Cain Brockman, the bartender, doubled Nita’s protection, and it had been simple enough for Rusty Gates to hire out to the ranch, which put one of their own men in the enemy’s camp. Yet there was much to be done, even now.
That somehow Poke Dunning had taken Markham’s place, taken his ranch and usurped his position as father was obvious. Yet what had become of Markham? And what had become of his wife, Lena’s mother? Where did Poke fit in? Also, was there any evidence that the ranch actually belonged to Lona other than Markham’s statement to her? It seemed that the mere fact that Dunning was carefully deceiving this young girl showed that he was convinced that the ranch he had been running all these years actually belonged to her. It also seemed that Poke Dunning had somehow gotten control of the ranch by posing as her father, an act made all the easier by the fact that no one in these parts had known the original Markham. For all anyone knew, Dunning was the man who had given her the property, but now he was planning on transferring legal control to Mailer by having the girl marry him. Once the wedding took place, Dunning would not have to worry about his charade, and if something happened to Lona, Mailer would inherit the ranch simply by being her husband.
Dunning would say nothing to Lona about her mother. Was that because he did not know?
And Lona had said her father had told her that her mother had died before they came on west, but was that statement made by her real father, or by Dunning?
Before facing Dunning, it was necessary to learn how title to the ranch was placed, and to have something substantial to go on. In so many years Dunning had had time to shape stories and the papers that would give him title, yet why, if that was true, had he kept the girl?
Collecting dry sticks that would make no smoke, he built a fire, and squatting above it, the Rider prepared his evening meal. He was a tall man, and his eyes were green; a sharp, straight look came into them at times that disturbed those he looked at, and at times changed quickly to easy humor and a ready smile.
Shadows were long and his meal was finished when he heard a distant sound. He straightened swiftly and, hitching his guns into place, moved swiftly from the side of the cliff dwelling across the green sward of the ledge. His horse was standing with his head up and his nostrils wide. “Easy, Buck!” he said gently.
Through the junipers he could look down into the canyon, and as he looked he heard a tapping of metal on metal. He listened a moment, then grinned and spoke aloud, knowing his voice would carry in the still air. “Straight ahead and left around the boulder.” ,In a few minutes he heard the horse, and then Rusty ‘Gates appeared. It was dusk, yet light enough to see, and the cowhand stared around him in astonishment. “Now, ‘ how in the ever-so-ever did you find this place?” he demanded. “A man would sure never guess it was here!”
“It’s well hidden. Come on back, I’ve put more coffee on.”
When they were squatted over the small fire, Gates grinned across the coals at him.
“Kilkenny,” he said, “you have the damnedest nose for hideouts of any hombre I ever knew!”
The tall rider shrugged. “Why not? Lots of times I need ‘em. It gets to be an instinct.”
“You talked to Lona?”
“Uh-huh. I didn’t tell her much, only that Poke was not her father.”
“I thought so. She was walkin’ in a trance when she got back to the spread. By the way,” he added, “there’s a hand on that ranch that’s so much in love with her he’s turnin’ in circles. Name of Gordon Flynn. Nice lad.”
“Well, they can work that out by themselves. I’m goin’ to see she gets justice, but I’ll be durned if I’ll play Cupid.”
Rusty chuckled. “Leave that to me! I already put a bug in their ears.” He pushed a couple of sticks on the fire. “Lance, something is building down there, but I don’t know what. Mailer has been doin’ a lot of talking, strictly on the private, with Geslin, Starr, and Socorro. I think they’ve got somethin’ up their sleeves.”
“Not Dunning?”
“No, the old man isn’t in on it. They are very careful not to get bunched up when he’s around.”
“What do you think of Mailer, Rusty?”
“Damned if I know!” Gates looked up, scowling. “Good as Geslin is, he listens to him. So does Starr. I guess they knowed each other before comin’ to Blue Hill, too.
That Socorro came in with Mailer.”
“How’s Nita?” Kilkenny asked, looking up.
“I was wonderin’ when you’d get around to that. She’s fine. Man”-he chuckled-“that girl is good! She’s got brains aplenty, but, Kilkenny, she’s got troubles, too! Frank Mailer is makin’ a strong play for her.”
Lance Kilkenny got to his feet. “Mailer?” He was incredulous. “I thought he was due to marry Lona?”
Gates looked cynical. “How much difference would that make to a man like Mailer?
He’s mostly interested in that ranch, I’m thinking, as far as she’s concerned, anyway.
But he’s red-eyed over Nita.”
“Has there been trouble?”
“Not yet.” Gates told what had happened at the Fandango and how Nita had handled it. “So he wound up spending thirty bucks he hadn’t figured on. But that won’t be the end of it.”
“How do Dunning and Mailer stand?” Kilkenny asked thoughtfully.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about that. From what I hear, they trusted each other at one time, but I think a break is due. One thing: when it comes down to it, the old man will be standing all alone. The boys are all with Mailer; that is, all but Flynn, the cook, an’ me. We’re on the outside of that fuss.”
Gates got to his feet. “I’d better get out of here before the moon comes up.” He turned to go, then hesitated. “Lance, you make no mistake, Frank Mailer is dangerous.”
“Thanks. I’ll remember that.” He grinned over the fire at Rusty.
“Hope we beat this deal without a shootin’,” Rusty said.
“Me, too,” Kilkenny said, almost wistfully. “Especially with that girl around, that’s a tough crowd down there.”
Long after Rusty Gates was gone, Lance Kilkenny sat over his lonely fire. There had been too much of this, too much of hiding out in the wilderness, yet it was this or be recognized, and when he was recognized, there was always some wild-eyed puncher who wanted the reputation of killing Kilkenny.
He had never intended to gain a reputation, but his own choice of keeping himself anonymous had helped to begin the stories. He had become a strange, shadowy figure, a drifting gunfighter whom no man knew, until suddenly, in a blasting of gunfire, he wrote his name large across yet another page of Western history.
Long ago he had taken to haunting the lonely places or to roaming the country alone under an assumed name. He would drift into a new country and for a time he would punch cows or wrangle horses or hire out as a varmint hunter, and then trouble would come, and Kilkenny, who had rarely drawn a gun in his own battle, would fight for a friend, as he was fighting now.
This time, for the first time, he was not fighting alone. He had friends with him, good friends, and he had Nita Riordan, now using the name Howard, for there were those who knew that Nita Riordan was connected with Kilkenny.
Alone over his fire, he studied the situation. What was in the mind of Frank Mailer?
What did he plan? How much opposition could Poke Dunning offer, if it came to that?
If it came to a fight over the ranch? Kilkenny was enough of a strategist to appreciate the fact that in a gunfight, Dunning and Mailer might eliminate each other and so save him the trouble. Once they were out of it, he could face the others or they would leave.
What he needed to know now was how Dunning had come into possession of the ranch.
When Markham had started west so long ago, he was going to this ranch, which he had acquired sometime before. Hence, Dunning had to have come into the picture after Markham left Santa Fe. Also, he must learn whether Markham’s statement to Lona that the ranch was now hers was
merely an idle comment or whether he had actually given the girl the title.
Yet there was on him something else, a driving urge to see Nita. He got to his feet and walked the length of the ledge, speaking softly to the buckskin, and then he walked back. The fire was dying, the embers fading. Maybe now was the time, if he could slip into Salt Creek quietly and get to the Fandango without noise. He turned the idea over in his mind, contemplating every angle of it. At last he shook his head, and replenishing the fire, then banking the coals, he crawled into his blankets and was soon asleep.
Old Poke Dunning got restlessly to his feet. He was alone much of the time now. Lona had been keeping to her quarters and he missed her. Scowling, he thought of that, and his eyes narrowed as he remembered the time of her marriage was coming nearer.
That marriage was a deal that he had cooked up with Frank Mailer. But since that time he had come to distrust the man. Soon after he made his offer to guarantee them clear title to Blue Hill, Frank had started acting like he owned the place. Suppose Mailer made up his mind to go it alone? He, Dunning, would have no status, nothing that would stand up legally. Of late, Mailer had been making decisions without consulting him.
If he had it out with Mailer, he decided, he would need an edge. Only a fool would take chances with Mailer. The man was too big, too tough.
He looked as hard to stop as a bull elephant.
That Rider. The presence of the Rider might not bother Mailer, but it did bother him. He was suspicious and could find no reason for the man’s continual evasion of contact with anyone.
The Black Rider must have provisions. How did he obtain them? The logical place was Salt Creek. Poke nodded; that was it. He would have a spy watching in Salt Creek, and then when someone resembling the Rider appeared, he would trail him. After that he would have a line on the man.
It was late, but he would ride into Salt Creek now and he knew just the man. The road was white in the moonlight, but Dunning rode swiftly on a powerful gray. He had not seen Mailer, and no doubt the man was again in town, and the boys with him.
Although well past fifty, Dunning was a strong and rugged man in the peak of condition.
Age was no problem to him as yet, for his outdoor life and the rough, hardy food of the frontier had kept him in fine shape. He had made vast improvements on the ranch and it had provided a welcome cooling-off place for men on the dodge, as he once had been.
He had always insisted that the boys not pull any jobs while they “worked” for him, and while he paid all his men monthly, those on the run had handed back far more than their salaries in private. He also insisted that his hands not spend any of their ill-gotten gain in town or do anything that would indicate who and what they actually were. The kickbacks and free labor he had availed himself of over the years had helped make Blue Hill a profitable enterprise. Poke Dunning took great pride in the ranch. There was just Mailer and that matter of the girl and the confounded deed!
Salt Creek was a rough-looking town of some threescore buildings of which most were homes and barns. Along the one street of the town, a dozen or more buildings stared at each other, and the express office and Fandango were the biggest buildings in town. The Express, as it was known, was much more than its name implied. It was a general store as well as the post office and office of the justice of the peace, and had a small bar where drinks were sold, mostly to the older men in the community.
Up the street only two doors was another saloon, this one run by Al Starr, a brother of Sam, and beyond it another store and the livery stable, and beyond that the Fandango.
It was ablaze with light when Poke Dunning rode the gray into town, but he stopped at the Express and shoved through the door.
Aside from Mr. Lisa, the Portuguese proprietor, only three men were in the Express.
A couple of oldsters who were dry-farming near town, and the man Dunning sought, a hanger-on known about town as Kansas.
Kansas was more than a loafer, he was a man of unknown background and capacity. What his life had been in the years before he arrived in Salt Creek, nobody knew. He had a wife, and the two lived in a small cabin on the edge of town. It was nicer inside than most houses, for Kansas seemed to have a knack with tools, and he had even varnished the furniture and there were curtains in the windows and neatness everywhere. Moreover, Kansas had a dozen books, more than the rest of the town combined.
Yet he was a loafer, a short, heavy man with a round face and somewhat staring eyes who did odd jobs for his money. He smoked a corncob pipe, blinked like an owl, and had a faculty for knowing things or knowing how to find out. He had been in the War Between the States, and someone said he had once worked on a newspaper in the East. His conversation was more varied than customary in Salt Creek, for he knew something more than cows and the range. In fact, he knew a little of everything, and was nearly as old as Dunning himself.
“Howdy, Kansas!” Dunning said affably. “Have a drink?”
“Right neighborly of you, Poke! B’lieve I will!” He let the dark-faced Lisa pour his drink, then looked over at Dunning. “We don’t see you much anymore. I guess you leave the business mostly to Mailer.”
“Some things,” Dunning agreed. It was the truth, of course, that Mailer had been doing the business, yet it nettled him to hear it said. “Any strangers around town?” he asked casually.
To Kansas, the question was not casual. He could not recall that Poke Markham had ever asked such a question before, and he was aware that the conversation of people will usually follow certain definite patterns. Hence it followed that the remark was anything but casual and that Markham was interested in strangers, or some particular stranger.
“Not that I know of,” Kansas replied honestly enough. “Not many strangers ever come to Salt Creek. Being off the stage route and miles from the railroad, it doesn’t attract folks. Were you expecting somebody?”
“No,” Dunning replied, “not exactly.” He steered the conversation down another trail and let it ride along for a while before he opened up with another question. “I expect like ever’body else you’ve seen that Black Rider they talk about,” he suggested.
“Can’t say I have,” Kansas replied. So old Markham was forking that bronc, was he?
What was on his mind, anyway? There was a point behind these questions, but Kansas could not place it.
“I’ve got my own ideas about him,” he added, “an’ I’d bet a little money they are true.”
“What sort of ideas? You know who he is? Why he’s here?” Poke was a little too anxious and it showed in his voice. Kansas needed some extra money and this might be the way to get it.
“Oh, I’ve been studyin’ on it.”
The two oldsters had started for the door and Lisa was opening a barrel of flour.
Poke Dunning leaned closer to Kansas. “You find out who he is and I’ll make it worth your while.”
“How much is my while worth?” Kansas asked.
Poke hesitated, then dug into his jeans. “Twenty dollars?”
It was a talking point, but Kansas decided he might get more. He never accepted a man’s first offer. “Make it fifty,” he said.
“Too much.” Poke hesitated. “I’ll give you thirty.”
Kansas sighted through his glass. “All right,” he said, “I’ll find out for you.”
“What was your hunch?” Dunning wanted to know.
Kansas hesitated. “You seen this Nita Howard over to the Fandango?”
“Not yet.”
“You take a good look. I think she’s Nita Riordan.”
The name meant nothing to Dunning and he said as much. Kansas turned his head toward Dunning. “Well, Nita Riordan is associated with Kilkenny. He met her down on the border during that wire war in the Live Oak country. Then she was with him over to the Cedars in that ruckus.”
“Kilkenny …” Dunning’s eyes narrowed as he half spoke, half gasped the word. Now there was a thought! Why, if he could hire Kilkenny …! When the split came
with Mailer, it would pay to have the mysterious gunman on his side.
He scowled suddenly. “Why would he be here? What would he be doin’ here?”
Kansas shook his head. “What he’s doing here, I don’t know. But Kilkenny keeps to himself like this Rider does. Moreover, the Howard woman at the Fandango calls her bartender Cain, an’ Cain Brockman was with Kilkenny in that last fuss.”
Dunning peeled a couple of twenties from a buckskin-wrapped roll of them and slapped them in the man’s hand. “If you can get word to him, I’ll give you another thirty.
I want to see him on the quiet, an’ don’t let it get around, you hear?”
Kansas nodded, and Poke Dunning walked out and stopped on the step.
Kilkenny! If it were only he! But maybe he wouldn’t take the job; there were stories that Kilkenny’s gun was not for hire. That was sure nonsense, of course, any man’s gun could be hired for enough money, and he had the money. To be rid of Mailer it would be worth plenty.
Lona was up at daybreak, having scarcely slept a wink. She had followed the Rider’s instructions and tried to recall all she could of the ride on the wagon, but it was little enough. She recalled the town where the fat lady had been so nice to her and where she had given her maple sugar brought out from Michigan in a can. There had been Indians there, and a lot of people. She was sure that town was Santa Fe.
She waited until the hands were gone and then got a hurried breakfast from Dave Betts.
“Rusty?” Betts asked. “Sure, I know where he went. He went south, down to Malpais Arroyo. Mailer sent him down there to roust some stock out of that rough country an’ start it back this away.”
Zusa was ready and eager to go, and Lona let the mare run. She was curious to talk to Gates again, for she was sure now that he knew who the Rider was. Though he seemed young, the Rider had known her father. Maybe Rusty would know.
She found him by as fine a flow of profanity as she had ever heard. He was down in the brush fighting an old ladino who had Rusty’s rope on his horns but who had plunged into the brush even as the rope snagged it, and at the moment it was a stalemate, with Gates venting his irritation in no uncertain terms.
Monument Rock (Ss) (1998) Page 15
