MA HATFIELD REACHED Cedar before noon. She had taken her time and a roundabout way, and when she rode into town nobody seemed to notice. She came up the back streets and rode at once to the back door of the Crystal Palace.
Tying her mule, she tapped gently. For several minutes there was no response, but there was a small rear window, and she was quite sure she was being observed.
She did not object. After all, she was a stranger and they had a right. After a minute the door opened, and a big man was standing there, a big man in black pants tucked into black boots, two heavy belts of black and two guns. He wore a pure white shirt and a black vest studded with gleaming bits that looked like diamonds.
“Come in, Señora Hatfield! You are most welcome.”
“You know me, then?”
He bowed gracefully. “I am Jaime Brigo. I have seen you.”
He did not say where or how, but he turned away from her and led the way down the hall to a door that was, she noted, set solidly in the timbers that formed the frame. This was no ordinary door, and it would take a battering ram or an ax to break through, and then it would not yield easily.
He tapped on the door and it opened. Nita Riordan got to her feet. “Señora? I am pleased. Would you sit? Do you prefer tea or coffee?”
Ma started to say “Coffee” and then reflected that it had been ten years since she’d had a cup of tea. “Tea,” she said, “and a mite of sugar, please.”
“Would honey do? I prefer it and rarely have sugar around. Although,” she added, “I believe they do have a little at the bar.”
“Honey will do just fine.”
Ma Hatfield had been looking at Nita Riordan suspiciously. She was, Ma admitted to herself, a handsome woman. Not more than twenty, she guessed, but mighty sure of herself. Moved graceful-like, too. Beautiful, too, no doubt about it.
Ma decided she liked the chair she sat in, and liked the room. It was, she guessed, what they called a sitting room, and through a door on the other side she could see a rolltop desk and a chair, like in an office.
“You run this here place your ownself?”
“I do, señora. When my father died he left me such a place, and it was all I had. It was run it myself or starve. I learned very quickly.”
The tea arrived, carried by an old Chinese. He placed it on the table between them, and some small wafers. Ma looked at them warily. She had heard all sorts of things about such places as this, and that furriner, too. That yellow one. She’d heard about them.
Nita poured two cups, then handed one to Ma with a couple of the wafers on it.
“You are Señora Hatfield? You have some handsome sons, señora.”
Well, now! Maybe they was and maybe they wasn’t, but it was nice of her to say so. “They’re good boys,” she agreed. “A mite inclined to shoot too quick, but even so, they don’t miss often, although that Saul”—she shook her head—“he had a dead bead on a big buck night afore last, and him not three hundred yards off. Missed him. Missed him complete! I d’clare, I was glad his ol’ pappy didn’t see it. It would have shamed him.”
“What is it you wish of me?”
“Miss, Mr. Kilkenny, he asked me to find out two things. He’s wishful to know who is to fight this here Tombull Turner, and he also wishes to know who is coming to Cedar from the capital.
“We uns heard tell that Mr. Hale, him they call King Bill, had invited some folks down from the capital. I think,” she added, “the one he’s most thoughtful of is him they call Halloran.”
“Halloran? Yes, he is coming. I am not sure about the others. He invited several, and three accepted, and I know that Halloran is one of them.”
“Good! Now, who is to fight this here Tombull?”
“It is a man named Sandoval. He is a Basque from over near Virginia City in Nevada. I know nothing else about him.”
“Just as well. Kilkenny was thinkin’ o’ fightin’ Tombull hisself.”
“Señora, he must not even think of it! This man is strong. Oh, so very strong! And he has had many fights. Please, you must not let him think of it!”
Mrs. Hatfield chuckled. “Ma’am, you surely don’t know much about menfolks! Not, at least, the kind we got yonder in the hills. Why, I couldn’t talk my old man or ary one of the boys out’n a fight, let alone that Kilkenny! He does what he pleases, and when he pleases, although I do say I never knew a nicer, kinder, or more thoughtful man in all my born days.”
“Señora, you must not tell him, but they have talked of it. Cub—he is Bill Hale’s son—he suggested it. He said they should rope and hog-tie him and bring him down here and throw him in there with Turner. I heard them talking, but King Bill stopped that talk very quickly.”
“Kilkenny aint afeerd, ma’am. He’d fight him in a minute. Fact is, he’s talked of it. He says he doesn’t think he could beat Turner, but it would give him a chance to talk to Halloran.”
Nita Riordan put down her cup. She looked at the work-hardened hands of the older woman and felt ashamed of her own. The lean brown figure in the faded gray dress and sunbonnet. There was little that was feminine about her except for the way her fingers touched the fabric of the chair, the way her eyes yearned toward the pretty things. Yet Nita was wise enough to sense the deep pride in the woman and knew she dared offer her nothing.
“Señora, you must not be seen here. I think some of the men know you, and . . . well, there are some evil men here. Mr. Hale would not want a woman injured, but I cannot say so much for some of the others. You must go.”
Ma finished her tea. “I’m obliged, ma’am. The tea was pleasant to the taste. Been a long time since I had any tea.”
“Did you know that Lance likes it? I mean, Mr. Kilkenny. I wonder if you would take a couple of pounds to him?” The thought had come to her suddenly that this was something she could give, if she was wise in the way she did it. Lance would know at once what she intended. “I know he doesn’t get tea very often, and he does like it for a change. Would you be so kind?”
“I would. If’n you’re up to sendin’ it, I’ll surely carry it along.”
Nita left the room, and Ma Hatfield relaxed slowly. It was a lovely room, such a place as she had dreamed of but never experienced, for in her nearly sixty years of life she had lived only in log cabins or sod houses, often with dirt floors. It was, she thought, downright elegant.
After a bit Nita returned. “Can you ride the trails after dark?” she asked.
Ma smiled. “I should reckon. I been ridin’ mountain trails since I was knee-high. What’s troublin’ you?”
“There are some of Hale’s men around, and they are drinking. When dark comes, I will have Jaime take you out the way you came. Besides,” she added, “I haven’t talked to another woman in a long time.
“You see, the women here think because I operate a saloon and gambling hall that I am not a nice woman. I think I am.”
“I think you are, too.” Ma was immediately defensive. “My boy Quince, he says you’re a lady, and I reckon Quince is a judge.”
For two hours they talked quietly. Ma told Nita of the troubles of raising sons in the wilderness and in the wild western lands. “This here,” she said finally, “is the first time we’ve had us a chance to make it. We got us some good land up yonder, and some prime bottomland along some of the creeks, and the boys have worked almighty hard clearin’ more land, fencin’ with cut poles and the like.
“We done planted some fruit trees, and we got a good corn crop in. This year we put a floor in the house, and Pa’s goin’ to take time to make a new bedstead. He’s a hand, Pa is, does most anything with tools. Quince takes after him. Lije, he cares mostly for huntin’, trappin’, and the like.
“We had too many boys for the small land we had back in Kaintuck, so Pa ups and comes west to Missouri. We had us a chance there, good rich land and hard work, and then the grasshoppers come and eat all our corn and we was left owin’ for the seed.
“Next year we had floods and hail, and we
didn’t make a crop that year, either. We lost our land because we couldn’t pay our bills, an’ Pa moved to Kansas. There the Jayhawkers, Quantrill and them, they burned us out twice. The boys was all away at war but Saul, and Pa and him, they made a fight of it, me helpin’.
“We just lost everythin’. Pa, he’s worked hard all his life, but we never seem to more than make ends meet. Pa had him some fine horses there in Kansas, but the Injuns run them off an’ that was the time they kilt Grandpa.
“Then we come here and settled up yonder where we didn’t think we’d be bothered. We’ve done a sight of work gettin’ the place into shape, and this year it looks like we’ll have good crops of corn and barley . . . some wheat.”
“Does Lance live far from you?”
“Him? A few miles. He’s right neighborly when it comes to helpin’ with raisin’ barns an’ such, but he keeps to hisself. I say it ain’t right, a young man like him, but he just smiles at me and says I shouldn’t worry, but I do. He ought to have himself a woman.”
“What’s it like? His place, I mean.”
“Comfortable. Squared logs that fit snug, windows all around, and a puncheon floor in the bedroom, stone-flag floors elsewhere. He done nigh all of it hisself, sleeping under a tree until he had it built.
“He split his own shakes, an’ taken time about it. I expect he was most of six months at that house. He rarely goes to town. I couldn’t figure that out. None of us could, until we found out he was Kilkenny.
“Seems like he likes bein’ by hisself, although he’s always ready to he’p anybody in need. He’s a good hunter. Keeps hisself in fresh meat all the while, an’ he wanders a good bit. He’s got hisself a good vegetable garden but he gets much of what he needs from the forest. I lived around Injuns all my life but never knowed one who knew as much about livin’ off the country as him.”
When darkness fell, Jaime Brigo came to the door. “It is time,” he said, “they are eating now.”
“Enjoyed it, ma’am. Hope you’ll come up an’ set with me sometime. It’s been a spell since I talked to ary city woman.”
She mounted, and riding beside Brigo, rode slowly away.
Nita Riordan returned to her sitting room, then after a sip or two of tea she walked across to her desk and picked up a speaking tube that led to the bar.
“Sam? Ask Price Dixon to come in.”
It was only a moment until there was a tap at the door, and then the gambler entered. “Price? Do you know Trent?”
“I know him. He’s a good man.”
“Did you know he was Lance Kilkenny?”
“I am not surprised.” Price Dixon never revealed how much he knew, and always knew more than suspected.
“You saw him fight King Bill?”
Dixon smiled. “It was a rare treat. I never saw a more complete whipping given to anyone, although Hale is a tough man.”
“How do you think Kilkenny would do with Turner?”
“With Turner? Tombull? Why, I never thought of such a thing, to tell you the truth. Tombull Turner is a pro, a very experienced fighter, and a tough one.”
“Lance wants to fight him.”
“Wants to? He’s crazy! I can’t imagine anybody wanting to fight Turner. Why, in God’s world?”
“He thinks it is the only chance they will get to offer their side of things to Halloran. He thinks he’ll get a chance to speak to him from the ring, and that Hale won’t dare stop him.”
“That makes a kind of sense, but there should be an easier way. Kilkenny and Turner?” He thought about that. “Dammit, Nita, but I’d like to see it. I really would! What a scrap that would be!
“You know,” he exclaimed suddenly, “Kilkenny might have a chance, at that. He’s good. I noticed the way he moved in that Hale fight. He’s boxed some, knows his way around a ring, I’d say.
“Hale had help, you know. Kilkenny was kicked several times when he was down, tripped at least once. He hits very fast, and he’s accurate.
“But Turner? The man’s good, Nita. He’s very good indeed.”
“And he’s fighting Sandoval.”
Price looked around at her. He had walked to the sideboard and was pouring himself a drink. “Do you want Kilkenny to fight Turner?”
“No. I certainly do not.” She smiled. “He’s my man, Price, come what may. He is the only man I ever wanted, and I followed him here. Shameless of me, wasn’t it? But I know he wants me, too, and it is just his misguided sense of chivalry that keeps us apart. He doesn’t want me to be a widow.”
“I understand. In his place I’d feel the same. You have to face it, Nita, Kilkenny is a gunfighter with a reputation. There’s no way he can escape it.
“I’ve seen him in action, and he is quick, unbelievably quick. What is more, he’s accurate and he’s cool. It is one thing, you know, to shoot at a target, another thing when the target is shooting back at you. Many a man who was supposed to be very fast suddenly blows up when he realizes he can be killed.”
“You asked if I wanted Lance to fight Turner, and I said I did not. That’s true. But Lance wants to fight him, and to me that comes first.”
Price tasted his drink. “Nita, you and I know that anything can be done. If the fight is arranged and Sandoval doesn’t get here, then the only man around who could make it interesting for Turner is Kilkenny . . . Trent, if you will.”
“Could you keep Sandoval from getting here? I wouldn’t want him hurt.”
“I know that, and, yes, I could keep him from it. You know, he’s only getting two hundred for the fight. If he wins, a bit more. But he isn’t going to win, and I am sure he knows it.
“I also know that Rosa McNeil, a girl he’s excited about, just came into the country. She’s stopping in Mountain City for a few days. If somebody got two hundred dollars to Sandoval and the word that Rosa was in Mountain City, he could forget all about that fight.”
“Then do it. I may be foolish. I may get Lance hurt, but what he wants I want for him. And I do know that Tom Halloran loves a fighter. He’s as Irish as Kilkenny is, and he’s been a follower of the prizefighting business all his life, as a spectator and enthusiast.”
“It will be done.” Price smiled. “Nita, you’re quite a woman. You must remember, though, that Lance may not have that classic profile any longer when the fight is over.”
She shrugged. “I am not in love with a profile, Price. I am in love with a man.”
CHAPTER 12
THEY LOADED FOUR kegs of water on the wagon and they each took a canteen. They took shovels, rope, and a long pole for a lever. With Bartram on the driver’s seat, they started out.
Kilkenny, riding the buckskin again, led the way through the newly cut gap in the trees and down the steep slope. They tied a heavy log to the back of the wagon to keep it from running up on the heels of the mules. Cautiously they started down.
It was slow, painstaking travel. A dozen times Kilkenny dismounted to roll a stone from the road, yet at last they came to the bottom. Quince cut loose the log they had dragged for a brake.
The air was still and hot. It was a bleak, broken land with little vegetation. “Let’s roll ’em!” Kilkenny said.
Before leaving the cliff he had taken a sight on a distant peak that he knew to be in the area of Blazer, but knowing the dust storms to be bad, he had brought along a compass. He had taken a sight on the distant peak and now he rechecked. The smoky haze that often hung over the area made outlines vague, but the trail they were following led roughly westward. How closely the trail would hold to the course he had set, he did not know, or even how long the road would be visible.
The slightest touch of wind stirred the fine dust into the air, and their horses’ hooves and the wagon added to it. Slowly they moved westward. Twice they had to turn aside from great drifts of dust that reached across their path. Here and there Kilkenny found it easier to walk along and lead the buckskin, as there were obstacles to be moved from the trail. There was very little growth.
When they had been traveling what his watch told him was an hour, he held up a hand. They stopped and bunched around the wagon. With a damp piece of sacking brought for the purpose, the men sponged out the nostrils of the horses.
Jack Moffit had insisted on coming along with the wagon. He stood up on the seat, looking all about. “Where are we now?” he asked.
Nobody replied, and after a minute he said, “How far have we come?”
“Maybe three miles,” Quince said. “Might be less.”
Even though they carried no load but the kegs of water and the tools, the wagon was heavy, for the dust was rarely less than six inches deep and often they pulled through drifts that were as much as two feet in depth.
After a few minutes Kilkenny mounted again, and once more they pushed on. Before them, something large and dark loomed through the dust. It was a long, low, basaltic cliff that might have been a flow of lava. Kilkenny knew little of such things, except a few words picked up here and there from surveyors or when working in the mines.
The trail turned south, and after something over a half-mile it rounded the end of the obstruction and headed back north again, but northwest, actually. Twice they descended into deep water courses and climbed out of them. The tracks were all old. They saw little vegetation and no tracks of animals, not even of snakes or lizards.
At the end of the second hour they paused again. This time in the shade of a low cliff. There was no talking. The heat was intense and all were tired. Kilkenny offered no comment, but he was sure they had made no more than two miles, if as far.
Rising, he walked out from the shelter of the rock and climbed to a better position. There was a haze that seemed mostly heat waves now, but he could see little. Here and there a roll of the land, a butte, or some rocks. It was unbelievably dry, yet far ahead he could see what looked like a line drawn across in front of them. His glasses told him no more than his eyes because of the heat waves.
They started on. The sand was deep, their progress slow. Time and again they turned from the trail to find an easier way, then came back to the trail after circling some obstacle.
The Kilkenny Series Bundle Page 41
