He seemed to be an honest rancher. But suppose he was not? Or suppose he had been, and had recently taken a dishonest step to grow rich quick?
Or quicker?
Lance was well into the Steele ranch yard before a man with a Winchester stepped from the shadows.
"All right, stranger! Keep your hands steady. Now step down easy-like and walk over here."
Lance obeyed without hesitation, carefully keeping his hands in sight in the light from the ranch house window.
As he approached, the other man stepped farther from the shadows a slender, wiry man whom .
Lance instinctively liked. Obviously a cattleman, he had the mark of the range upon him, a face seamed and brown, yet kindly beneath the sternness.
"Who are you"..."... The man demanded.
"Name of Lance. Riding by and figured I should drop in and talk to Steele."
"Lance"..."... Something sparkled in the man's eyes. "You the gent had the run-in with Miss Tana?"
"I'm afraid I am that man. Is she still sore?"
"Lance ... The older man chuckled, "as sure as I'm Jon Weston, you've let yourself in for a packet of trouble. When that gal rode in here, she was fit to be tied! You got a nerve to come here after that! I'll be surprised if she doesn't shoot you on sight."... Then his manner changed. "What do you want to see Steele about?"
"Stopping this war. It doesn't make much sense."
"What's your dicker in this? A man doesn't do nothin' lest he's got a stake in it somewhere."
"What's your job here, Weston?"
"Foreman. Why?"
"What's the ranch figure to make out of this war? And what will you make from it?"
"Grief, an' trouble an9 headaches, an' not a cussed thing else. We got all our punchers guardin' fence when they should be handlin cows.
We're losin' cattle, losin' time, and losin' wire. I never knew anybody to gain anything from a range war, anyhow, but the old man's not about to be backed down by anything or anybody."
"My feeling exactly. I don't like it either. My own angle is Mort Davis. Mort's a friend of mine. And, Weston, I mean to see that Mort keeps his place on Lost Creek. He'll keep it if we have to plant a few bodies around every tree on the place."
"Think you're pretty salty, do you"..."... Weston suggested, but there was a glint of understanding in his eyes.
After all, he and Mort Davis might have been cut from the same mold. "Well, maybe you are."
"I've been around, Weston, but that cuts no ice.
You and me can talk. You're an old trail hand and you're a cattleman, and you're too smart to let pride blow this country wide open. Just what have you got against Mort Davis?"
"Nothin". He's a sight better hand and a whole lot better man than lots of them ridin' for this here ranch right now. I know what you mean, but I don't make the rules for this ranch right now. Webb does ... or Tana."
"There's been killing enough ... Lance replied, "I don't want any more."
"You mean Joe Wilkins?"
"I mean Wilkins and Sam Carter"
"Carter's dead?"
"Killed on the trail tonight . . . dry-gulched.
Four others died, too. There was a fight at Lost Creek."
Weston had been walking toward the house with him, now he stopped. "Whose hands? Not ours?""
Lance shook his head. "It's a puzzle, Weston.
There's more going on here than either Steele or Lord knows. Those men belonged to neither ranch, but young Davis said he'd seen one of them with Bert Polti."
"Polti? I don't figure that."
They had entered the ranch house and stopped at an inner door. Weston rapped. At a summons, he opened it.
Big Webb Steele was sitting tipped back in his chair on the other side of a big table. His shirt was open two top buttons, showing a massive, hairy chest. And his hard, level eyes seemed to pierce Lance through and through. On his right, in a big easy chair, was Tana. As she saw Lance she came to her feet, her face taut with anger.
A tall, handsome man in a plain black suit was there also, a man with blue-gray eyes and a neatly trimmed blond mustache.
"You ... Tana burst out. "You have the nerve to come here?"
Lance smiled, and he had a pleasant, friendly smile. "I didn't reckon you carried your whip in the house, ma'am. Or do you carry it everywhere?"
"From what I hear, young man, you've taken a high hand with my daughter."... Steele glanced from Tana to Lance and back. "What happened between you two?"
"She seemed to be trying to use the main street for a race track, and when I got in the way she was going to horsewhip me. I sort of explained to her it wasn't exactly lady-like."
Steele chuckled. "Young man, you're in trouble. I will say you've got nerve. But I let Tana fight her own battles, so let heaven have mercy on your soul!"
Lance shook his head gravely. "You mentioned me taking a high hand with your daughter, but if my hand had been applied where it should have been, it might have done a lot more good."
Webb Steele's eyes twinkled. "Young man, I'd give a hundred head of cattle just to look at the man who could do that!"
'Tather ... Tana protested. "This man insulted me!"
"If you don't mind, ma'am ... Lance suggested, "we can continue this discussion another time. I've come to see your father on business."
Tana's face flushed and she started to speak but Lance had turned his shoulder to her. He took a seat "Mr. Steele ... He said, 'I've come in the role of peacemaker. You people here are edging yourselves into a three-cornered war that's going to cost plenty in cattle, time, and men, to say nothing of cut wire and gunpowder. I'd like to set up a meeting between you, Chet Lord and Mort Davis."
"Davis"..."... Steele let the legs of his chair down hard. "That no-account nester will make no talk with me! Hell get of! that claim or we'll run him off! You tell that damn highbinder to take his stock an" get!"
"He's caused trouble here."... The stranger with the blond mustache interposed. "Cutting fences and that sort of thing. He's a menace to the range."... Then he added, "I'm Victor Bonhain, from New York City."
Lance merely glanced at him, then turned his attention back to Steele. "You have the reputation of being a square shooter, Steele. You came west with some damn good men, and you've made a place for yourself.
Well, so did Mort Davis, only he went further west than you. He went on to Santa Fe and Salt Lake City, and he helped open this country up. Now he finds a nice piece of land and settles on it ... What's so wrong about that?
And isn't that what you did?"
Lance shifted his chair a little, then went on. "He fought Comanches and Apaches. He built a place. He cleaned out the water holes and did things in Lost Creek you'd never have done. And there'd have been no trouble between you if this fencing hadn't started.
"It seems to me that Mort is just as entitled to stay on his land as you are on yours."
Lance leaned forward. "Steele, I haven't been in this neck of the woods but a few days, but it takes no longer than that to see there's a lot going on here that I doubt either you or Chet Lord knows anything about.
"Mort Davis was burned out tonight, and by orders from somebody. And I don't believe those orders came from either you or Lord.
"I want Mort Davis let alone, and if you and Lord are so damn hot for a fight, then have at it, but leave Mort out. Or ... Lance's tone softened a little, "I will have to take a hand in the fight myself."
"You talk very loud for a loose-footed cowhand ... Bonham put in. "We just might decide not to let you leave here at all!"
Lance saw Tana glance over at him, startled.
Even Webb Steele seemed surprised.
Lance merely glanced at Bonham. "I don't know where you fit into the picture, Bonham, but when I get ready to leave a place I usually do."
"Better leave him alone ... A new voice interrupted, "I think he means what he says."
It was Rusty Gates, standing in the doorway, rather pleased at the effect he ha
d created, surprising them all.
"I was ridin' by, thought I'd stop in and rustle a cup of coffee. But just take a friendly tip."
Bonham started to speak, but Gates interrupted.
"Better shut up, New York man ... Gates said. "There's been enough killing tonight.
If you keep talking you're likely to say the wrong thing."
Rusty smiled suddenly, and threw an amused glance toward Lance. "You see ... He was lighting a cigarette, "I've heard Lance Kilkenny could be might touchy about what folks said of him!"
Chapter VI
The name dropped like a bomb. Tana's hands went to her throat, and her eyes were wide and startled.
Webb Steele's chair legs hit the floor again and his big hands slapped the table. Jim Weston backed up a little but, of them all, he seemed the least surprised.
Oddly, it was Victor Bonham, the man from New York, whom Lance Kilkenny happened to see at that moment. And he saw an expression of startled fury that vanished so suddenly as to make him believe that it might have been an hallucination.
"Did you say Kilkenny"..."... Webb Steele demanded. "The gunfighter?"
"My name is Kilkenny. I've never sought a reputation with a gun or without one. Mort Davis happens to be a friend of mine, and I do not forget my friends when they are in trouble."... Lance glanced over at Steele. "I didn't come in here hunting trouble, but Mort was attacked and his place was burned."
"What happened"..."... Bonham asked.
"Four men were killed. None of them were men anybody could recall working for either Lord or Steele. But Mort is still alive and in good shape, and I intend to see he stays that way."
"so many people are involved ... Bonham commented, "it doesn't seem likely that one man can make much difference."
"Sometimes, Bonham ... Kilkenny commented, "one man can make all the difference."
"Mort Davis burned out"..."... Steele shrugged.
"Well, he'd no business there in the first place.
I'd not have done it, but he got what he asked for."
"The question you might ask yourself, Steele ... Kilkenny said, "is who burned him out, and why? You and Lord are pulling and pushing at each other to see who's the biggest man, but while you're doing it I'd suggest you think about who else has a finger in the pie.
"You and Lord think you're ruling the roost. I think somebody is setting you up as a scapegoat You and Lord will bluster around and make a fine show of things, and if you aren't very careful you'll find yourselves out in the cold, wondering what hit you."
"Is that a threat?"
"No, it is not I never make threats, nor have I any place in this fight except to help my friend."
"Wasn't there a story about Davis nursing you when you were sick? Or helping you through some kind of a bad time"..."... Bonham asked.
"There was."
Kilkenny turned back to Steele. "You and Lord should get together with Davis, as I suggested. If you do, you'll have peace around here."
"You handle your affairs, Kilkenny, I'll handle mine. When I need advice from you, m go to you for it"
Lance Kilkenny shrugged. "Your problem, Steele.
I have nothing to lose. You have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Good night"
Lance rose, went out the door and down the steps.
Tana Steele was standing beside his horse. He had seen her when she left the room, but he had not expected to see her here... or ever again.
"So"..."... Her voice was scornful. "I might have known it! A common gunman! A man who shoots down others less capable than he!"
"At least ... He smiled at her, "I give them a chance. I don't run over them in the street."
He paused. "You know, ma'am, you're right pretty in the moonlight, where nobody can see the meanness in you. You've either got a streak of real devil in you to come out here just to say something unpleasant, or else you're falling in love with me, and I don't know which worries me the most!"
She stepped back angrily. "In love with you?
Why, you conceited, contemptible"
Lance had stepped into the saddle and turned the horse as she spoke. He bent quickly and scooped Tana up with one arm and kissed her soundly on the lips.
Her lips responded almost in spite of themselves. But then he dropped her and rode off, singing:
Old Joe Clark has got a cow She was muley born It takes a jay-bird forty-eight hours To fly from horn to horn.
It was an old song, a good song, and he felt like singing.
Tana Steele, quivering with anger or some emotion less easily understood, stood staring after him. She was still staring as his voice died away in the distance.
In less than forty-eight hours she had had a whip taken from her, had been threatened with a spanking, had been ignored, treated carelessly, told she had a streak of meanness hi her, and that she looked pretty in the moonlight. She had also been swept off her feet and kissed soundly, kissed more thoroughly than at any time she could remember . .
. and for such things her memory was very good.
She told herself she hated him, but her reasons were vague and unsound, and even in her own mind the statement had a hollow ring.
He was a gunfighter, a killer. A man known wherever western men gathered. How many stories had she heard of this man? The mysterious man who came from nowhere, and whom no man really knew and who, after his killings, disappeared into the limbo from which he came.
Disappeared? Would he do that again? Where had he come from?
Who was he? What was he? Where was he going?
She remembered the picture she had picked up of the elderly woman. Certainly, no average woman, no common woman. There had been both beauty and distinction in that face,, the face of a cultured woman of the world, a woman of breeding.
Why would Lance Kilkenny carry such a picture?
His mother? His aunt?
She remembered the dress, too. It was a dress from an earlier period, but fashionable for its time.
Who was Lance Kilkenny?
There was a movement behind her and she saw Rusty Gates swing into his saddle to follow Kilkenny.
"Rusty?"
He drew up. "Ma'am?"
"Who is he?"
"Kilkenny, ma'am? Everybody knows who Kilkenny is, even those who've never seen him.
He's a gunfighter, ma'am, perhaps the fastest, deadliest man alive when it comes to a good gun battle."
"I don't mean that I mean where does he come from?
What was he?"
Rusty considered for a moment. He was restless and. eager to be off. But the question was one he had often wondered about himself. "I don't know, Tana ... He said frankly, "and I don't believe anybody else does either."
He lifted a hand and rode out of the yard, turning down the trail Kilkenny had taken.
Tana Steele stood alone then, looking into the night She was puzzled and angry. It irritated her that there had been no immediate final answers.
She was also disturbed by her own feelings, telling herself the. man was a nobody. Probably an outlaw; no doubt vicious and dishonest. She told herself this, but she didn't for one moment believe it There was a certain quiet distinction about Kilkenny that spoke of breeding . . .
The man had come from somewhere; he had been somebody.
Jim Weston came up to her. "Anything wrong, ma'am?"
"No, Jim, nothing."... Then she added, "That man worries me."
"Kilkenny? Well, if Webb goes after Mort Davis, you've got cause for worry. If Webb leaves him alone, you haven't. It's that simple. I never heard of Kilkenny killin' anybody that wasn't askin' for it. Usually, nobody even knows who Kilkenny is until the moment before . he dies. Often enough he'll just ride into a place under some other name, and he'll punch cows or something of the kind and bother nobody. He's a top hand ... rides like a man born true to the saddle, and he's an expert with a rope. Plus he's not quarrelsome ... never stirred up any trouble I know of."
"Well! Tm surprised, Jim. Y
ou talk as if you were on his side."
"Didn't know there was any sides yet, ma'am.
You asked and I answered. And I gave you an honest opinion."
"I'm sorry, Jim. I know you did. I'm just not myself tonight."
He turned and looked at her. "No? Somehow I thought you were."*
He walked away, and she stared after him, half angry. Now what had he meant by that? She wondered.
It was several minutes before Rusty Gates caught up with Kilkenny. He found him waiting in the shadows, a Winchester in his hands.
"What do you want, Gates?"
Rusty leaned forward and patted his horse on the neck.
"Why, I reckon I want to ride along with you, Kilkenny. I've heard you were a straight-shooter, and I guess you're the only one I know who can get into more trouble than me without tryin'.
"If you can use a good man by your side, I'd admire to ride along. I've a feeling that in the days to come you could use some help."
"All right, Rusty. Let's ride."
When Lance Kilkenny rolled out of his blankets in the earliest dawn, he glanced over at Gates.
The redhead was still snoring. Kilkenny took up his boots and shook them thoroughly to be free of any scorpions and tarantulas which might have taken refuge there during the night. Grimly, he contemplated a hole in his sock.
No time for that now. He pulled on his boots and stood up.
Carefully, he checked his guns.
Then he moved out from camp, keeping under cover, and for fifteen minutes he made a painstaking search of the area. Not until he was sure nobody was within the immediate vicinity did he lead his buckskin into camp and saddle up.
Lance and Rusty were encamped on a cedar-covered hillside with a wide view of Lost Creek Valley. Lance mounted the buckskin and rode quietly away, but he was back and had bacon frying before Rusty Gates awakened.
Coffee was bubbling in the pot when Rusty came over.
"Hey ... Rusty exclaimed. "You've got bacon!"
"Picked it up last night from the Mexican who gave us the frijoles. He's got half a dozen hogs."
"Hell, man, if he can get a half dozen more he's got the key to the mint Bacon is scarcer than minted gold in this country!"
Rusty rustled some wood for the fire, then saddled his horse. When he returned to the fire he squatted on his haunches, feeding sticks into the flames.
the Rider Of Lost Creek (1976) Page 5
