Kilkenny 03 - Kilkenny (v5.0) (13 page)

Still standing, he used the border shift to exchange guns and peered through the blurring haze toward Havalik. “You killed the wrong man!” Havalik yelled. “You crazy?”

“Couldn’t see you, saw him.” The voice seemed to issue from a great distance. “One rat’s as good as another.”

Havalik shot again and Lott tottered forward, his gun blasting into the earth. He hit the street on his face, rolled over and tried to get to his feet, shooting as fast as he could trigger his shots. All went wild. One broke a window in the Diamond Palace, one buried in the wall within inches of Jared Tetlow, and then Harry Lott sprawled in the street, his buck teeth biting the dust of Horsehead, his guns empty.

Shaken by his near escape and the shooting of Phin, Jared Tetlow crossed the street. Phin was dead.

Suddenly, Tetlow felt old and lost. Four tall sons and now two of them killed. A bad luck country. Two dead and one disloyal. It was like him not to consider that Ben had his own intelligence, his own loyalties. Harry Lott, dying, had struck out. Unable to kill the man he wanted, he chose the next best.

At Blaine’s the shooting held them still and listening. Yet news passes all boundaries and within a few minutes they knew.

South of town a rider rode up Butler’s Wash and with a shielded field glass studied the cattle on the KR. A big steer with wide horns was not far from him, and only a few yards away was another. Kilkenny rode from his shelter and hazed the steers back into a cul de sac among the boulders. The grass was rich there and they would stay. He studied the other steers, and sometime later captured another.

At the Blaine house Shorty stuck his head into the kitchen and grinned at Laurie. “How’s for some coffee?”

“You’ll have to get wood. The doctor keeps it in that shed near the stable.”

“Huh!” Shorty was disgusted. “Every time you open your mouth to a woman she puts you to work!”

He opened the door and a bullet slammed the door jamb within inches of his face. Shorty hit the steps on his belly, then scrambled back into the room. He got to his feet and glanced sheepishly at Laurie. “Looks like I won’t get my coffee,” he said.

Dee and Macy had been drawn by the shot. “Looks like we’re bottled up,” Shorty told them. “Two of ’em out in the trees. Maybe more.”

Dolan came into the kitchen. “From upstairs I could see a rider skirting Comb Ridge, high up. Might have been Kilkenny.”

“Havalik went after Kilkenny and Nita with four men, and he came back with two…looks like he found them.”

“Tetlow thought they were here so they must have gotten away,” Laurie said. “I know Kilkenny has a place in the mountains. He bought supplies and a pack horse.”

“I sold him the horse,” Dolan said. “If anybody could make it, he could. I know the man.”

Tentatively Blaine tried the door, standing well to the side. Instantly a bullet smashed the wall within inches. Shorty, crouched near an open window, fired three shots as fast as he could lever the rifle. Another shot spattered glass and he ducked flat. “Think I nicked somebody,” he said. “He dropped his rifle.”

For a few minutes the air was punctured with the staccato bark of guns. Then silence fell. The shooting did no damage in the strongly made house.

Doc Blaine had stationed himself in his office with Cain Brockman at the other window. Brockman was far from recovered from his injuries but his huge body was amazingly tough and he refused to be coddled.

Dolan’s place was guarded by his own men, who welcomed the chance for action.

From the edge of Black Mesa, Kilkenny watched the Forty riders heading toward the KR ranch house and supper. Two riders remained on guard. The cattle moved toward the waterhole, bunching as night drew on. He listened to the distant firing, trying to imagine what was happening. The sound was reassuring. It meant that his friends were holding out. And he knew the caliber of Dolan, Brockman and Blaine.

As dusk closed around he moved back to the gray horse and began to tighten the cinch. Suddenly he knew he was not alone. He could not have explained how he knew, for there had been no sound.

He dropped the stirrup into place, and let his eyes search the terrain. His head still lowered, he fooled with the saddle while watching the rocks.

There was no cover behind him. Yet to move from the side of the horse would leave him in the open and, considering the situation, Kilkenny liked no part of it. Only two places before him offered cover, and one of these was far more likely than the other.

Turning his horse on a three-quarter angle, he started walking on the oblique toward the rocks, keeping on the far side of the horse. Quite near, he suddenly slapped the gray, vaulted to the saddle and shucked a gun in the same instant. The startled horse leaped past the rocks, and Kilkenny, gun poised, looked into the face of Jaime Brigo.

Brigo grinned up at him. “I knew it was you, señor, but there might have been someone else near.”

“You nearly got shot, compadre. Want to help me?”

“Si.” The Yaqui looked curiously at the now hog-tied steers. “But I do not understand what it is you do.”

“It’s like this—” Kilkenny explained his plan as briefly as possible.

“Good!” Jaime said. “We will do it.”

He caught Kilkenny’s sleeve. “Señor? The señorita? She is safe?”

“Safe. But let’s get busy. It will soon be time.”

Chapter 8

S
WEDE CARLSON OF the Forty walked his horse slowly across the range toward the herd. The night had clouded over and the distant rumble of thunder hinted at the possibility of more rain. A hundred yards away he could see the dark outline of Slim’s angular figure slouching in the saddle.

Slim rode toward him. “I got the creeps!” he said, looking around. “It’s mighty dark, all of a sudden.”

Swede told him about the killing of Harry Lott and of Phin. “The old man’s turned mighty mean. Losin’ his second boy.”

“Yeah.” Slim glanced over the herd. They were restless over the imminent storm. “Ben’s coming up the trail with ten thousand head.”

An electric current seemed to run through the cattle and as if on signal they came suddenly to their feet. One instant the night was still and then the herd was up and running. Horns clashed and somebody shouted vainly. Swede swung his head as he fought his horse around. Rushing down upon the herd was a row of dancing, leaping lights!

With one mind the herd was gone. Swede caught a glimpse of Slim trying to swing his horse, saw a charging steer hit them broadside and saw Slim and his horse go down under the charging cattle, and then he was fighting blindly, instinctively, for his own life.

Under him the pony stretched out, running desperately while Swede tried to edge him over and escape from sure death under the pounding hoofs.

Far behind, Kilkenny drew the gray to a halt. Brigo drew up beside him and they watched the herd go. “They asked for it,” Kilkenny said, “now they’ve got it.”

Away in the darkness, Swede Carlson finally saw an opening and lunged his horse toward it. They got out of the herd and into the brush. He stopped there, his heart pounding. A steer ran past him, fire still blazing around one horn. Old sacking and grass had been rolled together and tied between the steer’s spreading horns, then set afire. Such a fire would not burn long and would blow or burn itself free before it could harm the cow. The flames had been all that was needed with the skittish herd.

Slim was dead and there was no telling how many more. It was not going to be a one-sided fight this time, Swede decided. From the town a rifle shot sounded, lost in the vast silence left behind after the rushing hoofs of the cattle. Dismally Swede turned back and began to search for the other riders. Far off, very far off, he could hear the running herd.

Ben Tetlow was riding the point of his trail herd nearing Westwater. He was tired from the long ride and was about to bed down the herd when he heard a distant thunder. He drew up, listening. A rider cantered up. “Boss,” he said, “that sounds like—” He broke off, rising in his stirrups.

The sound was suddenly louder and the skyline was broken by bobbing heads and horns. Fear went through Ben like the shock of cold water. “Ride, damn it! Ride! It’s a stampede!”

There was no chance to stop the rush of cattle and they rode for their lives to get to the edge of the herd. The heads of the ten thousand cattle came up, eyes rolled, and then as the shock of charging cattle hit them they wheeled in their tracks and lit out at a dead run.

Ben Tetlow stared after them. All they could hope now was that weariness from the long march would have left the herd too tired to run far.

“What started ’em?” he asked a rider who trotted up.

“Somebody tied burnin’ rags between their horns.”

“Kilkenny.” Ben stared off to the north. “I wish Dad had never started this fuss.”

The rider was Swede Carlson. “The Old Man’s too high-handed, Ben.”

“Phin and Andy like it that way. Otherwise he might have slowed down a little.”

“You…you ain’t heard about Phin?”

Ben turned on him. “What about him?”

Swede explained, telling what he had heard of the gun battle in the street.

Phin dead! Ben was thinking more of his father than of Phin. He himself had always been closer to Andy but Phin had been a silent, hard working man. His father had told Ben that he took after his mother, and Ben had not been sorry. The Old Man had always been proud of his big sons, and now two were dead because of the path down which he had guided them.

“Where’ll it end, Swede?”

Carlson shrugged. “The Old Man’s usin’ his spurs too much, Ben. These folks have got their backs up. We’ve lost men. Two killed out on the range by nobody knows who. Killed with a knife.”

“I’m going to talk to Dad.”

“Won’t do you no good, Ben. He’s fierce mad now. And you know how Havalik is.”

The day dawned hot and still. Strong as was the Blaine house, it was also a trap. Any movement near the windows drew fire. Luckily, there was penty of food in the house, but the water was outside. During the night they had succeeded in drawing three buckets of water, but the third one had spilled, warring the watchers, who opened fire.

Nobody felt like talking. There was no relief in sight and all knew how ruthless Jared Tetlow was.

Kilkenny was hidden between two peaks atop Black Steer Knoll, overlooking the town. With him was Brigo. Vainly he searched his mind for a solution. In the town below no life stirred except around the saloon and then only when drinks were sold to riders from the Forty. Through his glasses Kilkenny could see the location of the surrounding attackers.

“They’ll need water inside the house,” Brigo said. “The well is in the yard.”

Kilkenny could see what the Yaqui meant. The well was thirty feet from the house and surrounded by a stone coping three feet high. Once at the well a man would have shelter, but he could return only at the risk of his life.

Two riders appeared from the east and rode into town. Kilkenny swung his glasses. “Ben Tetlow, bringing news of the stampede.”

Below in the town a man moved near the edge of the woods at Blaine’s. “Get ready to run,” Lance said. “I’m going to show them they have friends outside.”

He nestled the rifle stock against his cheek. Heat waves danced in the air, giving it a curiously liquid appearance. Deceptive, but not too much so. The distance was no more than five hundred yards. The stock felt cool against his cheek.

The muzzle wavered slightly and Kilkenny held what he had on the trigger and as the muzzle steadied he squeezed off his shot. The rifle leaped in his hands and the man in the trees leaped forward, hands outflung, then sprawled on his face in the clearing beyond the edge of the trees.

Quickly, before any return fire could be directed Kilkenny dusted the woods with three more shots, and swinging his rifle he sent a shot into the street that made a walking man dive for shelter. Brigo pulled back and started toward the horses, with Kilkenny following, feeding shells into his gun.

Mounted, they rode swiftly across the plateau, then up Dry Wash to the butte. A glimpse toward the town showed riders fanning out into the hills to begin the pursuit. The shots had at least drawn away the attack on the house. A few minutes later, from behind a ridge, they saw Ben Tetlow ride east with ten or eleven men.

Kilkenny drew rein. “Right now,” he said, “would be a good time to get our crowd out of there. Most of the Tetlow outfit are gone.”

Holding to low ground, they circled the town and rode back into Horsehead. The body of the man lay where it had fallen at the edge of the woods. “Switch saddles to fresh horses,” Kilkenny said. “Buck for me.”

Dolan stepped out as they swung down. “You’re taking a chance, man! The town’s lousy with Forty riders.”

Kilkenny explained, then added, “It’s time to take to the hills. We can fight from there. Stay here and sooner or later they’ll get you.”

Dolan took his cigar from his teeth and knocked off the ash. “Of course,” he said. He turned and went inside. In a matter of a minute the corral was swarming with men.

Brigo walked to the door of Savory’s and pushed it open. Two startled Forty riders leaped to their feet. They turned their heads and their guns. Brigo fired and his first shot knocked a man to the floor, coughing from a chest wound. The second took a bullet through the hand and he dropped his rifle and stepped back, hands lifted.

Brigo gestured to Savory. “Fix his hand. And stay out of this or I’ll kill you!”

He walked out the door in time to see Kilkenny move into the center of the bridge. The shooting had drawn Jared Tetlow into the street and what he saw was Lance Kilkenny standing alone in the middle of the bridge. There was no mistaking the tall figure with the flat-crowned black hat.

Jared Tetlow looked down the street and felt a queer chill. Over a hundred and fifty yards separated them but there could be no mistake. The hills were covered with riders searching for this man and here he stood in the middle of town.

Defeatism was not familiar to Tetlow, yet now he felt its first premonitory wave. With all the armed men at his command he had failed to stop this man or bring him down.

“Tetlow!” Kilkenny’s voice sounded like a clarion in the silent clapboarded street. “Take your cattle and leave the country! You brought this war. Now take it away or we’ll break you!”

Tetlow felt the heat on his shoulders. Sweat trickled down his leather-like cheeks. He was strangely alone, and then from deep within him came a welling, over-powering fury. It was loosed in one great cry of fury at his defeat, pain at the loss of his sons, and shock at what was happening to all he had lived by. “You!” he roared. “I’ll—”

Only the bridge was empty, and where Kilkenny had stood there were only dancing heat waves and a faint stirring of dust. Had he imagined it? Or had Kilkenny actually been there?

A red-headed cowhand with blunt features came into the door of the Diamond Palace. “I’ll give five hundred dollars to see that man dead!” Tetlow shouted.

The redhead’s eyes shifted. He remembered what he had heard about Kilkenny and drew back into the shadows of the saloon. Five hundred was a year’s wages, but a dead man couldn’t spend a dime.

In a close knot the defenders of the Blaine house began their retreat. Most of the Forty riders were gone from town, and those who remained had no desire to dare the guns of that tight little group. So the Blaine group rode west at an easy trot. Dolan, Blaine and Shorty led the group. Early, Ernleven and Macy brought up the rear. In the middle were Laurie Webster, Mrs. Carpenter, Mrs. Early and two other women surrounded by four men from Dolan’s. Kilkenny scouted ahead and Cain Brockman brought up the rear. Brigo scouted on the far flanks.

Kilkenny had chosen the little lake as their first stop with some misgiving. If Havalik returned in time he might easily move across country and intercept them.

As they neared the lake, Kilkenny waited for them to come up to him. “Drink up, water the stock and fill your canteens. We’ll push on.”

“Tonight?” Early glanced doubtfully at his wife’s drawn face. She was not used to riding and they had come long miles since leaving Horsehead.

“Tonight.” Kilkenny was positive. “It’s better to be dog-tired than dead. They’ll come after us and our only hope is my place.”

“Do they know this lake?” Dolan asked.

Kilkenny explained about the capture of Nita at this point. He had made his plans. There was doubt that the women would stand the long ride to the valley by the route they must take. His idea was to strike due north into the unknown country, then swing west to the valley. By so doing they might avoid or lose the Forty altogether. Mounting once more, he led them north until they struck a dim, ancient trail.

It would soon be dark and he was in known country. Far off on the skyline were the Blues, but what lay between he had no idea. The night was fresh and cool and there was a faint smell of sage in the air.

When the moon came out its pale yellow light lay upon a broken land of rock like a frozen sea of gigantic waves. Knowing the restlessness of Havalik, Kilkenny rested but little, pushing on toward the north. Finally, at daybreak they made dry camp. There was a little grass and the horses ate. The women fell asleep at once, and most of the men. Only Dolan seemed sleepless.

“Know where we are?” Macy asked. His own face looked tired and drawn.

“Roughly.” He nodded to indicate direction. “My place is over there.”

“How far?”

“As the crow flies, maybe ten miles. The way we’ll have to go, twice that far.”

Macy was worried. “Lance, this doesn’t look right to me. We should have stayed in town.”

“We couldn’t.” Dolan’s tone brooked no argument. “It was either that or be burned out. That would have come next.”

The sky was gray and the morning was cold and sharp due to the altitude. From a small peak Kilkenny studied their backtrail. Once he believed he saw far off dust, but he could not be sure.

All night his thoughts had been of Nita. Yet if she was undisturbed she would get along well. There was food, and there was water and ammunition. She was an uncommonly good shot with a rifle. She would be all right.

He could tell from the way the women got to their feet that they were still stiff and sore from the long ride. Yet there was no escape from it now. It was go on or die here. When all were mounted he led the way up the trail again. By midmorning they had crossed the flat and were headed toward a gap in the range.

There were a few cottonwoods in the bottoms, and the mountain mahogany was everywhere. Greasewood lessened and from time to time they saw a pine. Soon the number of pines increased, and twice he paused to allow the women rest. Before noon they struck an old Indian trail up the bottom of a smaller canyon. Most of the canteens were dry and the horses were suffering from thirst. A turn in the canyon left them looking up a long slope mantled with evergreens. Kilkenny headed up the slope and was overtaken by Macy.

“Mrs. Early’s just fainted. We’ve got to stop.”

“Carry her,” Kilkenny said. “There’s water ahead.”

Macy looked doubtfully at the slope and Kilkenny indicated the Indian trail he followed. “An Indian never made a trail without purpose. And look,” he pointed out a faint thread of game trail down the slope, “deer have been going the way we’re headed.”

Within ten minutes they dismounted beside a clear mountain stream. The water was cold and sweet. All drank and drank again, then filled their canteens.