Kilkenny 02 - A Man Called Trent (v5.0) (17 page)

The rear door of the saloon was open, and there was no one in sight. He stood behind the next building and watched for an instant. He wanted Pitkin or Rat-cliff. He would get nothing from Sodermann unless the fat man elected to tell him.

Several old boards lay on the ground behind the saloon, dry and parched. On a sudden inspiration, he moved swiftly from the shelter of the building and, holstering his gun, hurriedly piled them together. Then, using a piece of old sacking and some parched grass, he lit the fire.

It was away from the buildings, but the wind would blow the smoke into the saloon. He hoped they would think he was burning them out, the last thing he wanted to do, as they needed the town as a supply base. As the boards caught fire, he stepped back quickly.

There was a startled exclamation as the fire began
to crackle and wood smoke blew in the back of the saloon. A second later a man stepped to the door, thrust his head out, and then stared at the fire. He seemed puzzled. Out of sight, Kilkenny waited.

Then the man stepped out and kicked the boards apart. “All right!” Kilkenny snapped. “Don’t move!”

It was Ratcliff, and the man froze. “What’s up, Kilkenny? I never done nothin’ to you.”

“Start this way, walk careful, an’ watch your hands.”

Ratcliff was a weasel-faced man with shifty eyes. He started moving, but shot a glance at the doorway. He held his hands wide. When he was six feet away, Kilkenny stopped him.

“All right, talk. I want to know what happened to that other wagon.”

Ratcliff sneered. “You think I’ll tell? Guess again. You don’t dare shoot. If you do, they’ll be out, but fast.”

With one quick step, Kilkenny grabbed the man by the throat and slammed him back against the building. Then he lifted the pistol.

“Want a pistol-whipping, man?” he asked harshly. “If I start on you, you’ll never look the same again!”

“Leave me be,” Ratcliff pleaded, his face yellow. “I’ll talk.”

“Get at it then.”

“They done loaded up with grub. We let ’em get out of town. Then Sodermann ambushed ’em. Had about six men, I think.”

“Who was killed?”

“We lost a man. We got Miller an’ Tot Wilson in the first blast. It was Hatfield got our man. Nailed him dead center between the eyes.”

“What happened to Hatfield an’ Hight?”

“They got Hight. I seen him go down. He was shot two, maybe three times. We got Hatfield, too. But he got up, an’ he dragged Hight into some rocks. We couldn’t get to ’em.”

“Then what?”

A voice roared from the saloon. It was Sodermann. “Ratcliff! What in time are you doin’ out there?”

“Answer me!” Kilkenny snapped. “Then what?”

“Sodermann said it’d serve ’em right. Leave ’em there to die with two men to see they didn’t move out of them rocks. They been there two days now.”

“On the Blazer trail?”

“Yeah, almost to the turn-off to the peaks.”

With a swift movement, Kilkenny flipped Ratcliff’s pistol from its holster. “All right, get goin’!” he snapped.

With a dive, Ratcliff started for the saloon door. And just at that instant, Sodermann thrust his huge bulk into the open space. He glimpsed Kilkenny as he released Ratcliff and, with a swift motion, palmed his gun and fired.

He fired from the hip, and he wasn’t a good hip shot. His first bullet caught Ratcliff squarely in the chest, and the weasel-faced rider stopped dead still, and then dropped. Kilkenny’s gun swept up, and, straddle-legged in the open, he fired.

Sodermann’s gun went off at the same instant, but Kilkenny’s bullet hit him right above the belt buckle in the middle of that vast expanse. The blow staggered Sodermann, and his bullet clipped slivers from the building above Kilkenny’s head and whined angrily away into the grass back of the saloon.

The big man looked sick, and then suddenly his
knees gave way and he toppled face downward upon the steps. The pistol fell from fingers that had lost their life, and rattled on the boards below.

Kilkenny walked toward the saloon, keeping his gun in his hand. Stepping up beside the door, he saw Rye Pitkin and the short bartender, rifles in hand, crouched by the front window.

“Drop ’em!” Kilkenny snapped. He stepped quickly inside. “Unbuckle your belts and let those guns down quick!”

Surprised into helplessness, the men did as they were told. “Rye, I’ve given you a break before. I’m givin’ you one again. The same for Shorty. You two mount and ride. If I ever see either of you again, I’ll kill you. I’ll be back to Blazer, an’ you be dog-gone sure you aren’t here.”

Backing them away, he scooped up the guns and then backed out the door. He hurried to the corner where the Hatfields waited. Quince was chewing on a straw. He looked at the weapons, grinned a little, and started for his horse.

“Lije may be alive,” Kilkenny told him. Then he explained quickly.

Quince narrowed his eyes. “You won’t be needin’ us,” he said. “We’ll ride on.”

“Go ahead,” Kilkenny said, “an’ luck with you.”

With a rush of hoofs, Saul and Quince Hatfield swept off down the trail. Kilkenny watched them go. The Hatfields were hard to kill. Lije might be alive. It was like him to have thought of Hight, even when wounded. Those lean, wiry men were tough. He might still be alive.

He rode up to the wagon and saw Bartram’s face
flush with relief. Jackie was riding beside the wagon, his old Sharps ready. His face was boyishly stern.

“What is it?” Bartram asked. “What happened?”

“We’ve won another round,” Kilkenny said. “We can come to Blazer for supplies now.”

Dust devils danced over the desert, and the mules plodded slowly along the trail. The wagon rumbled and bumped over the stones in the road, and Bartram dozed on the wagon seat. To the left the mountains lifted in rocky slopes with many upthrust edges of jagged rock. To the right the ground sloped away toward Cedar Branch, which lay miles away beyond the intervening sagebrush and mesquite.

Jackie Moffitt rode silently, looking from time to time at Kilkenny. Lance knew the youngster was dying to ask him about what had happened in Blazer, and he was just as loath to speak of it. He could understand the youngster’s curiosity.

He moved the buckskin over alongside the boy. “Trouble back there, Jack,” he said after a minute. “Men killed back there.”

“Who was it? Did you kill ’em?” Jackie asked eagerly.

“One. I had to, Jack. Didn’t want to. Nobody ever likes to kill a man unless there’s something wrong with him. I had to get news out of somebody. I got it from Ratcliff, and then turned him loose, but, in tryin’ to get me, Sodermann shot him. Then I shot Sodermann.”

“What about the others?”

“Let ’em go. I told Pitkin an’ Shorty to get out of the country. I think they’ll go.”

“We asked ’em in the store, but they was scared.
They wouldn’t talk, no how. Saul, he asked ’em. They was afraid. But they was right nice with us.”

They rode on through the heat. Occasionally they stopped to rest the mules. It was slower this way, as the road was longer, but there was no dust, and they had to come this way to make sure about Lije and the others.

Again and again Kilkenny found his thoughts reverting to Nita. How was she faring with Hale? Would she marry him? The thought came to him with a pang. He was in love with Nita. He had admitted that to himself long before this, but he knew too well what it would mean to be the wife of a gunman, a man who never knew when he might go down to dusty death in a lead-spattered street.

A man couldn’t think only of himself. A few men seemed to be able to leave it all behind, but they were few. Of course, he could go East, but his whole life had been lived in the West, and he had no source of income in the East. He had been a gambler at times and had done well, but it was nothing to build a life upon.

His thoughts moved ahead to the Hatfields. What would they find? Would the men left behind have murdered the wounded Lije? Had Hight been dead? How many more would die before this war was settled? Why did one man see fit to push this bloody fight upon men who wanted only peace and time to till their fields? Why should one man desire power so much? There was enough in the world for all to have a quiet, comfortable living, and what more could a man desire?

The wagon rumbled over the rocks, and he lifted his eyes and let them idle over the heat-waved distance.
After the fire and blood there would be peace, and men could come to this land and settle these hills. Perhaps someday there would be water, and then grass would grow where now there were only cacti and sagebrush. Cicadas whined and sang in the mesquite until the sound became almost the voice of the wastelands.

They camped that night in a hollow in the hills and pushed on at dawn toward the joining of the trails. The country was rockier now. The distance closed in, pushing the mountains nearer, and there was less breeze. The air was dead and still.

Jackie traded places with Bartram and handled the mules. Bartram rode on ahead, riding carefully. Kilkenny watched him go, liking the easy way the farmer rode, and liking his clean-cut honesty.

It was morning of the third day when Kilkenny saw a horseman drawing near. He recognized him even before he came up with him. It was Saul.

“Found ’em,” Saul said briefly, “both alive. Hight’s plumb riddled. Lije was hit three times, one time pretty bad. They was holed up in some rocks, more dead than alive.”

“Anybody around?”

“Yeah. One man. He was dead. Lije must’ve got him, bad off as he was. The other took out. Lije’ll live. We Hatfields are tough.”

When they reached the cluster of rocks, they pulled the wagon close. Quince had both men stretched out and had rigged a shelter from the sun. Kilkenny knelt over the men. That Hight was breathing was a marvel, although all his wounds showed signs of care. Lije, wounded as he was, had cared for the other man. His wounds had been bathed and
crudely bandaged. His lips seemed moist, and he had evidently not lacked for water.

Lije Hatfield was grimly conscious. There was an unrelenting look in his eyes, enough to show them that Lije meant to face death, if need be, as sternly and fearlessly as he faced life and danger.

His lips were dry and parched. Even the water that Quince had given him failed to reduce the ravages brought on by several days of thirst. Obviously, from the condition of the two men, Lije had been giving the little water they had to Jackson Hight.

The two men were lifted carefully and placed in the wagon, with groceries piled around them and sacks and blankets beneath them. Another blanket was placed over two barrels to form a crude awning over their faces. Then, with Bartram handling the mules, they started once more.

It was quiet in the Hatfield cup when the little group rode in. The Hatfield women did not cry. They gathered around, and they watched when the two men were lifted from the wagon and carried within.

Parson waited, grim-faced, for Kilkenny. “That’s two more, Kilkenny. Two more good men gone, an’ two that are like to die! I’m tellin’ you, man, I’m a-goin’ to kill Bill Hale!”

“Not now. Wait.” Kilkenny kicked a toe into the dust. “Any more trouble here?”

“Smithers ain’t come back.”

“Where’d he go?”

“To look at his crop. He sets great store by that crop. Says he’ll be back to harvest it.”

“When did he leave?”

“Yesterday mornin’. Shouldn’t keep him that long, no-ways. I reckon he might hole up in the hills somewhere.”

Talking slowly, Lance recounted all that had transpired. He told of the bitter crossing of the Smoky Desert, of the fight at Blazer, and of the death of Gad-dis and the others.

“We can cross the desert anytime unless the wind is blowin’ strong,” he concluded. “They can’t bottle us up. It’s a miserable trip, an’, if a man was to try it an’ get caught in a windstorm, there’s a good chance you’d never hear of him again. The same if he got into that quicksand.”

“I knowed that Gaddis was a bad one. Glad he’s gone. The same for Sodermann.”

“There’s something else,” Kilkenny suggested after a moment. “We’ve proved we could get across, an’ we slipped by their guards comin’ back by the Blazer trail, but it won’t take them much time to figure what happened. They may try comin’ in our back door by that way.”

Parson nodded shrewdly. “I was thinkin’ of that. We’ll have to be careful.”

When morning came and Lance rolled out of his blankets, he looked quickly at the house. Then he saw Saul. The tall, lean boy was walking away from the house, and he looked sick and old. They saw each other at almost the same instant.

“Saul?” Kilkenny said. “Is…?”

“He’s dead. Lijah’s dead.”

Kilkenny turned away, and for the first time something like despair welled up inside of him. One of the Hatfields had died. It seemed as though something of the mountains themselves had gone, for there was in those lean, hard-headed, raw-boned men something that lived on despite everything. And Lije had died.

O’Hara came out to him later, and the big Irishman’s face was sullen and ugly. “An’ that doc down to Cedar Bluff. We sneaked in an’ tried to get him to come. He wouldn’t come, an’ he set up a squall when we tried to take him. We was lucky to get away.”

“We’ll remember that,” Kilkenny said quietly. “We can’t use a doctor who won’t come when he’s called, not in this country.”

Parson looked at him thoughtfully, and then he looked away. “Lance, you ever think maybe we won’t win? That maybe they’ll wipe us out? Suppose you can’t talk to them Santa Fé men? Supposin’, if you do, they won’t listen?”

Kilkenny looked down at the ground, and then slowly he lifted his head. “There’s a man behind this, Parson,” he said slowly, “a man who’s gone mad with power-cravin’. His son’s a-drivin’ him. Parson, I’ve seen men murdered because they wanted homes. There was no harm in Jody Miller, nor in Tot Wilson. They were hard-workin’ men an’ honest ones. Lije, well, he was a fine boy, a real man, too. He had strength, courage, an’ all that it takes to make a man. There at the last, when they were holed up in the rocks, he cared for Hight when he must’ve been near dead himself. He must’ve had to drag himself to Hight’s side…he must’ve had to force himself to forget his own pain. Those men are dead, an’ they are dead because of one man, maybe two. Maybe I’m wrong, Parson, but if all else fails, I’m ridin’ to Cedar Bluff, an’ I’ll kill those two men.”

“An’ I’ll go with you,” Parson stated flatly. His old face was grim and hard. “Lije was my son, he…”

“No, Parson, you can’t go with me. You’ll have to stay here, keep this bunch together, an’ see they make
the most of their land. I want homes in these high meadows, Parson. Homes, an’ kids around ’em, an’ cattle walkin’ peaceful in the evenin’. No, it’ll be my job down there. We all…we who live by the gun…we all die in the end. It’s better for me to go alone an’ live or die by what happens then. At least, it’ll be in a good cause.”

He lay in the shade of a huge Norway pine, resting and thinking of what lay ahead of him, thinking of the fight with Tombull Turner. Lying there with his eyes shut, he could hear the sound of the shovels as Runyon and Jesse Hatfield dug a grave for Lije. In his mind he was taking himself back to the times when he had seen Turner fight. He was remembering, not the battered men who went down before Turner, but every move the big man made. No man was without a fault. Kilkenny had been taught well. He knew how he must plan, and he ran over and over in his mind the way the big man held his hands, the way his feet moved when he advanced or retreated, the way they moved when he punched, and what Turner did when hit with a left or right. Each fighter develops habits. A certain method of stopping or countering a punch is easy for him, so he uses that method most, even though he may know others. A smooth boxer, walking out into the ring and expecting a long fight, will feel out an opponent, find how he uses a left, how he blocks one. Then he knows what to do. If he lasted in this fight, Kilkenny knew, he would last only because of brains, only because he could think faster, better, and more effectively than Turner or those who handled him.

Yet again and again, as he lay there thinking, his mind reverted to Nita Riordan. The dark, voluptuous
beauty of the Irish and Spanish girl at the Crystal Palace was continually in his mind. There was something else, too. In the back of his mind loomed the huge, ominous Cain Brockman. On that desperate day back in Cottonwood, in the Live Oak country, he had killed Abel, and Cain had been thrown from his rearing horse and knocked unconscious. Later, in the Trail House, he had slugged it out and whipped Cain in a bitter knock-down-and-drag-out fistfight. Cain had sworn to kill him. And Cain Brockman was in Cedar Bluff.

When night came, Kilkenny threw a saddle on a slim, black horse and rode out of the cup. He was going to see Nita. Even as he rode, he admitted to himself there was little reason to see her except that he wanted to. He had no right to take chances with his life when it could mean so much to the cause he was aiding, yet he had to see Nita. Also, he could find out what Hale was doing, what he was planning.

He rode swiftly, and the black horse was eager for the trail. It wasn’t Buck, but the horse was fast, with speed to spare.

It was late when he rode down to the edge of Cedar Bluff, and his thoughts went back to Leathers, aroused out of a sound sleep and made to put up groceries, and to Dan Cooper, the tough cowhand and gunman who had watched Leathers’s store. Cooper was a good man on the wrong side. Leathers was a man who would be on any winning side, one of the little men who think only of immediate profits and who try to ride with the powers that be. Well, the pay-off for Leathers was coming.

Leaving his horse in the shadows of the trees beyond the Crystal Palace, Kilkenny moved up into the
shadows of the stable, and his eyes watched the Palace for a long time. Finally he moved, ghost-like, across the open space back of the gambling hall. Tiptoeing along the wall, he came to the door he sought. Carefully he tried the knob. It was locked.

Ahead of him a curtain blew through an open window, waving a little, and then sagging back as the momentary breeze died. He paused beneath the window, listening. Inside, he could hear the steady rise and fall of a man’s breathing. It was the only way in. Hesitating only a minute, he put his foot through the open window and stepped inside.

Almost at once there was a black shadow of movement, and a forearm slipped across his throat in a stranglehold. Then that forearm crushed back into his throat with tremendous power. Setting the muscles in his neck, he strained forward, agonizing pain shooting through the growing blackness in his brain. He surged forward and felt the man’s feet lift from the floor. Then suddenly the hold relaxed, and he felt a hand slide down to his gun and then to the other gun. Then he was released.

“Brigo?” he said.

“
Sí, señor
,” Brigo answered in a whisper. “I did not know. But only one man is so powerful as you. When you lifted me, I knew it must be you. Then I felt your guns, and I know them well.”

“The
señorita
is here?”

“
Sí
.” Brigo was silent for a moment. “
Señor
, I fear for her. This Hale, he wants her very much. Also, the Cub of the bear. He wants her. I fear for her. One day they will come to take her.”

Kilkenny could sense the worry in the big man’s voice. “But you, Brigo?”

He could almost see the Yaqui shrug. “I see the two
hombres
, Dunn an’ Ravitz. They watch me always. Soon they will try to kill me. The
señorita
says I must not go out to kill them, but soon I must.”

“Wait, if you can,” Kilkenny said. “Then act as you must. If you feel the time has come, do not wait for the
señorita
to say. You do not kill heedlessly. If there is no other way, you are to judge.”

“
Gracias, señor
,” Brigo said simply. “If you will come with me?”

Kilkenny followed him through the darkness down the hall to another door, and there Brigo tapped gently. Almost at once, he heard Nita’s voice. “Jaime?”

“
Sí
. The
señor
is here.”

The door opened quickly, and Brigo vanished into the darkness as Kilkenny stepped in. Nita closed the door. Her long dark hair fell about her shoulders. In the vague light he could see the clinging of her nightgown, the rise and fall of her bosom beneath the thin material.

“Kilkenny, what is it?” Her voice was low, and something in its timbre made his muscles tremble. It required all the strength that was in him not to take her in his arms.

“I had to see you. You are all right?”

“
Sí
. For now. He has given me until after the celebration to make up my mind. After that, I shall have to marry him or run.”

“That celebration,” he said bitterly, “is the cornerstone of everything now.” Briefly, dispassionately he told her of all that had happened. Of the trip across the Smoky Desert, of the deaths of Miller, Wilson, and Lije Hatfield, and then of the death of Sodermann and the others of Hale’s men.

“Does he know of that yet?” he asked.

“I doubt it. He told me there had been an attempt to get food over the Blazer trail and that the men who made it had been wiped out. I don’t think he knew more than that.”

“I am going to fight Turner,” he said.

She caught her breath suddenly. “Oh, no! Kilkenny, he is a brute! I have seen him around the Palace. So huge. And so strong. I have seen him bend silver dollars in his fingers. I have seen him squat beside a table, take the edge in his teeth, and lift it clear off the floor.”

“I know, but I must fight him. It is my only chance to get close to Halloran.” He explained quickly. “If we can just let them know that we aren’t outlaws. If they could only realize what is happening here, that these are good men, trying only to establish homes. To fight him is my only chance.”

“I heard you would. Brigo told me the word had come that you would fight him.”

“What did Brigo say?” Kilkenny suddenly found he was very anxious to know. The big Yaqui had an instinct for judging the fighting abilities of men. Powerful, fierce, and ruthless himself, he knew fighting men, and he had been long in lands where men lived by courage and strength.

“He says you will win.” She said it simply. “I cannot see how anyone could defeat that man, but Brigo is sure. He has made bets. And he is the only one who dares to bet against Turner.”

“Nita, if there’s a chance, say something to Halloran.”

“There won’t be. Hale will see to that. But if there is, I surely will.”

“Nita, when the fight is over, I’ll come for you. I’m going to take you away from this. Will you go?”

“Need you ask?” She smiled up at him in the dimness. “You know I will go, Kilkenny. Wherever you go, I will go, Kilkenny. I made my choice long ago.”

Kilkenny slipped from the house and returned to his horse. The black stood patiently, and, when Lance touched his bridle, he jerked up his head and was ready to go. Yet, when he reached the turn, Lance swung the black horse down the street of Cedar Bluff.

Walking the horse, he rode slowly up to the ring. It had been set up in an open space near the corrals. Seats had been placed around, with several rows close to the ringside. That would be where King Bill would sit with his friends. The emperor would watch the gladiators. Kilkenny smiled wryly.

A light footstep sounded at the side of the ring, and Kilkenny’s gun leaped from its holster. “Don’t move,” he whispered sharply.

“It’s all right, Kilkenny.” The man stepped closer, his hands held wide. “It’s Dan Cooper.”

“So you know I’m Kilkenny?”

Cooper chuckled. “Yeah, I recognized your face that first day, but couldn’t tie it to a name. It came to me just now. Hale will be wild when he hears.”

“You’re a good man, Cooper,” Kilkenny said suddenly. “Why stay on the wrong side?”

“Is the winnin’ side the wrong side? Not for me it ain’t. I ain’t sayin’ as to who’s right in this squabble, but for a gunhand the winnin’ side is the right one.”

“No conscience, Cooper?” Kilkenny questioned, trying to see the other man’s eyes through the darkness. “Dick Moffitt was a good man. So were Jody Miller, Tot Wilson, an’ Lije Hatfield.”

“Then Lije died?” Cooper’s voice quickened. “That’s not good, for you or us. The Hales, they don’t think much of the Hatfields. I do. I know ’em. The Hales will have to kill every last Hatfield now, or die themselves. I know them.”

“You could have tried a shot at me, Cooper,” Kilkenny suggested.

“Me?” Cooper laughed lightly. “I’m not the kind, Kilkenny. Not in the dark, without a warnin’. I ain’t so anxious to get you, anyway. I’d be the
hombre
that killed Kilkenny, an’ that’s like settin’ yourself up in a shootin’ gallery. Anyway, I want to see the fight.”