the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986)

by L'amour, Louis

  If ever, he would have a chance to talk then. King Bill would have his guests in ringside seats. He would be expecting a quick victory.

  Coldly, Kilkenny appraised himself. Like all fighting men, he considered himself good. He had fought many times in the rough and tumble fistfights of the frontier. As a boy he had fought many times in school. During the days when he was in the East, he had taken instruction from the great Jem Mace, the English pugilist, who was one of the most clever of all bare-knuckle fighters. Mace was a shrewd fighter who used his head for something aside from a parking place for two thick ears.

  King Bill did not know that Kilkenny had ever boxed. Neither would Tombull know that.

  Moreover, Kilkenny had for years lived a life in the open, a life that required hard physical condition and superb strength. He had those assets, and above all, he had his knowledge of Turner, whereas Turner knew nothing of him. Turner would be overconfident.

  Nevertheless, in all honesty, Kilkenny could find little hope of victory. His one hope was to make a game fight of it, to win the sympathy and interest of the officials before he spoke to them, as he would.

  He would rest when he returned to the cup. He would soak his hands in brine, and he would wear driving gloves in the ring. Some of the younger fighters were wearing skintight gloves now, and Mace had told him of their cutting ability.

  There was no sound but the sound of the forest, and he relaxed, watching and awaiting the dawn. When it came, they ate a hurried breakfast. They were rested and felt better. Kilkenny cleaned his guns carefully, both pistols and his rifle. The others did likewise.

  "Quince," Kilkenny said as he holstered his guns. "You know Blazer. What d'you think?"

  Hatfield shrugged. "I reckon they won't be expectin' us from hereabouts. I been takin' some bearin's, an' I reckon we will come into town from the opposite side. We got us a good chance of gettin' in afore they know who we are."

  "Good!" Kilkenny turned to Bartram. "You know the team. You stay by the wagon an' keep your gun handy. Stay on the ground where you can either mount up or take cover.

  "Saul, you an' Jackie hustle the grub out to the wagon, an' Quince will stand by to cover you."

  "How about you?" Bartram asked, looking up at him.

  "I'm goin' to look around for sign of the other wagon. I want to know what happened to Lije an' them. They may be all right, but I want to know."

  As they mounted up, he turned in his saddle. "Quince, you ride with me. Saul an' Jackie will bring up the rear."

  They started out, and less than a mile from where they had come from the desert, they rode down into the trail to Blazer. As Quince Hatfield had suggested, they were coming in from the opposite side.

  Two rows of ramshackle saloons, cheap dance halls, and stores made up the town of Blazer. These two rows faced each other across a river of dust that was called a street. The usual number of town loafers sat on benches in front of the Crossroads, the Temple of Chance, and the Wagon Wheel.

  It was morning, and few horses stood at the hitching rail. There was a blood bay with a beautifully handworked saddle standing in front of the Crossroads, and two cow ponies stood three-legged before the Wagon Wheel.

  Chapter XII

  In the Enemy's Lair

  Lance Kilkenny rode past the Perkins General Store and swung down in front of the Wagon Wheel. Bartram stopped the wagon parallel to the hitching rail and began to fill his pipe. His rifle leaned against the seat beside him.

  Saul and Jackie walked into the store, and Quince leaned against the corner of the store and lighted a cigarette. His rifle lay in the wagon, but he wore a huge Walker Colt slung to his belt.

  A horseman came down the trail and swung down in front of the Wagon Wheel and walked inside. Quince straightened and stared at him, and his eyes narrowed. The man was big and had red hair and a red beard. Kilkenny stared at the man, and then, as Quince motioned with his head, he idled over toward him.

  "That hombre was wearin' an ivory-handled Colt with a chipped ivory on the right side," Hatfield said. His narrow face was empty and his eyes bitter.

  "A chipped ivory butt?" Kilkenny frowned, and then suddenly his face paled. "Why, Jody Miller had a gun like that. An' Jody was with the first wagon."

  "Uh-huh. I reckon," Hatfield said, "I better ask me a few questions."

  "Wait," Kilkenny said. "I'm goin' in there.

  You keep your eyes open. Remember, we need the grub first. Meantime, I'll find out somethin'."

  He turned and walked over to the Wagon Wheel and ambled inside. Two cowpokes sat at a table with the bartender and a man in a black coat, a huge man, enormously big and enormously fat. That, he decided, would be Sodermann.

  The red-bearded man was leaning on the bar. "Come on, Shorty," he snapped. "Give us a drink! I'm dry."

  "Take it easy, Gaddis," Shorty barked. He was a short, thickset man with an unshaven face. "I'll be with you in a minute."

  Kilkenny leaned against the bar and looked around. It didn't look good. If the big man was Sodermann-and there was small chance of there being two such huge men in any western town- that placed Sodermann and Gaddis. The cow- pokes might be mere cowhands, but they didn't look it. One of the men might be Ratcliff. And there was still Rye Pitkin. But he knew Rye, and the rustler was not present.

  Judging by appearances, Shorty could be counted on to side Sodermann, and if that was Jody Miller's gun, it meant that the other wagon had been stopped, and the chances were that the men who accompanied it had been wiped out.

  Slow rage began to mount in Kilkenny at the thought of those honest, sincere men, who asked only the right to work and build homes, being killed by such as these. He was suddenly conscious that Sodermann was watching him.

  Shorty got up and sauntered behind the bar. "What'll you have?" he asked, leaning on the hardwood. His eyes slanted from Gaddis to Kilkenny.

  "Rye," Gaddis said. He turned abruptly and gave Kilkenny a cool glance, a glance that suddenly quickened as he noticed the dusty clothing and the tied-down guns. He stared at Kilkenny's face, but Lance had his hat brim low, and this man had never seen him before, anyway.

  "Make mine rye, too," Kilkenny said. He turned his head and looked at Sodermann. "You drinkin'?"

  "Maybe." The fat man got up, and he moved his huge bulk with astonishing lightness. Kilkenny's eyes sharpened. This man could move. "Maybe I will. I always likes to know who I'm drinkin' with, howsoever."

  "Not so particular where I come from," Kilkenny said softly. "A drink's a drink."

  "I reckon." Sodermann nodded affably. "You appear to be a stranger hereabouts. I reckon every man who wears a gun like you wear yours knows Doc Sodermann."

  "I've heard the name." Kilkenny let his eyes drift to the table. One of the men was sitting up straight rolling a smoke, the other idly riffling the cards. Either could draw fast. Red Gaddis had turned to face them.

  The whole setup was too obviously ready to spring. He was going to have to relax them a little. He would have to relieve this tension.

  "Heard there might be a job up this way for a man," he said slowly, "an' I could use a job up here where it's quiet."

  "Away from the law, you mean?" Sodermann laughed until he shook all over. Kilkenny noticed there was no laughter in his eyes.

  "Uh-huh. Away from everythin'."

  "We got law here. King Bill Hale runs this country."

  "Heard of him."

  "You hear a lot," Gaddis suggested. His eyes were mean.

  "Yeah." Kilkenny turned a little and let his green eyes stare from under his hatbrim at the red-headed man. "Yeah, I make it my business to hear a lot."

  "Maybe you hear too much!" Gaddis snapped.

  "You want to show me how much?" Kilkenny's voice was level. He spoke coolly, yet he was sure there would be no shooting here, yet. He was wondering if Sodermann knew Hatfield was outside beside the window.

  Gaddis stepped away from the bar, and his jaw jutted. "Why, I think you're-!"

 
"Stop it!" Sodermann's voice was suddenly charged with anger. "You're to anxious for trouble, Gaddis. Someday you'll get yourself killed."

  Gaddis relaxed slowly, his eyes ugly. Yet, watching the man, Kilkenny could sense a certain relief in him also. Gaddis was a killer, but not a gunman in the sense that he was highly skilled. He was a paid killer, a murderer, the sort of man who would drygulch men around a wagon. And he wore a chipped gun.

  "Your friend's right proddy," Kilkenny said softly. "He must have a killin' urge."

  "Forget it," Sodermann said jovially. "He's all right. Just likes to fight, that's all!"

  Kilkenny stared at Gaddis. "Seems like you should be somebody I know," he drawled slowly, "I don't recognize that face, but I do know you. But then, I never remember a face, anyway. I got my own methods of knowin' a man. I look at the only thing that's important to me!"

  "What's that?" Sodermann asked. He was studying Kilkenny, curiosity in his eyes and some puzzlement.

  "I always remember a man's gun. Each gun has its own special look, or maybe it's the way a man wears a gun. Take that one now, with that chipped ivory on the side of the butt. A man wouldn't forget a gun like that in a hurry."

  Gaddis stiffened, and his face turned gray. Then the tip of his tongue touched his hps. Before he could speak, Sodermann looked straight into Kilkenny's eyes.

  "An' where would you see that gun?"

  "In Santa Fe," Kilkenny drawled, remembering that Miller had once lived there. "It was hangin' to a man they said was comin' west to farm. His name was Jody Miller."

  "You talk too much!" Gaddis snarled, his face white and his lips thin.

  "It was in Santa Fe." Kilkenny was adding a touch now that he hoped would worry Sodermann. Only a word, yet sometimes-

  "Miller stopped off in Santa Fe to see some folks at the fort there an' to talk to Halloran an' Wallace. Seems they was old friends of his."

  Sodermann's face sharpened, and he turned. His raised hand made Gaddis draw back a little.

  "You're talkin' a lot, stranger," he said smoothly. "You say this Miller knowed Halloran an' Wallace?"

  "Uh-huh." Kilkenny motioned to Shorty to refill his glass. "Seems he knowed them back East. One of 'em married a sister of his, or somethin'. I heard 'em talkin' in a saloon once. Heard Halloran say he was comin' out here to visit Miller."

  Kilkenny glanced at Gaddis, his face expressionless. "I reckon you'll be plum glad to see him, Miller. It's mighty nice to have an official, big man like that, for a friend."

  Lance could have laughed if he hadn't known what he knew now, that the wagon had been waylaid and that Miller was probably dead. There would be no other reason for Gaddis looking as he did. The man was obviously afraid. Sodermann was staring keen-eyed, yet there was uncertainty in the big man. When that uncertainty ended, there would be danger, Kilkenny knew.

  "Funny," Kilkenny said softly, "I don't remember Miller havin' red hair. Seemed to me it was black. That's what it was. Black."

  "It was Yel-!" Gaddis began.

  "Yellow. That's right. It was yellow. Strange, I couldn't remember that. But you, stranger, you've got Jody Miller's gun. How d'you explain that?"

  Suddenly, the door behind Kilkenny opened. He felt the flesh along the back of his neck tighten. He dared not turn. He had been deliberately baiting them, hoping for more information, yet baiting them, too. Now, suddenly, there was a man behind him.

  Sodermann seemed to make up his mind. Assurance returned to him, and he spoke low, almost amused. "Why, howdy, Rye! I reckon you should come in an' meet our friend, here. Says he recognizes this gun Red's a-wearin'."

  Rye Pitkin walked past Kilkenny and then turned.

  His jaw dropped as though he had seen a ghost, and he made an involuntary step backward, his face slowly going white. "You!" he gasped. "You!"

  "Why, yes," Kilkenny said. "It's me, Pitkin. Long ways from the Pecos country, isn't it? An' a sight further from the Brazos. Now, Pitkin, I'll tell you somethin'. I'm not real anxious to kill anybody right here an' now. If I start shootin', two of you are goin' to die.

  "That'll be you, Rye, and Sodermann here. I couldn't miss him. An' if I am still shootin', as I will be, I'm goin' to take care of Gaddis next. Gaddis because he killed Jody Miller. But that comes later. Right now I'm leavin', an' right now you better impress it on your friends that reachin' for an iron won't do any good."

  He stepped back toward the door, and his eyes shifted under the hatbrim from one face to the other. Sodermann's eyes were narrowed. Pitkin's obvious fear put doubt in the big man. Who was the stranger? Red Gaddis shifted toward the center of the room, his eyes watchful.

  Rye stiffened as Red moved. "Don't, Red! That's Kilkenny!"

  Gaddis stopped, and his face turned blank with mingled astonishment and fear. Then glass tinkled from the front of the room, and a long Kentucky rifle barrel slid into the room. Kilkenny stepped back to the door.

  "Now if you hombres are smart, you'll just hole up here for the time bein'. We don't want trouble, but we may have it!"

  He stepped through the door and glanced quickly up and down the street. Bartram was on the wagon seat, his rifle across his knees. Jackie Moffitt was standing by his horse, his rifle in his hands, and Saul was across the street. Kilkenny smiled in narrow-eyed apprehension. They were fighters, these men.

  "Start the wagon," he said, "down the Cedar trail. Jackie, stay with Bartram."

  He walked out and swung into the saddle and then slid a rifle from the boot. "All right, slide!"

  He wheeled the buckskin and whipped down the street. A shot rang out from behind him, and he twisted to look. Saul was mounted, but Quince had turned and thrown up his rifle. He fired. A man staggered from the shelter of the Wagon Wheel and spilled on his face in the dust. The next instant there was a fusillade of shots from the Wagon Wheel and nearby buildings. The gunmen had slid out the back way and were getting into action.

  Kilkenny reined in behind the last building and swung to the ground. Then, with careful fire, he covered the Hatfields as they raced up the street to join him.

  Quince was smiling, his eyes hard. "That was Red Gaddis," he said coolly. "He won't take no more dead men's guns."

  "Give the wagon a start," Kilkenny said. "We three are going to make some buzzard bait! We have to come back to this town, and we might as well let them know what the score is."

  Every time a head moved, one of them fired. While they stayed where they were, no man dared enter that street, and no man dared try the back way in this direction.

  Leaving the two Hatfields, Kilkenny sprinted down behind the buildings toward the Wagon Wheel. The men there were killers. He did not know what had happened to the other wagon, but he meant to find out. It was his reason for taking the Blazer trail. He was hoping they might not all be dead. At least, he could bury those that were.

  Chapter XIII

  Ambush Toll

  The rear door of the saloon was open, and there was no one in sight. He stood behind the next building and watched for an instant. He wanted Pitkin or Ratcliff. He would get nothing from Sodermann unless the fat man elected to tell him.

  Several old boards lay on the ground behind the saloon, dry and parched. On a sudden inspiration, he moved swiftly from the shelter of the building and holstering his gun, hurriedly piled them together. Then, using a piece of old sacking and some parched grass, he lit the fire.

  It was away from the buildings, but the wind would blow the smoke into the saloon. He hoped they would think he was burning them out, the last thing he wanted to do, as they needed the town as a supply base.

  As the boards caught fire, he stepped back quickly.

  There was a startled exclamation as the fire began to crackle and wood smoke blew in the back of the saloon. A second later a man stepped to the door, thrust his head out, and then stared at the fire. He seemed puzzled. Out of sight, Kilkenny waited.

  Then the man stepped out and kicked the boards apart.

  "All right!" Kil
kenny snapped. "Don't move!"

  It was Ratcliff, and the man froze. "What's up, Kilkenny? I never done nothin' to you."

  "Start this way, walk careful, an' watch your hands."

  Ratcliff was a weasel-faced man with shifty eyes. He started moving, but shot a glance at the doorway. He held his hands wide. When he was six feet away, Kilkenny stopped him.

  "All right, talk. I want to know what happened to that other wagon."

  Ratcliff sneered. "You think I'll tell? Guess again. You don't dare shoot. If you do, they'll be out, but fast."

  With one quick step, Kilkenny grabbed the man by the throat and slammed him back against the building. Then he lifted the pistol.

  "Want a pistol-whipping, man?" he asked harshly. "If I start on you, you'll never look the same again!"

  "Leave me be," Ratcliff pleaded, his face yellow. "I'll talk."

  "Get at it then."

  "They done loaded up with grub. We let 'em get out of town. Then Sodermann ambushed 'em. Had about six men, I think."

  "Who was killed?"

  "We lost a man. We got Miller an' Tot Wilson in the first blast. It was Hatfield got our man. Nailed him dead center between the eyes."

  "What happened to Hatfield an' Hight?"

  "They got Hight. I seen him go down. He was shot two, maybe three times. We got Hatfield, too. But he got up an' he dragged Hight into some rocks. We couldn't get to 'em."

  "Then what?"

  A voice roared from the saloon. It was Sodermann. "Ratcliff! What in time are you doin' out there?"

  "Answer me!" Kilkenny snapped. "Then what?"

  "Sodermann said it'd serve 'em right. Leave 'em there to die with two men to see they didn't move out of them rocks. They been there two days now."

  "On the Blazer trail?"

  "Yeah, almost to the turnoff to the peaks."