Now that the thought was there, a thousand minute details of the past came flooding back. Now she no longer had to fight the idea that she detested the man she had believed was her father. Always she had made excuses for him, avoided the question of his character and his little cruelties. Now she could face it, and she could wonder that she had ever believed him to be her father.
She remembered how few his letters had been, how she had never had from him any of the love or affection she wanted or that other girls had, how she had returned home on her first vacations with eagerness and then with increasing reluctance.
Stripping the saddle from the mare, Lona turned her into the corral. It was already past mealtime, and the hands were gone again. Rusty Gates was nowhere around, nor did she see Poke or Frank. She walked to the house and looked into the kitchen. Old Dave Betts looked up and his red face wrinkled in a smile. “You’re late, ma’am, but come on in. I saved you something and kept it hot for you.”
“Thanks, Dave.”
He put out the food on the kitchen table. He was already preparing the evening meal, getting a few things ready in order to save time later. He glanced at Lona. “You aren’t sick, are you?” he asked anxiously.
“No, Dave. Just thinking.” She started to eat, but despite the long ride in the fresh, clear air, she was not hungry. “Dave,” she asked suddenly, “how long have you worked for … Father?”
If he noticed her hesitation, he gave no sign or it made no impression. “Most of six years, ma’am. I come up to this country from Silver City. Went to Cimarron first, worked in a eatin’ place there, then went back to punchin’ cows for the XIT, then drifted back west an’ come here. Poke Markham needed a cook, so I hired on. I was gettin’ too stove up for ridin’ much.”
“Was Frank with him then?”
“Mailer?” Betts’s face became cautious. “Well, no. No, ma’am, he wasn’t. Frank didn’t show up until shortly before you come home from school. He rode in here one day with Socorro an’ they both hired on. Mailer, though, he’d knowed your dad somewhere else. That’s why he hired him on as foreman.”
“Is he really a gunman?” Lona looked up at Dave.
Betts swallowed uneasily and, stepping to the door, peered into the dining room, then outside. “I reckon there’s no mystery about that. He sure is. Mighty bad … I mean, mighty good with a gun. So’s Geslin.” He looked at her quickly. “You better not ask many questions about him, ma’am. Mailer’s right touchy about that. He don’t like folks talkin’ about him.”
There was a sound of approaching horses and Lona glanced out the open door. Gordon Flynn and Rusty Gates had ridden into the yard and were swinging down. Flynn glanced toward the door, and when he saw her, he waved, then said something to Rusty and walked toward the house.
“Howdy, ma’am!” he said, his boyish face flushing a little. He had removed his hat and stood there, his wavy hair damp along his forehead where the hat had left a mark. The admiration in his eyes was obvious. “See you had been ridin’ some. Why didn’t you come over to the north range to see us?”
“Just riding,” she said. “It was a pretty day for it and I wanted to think.”
“I reckon there’s no better way,” he agreed. “It sort of just makes a body think, ridin’ slow across the hills with lots of distance around you.” He stepped into the room. “Dave, you got more of that coffee? Rusty an’ me …?”
“It ain’t grub time,” Dave said testily, “but you pull up a chair. I reckon I can do that for you, but I doubt if the boss would like either of you bein’ here right now.”
Rusty came into the room and took a quick, sharp look at Lona. He seemed satisfied with what he saw, and turned to Dave. “We have to go down to Yellow Butte after some cows and this was on our way. Drink up, Gord, and don’t sit there looking calf-eyed at Miss Lona.”
Flynn blushed magnificently. “Who’s lookin’ calf-eyed?” he demanded, blustering. “Can’t a man speak to a girl without folks sayin’ things like that?”
Gates turned a chair back to the table and straddled it, grinning from one to the other. “Don’t know’s I blame you,” he said. “She’s a right pretty girl, and believe you me, if I was as good-looking as you are and not so durned bowlegged, I’d sure say my piece, too!”
Flynn’s face was grim. “You’re new around here,” he said. “Miss Lona is engaged to the foreman.”
Gates shrugged and looked pointedly at Lona. “When did a man ever let a thing like that stand between him and the girl he wanted? It sure wouldn’t stop me!”
“Don’t you be advisin’ that sort of thing!” Betts turned irritably to Gates. “You don’t know Frank Mailer! Anybody who steps on his toes or tries to move in on his girl had better be fast with a gun! He durned near killed one of the hands with his fists and boots just for talkin’ to her!”
“Then I’ll be careful,” Gates said. Gulping his coffee, he shoved back from his chair and got up. “I just wouldn’t let him catch me. But if I wanted a girl, I wouldn’t stand by and see her go to another man, unless I was right sure she wanted that other man.” He turned on his heel and walked out, letting the door slam behind him.
The kitchen was silent. Flynn was staring into his cup, and Lona’s heart was pounding, why she could not have said. Glancing up, she could see the stubborn, angry look on Flynn’s face and the sharp disapproval on the face of Dave Betts. After a minute Flynn swallowed his coffee and ducked out without saying another word.
Lona gathered the dishes and placed them on the drain board, stealing a glance at Betts’s face from the corner of her eye. “You be careful,” Dave said suddenly, without turning. “You don’t know Frank Mailer like I do. Don’t you let no fool puncher talk you into trouble.”
Lona hesitated. “What’s the matter, don’t you think Gordon is a nice fellow?”
Dave Betts turned sharply. “I sure do, ma’am. Flynn’s one of the finest boys I know, an’ he’s a top hand, too. He’s worth any four like Geslin or Starr, but he’s too nice a boy to see shot to doll rags, ma’am, or to see stomped to bloody ruin like I’ve seen men stomped right here on this ranch!”
The canyon where Lona had come upon the Black Rider had several branches, all box canyons. There was, however, a trail to the rim if one knew the way and rode a good mountain horse. Not far up this steep trail there was a ledge that made a sharp turn around a jutting corner of rock. Here, in an almost hidden corner of rock, was a wide shelf, all of fifty yards across and something more in length. It was concealed from the canyon below by piñons, so that from below one would believe the cliff was unbroken. From above, due to a steep slide that broke off in the sheer drop, there was no way of approaching the ledge or looking down into the rocky niche.
Here, in this secret place, was good green grass and a thin trickle of water from a spring. At the back end of the niche was a deep undercut in which cliff dwellers had built several houses, walling part of the undercut with stone. In this hidden place the Rider had his retreat.
Dismounting, he stripped the saddle and bridle from the horse and let it go on a long picket rope. There was grass enough here, and water. From the look of the place, it had never been visited since the Indians had gone, yet one never knew. No better hiding place could be found, and here, he hoped, he was secure.
His rides over the country had given him a fair knowledge of the lay of the land, and he had been watching the Blue Hill ranch through his glasses and knew the daily procedure, yet despite the progress he had made that day in his talk with Lona Markham, he was restless, and he knew why. He wanted to see Nita.
She should never have come here, he knew. He had tried to convince her that the job was his alone, but she would have none of it, and in the end he had given in. He was pleased now that he had, for his restlessness was in a sense appeased by knowing her nearness. Once it had been decided that she was to come, Brigo, of course, had come, too. Jaime Brigo had been asked by Nita’s father to watch over her, and that was an oath he had never broken.
Cain Brockman, the bartender, doubled Nita’s protection, and it had been simple enough for Rusty Gates to hire out to the ranch, which put one of their own men in the enemy’s camp. Yet there was much to be done, even now.
That somehow Poke Dunning had taken Markham’s place, taken his ranch and usurped his position as father was obvious. Yet what had become of Markham? And what had become of his wife, Lona’s mother? Where did Poke fit in? Also, was there any evidence that the ranch actually belonged to Lona other than Markham’s statement to her? It seemed that the mere fact that Dunning was carefully deceiving this young girl showed that he was convinced that the ranch he had been running all these years actually belonged to her. It also seemed that Poke Dunning had somehow gotten control of the ranch by posing as her father, an act made all the easier by the fact that no one in these parts had known the original Markham. For all anyone knew, Dunning was the man who had given her the property, but now he was planning on transferring legal control to Mailer by having the girl marry him. Once the wedding took place, Dunning would not have to worry about his charade, and if something happened to Lona, Mailer would inherit the ranch simply by being her husband.
Dunning would say nothing to Lona about her mother. Was that because he did not know? And Lona had said her father had told her that her mother had died before they came on west, but was that statement made by her real father, or by Dunning?
Before facing Dunning, it was necessary to learn how title to the ranch was placed, and to have something substantial to go on. In so many years Dunning had had time to shape stories and the papers that would give him title, yet why, if that was true, had he kept the girl?
Collecting dry sticks that would make no smoke, he built a fire, and squatting above it, the Rider prepared his evening meal. He was a tall man, and his eyes were green; a sharp, straight look came into them at times that disturbed those he looked at, and at times changed quickly to easy humor and a ready smile.
Shadows were long and his meal was finished when he heard a distant sound. He straightened swiftly and, hitching his guns into place, moved swiftly from the side of the cliff dwelling across the green sward of the ledge. His horse was standing with his head up and his nostrils wide. “Easy, Buck!” he said gently.
Through the junipers he could look down into the canyon, and as he looked he heard a tapping of metal on metal. He listened a moment, then grinned and spoke aloud, knowing his voice would carry in the still air. “Straight ahead and left around the boulder.”
In a few minutes he heard the horse, and then Rusty Gates appeared. It was dusk, yet light enough to see, and the cowhand stared around him in astonishment. “Now, how in the ever-so-ever did you find this place?” he demanded. “A man would sure never guess it was here!”
“It’s well hidden. Come on back, I’ve put more coffee on.”
When they were squatted over the small fire, Gates grinned across the coals at him. “Kilkenny,” he said, “you have the damnedest nose for hideouts of any hombre I ever knew!”
The tall rider shrugged. “Why not? Lots of times I need ’em. It gets to be an instinct.”
“You talked to Lona?”
“Uh-huh. I didn’t tell her much, only that Poke was not her father.”
“I thought so. She was walkin’ in a trance when she got back to the spread. By the way,” he added, “there’s a hand on that ranch that’s so much in love with her he’s turnin’ in circles. Name of Gordon Flynn. Nice lad.”
“Well, they can work that out by themselves. I’m goin’ to see she gets justice, but I’ll be durned if I’ll play Cupid.”
Rusty chuckled. “Leave that to me! I already put a bug in their ears.” He pushed a couple of sticks on the fire. “Lance, something is building down there, but I don’t know what. Mailer has been doin’a lot of talking, strictly on the private, with Geslin, Starr, and Socorro. I think they’ve got somethin’ up their sleeves.”
“Not Dunning?”
“No, the old man isn’t in on it. They are very careful not to get bunched up when he’s around.”
“What do you think of Mailer, Rusty?”
“Damned if I know!” Gates looked up, scowling. “Good as Geslin is, he listens to him. So does Starr. I guess they knowed each other before comin’ to Blue Hill, too. That Socorro came in with Mailer.”
“How’s Nita?” Kilkenny asked, looking up.
“I was wonderin’ when you’d get around to that. She’s fine. Man”—he chuckled—“that girl is good! She’s got brains aplenty, but, Kilkenny, she’s got troubles, too! Frank Mailer is makin’ a strong play for her.”
Lance Kilkenny got to his feet. “Mailer?” He was incredulous. “I thought he was due to marry Lona?”
Gates looked cynical. “How much difference would that make to a man like Mailer? He’s mostly interested in that ranch, I’m thinking, as far as she’s concerned, anyway. But he’s red-eyed over Nita.”
“Has there been trouble?”
“Not yet.” Gates told what had happened at the Fandango and how Nita had handled it. “So he wound up spending thirty bucks he hadn’t figured on. But that won’t be the end of it.”
“How do Dunning and Mailer stand?” Kilkenny asked thoughtfully.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about that. From what I hear, they trusted each other at one time, but I think a break is due. One thing: when it comes down to it, the old man will be standing all alone. The boys are all with Mailer; that is, all but Flynn, the cook, an’ me. We’re on the outside of that fuss.”
Gates got to his feet. “I’d better get out of here before the moon comes up.” He turned to go, then hesitated. “Lance, you make no mistake, Frank Mailer is dangerous.”
“Thanks. I’ll remember that.” He grinned over the fire at Rusty.
“Hope we beat this deal without a shootin’,” Rusty said.
“Me, too,” Kilkenny said, almost wistfully. “Especially with that girl around, that’s a tough crowd down there.”
Long after Rusty Gates was gone, Lance Kilkenny sat over his lonely fire. There had been too much of this, too much of hiding out in the wilderness, yet it was this or be recognized, and when he was recognized, there was always some wild-eyed puncher who wanted the reputation of killing Kilkenny.
He had never intended to gain a reputation, but his own choice of keeping himself anonymous had helped to begin the stories. He had become a strange, shadowy figure, a drifting gunfighter whom no man knew, until suddenly, in a blasting of gunfire, he wrote his name large across yet another page of western history.
Long ago he had taken to haunting the lonely places or to roaming the country alone under an assumed name. He would drift into a new country and for a time he would punch cows or wrangle horses or hire out as a varmint hunter, and then trouble would come, and Kilkenny, who had rarely drawn a gun in his own battle, would fight for a friend, as he was fighting now.
This time, for the first time, he was not fighting alone. He had friends with him, good friends, and he had Nita Riordan, now using the name Howard, for there were those who knew that Nita Riordan was connected with Kilkenny.
Alone over his fire, he studied the situation. What was in the mind of Frank Mailer? What did he plan? How much opposition could Poke Dunning offer, if it came to that? If it came to a fight over the ranch? Kilkenny was enough of a strategist to appreciate the fact that in a gunfight, Dunning and Mailer might eliminate each other and so save him the trouble. Once they were out of it, he could face the others or they would leave.
What he needed to know now was how Dunning had come into possession of the ranch. When Markham had started west so long ago, he was going to this ranch, which he had acquired sometime before. Hence, Dunning had to have come into the picture after Markham left Santa Fe. Also, he must learn whether Markham’s statement to Lona that the ranch was now hers was merely an idle comment or whether he had actually given the girl the title.
Yet there was on him something else, a drivin
g urge to see Nita. He got to his feet and walked the length of the ledge, speaking softly to the buckskin, and then he walked back. The fire was dying, the embers fading. Maybe now was the time, if he could slip into Salt Creek quietly and get to the Fandango without noise. He turned the idea over in his mind, contemplating every angle of it. At last he shook his head, and replenishing the fire, then banking the coals, he crawled into his blankets and was soon asleep.
Old Poke Dunning got restlessly to his feet. He was alone much of the time now. Lona had been keeping to her quarters and he missed her. Scowling, he thought of that, and his eyes narrowed as he remembered the time of her marriage was coming nearer. That marriage was a deal that he had cooked up with Frank Mailer. But since that time he had come to distrust the man. Soon after he made his offer to guarantee them clear title to Blue Hill, Frank had started acting like he owned the place. Suppose Mailer made up his mind to go it alone? He, Dunning, would have no status, nothing that would stand up legally. Of late, Mailer had been making decisions without consulting him.
If he had it out with Mailer, he decided, he would need an edge. Only a fool would take chances with Mailer. The man was too big, too tough. He looked as hard to stop as a bull elephant.
That Rider. The presence of the Rider might not bother Mailer, but it did bother him. He was suspicious and could find no reason for the man’s continual evasion of contact with anyone.
The Black Rider must have provisions. How did he obtain them? The logical place was Salt Creek. Poke nodded; that was it. He would have a spy watching in Salt Creek, and then when someone resembling the Rider appeared, he would trail him. After that he would have a line on the man.
It was late, but he would ride into Salt Creek now and he knew just the man. The road was white in the moonlight, but Dunning rode swiftly on a powerful gray. He had not seen Mailer, and no doubt the man was again in town, and the boys with him.
Although well past fifty, Dunning was a strong and rugged man in the peak of condition. Age was no problem to him as yet, for his outdoor life and the rough, hearty food of the frontier had kept him in fine shape. He had made vast improvements on the ranch and it had provided a welcome cooling-off place for men on the dodge, as he once had been.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 3 Page 47
