Kilkenny 02 - A Man Called Trent (v5.0) (18 page)

“The fight?”

“Between you and Tombull. That should be good.” Cooper leaned against the platform of the ring. “Between the two of us, I ain’t envyin’ you none. That
hombre’
s poison. He ain’t human. Eats food enough for three men. Still”—Cooper shoved his hat back on his head—“you sure took King Bill, an’ he was some shakes of a scrapper.” Cooper straightened up. “Y’know, Kilkenny, just two men in town are bettin’ on you.”

“Two?”

“Uhn-huh. One’s that Yaqui gunman, Brigo. The other’s Cain Brockman.”

“Cain Brockman?” Kilkenny was startled.

“Yeah. He says he’s goin’ to kill you, but he says you can whip Turner first. He told Turner to his face that you was the best man. Turner was sure mad.” Dan Cooper hitched up his belt. “Almost time for my relief. If I was you, I’d take out. The next
hombre
might not be so anxious to see a good fight that he’d pass up five thousand dollars.”

“You mean there’s money on my head?” Kilkenny asked.

“Yeah. Five thousand. Dead or alive.” Cooper shrugged. “Cub didn’t like the idea of the reward. He figures you’re staked out for him.”

“OK, Dan. Enjoyed the confab.”

“Thanks. Listen, make that fight worth the money, will you? An’ by the way…watch Cub Hale. He’s poison mean and faster than a strikin’ rattler.”

Kilkenny rode out of town and took to the hills. The route he took homeward was not the same as that by which he had approached the town. Long ago he had learned it was very foolhardy to retrace one’s steps. Once at the Hatfields’, he bedded down about daylight and slept until early afternoon.

So Cain Brockman was betting on him. For a long time, Kilkenny sat in speculation. He lived over again that bitter, bloody afternoon in the Trail House when he had whipped the huge Cain. It had seemed that great bulk was impervious to anything in the shape of a human fist. Yet he had brought him down, had beaten him into helplessness.

Parson and Quince strolled over and sat down. Their faces were grave. It was like these men to hide their grief, yet he knew that under the emotionless faces of the men there was a feeling of family and unity stronger than any he had ever known. These men loved each other and lived for each other.

“Kilkenny, you set on fightin’ this Turner?” Parson inquired.

“Yes, I am,” Kilkenny said quietly. “It’s our big chance. It is more than a chance to talk to Halloran, too. It’s a chance to hit Hale another wallop.”

“To hurt him, you got to beat Turner,” Quince said, staring at Kilkenny. “You got to win.”

“That’s right,” Kilkenny agreed. “So I’m goin’ in to win. I’ve changed my mind about some things. I was figurin’ just on stayin’ in there long enough to talk to the officials from Santa Fé, but now I am goin’ in there to win. If I win, I make friends. People will like to see Hale beat again. Halloran is an Irishman, an’ an Irishman loves a good fighter. Well, I got to win.”

They were silent for a few minutes and Parson chewed on a straw. Then he looked up from under his bushy gray eyebrows. “It ain’t the fight what worries me. If the good Lord wants you to win, you’ll win. What bothers me is after…win or lose, what happens then? Think Hale will let you go?”

Kilkenny smiled grimly. “He will, or there’ll be blood on the streets of Cedar Bluff. Hale blood!”

The crowds had started coming to Cedar Bluff by daylight. The miners had come, drifting over for the rodeo and the fight. The gold camps had been abandoned for the day, as there was rarely any celebration for them, rarely any relief from the loneliness and the endless masculinity of the gold camps. The cowhands from the Hale Ranch were around in force. The bars were doing a rushing business even before noon, and the streets were jammed with people.

Kilkenny rode into town on the buckskin when the sun was high. For over an hour he had been lying on a hillside above the town, watching the movement. It was almost certain that King Bill would avoid trouble today. There were too many visitors, too many people who were beyond his control. He would be on his good behavior today, making an impression as the upright citizen and free-handed giver of celebrations.

A rider under a flag of truce had appeared in the
cup the evening before with an invitation to Kilkenny and the actual challenge for the fight. Word of Kilkenny’s willingness for the fight had seeped into town by the grapevine several days before, so no tricks were needed. Kilkenny was to report to a man named John Bartlett, at the Crystal Palace.

Kilkenny, accompanied by Parson Hatfield and Steve Runyon, rode down to the Palace and dismounted. Quince Hatfield and O’Hara had already arrived in town, and they moved up outside the Palace and loafed where they could watch the horses. Only a few of the Hale riders actually knew them by sight.

Pushing open the batwing doors, Kilkenny stepped inside, Parson at his elbow. The place was crowded, and all the games were going full blast. Kilkenny’s quick eyes swept the place. Jaime Brigo was in his usual chair across the room, and their eyes met. Then Kilkenny located Price Dixon. He was dealing cards at a nearby table.

There was a warning in Dixon’s eyes, and then Price made an almost imperceptible gesture of his head. Turning his eyes, Kilkenny felt a little chill go over him. Cain Brockman was standing at the bar, and Cain was watching him. Slowly, as though subtly aware of the tension in the room, eyes began to lift. As if by instinct they went from the tall, broad-shouldered man with the bronzed face, clad completely in black, to the towering bruiser in the checked shirt and the worn Levi’s.

Then, his hands hanging carelessly at his sides, his flat-brimmed hat tipped just a little, Kilkenny started across the room toward Cain Brockman. A deadly hush fell over the room. Cain had turned, his
wide unshaven face still marked by the scars of his former battle with Kilkenny, marked with scars he would carry to his grave. Through narrow eyes the big man looked at Kilkenny, watching his slow steps across the floor, the studied ease, the grace of the man in black, the two big guns at his hips. Unseen, Nita Riordan had come to the door of her room, and, eyes wide, she watched Kilkenny walk slowly among the tables and pause before Cain Brockman.

For a minute the two men looked at each other. Then Kilkenny spoke. “I hear you’ve come to town to kill me, Cain,” he said quietly. Yet in the deathly hush of the room his voice carried to each corner. “Well, I’ve another fight on my hands, with Tombull Turner. If we shoot it out, I’m going to kill you, but you’re a good man with a gun, and I reckon I’ll catch some lead. Fighting Tombull is going to be enough without carrying a crawful of lead when I do it. So how about a truce until afterward?”

For an instant, Cain hesitated. In the small gray eyes, chill and cold, there came a little light of reluctant admiration. He straightened. “I reckon I can wait,” Cain drawled harshly. “Let it never be said that Cain Brockman broke up a good fight.”

“Thanks.” Abruptly Kilkenny turned away, turning his back fully on Cain Brockman, and with the same slow walk crossed the room to Price Dixon. A big red-headed man stood at the table near Price.

As he walked up to the table, the batwing doors pushed open and four men walked in. Kilkenny noticed them and felt the flash of recognition of danger go over him. It was King Bill Hale, Cub Hale, and the gold-dust twins, Dunn and Ravitz.

Ignoring them, Kilkenny walked up to the redheaded man. “You’re John Bartlett?” he asked. “I’m Kilkenny.”

“Glad to meet you.” Bartlett thrust out a huge hand. “How’d you know me?”

“Saw you in Abilene. Again in New Orleans.”

“Then you’ve seen Turner fight?” Bartlett demanded keenly. He glanced up and down Kilkenny with a quick, practiced eye.

“Yes. I’ve seen him fight.”

“An’ you’re not afraid? He’s a bruiser. He nearly killed Tom Hanlon.”

Kilkenny smiled. “An’ who was Tom Hanlon? A big chunk of beef so slow he couldn’t get out of his own way. I see nothing in Turner to fear.”

“You’ll actually fight him, then?” Bartlett was incredulous.

“Fight him?” Kilkenny asked. “Fight him? I’m going to whip him.”

“That’s the way to talk!” a big, black-bearded miner burst out. “I’m sick of this big bull of a Turner strut-tin’ around. My money goes on Kilkenny.”

“Mine, too,” another miner said. “I’d rather he was a miner, but I’ll even bet on a cowhand if he can fight.”

Kilkenny turned and looked at the miner, and then he grinned. “Friend,” he said, “I’ve swung a single-jack for many a day and tried a pan on half the creeks in Arizona.”

Bartlett leaned forward. “This fight is for a prize of one thousand dollars in gold, put up by King Hale. However, if you want to make a side bet…?”

“I do,” Kilkenny said. He unbuttoned his shirt and took out a packet of bills. “Five thousand dollars of it.”

“Five thousand?” Bartlett swallowed and saw Hale frown. “I don’t think we can cover it.”

“What?” Kilkenny looked up, and his eyes met those of King Bill. “I understood that Hale was offering three to one, and no takers. That’s the money I want. Some of that three to one that Bill Hale is offering.”

“Three to one?” Hale demanded. “Why, I never…” The astonishment in his voice was plain enough, but Kilkenny knew he had him, and every move was calculated to win the crowd, not for himself, but for the men he represented. To back down would mean loss of prestige to Hale; to declare he knew of no three-to-one offer would make many believe he had welshed on his bet. And if Kilkenny won, Hale would never dare order him killed because all would think it was revenge for losing the bet. And if Kilkenny lost, it would still put Hale in a bad light if he were suddenly murdered.

“What’s the matter, Hale?” Kilkenny demanded sharply, and his voice rang loudly in the crowded room. “Are you backing down? Have you decided the man who whipped you on your own ground can whip Turner, too? Didn’t you bring Tombull Turner here to whip me or to force me to back down? I’m calling you, Hale. Put up or shut up! I’m betting five thousand against your fifteen thousand that I win. I’m betting all I own, aside from that little claim you’re trying to take away from me, against a mere fifteen thousand. Are you backing down?”

“No, by the Lord Harry, I’m not!” Hale’s face was purple with anger. “I’m not going to let any fence-crawling nester throw money in my face. I’m covering you.”

Kilkenny smiled slowly. “Looks like an interesting
afternoon,” he said cheerfully. Then he turned and walked slowly from the room, conscious that at every step he took the white cold eyes of Cub Hale followed him, their hatred almost a tangible thing.

When they got outside, Parson stared at him. “You sure made King Bill look bad in there. You made some friends.”

“You mean
we
made friends,” Kilkenny said quietly. “That’s the point. We’ve got to make friends, we’ve got to get the sympathy of these miners and the outside people Hale can’t touch. If we can get enough of them, we’ve got a fighting chance. Hale can’t get too raw. There’s law in this country now, an’ he can win only so long as he can make what he’s doin’ seem right. If it stopped right here, an’ he got me killed or took my land, a lot of people would be asking questions. They’ll remember what I said. You see, Parson, we’re little people buckin’ a powerful an’ wealthy man. That makes us the underdogs. I’m the smaller man in this fight, too. I’m a cowhand and a miner fightin’ a trained prize fighter with my fists. A good part of that crowd is goin’ to be with me for that reason, even some of Hale’s cowhands.”

It was mid-afternoon when Kilkenny walked down to the ring. The corral fence was covered with cowhands and miners, and the intervening space was filled with them. They were crowded along roofs and in every bit of space. Scanning the crowd, Kilkenny’s eyes glinted. The miners were out in strength, and with them had come a number of gamblers, cowhands from outside the valley, and a few odds and ends of trappers.

The cluster of seats near the ring was empty, and two men guarded them. Kilkenny walked down to the ringside and stripped to the waist. He slipped off his boots and pulled on a pair of Indian moccasins that fitted snugly.

There was a roar from the crowd, and he saw Tombull Turner leaving the back door of Leathers’s store and striding toward the ring, wrapped in a blanket. As he climbed through the ropes and walked to his corner, King Bill Hale, Cub Hale, and two men in store clothes left the Mecca and started toward the ring. Behind them walked Dunn and Ravitz.

Then, escorted by Jaime Brigo, Nita Riordan left the Palace and walked slowly through the crowd toward the ring. She was beautifully dressed, in the very latest of fashion, and carried her chin high. Men drew aside to let her pass, and those along the way she walked removed their hats. Nita Riordan had proved to Cedar Bluff that a woman could run a gambling joint and still remain a lady. Not one word had ever been said against her character. Even the most skeptical had been convinced, both by her own lady-like manner and by the ever-watchful presence of Brigo.

Price Dixon walked down to Kilkenny’s corner. He hesitated, and then stepped forward. “I’ve had some experience as a handler,” he said simply, “if you’ll trust a gambling man.”

Kilkenny looked at him, and then smiled. “Why, I reckon we’re all gambling men after a fashion, sir. I’d be proud to have you.”

He glanced around quickly. John Bartlett was to referee, and the big red-headed man was already in
the ring. Parson Hatfield, wearing a huge Walker Colt, lounged behind Kilkenny’s corner. Runyon was a short distance away, and near him was Quince Hatfield. O’Hara was to work in Kilkenny’s corner, also.

Kilkenny climbed quickly into the ring and slipped off the coat he had hung around his shoulders. He heard a low murmur from the crowd. He knew they were sizing him up.

Tombull Turner was the larger by thirty pounds. He was taller, broader, and thicker, a huge man with a round bullet head set on a powerful neck and mighty shoulders. His biceps and forearms were heavy with muscle, and the deltoid development on the ends of his shoulders was large. His stomach was flat and solid, his legs columns of strength.

Kilkenny was lean. His shoulders were broad and had the strength of years of living in the open, working, fighting, and struggling. His stomach was flat and corded with muscle and his shoulders splendidly muscled, yet beside the bigger man he appeared much smaller. Actually he weighed 200 pounds. Yet
scarcely a man present, if asked to guess his weight, would have made it more than 180.

Bartlett walked to the center of the ring and raised a huge hand. “The rules is no punches below the belt. Hit as long as they have one hand free. No gouging or biting allowed. Holding and hitting is fair. When a man falls, is thrown, or is knocked to the floor, the round ends. The fight is to a finish.” He strode back, glancing with piercing eyes from Turner to Kilkenny.

The call of time was made, and the two men came forward to the scratch. Instantly Tombull rushed, swinging with both hands. Kilkenny weaved inside and smashed hard with a right and left to the body. Then Turner grabbed him and attempted to hurl him to the canvas, but Kilkenny twisted himself loose and struck with a lightning-like left to the bigger man’s mouth.

Turner set himself and swung a left that caught Kilkenny in the chest and knocked him back against the ropes. The crowd let out a roar, but, unhurt, Kilkenny slipped away from Turner’s charge and landed twice to the ribs. The big man closed in, feinted a left, and caught Kilkenny with a wicked overhand right that hit him on the temple.

Groggy, Kilkenny staggered into the ropes, and Turner charged like a bull and struck twice, left and right, to Kilkenny’s head. Lance clinched and hung on tightly. Then, slipping a heel behind Turner’s ankle, he tripped him up and threw him hard to the canvas!

He walked to his corner, seeing through a mist. They doused him with water, and at the call of time he came out slowly until almost up to the scratch. Then he lunged forward and landed with a hard left
to the side of the neck. Tombull took it flat-footed and walked in, apparently unhurt. Kilkenny evaded a right and then lashed back with both hands, staggering the big man again.

Turner lunged forward, hitting Kilkenny with a short right, and then, slipping Kilkenny’s left, he grabbed him and threw him to the canvas. The third round opened with both men coming out fast, and, walking right together, they began to slug. Then Kilkenny blocked Turner’s left and hit him in the body with a right. They broke free, and, circling, Kilkenny got a look at the two men sitting with Hale.

One was Halloran. The other was a leaner, taller man. Lance evaded a rush, and then clipped Turner with a right. He had been doing well, but he was no fool. Turner was a fighter, and the big man had not been trying yet, was just getting warmed up now. He was quite sure Tombull was under orders to beat him, to pound him badly, but to keep him in the ring as long as possible. Hale was to have his revenge, his bloodletting.

Tombull Turner moved in, landing a powerful left to the head and then a right to the body. Kilkenny circled away from Turner’s heavy-hitting right. Turner bored in, striving to get his hands on the lighter man and to get his fists where he could hit better. He liked to use short punches when standing close. Kilkenny slid away, stabbed a long left to Turner’s mouth, feinted, and, when Tombull swung his right, stepped in and smashed both hands to the body.

For all the effect the punches had he might have been hitting a huge drum. Turner rushed, crowding Kilkenny against the ropes, where he launched a storm of crashing, battering blows. One fist caught
Kilkenny over the eye, and another crashed into the pit of his stomach. Then a clubbing right hit Kilkenny on the kidney. He staggered away, and Turner, his big fists poised, crowded closer.

He swung for the head, and Kilkenny ducked the right but caught a chopping blow from the left that started blood flowing from a cut over one eye. Kilkenny backed away, and Turner rushed and floored Kilkenny with a smashing right.

Dixon worked over the eye rapidly and skillfully. Kilkenny found time to be surprised at his skill. “Watch that right,” O’Hara said. “It’s bad.”

Kilkenny moved up to scratch and then sidestepped just in time to miss Turner’s bull rush. He stepped in and stabbed a left to the head, and then Tombull got in close and hurled him to the canvas again.

Taking the rest on the stool, Kilkenny relaxed. Then at the call, he came to the scratch again, and, suddenly leaping in, he smashed two rocking punches to Turner’s jaw. The bigger man staggered, and, before he could recover, Kilkenny stepped in, stabbed a hard left to the mouth, and then hooked a powerful right to the body. Turner tried to get his feet under him, but Kilkenny was relentless. He smashed a left to the mouth and a right to the body, and then landed both hands to the body as Turner hit the ropes.

Tombull braced himself and, summoning his tremendous strength, bulled in close, literally hurling Kilkenny across the ring, and then followed with a rush. The crowd was on its feet now. Kilkenny feinted, and then smashed a powerful right to the ribs. Turner tried a left, and, pushing it aside,
Kilkenny stepped in with a wicked left uppercut to the wind. Turner staggered.

The crowd, still on its feet, was yelling for Kilkenny. He shook Turner with a right, but Tombull set himself and threw a mighty right that caught Kilkenny coming in and flattened him on the canvas.

When he got to his corner, he could see the crowd was excited. He was badly shaken, but not dazed by the blow. Suddenly he was on his feet, and before anyone could realize what was happening, he had stepped across to the ringside where Hale sat with the two officials.

“Gentlemen,” he said swiftly, “I’ve little time. I am fighting here today because it is the only way I could get to speak to you. I am one of a dozen nesters who have filed on claims among the peaks, claims from which Hale is unlawfully trying to drive us. One man has been cruelly murdered…”

The call of time interrupted. He wheeled to see Tombull charging, and he slid away along the ropes. Then Turner hit him and he staggered, but Turner lunged close, unwilling to let him fall. Shoving him back against the ropes, Turner shoved a left to his chin and then clubbed a powerful right.

Blasting pain seared across Kilkenny’s brain. He saw that right go up again and knew he could never survive another such punch. With all his strength, he jerked away. Turner intended to kill him now.

In a daze, he could see Hale was on his feet, as were the officials. Cub Hale had a hand on his gun, and Parson Hatfield was facing him across the ring. Then Kilkenny jerked loose.

But Turner was on him like a madman, clubbing, striking with all his mighty strength, trying to batter
Kilkenny into helplessness before the round ended. The crowd was in a mighty uproar, and in a haze of pain and waning consciousness Kilkenny saw Steve Runyon had slipped behind Cub Hale and had a gun on him.

Somebody was shouting outside the ring, and then Turner hit him again and he broke away from Tombull and crashed to the canvas.

O’Hara carried him bodily to his corner, where Dixon worked over him like mad. The call of time came, and Kilkenny staggered to his feet and had taken but one step toward the mark when Tombull hit him like a hurricane, sweeping him back into the ropes with a whirlwind of staggering, pounding, battering blows. Weaving, swaying, slipping, and ducking punches, Kilkenny tried to weather the storm.

Somehow he slipped under a right to the head and got in close. Spreading his legs wide, he began to slug both hands into the big man’s body. The crowd had gone mad now, but he was berserk. The huge man was fighting like a madman, eager for the kill, and Kilkenny was suddenly lost to everything but the battering fury of the fight and the lust to put the big man down and to keep him down.

Slipping a left, he smashed a wicked right to the ribs and then another and another. Driving in, he refused to let Turner get set and smashed him with punch after punch. Turner threw him off, but he leaped in again, got Tombull’s head in chancery with a crude headlock, and proceeded to batter blow after blow into the big man’s face before Turner did a back somersault to break free and end the round.

Panting, gasping for every breath when each stabbed like a knife, Kilkenny swung to the ropes.
“We’ve been refused food in Cedar Bluff!” Kilkenny shouted hoarsely at the officials. “We sent a wagon to Blazer, and three men were waylaid and killed. On a second attempt, we succeeded in getting a little, but only after a pitched battle.”

The call of time came and he wheeled. Turner was on him with a rush, his face bloody and wild. Kilkenny set himself and struck hard with a left that smashed Turner’s nose, and then with a wicked right that rocked Turner to his heels. Faster than the big man, he carried less weight and was tiring less rapidly. Also, the pounding of his body blows had weakened the bigger man.

Close in, they began to slug, but here, too, despite Turner’s massive strength, Kilkenny was the better man. He was faster, and he was beating the big man to the punch. Smashing a wicked left to the chin, Kilkenny stepped in and hooked both hands hard to the body. Then he brought up an uppercut that ripped a gash across Turner’s face. Before Tombull could get set, Kilkenny drove after him with a smashing volley of hooks and swings that had the big man reeling.

Everyone was yelling now, yelling like madmen, but Turner was gone. Kilkenny was on him like a panther. He drove him into the ropes and, holding him there, struck the big man three times in the face. Then Tombull broke loose and swung a right that Kilkenny took in his stride. He smashed Turner back on his heels with a right of his own.

The big man started to fall, and Kilkenny whipped both hands to his face with cracking force! Turner went down, rolled over, and lay still.

In an instant, Kilkenny was across the ring. Grabbing
his guns, he strapped them on. His fists were battered and swollen, but he could still hold a gun. He caught a quick glimpse of Nita and saw Brigo was hurrying her from the crowd. Parson and Quincy Hatfield closed in beside him, guns drawn.

“I’ll have to go with you,” Dixon said. “If I stay now, they’ll kill me.”

“Come on,” Kilkenny said grimly. “We can use you.”

Backing after them, Runyon kept Cub Hale at the end of his gun. The younger Hale’s face was white. Then, as the Hale cowhands began to gather, a mob of miners surged between them.

“Go ahead!” a big miner shouted. “We’ll stand by you!”

Kilkenny smiled suddenly, and, swinging away from his men, he walked directly toward the crowding cowhands. Muttering sullenly, they broke ahead of him, and he strode up to King Bill Hale. The big rancher was pale, and his eyes were cold as ice and bitter. Halloran stood behind him, and the tall, cool-eyed man stood nearby.

“I will take my fifteen thousand dollars now,” Kilkenny said quietly.

His face sullen and stiff, Hale counted out the money and thrust it at him.

Kilkenny turned then, bowed slightly to Halloran and the other man, and said quietly: “What I have told you here, gentlemen, is true. I wish you would investigate the claims of Hale to our land, and our own filings upon that land.”

Turning, he walked back to the miners, mounted, and rode off with the Hatfields, O’Hara, and Runyon close about him.

“We’ll have to move fast!” Kilkenny said. “What happens will happen quick now!”

“What can he do?” Runyon asked. “We got our story across.”

“Supposin’, when they come back to investigate, there aren’t any of us left?” Kilkenny demanded. “What could anybody do about that? There’d be no witnesses, an’, even if they asked a lot of questions, it wouldn’t do us any good. The big fight will come now.”

They rode hard and fast, sticking to little-known trails through the brush. They threaded the bottom of a twisted, broken cañon and curled along a path that led along the sloping shoulder of a rocky hill among the cedars.

Kilkenny rode with his rifle across the saddle in front of him and with one hand always ready to swing it up. He was under no misapprehension about King Bill. The man had been defeated again, and he would be frantic now. His ego was being sadly battered, and to prove to himself that he was still the power in the Cedar Valley country he must wipe this trouble from the earth. He would have lost much. Knowing the man, and knowing the white lightning that lay beneath the surface of Cub Hale, he knew the older man must more than once have cautioned the slower, surer method. Now Cub would be ranting for a shoot-out. Kilkenny knew he had gauged that young man correctly. He was spoiled. The son of a man of power, he had ridden, wild and free, and had grown more arrogant by the year, taking what he wanted and killing those who thwarted him. Dunn and Ravitz would be with him, he knew. That trio was poison itself. He was no fool. He believed he could
beat Hale. Yet he had no illusions about beating all three. There was, of course, the chance of catching them off side as he had caught the Brockmans that day in Cottonwood. The Brockmans! Like a flash he remembered Cain. The big man was free to come gunning for him now!