“Uh huh. In a small way.”
“Located yet?”
“Yeah.”
There was a moment of silence, then Macy asked, “Might I ask where? I haven’t seen you around before.”
Kilkenny nodded with his head toward the northwest. “Over there.” He turned his green eyes toward the sheriff. “An’ I haven’t seen you around before, either. However, Macy, let’s get this straight. As sheriff you’ve seen these guns I pack an’ you’re probably wonderin’ what all I want around here. I want to be let alone. I’ve picked the loneliest place I can find and I’ve holed up there. Unless something unusual happens, I’ll be in town no more than once a month after I get located. I don’t hunt trouble, an’ I’ve never been drunk in my life. Sometimes,” he added, “it doesn’t pay to get drunk an’ forgetful. You’ll have no trouble with me. I figure to run a few cattle and to mind my own affairs—but I want to be let alone.”
“Fair enough,” Macy nodded agreeably. “Know anybody in town?” “Not a soul. And I have spoken to only one man before you. He volunteered the information that I should see Dolan.”
Leal Macy felt a little shock of excitement go through him and he looked again at this tall man, measuring him, wondering. Then he said, more carefully, “If I were you, I’d not see him. Not now, anyway. Let it ride until your next trip. Dolan,” he added, “is a tough case, and around that place of his you’ll find most of the rag ends and bobtails of the country. Drifters, rustlers, gunmen, outlaws, and just no-goods.”
“Is he on the rustle?”
“If he is, nobody ever caught him at it. Dolan’s an ex-army sergeant. A good fighting man, shrewd, and very able. He rode with Sheridan.” “So did I,” Kilkenny replied quietly.
He looked up suddenly, hearing the door close, and for a long moment he made no move. In the door stood the young woman of Clifton’s and her eyes were on him, wide with recognition. He arose quickly. “How do you do, ma’am? I hope you’ve been well?”
Her eyes held his, filled with uncertainty. Then she nodded and crossed to a table not far away. Macy said nothing but he was obviously interested. The waitress returned and served Kilkenny’s meal and at his suggestion brought Macy a cup of coffee. The waitress hovered by the table and when Kilkenny glanced up, she said. “The chef says the sauce is always with genuine Madeira.” Kilkenny grinned. “Macy, I may be in town more than I planned. If the food is going to be this good, I can’t stay away. A man gets tired of his own cookin’.” The door opened again and three dusty cowhands came in and dropped into chairs around a table. All three were unshaven and had obviously been riding hard and long for they had that lean, hungry, wild look of men off the trail. One of them was a lumbering big fellow with fat cheeks and a thick neck, another had a scar along his cheekbone and the small finger missing from his right hand. The third man was a man of sandy complexion, almost white eyes and he wore his gun thrust into his waistband.
After seating themselves they let their eyes wander around the room, noting the sheriff and studying him carefully. If Macy was conscious of their attention he gave no evidence of it. Kilkenny came in for a share of their regard and the big man kept looking at him as if trying to recall where he had seen him before. The food was excellent and the coffee black and strong. It was like paradise after the long days riding west, eating half-cooked meals in the lee of a cliff or near some wayside waterhole. From time to time he glanced up and twice he met the eyes of the girl from Clifton’s. What, he wondered, was her name? Was she stopping here?
He hesitated, then put the question to the sheriff. “Thought you knew her,” Macy said. “As a matter of fact, she’s just out here from the East. She’s a niece of Bob Early, the town’s best lawyer. Her name is Laurie Webster. “New to the West,” he added, “but a fine horsewoman. The best I’ve seen except for Nita Riordan.”
Kilkenny felt the shock clear to his heels. He held himself a minute, afraid to speak, and then he said carefully, “Who did you say?” “Nita Riordan. She’s got the KR spread, southwest of here. Runs the ranch herself, although she’s got a foreman that knows his business. She rides astride like a Western woman. I hear she came from the Live Oak country, down near the Rio Grande.”
“That right? The name sounded familiar, but I guess I was mistaken.” Macy chuckled good-humoredly. “Friend,” he commented, “if you ever saw this girl you’d never forget her. Spanish and Irish, and beautiful! All woman, too, but one who can take care of herself. She handles a pistol like a man, and a Winchester, too. But no nonsense about her, and nobody makes her any trouble. That foreman of hers is like her shadow. He’s a big Mexican, and I’ve seen him shoot the heads off quail with his six-shooter.” “Been here long?”
“Not very. About seven or eight months. She came in here and bought out old Dan Marable, but since she took over you’d never know the place. She’s built a big new house, new stables and has brought some new stock into the country. I’m afraid she’ll have trouble now, though, with this new outfit comin’ in.” Macy drank his coffee. “She’s running cattle on that country south and west of town, clear back to Comb Ridge. It’s good graze and she’ll do all right if she doesn’t have trouble with this new outfit.”
When the sheriff had gone, Kilkenny’s attention went to the girl at the nearby table. He hesitated, wanting to speak to her, wanting to explain. But the information Macy had given him crowded out all else. Nita Riordan was here! Her brand was the KR, but he refused to let himself believe what that K might mean. Kilkenny and Riordan … but there were so many reasons why a particular brand might be used. Yet she would soon know he was here, and without doubt they would meet.
The big man across the room was watching him and whispering to his companions.
Unmindful of what it might mean, he arose and crossed to Laurie Webster’s table. “I beg your pardon, Miss Webster,” he said, “but I would like to apologize for causing you any discomfort back down the trail. The fight was forced on me.” “I know. And can you ever forgive me? To have it happen right before me … it was awful. But I do understand that you had to do it.” “Thanks.” He stepped back. “Maybe we’ll see each other again.” He walked out, conscious of the eyes of the three men. It was bright and sunny in the street and there was a fresh smell of hay, dust and warm lumber. It was time to get his supplies and go, yet he delayed, unwilling to leave so soon. Suppose Nita came into town this morning? Suppose, even now, she was in one of the stores? Yet, if they did meet, what could he expect? He had to run away because he was afraid of what his guns might do to their love for each other, how inevitably he would some day be killed. At the time it had seemed the thing to do.
Through the plains country his name had become a legend, a mysterious rider whose gun skill compared with that of Hickok, Thompson and Earp. He was said to be faster than Hardin, colder than Doc Halliday. Yet few knew him well enough to describe him, for he moved often and used many names. Partly concealed by the awning post and the shade of a huge cottonwood, he saw the three men come from the hotel and mount their horses. All wore the 4T brand. He watched them ride out, then he crossed to the Emporium and bought the supplies he needed. He crossed the bridge to west town and drew up at the livery stable.
“Got a pack horse for sale?”
“See Dolan. He’s the man with horses to sell.”
Kilkenny hesitated. Dolan might know him. A lot of men had ridden with Sheridan, but the last thing he wanted was to be recognized in this town. Yet to pack the supplies he wanted he needed at least one more horse. The man indicated the corrals. “He might sell that paint.” The fellow got up, taking his pipe from his mouth. He was a small man with work-hardened hands. “Seen the marshal yet?”
“Macy? Yes, I’ve seen him.”
“He’s the sheriff. I mean the marshal, Harry Lott. If you ain’t seen him, you will. He aims to get the jump on strangers. Says the way to run a town is to keep it buffaloed.”
“How do he and Macy get along?”
&n
bsp; “They don’t. Macy’s a solid citizen.”
The man still hesitated. “My name’s Hammett. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll see if Dolan has a pack horse to sell.”
“It’ll be a favor.”
Kilkenny walked to the corral and studied the horses. They were not the kind to be found on any cattle spread, but chosen animals, the sort preferred by outlaws who needed speed and bottom. He had walked around the corner of the corral when a big, heavy-shouldered man strode down to where he had been standing and looked around. He had a long, hard-jawed face. He wore two guns tied down and he was roughly and carelessly dressed. On his vest was a badge. Lott looked across the street toward Dolan’s, then settled down to wait.
Kilkenny rolled a smoke. Hammett came out of Dolan’s and stopped on the step. Lott called to him and Hammett crossed the street. Kilkenny could hear their voices. “Where’s the man who rode this horse?”
“He said something about getting a drink,” Hammett said. “Stranger to me.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Looks all right. But nobody to monkey with. Looks mighty salty.”
“He got to Savory’s?”
“Didn’t see. He ain’t in Dolan’s.”
Lott walked past Hammett and headed for Savory’s Saloon. Hammett watched him go, then caught up the buckskin’s reins and brought him to Kilkenny. “Dolan said you could have the paint for fifteen bucks, but you’d better ride out of town until Lott gets over his sweat. He’s drinkin’ and huntin’ trouble.” “Thanks.” Kilkenny handed fifteen dollars to Hammett, then got into the corral and roped the paint. Putting on a halter and lead rope, he mounted his own horse and with a wave to Hammett, rode through the trees into the creek. He would avoid crossing the bridge in case the sound drew Lott back to the street. At the Emporium he bought a pack saddle and loaded up, keeping a watchful eye out for Harry Lott. Irritably he realized he was only avoiding an issue that must soon be faced.
At a thunder of hoofs he turned to see a dozen riders charge into the street. A pistol bellowed, then another. They swung down in front of the Diamond Palace and the Pinenut and charged inside, yelling and laughing. The tall man in black who had led them remained in the street. With him was a man, slender and gray-faced. His eyes seemed to be almost white. The tall man bit the end from a cigar and Harry Lott came up the street. “Who made that racket?” he demanded. “Who was shootin’?” The reply came, ice-cold and domineering. “Those were my men, Marshal, and the shooting was harmless. They will come to town often, and we will have no trouble. Understand?”
Harry Lett’s eyes glowed. This man, Kilkenny saw, was a killer. Yet he saw more than that. The gray-faced man had moved to one side. The movement drew Kilkenny’s attention and for the first time he saw the man’s face in the sunlight. It was Dee Havalik.
In the Sonora cattle war his ruthless killings had won him the name of Butcher Havalik. Unassuming in appearance, he was deadly as a rattler and blurred lightning with a gun.
Harry Lott had not even noticed him. Lott was watching the older man, and Lott was in a killing mood.
Why he did it, Kilkenny would never know. Perhaps he wanted to see no man murdered. He spoke softly, just loud enough for Lott to hear. “Careful, Lott! The other one’s Havalik!”
Lott stiffened at the name, and Kilkenny saw his eyes shift, then return to Tetlow. “And who are you?” Lott demanded of the older man. “You mark well the name.” The old man stood a little straighter. “I’m Jared Tetlow! And I’ve fifty riders, enough to sweep this town off the map!” Harry Lott was no fool. And at that moment he saw the third man. It was the big man Kilkenny had seen earlier in the Westwater dining room. He was fifty yards away, only his face was rifle muzzle showing over the back of a horse. That rifle was leveled at Harry Lott.
It was a cold deck, and Lott knew it.
“Keep your men in line,” he said, “and we’ll have no trouble.” Turning on his heels he walked toward the Emporium, slanting his eyes toward Kilkenny. Tetlow and Havalik went inside. The man with the rifle loafed in front of the barber shop.
Lott studied Kilkenny suspiciously. “You saved my neck,” he said. “They had me in a cross fire.”
“I don’t like to see a man murdered.”
“I heard about Havalik.” Lott had buck teeth and a heavy body. “Who are you?”
“I’ve been called Trent. Seems like a good name.” When he had packed his supplies he swung into the saddle and rode out of town, taking the route across the bridge, past Dolan’s and turning right into the hills when he passed Savory’s.
The tall old man with the autocratic manner was Jared Tetlow, father of the man he had killed at Clifton’s! And such a man would be a desperate and implacable enemy. And this man commanded the guns of Dee Havalik!
Chapter 2
Kilkenny rode west from Horsehead. The Valley of the Whispering Wind was almost due north but he had no intention of leaving a trail that could be easily followed.
One sight of Tetlow had indicated the nature of the man who would be his enemy. Once the cattleman knew the man who had killed his son was nearby he would not rest until that man was dead. Nor was Kilkenny unaware of the danger that lay in Harry Lott.
Several times he paused just over ridges to look back along his trail. As he suspected, he was followed. At dusk he turned into the head of Butts Canyon, riding down a switchback trail that was rarely used. He took his time entering and made sure there were visible tracks. Within the canyon it was black as a cavern, yet he trusted his horse, knowing the mountainbred gelding would take him through safely. It was cool, almost cold at the canyon bottom. At the first fork he rode into a narrow, cavernous passage that led back into the plateau to the northwest. He had no idea if there was any trail out, but it was a chance he must take.
When they had gone some distance up the branch canyon the buckskin pulled to the right. With carefully shielded matches Kilkenny studied the ground and found the buckskin had started into a trail apparently used by deer and wild horses. Swinging back into the saddle, he let the buckskin have his head. Nearly an hour later they emerged atop the mesa. A notch in the hills to the north promised a pass and he headed toward it.
The night was cool and the stars seemed amazingly close. Several times he paused to rest his horses, and when traveling stuck to rocky ledges whenever possible. Toward daybreak he made dry camp in a clump of juniper, picketing his horses on a small patch of grass.
He made breakfast over a fire of dry and smokeless wood at daybreak, but before he moved out he took his glasses and from a nearby rock devoted fifteen minutes to a careful survey of the country. He saw no sign of life, no trail of smoke. Mounting, he rode into wilder and even more lonely hills. It was a desolate land, a jumbled heap of uptilted, broken ledges, enormous basins, knife-like, serrated ridges and toppling towers of sandstone. The sun climbed and grew hot, weirdly eroded sandstone danced like demons in the heat-waved air. Dust devils moved mockingly before him, and the distant atmosphere gathered splendid blue lakes in distant bottoms.
Sweat stained his shirt and got into his eyes. The buckskin turned dark with sweat and the red dust that shrouded the junipers began to cover him, but still he rode north, knowing nothing of the waterholes, into a trackless and forbidding land.
For almost ten miles he rode across windswept rock where no trail could be followed, and then suddenly as though weary of the heights it had been following, the plateau ended in a series of vast, gigantic steps that descended for several miles, dropping little by little into a basin. Coming upon a wild horse trail, Kilkenny followed until he came to a small, blue and beautiful lake where grew a few willows and cottonwoods. Here he watered his horses and rested, smoking a cigarette and relaxing.
It was dusk before he moved again, and now he turned east, for the Blues were abreast of him, and he found a wild horse trail that led across a great natural causeway into the Blues. He made, camp at dark and only reached his valley in the early light of the
following morning.
There was no evidence that anyone had been here in his absence. With coffee on, he went out and removed the saddles from the horses and rubbed both of them down. The buckskin was accustomed to this and stood patiently, but the paint was restive, uncertain of what this new master intended. But the scraping of the dry handful of grass was pleasing, and finally he grew still and waited, enjoying the ministrations.
After breakfast he sat on the step of the house and cleaned his guns, then went out and set several snares and deadfalls to trap small game. He had the hunted man’s hesitancy to shoot unless absolutely essential and the knowledge that much game could be captured without it. Donning moccasins, he walked off down the valley until he was a mile away from the house, well knowing a time might come when he would want game close around him.
Long accustomed to the wild, lonely life, Kilkenny moved like an Indian, and he could live like one. Few men knew the wilderness better, and although he appreciated the towns and the comforts they offered, he had grown accustomed to living in the wilds and could do it. He knew the plants for their nutritional or medicinal value, knew how to make many kinds of shelters and utensils for camp use, and given a hunting knife, or even without one, he could survive anywhere. He had chosen a quiet life now, away from the centers of action, but even here trouble was building. A less experienced man could see what was about to happen. Despite the ranches and permanent homes, Horsehead was in no sense a settled community. Many were drifters who had come to get away, often capable men, and fiercely independent. Yet most were poor men, running a few cattle, and starting from scratch. Into this country Tetlow had come with his great herds and dozens of hard-bitten riders. Good range was scarce, insufficient to support his huge herds and the cattle they now carried.
Tetlow was arrogant, sure that his success gave him the right to demand and control. The ranchers were stubborn men, resentful of this outsider. The situation could scarcely have been more explosive. From his own ranch in the Valley of the Whispering Wind, Kilkenny found nothing in the situation to insure hope. Tetlow’s manner to Lott showed the sort of man he was and that he would ride roughshod over all who got in his way. Aside from the presence of Nita Riordan and the fact that he had killed Tetlow’s son, Kilkenny’s sympathies were with the small ranchers, the men who were building homes rather than empires. For one man to grow so large as Tetlow meant many men must remain small or have nothing. The proper level lay between the two extremes, and this was the American way.
Kilkenny (1954) Page 2
