Kilkenny 02 - A Man Called Trent (v5.0) (20 page)

They came down the dusty street at high noon, a tight little cavalcade of men expecting no trouble. They rode as tired men ride, for there was dust on their horses and dust on their clothing and dust on their wide-brimmed hats. It was only their guns that had no dust. There was no humor in them, for they were men for whom killing was the order of business. The softer members of the Hale outfit were gone. These were the pick of the tough, gun-handy crew.

Lee Wright was in the lead, riding a blood bay. At his right and a bit behind was Jeff Nebel, and a bit behind him were gun-slick Tandy Wade and Kurt Wilde. There were ten in all, ten tough, gun-belted men riding into Cedar Bluff when the sun was high.

Dunn and Ravitz had not returned. What that meant, they could not know, nor did they care. They had come to get a woman, and, if Dunn and Ravitz had decided to keep her, these men would take her
away. If those two had failed in their mission, they were to take her from the protection of Brigo. They had their orders and they knew what to do.

Near Leathers’s store the group broke, and three men rode on down to the Crystal Palace. Lee Wright, big, hard-faced, and cruel, was in the lead. With him were Kurt Wilde and Tandy Wade.

His eyes slanting up the street at the scattering men, Kilkenny let the three come on. When they reined in and were about to swing down, Kilkenny stopped them.

“Hold it!” he said sharply. “What do you want, Wright?”

Wright froze, and then settled back in the saddle. “Who is that?” he demanded, peering to see under the darkness of the sheet-metal awning and into the vagueness of the doorway.

“It’s Kilkenny,” he said. “What do you want?”

“We’ve come for that woman. Cub wants her,” Wright said harshly. “What are you doin’ here?”

“Me?” Kilkenny chuckled quietly. His eyes were cold and watchful. He knew these men were uncertain. They hadn’t expected him. Now they did not know what the situation was. How many men were inside? Was Brigo there? The Hatfields? Kilkenny knew their lack of knowledge was half his strength. “Why, I’ve been waitin’ for you boys to show up. Wanted to tell you that I’d slope, if I were you. The Hales are through.”

“Are they?” Wright’s eyes swept the building. Those boarded windows bothered him. “We came after the woman. We’ll get her.”

Kilkenny began building a smoke. “With only ten men? It ain’t enough, Wright.” He touched his tongue
to the paper. “You’re a fightin’ man, Wright. Ever try to take a place like this with no more men than you got?”

“You’re bluffin’!” Wright said. “You’re alone.”

Kilkenny chuckled. “You reckon I’d come down here alone? Or that the Hatfields would let me? They are right careful of me, Wright.”

“Where are they?” Wright declared. “You…” The words died on his lips as there was a tinkle of glass from down the building. Wright looked, and Kilkenny saw his face darken. It could mean but one thing. Brigo had gotten out of bed and thrust a rifle through the window at the right moment. But how long could he stand there? The man was weak…

Kilkenny laughed. “Well, you can start comin’ any time you want, Wright, but a lot of you boys are goin’ to die for nothin’. If you think Hale can pay off now, you’re wrong.”

Kurt Wilde had been sitting quietly. Now he exploded suddenly: “To hell with this! Let’s go in there!” He jumped his horse to one side and grabbed for his gun.

Kilkenny’s hand swept down, and his gun was barking before it reached belt high. The first shot cut the rearing horse’s bridle at the bit and whined off into the street. The second took Wilde in the shoulder and knocked him, sprawling, into the dust.

At the same instant, Brigo fired, and Tandy Wade’s horse backed up suddenly and went down. Wade leaped clear and sprinted with Lee Wright for the shelter of the nearest building. From up the street, there was a volley of shots, but Kilkenny was safely inside.

With one quick look, he dodged away from the door and ran to Brigo in the other room. The big
man’s face was deathly pale, and his movements had started his wounds bleeding.

“Lie down, damn it!” Kilkenny commanded. “You did your part. You fooled ’em. Now lie down!”

“No,
señor
, not when you fight.”

“I can hold ’em now. Lie down an’ rest till I need you. When they rush, I’ll need help.”

Brigo hesitated, and then sank back on the bed. From where he lay, he could see through a crack in the boards without moving. Lance grabbed a box of shells and dropped them on the bed beside him and handed him another rifle. Then he went back and made a round of the loopholes. He fired from one, skipped one, and fired from the next. He made the rounds, hunting for targets, but trying to keep the shots mixed so they would be in doubt.

Wilde was getting up. Kilkenny watched him, letting him go. Suddenly the man wheeled and blasted at the door, and Brigo, lying on his bed, drilled him through the chest!

One down
, Kilkenny told himself,
an’ nine to go!

He was under no illusions. They could trade shots for a while, and he could fool Wright and the Hale riders for a few hours, perhaps. But they were much too shrewd to be fooled for long. Sooner or later they would guess, and then under cover of an attack from one direction, they would drive from the other, and the whole thing would end in a wicked red-laced blasting inside the Palace.

Kilkenny found a good place near a window where he could watch up the street toward Leathers’s store. The dusty street was empty. He waited, and suddenly he saw a man slip around the corner of the store and dart for the door. He fired quickly, twice.

The first shot hit the man about waist high, but on the outside and probably near his holster. He staggered, and Kilkenny fired again and saw the fellow go to one knee. He crawled through the door. The first shot had not been a disabling one, he was sure, but the second, when he aimed at the thigh, had brought the man down.

He got up restlessly and started for the back of the saloon. There was no movement, but when he moved to the door, a bullet clipped the doorjamb right over his head, and, had he not been crouched, it would probably have been dead center. No chance to get to the horses then, not by day, anyway.

The afternoon wore on, and there were only occasional shots. They came with a rush finally. It had been quiet. Then suddenly a volley blasted at the back of the store. Taking a chance, Kilkenny rushed to the front just in time to see a half dozen men charging across the street. He dropped his rifle, whipped out both guns, and leaped into the doorway.

His first shot was dead center, a bullet fired from the hip that hit the Hale man and knocked him rolling. His guns roaring and blasting, he smelled the acrid odor of gunpowder, felt a red-hot whip laid across his cheek, and knew he’d been grazed. Then he blasted again, felt a gun go empty, and, still triggering the first gun, jerked out his belt gun and opened up again.

They fell back, and he saw two men were down. He knew neither of them. His cheek bone was burning like fire and he lifted a hand. It came away bloody. He sopped the wound with his handkerchief, and then dropped it and began reloading his guns. This time he brought the shotgun up to the door and stuffed his
pockets with shotgun shells. The waiting was what got a man. He didn’t want to wait. He wanted to go out there.

There was no firing now. The attacking party was down to seven, and one of those was wounded. They would hesitate a little now. And he still had the shotgun. That was his pay-off weapon. He knew what it would do to a man and hated to use it. At close range a shotgun wouldn’t just make a wound. It would blast a man in two.

He showed himself at a window and got no action. He could hear loud voices in Leathers’s store. There was some kind of an argument. After all, what had they to gain? Suddenly Kilkenny had an idea. He wheeled and went into the bedroom. Brigo was lying on the bed, breathing hoarsely. He looked terrible.

“Lie still an’ watch,” Kilkenny said. “I’m goin’ out.”

“Out?” Brigo’s eyes fired. “You after them?”

“
Sí
. With this.” He touched the shotgun. “They are all in Leathers’s store. I’m goin’ to settle this once an’ for all.”

He went to the door. For a long time he studied the terrain. He was worried. Price Dixon should be here by now. The Hale men probably knew he had joined Kilkenny and the Hatfields, so, if he came back, they would shoot him. And if Jaime Brigo was to live, he would need Dixon’s attention.

Kilkenny waited. The sun was making a shadow under the awning, even if not much of a one. He eased outside, listening to the loud voices, and then he left the porch with a rush.

There was no shot. He got to the side of Leathers’s store. From here it was four good steps to the door,
and there was no window to pass. He stepped up on the porch, knowing that, if they had a man across the street, he was a gone gosling.

He took another step, and waited. Inside, the voices continued, and he could hear Lee Wright’s voice above all the others. “Cub’ll pay off, all right. If he don’t, we can always take some cows ourselves!”

“Blazes!” somebody said disgustedly. “I don’t want any cows! I want money! An’,” he added, “I want out of this with a whole skin!”

“Personally,” a voice drawled, “I don’t see no percentage in gettin’ a hide full of lead because some other
hombre
wants a woman. I’ll admit that Riordan gal is somethin’ to look at, but I think, if she wanted to have a Hale, she’d take one. I think the gal’s crazy for this Kilkenny, an’ for my money she’s got the best of the lot.”

“What’s it to you, Tandy?” Wright demanded. “Hale’s got the money. He pays us. Besides, that Kilkenny figgers he’s too durned good.”

Tandy laughed. “Why, Lee, I reckon, if you’d go out there an’ tell him you wanted a shoot-out, he’d give it to you.”

“Say!” Wright jumped to his feet. “That’s it! That’s the way we’ll get him. I’ll go out and challenge him. Then when he comes out, pour it into him.”

There was a moment of silence, but Kilkenny was just outside the screened door now. “Lee, that sure is a polecat’s idea. You know durned well I wouldn’t have no part of that. I’m a fightin’ man, not a murderer.”

“Tandy Wade, someday you’ll…!” Wright began, angrily.

“Suppose,” Kilkenny said, “that I take over from here?” Wright froze, his mouth open, his face slowly
turning white. Only Tandy turned, and he turned very slowly, keeping his hands wide. He looked at the double-barreled shotgun for just an instant.

“Well, Kilkenny,” he said softly, “I reckon that shotgun calls my hand.”

“Shotgun?” Wright gasped. Kilkenny let him turn. He knew how ugly a double-barreled shotgun can seem when seen at close quarters.

“Buckshot in it, too,” Kilkenny said lazily. “I might not be able to get more’n four or five of you
hombres
. Might be even one or two, but I’m sure goin’ to get them good. Who wants a hot taste of buckshot?”

Wright backed up, licking his lips. He didn’t want any trouble now. You could see it in his eyes that he knew that shotgun was meant for him, and he didn’t want any part of it.

“Leathers!” Kilkenny’s voice cracked like a whiplash. “Come around here and get their guns. Slap their shirts, too. I don’t want any sneak guns.”

The storekeeper, his face dead white, came around and began lifting the guns, and no one said a word. When the guns were collected and all laid at Kilkenny’s feet, he stood there for a moment, looking at the men.

“Wright, you wanted to trick me an’ kill me. Didn’t you?”

Lee Wright’s eyes were wide and dark in the sickly moon of his face. “I talked too much,” he said, tight-lipped, “I wouldn’t’ve had nerve enough for that.”

“Well…”

There was a sudden rattle of horses’ hoofs in the street, and Kilkenny saw Lee Wright’s eyes brighten, but, as he looked at Kilkenny, his face went sick.

“Careful, Lee!” Kilkenny said quietly. “Don’t get uneasy. If I go, you go with me.”

“I ain’t movin,” Wright said hoarsely. “For heaven’s sake, don’t shoot!”

Now the horses were walking. They stopped before the Crystal Palace. Kilkenny dared not turn. He dared not look. Putting a toe behind the stack of guns, he pushed them back. Then, still keeping his eyes on the men, he dragged them back farther. Then he waited.

Sweat came out on his forehead, and he felt his mouth go dry. They could slip up and come in. They could just walk up. And he dared not turn, or one of these men would leap and have a gun. His only way out was to go out fighting. Looking at the men before him, he could see what was in their minds. Their faces were gray and sick. A shotgun wasn’t an easy way to die, and, once that gun started blasting, there was no telling who would get it. And Kilkenny, with an empty shotgun, was still closer to the guns on the floor than they were.

The flesh seemed to crawl on the back of Kilkenny’s neck, and he saw Wright’s tongue feeling
his dry lips. Only Tandy Wade seemed relaxed. The tension was only in his eyes. Any moment now might turn this room into a bloody bit of hell. The shotgun was going to…A door slammed at the Crystal Palace.

Had Brigo passed out? There was no sound, but Kilkenny knew someone was crossing the dusty space between the buildings. He was drawing closer now. The sound of a foot on the boardwalk made them all jump. Suddenly Leathers slipped to the floor in a dead faint. Tandy looked down amusedly, and then lifted his eyes as a board creaked.

Any moment now. When that door opened, if a friendly voice didn’t speak…

The door creaked just a little. That was only when it opened wide. Kilkenny remembered that door. He had eased through a crack himself. He lifted the shotgun slightly, his own face gray.

Suddenly he knew that, if this was Cub Hale, he would turn this store into a shambles. Kilkenny was going to go out taking a bloody dozen with him. He had these guns, and, if the first shot didn’t get him, he wasn’t going alone. He clicked back the hammers.

“No!” He didn’t know who spoke. “No, Kilkenny! My God, no!”

These men who could stand a shoot-out with perfect composure were frightened and pale at the gaping muzzles of the shotgun.

“Kilkenny?” The voice was behind him, and it was Parson Hatfield.

“Yeah, Parson. I got me a few restless
hombres
here.”

Hatfield came in, and behind him were Bartram and Steve Runyon. “Where’s Cub?” Parson demanded sharply.

“He cut off for the ranch. He figured Dunn would have the girl there.”

“We didn’t find him,” Parson said. “He must’ve stopped off on the way. Hale shot hisself.”

“He did?” Kilkenny turned. “What happened at the place?”

“She was plumb deserted,” Runyon offered. “Not a soul around. Looks as if they all deserted like rats from a sinkin’ ship. He was all alone, an’, when he seen us comin’, he shot hisself.”

“What happened then?” Kilkenny asked.

“We set fire to the place. Too big for any honest rancher. It’s burnin’ now.”

“What happens to us?” Tandy demanded.

Kilkenny looked at them for a minute, but, before he could speak, Parson spoke up. “We want Jeff Nebel an’ Lee Wright. They done murdered Miller, Wilson, an’ Lije. They got Smithers, too. Jeff Nebel killed him. An’ they was in on the killin’ of Dick Moffitt. We got a rope for ’em!”

“Take them, then,” Kilkenny said. He looked at Tandy Wade. “You’re too good a man to run with this owlhoot crowd, Wade. You better change your ways before they get a rope on you. Get goin’!”

Wade looked at him. “Thanks, man,” he said. “It’s more’n I deserve.”

“You,” Kilkenny said to the others, “ride! If you ever come into this country again, we’ll hang you.”

They scrambled for the door. The Hatfields were already gone with Wright and Nebel. Kilkenny turned away and looked at Leathers, who had recovered from his faint. “You got twenty-four hours,” he said quietly. “Take what you can an’ get out of here. Don’t come back.”

He walked out of the store into the dusty street. A man was coming down the street on a rangy sorrel horse. He looked, and then looked again. It was Dan Cooper. A short distance behind him, another man rounded the corner. It was Cain Brockman. They rode straight on until they came up to Kilkenny.

Cooper reined in and began to roll a smoke. “Looks like I backed the wrong horse,” he said slowly. “What’s the deal? Got a rope for me? Or do I draw a ticket out of here?”

“What do you want?” Kilkenny demanded sharply. He had his thumbs in his belt, watching the two men.

“Well,” Dan said, looking up at Kilkenny, “we talked it over. We both won money on your fight, an’ we sort of had an idea we’d like to join you-all an’ take up some claims ourselves.”

“Right pretty places up in them meadows,” Cain suggested. He sat his horse, looking at Kilkenny.

For a long minute Kilkenny glanced from one to the other. “Sure,” he said finally. “You might find a good place up near mine, Cain. And the Moffitt place is empty now.”

He turned and walked back to the Palace. He had forgotten Brigo. Yet, when he entered the place, his worry left him. Price Dixon had come, and Nita had returned with him. She met Kilkenny at the door.

“He’s asleep,” she whispered. “Dixon got the bullet out, and he’s going to be all right.”

“Good.” Kilkenny looked at the girl, and then he took her in his arms. He drew her close and her lips melted into his, and for a long time they stood there, holding each other.

“Oh, Lance,” she whispered, “don’t let me go. Keep me now. It’s been so long, and I’ve been so lonely.”

“Sure,” he said quietly, “I’ll keep you now. I don’t want to let you go…ever!”

Slowly, in the days that followed, the town came back to itself. Widows of two of the nesters moved into the Leathers’ house and took over the store. Kilkenny and Bartram helped them get things arranged and get started. The ruins of the Mecca were cleared away. Van Hawkins, a former actor from San Francisco, came in and bought the Crystal Palace from Nita. Kilkenny started to build a bigger, more comfortable house on the site of the old one that the Hales had burned for him.

Yet, over it all, there was restlessness and uneasiness. Kilkenny talked much with Nita in the evenings and saw the dark circles under her eyes. She was sleeping little, he knew.

The Hatfields carried their guns all the time, and Steve Runyon came and went with a pistol strapped on. It was because of Cub Hale. No one ever mentioned his name, yet his shadow lay over them all. He had vanished mysteriously, leaving no trace, nothing to tell them of where he had gone, what he planned to do, or when he would return.

Then one day Saul Hatfield rode up to Kilkenny’s claim. He leaned on the saddle horn and looked down at Lance.

“How’s things?” he asked. “Seems you’re doin’ right well with the house.”

“Yeah,” Kilkenny admitted. “It’s goin’ up.” He looked up at Saul. “How’s your dad?”

“Right pert.”

“Jesse goin’ to dig those potatoes of Smithers’s?”

“I reckon.”

“He’d like it. He was a savin’ man.” Kilkenny straightened and their eyes met. “What’s on your mind, Saul?”

“I was ridin’ this mornin’, down on the branch,” Saul said thoughtfully. “Seen some tracks where a horse crossed the stream. I was right curious. I followed him a ways. Found some white hairs on the brush.”

Cub Hale always rode a white horse. An albino, it was.

“I see.” Kilkenny rubbed his jaw. “Which way was he headin’?”

“Sort of circlin’. Sizin’ up the town, like.”

Kilkenny nodded. “I reckon I better go down to Cedar Bluff,” he said thoughtfully. “I want to stick around town a while.”

“Sure.” Saul looked at him. “A body could follow them tracks,” he suggested. “It was a plain trail.”

“Dangerous. He’s a bad one. Maybe later. We’ll see.”

Kilkenny mounted the long-legged yellow horse and headed for town. Cub Hale was mean. He wasn’t going to leave. It wasn’t in him to leave. He was a man who had to kill, even if he died in the process. Kilkenny had known that. He knew that some of the men believed Cub had lit out and left the country. He had never believed that. Cub was prowling, licking his wounds, waiting. And the hate in him was building up.

Kilkenny rode the yellow buckskin to the little cottage where Nita Riordan and Sally Crane were living together while Sally prepared for her wedding with Bartram. Nita came to the door, her sewing in her hand.

“Lance,” she said quickly, “is it…?”

“He’s close by.” He swung down from the horse. “I reckon you’ve got a guest for dinner.”

Sitting by the window with a book, he glanced occasionally down the street. He saw two Hatfields ride in—Quince and Saul. They dismounted at the store, and then Steve Runyon rode in and, after him, Cain Brockman.

Brockman rode right on to the Palace, dismounted, and went in for a drink. Then he came out and loafed on a bench by the door. He was wearing two guns.

The room was bright and cheery with china plates and curtains at the windows. Nita came in, drying her hands on an apron, and called him to lunch. He took a last look down the street, and then got up and walked in to the table. Sally’s face was flushed and she looked very pretty, yet he had eyes only for Nita.

He had never seen her so lovely as now. Her face looked softer and prettier than he had ever seen it. She was happy, too, radiantly happy. Even the news of the nearness of Cub Hale had not been able to wipe it from her face.

Bartram came in and joined them. He grinned at Kilkenny. “Not often a man gets a chance to try his wife’s cooking as much as I have before he marries her!” He chuckled. “I’ll say this for her, she can sure make biscuits!”

“I didn’t make them!” Sally protested. “Nita did!”

“Nita?” Kilkenny looked up, smiling. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

There was a low call from the door. “Kilkenny?” It was Cain Brockman. “He’s comin’. Shall I take him?”

“No.” Kilkenny touched his mouth with a napkin and drew back from the table. “It’s my job.” His eyes
met Nita’s across the table. “Don’t pour my coffee,” he said quietly. “I like it hot.”

He turned and walked to the door. Far down the street he could see Cub Hale. He was on foot, and his hat was gone, his yellow hair blowing in the wind. He was walking straight up the center of the street, looking straight ahead.

Kilkenny stepped down off the porch. The roses were blooming, and their scent was strong in his nostrils. He could smell the rich odor of fresh earth in the sunlight, and somewhere a magpie shrieked. He opened the gate and, stepping out, closed it carefully behind him. Then he began to walk.

He took his time. There was no hurry. There was never any hurry at a time like this. Everything always seemed to move by slow motion, until suddenly it was over and you wondered how it all could have happened. Saul Hatfield was standing on the steps, his rifle in the hollow of his arm. He and Quince were just there in case he failed.

Failed? Kilkenny smiled. He had never failed. Yet, they all failed soon or late. There was always a time when they were too slow, when their guns hung or missed fire. The dust smelled hot, and in the distance thunder rumbled. Then a few scattered drops fell. Odd, he hadn’t even been aware it was clouding up.

Little puffs of dust lifted from his boots when he walked. He could see Cub more clearly now. He was unshaven, and his face was scratched by brush. His fancy buckskin jacket was gone. Only the guns were the same, and the white eyes, eyes that seemed to burn.

Suddenly Hale stopped, and, when he stopped, Kilkenny stopped, too. He stood there perfectly relaxed,
waiting. Cub’s face was white, dead. Only his eyes seemed alive, and that burning white light was in them. “I’m goin’ to kill you!” he said, his voice sharp and strained.

It was all wrong. Kilkenny felt no tension, no alertness. He was just standing there, and in him suddenly there welled up a tremendous feeling of pity. Why couldn’t they ever learn? There was nothing in a gun but death.

Something flickered in those white, blazing eyes, and Kilkenny, standing perfectly erect, slapped the butt of his gun with his palm. The gun leaped up, settled into a rock-like grip, and then bucked in his hand, once, twice. The gun before him flowered with flame, and something stabbed, white hot, low down on his right side. The gun flowered again, but the stabbing flame wasted itself in the dust and Cub’s knees buckled and there was a spot of blood on his chest, right over the heart. He fell face down and then straightened his legs, and there was silence in the long dusty street of Cedar Bluff.

Kilkenny thumbed shells into his gun, holstered it, and then turned. Steadily, quietly, looking straight ahead, he walked back up the hill toward the cottage. It was just a little hill, but it suddenly seemed steep. He walked on, and then he could see Nita opening the gate and running toward him.

He stopped then, and waited. There was a burning in his side, and he felt something wet against his leg. He looked down, puzzled, and, when he looked, he fell flat on his face in the dust.

Then Nita was turning him over, and her face was white. He tried to sit up, but they pushed him down.
Cain Brockman came over, and with Saul Hatfield they carried him up the hill. It was only a few steps, and it had seemed so far.

He was still conscious when Price Dixon came in. Dixon made a brief examination, and then shrugged.

“He’s all right. The bullet went into his side, slid off a rib, and narrowly missed his spine. But it’s nothing that we can’t fix up. Shock, mostly…and bleeding.”

Later, Nita came in. She looked at him and smiled. “Shall I put the coffee on now?” she asked lightly. Her eyes were large and dark.

“Let Sally put it on,” he said gently. “You stay here.”