He tried. Bracing his feet he took both hands and attempted to lift the gun, but slowly lowered the muzzle, he took a staggering step and fell, all in one piece.
Steele came charging to the door, gun in hand. He took one look, then bolstered his gun.
"Polti, is it? He's had it comin' for a long time."
Steele looked thoughtfully at Kilkenny.
"Polti was a bad one. You must be just as good as they say."
"Steele ... Kilkenny said, "you and Lord get your men and stand by. I'm going after the Brockmans myself, and when I come back we're going to clean up Apple Canyon. Right now, the Brockmans come first."
"You're going after them alone?"
"I am. If you'll see that Rusty is cared for."
Steele chuckled. "Tana's doin' that He's quite a man, that Gates is."
A half hour later, with a three-day supply of grub, Kilkenny hit the trail. For the first half mile the Brockmans had ridden hard, Then they had slowed down to save their horses, when they noticed no pursuit. They were shrewd riders and they could save their horses by confusing their trail.
Three miles out, they took to the rough country, crossing an outcropping of rock, weaving through clusters of boulders, and around clumps of oak brush and trees.
They used every trick of wilderness men to hide their trail, and they were as good at it as any Apache. The trouble was that the man behind them was better. Nonetheless, it slowed him down.
Soon it was evident that the Brockmans were traveling in a wide circle. Picturing the country in his mind, Kilkenny decided they were headed for Cottonwood.
Buy why Cottonwood?
Could they by chance know of the wires he had sent? were they afraid of what the answers might mean to them? Or were they watching the station on orders from the man in the cliff house?
On impulse, Kilkenny turned from the trail and cut right across country to the railroad line. Few rails were down yet, but the road had been surveyed, materials had been dropped along the route and work was beginning. Keeping to every bit of cover he could find, Kilkenny headed cross-country for the lonely station.
That night he bedded down on the same creek that Sowed through Cottonwood, about six miles upstream from the village. He lit' no fire, contenting himself with chewing on a piece of jerked beef and drinking from the stream.
At daylight he checked his guns. He knew the Brockmans and was under no misapprehension as to their abilities. They were good alone and almost unbeatable together.
If only by some trick, some stratagem, he could get them one at a time!
It was a good thought, but the two Brockmans ate together, worked together, slept together.
It was almost nine o'clock when Kilkenny rode into Cottonwood, and if his calculations were correct he was still ahead of the Brockmans.
Reaching the tiny cluster of huts, he tied the buckskin under some trees at the edge of the stream, then crossed the log foot-bridge to the street, if such it could be called.
There was nothing much to Cottonwood. At one side was the small stream, never more than six feet wide, and some cottonwoods and willows that lined its banks.
There was the station with its telegraph office built ahead of the rails for the convenience of the surveyors a saloon and general store, then four or five houses. That was all.
Kilkenny walked into the station.
"I'm Lance Kilkenny. Any messages for me?"
The station-keeper nodded. "Yeah. Just come in.
Three of "em. I didn't know who you was."
He handed the messages to Kilkenny, broke a straw from the broom and began to chew reflectively, glancing out of the window from time to time.
"Be some fireworks now ... He commented, indicating the messages. "It sure beats the devil."
Kilkenny had pocketed the messages without reading them. After glancing into the saloon, he crossed the street to the willows. On the other side of the bridge, in a little hollow among the trees, he stretched out and began to doze.
An hour later the stationmaster called out loud enough to awaken him:
"Hossmen comin" out of the breaks, Kilkenny.
Look powerful like them Brockmans!"
Kilkenny got up, yawned and stretched. Then, leaning against a huge old cottonwood, he waited.
Chapter XVI
The riders turned into the road leading to Cottonwood at a fast trot There were three of them now. Kilkenny did not know the third man.
They drew up suddenly in front of the bar and two of the riders swung down, Kilkenny noted with appreciation the way they glanced along the street, then looked across at the station.
Kilkenny walked across the bridge.
Abel Brockman heard his footsteps on the bridge and glanced over his shoulder. His body stiffened and he said something, low-voiced, and started to turn. The Brockmans had been caught offside.
Up the street a man sitting on a bench before the store fell backward off a bench and scrambled to get under cover. Cain Brockman was still in the saddle, but he grabbed for his gun. His horse, startled, veered sharply. As Abel's hand moved, Kilkenny's hand dropped in the draw for which he was famous. As Abel Brockman's gun cleared the holster, Kilkenny fired.
Walking toward them he opened up with his righthand gun, firing each time his right foot hit the ground. Abel got off a fast shot but Kilkenny's bullet had knocked him staggering and the shot went wild. Abel stumbled into the hitching-rail, grabbed for support with his left hand and Cain's horse reared wildly, something Buck would never have done.
The big man, raising his own gun to fire, all his attention on Kilkenny, lost balance and fell from the saddle. Kilkenny walked on, filing.
Abel sank to one knee, then came up shooting.
Unbelieving, Kilkenny stopped, steadied his hand and fired again. He was sure he had hit Abel with at least four shots.
Abel, falling, lost his grip on his gun.
Kilkenny swung to get a shot at the third man but he, grabbing Cain Brockman, dragged him around the corner out of sight. One of the horses trotted after them.
Kilkenny, gun in hand, walked up to Abel.
Lying on his back in the dust, hand clutching an empty gun and his chest covered with blood, Abel Brockman stared up at him.
"Damn you! Cam will kin you for this! Cain!. . .
Oh ... His face twisted with agony.
"Cain . . . Where's"
One hand lifted up, straining, and Kilkenny, who had looked toward the corner, heard the pounding of hoofs. He started to run. Rounding the corner he saw the third man, whoever he was riding away, holding Cain Brockman before him on the saddle, riding off up the trail.
For a moment Kilkenny stared after them, gun in hand.
Then he bolstered the gun and walked slowly back.
He did not believe he had hit Cain Brockman, but the big man had been thrown hard and had hit the ground hard. A concussion, no doubt.
Kilkenny retrieved Buck and stepped into the saddle. As he passed the station, the stationmaster leaned out. "Didn't think you could do it, mister! Some shootin'!"
"Thanks . . . And thanks for the warning."... He indicated the dead man. "Better get him out of the street. He's a big man and he'll spoil mighty fast."
He started Buck toward the Botalla trail.
Whatever was going to happen would happen fast now, and he had crossed part of one of the roughest hurdles.
He slapped Back on the shoulder and lifted his voice in song. still have a word to speak, boys, only one to say, Don't never be no cow-thief, don't never ride no stray. Be careful of your rope, boys, and keep it on the tree. But suit yourself about it, for it's nothing at all to me! Even as he sang, one part of his mind was reaching forward to the problems that lay ahead. It was time to strike. Now, before any further move was made by the man at Apple Canyon. If he and the men from the ranches could roust out the rustlers living in the long house there, and either capture or send them across the border, much of the trouble would be ended.
Polt
i was dead and Abel Brockman was dead...
They must move now. At once.
When Cam Brockman came around, he would come hunting him of that Kilkenny had no doubt And despite the death of his brother, or because of it, Cam was a very dangerous man.
Yet Kilkenny was almost positive in his own mind that the man at Apple Canyon and the mysterious killer were not the same.
They might be ... but they seemed to Kilkenny to be vastly different types. The latter would kill only for reason and most of that reason would be gain, while the other person, man or woman, seemed to kill for no reason at all... except in the case of Des King.
On a sudden hunch Kilkenny turned the buckskin and took off across the hills toward Apple Canyon. Another talk with Nita might give Mm some clue, some indication of who the man on the hill was.
Or was he simply fooling himself? Was it not that he wanted to see her again? Yet what right had he to think seriously of any woman?
He rode on, his face somber, thinking of her. A man who rode the outlaw trail had no right to think of any woman. There were many who did not feel as he did, and that was all right for them. But Lance Kilkenny had seen too many good women and some bad ones, left alone after gun battles. He had taken the news to a few of them himself.
What did he have to offer? Nothing. No life beyond the day, no future, no trade or profession beyond the cattle business.
And someday his gun would hang in its holster, his elbow would bump something, or somebody would grab him at the wrong moment. Confident as he was of his skill, Kilkenny knew that someday he would be too slow.
Yet there had been a few gunfighters who had left it behind. A few . . . very few . . . but some had. One had become a lawyer, another a newspaper man.
Men who lived by the gun died by the gun, and that was the usual way of it. So far, Lance had been lucky because he was elusive. Those reputation-hungry kids did not know who he was and, once they found out, he was gone. For he never stayed where he had had a gun battle. Nor would he remain here, once the trouble was over. He would ride out, disappear.
The buckskin skirted the base of a hill and emerged among some cedars. Below him lay Apple Canyon.
Kilkenny studied the town, and there was no telltale flash from the cliff house. He might be able to get into the town without being seen. Keeping to the cover of the scattered trees, he worked his way down the slope.
There was no sign of life.
At the foot of the hill he dismounted and tied the buckskin with a slipknot Enough of a tie to tell the buckskin he should stand, not enough to hold him if Kilkenny should whistle. Keeping the saloon between himself and the livery stable, Kilkenny walked casually from the trees toward the back of the saloon.
The biggest chance of being seen was from the Sadler house, or by someone walking that short street Yet Kilkenny made the trees near Nita's house without being seen, far as he could tell. Placing a hand on the fence, he vaulted it, landing lightly behind some flowering shrubs. Inside the house, someone was singing in a contralto voice, singing lightly and without pretenses people sing when the song comes from the heart and not the brain. It was an old song, a tender song, and for a moment Kilkenny stood listening, strangely moved by the beauty of it. Moving around the shrubbery he stood by an open window.
Nita Riordan stood inside, almost within reach.
She held an open book in her hands. She was not reading, but looking out at the hills across the valley, a willful expression around her mouth.
"A lovely picture ... Lance said gently. "A very lovely picture! It makes me wish I were a painter, that I might capture and hold it forever!"
She did not jump or show surprise, but turned to face him.
"It is strange that you should come just now, for I was thinking of you. I was wondering what you were like as a little boy, what your mother was like, and your father."
Kilkenny removed his hat and leaned on the sill.
"Does it matter? No man is anything but what he makes of himself, I suspect, although no doubt the inheritance is there. It is what he does with what he was given that matters, and I have not done so well."
"I would not agree. You are an honorable man, a brave man, and a man with pride, But no foolish pride. I think that is quite a lot."
"I've killed men."
"That is the way of the world, I'm afraid. We live in a time when quarrels are settled in such a way, and when many men must enforce their own law. A time will come when that is no longer necessary, I hope."
He shook his head. "Nita, there have been times when I knew trouble was coming and did not avoid it.
Sometimes I have stood at a bar and seen a man whom I knew meant trouble walk into a room. I should have left at once, and I did not.
"You have power when you can use a gun, but it is an ugly power. And it worries me that someday I might kill the wrong man."
"Kilkenny, I am young, yet not so young as most women who are married. I am twenty-four, and have kept a saloon for several years. In that time I have learned much about men.
"This is a violent time. But if only bad men could use guns the world would be in a sorry state. We need such men as you, men who know when to use and when not to use guns, men who will carry them not as a threat but as a protection for themselves and others.
"What would I have done without Brigo? How could I have lived? I inherited this place. It was all I had, and I knew no other way of making a living.
"I have done well . . . very well ... but without Brigo I would not have lasted. Men know he is here.
Men know he is remorseless. Men know what he would do if harm should come to me. So I have been safe."
"You are a smart girl, Nita. And shrewd enough to know what the end will be for me."
"I do not know any man's end. Who knows what his life will be? Who knows how long he has to live?
Do you? Do I? Does Brigo?"
"You have been thinking a lot, Nita."
"Perhaps too much. It is what comes of living much alone with books. I am not sure whether in these days a girl should think ... or, at least, whether she should let a man know it."
"I wouldn't have a girl who didn't think. Beauty is much, but it is not enough. I'd want a companion . . . if I could think at all of such things."
"You have thought of it"
"Maybe . . . But look what I have to do now.
He is up there, and I must find him. Once and for all this trouble must be ended."
"Be careful, Kilkenny. He is deadly. He is as vicious as a coiled snake, and he lives now for just one thing: to kill you. Once, when he was drinking he told me he knew he could beat Hardin or Longley, and there were but two men who bothered him.
You and Ben Thompson.
"He said Ben Thompson had more nerve than any man he'd ever known, and if you ever fought him you'd have to be sure he was dead, because as long as he could walk he'd come after you again.
"You bothered him because you were like a ghost. Here, then gone. Nobody could tell him anything about you except that you were powerfully good with a gun."
"I know how it is ... said Lance. "You're good with a gun and you begin hearing about others, and after awhile you start to wonder whether they are better than you and what would happen if you met. You form a picture in your mind of what a man is like, and when you shoot that picture is in your mind. When you know nothing about a man, it worries you.
"When a stranger rides into town, say a quiet man who drinks with his left hand, well, you know he might be dangerous, but you don't know who he is.
Once you know, you understand what you're up against. . ."
They stood there for a few minutes without talking, and a strange yearning arose within Kilkenny. It was the longing of a lonely man for a home, a fireside, for the nearness of a woman and the laughter of children. For someone to work for, to protect, someone to belong to, and some place where you fitted in.
There had been so many years of endless watchfulness, of continual aw
areness, of looking into each man's eyes wondering if he was a man you would have to kill, or if he was the man who would have to kill you.
Yet even as he thought of that, Kilkenny knew there was something in his blood that answered to the wild call of the wilderness trails. There was something about riding into a strange town, swinging down from his horse and entering a strange saloon, something that gave him a lift, that gave a strange zest to life.
There was something in the pounding of guns, the feel of a .45 in his fist, the power of a horse beneath him and the shouts of men that awakened all that was free within him.
Times bred the men they needed, and the west needed men who could bring peace to the wild land even while finding death for themselves. The west was won by gunfighters no less than by pioneering families and Indian fighters.
"And when this is over, Kilkenny, what will you do?"
"Ride on. Maybe Til find myself a place in the hills and change my name and just live away from trouble."
"Why don't you many and have a home, Kilkenny?"
"Me"..."... He laughed harshly. "All I can do is handle a gun. That isn't much good around the house.
Of course, I might punch cows or play poker."
He straightened suddenly. "Time I was getting on.
You be careful."
He turned away, then asked, "Nita, what hold does this man have over you?"
"None. As I told you, I wish to live, and he would kill a woman as quickly as a man. But, after a fashion, he too has protected me. Of course, he wants me for himself, and one of the things that has protected me is "that he is perfectly sure he will have me. But I belong to no man... not yet."
"You can't tell me who he is?"
"No. Perhaps you think I do not help, but if he kills you I shall again be alone, and he will be here, and I must live. I can tell you but one thing. Do not go to his place by the path."
Kilkenny walked back to the buckskin and rode back to Botalla. If the men were still there he would ride back at once. He had scouted all the approaches to Apple Canyon.
He believed he could muster sixty men, and that was not enough, for there were at least forty at Apple Canyon, and they would be defending their home grounds.
the Rider Of Lost Creek (1976) Page 12
