Monument Rock (Ss) (1998) (35 page)

They respected courage, and given a chance to cool down, they would judge fairly.

He had them talking now, and he meant to keep them talking. "The men who rode t
o
the Crossing were led by Frank Mailer, the worst of the lot," he continued rapidly
,
arresting and holding their attention by his crisp, sharp speech and the confidenc
e
of his knowledge. "With him rode Geslin, Sam Starr, Socorro, an' Scar Ethridge.

"Ethridge never came back. You hanged Socorro and killed Starr at the ranch. Yo
u
also killed an honest man, Dave Betts."

"We got Ethridge at the Crossin'," Mulhaven said, "but if that honest man was th
e
hombre on the floor inside the house, we didn't kill him. He was dead when we go
t
there!"

This was news to Kilkenny. Apparently Dave had given his life in trying to protec
t
Lona Markham. Dunning had evidently carried her off.

"Mailer's still loose and I'm after him myself," Kilkenny added. "These two men wer
e
the only honest hands on the place aside from that old man you found dead."

Bill Worth walked over to Flynn and took the noose from his neck, then he remove
d
the loop from Rusty's neck. "Glad you showed up," he said shortly. "I tried to tel
l
these hombres that redhead wasn't among 'em!"

Kilkenny had no time for conversation. "Rusty," he said swiftly, "get Flynn bac
k
to the ranch. I'm ridin' to Salt Creek after Mailer. Then we'll have to hunt Pok
e
Dunning."

Turning abruptly, he swung into his saddle, and with a wave at the posse and hi
s
friends, he was off at a dead run.

Terry Mulhaven stared after him, then mopped his brow. "Man!" he said. "When I turne
d
around an' looked into them green eyes, I figured my number was up for sure!" H
e
glanced at Rusty. "Is he as fast as they say?"

"Faster," Gates said wryly.

Bill Worth looked at the Mulhavens. "Let's pick up the bodies," he said gently, "an
d
head for home. The folks will be worried."

"Yeah"-Terry nodded-"we better." He glanced sheepishly at Rusty and Flynn. "No har
d
feelin's?"

Gates stared at him, then his red face broke into a grin. "Not right now," he said
,
"but a few minutes ago I was some sore!"

In a tight knot, the posse headed north for the ranch, and later, with the bodie
s
of the two fallen men across their saddles, they started toward home. They rode slowl
y
and they talked but little, and as a result they were startled by a sudden grun
t
from their Apache tracker. "Look!" he said. "Big red hoss!"

They looked, and the tracks were there.
Terry Mulhaven glanced at this brother, then at Worth.
"Well," he said, "we know that track. We followed it all the way fro
m
Aztec. Let's see what we find this time!"

Grimly, they turned their horses down the trail made by(
j
Frank Mailer's horse. This time somebody would pay the cost of the heavy burden th
e
two lead horses carried, the
b
urden left upon them by the murdered men in the bank.

Due east of Monument Rock and the hideout used by Kilkenny was an old prospector'
s
cabin. This adobe shelter had been used by drifting cowhands, by rustlers and sheepherder
s
as a temporary shelter, but for some years now it had been passed by and forgotten.

It was huddled in a tight little corner of rock far down one of the southern-reachin
g
tentacles of Salt Creek Wash, and here Poke Dunning had taken Lona Markham.

She had not gone willingly. In the confusion of the Blue Hill ranch gun battle, Pok
e
had made his move. His first thought had been to try to put a bullet in Frank Mailer
,
but as he moved to the window that faced the bunkhouse and the ongoing fracas, rifl
e
in hand, he'd spotted big Frank sliding down the side of the wash that ran acros
s
one sid
e
of the ranch yard. He had a set of saddlebags over his shoulder and was out of sigh
t
before Dunning could shoot. Poke figured that the saddlebags probably held the loo
t
from Mailer's robbery.

Realizing that no matter what happened during the shoot-out, he'd still have Maile
r
to deal with, Dunning headed for Dave Betts's room and Lona. Knowing that he ha
d
only moments before the posse turned its attention on the main house, he plunge
d
into the room.

"Out the window, quick!" he snapped. "We're gettin' out of here."

"You go. I'm staying here." Lona had made the mistake of thinking that Kilkenny ha
d
come, and although she had been afraid because of all the shooting, she was now sur
e
that if Poke was running, then Kilkenny must be winning.

"Dammit, girl!" He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her toward the window.

"You hold up there, Mr. Markham!" Dave Betts was frightened by the fear he saw i
n
Lena's eyes ... something was wrong here. He grabbed Poke's shoulder.

Turning, Poke drew his right-hand gun and shot Dave twice in the chest; then, a
s
Lona opened her mouth to scream he knocked her unconscious with a diagonal swip
e
of the barrel. He shoved her out the window, and then dropping out after her, h
e
headed for the corrals.

In the remote cabin, never visited in these days by anyone, he left Lona tied securely.

He had not been able to escape the ranch on either his or Lena's personal mount.

Her horse, Zusa, was essential to his new plan. He was tired of playing games wit
h
Mailer and Lona and everybody else. Lona was going t
o
die. The two of them escaped the confusion back at the ranch. Frank Mailer woul
d
be revealed to be the vicious bank robber that he was, but in their escape ther
e
would be a tragic accident ... a riding accident. His daughter would pass away an
d
no one would ask any questions about his continuing to live on the ranch. There migh
t
eventually be some documents to be filed, but the right kind of lawyer could handl
e
that.

He was headed now for Blue Hill, intending to arrive there just after dark. Wit
h
this idea in mind, he cut an old trail south and rode on until he was in the tal
l
shadow of Chimney Rock. He drew up and got stiffly from the saddle.

This place was lonely and secure. He would wait
here
until almost dark, then he was going to sneak in and get^'

Lena's horse . . . once he'd done that, he could take her.
o
ut, kill her with a blow to the neck, and fake the fall.
Seating
himself on the ground in the shadow of the Chimney, he filled his pipe and bega
n
to smoke.

It bothered him to contemplate the idea of murdering the girl that had lived as hi
s
daughter for so many years. She'd always been a tool, but he would admit that h
e
was fond of her. For a few minutes he considered taking the money he'd hidden awa
y
and starting over somewhere else, but there wasn't quite as much as he'd have liked
,
and after all, he'd never been a quitter.

Nearby, a huge old cottonwood rustled its leaves and he leaned back, knocking ou
t
his pipe. There would be a couple of hours to kill, and he was in no hurry. He woul
d
sleep a little while. His lids became heavy, then closed, his big hands grew la
x
in his lap, and he leaned comfortably back among the rocks. It was a joke on Maile
r
that he had taken the big bay, Frank's favorite horse. The cottonwoo
d
had a huge limb that stretched toward him, and it rustled its leaves, gently lullin
g
him to sleep.

He did not hear the slowly walking horses, even when a hoof clicked on stone. H
e
was tired, and not as young as he once had been, but no thought of murdered men behin
d
him, or of the girl, bound and helpless in a remote cabin, disturbed him. He slep
t
on. He did not awaken even when the silent group of men faced him in a crescent o
f
somber doom. Silent, hard-faced men who knew that blood bay, and carried with the
m
the burden of their dead. It was the creak of saddle leather when Terry Mulhave
n
dismounted that awakened him.

Five men faced him on horseback, another on foot. Still another had thrown a rop
e
over that big cottonwood limb, and Poke Dunning, who had lived most of his adul
t
years with the knowledge that such a scene might be prepared for him at any moment
,
came awake suddenly and sharply, and his hand flashed for a gun.

He was lying on his side, his left gun beneath him, and somehow, in stirring around
,
his right gun had slipped from the holster. Not all the way, but so far back tha
t
when he grabbed it, he grabbed it around the cylinder, and not the butt.

The difference might seem infinitesimal. At this moment it was not. At this momen
t
it was the difference between a fighting end and a hanging. Pat Mulhaven's rifl
e
spoke, and the hand that held the gun was shattered and bloody.

Gripping his bloody hand, Poke Dunning stared up at them. "What do you want me for?"
h
e protested. "You've got the wrong man!"

"Yeah?" Pat Mulhaven sneered. "We heard that one before! We know that horse! We kno
w
you!"

"But listen!" he protested frantically. "Wait, now!" He got clumsily to his feet
,
his left hand gripping the bloody right. Great crimson drops welled from it and drippe
d
slowly from his finger ends to the parched grass and sand beneath him.

He started to speak again, and then something came over him, something he had neve
r
experienced before. It was a sense of utter futility, and with it resignation. Roughly
,
they seized him.

"Give me a gun," he said harshly, "with my left hand! I'll kill the lot of you! Jus
t
my left hand!" he said, his fierce old eyes flaring at them.

"Set him on his hoss," Bill Worth said calmly, "behind the saddle."

Sometime later they rode on, turning their horses again toward home, and walkin
g
slowly, their task accomplished, with the feeling that their dead might ride on towar
d
that dim cow-country Valhalla, attended by the men who had handled the guns.

Behind them, the shadow of Chimney Rock grew wider and longer, and the leaves o
f
the cottonwood rustled gently, whispering one to the other as only cottonwood leave
s
will do, in just that way. And among them, his sightless eyes lifted skyward as i
f
to see the last of the sunlight sky, and the last of the white clouds, looking throug
h
the cottonwood leaves, was Poke Dunning.

The point shadows of night had infiltrated the streets of Salt Creek when Lance Kilkenn
y
came again to the town. The long-legged buckskin entered the dusty street with
a
swinging trot and did not stop until it reached the hitching rail of the Fandango.

Yet already Kilkenny knew much. He knew that nothing had happened here tonight.

Before the Express, Lisa, the Portuguese, was sweeping the boardwalk, and he glance
d
up to see Kilkenny ride in; then, unaware of his identity, he returned to his sweeping.

Before Starr's Saloon, Al Starr smoked his pipe, unaware that his brother was a
t
this moment lying dead and chockfull of Aztec Crossing lead on the bunkhouse floo
r
at Blue Hill. At the Fandango, Cain Brockman was arranging his stock for a big night.