Novel 1966 - Kilrone (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  The one street in Hog Town, no more than a stretch of muddy road, was dark and still. Lights shone from the Empire, and they could hear the sound of a tinny music box as they drew nearer. A few yards from the end of the street Kilrone drew up. “You know this place, Teale. Where would he be likely to have that wagon, if he has it?”

  “Now, that’s a problem, Cap. It surely is. He’d be likely to have it near the corrals or at the barn, if he was honest about it, but I’d guess he’ll have it closer by. Maybe behind the Empire itself.”

  Teale pointed. “There’s a smaller stable there, where he keeps his own horses, and back of that there’s cottonwoods and some brush. I’d guess the wagon would be there.”

  “Well, let’s have a look.”

  Across the street from the Empire was a line of cribs. As the two rode toward the back of the Empire, a man came from one of the cribs and started across toward the saloon.

  When he glimpsed the two riders, he stopped dead-still, staring after them. Had he caught a brief glint of brass buttons? Scarcely, in this rain. Anybody out and about tonight would be wearing a slicker. Then why had he felt that one of those men was a soldier?

  When Poole went into the Empire he saw no sign of Iron Dave, so he walked to the bar for a drink.

  “The army been in tonight?” he asked.

  The bartender shook his head. “Ain’t likely. They’re all gone but a dozen or so, and those who are there will be kept on guard.”

  “Why, you’d be right about that,” Poole agreed. “Give me a shot of that Injun whiskey.”

  “Injun whiskey? We got the real stuff here. After all, you’re one of Dave’s boys, so why not?”

  “I asked for the Injun. I know what it’s made out of, but there’s somethin’ about it. After all, I’ve drunk it for years, and nothin’ else seems to promise. Maybe it’s the chawin’ tobacco they shave up in it…or that dash o’ strychnine.”

  He accepted the Indian whiskey, tossed off a glass, and refilled it. “Reason I asked about the sodgers, I thought I saw one out there just as I came in.”

  “You’re seein’ things.”

  Iron Dave came in then and walked down the bar. The big saloon was almost empty. The rain and rumors of Indian trouble had kept local people and ranchers away, and the soldiers were all gone.

  Sproul was a powerfully built man with thick shoulders, and huge arms and fists. He was dressed like a city man, but was in his shirt sleeves. A massive chain of gold nuggets was draped across the front of his vest. The only incongruous note was the pistol in its holster.

  “How are you, Poole?”

  “He’s seein’ things,” the bartender said, “an’ before he started drinkin’. He claims he saw a soldier just now.”

  “A soldier? Where?”

  “Headed back yonder.” Poole indicated the back of the saloon. “There were two men, and I think one of them was a soldier. Too far off to see their faces.”

  Sproul turned sharply. “Dick! Pete! You and Shack get out there and have a look at the wagon! Quick now!”

  He turned on Poole. “Go with ’em! If you see anybody, shoot!”

  Poole remained where he was. “I hired on as a scout,” he said, “and a guide if need be. But I ain’t shootin’ at no soldier. Not in uniform, I ain’t.”

  Sproul gave him a hard look. “I’ll remember that, Poole.”

  “Been my experience,” Poole said dryly, “that a man who starts trouble with the army usually winds up with the short end of the stick.”

  Teale led the way almost directly to the wagon with its load of barrels. Quickly they swung the mules into place, lifted the tongue, and hitched up as fast as they could. Kilrone was snapping the trace chains when they heard a door slam.

  “Here they come, Teale. Get up on the seat and start the wagon.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll meet you in front. You swing down along the creek and come around in the street headed back toward the fort. I’ll be out front in a jiffy. If anybody tries stopping you…shoot.”

  The team started, and from the edge of the brush there came a shout. The man called Pete came through the brush, lifting a pistol. He did not even see Kilrone until it was too late.

  Kilrone’s pistol barrel smashed down on Pete’s wrist just as he was lifting the gun. He cried out and dropped the gun. Kilrone turned sharply, a pistol flowered with flame not fifteen yards away, and he fired instantly, shifted his position, and fired at a splash of water. Stepping over two feet he waited, listening, while ejecting the spent shells and reloading the empty chambers.

  He heard no sound, waited a moment longer, and then rounded a tree and walked back through the brush. Behind him, Pete was moaning and cursing, undoubtedly with a broken wrist. If there had been anyone else there, whoever it was had decided to remain still, not liking the sound of what he had heard.

  Kilrone holstered his gun, crossed the back lot, passed the barn, and went up the walk to the back door of the saloon. Opening it, he stepped into a hall perhaps fifteen feet long, and walked along this to another door. When he opened this and went through, he was in the saloon.

  The room was empty except for the bartender, a sleepy-eyed man standing at the end of the bar with a bottle, and Iron Dave himself.

  “Hello, Dave,” Kilrone said mildly. “Still up to your old tricks, I see.”

  “Kilrone, is it? I might have known it was you. Well, I’m glad you’re here. Now we can settle something.”

  Kilrone shook his head. He stood with his feet a little apart, ready to move quickly. He was listening for the sound of the wagon, and knew there was little time. “I’d like to stay on, Dave, and give you the whipping you’ve had coming. There really isn’t so much iron in you, Dave, and what there was has been turning soft, or you wouldn’t be fool enough to think you can get away with this.”

  “With what?”

  “Your plotting with Medicine Dog.”

  Kilrone said this because he knew Dave Sproul. He knew how the man thought, or believed he did, and it would be like him to use the Dog—if he could. “It’s obvious enough, you know. But what you don’t seem to grasp is that the Dog may turn on you. He isn’t to be trusted, maybe even less than you are.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” Iron Dave said, matter-of-factly, “and this time you don’t have the army to hide behind.”

  Kilrone heard the sound of the wagon and went toward the door. “As I said, I haven’t time now. Later, if the Indians don’t come or if they leave anything behind, I’ll come around and give you a thrashing. And don’t try reaching for that gun. I’m much faster than you.”

  Kilrone had the feeling that both the bartender and the other man were enjoying the scene. Neither offered to move. He backed to the door, glanced quickly around, then stepped outside, and as the wagon went sweeping by, he jumped for the tailgate and swung himself up.

  The door of the Empire was flung open and Kilrone put a bullet into the door jamb, a move to restrain anyone who might think of taking a shot after them.

  The rain had ceased, and the night was still. At the creek they stopped, filled the barrels, and drove on back to the fort. They unloaded the water barrels and with help from inside, rolled them into place.

  Kilrone rode to the end of the parade ground with Teale and together they stripped the harness and returned it to the racks.

  “Not that it’s likely to matter,” Teale commented. “The Indians will steal most of it if they come.”

  They stood together, listening into the night. The rain had begun again, fine, whispering, not unpleasant. At the far end of the parade ground lights glowed from the windows.

  “What happened back there?”

  “Nothing…Only he knows I’m here now, and he’ll be waiting for me when this is over.” They started to walk along together. “It’s a long story, Teale. I found an Indian agent shorting the Indians on rations…he had a deal with Sproul. And Sproul had a corner of land near the post area for his l
ayout—just as he has here.

  “He had political power, and I didn’t, but I did have a friend in Congress. I got him to amend the bill by which they located the post so that they would take in fifty acres more.

  “Nobody protested…it seemed an unimportant thing at the time, but that additional fifty acres had Sproul’s place on it, and the change in the bill put that land under government supervision.

  “I knew he was selling whiskey to the Indians, but I couldn’t prove it. Two of my men—and that was what really started me going—had been robbed and murdered over there. Yet there was no way to get at him. He always had his trail well covered, and he had political connections. The Colonel who was in command at the fort wanted a promotion and would do nothing about it. But there came a time—he was all right, that Colonel—when he got leave to go East and I was left in command.”

  Teale glanced at him with sudden interest. “And you did it? You got rid of him?”

  “The place was a corner, you see? On one side, the river, on the other the government land occupied by the post. He was hedged in. He had gone to Cheyenne…he went there regularly…so I simply moved in, jacked up his smaller buildings—they were all frame, you know…used timbers and artillery caissons—and moved the whole lot five miles south and left them on the bank of the river. It was fifteen miles around the head of a deep canyon and in the middle of desolation.”

  Teale chuckled. “I’d like to have seen his face!”

  “He got back at night and found his place gone. There had been five buildings, only one of them of any size. The others were mere shacks. But he couldn’t find his town. It took him three days, because I’d given orders that no civilians could cross the post without a written permission from the Colonel, and the Colonel was in New York by that time.”

  They were standing outside Headquarters now. “What happened?” Teale asked.

  “By the time the Colonel returned I had some evidence. Not a thing against Sproul, you understand—his tracks were well covered, but I found enough on the Indian agent to urge his dismissal. Well, he was dismissed, all right, but I was transferred to another post…and then I resigned.”

  “You kind of stretched yourself,” Teale commented. “It took nerve to buck the army and Sproul at the same time.”

  “Teale, you watch this man’s army and you’ll notice something. They’d rather have action than inaction, any time. It may not always be that way, but that’s the way it is now. If you’re in doubt, plunge in. Believe me, if I’d stayed in I might have been shifted around a while until the political boys forgot me, and then I’d have been in the running again…maybe. Only I was always a rebel, and I wanted Sproul’s scalp. In the army I’d have had to leave him alone.”

  “Now that he knows you’re here,” Teale said, “you watch your step.” He was about to go inside, then he paused. “Cap, if there’s any way I can help…watch your back or anything…you count me in. Believe me, you can count on any of the boys in this fight. You’ll see.”

  “Thanks…thanks, Teale.”

  Kilrone stood alone in the darkness and the rain. He was going to need them…he was going to need them all, not against Sproul, but against Medicine Dog. That was why he had talked as much as he had. They needed to know something about him, they needed to know who they were taking orders from.

  The enemy would be out there by now…Medicine Dog, his Bannocks, and his renegades. They would be out there, waiting.

  Chapter 9

  *

  DENISE PADDOCK STEPPED from the dark doorway and stood beside him. “Barnes…will he be all right?”

  “Of course.”

  “But he hasn’t ridden a patrol in months, and he’s been drinking.”

  “He’s a good soldier, Denise, and a brave man. This may be just what he needs.”

  Barney Kilrone spoke the words and he made them sound sincere. Actually, he felt that Frank Bell Paddock had made a ghastly mistake. His long ride would come to nothing. He would effect his junction with Mellett and they would then return to the post…to what?

  Denise stood silent, and all the past stood between them. How far, he thought, from the night they danced together for the first time at Combourg!

  “I wish it were spring,” she said suddenly. “I dread the thought of winter.”

  “I don’t blame you. This is one of the coldest places in the country.” He was listening as he spoke, but the soft drizzle of rain deadened any sound. Yet he had the feeling…he knew they were out there.

  How long before Mellett and Paddock could return, he was thinking. Three days? Four?

  “Remember Brittany in the spring?” Denise said. “I liked it better than in Paris, I think.”

  “It was a time of innocence,” he said. “That spring, I mean. By the time autumn came around, everything had changed.”

  “Have you ever thought of what might have happened?” She looked at him curiously.

  “Of course…but nobody can say when the turning point comes. Suppose instead of coming to Combourg that night I had decided—which I almost did—to go on? There’s no use thinking about it. If one thing changes, everything is changed. At Combourg I met you…we had stopped there only by chance. That began it, you might say. And then we met again…It was three weeks before I returned to Paris.”

  “And after that when we met again I was married to Frank Bell Paddock.”

  “And happily so.”

  The trouble was, Frank Paddock had known about them, but what he did not seem to realize was that for Denise, Frank Paddock was the only man with whom she could have been happy. Certainly, Kilrone admitted, she could not have been happy with him. He knew that and Denise knew it, and neither had regrets. The trouble was, Frank had never believed it.

  “He’s out there now because of us,” Kilrone said bitterly.

  “No, he’s not.” Denise spoke firmly. “I love Frank, but what he has become is his own fault. And whatever he does in the future will be up to him.”

  The sensible view, but was it the true one? “All that was long ago and far away…another world than this.”

  “What are you going to do, Barnes?”

  He shrugged. “If I get out of this? I don’t know. Settle somewhere in the West, I expect. This country grows on me, and I doubt if I’d be content anywhere else.”

  Denise went back inside then, and once more he was alone in the darkness. He should be getting some rest while it was possible, but he was in no mood for it. A deep restlessness was upon him. He knew their chances were slight. Such defenses had been made before this, but in other instances the position had been better than the one they now held. If he had a larger force…

  He squatted on his heels against the wall where there was shelter from the slight rain. With each succeeding minute the time of attack was drawing nearer, and any possible help was miles away. Worst of all, somewhere en route from Fort Halleck was Lieutenant Rybolt with the payroll and its handful of guards.

  That payroll must come to quite a lot of money. It was unlikely that such a move would have gone unnoticed by either the Indians or the men at Hog Town; and such a sum, at such a time, would be tempting. But there was nothing to be done about it. With Ryerson in poor health, Kilrone must stay on. He would have remained in any case because his rifle was needed here.

  The door of the warehouse opened noiselessly, and closed. A dark figure moved toward him. It was McCracken.

  “Kilrone?”

  McCracken moved closer. “I figured that was you. How much time do you reckon we’ve got?”

  “An hour…maybe two.” Kilrone pondered the situation a moment. “Better get Webster busy on something for you boys to eat—coffee, and a quick, light breakfast, with at least two men always on watch; but whatever you have to eat, take it to your posts with you.”

  “I was going to ask about that.” McCracken squatted beside him. Finally, he said, “You reckon we got a chance?”

  “We’ve got a good chance,” Kilrone replied
with an assurance he did not feel. “Look what those boys did at Adobe Walls a few years back—twenty-eight buffalo hunters stood off upwards of seven hundred Indians. Some say as many as fifteen hundred.”

  McCracken stood up. “Well, I’d hate to have it happen like this. I’ve got a family back in the States, but I’ve taken bigger risks for less…considering those folks in there.” He gestured toward the Headquarters building behind them.

  “Take your time, make every shot count, that’s all anybody can do.”

  When McCracken had left, Kilrone got up and walked to the hospital, eased in, and talked to Ryerson. He saw that several cases of ammunition and food had been brought over from the warehouse. Everything looked ready. Only then did he return to the silent Headquarters and stretch out on the floor, lying on his bedroll. Almost instantly he was sleeping.

  Major Frank Bell Paddock, camped near Twin Buttes, at the head of Toppin Creek, could look north toward his destination, still a hard day’s ride from where they were. They could not wait as long as a night here. Four hours of rest, he decided, with a chance for the horses to graze; then up, a light breakfast, and in the saddle once more.

  Hank Laban squatted on his heels near the fire, a little apart from the others. He held his cup in both hands, and sipped the hot black coffee with slow pleasure. He was a coffee-drinking man, and he relished these minutes by the fire, which were too few. He was a man without illusion, looking on life with ironic appreciation of its realities, and watching with a jaundiced and half-amused eye those who viewed life through the mist of their own desires, fears, or ambitions.

  Nor had he any illusions about Indians. He knew them and, generally speaking, liked them. He had lived their life and found much of it good; but he knew that the red man, like his white brother, could be led down the garden path by a good talker. And somebody had been stirring the Indians into trouble. Buffalo Horn was one thing—he was torn between leading his people in a rightful fight for Camas Prairie, where they had dug the camas roots from times unknown, and his own desire to outdo Chief Joseph. But Buffalo Horn was already a half-tame Indian. Medicine Dog was another matter: he was not tame.