The Quest of Brady Kenton / Kenton's Challenge

by Cameron Judd

  “You don’t even have her!”

  Kevington responded to that with action. He clambered over a pile of twisted metal and reached what had been the cab of the locomotive. He vanished for a moment; Kenton heard Rachel’s scream, and stopped. He glanced down and noticed a fragment of metal, much like the one Kevington had, and picked it up. If Kevington had just killed Rachel, Kenton would drive this metal through the man’s heart, even if he had to die himself in the process.

  Kevington rose with Rachel in his grip, the piece of metal at her throat.

  “I’ll kill her if you come a step closer, Kenton! I swear I will!”

  Kenton decided to call his bluff. “No you won’t. If you do you’ll have nothing left to use to hold me back, and you know it. You can’t afford to kill her!” He took a few steps forward, ready to stop if Kevington appeared to actually be about to harm Rachel.

  “I’m warning you!” Kevington yelled. “I’ll kill her!”

  “You won’t do it.”

  Kevington sliced at her neck with the metal; Kenton saw blood flow out as Rachel screamed.

  He stopped and lifted his hands, still holding the metal shard in his right one. “All right! All right! I’ve stopped! Don’t cut her more!” He felt furious at himself, realizing that his bluff-calling had actually gotten her hurt.

  Kevington laughed, back in control now. “Very good, Kenton. Very good. Now you know where we stand. And don’t throw me any more of that nonsense—you know I will kill her. And even if you got to me and killed me in turn, what would it matter? She would still be dead! So you stay where you are, and do what I say!”

  “I’m listening.”

  Kevington chuckled. “Let’s see … what should I have you do? Oh, I’ve got an idea. Tell me, Kenton: what do you know of the land of Japan? Do you know that there are men there who, when dishonored, will actually disembowel themselves ritually? Have you heard of that?”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Good, good. Then let’s see how honorable you are. If you want to save your daughter’s life, then take that piece of metal in your hand and thrust it through yourself.” Kevington laughed, but it was not the same laugh as before. This was a high, nervous giggle.

  “I’ll do nothing like that,” Kenton said.

  “Then I’ll kill her!” And he cut her again.

  “No!” Kenton yelled. “No … leave her alone.”

  “Do it!” Kevington screamed. “Show us that Brady Kenton courage! Are you man enough to save your own daughter? Are you?”

  Kenton looked at the piece of metal in his hand. Dear God, could he actually …

  He knew it would not save her. Kevington would kill her anyway.

  But even so, he couldn’t simply stand by and watch him do it. Kevington had Kenton in an impossible spot … and the intolerable might be the only way out.

  “Do it, Kenton! Now!”

  Kenton closed his eyes, said a prayer. He opened them again, then raised the metal fragment, pressed it slowly against his middle …

  “No!” Rachel screamed. “No!”

  She moved, pulling away from Kevington. The move was so fast he was taken by surprise. She yanked free of his grasp, tried to run, but he went after her.

  The crack of the pistol was unexpected by all. Kevington spasmed and yelled. Another shot and he jerked, suddenly, head pierced by a bullet.

  He lay on the ground a few moments, moving and making noise, but then went silent and still.

  Kenton dropped the metal fragment and sighed in relief. He turned and saw Alex Gunnison running down toward him. Behind Gunnison, Frank Turner was rising, smoking pistol in his hand. He’d fired from a kneeling position, and it was surely the best long shooting with a pistol that Kenton had ever witnessed.

  Rachel ran to Kenton and threw her arms around him. He closed his eyes and embraced her, never wanting to let her go.

  CHAPTER 39

  “THANK God we got here when we did,” Gunnison said. “What he was about to have you do, Kenton…”

  “I would have done it, for Rachel,” Kenton said. “But it wouldn’t have saved her. He would have killed her no matter what.”

  “It’s a good thing that Ranger Turner is the skilled gunman he is,” Gunnison said.

  “It was a satisfying thing to avenge Jessup Best and save a couple of lives at the same time,” Turner said. “Makes this trip to Colorado worthwhile, especially considering how disillusioned I’ve been with my sorry cousin in Denver.”

  “I owe you my life,” Kenton said to Turner. “Thank you for handing it to me.”

  “My pleasure, sir. Tell me, are you going to write one of your stories about this?”

  Kenton looked serious. “There’s something I want to ask of all of you,” he said. “I want to ask you all to let me die.”

  Gunnison frowned. “What?”

  “Listen to me,” Kenton said. “I’ve done some foolish things recently. I’ve gotten myself into trouble I shouldn’t have. I’m a fugitive from the law in Denver. I’ve lost my reputation through my own recklessness. By now, J. B. Haddockson has probably written a story accusing me of being associated with the fire at the publishing house, and recounting my flight from the police. My career is through, and I’m in for Lord only knows how many legal entanglements and so on … all at a time when the only thing I want to do is go find Victoria.”

  Gunnison said, “So you want to be … dead.”

  “In the eyes of the world, yes. Because then I can quit being Brady Kenton, writer and illustrator, and concentrate my attention on the only two things that really matter to me now: getting to know my daughter, and finding my wife.”

  “You’ll go to England, then,” Turner said.

  “Yes. I have to go find her.”

  Gunnison paced about. “Kenton, you’re asking me to lie to my own father, to the Illustrated American … to the people of this nation. How can I do that?”

  “Simple. You just do it. And when it’s over, and I’ve found Victoria and brought her home, then I’ll reappear, and deal with all these old entanglements. All I’m asking is that, for now, you allow me to be officially gone. At peace. Free.”

  “Until you go to England, where will you go? What will you do?” Gunnison asked.

  “I’ll figure that out as I need to … no. We’ll figure it out. Rachel and me.”

  Gunnison said, “Kenton, you promise me that someday you’ll set this all straight, publicly? And explain to my father why I lied to him?”

  “I promise.”

  Gunnison sighed. “Well, then, fool that I am, I guess I’ll go along with it.”

  “I’m mourning Mr. Kenton’s death already,” Turner said, picking at his teeth with a twig.

  Kenton smiled, then looked solemn. “I thank you all. Sincerely.”

  Rachel hugged him.

  Turner tossed away the twig and stretched. “Should we bury the departed Mr. Kevington?”

  “But for the fact he is Victoria’s son, I would say no,” Kenton said. “As it is, I would like to ask that you and Alex convey his body back to Denver. We’ll create a story explaining my ‘death’ and why my body isn’t available. Then, Rachel and I will go on, in secret, and find some place to stay where I won’t be recognized. I’ll shave my beard, dye my hair. And I’ll get to know my daughter, and plan how I’ll find my wife.” Kenton paused. “Kevington implied that Victoria had died … but I don’t believe him. I think he was toying with me.”

  “Only one way to know,” Gunnison said. “You got to go see for yourself.”

  “Yes. And go I will. Maybe Rachel will go with me. I’m ready, Alex. Ready to find Victoria at last.”

  EXTRAORDINARY ACCLAIM FOR THE WORKS OF CAMERON JUDD

  “Judd does his usual exquisite job of character development. This book will restore your faith in Westerns.”

  —El Paso Herald Post on Jerusalem Camp

  “Judd writes a mean story.”

  —Zane Grey’s West

&n
bsp; “An impressive performance … a classically simple, fast-paced tale. Marks Judd as a keen observer of the human heart as well as a fine action writer.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Timber Creek

  “Abundance of historical detail … a heartfelt attempt to glimpse the soul of an American hero. By any standard, Judd succeeds.”

  —Booklist on Crockett of Tennessee

  KENTON’S CHALLENGE

  In order to fulfill one of her life goals, this book is dedicated to Lauren Burns.

  CHAPTER 1

  ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI

  The sun sank westward, a warm afternoon giving way to a chill that hurried the footsteps of under-protected pedestrians rushing homeward to supper tables and firesides.

  Among the wind-nipped horde, Alex Gunnison, newly named associate publisher of Gunnison’s Illustrated American, the nation’s most popular general-interest magazine, walked without a shiver. In the warmth of the afternoon he had regretted the woolen suit he had chosen in the cold of morning, but now he was glad for it. Comfort removed the necessity of hurrying to reach his home and begin an evening that loomed before him like an empty wasteland. With his wife off in Colorado, the house he usually couldn’t wait to reach held little appeal for him tonight.

  So he trudged while others hurried, his hands deep in his pockets and his hat turned low to deflect the wind. His house was four blocks ahead, the dog awaited feeding in its pen, and the two cats were no doubt in their usual evening spots in the big side window, watching for his arrival.

  He stopped and sighed. Let the cats wait. Tonight he felt too melancholy to go home. He’d go to Barrigan’s instead and eat a leisurely supper, read the newspaper, maybe drink a few extra cups of coffee over dessert. Better that than languishing at home.

  Speeding his pace, he headed for the next corner, made a left turn, and walked to Barrigan’s, a favorite restaurant. He was greeted warmly at the door and conveyed to his usual table. Comments were made about the absence of his wife. “She’s visiting relations in Colorado,” he replied, “and I anticipate her return within the week.”

  Gunnison, who had eaten lightly through the day, was hungry and ordered a dinner built around pork chops and gravy. He sipped coffee while he waited and stared at the empty chair across from him where Roxanne normally sat. He and his wife ate at Barrigan’s frequently, and it didn’t feel quite right to be here without her. Better here alone than home alone, though.

  He’d just received his plate when he noticed a heavyset man of about sixty approaching him from across the room, wearing rumpled clothing and the vaguely uneasy expression of one about to intrude into another’s privacy. Gunnison sighed inwardly, anticipating being forced to talk to this man while his food went cold and uneaten on his plate before him.

  “Beg your pardon, sir,” the man said in a soft tone, “but aren’t you Mr. Alexander Gunnison?”

  Gunnison hadn’t been called Alexander in years. “I’m Alex Gunnison, yes.”

  “I thought you were, sure as the world! A man changes when he puts his boyhood behind, but there’s always something of the boy remaining to mark him. In your case, it’s the eyes.”

  Gunnison smiled with his lips and frowned with his eyes. “I’m afraid I’m at a loss, sir.… I think you must know me, but I have to admit I don’t know you.”

  The man did what Gunnison had hoped he wouldn’t: he scooted back the empty chair at Gunnison’s table for two and sat down heavily. With elbows on the table and a warm smile on his face, he said, “I wouldn’t expect you to recollect me, Mr. Gunnison … or can I call you Alexander, like I used to?”

  “I go by Alex now.”

  “Well, Alex, you’d not be expected to recall me, as I said, but I sure do remember you as a boy, running all around your father’s house and nigh knocking me off the ladder more than once. Oh, how your father would scold you! ‘Let the men work, and be off with you,’ he’d say. But I’d always stick up for you. I’ve enjoyed the presence of lively children all my days, ever since I raised my own brood.”

  “So you worked at my father’s house when I was just a little boy.”

  “That’s right.… My name’s Bill Garry. You might remember me, eh?”

  “I’m sorry, but I admit I don’t.” Garry had reached across the table to shake Gunnison’s hand, and Gunnison clasped the hand, noting how callused and dirty it was. He’d find an excuse to slip to the washroom in a moment and scrub his hand clean before he ate.

  “I was a carpenter in them days, back before I took a spill and hurt my back so I couldn’t work no more. You remember when your father had that office room added onto the side of your house?”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  “I built them shelves that covered the two walls.” Garry said it with pride.

  “Really! Well, you’ll be glad to know they’re still standing, with not a sag in them.”

  “Oh, of course. What I build, I build to last. And how is your father?”

  “He’s well. But moving into retirement. He’s made me associate publisher of the magazine.” Gunnison wondered why he was volunteering information; all he was doing was assuring that the conversation would go on that much longer.

  “Oh, I know all about it. I’m a faithful reader of the Illustrated American. Have been for years. I was proud to read of your advancement.”

  “Thank you.”

  Garry’s smile faded as he went on: “But I was sad indeed to read of Mr. Kenton’s passing away.” Gunnison nodded. “Yes.”

  “What a tragedy! For such a talent to be lost in so sad a way … I’ve missed him ever since. There’s no one whose work compares to Brady Kenton’s, and so I’ve always said. You’ve come close, Alex, but as you know, there’ll never be another Brady Kenton.”

  “He was a remarkable man.”

  “I can’t name another artist who became more famous doing what Kenton did.”

  “Kenton wasn’t an artist. He was an illustrator,” Gunnison clarified, then felt petty for saying it.

  “Whatever you call what he did, I liked it. So did all of America, and hats off to your father’s magazine for bringing Kenton to us.” The man sounded almost emotional. Gunnison had run across this kind of Kenton devotion before. It made him more jealous than he wanted to admit. “Hard to believe that Kenton’s dead.”

  He’s not, Gunnison said in his mind, because for now that was the only way he could say it.

  “People see him around, you know,” Garry said.

  “I hardly see how that’s possible,” Gunnison said, smiling tightly.

  “Oh, lots of folks don’t believe he’s dead. He was always sort of a trickster, you know.”

  If only you knew, Gunnison thought.

  Garry continued, “My brother Cordell, for example, who swears, absolutely swears, that he saw Brady Kenton himself not a week ago, in Colorado. It was a little mining town—for the life of me I can’t recall the name of it. Cordell got back from Colorado two days ago and told me about it this very morning.”

  “He must have seen someone who resembled Kenton, that’s all,” Gunnison said.

  “Perhaps, but Cordell met Kenton once, back in Chicago, and says he knows for a fact this was none other than the man.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I’d like to. I don’t want to believe Kenton is gone.”

  “I understand. But I can assure you, Kenton is no longer here.” Gunnison’s wording was carefully chosen. He did not like to lie and tried to avoid it.

  “And all the more sorrow to us for it. Well, anyway, I’ll hope Cordell is right, and you are wrong.”

  “So do I.”

  Garry hesitated noticeably, then became quite serious in manner. “I hope you don’t think me foolish for saying this … but I think you should investigate the possibility that Cordell is right. He was very sure he’d seen the authentic item in Colorado. Very sure.”

  Now there was no alternative but an outright lie. “I was there when he di
ed, Mr. Garry. I saw his body. I’m afraid your brother can’t possibly be right.”

  “All I can say is, he was mighty certain about it.” Garry at last stood. “Well, I’ll leave you to your meal. Sorry to have interrupted you.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Give my best to your father. Ask if he remembers me.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Garry.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Gunnison stared at his plate a moment before he began to eat. What Garry had just told him had unsettled him even though he had not let it show.

  Kenton seen in Denver. Garry was the third person in just under two weeks to report such a sighting to Gunnison. The first two reports Gunnison had discounted, the second less easily than the first. But now a third.… What was he to think?

  Gunnison picked up his fork and knife and sliced off a bite of pork. He ate but tasted it only slightly, his mind preoccupied.

  It was possible Kenton was in fact in Colorado, at least theoretically. The news of Kenton’s death, reported as fact in the Illustrated American and picked up subsequently by every major newspaper in the nation, was a fabrication, a fact known by only a handful of people, Gunnison chief among them. It was he who had written Kenton’s obituary and who had eulogized his old partner movingly, standing beside a mahogany coffin weighted with old copies of the Illustrated American.

  Gunnison still wondered if that deception, once revealed to the world, would cost him his position at the Illustrated American, a position greatly advanced since Kenton’s supposed death. With Kenton thought to be gone forever, Gunnison’s father, founder and publisher of the magazine, had at last advanced his son upward in rank, aiming him ultimately for the publisher’s office. But once it was learned that Gunnison had cooperated with Kenton in foisting one of the greatest hoaxes in journalistic history upon the world—using the sacred Illustrated American to do it—Gunnison feared his own father would fire him. The senior Gunnison took his magazine and his conceptions of journalistic duty dead seriously. He would not abide deliberate deception, not from his own son, not from Brady Kenton, not from anyone.