He had been seen in Kansas City, had killed a gambler on a riverboat, had been in Abilene and then in Ellsworth. The next report had come from Leadville, where he had killed a man reputed to have been a minor member of the James gang.
Kilkenny was thinking fast of all these things when suddenly, the doors burst open. As one man, the men gathered in the Trail House turned to stare.
A full step inside the door, his big head thrust forward, stood a huge, broad-jawed, unshaven man in a checked shirt, black jeans, and heavy cowhide boots.
“Cain Brockman!” Old Joe Frame exclaimed.
Brockman walked toward Kilkenny and stopped, three paces from him. He unbuckled his gunbelt and put his guns on the bar. “I’m goin’ to kill you, Kilkenny, with my bare hands!”
“Nothing doing!” Webb Steele said. “We’ve no time for that, Kilkenny! We’ve got a job to do!”
“The job will have to wait,” Kilkenny said. “Cain has chosen his weapons. He’ll have his chance.”
With a hoarse grunt, Cain Brockman lunged, swinging a ponderous right fist. Kilkenny stepped inside with a left to the face, then closed with the bigger man, slamming both fists to his midriff. Cain grabbed Kilkenny and threw him bodily across the room into some tables and chairs, then lunged after him.
Kilkenny stepped away, stabbing a left that caught Brockman on the cheekbone. Then Brockman caught Kilkenny with a swinging right that knocked him to his knees.
A kick aimed at Kilkenny’s head just grazed his shoulder as he was starting to rise. He lost his balance, toppling over on the floor. But as Cain rushed in to put the boots to him, Kilkenny rolled over quickly and came up swinging.
Brockman was savage, with a killing fury, and he was forty pounds the heavier man, with two inches of height and at least that much of reach. And he had before him the man who had killed his twin.
Another right caught Kilkenny a glancing blow, which he partially evaded. He went under a swinging left and countered with a wicked right to the ribs. He then hooked a left to the chin and sprang back before Cain could grab him.
It was toe-to-toe, slam-bang fighting then, with neither man taking precautions. They fought like savages. They stood wide-legged in the center of the floor and swung until it seemed impossible that they could continue. Then Kilkenny slipped under another left, and uppercut hard with both hands to the body.
The bigger man backed off and Kilkenny hit him with a long left that split his swollen cheekbone, showering him with blood. They grappled, and went to the floor, kicking and gouging.
Brockman was a brute for strength, and filled with so much hatred and fury that he was almost immune to pain.
There were no rules here, none of the niceties of combat. This was fighting to maim or to kill, and all the spectators knew it.
Blood streaming from a cut on his own cheek, Kilkenny lanced a left to Cain’s mouth, missed a right and took a wicked left to the body. He took the punch going in, and landed both hands to the face.
Cain’s head rocked with the force of the blows and he spat a tooth onto the floor. He swung hard to the head, staggering Kilkenny. But the gunfighter came back fast, ripping a short right uppercut to the chin, then a left and a right to the face.
Kilkenny was boxing now. Long ago he had worked with some of the best boxers of the day. He needed every bit of his skill.
It was not merely defeating Brockman. Kilkenny would soon be facing Royal Barnes as well, and his hands must be strong and ready. He stepped inside of a right and whipped a right to the heart, then hooked a left to the same place and battered away with both hands at the big man’s torso, his head on Brockman’s shoulder. Body punches had less chance of hurting his hands, and Kilkenny knew he must fight with care.
He stepped around, putting Brockman offside, then crossed a right to Cain’s bleeding eye, circled farther and crossed the right again. He stabbed three fast lefts to the face and then, as Brockman lunged close, he butted him under the chin with his head.
Brockman let out a muffled roar and crowded Lance to the bar, but Kilkenny wormed away and slugged the big man in the ribs.
Brockman seemed to be slowing down. His face was bloody and both eyes were swollen almost shut.
He backed slowly away from a stabbing left and was suddenly brought up hard against the wall. Putting a boot against the wall, he shot himself off it like a battering ram, head down, and caught Kilkenny in the chest. Off-balance, Kilkenny went to the floor.
Brockman rushed in, trying to kick him in the ribs, but Kilkenny got to hands and knees and hurled himself against Brockman’s legs. The big man tumbled over him, and then spun around on the floor and grabbed Kilkenny’s head, groping for his eyeballs with his thumbs.
Mad with pain and fear for his eyes, Kilkenny tore loose and scrambled to his feet. Brockman came up swiftly and Kilkenny jabbed with a left to that wide, granite-hard face. Blood flew and he felt the nose crunch under the blow.
Cain crowded in, seemingly impervious to pain, pounding at Kilkenny’s midsection, but Kilkenny blocked swiftly, catching most of the blows on his arms and shoulders. Driven back, Kilkenny swayed like a tree in a high wind, fighting desperately to stave off the attack.
There was a taste of blood in his mouth, and he felt his lungs gasping for breath. Every gasp was a tearing pain.
Had he a broken rib? It felt like he had.
Brockman closed in, sensing some weakness, and threw a left that might have ended the fight, had it landed. But Kilkenny went under it, butting the larger man in the chest. Missing a left, he split Cain’s face with his elbow, turning his head half-around.
Despite the fierceness of the fighting, Kilkenny was not badly hurt. Many of the bigger man’s blows had been wasted on his arms or shoulders. One of his eyes had a bad cut, and he knew by the feel that his jaw was swollen. But mainly he was fighting to stave off the big man’s attacks, while trying to slow him down and sap his strength with body punches. But now he was growing desperate.
His hardest punches seemed to have no effect on Cain Brockman. The big man’s face was bleeding from several cuts. Undoubtedly his nose was broken, and his lips were badly battered, but he now seemed to have gotten his second wind, and to be no less strong than when he threw his first punch.
Kilkenny realized that one of his eyes was rapidly swelling shut. His breath was coming in tearing gasps.
Brockman bored in, swinging. Kilkenny pushed the left outward and stepped in with a hard left uppercut to the wind that stopped Brockman in his tracks. But the big man bowed his head and moved in.
Dropping an open palm to Brockman’s skull as the man pushed forward, he shoved him off-balance, then as his hands went wide to gain balance, Kilkenny stabbed a left to the cut eye.
Cain swung a kick for Kilkenny’s kneecap. Kilkenny drove at him and hit Brockman at the knees. Both went down to the floor, Brockman’s head hitting hard as he landed. Dazed, Brockman started up, then lunged in a long dive at Kilkenny, who promptly stepped back, then brought a knee up to Brockman’s face.
Brockman went back down to his hands and knees on the floor, his face a bloody mask. He was still trying to get up. Kilkenny was sick of the fight, and sick of the beating he was now giving the big man.
As Brockman struggled up, Kilkenny feinted, then hit him in the solar plexus. Cain went down, gasping, struggling to get up but unable to.
Kilkenny stepped back. “It’s enough. You’re a tough man, Brockman, but I’ve other business.”
Weaving, Kilkenny walked to the bar and braced himself with both hands, which were battered and swollen from punching. He stood there, panting heavily.
Rusty came up beside him. “Kilkenny, call it off! You’re in no shape for that raid now! You’re certainly in no condition to tackle Royal Barnes.”
“To hell with it!” Kilkenny said. “You do your part, I’ll do mine.”
Walking back to the washbasin he spilled water from the pitcher and bathed his cut face and his bruised and swollen hands. Turning to Ga
tes, who had followed him, he said, “I’ll need some hot water and some salts … Epsom salts.”
“Got a-plenty of it at the store,” Frame said. “I’ll get it.”
Lance let his hands soak and gingerly bathed the caked blood from around the cuts. Frame returned not only with the salts but with a fresh shirt as well. “You’ll need this,” he said. “Consider it a gift. What a scrap! Man, I’ve seen a few, but—”
“He was tough,” Kilkenny agreed. “I never saw a man take so much and keep coming back.”
Joe Frame grunted. “Hell, man, you did pretty well yourself!”
The bartender brought hot water, and dumping the Epsom salts into it, Lance continued to soak his hands. There was nothing better for taking the stiffness and soreness from muscles or bruises, but it was his hands that worried Lance most. Those hands must handle the guns against Royal Barnes.
Although one eye was badly swollen, he could still see through the slit.
He had no choice but to go, for he was sure the others would never ride without him. None of them knew the lay of the land as well as he did, and there was none among them capable of facing Barnes alone.
“Better get something to eat,” he suggested to Webb Steele. “We’ll ride in one hour.”
“Will you be all right?”
“I’ll be ready.”
Kilkenny was far from sure of that, for his hands had swollen from the battering, and he had no idea how quick or accurate he would be with a gun. Yet the salts and hot water had helped. He worked his fingers, gently rubbed his hands.
Royal Barnes … somehow Kilkenny had always known the time would come.
But he also had to think of Nita.… She must not be hurt. She must not be endangered.
Polti was dead, and Abel Brockman was dead. Cain was not dead but he was out of it for awhile.
Who would be next?
CHAPTER 18
ON BUCK, LANCE Kilkenny rode for Apple Canyon. He was dead-tired, his muscles felt heavy and weary. Yet he knew that the outdoor life he lived, with the simple food, had given him the stamina he would need to recover his strength.
Behind him, in a tight cavalcade, rode the men of the Lord and Steele ranches with a few extras from Botalla and the country around.
Gates rode up beside him. “You had quite a scrap,” he said. “I never knew you were a fistfighter, too.”
“I’ve boxed some. And I worked some in the lum-berwoods as a youngster.”
“You never did say where you were from,” Gates suggested.
Kilkenny smiled. “No, I never did.”
Rusty waited for awhile but nothing further was offered. Then he said, “Facing Barnes with hands like that may be suicide.”
“Nevertheless, I have to do it. And my hands aren’t as bad as they look. It isn’t going to be speed that will win, not in this fight. We’ll both catch lead, and the winner will be the one who can take the most and still keep coming.
“The way I see it, we’ll be spotted before we ever get there. They’ll be holed up around the buildings. The bunkhouse, the livery stable and the blacksmith shop all look like they were built to stand a siege.”
“That was the idea,” Rusty said. “They’re built of heavy logs or stone, and built solid. Bill Sadler’s place, on the same side as the Border Bar, is adobe, and its walls are three feet thick, with windows set to cover the trail into town. It’ll be no picnic, believe me!”
“I know,” Kilkenny rubbed Buck’s neck thoughtfully. “We’ve got to figure that one out, but I’ll not be there for much of it. I’ll be going up to the house, up there on the cliff.”
“Alone?” Gates was incredulous. “Man, you’re asking for it. He’ll be forted up with a dozen others, waiting for you.”
“I doubt it. I doubt if he ever lets more than one man stay up there with him. Royal Barnes, as I understand him, isn’t a trusting soul. My idea is to come down from the cliffs above the house.”
“You’re crazy!” Gates protested. “They’re sheer rock! You’d need a rope and a lot of luck. And even then he’d see you and nail you before you ever got down!”
“Maybe. I’ve got the rope, and maybe the luck. Anyway, I’ll come down behind him where he won’t be expecting trouble, and I’ll come while you boys are keeping them busy down below. Now listen … this is the way I see it—”
As Webb, Frame and Rusty listened, Kilkenny outlined a plan of attack.
“It might work,” Steele said.
Kilkenny had no illusions about the task they had set for themselves. With the plan he had conceived, the details carefully worked out during the days that had passed, he believed the fort houses of Apple Canyon might be taken.
It meant a struggle, and there would be loss of life. This riding column would lose some of its numbers before it returned, and there would surely be bloody fighting before the job was completed.
Where was Steve Lord? Had Steve taken the bait and gone to the hidden cabin in the box canyon? It would be a place to look.
Kilkenny shrank from the task, even the idea, and only the knowledge that others would die if he didn’t act would even permit him to consider it. Luckily, the canyon was only a short distance from the route the cavalcade must follow.
There had been no diary left by Des King. That diary had existed only in Kilkenny’s imagination, and had been bait he had dropped to lure the killer.
Of course, he would have learned the answer soon, in any event, even if Chet Lord had not told him, for the evidence had been accumulating slowly. He had been suspicious of Steve Lord and waited only for a chance to check Steve’s guns against the shells he had found.
What would Steve Lord do now? He was outlawed. He knew that his father had exposed him, and he must realize there was evidence enough to convict him or to send him to an asylum for the insane. He would be desperate. Would he try again to kill Kilkenny? Or would he go on one last killing spree and shoot everybody and everything in sight?
Kilkenny had a hunch that Steve would ride for Apple Canyon. Several times, Kilkenny recalled, he had come upon Steve either on that trail or in the vicinity, and at least once Steve had been rather sharp in his inquiries as to what Kilkenny was doing there.
Was Steve interested in Nita Riordan?
He turned to Webb Steele. “You boys stay on the trail to Apple Canyon. I’ll turn off to that shack where I let Steve think Des King had left a diary, and when I find Steve, I’ll come back.”
He wheeled the buckskin and took off up a draw into the steeper hills. He had been thinking of this route as he rode along. Although he was not sure the route would take him where he wished to go, he knew he would find a way.
He emerged on to a small plain of bunch grass dotted with clumps of oak. All the ridges were covered with scrub oak. He paused among the trees to wipe the sweat from his hatband and brow, then slid his Winchester from the scabbard and rode on.
He kept working his fingers. They were a little stiff, but felt better than he had expected.
He struck a long unused path and followed it through the trees. The trail wound upward, then left the trees and topped out in a region of heaped-up boulders, where the trail wound with all the casualness of cow trails in a country where cows are in no hurry. Twice, rabbits leaped up and scurried away, but the buckskin’s hoofs made no sound on the soft grass.
Kilkenny was cutting across a meadow when he saw the prints of a horse bisecting the trail he was making. In the tall grass of the meadow, the tracks were too indistinct to tell him anything about the horse, but on a hunch he turned the buckskin and followed.
Whoever the rider was, he was in a hurry, riding toward his objective in as straight a line as possible.
It had bad features, this trailing a man in country where he alone was native. Such a man would know of routes and places of concealment of which Kilkenny could know nothing. Such an advantage could mean the difference between life and death.
Scanning every open space before he crossed it, Kil
kenny followed the trail with care. He knew only too well how little it required to conceal a man. A few inches of grass, clothing that blended with the surroundings, and immobility were the only essentials to remaining unseen.
Sunlight caught the highest ridges, and slowly the long shadows crept higher, and the light almost disappeared down the quiet canyons. Kilkenny, every sense alert for trouble, rode warily.
When the cabin was not far away, he dismounted and faded into the darkness under the shadowing trees, looking down through the narrow opening into the box canyon.
It was a squat, shapeless structure, built hurriedly by some wandering prospector or casual sheepherder long, long ago. In the years that had followed, the roof had sagged here and there, branches had been added and earth piled atop until the roof had become a mound now covered with grass.
It was an ancient, decrepit structure, its one window a black hole, its door too low for a tall man.
About it the grass was green, for there was a small stream nearby that flowed from the rocks near the cabin, crossed the box canyon diagonally and flowed back into a hole in the rock on the far side. In transit, it watered a small meadow.
Outside the cabin, under a lone apple tree, stood a saddled horse, his head hanging.
“There we are,” Lance muttered. “Now to get close!”
Leaving the buckskin hidden, he crossed a narrow stretch in a crouching run to the nearest boulder, then on to a clump of brush and trees. Crouching there, he watched the cabin.
There should have been a light in there by now, but there was none. It should take no time to search the cabin, but it would be too dark in there to see much. He hesitated, scanning the rocks and the cliffs. He saw nothing.
The saddled horse stood, head low, waiting wearily. A breeze stirred the leaves of some cottonwoods near the stream. They whispered softly to one another in the evening air. Pulling his sombrero lower, Kilkenny moved with the whispering leaves to cover the rustle of his movement, slipping into the bottleneck entrance of the canyon.
There was no shot, no sound. The horse moved a little, began idly cropping grass, yet he acted as if he had been doing that for some time, and was no longer hungry. Suddenly Kilkenny had a feeling that the cabin was empty.
The Kilkenny Series Bundle Page 29
