The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 3

by Louis L'Amour

  It would be murder, cold-blooded, ruthless, efficient. Kilkenny stepped out on the street, waiting. His mouth was dry, his hands loose and ready.

  Stroud did not see him, yet he knew that if Stroud moved to kill the old man, he would kill Stroud.

  Stroud had hesitated an instant only, then he walked through the soft dust toward Pike. Taylor started to turn but the marshal was swift, incredibly so. His left hand dropped to the old man’s wrist with a grasp of iron, while his right hand came up under the barrel and broke the gun back against Pike Taylor’s thumb.

  Death had stalked the street, and then Pike stood disarmed and helpless. Seizing the old man’s arm, Stroud started him toward the jail. And as he turned he saw Kilkenny.

  Thirty yards apart their eyes met. Stroud’s gun hand gripped the old man’s arm.

  Kilkenny heard a sharp intake of breath, then from the shadows a voice. “Now’s your chance—take him!”

  Kilkenny walked slowly forward. “Havin’ trouble, Marshal?”

  Stroud’s eyes, wary but faintly curious, met his in the light from the windows. “Careless shootin’. Are you going to take him back to the ranch, or does he sleep it off in jail?”

  “In jail—it will keep him out of trouble.”

  Stroud nodded, started to turn away. Kilkenny said, “You could have killed him, Marshal.”

  Stroud turned sharply. “I never kill men,” his voice was utterly cold, “unless it has to be done.”

  Kilkenny walked back to the saloon and ordered a drink. The bartender came leisurely down the bar and slammed a glass before Kilkenny. He slopped whiskey into it. His eyes were insolent when he looked up.

  Kilkenny did not change expression. “Drink that yourself. Then get a fresh glass and pour it without spilling.”

  The bartender hesitated, not liking it, but not liking what might follow. Suddenly, he tossed off the whiskey and followed instructions.

  The man with the sloping shoulders and the limp edged along the bar, faint contempt in his eyes. “Had him dead to rights. He got you buffaloed?”

  “Why should I shoot him? He means nothing to me.”

  “He’s gunnin’ for you.”

  “Is he?”

  “Everybody knows that. Sure he is.”

  “I’ve seen no signs of it.” Kilkenny lifted his eyes. “And I can read sign. If you ask me there’s a lot of skunk tracks around here.”

  Kilkenny gave him time to reply, but the man stood silent, his face tight and worried. Events had taken a turn the limping man did not like. After a moment he shrugged, then shuffled back across the room and sat down at a table covered with papers. He took up a pencil and began adding what looked like a column of figures. Again, Kilkenny had that strange feeling that he’d met this man before, and that the man had just done something that by all rights should have told Kilkenny where that memory came from.

  “I never knew Jim Denton,” Kilkenny said then. “His troubles were his own. Anybody who hopes to promote a battle is wastin’ time. I fight my own wars … this one ain’t mine.”

  Irritably, Kilkenny walked to the hotel, got a room, and turned in. He had slept scarcely an hour when, restless, he awakened. He sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette.

  Obviously, he had been elected to kill Tom Stroud, but who had done the electing? Whoever, they would not cease planning because of his statement in the saloon. What they seemed to need was a scapegoat, for evidently the powers in town were evenly balanced, and the Hillman crowd—What was it about him that never ceased to worry Kilkenny?

  What about Laurie? Where did she stand? Despite her comment that he was not to take up Denton’s quarrel, Kilkenny was not at all sure. She was poised, intelligent. Her interests would seem to be aligned with those of the storekeepers, but was she not a little ruthless? Yet, he had seemed to detect something in her manner to Stroud that was different.

  Was he becoming too suspicious? Maybe, but if he killed Stroud or they killed each other, it could be set down as a gunman’s quarrel. Perhaps a certain group would then find a marshal more susceptible to corruption.

  What would they do now? Still considering that, he fell asleep.

  He awakened for the second time with a faint scratching outside his window. He swung his feet to the floor and moved swiftly to where he could see. The alley was empty.

  The moon was behind a cloud, but as he flattened against the wall he suddenly caught a faint flicker of movement. Somebody was at the end of the alley, standing in the shadows. It was a woman. It was Laurie Archer. He could see the arm of her gray coat … she gestured to him.

  He held his watch to the faint light—it was past three o’clock. What would she be doing up and around at this hour?

  Hurriedly, he dressed. Belting on his guns, he stepped from the window into the alley. Swiftly and silently he moved to the end of the alley where Laurie had disappeared, and then he saw her, some distance off. He hurried after her, and then she vanished.

  He crouched at the base of a huge old cottonwood, debating this. Suddenly, he heard a horse stamp. Turning his head, he beheld the animal standing not a dozen yards away, bridle reins trailing … and that meant the horse had been ridden lately and would be ridden soon again. He went to the horse … its flanks were damp. He touched the brand—a Lazy A, Laurie Archer’s brand!

  There had been no time for her to get to the ranch and return. Therefore, Corey Hatch must be in town.

  Why?

  A kid … proud, defiant, loyal … a kid riding for the brand, and Pike Taylor arrested. Remembering his own youthful feelings, Kilkenny knew how Corey must feel. He would believe Pike must be freed—but how had he known about Pike?

  Somehow, someone had gotten word to him. That meant the man behind the scenes was setting up a situation that could only lead to violence, and somehow, in the confusion, Stroud would be killed.

  Only Stroud?

  Very likely he, Kilkenny, was to be killed, too. That meant they had to get him on the scene of the fight, and that meant Laurie was part of it somehow. But she had led him nowhere, she—he stared around him, suddenly.

  A half dozen cottonwoods and some willows behind a building … a blacksmith shop. And next door? Suddenly he came to his feet, tense and ready.

  They had succeeded, they had led him into a trap. They had gotten him close to Stroud, and when they killed both it could be signed off as a gun battle. Didn’t everybody know they were hunting each other?

  For the building next door to the blacksmith shop was the jail—and Tom Stroud lived in the front of the jail.

  Time was short, only seconds must remain, for they could not hope to keep him here long.…

  A crash from the jail started him running. He ducked around the blacksmith shop, and was just in time to see the marshal step into the door. The moon had come from under a cloud and he caught a fleeting glimpse of Stroud in the doorway. At the corner of the building was Corey Hatch, gun in hand!

  Kilkenny opened his mouth to shout a warning, and then the night was ripped apart by a crashing volley. Tom Stroud took one step forward and then fell headlong, sprawled across the steps.

  Kilkenny triggered his gun into the darkness from which the shots had come, then ducked and ran to the fallen man. Corey stood where he had been, his mouth opened wide, then, the surprise wearing off, he dropped to the ground.

  Stroud was hit several times, but alive. Kilkenny looked up. “Corey! Over here!”

  Startled, yet knowing the voice, the boy slipped onto the porch.

  Together they got the marshal inside and stretched on a bed. Taking a sawed-off shotgun from the wall, Kilkenny handed it to the boy. “Take that and guard the door. Let nobody in! Understand? Nobody!”

  Kilkenny stripped the shirt from Stroud’s body. He had been hit once high in the chest, once in the leg. His side had been grazed by another bullet, his shirt torn in several other places.

  Swiftly, Kilkenny went to work. From of old, he knew bullet wounds and what
to do about them. A half hour later, he joined the boy near the front of the jail.

  “Nobody stirrin’,” Corey said. “What happened, boss? I don’t get it.”

  “I’ll explain later. Let’s get Pike.”

  Taylor was on his feet and at the door of his cell. He had, he explained, received a note. When he read the note he got loaded and started for town.

  The note? He took it from his shirt pocket. It was printed on a coarse bit of wrapping paper:

  Jim Denton was bringing this bottle to you when he was murdered by Stroud. Figured you should have it. He’s going to get your new boss the same way.

  A Friend

  The very simplicity of it angered Kilkenny. The writer must have known the old man would have a drink, and then another, and he would think about Denton dead, and this new boss, Lance, about to be killed. So he got a gun and started for town.

  “How about you?” Kilkenny asked Corey.

  Corey took a note from his jeans. It was the same coarse paper, the same pencil style:

  Stroud’s got Pike in jail. Pull the bars off the window while I handle Stroud.

  Lance

  Kilkenny explained the situation. Obviously, whoever led the element opposed to Stroud hoped to get him killed, and to kill Kilkenny or one of the men from the ranch in the fight. That tied it to a grudge battle over Denton, and would arouse no controversy with the townspeople, nor would they be likely to suspect a plot.

  Kilkenny walked back to the door. The blinds were drawn and tightened down. Nobody outside could see what happened inside. They might know Kilkenny was there, and if they did they would act, and soon.

  Stroud was awake and breathing heavily when Kilkenny stepped to the bed. The marshal looked up at him. Kneeling beside the bed, Kilkenny began to talk. He told what had happened as he saw it clearly, concisely.

  “Now,” he said, “you make me your deputy.”

  Stroud’s brow puckered. “What—?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll carry on while you’re down. Just make me your deputy.”

  Speaking in a hoarse whisper, Stroud swore him in before Pike Taylor and Corey Hatch.

  Leaving the two to guard the wounded man, Kilkenny let himself out the back door. It would soon be daylight. He had little hope of finding anything that would lead him to the ambushers, but it was a chance.

  From somewhere, they might be watching. On the other hand, as it was nearing day, they might return home and stay quiet, waiting for the news of the morning. For whatever had happened would be known to everyone shortly after daybreak.

  Circling around, Kilkenny examined the ground where the ambushers had been concealed. They had hidden behind a water trough that stood near the mouth of an alley. No brass shells remained. The tracks were confusion.

  Kilkenny went down the street and crossed, in the first graying of the eastern sky, to the house where Laurie Archer slept. He was starting up the walk when he stopped, frowning.

  The yard had been watered the evening before with a hand sprinkler, and water had run across the sand path to the doorway. So much water had been used that the sand had been left quite damp, and it was smooth, unbroken by any tracks!

  Circling the house, he found there was no back door. The windows were high, too high to be used with comfort. He was standing, staring around, when she spoke to him from the window.

  “Just what exactly are you looking for?”

  He walked toward the window. “I’d like to talk to you. It’s important.”

  She wore a wrapper, and her hair was rumpled, but she looked even more lovely and exciting. “All right. I’ll open the door.”

  When he was inside, he looked around. It was a pleasant sitting room, not so cluttered with bric-a-brac as most such rooms of the period, but done in the Spanish style, with Indian blankets and only a couple of pictures. It was somehow like her; it had charm and simplicity.

  “Where’s your gray jacket?” he asked abruptly. “And that gray hat?”

  She waited an instant, studying him. “Why … why, I left them at the restaurant. Is it important?”

  “Yes … Did you leave this house last night? Or very early this morning?”

  She shook her head. “I had a headache. I came home early and went to bed. I had just gotten up when you came.”

  He glanced around him again. Everything was neat, perfect. Had it been someone else wearing her clothes last night, one of the girls from down on the tracks, perhaps?

  She noticed the star on his chest, and she frowned. “Where did you get that?” Her voice was a little sharp. “Where’s Tom Stroud?”

  Briefly, he explained. He was startled to see her face turn deathly pale. She put a hand on the table at her side. “He … he’ll live? I mean …?”

  “I think so.”

  “I must go to him.”

  “No.”

  The harshness of his reply startled her. She looked up quickly, but before she could speak he said abruptly, almost brutally, “Nobody will see him but myself and my two men until this is cleared up. He’s being cared for.”

  “But—”

  “No,” he said firmly and definitely. “Too many people want him dead.”

  Leaving her house, he walked swiftly down the street. The limping man … Pike had said his name was Turner, and told him where to find him. He went up the walk to the house and, without knocking, shoved the door open and stepped in.

  Two men were sitting at a table cleaning rifles. They took one look, glimpsed the badge, and the nearest one grabbed for his gun. Kilkenny shot him in the throat, his Colt swinging to cover the other man who slowly lifted his hands, gray-faced.

  “Fast,” the man said. “You’re fast, Lance.”

  “I’ve had to be.” Lance looked at him and said, “The other name is Kilkenny.”

  The man jumped as if stabbed. “Kilkenny,” he said, “the Nueces gunfighter!”

  “Who hired you?” Kilkenny’s voice was low. “Just tell me that, and you can ride out of here.”

  “Nobody.” He started to continue, but Kilkenny’s gun muzzle tilted and he stopped. “Look, I—”

  “You’ve got one minute,” Kilkenny said, “then you get a hole in your ear. I don’t reckon I’ll miss. Howsoever, I might notch it a little close.”

  The man swallowed. “All right. It was Turner.”

  He saw the man into a saddle, and then walked back to the house and sat down. The body of the dead man had been removed to the barn. He looked around the bare room and saw on the wall a picture. It was a faded tintype of the main street of Dodge.

  Kilkenny stood up for a closer look, and suddenly, it hit him like a flash. He started to turn, and then stopped. The limping man stood in the open door, and he held a gun in his hand. “Howdy, Lance.” His eyes were faintly amused, yet wary. “Like that picture?”

  Kilkenny lifted a hand slowly to his cigarette and dusted the ash from it, then returned it to his lips. “I went up the trail a couple of times,” he drawled conversationally. “She was quite a town, wasn’t she?”

  Obviously, the two men he had surprised in the cabin had been two of those who ambushed Stroud. Turner would be another. The three could have done it, but there had probably been at least one more.

  “Where’s the boys?” Turner moved into the room, keeping Kilkenny covered.

  “One’s lyin’ out in the barn.” Kilkenny’s voice did not change. “He’s pretty dead. The other one got a chance to take out, and he pulled his freight.”

  Turner studied him. He was puzzled. Kilkenny was so obviously in complete possession of himself. This man who called himself Lance was a mystery in many ways. He—

  “When you were in Dodge,” Kilkenny said, “did you ever hang out at the Kansas House?”

  Turner’s face seemed to tighten and his eyes went blank. “Remember the place,” he said.

  “So do I.”

  Kilkenny drew deep on his cigarette. “Better put that gun down, Turner. You’re through here. Stro
ud isn’t dead. I’m the deputy marshal.” He jerked his head toward the town. “The folks over there know it. You try anything now, and they’ll all come down here and burn you out. I might say they’ve been considerin’ it.”

  Turner hesitated, not liking it. He hitched around, looking quickly out the door. Kilkenny made no attempt to grab for his gun. He just waited. “You’re through, Turner.” Kilkenny’s words repeatedly went through his head. He had a deep-seated fear of the people across the tracks. He knew many of them disliked the saloons and gambling houses, and lived only for the day when the town could be cleaned up.

  “You fellows should know when you’re well off,” Kilkenny continued. He was remembering bloody Kansas and a cold rage was settling over him. “If you’d only known, Stroud was keepin’ you alive. With him down, there ain’t a thing to prevent them comin’ across here and makin’ a cleanup. As long as he kept the peace, they kept their hands off. But you were greedy. Those trail-town days are over. You can’t turn the clock back.”

  Turner suddenly looked up. “All right,” he said, “give me a chance and I’ll ride.”

  “No,” Kilkenny said, and drew. His Colt came out fast and Kilkenny stepped in close to Turner and had the muzzle pressed against his ear before the crippled man could bring his gun to bear. He snatched Turner’s pistol away with his left hand and pushed Turner back into one of the chairs.

  “That picture got me thinking. I remember you from Kansas … a long time ago. You were using the name Barney Houseman back then. You and your family skinned a lot of good people out of their money. Killed a few, too.” Kilkenny moved to one side and gestured with his free hand. “Get up.”

  “Lance.” The man turned in the chair. “You let me ride out of here. I know I can make it worth your while.”

  “You’re wrong. Stroud made me take an oath when I pinned on this badge. If I hadn’t, you’d be dead right now.” Barney Houseman looked at him blankly. “We’ve never met, but I’ve heard of you. I’m Kilkenny.”