happened to the other wagon, but he meant to find out. It was his reason for taking the Blazer trail. He was hoping they might not all be dead. At least, he could bury those that were.