He knew what Nita meant when she said she was lonely. There had never been a time when he hadn’t been lonely. He had been born on the frontier in Dakota, but his father had been killed in a gun battle, and he had gone to live with an uncle in New York, and later in Virginia.
Trent walked out on the street. It was late now, and the sun was already gone. It would soon be dark. He walked down to the buckskin and led him to a watering trough. Then he gave him a bundle of hay and left him tied at the hitching rail.
There were few people around. Dan Cooper had left the store and was sitting on the steps in front now. He watched Trent thoughtfully. Finally he got up and walked slowly down the walk. He stopped near the buckskin.
“If I was you, Trent,” he said slowly, “I’d get on that horse an’ hit the trail. You ain’t among friends.”
“Thanks.” Trent looked up at Cooper. “I think that’s friendly, Cooper. But I’ve got business. I don’t want a war in Cedar Bluff, Cooper. I want to make one more stab at stopping it.”
“An’ if you don’t?” Cooper studied him quizzically.
“If I don’t?” Trent stepped up on the boardwalk. “Well, I’ll tell you like I’ve told others. If I don’t, I’m going to buckle on my guns and come to town.”
Dan Cooper began to roll a cigarette. “You sound all-fired sure of yourself. Who are you?”
“Like I said, old son, I’m a nester, name of Trent.”
He turned and strolled down the walk toward the Mecca, and, even as he walked, he saw a small cavalcade of horsemen come up the road from the Castle. Four men, and the big man on the bay would be King Bill Hale.
Hale got down, and strode through the doors. Cub followed. Ravitz tied King Bill’s horse, and Dunn stood for a moment, staring at Trent, who he could not quite make out in the gathering gloom. Then he and Ravitz walked inside.
Chapter V
Walking up, Trent pushed open the swinging doors. He stopped for an instant inside the door. The place was jammed with Hale cowhands. At the bar, King Bill was standing, his back to the room. He was big—no taller than Trent, and perhaps an inch shorter than Trent’s six one, but much heavier. He was broad and powerful, with thick shoulders and a massive chest. His head was a block set upon the thick column of a muscular neck. The man’s jaw was broad, his face brown and hard. He was a bull. Looking at him, Trent could guess that the stories of his killing men with his fists were only the truth.
Beside him, in white buckskin, was the slender, cat-like Cub Hale. And on either side of the two stood the gunmen, Dunn and Ravitz.
Trent walked slowly to the bar and ordered a drink. Dunn, hearing his voice, turned his head slowly. As his eyes met Trent’s, the glass slipped from his fingers and crashed on the bar, scattering rye whiskey.
“Seem nervous, Dunn,” Trent said quietly. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“I’ll be hanged if I will!” Dunn shouted. “What do you want here?”
Trent smiled. All the room was listening, and he knew that many of the townspeople, some of whom might still be on the fence, were present.
“Why, I just thought I’d ride down an’ have a talk with King Bill,” he said quietly. “It seems there’s a lot of war talk, an’ somebody killed a harmless nester the other day. It seemed a man like King Bill Hale wouldn’t want such things goin’ on.”
“Get out!” Dunn’s hand hovered above a gun. “Get out or be carried out!”
“No use you makin’ motions toward that gun,” Trent said quietly. “I’m not heeled. Look for yourself, I’m makin’ peace talk, an’ I’m talkin’ to King Bill.”
“I said…get out!” Dunn shouted.
Trent stood with his hands on his hips, smiling. Suddenly Dunn’s hand streaked for his gun, and instantly Trent moved.
One hand dropped to Dunn’s gun wrist, while his right whipped up in a short, wicked arc and exploded on Dunn’s chin. The gunman sagged, and Trent released his gun hand and shoved him away so hard he fell headlong into a table. The table crashed over, and among the scattered cards and chips Bing Dunn lay, out cold.
In the silence that followed, Trent stepped quickly up to King Bill.
“Hale,” he said abruptly, “some of your men killed Dick Moffitt, shot him down in cold blood, and then burned him out. Those same men warned me to move out. I thought I’d come to you. I’ve heard you’re a fair man.”
King Bill did not move. He held his glass in his fingers and stared thoughtfully into the mirror back of the bar, giving no indication that he heard. Cub Hale moved out from the bar, his head thrust forward, his eyes eager.
“Hale,” Trent said sharply, “this is between you an’ me. Call off your dogs! I’m talkin’ to you, not anybody else. We want peace, but if we have to fight to keep our land, we’ll fight! If we fight, we’ll win. You’re buckin’ the United States government now.”
Cub had stepped out, and now his lips curled back in a wolfish snarl as his hand hovered over his gun.
“What’s the matter, Hale?” Trent persisted. “Making a hired killer of your son because you’re afraid to talk?”
Hale turned deliberately. “Cub, get back. I’ll handle this!”
Cub hesitated, his eyes alive with eagerness and disappointment.
“I said,” Hale repeated, “to get back.” He turned. “As for you, you squatted on my land. Now you’re gettin’ off, all of you. If you don’t get off, some of you may die. That’s final!”
“No!” Trent’s voice rang out sharply. “It’s not final, Hale! We took those claims legal. You never made any claim to them until now. You got more land now than you can handle, and we’re stayin’. I filed my claim with the United States, so did the others. If we don’t get justice, we’ll get a United States marshal in here to see why.”
“Justice!” Hale sneered. “You blasted nesters’ll get all the justice you get from me. I’m givin’ you time to leave…now get!”
Trent stood his ground. He could see the fury bolted up in Hale, could see the man was relentless. Well, maybe…Suddenly Trent smiled. “Hale,” he said slowly, “I’ve heard you’re a fightin’ man. I hope that ain’t a lie. I’m callin’ you now. We fight, man to man, right here in this barroom, no holds barred, an’, if I win, you leave the nesters alone. If you win, we all leave.”
King Bill wheeled, his eyes bulging. “You challenge me? You dirty-necked, nestin’ renegade. No! I bargain with no man. You nesters get movin’ or suffer the consequences.”
“What’s the matter, Bill?” Trent said slowly. “Afraid?”
For a long moment, there was deathly stillness in the room, while Hale’s face grew darker and darker. Slowly, then, he unbuckled his gun belt. “You asked for it, nester,” he sneered. “Now you get it.”
He rushed. Trent had been watching, and, as Hale rushed, he sidestepped quickly. Hale’s rush missed, and Trent faced him, smiling.
“What’s the matter, King. I’m right here!”
Hale rushed, and Trent stepped in with a left jab that split Hale’s lips and showered him with blood. In a fury, Hale closed in and caught Trent with a powerful right swing that sent him staggering back on his heels. Blood staining his gray shirt, King Bill leaped at Trent, swinging with both hands. Trent crashed to the floor, rolled over, and got up. Another swing caught him, and he went down again, his head roaring with sound.
King Bill rushed in, aiming a vicious kick, but Trent rolled out of the way and scrambled up, groggy and hurt. Hale rushed, and Trent weaved inside of a swing and smashed a right and left to that massive body. Hale grabbed Trent and hurled him into the bar with terrific power, and then sprang close, swinging both fists to Trent’s head. Trent slipped the first punch, but took the other one, and started to sag. King Bill set himself, a cold sneer on his face, and measured Trent with a left, aiming a ponderous right, but Trent pushed the left aside and smashed a wicked left uppercut to Hale’s wind.
The bigger man gasped and missed a right, and Trent stabbed another left to the bl
eeding mouth. Hale landed a right and knocked Trent rolling on the floor. Somebody kicked him wickedly in the ribs as he rolled against the feet of the crowd, and he came up staggering as Hale closed in. Hurt, gasping with pain, Trent clinched desperately and hung on.
Hale tore him loose, smashed a left to his head that split his cheekbone wide open, and then smashed him on the jaw with a powerful right. Again Trent stabbed that left to the mouth, ducked under a right, and bored in, slamming away with both hands at close quarters. Hale grabbed him and threw him, and then rushed upon him, but, even as he jumped at him, Trent caught Hale with a toe in the pit of the stomach and pitched him over on his head and shoulders.
King Bill staggered up, visibly shaken. Then Trent walked in. His face was streaming blood and his head was buzzing, but he could see Hale’s face weaving before him. He walked in, deliberately lanced that bleeding mouth with a left, and then crossed a right that ripped the flesh over Hale’s eye.
Dunn started forward, and with an oath Hale waved him back. He put up his hands and walked in, his face twisted with hatred. Trent let him come, feinted, and then dropped a right under the big man’s heart. Hale staggered, and Trent walked in, stabbed another left into the blood-covered face, and smashed another right to the wind.
Then he stood there and began to swing. Hale was swinging, too, but his power was gone. Trent bored in, his head clearing, and he slammed punch after punch into the face and body of the tottering rancher. He was getting his second wind now, although he was hurt, and blood dripped from his face to his shirt. He brushed Hale’s hands aside and crossed a driving right to the chin. Hale’s knees buckled, but, before he could fall, Trent hit him twice more, left and right to the chin. Then Hale crashed to the floor.
In the instant of silence that followed the fall of the King, a voice rang out. “You all just hold to where you’re standin’ now. I ain’t a-wantin’ to shoot nobody, but sure as my name’s Quince Hatfield, the one to make the first move dies!”
The long rifle stared through the open window at them, and on the next window sill they saw another. Nobody in the room moved.
In three steps, Trent was out of the room. The buckskin was standing at the edge of the walk with the other horses. Swinging into the saddle, he wrenched the rifle from the boot and with two quick shots sent the chandelier crashing to the floor, plunging the Mecca into darkness. Then, the Hatfields at his side, he raced the buckskin toward the edge of town. When they slowed down, a mile out of town, Quince looked at him, grinning in the moonlight.
“I reckon you all sure busted things wide open now.”
Trent nodded soberly. “I tried to make peace talk. When he wouldn’t, I thought a good lickin’ might show the townspeople the fight wasn’t all on one side. We’re goin’ to need friends.”
“You done a good job!” Jesse said. “Parson’ll sure wish he’d been along. He always said what Hale needed was a good whuppin’. Well, he sho’ nuff had it tonight.”
Nothing, Trent realized, had been solved by the fight. Taking to the brush, they used every stratagem to ward off pursuit, although they knew it was exceedingly doubtful if any pursuit would be started against three armed men who were skilled woodsmen. Following them in the dark would be impossible and scarcely wise.
Three hours later, they swung down at the Hatfield cabin. A tall young man with broad shoulders stepped out of the darkness.
“It’s us, Saul,” Jesse said, “an’ Trent done whipped King Bill Hale with his fists!”
Saul Hatfield strode up, smiling. “I reckon Paw will sure like to hear that!”
“They gone to bed?”
“Uhn-huh. Lijah was on guard till a few minutes back. He just turned in to catch hisself some sleep afore mornin’.”
“O’Hara get here?” Quince asked softly.
“Yeah. Him an’ Smithers an’ Bartram are here. Havin’ a big confab, come mornin’.”
Chapter VI
The morning sun was lifting over the pines when the men gathered around the long table in the Hatfield home. Breakfast was over, and the women were at work. Trent sat quietly at the foot of the table, thoughtfully looking at the men around him. Yet even as he looked, he could not but wonder how many would be alive to enjoy the fruits of the victory, if victory it was to be.
The five Hatfields were all there. Big O’Hara was there, too, a huge man with great shoulders and mighty hands, a bull for strength and a good shot. Bartram, young, good-looking, and keen, would fight. He believed in what he was fighting for, and he had youth and energy enough to be looking forward to the struggle. Smithers was middle-aged, quiet, a man who had lived a peaceful life, avoiding trouble, yet fearless. He was a small man, precise, and an excellent farmer, probably the best farmer of the lot.
Two more horsemen rode in while they were sitting down. Jackson Hight was a wild-horse hunter, former cowhand, and buffalo hunter; Steven Runyon was a former miner.
Parson Hatfield straightened up slowly. “I reckon this here meetin’ better get started. Them Hales ain’t a-goin’ to wait on us to get organized. I reckon they’s a few things we got to do. We got to pick us a leader, an’ we got to think of gettin’ some food.”
Trent spoke up. “Parson, if you’ll let me have a word. We all better leave our places an’ come here to yours. We better bring all the food an’ horses we got up here.”
“Leave our places?” Smithers objected. “Why, man, they’d burn us out if we aren’t there to defend ’em. They’d ruin our crops.”
“He’s right,” O’Hara said. “If we ain’t on hand to defend ’em, they sure won’t last long.”
“Which of you feel qualified to stand off Hale’s riders?” Trent asked dryly. “What man here could hold off ten or twenty men? I don’t feel I could. I don’t think the Parson could, alone. We’ve got to get together. Suppose they burn us out. We can build again, if we’re alive to do it, an’ we can band together and help each other build back. If you ain’t alive, you ain’t goin’ to build very much.”
“Thet strikes me as bein’ plumb sense,” Hight said, leaning forward. “Looks to me like we got to sink or swim together. Hale’s got too much power, an’ we’re too scattered. He ain’t plannin’ on us gettin’ together. He’s plannin’ on wipin’ us out one at a time. Together, we got us a chance.”
“Maybe you’re right,” O’Hara said slowly. “Dick Moffitt didn’t do very well alone.”
“This place can be defended,” Trent said. “Aside from my own place, this is the easiest to defend of them all. Then, the house is the biggest and strongest. If we have to fall back from the rocks, the house can hold out.”
“What about a leader?” Bartram asked. “We’d better get that settled. How about you, Parson?”
“No.” Parson drew himself up. “I’m right flattered, right pleased. But I ain’t your man. I move we choose Trent, here.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then O’Hara spoke up. “I second that motion. Trent’s good for me. He whipped old King Bill.”
Runyon looked thoughtfully at Trent. “I don’t know this gent,” he said slowly. “I ain’t got any objections to him. But how do we know he’s our man? You’ve done a power of feudin’, Parson. You should know this kind of fightin’.”
“I do,” Parson drawled. “But I ain’t got the savvy Trent has. First, lemme say this here. I ain’t been here all my life. I was a sharpshooter with the Confederate Army, an’ later I rid with Jeb Stuart. Well, we was only whipped once, an’ that was by a youngster of a Union officer. He whipped our socks off with half as many men…an’ that officer was Trent here.”
Trent’s eyes turned slowly to Parson, who sat there staring at him, his eyes twinkling.
“I reckon,” Hatfield went on, “Trent is some surprised. I ain’t said nothin’ to him about knowin’ him, specially when his name wasn’t Trent, but I knowed him from the first time I seen him.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Runyon said flatly. “You say he’s got
the savvy, I’ll take your word for it.”
Trent leaned over the table. “All right. All of you mount up and go home. Watch your trail carefully. When you get home, load up and get back. Those of you who can, ride together. Get back here with everything you want to save, but especially with all the grub you’ve got. But get back, and quick.” He got to his feet. “We’re goin’ to let Hale make the first move, but we’re goin’ to have a Hatfield watchin’ the town. When Hale moves, we’re goin’ to move, too. We’ve got twelve men…”
“Twelve?” Smithers looked around. “I count eleven.”
“Jackie Moffitt’s the twelfth,” Trent said quietly. “I gave him a Sharps. He’s fourteen. Many of you at fourteen did a man’s job. I’ll stake my saddle that Jackie Moffitt will do his part. He can hit squirrels with that gun, an’ a man’s not so big. He’ll do. Like I say, we’ve got twelve men. Six of them can hold this place. With the other six, or maybe with four, we’ll strike back. I don’t know how you feel, but I feel no man ever won a war by sittin’ on his royal American tail, an’ we’re not a-goin’ to.”
“That’s good talk,” Smithers said quietly. “I’m not a war-like man, but I don’t want to think of my place being burned when they go scotfree. I’m for striking back, but we’ve got to think of food.”
“I’ve thought of that. Lije an’ Saul Hatfield are goin’ out today after some deer. They know where they are, an’ neither of them is goin’ to miss any shots. With the food we have, we can get by a few days. Then I’m goin’ after some myself!”
“You?” O’Hara stated. “Where you figger on gettin’ this grub?”
“Blazer.” He looked down at his hands on the table, and then looked up. “I’m not goin’ to spend three days, either. I’m goin’ through Smoky Desert.”
Kilkenny 02 - A Man Called Trent (v5.0) Page 16
