“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 awareness, 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 I’ll find myself a place in the hills and change my name and just live away from trouble.”
“Why don’t you marry 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.
Nevertheless, nothing could be gained by waiting and much might be lost. The time was now.
Yet the raid on Apple Canyon might still leave the killer at large. As Kilkenny rode, his brain sifted the accumulated evidence, little though it was. Yet one idea refused to be denied, and it worried itself around in his thoughts until he arrived in Botalla.
He came up to the Trail House at a spanking trot.
Dropping from the saddle he flipped a dollar to a Mexican boy. “Pedro, take this horse and treat him right—oats, hay and water … and a rubdown.”
Pedro grinned. “Sí, señor. It shall be done.”
Rusty Gates was inside the Trail House, holding himself stiff, but he was there, and he had a gun belted on.
“If you’re goin’ after the Brockmans, count me in.”
“Abel’s dead. Cain had a bad fall and was knocked out.”
“When he comes out of it, he’ll go crazy. He’ll be after you.”
“Can’t help it. We’re riding to Apple Canyon.”
“Might be sixty, seventy men there,” Joe Frame said, “but we’re ready.”
There was a pound of hoofs in the street, and then a man burst in the door. “Kilkenny! Chet Lord’s dyin’ an’ he wants to see you!”
“What happened?”
“Gored by a mad steer. Hasn’t got long, but he keeps askin’ for you.”
“Steele, if you will, get the men together. Lots of ammunition and grub for three days. Post guards so nobody slips out of town to warn Apple Canyon. Start whenever you’re ready, and I’ll catch up!”
The Mexican boy was busy with the rubdown. Together they saddled and bridled the buckskin.
Riding to the Lord ranch, Lance wondered what it was that was on Chet’s mind. That something was on his mind was obvious. The man had lost weight, he was drawn and pale, and it was obvious his nerves were on edge.
Was Chet Lord the unknown killer? As soon as the idea came to him, Lance put it aside. The man was not the type. Bluff, outspoken and direct, he was a man who would shoot straight and die hard, but all his shots would be at a man’s face, not his back.
Letting the buckskin have his head, he hurried along the road. The buckskin knew his master well, and knew he would be called upon for many hard rides. He was ready for them.
Although cow ponies were often held in slight esteem, most cowpunchers had their favorites. It was the gunmen and outlaws who cared for their horses, who worried over them, for a horse might spell the only difference between life and death.
Buck was as keenly sensitive to danger as any wild creature. A flicker of movement anywhere and he was instantly alert—which came of running wild in rough country.
The Lord ranch was strangely still when they came into the yard.
Steve met him at the door, his eyes filled with tears. His face was pale. “He wants you, Lance. He’s been asking for you.”
Kilkenny went into the room where Chet Lord lay dying. A sharp-eyed man with a beard straightened up as he entered.
“I’m Doc Wentlow.” He smiled wryly. “From Apple Canyo
n. He wants to talk to you …” The doctor glanced at Steve, “… alone.”
The doctor and Steve went out, and at the door Steve hesitated, as if loath to go. Then he went out and drew the door shut behind him.
Kilkenny turned to the old man on the bed. His breath was slow and heavy, but his eyes were open. His face seemed to have aged ten years, and when he reached out he grasped Kilkenny’s hand with trembling fingers.
“Kilkenny,” he whispered hoarsely, “I’m dyin’. Promise me you’ll do it. It’s something you can do.”
“Sure. If it’s anything I can do, I will.”
“Kilkenny,” he whispered, then his grip tightened on Kilkenny’s hand. “Kilkenny, I want you to kill my son!”
“What?” Kilkenny shook his head. “You can’t mean that.”
“You’ve got to! I’m an old man, Kilkenny, and right or wrong, I love my boy. I love him like I loved his mother before him, but he’s a killer! He’s insane! Des told me before Steve killed him. Long ago Steve had a bad fall, maybe that done it. He acted queer after he began to straighten out, but I wouldn’t believe it. He seemed to be all right, and then he started killing things. Animals … chickens. Finally he stopped that and seemed to have straightened out. Then the old Indian died, and others. I didn’t see it, but Des did. I wouldn’t believe Des when he told me, even though I could see it had to be true.
“Des said he’d have to be put away, but he was all I had, Kilkenny. I just wouldn’t accept it.
“I done wrong. I know I done wrong, and folks died because of it. Sometimes he was a good boy. Thoughtful, kind … then he’d go to moonin’ around and one day he’d ride off … An’ somebody else would die.
“Kilkenny, you got to kill him. I won’t be around to protect him no more, or to slow him down from his bad ways. You’ll shoot him so he won’t suffer. You’re good with a gun, and you’d do it for a horse with a busted leg.
“I don’t want him to suffer. He’s a baby for pain. He can’t suffer. I don’t want him hung, neither.
“Just shoot him down. Kill him before he does more harm. Joe Frame has got a paper. It’s all wrote down. I can’t die knowin’ I left an evil thing behind me to do more evil. An’ but for that, he’s been a good boy.”
That was the last thing he said before closing his eyes. Of course, Kilkenny thought. It all fitted. The opportunity, the killing of Des … Everything. Kilkenny had even suspected something of the kind and that was why he had wired.
Wired?
Kilkenny clapped a hand to his chest. Why, the wires! He had forgotten, in the thought of the Brockmans coming, he had completely forgotten!
Hurriedly, he dug into his pocket and took them out. The first was from San Antonio and it was a verification of what Chet Lord had said, a few scattered facts about his fall. That information would be unnecessary now.
He unfolded the second message, from El Paso.
TYSON SAW ROYAL BARNES AT APPLE CANYON. HE KNEW BARNES FROM HAYS CITY. BARNES MURDERED TYSON’S BROTHER AND TYSON HEARD BARNES SWEAR TO KILL YOU FOR KILLING THE WEBERS. BE CAREFUL, KILKENNY! HE’S COLD AS A SNAKE AND LIGHTNING-FAST!
Kilkenny crumpled the message and thrust it into his pocket. The third message no longer mattered. He had only tried to locate various gunfighters so he might decide who was at Apple Canyon, and now he knew.
Royal Barnes!
The name stood out boldly in his mind, for it was one he had long known. A man reputed to be boldly handsome, a cold, hard man, victorious in many gun battles, raids into Mexico, even raids against Indians. Some said, which Kilkenny doubted, that Wes Hardin had once backed down in front of Royal Barnes.
Kilkenny opened the door and stepped out. Instantly, Doc Wentlow got up.
“How is he?”
“Low,” Kilkenny replied. “Where’s Steve?”
“Steve? You know, he’s acting strange. He stood by the door a minute, apparently listening, then he ran out, jumped on a horse and took off, riding like the devil!”
Kilkenny was relieved. He had never killed a man unless the man was attempting to kill him. To walk out and shoot Steve Lord dead would never have entered his mind. Just what he could do he was not yet sure, nor how to go about it. He did know that Steve Lord must be stopped.
Thinking back to that moment in the Trail House, he remembered the odd look in Steve’s eyes that day, yet Steve had not wanted to shoot it out. His insane urge to kill might stem not from the fall but from some twisted sense of inferiority.
What Steve would do now, Kilkenny could not guess. He knew killers, but those he knew were, by and large, sane men whose ways could be understood. Even the craziest of men had moments of sanity, and were often good men, given the chance.
Now Steve had mounted and ridden away, to what? Where could he go?
Suddenly, Lance had an idea. Steve Lord would go to Apple Canyon.
However insane Steve might be, there was still some connection between him and Apple Canyon. Kilkenny suspected Steve had more than a little interest in Nita Riordan, but he would now be riding with fear in his heart, with the desperate realization that his last refuge … his father … was gone.
Now Steve was out in the open, a place he had desperately feared. He must fight, and he might die, and Kilkenny knew such a man would fight like a cornered rat … or simply fold up and not fight at all. Yet he, Kilkenny, had an obligation to a dying man, and he must do what he could … short of killing.
Why should he feel depressed? Steve was a killer, a man who had slain the innocent, who shot from ambush, and he must be stopped. His own father, the man who sired him, had passed the sentence upon him.
Kilkenny turned off into the brush, unrolled his poncho, and was asleep almost as soon as he hit the ground.
CHAPTER 17
BOTALLA’S MAIN STREET was crowded with horsemen when Kilkenny rode back to town. They were in for the finish, these lean, hard-bitten, range-tried veterans of the Texas cattle country. Riders from the Steele and Lord ranches were there, men who had ridden the cattle trails north, men who had fought the Comanches and the Kiowas, men who were veterans of the War between the States … on one side or the other.
Yet as Kilkenny rode up the street, his eyes searched for Steve Lord, and as he rode through the crowd he wondered how many of these men would be alive when the week had ended.
They would be facing men as tough as themselves, men reared in the same hard school, desperate as men can only be when faced at last with the results of their own misdeeds.
They would fight shrewdly and well, for they were uncommon criminals, tough young men who for one reason or another had found themselves on the wrong side of the law. With a different turn of events, they might be punching cows or trail-bossing herds.
Certainly, they would ask no quarter or give none. A fight with them was a fight to the finish. They might have taken the wrong trail but they had courage.
Kilkenny wanted none of that fight. He wanted but one man: Royal Barnes.
How would he know him? Somehow, Kilkenny had the feeling he would know Royal Barnes when he saw him.
This meeting would be different, just as the fight with the Brockmans was different. He had been fortunate in timing his meeting and his moves so Brockmans’ combination would not work. He had killed Abel Brockman without having to fight Cain, too.
That fight would come. Cain was around, and Cain had announced his intention of killing Kilkenny.
Another thing he knew. He had never drawn against a man as fast as Royal Barnes … with blinding speed, exceptional accuracy, and a coldness Kilkenny, himself, did not have. Barnes had killed Blackie Slade, and Kilkenny remembered Slade only too well. He had seen Slade in action and the man had been poison, pure unadulterated poison in a gun battle. Yet according to reports, Barnes had shot him down like he was an amateur.
He swung down from his horse and walked into the Trail House.
“We’re all set,” Steele told him. “We’ve just been waitin’ to see wh
at shape Lord is in.”
“Chet Lord is dying,” Kilkenny said, “and he told me about the killings. Steve Lord has been dry-gulching those people. Des King uncovered it and told Lord, but then Steve killed Des, and the old man just didn’t have the heart to take his own son up. But now Chet Lord knows he’s got to be stopped.”
Steele shook his head sadly. “Too bad! But, we should have known. Steve was always a strange one.”
“There’s something else, too. The man up in the cliff house that I was telling you about, the leader of all this trouble, is Royal Barnes.”
In the stillness that followed, men stared at one another. And into the minds of each came the stories they had heard of the man, stories told in barrooms and around campfires on the range. It was said that Royal Barnes had killed thirty men, but nobody knew for sure. Yet in the mind of each was the realization that he himself might be the next to go down.
Few killers had sought trouble. For the most part the gunfighters, while known to each other and with considerable mutual respect, had not hunted trouble. Royal Barnes had, both as a boy and as a man.
He had been a fairly good hand with cattle, but he had not worked at it. He had ridden shotgun for a stage line when he was seventeen … and killed two men who had tried to hold up his stage. Then he had hunted down the man who got away.
Only a few months later, Royal Barnes had received a tip that a holdup was to be attempted, so he followed the stage.
There were four men there, all in position, ready for the holdup.
Royal came up on them from behind and opened fire. One survived to tell the story. Afterwards, there were no more holdups when Royal Barnes rode the stage.
THAT HAD BEEN the beginning. Then, for several months, he was marshal of a mining boom town in Nevada, and was reported to have killed two men. But from that time on, he seemed to have gone to the side of the lawless. It was reported, but unproven, that he had himself held up a stage in Montana. There had been several robberies on the trails of men who had struck it rich in the gold fields, and then Barnes had gone to Mexico.
The Kilkenny Series Bundle Page 28
