Kilkenny

by Louis L'Amour

  Nevertheless, he swung down. “Let’s get that leg set. Then you can come on to our camp. You’re in no shape to travel.”

  Together they set the man’s broken leg, and as they bound the splints the rider who had been knocked out began to groan. Kilkenny jerked his head toward him. “Get his gun. He might start shooting before he has a chance to think.”

  The rider hesitated. “You’ll trust me to get his gun?” He was incredulous.

  “You’re tough,” Kilkenny said, “but you aren’t a damned fool!”

  Kilkenny retrieved the fallen man’s horse, then his own. The man with the Mexican hat was holding his head in both hands. “We’ll start for camp. Listen, sorehead, you can make up your mind whether you want trouble or ride away under your own power.”

  “Trouble?” The fellow looked up through eyes squinted with pain. “I got trouble!”

  “Mount up, then, and start for Horsehead.”

  It was evening when they reached the valley. The long sweep of country lay before them, dotted now with streamers of mist. Far away the mountains were a deep purple with evening except their higher ridges which caught a hint of fire from the setting sun.

  “Lord!” Tetlow breathed. “What a country!”

  The herd flowed past them, and the heads of the cattle came up, nostrils distended. After two days of driving they scented the flowers, the grass and the pines. They began to trot and then of their own volition, as if knowing they were home, they began to spread out and sink their muzzles in the grass. And then, faintly, the wind stirred.

  The cattle felt it, and the men. As if on signal they began to listen. And the wind seemed to whisper faint words, not quite discernible, and the cows moved on, ears wide, stopping from time to time for a mouthful of grass.

  “This is where I stop, Tetlow,” Kilkenny said. “This is home.”

  Together the riders bunched and rode down the valley toward the cabin, and there was silence among them.

  At daylight the riders from the Forty rode away down the valley, and only Cain Brockman and Shorty remained with Kilkenny. There had been no sign of Havalik, nor of his men.

  Two days later, riding among the cattle near the foot of the range, Nita drew rein beside Lance. “What now, Lance?” she asked. “Us?”

  “Not yet. First there’s Dee Havalik.”

  “I see no reason to wait, Lance. I’m not afraid.”

  “You never were.”

  They walked their horses back to the ranch. Shorty was sitting on the top step whittling and he looked up as they drew near, then jerked his head at a stranger who stood near a saddled horse. “Tetlow wants to see you. He sent this gent.”

  Kilkenny studied the man, who was a stranger. “Heard anything from Havalik?”

  “Not much,” the rider admitted. “Most of the men left him. He’s mighty mean. I rode with him myself, but he ain’t fit to be around. Only one can get along with him is Andy Tetlow.”

  “How many men has he got?”

  “Maybe six. He killed West. The others just drifted off when the chance offered.”

  “What’s Tetlow want?”

  “Never said. That jail’s mighty hard on him.”

  Kilkenny tied the buckskin in front of the livery stable and left instructions for his care. Brockman did likewise, and then the two men crossed the bridge to east town.

  Leal Macy got up with a quick smile as they entered. “Glad to see you, boys! Tetlow’s been asking for you, Lance.”

  “How’s everything?”

  “Couldn’t be better! Haven’t had a fight in town in two weeks and business couldn’t be better.”

  He opened the door to the cells and Kilkenny walked along until he came to that occupied by Tetlow. There had been no attempt at rescue by either Andy or Havalik, yet the old man was ramrod stiff. Ben had sent him tobacco despite his rebuffs. Now Tetlow came to the bars. “Didn’t figure you’d come.” There was no warmth in his voice.

  Tetlow stood silent at the bars, and searching his face. Kilkenny could see no change in the man. If anything he had grown harder, colder. Yet there was a change. There was something cruel in his eyes, something cruel and somehow triumphant.

  “I bought some of your cows from Ben. A nice lot.”

  “He’d no right to sell. Not to you, leastways.”

  “He stood his ground, played a man’s part.”

  Kilkenny was puzzled. Jared Tetlow made no move to introduce whatever it was he wanted to discuss. He waited, giving the old man time.

  “You’d better take care of that man Brockman,” Tetlow said. “Andy figures to kill him along with you.”

  “He’d better leave Cain alone. Jared, you don’t know about Cain. Neither does Andy. The man’s hell on wheels.” “

  He hesitated a moment longer. “What did you want to see me about?”

  Jared Tetlow stared at him. Then he turned away. “Changed my mind,” he said abruptly.

  Kilkenny felt a little alarm bell ring in his brain. Carefully he turned his head and looked down the hall. At the end there was a small window, but there was no one in sight. And there was no one else around. He drew back from the bars, studying Tetlow.

  His black coat was shabby and worn. There was a stubble of beard on his jaws. He looked mean … like a cornered, half-starved wolf.

  “Then I’ll go,” Kilkenny said.

  He had walked three paces and had a hand on the knob when Jared Tetlow spoke. “Maybe I just wanted to see how a man looks before he dies.”

  Kilkenny hesitated, his mind working swiftly. Then he stepped out and drew the door to behind him.

  Macy looked up, but after a quick glance around the office Kilkenny walked past to the door. He stood there, looking up and down the street.

  “What did he want?”

  Without replying to the question, Kilkenny stepped out and then stopped abruptly. A man stood in the center of the bridge staring across the street from Kilkenny.

  The man on the bridge was Andy Tetlow and he was staring at Cain Brockman.

  Brockman stood in the shadow under the awning, bulking, ominous.

  And Tetlow took a step forward, then spoke, his voice ringing with arrogance. “All right, Brockman!”

  Cain Brockman stepped from under the awning. Two hundred and forty pounds of him, his big head lowered and thrust slightly forward, his thick hands swinging near his gun butts. He stepped into the street but he said nothing.

  Kilkenny, who understood such things, saw that Tetlow was surprised. Obviously, Havalik, who knew about Cain, had told Andy Tetlow nothing about the big man. It was apparent from Andy’s attitude that he expected an easy kill, but there was no fear in the big man. He came out like a lion stalking game, easy on his feet, utterly dangerous.

  “I’m going to kill you, Brockman!” Andy Tetlow shouted, staring up the street at the big silent man. The realization that all was not as expected was revealed in that shouted statement when no statement was necessary.

  Cain Brockman moved forward on cat feet and for the first time Andy Tetlow got the full weight of the menace that faced him. He saw for the first time that far from being frightened the big man accepted the fight with eagerness.

  Instantly, Andy Tetlow took a step back and his hands dropped for his guns.

  They dropped and they came up but even as his finger tightened on the trigger Brockman’s gun flowered with flame and a bullet struck Andy in the shoulder, knocking him back a step and deflecting his aim. A second bullet smashed him in the chest and two drove through his stomach. He fired again, his bullet smashing into the bridge rail, and then Andy fell against the rail, fought for balance and finally got his feet under him. Dying, he turned blindly to face Cain Brockman, but the big man knew no mercy.

  Guns hammering, he walked in. A bullet smashed Tetlow’s knee, another ripped into his stomach and Tetlow fell back against the bridge railing, which gave way, and he fell heavily to the creek bed, twenty feet below.

  As suddenly as the sh
ooting had begun it was over. Leal Macy came running to stand beside Kilkenny and Brockman, looking down at the bullet-riddled body. Blood stained the small creek and the water washed around the body, turning dark the dead man’s clothing.

  “This country,” a bystander said, “is mighty hard on Tetlows. They’d better find a different climate.”

  “Watch yourself.” Brockman looked around. “He wouldn’t have been alone.”

  Kilkenny had been thinking the same thing. It was all very plain now. Jared Tetlow had sent for him to set him up in the right alley for the guns of Havalik. Dee and Andy had divided the work between them, only Dee had not let Andy know what he was facing. It was just like the man.

  “We’ll need a couple of pack horses,” Kilkenny said. “I want to take more supplies home. I’ll get Buck.”

  Lance turned on his heel and walked across the bridge toward the center of town. Doc Blaine, drawn to his door by the shooting, stood talking to Laurie Webster. About Dolan’s there was an air of bustle and business. Men loitered on the steps at Savory’s, and Kilkenny gave them a quick glance before he entered the big livery stable.

  It was cool inside and there was a pleasant barn-like smell of hay, manure and horses. A horse stomped in a stall and blew contentedly through his nose. Several horses rolled their eyes back at him, showing the whites. There was no one about as he led Buck to the trough, then went back through the barn and into the wide corral.

  Behind this corral was a wagon yard, and to the left of that, another corral. It was in that corral where Dolan kept his stock.

  Trees walled both the corral from which he had come and the wagon yard, and the latter was rilled with huge old ore wagons. Two freight wagons stood in the center of the yard, not together, and five others stood, tongues pointing high, in a row. Others lined the sides of the yard.

  Men had been greasing the wagons and preparing them for use, but they had gone to eat and the yard was lifeless and still in the hot noonday sun.

  Kilkenny closed the gate and was about to cross the yard to the other corral when a boot scraped. Instantly he froze in position, every sense alert.

  The air was very still. The dust was warm. Cottonwood leaves brushed their polished palms together. He listened, but there was no other sound. Stepping quickly into the shelter of a huge freight wagon, he dropped to his haunches and studied the yard through the spokes of a high wheel.

  At first there was no sound of movement, and then through the myriad of spokes of other lined up wheels, he caught a glint of sunlight on a spur!

  He dried his palms on his jeans. His sun-browned face was still and cold, his eyes a deeper green. He pulled his hat brim a little lower and touched his gun butts, loosening them in the holsters. He saw the boots again, and the neat, small feet.

  Havalik …

  Rising swiftly, Kilkenny turned and ran lightly and swiftly to the wagons along the corral fence. Ducking behind them, he could see the wagon where Havalik had been. The gunman was gone.

  Kilkenny hesitated, studying the situation. The corral comprised approximately an acre of ground, and in it were at least thirty wagons. Kilkenny decided that Havalik had seen him, had been stalking him, and was now about where Kilkenny had been before. Also, Havalik was not aware the trap had failed.

  Kilkenny squatted and peered through the spokes. A bullet smashed within inches of his face, stinging it with tiny splinters, and a shot sounded in the stillness of the corral.

  He sprang back, and his spring sent him toppling off-balance to the ground. A second bullet nailed the hub of the big wheel near his face, splattering him with fresh grease. Lunging to his feet, Kilkenny ran around the end of the wagon at the same instant Havalik rounded another wagon-thirty yards distant. Both men fired.

  Havalik’s bullet rugged at Kilkenny’s shirt collar and Dee sprang to shelter, apparently unhurt.

  Kilkenny called out, “In the open, Dee! Let’s settle this now!”

  There was no reply. Behind him he heard movement. He turned swiftly and saw Dave, one of Havalik’s men, with a shotgun at his shoulder. Lance fired and the shotgun bellowed, but Kilkenny’s shot had been fired as a man points a finger. The swing, the point in one unceasing movement. The bullet drilled Dave through the shirt pocket and his knees buckled, throwing the charge of shot harmlessly into the air.

  Instantly, Kilkenny sprang and grabbed the wagontop, swinging over the edge and dropping soundlessly into the wagon. He crouched there, listening. The last report gave Havalik six men.

  Andy Tetlow was gone. And now Dave.

  He waited, letting them look for him. Through a crack in the side of the wagon he saw nobody, so he swung over to the ground again. Seeing movement, he rounded the wagon.

  Dee Havalik was moving across the open, but seeing him Dee stopped and swung to meet him. Under the old gray hat Havalik’s eyes seemed to blaze with malignant fire. Kilkenny saw the guns come up, lining on his belt, and then both men fired at once.

  A bullet tugged at his shirt, and he saw Havalik flinch.

  Kilkenny ran straight at Havalik, his guns ready. Havalik lifted his gun to shoot, but the charging man was too much for him and he broke ground. Instantly Kilkenny skidded to a halt and dropping to one knee he shot three times as fast as he could slip the hammer off his thumb. The bullets slammed into Havalik and he backed up, cursing. His gray face was suddenly livid with a red gash where his lips had been. The red grew and blood trickled from both corners of his mouth. Havalik fired and the bullet burned Kilkenny’s ribs and Kilkenny fired again.

  He saw Havalik jerk as the bullet struck him in the belt and the gunman seemed to shrink, his face twisting. He fired again, and Kilkenny snapped a shot with his left hand gun at the gun barrel that showed through the spokes of a wheel.

  Then he walked around Havalik, forcing the wounded man to turn. When he got around on his left side he fired again and saw the bullet strike dust from the man’s ribs in front of his drawn-back arm.

  Havalik went down then, cursing bitterly. He tried to get up, failed, and fell face down on the hard-packed earth.

  The echoes lost themselves against the hills and Lance Kilkenny stood erect and still in the open yard, looking carefully around him.

  It was very hot. A trickle of sweat moved down his cheek. He heard a big fly buzz heavily in the sun. Leaves rustled … and then there was movement and he turned swiftly.

  Havalik was on his feet, swaying drunkenly, his clothing smeared with blood and dust. Kilkenny fired and the bullet smashed Havalik in the teeth. He fell flat on his face, all sprawled out, and did not move again.

  A man sprang from hiding and lunged at the fence. He was too slow, for as he grasped the top of the fence and swung himself over, Kilkenny snapped a quick shot that knocked him loose from his hold and he hit the ground on the far side, leaving a finger behind him.

  Cain Brockman came into the wagon yard and with him were Dolan, Early and Macy.

  Kilkenny walked to his horse and, mounting, rode up the street to the Pinenut where he went inside for a quick drink. When he came out Cain sat his horse, holding the lead ropes of two packed horses. Kilkenny mounted and the two men rode out of town.

  Nita saw them coming and rode to meet them. Cain rode on ahead, but Kilkenny waited for her. When she rode up to him he said, “Honey, there’s a minister in Horsehead. I think we should go see him.”

  Her eyes searched his face. “Then … it’s over?”

  “All over.”

  “Was … was it very bad?”

  “Dee was in too much of a hurry.”

  They rode on in silence, their hands joined. Then he stopped abruptly and pulled her to him. Their bodies came together as their horses stopped side by side, and his lips touched hers and melted into welcoming softness, and he felt a strange fire thread through his veins.

  And then the wind came, moving among the pines and then down the long grass levels where the cattle grazed, rippling the tall grass into changing gray and green and s
ilver, and the horses pricked their ears, listening. It was very quiet then, in the Valley of the Whispering Wind.

  Only the wind itself, whispering words of endearment to its first people.

  About the Author

  “I THINK OF myself in the oral tradition ��� of a troubadour, a village taleteller, the man in the shadows of the campfire. That’s the way I’d like to be remembered ��� as a storyteller. A good storyteller.”

  It is doubtful that any author could be as at home in the world recreated in his novels as Louis Dearborn L’Amour. Not only could he physically fill the boots of the rugged characters he wrote about, but he literally “walked the land my characters walk.” His personal experiences as well as his lifelong devotion to historical research combined to give Mr. L’Amour the unique knowledge and understanding of people, events, and the challenge of the American frontier that became the hallmarks of his popularity.

  Of French-Irish descent, Mr. L’Amour could trace his own family in North America back to the early 1600s and follow their steady progression westward, “always on the frontier.” As a boy growing up in Jamestown, North Dakota, he absorbed all he could about his family’s frontier heritage, including the story of his great-grandfather who was scalped by Sioux warriors.

  Spurred by an eager curiosity and desire to broaden his horizons, Mr. L’Amour left home at the age of fifteen and enjoyed a wide variety of jobs including seaman, lumberjack, elephant handler, skinner of dead cattle, assessment miner, and officer on tank destroyers during World War II. During his “yondering” days he also circled the world on a freighter, sailed a dhow on the Red Sea, was shipwrecked in the West Indies and stranded in the Mojave Desert. He won fifty-one of fifty-nine fights as a professional boxer and worked as a journalist and lecturer. He was a voracious reader and collector of rare books. His personal library contained 17,000 volumes.

  Mr. L’Amour “wanted to write almost from the time I could talk.” After developing a widespread following for his many frontier and adventure stories written for fiction magazines, Mr. L’Amour published his first full-length novel, Hondo, in the United States in 1953. Every one of his more than 100 books is in print; there are nearly 230 million copies of his books in print worldwide, making him one of the bestselling authors in modern literary history. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and more than forty-five of his novels and stories have been made into feature films and television movies.