She was the only person, so far as he was aware, who knew that he was in fact Lance Kilkenny, the gun-fighter from the Texas border country.
Whenever Trent thought of the trouble to come in the Cedar Bluff country, he thought more of Cub Hale than of King Bill. The older man was huge, powerful physically, but not a killer, although he was responsible for the death of more than one person-men he had viewed as malefactors, enemies, trespassers upon land he claimed. But Cub Hale was a killer.
Two days after Trent had first come to Cedar Bluff, he had seen Cub Hale kill a man. He was a drunken miner, a burly, quarrelsome fellow who could have done with a pistol barrel alongside the head, needing nothing more. Cub Hale shot him down ruthlessly, needlessly.
There had been the case of Jack Lindsay, a known gunman, and Cub had killed him in a fair stand-up fight, with an even break all around. Lindsay's gun had scarcely cleared the holster when the three shots hit him. Trent had walked over to the man's body to see for himself, and you could have covered the three holes with a playing card. That was shooting.
There were other stories told of Cub's killings. Two rustlers caught in the act and both killed on the spot. He had killed a Mexican sheepherder in Magdalena for some imagined offense, killed a gunman in Fort Summer, and gut-shot another in the desert near Socorro, leaving him to die slowly.
Whether Cub was considered or not--and of course, he must be--there were still Dunn and Ravitz. Both had been involved in a minor way in the Lincoln County War, and both had been in Trail City. Later they left California just ahead of a posse. Theirs were familiar names among the dark brotherhood who lived by the gun, and they were known as strictly cash-and-carry warriors whose guns were for hire.
"Buck," Trent spoke aloud to his horse, "if war starts in this neck of the woods, there will be a lot of killing. I've got to see Hale and talk reason into him."
Cedar Bluff could have been any cowtown. There were three things that set it off: one was the stone stage station, which also housed the offices of the Hale ranch; the others were the two saloon/gambling-halls--the Mecca, owned by King Bill, and the Crystal Palace, owned by Nita Riordan.
It was a time when towns sprang into being overnight, bloomed and boomed briefly, then died. The mines played out or failed to prove themselves, and the prospectors, gamblers, and mining-camp women moved on, following the boom.
There were, as Trent knew from personal experience, several thousand people who followed the booms. Several hundred of them might be found in any new camp. Each dreaming of striking it rich or taking the money from somebody who had, or just following the booms because that was where the excitement was.
Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp, and dozens like them might be found in Dodge City, Tombstone, Silverton, or anywhere in between. Cedar was off the beaten track, but it was a one-man town, dependent for its existence on the Hale ranch and its hands. There was other trade, but not enough to keep a business open without them.
Trent loped the buckskin down the dusty street and pulled up in front of Leathers' store. He walked into the cool ulterior. The place smelled of leather and dry goods, and at the rear, where they dispensed foodstuffs and other supplies, he halted.
Bert Leathers looked up from his customer as Trent entered, and Trent saw his face change. Leathers wet his lips and kept his eyes from Trent. Hearing a slight movement, Trent looked around, to see a heavyset cowhand wearing chaps lounging against a rack of saddles. The cowhand took his cigarette from his mouth and looked at Trent with shrewd, careful eyes.
"Need a few items, Leathers," Trent said. "I've a few odds and ends to pick up."
The man Leathers was serving looked up hastily, then averted his eyes. He was a townsman, and at the moment he looked worried.
"Sorry, Trent. I can't help you. You nesters have been ordered off the Hale range. I can't sell you anything."
"Lickin' Hale's boots, are you? I heard it, Leathers, but I didn't believe it. I figured a man with nerve enough to come west and set up for himself would be his own man."
"I am my own man!" Leathers replied sharply, his pride stung. "I just don't want your business."
"When this is all over, Leathers, we will remember that. You're forgetting something, Leathers. This is a country where the people always win in the end. When this is over and we have won, please remember this."
Leathers stared at him angrily; then his eyes fell. His face was white and stiff, and for a moment his eyes wavered to the loafing man near the saddles.
"You all better grab yourself some air," a cool voice suggested.
Trent turned and the gunhand was standing with his thumbs in his belt, half-smiling. "You all better slide, Trent. What the man says is true. King Bill's movin' you folks out, an' I'm here to see Leathers doesn't have any trouble with nesters."
"All right," Trent replied pleasantly. "I'm a quiet man, myself. Rightly I expect I should take that gun away from you and shove it down your throat, but Leathers here is probably gun-shy, and there might be some shootin', so I'll just take a walk."
"My name's Dan Cooper," the gunhand said, "and any time you feel like shovin' this gun down my throat, you just look me up."
Trent smiled. "I'll do that, Cooper, and if you stay with King Bill, I'm afraid you're going to have a lot of lead in your diet. He's cuttin' too wide a swath."
"Uh-huh"--Cooper was cheerful and tough--"but he's got the blade to cut 'em off short."
"Ever see the Hatfields shoot? Take a tip, old son, and when those long Kentucky rifles open up, you be somewhere else."
"You got somethin' there, pardner. You really have. That Parson's got him a cold eye."
Trent turned and started for the street, but Cooper's voice halted him. "Say . . ." Cooper's tone was suddenly curious. "Were you ever in Dodge?"
"Maybe. Maybe I was, Cooper. I've been a lot of places, Cooper, and I've always gone on through and come back.
"Let me add this. I like you, Cooper. I think you've got sand, and I think you're a good man tied in with the wrong crowd. So take a tip from a friendly man. Get on your horse and ride. Make any excuse you can, but ride. King Bill's got the most men, but not the best, and before this is over, a lot of them will be pushing up the daisies. Get on your horse and ride. I always hate to kill a good man."
Trent walked away down the street, and Cooper watched him go, frowning thoughtfully. Where had he seen him before? Or had he seen him? Might it be something he'd heard? Some description of a man?
The thought nagged at his consciousness; worst of all, he was apprehensive--and why? Was his memory trying to warn him of something?
He walked back into the store and looked at Leathers. "You got any idea who that was?" he asked.
"He says his name is Trent. He's been around here over a year ... maybe longer. He's been to town only two or three times. It's almost like he doesn't like towns."
"Or maybe he doesn't like to be where there are people who recognize him. One thing I can tell you, Leathers. That there is a very hard man. See how easy-like he handled that? He didn't try to bluff, argue, or throw his weight around, and when a man takes it that calm and easy, it's because he knows what he can do when the chips are down."
Three more attempts to buy supplies convinced Trent he was frozen out in Cedar. Worried now, he started back to his horse. If the nesters could not buy in Cedar, it meant their only recourse was the long, hard trip to Cliffs, or, as some called it, Blazer.
He had grave doubts that even if they started that they would go through unmolested, and their little party was so small they could not spare men to guard the wagons on the long trek over mountains and rugged country.
He tightened his cinch, aware that eyes were upon him and he was about to mount when a voice came from behind him.
"Trent? Nita asked me to ask if you would come to see her." The man was Price Dixon, a dealer from the Crystal Palace, a man who sized up as a straight-shooter.
"All right," he agreed reluctantly, "but it will do her n
o good to be seen talking to me, or have it known that she talked to me. We nesters aren't looked upon with favor these days."
Dixon nodded. "It looks like you boys are on the short end of it."
"Maybe."
Dixon glanced at him out of the corners of his eyes as they walked along. "Don't you carry a belt gun? They'll kill you someday."
"If you don't pack a gun, you don't have so many fights."
"That wouldn't stop Cub Hale."
"You're right. His sort don't really care whether a man has a chance or not."
Price Dixon studied him thoughtfully as they paused before the Crystal Palace. "Who are you, Trent? What are you?"
"I'm Trent, a mountain-valley nester, what else?"
"Trent, I've been dealing cards west of the Mississippi since the War Between the States ended. I've seen men who were good with guns, and I know the breed. You're not Wes Hardin, whom I knew in Abilene, and you're not Hickok or Masterson or Billy Brooks, you're not Farmer Peel or John Bull, and you never drink much so you can't be Ben Thompson, but whoever you are, you've packed a gun."
"Don't lose sleep over it, Price. A name never made a man. It's always easy to fit a new handle to an old ax."
"You are right, of course, but regardless of the handle, the blade cuts just as deep. No, I won't lose sleep over it, because I'm only standing in the wings, but I have a feeling those who are onstage should be worrying over it. You're a friend of Nita's, and that's enough for me.
"Besides," he added, "Jaime Brigo likes you." He glanced at Trent. "What do you think of him?"
"Brigo?" Trent smiled. "He's part Yaqui, part devil, and all loyal, but I'd sooner tackle three Hales than one Brigo. He's poison."
"I believe you. He sits there by her door day and night, apparently asleep, yet he knows more about what goes on in town than any five other men."
"Dixon? Talk Nita into selling out and getting out. There's a good chance of getting her place shot up or burned out if she stays. This is going to be a long, hard fight."
"Hale doesn't think so."
"Parson Hatfield does. I doubt if Hale has any idea what he's walking into. Nobody has ever bucked him before, and he's bluffing against a pat hand."
"I've seen the Hatfields. I grew up in the South, Trent, and now and again I'd see those men come down from the hills, and I've never forgotten them."
Trent opened the door. "Dixon, stay by her. I am afraid she will need all the friends she's got, once this starts. And try to keep her out of it."
Dixon shrugged and smiled, then shook his head sadly. "I think you've known her longer than I have, Trent, and Nita makes her own decisions, always. Also, she's afraid of nothing."
"Then stay by her. She will need all her friends, and I'll be out there in the mountains."
He went inside, where all was cool and still. Only two men, both strangers, stood drinking at the bar, as the hour was still early. This was suppertime in Cedar.
He looked over his shoulder. The sun was setting and the street and the walls were red--like blood.
Chapter 4
The Crystal Palace was one of those places that made the West what it was. Wherever money was to be spent there would be found the saloons and gambling houses, yet they were not alone for drinking and gambling, for the western saloon was a meeting place, a political forum, a clearing house for information, a place where business deals were consummated, and a club room as well.
Money was being made in the West, whether in cattle, buffalo hunting or mining, and the men who were making it were, largely speaking, free spenders. They had the money and they wanted the best in rare wines, champagne, excellent food, and elaborate decor.
Cedar had the well-paid cowhands from the Hale ranch, certainly not making big money but better money than others in an equal position. There were miners, also, some from as far away as Florence or Idaho City, for the Palace offered the best.
Nita Riordan, as Trent could see, was doing all right. She had inherited her first gambling house and saloon when she was several years younger, and had inherited Jaime Brigo at the same time.
Young as she was, she was a shrewd businesswoman whose predecessor had taught her the business. There was no necessity for crooked games, and Nita would not permit anything of the kind. The house percentage was sufficient. It also meant less trouble. If any disgruntled loser complained that he was cheated, she immediately repaid the sum he had invested, but he was never permitted inside the doors again. Knowing this, even the poor losers rarely argued, for none wished to be denied the best place in town with undeniably the best food in the territory.
Trent knew a little about gambling houses, and this one obviously was doing well.
Price Dixon led the way across the room. Jaime Brigo was there in a black velvet suit, white shirt, and his two guns. A knife was also at his belt, and Trent remembered that he carried another down the back of his neck, ready for a quick grasp and a throw.
"Buenos dios, senor!" Brigo flashed his white teeth.
Dixon stopped and gestured to the door beside which Brigo sat. "She is in there."
Trent faced the door, drew a deep breath, and stepped inside. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. No woman had ever affected him as this one did, none had ever stirred him so deeply or made him realize how much he was missing in his lonely life.
It was a quiet, pleasant room, utterly different from the garish display of the gambling hall. It was a room to be lived in, the room of one who loved quiet and peace. On a ledge by the window were several potted plants, on the table lay an open book. These things he absorbed rather than observed, for all his attention was upon Nita Riordan.
She stood across the table from him, taller than most women, with a slender yet voluptuous body that made a pulse pound in his throat. She was dressed for the evening, an evening of walking among the gambling tables, and she wore a black and spangled gown utterly out of keeping with the room in which she stood.
Her eyes were wide, both hands held out to him. "Lance! Why have you waited so long?"
"You've not changed," he said. "You are the same."
"I'm older, Lance. More than a year older."
"Has it been but a year? It seems much longer." He looked at her thoughtfully. "You are lovely, as always. I think you could be nothing but lovely and desirable."
"And yet when you could have had me, you rode away. Lance, do you live all alone in that cabin of yours? Is there no one?"
He chuckled. "Nita, if there was anyone you would know it I think you are aware of all that goes on. Yes, I am alone except for the memories, and they only make it worse. Yet when I think of you and all that could be, I remember Bert Polti, too, and the Brockmans. I wonder how long it will be before I go into the dust myself."
"That's one of the reasons I sent for you." She came around the table and took his hands again. "Lance, you've got to go. Leave here now! I can hold your place for you, if that's what you want. If that doesn't matter, just say the word and I'll go with you. I will go anywhere with you, but we must leave here now!"
"Why?" It was like him to be direct and to the point.
She looked up into his dark, unsmiling face.
"Why, Nita? How do you imagine I could leave the others, who depend upon me? Well, to a degree, at least."
"Because they mean to kill you! Lance, they are cruel and vicious. I am not speaking of King Bill, although he is their leader, for what he does he believes to be right. It's Cub.
"He loves to kill, Lance. Last week he killed a boy in front of my place, then shot into him as he lay on the walk. He's not normal, Lance. He's insane, and not even his father is aware of it.
"When he is with his father, he is always at his most charming, and I believe he truly loves him. King Bill at least uses his power to build, even though he rides roughshod over others in the process. Cub uses power only to destroy."
"I must stay. There are so few of us."
"Lance, I've heard them talking. Oh, t
hey wanted me to hear! They conceal nothing because they believe no one can touch them. Or would wish to touch them.
"They are sure you will fight, so they mean to kill you. Even now they know you are in town, and they do not plan to let you leave. They won't give you a chance."
"Nita, the people in the high meadows are my friends. I cannot be the first to break and run."
"They don't know you are Lance Kilkenny, but they do suspect you are someone whose name is known. I believe they think you are some outlaw on the dodge. They mean to kill you. It is that simple."
"Nita, I have been through this before. Perhaps the odds were less, but the game was the same. No, I must stay."
He paused. "I must talk to Hale. He could stop this if he would. He has to be made to understand."
"There isn't a chance! Not one. He lives in a world all his own. No one even dares address him, and if you approached him he would be offended. You would not have a chance to speak. And don't forget, the man's not over forty and he's a fighter."
"You seem to know him well. Has he made you any trouble?"
"What makes you ask that?"
"I want to know."
She shrugged. "He wants to marry me, Lance." She smiled suddenly. "I will admit that he told me so somewhat in the manner of a king conferring a boon upon some lesser creature, but nonetheless, he did ask."
Trent stared at her. "And you, Nita? What did you say?"
"I am lonely, Lance. I have no life here, only a business. I know no women but those of the dance hall. Oh, they're a pretty good lot, really. And my girls are strictly dancing partners, nothing more. It may be that one or two of them have found friends ... I wouldn't know about that, and it is their own business, but I know no one else, see no one else. I am dreadfully, frighteningly alone.
"King Bill is strong. He knows how to appeal to a woman. He has a lot to offer, and even though he has a son as old as I, he's still a young man. I do not like what he is doing, but he can offer many arguments why he believes he is right.
the Mountain Valley War (1978) Page 3
