the Mountain Valley War (1978)

by L'amour, Louis - Kilkenny 03

  "Buckshot in it, too," Kilkenny said casually. "I might be able to get more'n four or five of you gents at the one time, because she scatters pretty good at this range. I'd hate like the devil to blow you boys apart, but if you ask for it, what can I do?"

  "Now, take it easy!" Wright protested. "I--"

  "Leathers," Kilkenny said, "you just walk over here and collect their guns. Slap their shirts, too. I wouldn't want one of you boys to have a hideout gun and get your friends all shot up."

  The storekeeper, shaking with fright, did as he was told, and no one said a word. These men were all too familiar with guns, and most of them had seen what a shotgun could do at that distance. When the guns were all collected and laid at his feet, he stood there for a moment looking at them.

  "Wright, I heard you wanting to trick me and kill me."

  Wright's expression was haunted and sick. "I talked too much. I wouldn't have done that."

  There was a rattle of horses' hooves in the street, and Kilkenny saw hope flicker in Wright's eyes. "Careful, Lee!" Kilkenny spoke quietly. "If I go, you go with me."

  "I ain't movin'! For God's sake, don't shoot!"

  Chapter 21

  Now the horses slowed to a walk, and they drew up before the Crystal Palace. Kilkenny dared not turn. He dared not look. Putting a toe behind the stack of guns, he pushed them back, then farther back. Then he waited. A slight turn of his head, and they would rush him en masse; he might get off a shot, and might not. Certainly he would be dead within the minute.

  Sweat beaded his forehead, and his mouth was utterly dry. He tried to swallow and could not. They had just to walk up behind him. He backed to one side of the door, but kept his eyes on them. Even for an instant he dared not avert his eyes. His only way was to go out fighting.

  Looking into the eyes of the men before him, he could see what was in their minds. Their faces were gray and sick. A shotgun wasn't an easy way to die, and once that gun started blasting, there was no telling who would be hit. And Kilkenny with an empty shotgun still had two guns on his hips and one in his waistband. And every man there had heard what Kilkenny could do with a six-gun.

  The flesh was crawling on the back of Kilkenny's neck and he saw Wright's tongue feeling for his dry lips. Only Tandy Wade seemed relaxed. The tension showed only in his eyes. They could hear boots now, coming along the boardwalk, and more than one pair. Two men walking.

  At any moment now this room could turn into a section of bloody hell. A door slammed at the Crystal Palace.

  Had Brigo passed out? Was he dead? There was no sound of walking now, but they all knew somebody was crossing the dusty space between the boardwalks that fronted the two buildings. Suddenly the boots were close. Only five steps...

  Leathers slipped to the floor in a dead faint. Tandy looked down at him with contempt.

  If that was Cub Hale behind him, he would be killed, but he would go out taking a bloody dozen with him, and he would not drop his gun if ordered. He would simply open fire.

  He clicked back the hammers.

  "No! For God's sake, Kilkenny!" He did not know who spoke.

  These men who could face a shoot-out with composure were frightened and pale at the gaping mouth of the shotgun.

  "Kilkenny?" The voice was behind him, and it was Parson Hatfield's voice.

  "Come in, Parson. I reckon everybody's glad to see you."

  Tandy Wade struck a match and lit the cold cigarette in his lips. "I can't speak for the others," he said, "but, Parson, you're about the best-appearing man I ever did see, an' you did your best appearing just now!"

  Hatfield came in, and Bartram and Runyon were with him. "Where's Cub Hale?" Parson demanded.

  "He cut off for the Castle. He figured Dunn and Ravitz would have the girl there," Wade volunteered. "When she wasn't there, he sent us after her."

  "He must have stopped off on the way, because he wasn't there. The place was deserted, not a soul around until we went inside the house. Hale was there. He'd shot himself."

  "I think he saw us coming," Runyon said. "I heard a shot."

  "What happens to us?" Tandy Wade asked.

  Before he could speak, Parson Hatfield interrupted. "We want Jeff Nebel and Lee Wright. Both of them were in on the killin' of Moffit, and both were there when Miller was killed, and Nebel hisself killed Smith-ers. Least, that's the way we hear it."

  "Take them, then," Kilkenny said. His eyes went to Wade. "I heard what you said when I was outside the door. You're too good a man to run with this crowd, Tandy. You ride out of here before you wind up at the end of a rope."

  "Thanks, man," Wade said. "It's more than I have coming."

  "You others, get on your horses and get out of here, just leave, and if you ever show up in this country again, we'll hang you."

  They scrambled for the door. Hatfield was already gone with Wright and Nebel.

  Leathers was on his feet. He looked sick and empty. "You've got twenty-four hours," Kilkenny said. "Take what you can and get out. Don't come back."

  He walked out of the store and into the dusty street. He wanted to see how Price was doing with Brigo, but two men on horseback were coming down the street riding together.

  Dan Cooper and Cain Brockman. They rode right up to him. Cooper took out the makings and began to roll a smoke. "Looks like I backed the wrong horse," he said. "What's the deal? Got a rope for me? Or do I draw a ticket out of here?"

  "What do you want?"

  "Well, me an' Cain here been talkin' some. We both won money on your fight and we both like high mountain country, so we thought if you'd have us we'd like to file on some of that mountain country."

  "Right pretty places up there," Cain said, waiting. "If you say so, we'll drift."

  Kilkenny looked from one to the other, then said, "Be pleased to have you. Cain, that Moffit place is empty now. Jack won't be able to handle a place like that, so if you want to make a deal for it, or work it on shares, you could start off with a ready-built house.

  "Dan, the Smithers place is empty. We might work something out with his family. Otherwise, there's still some good land open up there. Be glad to have you."

  He went next door to the Palace, and as he walked in, Nita came over to him. "He's going to be all right, I think," she said. "Price fixed him up as best he could, and he's with him now."

  "Good." Kilkenny took her in his arms. He drew her close, and her lips melted into his, and for a long time they stood holding each other.

  "Oh, Lance!" she whispered. "Don't let me go. Keep me now. It has been so long, and I've been so lonely."

  "Yes, I'll keep you now, Nita. I have been lonely, too. We'll just have to chance what the future holds. It is better to be together."

  Slowly, in the days that followed, the country came back to itself. Widows of two of the nesters moved into Leathers' house and took over the store. Kilkenny and Bartram helped them get organized and in business. The ruins of the Mecca were cleared away. Van Hawkins, a former actor from San Francisco, came in and bought the Crystal Palace from Nita, and Kilkenny began building a newer and more comfortable house on the site of the old one. Yet through it all there was much uneasiness. Kilkenny talked much with Nita in the evenings, and he saw the dark circles under her eyes. She was sleeping very little, he knew. And he knew why.

  The Hatfields went nowhere without arms, and Steve Runyon, who before the trouble had rarely carried a gun, now carried one wherever he went. No one ever mentioned Cub Hale, but he was on everyone's mind. He had vanished mysteriously after the suicide of his father, leaving no trace. There was no hint of what he planned or what he was to become.

  Then one day Saul Hatfield rode up to Kilkenny's claim and stopped by to watch the work on the house. He leaned on the saddle horn and looked down at Lance.

  "How's things? Seems you're doin' right well with the house."

  "It's going up. How's your father?"

  "Pert. Right pert. Pa, he never changes very much. Complains a mite when cold weather
comes. Got hisself rheumatism, I guess."

  "They digging those potatoes of Smithers'?"

  "I reckon. He had him a good crop."

  "He'd like that. He was a thrifty man." Lance put a hand on the horse. "What's on your mind, Saul?"

  "Quince an' me was down on the branch. Seen some horse tracks there ... fresh ones. Somebody had crossed the stream and gone down into the rough country. Well, we follered them tracks. Found some white hairs on the bark of a tree."

  Cub Hale had always ridden a white horse. An albino, it was.

  "Which way was he heading?"

  "He was going down into the wilderness country we crossed to go to Blazer. Now, there's no reason for a man to ride into that country unless he has to, although it might be a good place for a hideout. Nobody likely to come upon him yonder."

  "Did you back-trail him?"

  "Uh-huh. Seemed to have circled around Cedar like he was lookin' the place over."

  "I reckon I'd better ride down to Cedar, Saul. I been needing a few things anyway, and I might stick around a few days."

  "Sho." Saul straightened up. "A body could foller them tracks. It was a plain trail."

  "Dangerous. Like trackin' a grizzly."

  Kilkenny saddled the long-legged yellow horse with the black legs and started for town. Cub Hale wasn't going to pull out until he had done some meanness, as Saul would have said, and he was a man who was driven to kill, even if he died in the process. Lance had never believed Cub would leave. The younger Hale had been holed up somewhere, licking his mental wounds and building hatred.

  Kilkenny rode right to the cottage where Nita was living. Sally was staying with her, and Nita was helping the younger girl get ready for her wedding.

  Nita came to the door with her sewing in her hand. She saw by his face that something was wrong. "Lance? Is it Cub?"

  "He's around, Nita. Looks like you've got a guest for dinner."

  "Put your horse in the barn and come on in. There's oats in the bin."

  "Spoil a good horse," he grumbled. "That buckskin will be heading over here every time I get on him."

  "That's the idea," she said cheerfully. "Just so you come with him, I'm going to feed you, too."

  He was seated by the window when he saw Quince and Saul ride in, and a few minutes later Dan Cooper and Cain Brockman.

  Brockman went to the Palace and apparently had a drink, then came out and began to loaf on the porch. There was a bench there, and he sat down and lit a cigar.

  Kilkenny swore softly to himself. Nita looked up. "What's the matter?"

  "That lot ... they think I need protection."

  "Good for them. How do you know if Cub will be alone?"

  Well, he didn't, and he might not be. There were always drifting hard cases willing to tie up with anybody who could lead them into money or trouble.

  The room was very pleasant. There were lace curtains at the windows, some china plates on shelves, and a few pictures on the walls. Nita dried her hands on her apron and called them to lunch. He took a quick look along the street, then went to the table. Sally's face was very flushed and pretty.

  Bartram knocked and then entered. Kilkenny grinned at Sally. "No wonder you were looking so excited."

  "It's not often a man gets to try his wife's biscuits before he marries her," Bart said, "but these are sure good!"

  "Tell Nita then, and not me. She's the one who made them."

  "Nita? I didn't even know you could cook."

  "That's not true, Lance. I've cooked for you before."

  The door opened, and Cain Brockman loomed in the opening. "Kilkenny? Shall I take him? He's riding in."

  "No." Kilkenny touched his lips with the napkin. "If he wants trouble, it's me he wants."

  His eyes met Nita's across the table. "Don't pour my coffee. I like it hot."

  He walked to the door. Far down the street he could see Cub Hale on his white horse. As he watched him, Cub rode to the rail, dismounted, tied his horse, and hung his hat on the pommel. Then he started up the middle of the street.

  Kilkenny went outside and stepped down off the porch. The roses around the steps were in bloom, and their scent was strong in his nostrils. He could smell the rich, fresh-turned earth in the garden patch, and somewhere a magpie screeched.

  He opened the gate and stepped out, closing it carefully behind him.

  It was best to have this over now, to have it behind him rather than letting it become a nightmare of waiting. He did not want it, but here it was.

  Saul Hatfield was standing on the steps of the store, his rifle in the hollow of his arm. Cain was tilted back in a chair in front of the store. The other men who had been sitting on the bench near him had vanished. Quince was sitting in front of an old adobe with his rifle across his knees. Just in case he failed.

  Failed? He had never failed. Yet sooner or later everyone did. There was always the time when they started a mite too slow, the gun hung in the holster, or a cartridge misfired.

  The air was hot, but in the distance thunder rumbled. Soon it would be raining on their crops. That was another thing. They got more rain up there than down here. A few scattered drops fell. Odd, he had not even noticed it was clouding up. One of those quick, hard mountain thunderstorms, he supposed.

  He could see Cub more clearly now. Always freshly shaved when Lance had seen him on other occasions, he was unshaved now. He was not wearing his fancy buckskin jacket. Only the guns were the same, and the eyes that seemed to burn.

  Abruptly Hale stopped, and when he stopped, Kilkenny stopped too. He stood there, perfectly relaxed, waiting. Cub's face was white and pasty. Only his eyes seemed alive.

  "I'm going to kill you!" His voice was sharp and strained.

  "You needn't, you know. You can always ride out of here and forget it."

  The words were empty, and he knew there could be no words now. Somebody had to die. Yet it was all wrong. He felt no tension, no alertness. He was just standing there, feeling a great pity. Why would they never learn that nothing was ever solved with a gun?

  Something flickered in those strange eyes, and Kilkenny, standing perfectly erect, slapped the butt of his gun with his palm, and the gun leaped up, settling into a rocklike grip. The gun bucked in his hand, almost of its own volition. It bucked hard against his grip, twice.

  The gun before him flowered with flame, and something white-hot struck him low down on his right side. The gun boomed again, but the bullet wasted itself in the dust, and Cub's knees buckled. There was a spot of growing crimson on his chest, right over the heart.

  Cub Hale fell facedown in the dust, then straightened his legs, and there was silence in the long dusty street of Cedar.

  Kilkenny stood perfectly still, thumbing shells into his gun to replace the empties. He holstered the gun and started back up the hill toward the cottage, but somehow it seemed unusually steep. He walked on, and he could see Nita opening the gate and running to him.

  He stopped then, feeling something wet against his leg. He looked down, and there was blood on his side. He walked on, his legs feeling stiff and awkward, and Nita met him in the street.

  "Lance? Oh, Lance..."

  "I'm all right," he said.

  Cain Brockman suddenly had an arm around his shoulders, and Quince was on the other side.

  He was sitting in a chair when Price Dixon came in. "If you fellows keep on shooting, I'll just have to hang up my shingle," he said.

  "He's all right," he said later. "The bullet hit him atop the hipbone. Flesh wound and some shock. He'll be all right."

  Later, Nita came in. "Shall I pour your coffee now?" she asked lightly.

  "Let Sally pour it," he said. "You stay here."

  About the Author

  "I think of myself in the oral tradition--of a troubadour, a village taleteller, the man in the shadows of the campfire. That's the way I'd like to be remembered--as a storyteller. A good storyteller."

  It is doubtful that any author could be as at home in th
e world recreated in his novels as Louis Dearborn L'Amour. Not only could he physically fill the boots of the rugged characters he wrote about, but he literally "walked the land my characters walk." His personal experiences as well as his lifelong devotion to historical research combined to give Mr. L'Amour the unique knowledge and understanding of people, events, and the challenge of the American frontier that became the hallmarks of his popularity.

  Of French-Irish descent, Mr. L'Amour could trace his own family in North America back to the early 1600s and follow their steady progression westward, "always on the frontier." As a boy growing up in Jamestown, North Dakota, he absorbed all he could about his family's frontier heritage, including the story of his great-grandfather who was scalped by Sioux warriors.

  Spurred by an eager curiosity and desire to broaden his horizons, Mr. L'Amour left home at the age of fifteen and enjoyed a wide variety of jobs including seaman, lumberjack, elephant handler, skinner of dead cattle, assessment miner, and officer on tank destroyers during World War II. During his "yondering" days he also circled the world on a freighter, sailed a dhow on the Red Sea, was shipwrecked in the West Indies and stranded in the Mojave Desert. He won fifty-one of fifty-nine fights as a professional boxer and worked as a journalist and lecturer. He was a voracious reader and collector of rare books. His personal library contained 17,000 volumes.

  Mr. L'Amour "wanted to write almost from the time I could talk." After developing a widespread following for his many frontier and adventure stories written for fiction magazines, Mr. L'Amour published his first full-length novel, Hondo, in the United States in 1953. Every one of his more than 100 books is in print; there are nearly 230 million copies of his books in print worldwide, making him one of the best-selling authors in modern literary history. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and more than forty-five of his novels and stories have been made into feature films and television movies.

  His hardcover bestsellers include The Lonesome Gods, The Walking Drum (his twelfth-century historical novel) Jubal Sackett, Last of the Breed, and The Haunted Mesa. His memoir, Education of a Wandering Man, was a leading bestseller in 1989. Audio dramatizations and adaptations of many L'Amour stories are available on cassette tapes from Bantam Audio Publishing.