Houseman’s eyes narrowed, and his knuckles stood out white where he gripped the chair. “All right,” he croaked. He struggled to get his lame foot under him as he stood. Awkwardly, he reached down to steady himself against the chair—and pulled a short-barreled Colt Lightning from a hideout holster!
Kilkenny stepped back and Houseman’s gun roared, the slug catching him across the front of the shoulder. He shot, but he was already falling and the bullet went wild. Houseman frantically pulled the trigger three more times as Kilkenny scrambled for cover behind the table, hot lead catching him again, this time in the thigh. His gun was gone, the room full of powder smoke.
Houseman slammed out the door and half fell into the road. He headed for Main Street, reloading. Kilkenny was wounded, maybe dying. They had to move quickly but, he consoled himself, they had done it before and it was time. This had been a good bet, but he knew when his time was up. He had always known. The others had stayed behind at Bannock and at Dodge and other places. He pulled stakes before the Vigilance Committees and United States marshals got wind of him. He had always moved when the time was ripe. It was ripe now.
Hillman had just opened his store when Houseman limped across Main Street and followed him inside. “Open the safe, Hill,” Turner said, “we’re getting out. I’ve just had a shoot-up with Kilkenny.”
Hillman looked incredulous, and the limping man shrugged. “I’m not crazy. That gunfighter Lance—he was Kilkenny. I should have remembered. He’s used the name before.
“We’ve got to move! Get the safe. He’s in no shape, but people heard the shots and he’ll get help.”
The look in Hillman’s eyes stopped him. Hillman was looking in back of him, over his shoulder.
Houseman turned and stared, his hands hanging. Kilkenny stood in the doorway, his chest covered with blood from the still-oozing cut across collarbone and shoulder. Standing silent in the doorway he was a grim, dangerous figure, a looming figure of vengeance.
Hillman drew back. “Not me, Kilkenny. I’m out of it. He’s made life hell for all of us, Barney has. He’s made us all do his dirty jobs. And I won’t move on to rob another town.”
Kilkenny did not speak. He was squinting his eyes against the pain. He could feel the blood trickling down his stomach. He was losing a lot of blood, and he had little time.
Barney Houseman was a murderer many times over. He was a thief and a card cheat, but always he had let his brother and uncle carry the burden of suspicion while he handled the reins. In Dodge they had believed it was he who left Kilkenny’s saddle partner dead in an alley with a knife in his back.
Kilkenny had long given up the chase, but his memory was good.
The limping man … Barney Houseman.
“I beat you just now,” Barney said, “I’ll do it again.” His hand went down for the gun and grasped the butt, and then Kilkenny took a step forward, his gun sprang to his fist, and something slapped at Barney’s pocket. He was angry that anything should disturb him now. He started to lift his gun, and something else slapped him and he suddenly felt very weak and he went down, sinking away, and saw the edge of the table go by his eyes. Then he was on his back, and all he could see was a crack in the ceiling, and then the crack was gone and he was dead.
Hillman twisted his big-knuckled hands. “He was my nephew,” he said, “but he was a devil. I was bad, but he was worse.”
Kilkenny asked him then, “Who is Laurie Archer?”
“My daughter.”
Kilkenny walked back through the street and people stared at him, turned when he passed, and stared after. He walked up to the jail, and Laurie stood on the steps. Her face was drawn and pale. “Can I see him now?”
“Yes,” he said. Then he added, “Barney’s dead.”
She turned fiercely, her eyes blazing. “I’m glad! Glad!”
“All right.” He was tired and his head ached. He wanted to go back to the hotel and wash up and then sleep for a week, and then get a horse, and—
He indicated the man on the bed inside. “You’re in love with Stroud?”
“Yes.”
“Then go to him. He’s a good man.”
Kilkenny turned around and started back up the street, and the morning sun was hot on his shoulder blades and there were chickens coming out into the street, and from a meadow near the creek, a smell of new-mown hay. He was tired, very tired … rest … and then a horse.
Monument Rock
CHAPTER 1
Lona was afraid of him. She was afraid of Frank Mailer, the man whom she was to marry. She realized that it was not size alone that made her afraid of him, but something else, something she saw in his blue, slightly glassy eyes, and the harshness of his thin-lipped mouth.
He was big, the biggest man she had ever seen, and she knew his contempt for smaller men, men of lesser strength and lesser will. He was five inches over six feet and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. Whenever he stood near her, the sheer mass of him frightened her and the way he looked at her made her uneasy.
Her father looked up at him as he came in. “Did you get that north herd moved before the rain set in?”
“Yeah.” Mailer did not look up, helping himself to two huge slabs of beef, a mound of mashed potatoes, and liberal helpings of everything else. He commenced his supper by slapping butter on a thick slice of homemade bread and taking an enormous bite, then holding the rest of it in his left hand, he began to shovel food into his mouth with his right.
Between bites he looked up at Poke Markham. “I saw the Black Rider.”
“On our range?”
“Uh-huh; just like they were sayin’ in town, he was ridin’ the high country, alone. Over toward Chimney Rock.”
“Did you get close to him? See what he looks like?”
“Not a chance. Just caught a glimpse of him over against the rocks, and then he was gone, like a shadow. That horse of his is fast.” Mailer looked up and Lona was puzzled by the slyness in his eyes as he looked at her father. “You know what the Mexican boys say? That he’s the ghost of a murdered man.”
The comment angered Markham. “That’s foolishness! He’s real enough, all right! What I want to know is who he is and what he thinks he’s doin’.”
“Maybe the Mex boys are right. You ever see any tracks? I never did, an’ nobody else that I ever heard of. Nobody ever sees him unless it is almost dark or rainin’, an’ then never more than a glimpse.”
“He’s real enough!” Markham glared from under his shaggy brows, his craggy face set in angry lines. “Some outlaw on the dodge, that’s who he is, hangin’ out in the high peaks so he won’t be seen. Who’s he ever bothered?”
Mailer shrugged. “That’s the point. He ain’t bothered anybody yet, but maybe he wants one certain man.” Mailer looked up at Poke, in his malicious way. “Maybe he’s the ghost of a murdered man, like they say, an’ maybe he’s tryin’ to lure his murderer back into the hills.”
“That’s nonsense!” Markham repeated irritably. “You’ll have Lona scared out of her wits, ridin’ all over like she does.”
Frank Mailer looked at her, his eyes meeting hers, then running down over her breasts. He always made her uncomfortable. How had she ever agreed to marry him? She knew that when he drank he became fiercely belligerent. Nobody wanted to cross him when he was drinking. Only one man ever had tried to stop him when he was like that. Bert Hayek had tried it, and Bert had died for his pains.
His fighting had wrecked several of the saloons in town. All, in fact, except for the Fandango. Was it true, what they said? That Frank was interested in that Spanish woman who ran the place? Nita Howard was her name. Lona Markham had seen her once, a tall young woman with a voluptuous figure and beautiful eyes. She had thought her one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Lona’s intended was often seen visiting with a beautiful woman who ran a saloon and gambling hall and Lona found she didn’t care … not at all.
When supper was over Lona left hurriedly. More and more she
was avoiding Frank. She did not like to have him near her, did not want to talk to him. He frightened her, but he puzzled her, too. For more and more he seemed to be exerting authority here on the Blue Hill ranch, and more and more her father was fading into the background. People said that Poke Markham was afraid of no man, but of late she’d begun to wonder, for several times he had allowed Mailer to overrule him.
She crossed the patio through a light spatter of rain to her own quarters in the far wing of the rambling old house. Once there, she hung up her coat and crossed to the window, looking off over the magnificent sweep of land that carried her eyes away to the distant wall of the mountains in the southwest. It was over there the strange rider had been seen.
Suddenly, as if in response to her thoughts, a horseman materialized from the rain. He was out there, no more than a hundred yards from the back of the house, and scarcely visible through the now driving rain. As she looked she saw him draw up, and sitting tall in the saddle, he surveyed the ranch. Under his black flat-brimmed hat nothing of his face was visible and at that distance she could not make out his features. He was only a tall horseman, sitting in the rain, staring at the ranch house.
Why she did it, she never knew, but suddenly she caught up her coat, and running out into the rain, she lifted her hand.
For a moment they stared at each other and then suddenly the horse started to walk, but as he moved, the Black Rider raised a hand and waved!
Then he was gone. One instant he was there, and then he had vanished like a puff of smoke … but he had waved to her! Recalling the stories, she knew it was something that had never happened before. She returned to her room, her heart pounding with excitement. She must tell Gordon about that. He would be as surprised as she was. In fact, she paused, staring out at the knoll where the Rider had stopped, Gordon Flynn was the only one who seemed to care much what she thought or how she felt. Gordon, and of course, Dave Betts, the broken-down cowhand who was their cook.
Mailer dropped into a big chair made of cowhide. He rolled a smoke and looked across at Markham. The old man was nodding a little, and it made Frank smile. Markham, if that’s what he wanted to be called, had changed. He had aged.
To think how they all had feared him! All but he himself. All but Frank Mailer. Markham had been boss here for a long time, and to be the boss of men like Kane Geslin and Sam Starr was something, you had to admit. Moreover, he had kept them safe, kept them away from the law, and if he had taken his share for all that, at least he’d held up his end of the bargain. He was getting older now, and he had relinquished more and more of the hard work to Mailer. Frank was tired of the work without the big rewards; he was ambitious. Sure, they had a good thing going, but if one knew the trails, there were easy ways out to the towns and ranches, and a man could do a good job on a few banks, along about roundup time. It beat working for money, and this ranch was as good as his, anyway, when he married Lona.
Looking over at the old man, he began to think of that. Why wait for it? He could shoot the old man right now and take over. Still, it would be better to marry the girl first, but he was not ready for that. Not yet. He wanted to move in on that Spanish woman at the Fandango, first.
There was that bodyguard of hers to be taken care of. He did not like the big, dark man who wore two guns and always sat near her door, faithful as a watchdog. Yet it would pay to be careful. Webb Case had been a fairly handy man with a gun, and he had tried to push this Brigo into a gunfight, planning to kill him. From all accounts, it had taken mightily little of a push, but Webb’s plans backfired and he took a couple of slugs and got planted out on Boot Hill.
He began to think of that bank at the Crossing. Four … no, five men. Geslin and Starr, of course, among them. Geslin was a lean, wiry man with a pale, hatchet face and white eyes. There was no doubt that he ranked among the fastest gunmen of them all, with Wes Hardin, Clay Allison, Bill Hickok, or Kilkenny.
The bank would keep the boys happy, for however much Poke Markham was satisfied with the ranch, his boys were not. Poke made money, but most of the men at Blue Hill ranch were not punchers. They were wanted, one place or another, and when they’d tired of cooling their heels, they’d leave. Frank Mailer wanted to take advantage of the situation before that happened. The bank should go for eight or nine thousand, and they could make a nice split of that. Four men and himself. That would be enough. Nobody would tackle a gang made up of Geslin, Starr, and himself, let alone the other two he would pick.
Thoughtfully, Frank Mailer considered Geslin. How would he stack up with Geslin? Or Starr? He considered it a moment, then shrugged. It would never happen. They were his men, and they had accepted him as boss. He knew how to handle them, and he knew there was a rivalry between Starr and Geslin. If necessary, he could play them off against one another. As for Poke, he intended to kill Markham himself when the time came.
He heaved himself out of his chair and stretched, enjoying the feeling of his powerful muscles. He would ride into town and have a talk with that Howard woman at the Fandango. He thought again of Jaime Brigo, and the thought bothered him. There was something about the big, silent man that disturbed him. He did not think of Lona. The girl was here when he wanted her, and he did want her, but only casually. His desire for Nita Howard was a sharp, burning thing.
The Fandango was easily the most impressive place in Salt Creek, and finer than anything in Bloomington. In fact, finer than anything this side of Santa Fe. Nita Howard watched the crowd, well pleased. Her hazel eyes with tiny flecks of darker color were large and her lashes were long. Her skin was the color of old ivory, her hair a deep, beautiful black, gathered in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Although her lips were full, slightly sensual, there was a certain wistful, elusive charm about them, and a quick, fleeting humor that made her doubly beautiful. She was a tall woman, somewhere just beyond thirty, but her body was strong, and graceful.
Standing in the door, she said, without looking down at the man in the tipped-back chair, “Any message, Jaime?”
The Yaqui gunman glanced up. “No, señorita, there is none. He has been seen this day near Monument Rock. You have seen the map.”
Nita Howard relaxed. “Yes, I know. As long as he is well, we had best leave him alone.”
“He is loyal. A long time ago Markham, he befriended the señor when he was wounded and in danger. The señor does not forget. So he comes here. And you come here; so this means I do, too.” Brigo shrugged. “We are all loyal to one another, but for now you must trust that our friend knows what he is doing.”
The door opened suddenly and Frank Mailer stepped into the room; behind him were Kane Geslin and Sam Starr with another man known as Socorro. Mailer’s eyes brightened with satisfaction when he saw Nita and he turned abruptly and walked toward her.
How huge he was! Could anything ever stop this man if he became angered? Nita watched him come, her mind coolly accepting the danger but not disturbed by it. Her father had died long ago and left her the doubtful legacy of a tough saloon on the Rio Grande border. She had directed its fortunes herself, with Brigo at her side, he who loved her like his own sister, and all because of her father’s friendship to him.
Mailer stopped before her, his hard eyes surveying Nita with appreciation. “You’re all woman, Nita!” he said. “All woman! Just the kind I’ve been lookin’ for!”
She did not smile. “It is said around town that you are to marry Lona Markham.”
Mailer was irritated; there was no reason to think of Lona now and he disliked the subject being brought up. “Come on!” he said impatiently. “I’ll buy a drink!”
“Good!” she said smoothly. Lifting her eyes, she glanced over at the bartender. “Cain”—the big bartender glanced up sharply—“the gentleman is buying a drink.” Her eyes turned to Mailer. “You meant you were buying for the house, did you not?”
Crimson started to go up Mailer’s neck. He had meant nothing of the kind, yet he’d been neatly trapped and he had the feeling t
hat he would appear cheap if he backed out. “Sure,” he said grudgingly, “for the house! Now come on.” He reached for her arm. “You drink with me.”
“Sorry, I do not drink. Cain will serve you.” She turned and stepped through the door, closing it behind her.
Frank Mailer’s eyes grew ugly. He lunged toward the door at the end of the bar.
“Señor.” Brigo was on his feet. “The señorita is ver’tired tonight. You understand?”
Mailer glared at Brigo, but the Yaqui’s flat dark face was expressionless. Mailer turned on his heel and walked to the bar in baffled fury.
The big bartender finished pouring the drinks, then looked over at Mailer. “That’ll be thirty bucks,” he said flatly.
His jaws set, Mailer paid for the drinks. Geslin was in a game with several others. One of them was a red-haired puncher, stocky and tough-looking. Mailer dropped into an empty chair and bought chips.
At the end of the third hand the redheaded puncher looked up at him. “Mailer, don’t you ramrod that Blue Hill spread? I’m huntin’ for work.”
Frank Mailer’s eyes slanted to the redhead. He was a tough, capable-looking man with hard, steady eyes. He packed his gun low. “You been anywhere I might’ve heard about?”
“I rode for Pierce an’ for Goodnight.”
“Then I can use you, all right.” With the riding he planned to do with Geslin and the others, he would need a few good hands. Also, unless his guess was altogether wrong, this man had ridden the owl hoot himself. “Texas man, hey?”
“Big Bend.”
“Know Wes Hardin?” Mailer asked. “I hear he’s fast.”
“Plenty, an’ with both hands. Maybe as fast as Kilkenny.”
“Kilkenny?” Geslin turned his white eyes toward the redhead. “You say he’s faster than Hardin? Did you ever see Hardin?”
“Uh-huh.” Rusty Gates picked up his cards. “I seen Kilkenny, too.”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 3 Page 45
