Kilkenny 02 - A Man Called Trent (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  King Bill even owned the law in Cedar Bluff. He had called an election to choose a sheriff and a judge. Yet there had been no fairness in that election. It was true that no unfair practices had been tolerated, but the few nesters and small ranchers had no chance against the fifty-odd riders from the Hale Ranch and the townspeople who needed the Hale business or who worked for him. Trent had voted himself. He had voted for O’Hara. There had been scarcely a dozen votes for O’Hara. One of those votes had been that of Jim Hale, King Bill’s oldest son. Another, he knew, had been the one person in Cedar Bluff who he had studiously avoided, the half-Spanish, half-Irish girl, Nita Riordan. Trent had avoided Nita Riordan because the beautiful girl from the Texas-Mexican border was the one person who knew him for what he was—who knew him as Kilkenny, the gunfighter.

  Whenever Trent thought of the trouble in Cedar Bluff, he thought less of King Bill but more of Cub Hale. The older man was huge and powerful physically, but he was not a killer. It was true that he was responsible for deaths, but they were of men who he believed to be his enemies or to be trespassing on his land. But Cub Hale was a killer. Two days after Trent had first come to Cedar Bluff he had seen Cub Hale kill a man. It was a drunken miner, a burly, quarrelsome fellow who could have done with a pistol barrel alongside the head, but needed nothing more. Yet Cub Hale had shot him down ruthlessly, heedlessly.

  Then 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 barely cleared its holster when the first of three shots hit him. Trent had walked over to the man’s body to see for himself. You could have put a playing card over those three holes. That was shooting. There had been other stories of which Trent had only heard. Cub had caught two rustlers, red-handed, and killed them both. He had killed a Mexican sheepherder in Magdalena. He had killed a gunfighter in Fort Sumner, and gut shot another one near Socorro, leaving him to die slowly in the desert.

  Besides Cub, there were Dunn and Ravitz. Both were graduates of the Lincoln County War. Both had been in Trail City and had left California just ahead of a posse. Both were familiar names among the dark brotherhood that lived by the gun. They were strictly cash-and-carry warriors, men whose guns were for hire.

  “Buck,” Trent told his horse thoughtfully, “if war starts in the Cedar hills, there’ll be a power of killin’. I got to see King Bill. I got to talk reason into him.”

  Cedar Bluff could have been any cow town. Two things set it off from the others. One was the stone stage station, which also contained the main office of the Hale Ranch; the other was the huge and sprawling Crystal Palace, belonging to Nita Riordan.

  Trent loped the yellow horse down the dusty street and swung down in front of Leathers’s General Store. He walked into the cool interior. The place smelled of leather and dry-goods. At the rear, where they dispensed food and other supplies, he halted.

  Bert Leathers looked up from his customer as Trent walked in, and Trent saw his face change. Leathers wet his lips and kept his eyes away from Trent. At the same time, Trent heard a slight movement, and, glancing casually around, he saw a heavyset cowhand wearing a tied-down gun lounging against a rack of saddles. The fellow took his cigarette from his lips and stared at Trent from shrewd, calculating eyes.

  “Need a few things, Leathers,” Trent said casually. “Got a list here.”

  The man Leathers was serving stepped aside. He was a townsman, and he looked worried.

  “Sorry, Trent,” Leathers said abruptly, “I can’t help you. All you nesters have been ordered off the Hale range. I can’t sell you anything.”

  “Lickin’ Hale’s boots, are you?” Trent asked quietly. “I heard you were, Leathers, but doubted it. I figgered a man with nerve enough to come West an’ set up for himself would be his own man.”

  “I am my own man!” Leathers snapped, his pride stung. “I just don’t want your business!”

  “I’ll remember that, Leathers,” Trent said quietly. “When all this is over, I’ll remember that. You’re for-gettin’ something. This is America, an’ here the people always win. Maybe not at first, but they always win in the end. When this is over, if the people win, you’d better leave…understand?”

  Leathers looked up, his face white and yet angry. He looked uncertain.

  “You all better grab yourself some air,” a cool voice suggested.

  Trent turned, and he saw the gunhand standing with his thumbs in his belt, grinning at him. “Better slide, Trent. What the man says is true. King Bill’s takin’ over. I’m here to see Leathers doesn’t have no trouble with nesters.”

  “All right,” Trent said quietly, “I’m a quiet man myself. I expect that rightly I should take the gun away from you an’ shove it down your throat. But Leathers is probably gun shy, an’ there might be some shootin’, so I’ll take a walk.”

  “My name’s Dan Cooper,” the gunhand suggested mildly. “Any time you really get on the prod about shovin’ this gun down my throat, look me up.”

  Trent smiled. “I’ll do that, Cooper, an’, if you stay with King Bill, I’m afraid you’re going to have a heavy diet of lead. He’s cuttin’ a wide swath.”

  “Uhn-huh.” Cooper was cheerful and tough. “But he’s got a blade that cuts ’em off short.”

  “Ever see the Hatfields shoot?” Trent suggested. “Take a tip, old son, an’, when those long Kentucky rifles open up, you be somewhere else.”

  Dan Cooper nodded sagely. “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. The gunhand had followed him to the door.

  “Say,” Cooper’s voice was curious. “Was you ever in Dodge?”

  Trent smiled. “Maybe. Maybe I was. You think that one over, Cooper.” He looked at the gunhand thoughtfully. “I like you,” he said bluntly, “so I’m givin’ you a tip. Get on your horse an’ ride. King Bill’s got the men, but he ain’t goin’ to win. Ride, because I always hate to kill a good man.”

  Trent turned and walked down the street. Behind him, he could feel Dan Cooper’s eyes on his back.

  The gunman was scowling. “Now, who the hell…?” he muttered. “That hombre’s salty, plumb salty.”

  Three more attempts to buy supplies proved to Trent he was frozen out in Cedar Bluff. Worried now, he started back to his horse. The nesters could not buy in Cedar Bluff, and that meant their only supplies must come by the long wagon trip across country from Blazer. Trent felt grave doubts that Hale would let the wagons proceed unmolested, and their little party was so small they could not spare men to guard the wagons on the three-day trek over desert and mountains.

  “Trent!” He turned slowly and found himself facing Price Dixon, a dealer from the Crystal Palace. “Nita wants to see you. Asked me to find you and ask if you’d come to see her.”

  For a long moment, Trent hesitated. Then he shrugged. “All right,” he said, “but it won’t do any good to have her seen with me. We nesters aren’t looked upon with much favor these days.”

  Dixon nodded, sober faced. “Looks like a shootout. I’m afraid you boys are on the short end of it.”

  “Maybe.”

  Dixon glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t you wear a gun? They’ll kill you someday.”

  “Without a gun you don’t have many fights.”

  “It wouldn’t stop Cub Hale. When he decides to shoot, he does. He won’t care whether you are packin’ a gun or not.”

  “No. It wouldn’t matter to him.”

  Price Dixon studied him thoughtfully. “Who are you, Trent?” he asked softly.

  “I’m Trent, a nester. Who else?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering. I’m dry behind the ears. I’ve been dealing cards in the West ever since the War Between the States. I’ve seen men who packed guns, and I know the breed. You’re not Wes Hardin, and you’re not Hickok, and you’re not one
of the Earps. You never drink much, so you can’t be Thompson. Whoever you are, you’ve packed a gun.”

  “Don’t lose any sleep over it.”

  Dixon shrugged. “I won’t. I’m not taking sides in this fight or any other. If I guess, I won’t say. You’re a friend of Nita’s, and that’s enough for me. Besides, Jaime Brigo likes you.” He glanced at Trent. “What do you think of him?”

  “Brigo?” Trent said thoughtfully. “Brigo is part Yaqui, part devil, and all loyal, but I’d sooner tackle three King Bill Hales than him. He’s poison.”

  Dixon nodded. “I think you’re right. He sits there by her door night after night, apparently asleep, yet he knows more about what goes on in this town than any five other men.”

  “Dixon, you should talk Nita into selling out. Good chance of getting the place burned out or shot up if she stays. It’s going to be a long fight.”

  “Hale doesn’t think so.”

  “Parson Hatfield does.”

  “I’ve seen Hatfield. He looks like something I’d leave alone.” Dixon paused. “I was in Kentucky once, a long time ago. The Hatfields have had three feuds. Somehow, there’s always Hatfields left.”

  “Well, Price”—Trent threw his cigarette into the dust—“I’ve seen a few fighting men, too, and I’m glad the Hatfields are on my side, an’ particularly the Parson.”

  Chapter IV

  The Crystal Palace was one of those places that made the Western frontier what it was. Wherever there was money to spend, gambling joints could be found, and some became ornate palaces of drinking and gambling like this one. They had them in Abilene and Dodge, but not so much farther West.

  Cedar Bluff had the highly paid riders of the Hale Ranch. It also drew miners from Rock Creek. The Palace was all gilt and glass, and there were plenty of games going, including roulette, faro, and dice. Around the room at scattered tables were at least a dozen poker games.

  Nita Riordan, Trent decided, was doing all right. This place was making money and lots of it. Trent knew a lot about gambling houses, enough to know what a rake-off these games would be turning in to the house. There was no necessity for crooked games. The percentage was entirely adequate.

  They crossed the room, and Trent saw Jaime Brigo sitting on a chair against the wall as he always sat. The sombrero on the floor was gray and new. He wore dark, tailored trousers and a short velvet jacket, also black. The shirt under it was silk and blue. He wore, as always, two guns.

  He looked up as Trent approached, and his lips parted over even white teeth. “Buenos días, señor,” he said.

  Price stopped and nodded his head toward the door. “She’s in there.”

  Trent faced the door, drew a deep breath, and stepped inside. His heart was pounding, and his mouth was dry. No woman ever stirred him so deeply or made him realize so much what he was missing in his lonely life.

  It was a quiet room, utterly different from the garish display of the gambling hall behind him. It was a room to live in, the room of one who loved comfort 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 centered upon Nita Riordan.

  She stood across the table, taller than most women, with a slender yet voluptuous body that made a pulse pound in his throat. She was dressed for evening, an evening walking among the tables of the gambling room, and she was wearing a black and spangled gown, utterly different from the room in which she stood. Her eyes were wide now, her full lips parted a little, and, as he stopped across the table, he could see the lift of her bosom as she took a deep breath.

  “Nita,” he said softly. “You’ve not changed. You’re the same.”

  “I’m older, Lance,” she said softly, “more than a year older.”

  “Has it been only a year? It seems so much longer.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “And you are lovely, as always. I think you could never be anything but lovely and desirable.”

  “And yet,” she reminded him, “when you could have had me, you rode away. Lance, do you live all alone in that cabin of yours? Without anyone?”

  He nodded. “Except for memories. Except for the thinking, I do. And the thinking only makes it worse, for, whenever I think of you, and all that could be, I remember the Brockmans, Bert Polti, and all those others back down the trail. Then I start wondering how long it will be before I fall in the dust myself.”

  “That’s why I sent for you,” Nita told him. Her eyes were serious and worried. She came around the table and took his hands. “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, say so, and I’ll go with you. I’ll go with you anywhere, but we must leave here.”

  “Why?” It was like him to be direct. She looked up into his dark, unsmiling face. “Why, Nita? Why do you want me to go?”

  “Because they are going to kill you!” she exclaimed. She caught his arm. “Lance, they are cruel, ruthless, vicious. It isn’t King Bill. He’s their leader, but what he does he believes to be right. It’s Cub. He loves to kill. I’ve seen him. Last week he killed a boy in the street in front of my place. He shot him down, and then emptied his gun into him with slow, methodical shots. He’s a fiend!”

  Lance shook his head. “I’ll stay, no matter.”

  “But listen, Lance,” she protested. “I’ve heard them talking here. They are sure you’ll fight. I don’t know why they think so, but they do. They’ve decided you must die, and soon. They won’t give you a chance. I know that.”

  “I can’t, Nita. These people in the high meadows are my friends. They depend upon me to stand by them. I won’t be the first to break and run, or the last. I’m staying. I’m going to fight it out here, Nita, and we’ll see who is to win, the people or a man of power and greed.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.” Nita looked at him seriously. “Hale is out to win, Lance. He’s got men. They don’t know you’re Lance Kilkenny. I’ve heard them talking, and they do suspect that you’re something more than a nester named Trent. But Hale is sure he is right, and he’ll fight to the end.”

  Trent nodded. “I know. When a man thinks he is right, he will fight all the harder. Has anybody tried to talk to him?”

  “You can’t. You can’t even address him. He lives in a world of his own. In his way, I think he is a little insane, Lance, but he does have ability, and he has strength. He’s a fighter, too.”

  Trent studied her thoughtfully. “You seem to know him. Has he made you any trouble?”

  “Why do you ask that?” Nita asked quickly.

  “I want to know.”

  “He wants to marry me, Lance.”

  Trent tightened and then stared at her. “I see,” he said slowly. “And you?”

  “I don’t know.” She hesitated, looking away. “Lance, can’t you see? I’m lonely. Dreadfully, frighteningly lonely. I have no life here, just a business. I know no women but those of the dance hall. I see no one who feels as I do, thinks as I do. King Bill is strong. He knows how to appeal to a woman. He has a lot to offer. He has a son as old as I, but he’s only forty, and he’s a powerful man, Lance. A man a woman could be proud of. I don’t like what he’s doing, but he does think he’s right. No,” she said finally, “I won’t marry him. I’ll admit, I’ve been tempted. He’s a little insane, I think. Drunk with power. He got too much and got it too easily, and he believes he is better than other men because he has succeeded. But whatever you do, Lance, don’t underrate him. He’s a fighter.”

  “You mean he’ll have his men fight?” Trent asked.

  “No. I mean he is a fighter. By any method. With his fists, if he has to. He told me once in such a flat, ordinary voice that it startled me that he could whip any man he ever saw with his hands.”

  “I see.”

  “Shaw, his foreman, tells a story about King Bill beating a man to death in El Paso. He killed another one with his fists on the ranch.”

/>   “I’ve got to see him today. I’ve got to convince him that we must be left alone.”

  “He won’t talk to you, Lance.” Nita looked at him with grave, troubled eyes. “I know him. He’ll just turn you over to his cowhands, and they’ll beat you up or kill you.”

  “He’ll talk to me.”

  “Don’t go down there, Lance. Please don’t.”

  “Has he ever made any trouble for you?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “So far, he has listened to me and has talked very quietly and very well. No one has made any trouble yet, but largely because they know he is interested in me. Some men tried to hold me up one night, but Jaime took care of that. He killed them both, and that started some talk. But if King Bill decides he wants this place…or me…he’ll stop at nothing.”

  “Well,”—he turned—“I’ve got to see him, Nita. I’ve got to make one attempt to stop this before anyone else is killed.”

  “And if you fail…?”

  He hesitated, and his shoulders drooped. Then he looked up, and he smiled slowly. “If I fail, Nita, I’ll buckle on my guns, and they won’t have to wait for war. I’ll bring it to Cedar Bluff myself!”

  He stopped in the outer room and watched Price Dixon dealing cards, but his mind wasn’t on the game. He was thinking of King Bill.

  Hale was a man who fought to win. In this little corner of the West, there was no law but that of the gun. Actually there were but two trails in and out of Cedar Valley. What news left the valley would depend on Hale. The echoes of the war to come need never be heard beyond these hills. Only one trail led into Cedar Bluff, and one led out. Most of the traffic went in and out on the same route. The other trail, the little-used route to Blazer, was rough and bad. Yet in Blazer, too, Hale owned the livery stable, and he had his spies there as all around.

  Hale himself lived in the Castle, two miles from Cedar Bluff. He rode into town once each day and stopped in at the Mecca for a drink and again at the Crystal Palace. Then he rode out of town. He went nowhere without his gunmen around him. Thinking of that, Trent decided on the Mecca. There would be trouble unless everything happened just right. He didn’t want the trouble close to Nita.