the Rider Of Lost Creek (1976) (12 page)

Card Benton? Too small, a mere small-time rustler and gambler.

One by one Lance sifted their names, and man after man cropped up in his thoughts, but few living men had reason to hate him. And although a few had reason enough to fear, they were not the kind to conceive this sort of plan, nor act as this man was acting.

Who had fired upon him the night in the hollow as he waited for Mort? Who had killed Sam Carter?

Was it the same man? Or had the killings been done by such as the three who had attempted to take him in the Border Bar?

Try as he might he could find no man who fitted the picture he had, and the more Lance thought the more he wondered if it were only a simple rustling scheme.

Yet what more could it be?

This job of helping Mort Davis, of saving his place, was developing into something far greater. Yet one thing he had done. He had proved to himself that neither Steele nor Lord was involved.

Men who were deadly with guns were as much a part of the west as Indians or buffalo. It stood to reason that when all men used guns, some would be better than others. And they were both, good and bad, essential to the building of the west Kilkenny was one of the few who understood his rightful place in the western lands. He knew what he was and what he stood for.

Billy the Kid, Pat Garrett, Wes Hardin, Bill Hickok, Earp, Masterson, Tilghman, John Selman, Dallas Stoudenmire, Bill Longley and Pink Higgins ... all were gunfighters. They belonged to the rough outer bark of the spreading westward tree.

Many of the gunfighters became marshals of western towns. No matter how lawless they themselves might have been, they became a force for order who kept anyone from disturbing the peace, bothering citizens or interfering with business.

Yet the man upon lie cliff was different. He held himself aloof. He might have been one of the others, but one who had somehow changed his pattern and his style.

Shadows grew longer as they moved. A light breeze, picked up from the south, brought the scents of Mexico. There was a faint smell of dust in the air. Kilkenny glanced at Gates.

"Somebody fogged it along this trail
... Kilkenny commented, "and not very long ago."

Rusty agreed. "Means no good for us
... He said.

After a moment he added, "Wonder what his next move will be?"

"Seems likely they'll try to bust things wide open between Lord and Steele before we can get them stopped
... Kilkenny said. "It's all they can do."

"The worst of it is
... Gates grumbled. "We've no idea what they'll do or try next"

For a long time they did not talk, each busy with his own thoughts and the need to be alert. Yet they saw no movements, heard no sounds. Several times they saw antelope and once a deer. They startled a coyote gnawing on an old bone, a coyote that fled into the brush at their approach, but slunk about to await their passing.

They found a place to camp, backed against a low red cliff. There was a good field of vision on all sides except the cliff, which prevented all approach on that side of the camp.

While gathering wood, they placed a few slabs of rock in place to better their position if attacked. Then they built a small fire and made coffee.

"You goin" back there"..."... Rusty asked, after awhile. "To see Nita Riordan?"

"Could be."... Kilkenny added a stick to the fire.

"She's quite a woman."... He paused again. "Whoever's atop that bluff seems to have everybody scared."

"You look at the three men he shot? Everyone of them shot through the skull, and he was shootin' from a good four, five hundred yards!"

"He might have found a closer position
... Kilkenny suggested, "but let's figure he can shoot. He's somebody with enough reputation to scare some pretty tough men. I don't think Nita Riordan is scared, but she's wary. This man threatens her whole existence."

"Odd she'd stay there anyway. That's a handsome woman, and she seems well off. I mean, she owns that place, her house, some mighty fine horse-flesh and they say she has cattle on the range in Texas."

"No accounting for folks
... Kilkenny said. "Some like it here, some there. I've seen some happy people in some of the worst dumps of creation. It seems to me she's a woman who makes her own world and isn't much influenced by what others think or do."

They watched the coals turn to a deeper red, then finished the last of the coffee. "You think we should keep watch? They'll be huntin' us."

"Leave it to Buck. He's pure mustang and we've traveled together a few years now. He'll warn us in time.", At daybreak Kilkenny rolled from his bed, shook a scorpion from his boot and tugged it on, then the other.

Meanwhile, his eyes were busy.

The buckskin was cropping grass, unalarmed, which would not be the case if anyone were in the vicinity.

They were in the saddle, riding toward Botalla at a good gait"... When they saw a rider winging it toward them.

Rusty waved him down.

"Hey, what's the rush?"

"All hell's busted loose
... The rider shouted.

"Lord's hay was set afire, and a Steele fence was cut in three, four places. Some Lord an'

Steele men had a runnin' fight, and there's been two gun battles in Botalla!"

"Anybody killed"..."... Kilkenny asked.

"Not yet, far's I know. Two men wounded on Steele's side. If you boys ain't itchin' to fight, you'd better ride clear of Botalla.

The lid's goin' to blow off!"

"Take it easy
... Kilkenny suggested. "A little shooting needn't mean a war."

But the cowboy had slapped spurs to his horse and was gone, leaving a cloud of dust trailing behind.

"Looks like we're too late
... Rusty said.

"What'll we do now?"

"Stop it, if we can
... Kilkenny said, "and if we can't, keep after the man who started it."

It was dark before they reached Botalla, riding by devious routes. There were lights in the Spur, and more lights in the larger Trail House. Kilkenny swung down, took the thongs from his guns and went into the Trail House.

Men turned quickly at the sound of his boot heels on the walk, and the jingle of his spurs. Their voices died down when they saw him, and they waited, watching him.

"Any Steele men here?"

Two men stepped forward, wary, expectant and ready for anything. Neither was a gunfighter. Both were simply tough, hardworking cowhands, but loyal to the brand.

"We ride for Steele
... One said. "What about it?"

"My advice is, go home. There'll be no war.

You stay away from Lord men, do you hear?"

A puncher with a scarred face said, "You mean if I get shot at, I don't shoot back? You must be funnin"."

"They cut our fences
... The other man protested.

"Did they? Or did somebody else? Did you boys set Lord's hay afire?"

"No! Til be damned if we did! I think he set it afire himself, just for a reason to have at us."

"Stop and think and you'll know that's not true. Lord wouldn't burn a whisp of his hay for any one of you boys. You're being pushed into a fight by somebody else."

"Yeah"..."... The scarred puncher was skeptical.

"Who?"

"When I know that
... Kilkenny said quietly, "
I'll
talk to h
im
. In the meanwhile, let's not get excited and push this into a shooting war nobody wants, where nobody can win."

The scarred puncher shrugged. "I punch cows
... He said, 'Tomorrow no gunfighter. If you can stop the fightin", more power to you."

Kilkenny turned and crossed to the Spur. Shoving through the door he told the Lord men what he had told the Steele men. Several of the men appeared relieved, but one man got up from a table and walked slowly across the room toward Kilkenny.

Lance Kilkenny knew what was coming. He had seen it many times before, in many places. He had seen it happen to him and to a dozen others, known for their ability with guns.

He knew the type. This man was undoubtedly fairly good with a gun. He was a man with a local reputation on his ranch or in the town he came from, and he wanted a reputation like Kilkenny's. Yet even as Lance watched the man coming toward him, he could sense his uncertainty. He was doing this because he believed it was expected of him, by himself or others.

He was coming now, but he was unsure. Kilkenny had the confidence of tested skill, and of many victories.

"Yon, Kilkenny! You swing a wide loop, tellin' people when to shoot an' when not to! It's time somebody called your hand."

His hand was poised over his gun butt but he froze into immobility. Kilkenny's gun was already in his hand.

In the few gun battles the man had been in, it had never happened like that. There had been a moment of tenseness and then both men reached for their guns. This had not been that way at all. The man had spoken. And then he was looking into a gun muzzle and that tall green-eyed man was behind it.

It came to him with a shock that all he had to do to die was drop his right hand, and all at once he very much wanted to live.

He had seen men gut-shot before, and suddenly he knew he did not want to die. He did not even want to be a gunfighter. He was a
cowpuncher
and a good one.

He took a slow, careful step back. "Mister, I reckon I just took in too much territory.

I don't
think
you'll have trouble with the Steele boys tonight."

"Thanks
... Kilkenny replied. "There's too much trouble on this range as it is."

Lance turned on his heel and walked from the barroom.

The man turned to the*others. "Did you see him drag that iron? I thought I was fast, but"

"Fellers
... The scarred puncher said, "I think we better look closer. Kilkenny could have shot Jimmy, and he didn't. He may not be on our side, but he surely ain't on theirs. Let's just back off an* take another look."

Outside, Rusty Gates stopped Kilkenny.

"There's a man rode in today, stranger around here, and he asked for you. Says he has something you need to know. He's from El Paso."

"El Paso? Who'd want to see me from there?" Gates shrugged. "The man was pretty well liquored up, they say. But he's not talkin' fight, just that he has some news for you. Mighty important news."

"El Paso . . Kilkenny frowned thoughtfully.

He had not been hi El Paso since the Weber fight Who could wish to see him from there?

"Where is he now?"

"Over at the Trail House. He came in right after you left. Tall, rangy galoot, looks like a cowhand. I mean, he doesn't size up like no gunman."

They stepped down off the walk and started across the street and had taken no more than three steps when they heard the hard report of a gun in the Trail House.

One shot, and then another.

Gates broke into a run but hesitated at the door. Kilkenny came up to him, pushed the door open with his left hand and stepped hi quickly. Gates followed and moved to the right of the door.

A man lay sprawled on the floor, lying on his face, a red stain growing on the back of his shirt.

A drawn gun lay near his hand. He was obviously dead.

Bert Polti stood just beyond the man, a gun still hi his hand. As their eyes met, Kilkenny could see the instant calculation hi Polti's eyes.

Was this the time? Kilkenny knew what Polti was thinking, how he was estimating the situation. He had a gun hi his hand and Kilkenny had not. But there was Gates, off to one side and out of line. Kilkenny saw the impulse born, saw it die.

Polti was no fool, so he was doubly dangerous.

"Personal fight, Kilkenny
... Polti said.

"Nothing to do with the cattle war. He knocked a drink from my hand. I suggested he apologize.

He told me to go to thunder and I beat him to the draw."

Kilkenny's eyes went past Polti to a puncher from the Lord ranch.

"That right?"

"Yeah
... The puncher said, his face expressionless.

"That's about what happened."

Polti hesitated just a moment, then bolstered his weapon and walked outside.

Chapter
XI

Several men moved toward the body, and Kilkenny looked down at the man. As they turned him over, he shook his head. The man was nobody he had ever seen before.

Then Rusty told him what he had already guessed.

"That's the man who was looking for you
... He whispered.

"Seems mighty odd that he'd get himself killed right now."

Kilkenny's eyes caught those of the puncher who had corroborated Polti's story, and with an almost imperceptible move of his head. Lance brought him to the bar.