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

  There was dead silence. Runyon leaned forward, starting to speak, but then he sat back, shaking his head. It was Smithers who broke the silence.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said quietly.

  “But, man!” Hight protested. “There ain’t no way through that desert, an’, if there was…”

  “The Indians used to go through,” Trent said quietly, “and I think I know how. If it can be done, I could reach Blazer in a little over a day an’ start back the same night.” He looked over at Jesse Hatfield. “You want to watch Cedar Bluff? I reckon you know how to Indian. Don’t take any chances, but keep an eye on ’em. You take that chestnut of mine. He’s a racer. You take that horse, an’, when they move, you take the back trails for here.”

  Jesse Hatfield got up and slipped from the room.

  Then Trent said: “All right, start rolling. Get back here when you can.”

  He walked outside and saddled the buckskin. Jackie sauntered up, the Sharps in the hollow of his arm.

  “Jackie,” Trent said, “you get up there in the eye, an’ keep a lookout on the Cedar trail.” Mounting, he rode out of the hollow at a lope and swung into the trail toward his own cabin.

  He knew what they were facing, but already in his mind the plan of campaign was taking shape. If they sat still, sooner or later they must be wiped out, and sooner or later his own men would lose heart. They must strike back. Hale must be made to learn that he could not win all the time, that he must lose, too.

  All was quiet and green around the little cabin, and he rode up, swinging down. He stepped through, hurriedly put his grub into sacks, and hung it on a pack horse. Then he hesitated. Slowly he walked across to the peg on the cupboard. For a long minute he looked at the guns hanging there. Then he reached up and took them down. He buckled them on, heavyhearted and feeling lost and empty.

  It was sundown when he hazed his little band of carefully selected horses through the notch into the Hatfield hollow and, with Jackie’s help, put them in the corral. All the men were back, and the women were working around, laughing, pleasant. They were true women of the West, and most of them had been through Indian fights before this.

  Hight was the last one in. He came riding through the notch on a spent horse, his face drawn and hard.

  “They burned me out,” he said hoarsely, sweat streaking his face. “They hit me just as I was a-packin’. I didn’t get off with nothin’. I winged one of ’em, though.”

  Even as he spoke, Smithers caught Trent’s arm. “Look!” he urged, and pointed. In the sky they could see a red glow from reflected fire. “O’Hara’s place,” he said. “Maybe they got him, too.”

  “No.” O’Hara walked up, scowling. “They didn’t get me. I got here twenty minutes ago. They’ll pay for this, the wolves.”

  Jesse Hatfield on the chestnut suddenly materialized in the gloom. “Two bunches ridin’,” he said, “an’ they aim to get here about sunup. I heard ’em talkin’.”

  Trent nodded. “Get some sleep, Jesse. You, too, Jackie. Parson, you an’ Smithers better keep watch. Quince, I want you an’ Bartram to ride with me.”

  “Where you all goin’?” Saul demanded.

  “Why, Saul”—Trent smiled in the darkness—“I reckon we’re goin’ to town after groceries. We’re goin’ to call on Leathers, an’ we’ll just load up while we’re there. If he ain’t willin’, we may have to take him along, anyway.”

  “Count me in,” Saul said. “I sure want to be in on that.”

  “You’d better rest,” Trent suggested. “You got three antelope today, you an’ Lije.”

  “I reckon I ain’t so wearied I’d miss that ride, Captain, if you all say I can go.”

  “We can use you.”

  Suddenly there was a burst of flame to the south. “There goes my place!” Smithers exclaimed bitterly. “I spent two years a-buildin’ that place. Had some onions comin’ up, too, an’ a good crop of potatoes in.”

  Trent had started away, but he stopped and turned. “Smithers,” he said quietly, “you’ll dig those potatoes yourself. I promise you…if I have to wipe out Hales personally so’s you can do it.”

  Smithers stared after him as he walked away. “Y’know,” he remarked thoughtfully to the big Irishman, “I believe he would do it. O’Hara, maybe we can win this fight after all.”

  Chapter VII

  Cedar Bluff lay, dark and still, when the four horsemen rode slowly down the path behind the town. Trent, peering through the darkness, studied the town carefully. Taking the trail might have been undue precaution, for there was small chance the road would be watched. There had been, of course, the possibility that some late cowpuncher might have spotted them on the trail.

  It was after three, and the Crystal Palace and the Mecca had closed their doors over an hour earlier. Trent reined in on the edge of the town and studied the situation. King Bill, secure in his power even after the beating he had taken, would never expect the nesters to approach the town. He would be expecting them to try the overland route to Blazer for supplies, and in his monumental conceit he would never dream that they would come right to the heart of his domain.

  “Bartram,” Trent whispered, “you an’ Saul take the pack horses behind the store. Keep ’em quiet. Don’t try to get in or do anything. Just hold ’em there.” He turned to the older Hatfield. “Quince, we’re goin’ to get Leathers.”

  “Why not just bust in?” Saul protested. “Why bother with him? We can find what we need.”

  “No,” Trent said flatly. “He’s goin’ to wait on us, an’ we’re goin’ to pay him. We ain’t thieves, an’ we’re goin’ to stick to the legal way. I may hold him up an’ bring him down there, but we’re goin’ to pay him, cash on the barrel head, for everything we take.”

  Leaving their horses with the others behind the store, Trent took Quince and soft-footed it toward the storekeeper’s home, about 100 yards from the store. Walking along the dark street, Trent looked around from time to time to see Quince. The long, lean Hatfield, six foot three in his socks, could move like an Indian. Unless Trent had looked, he would never have dreamed there was another man so close.

  Trent stopped by the garden gate. There was a faint scent of lilacs in the air, and of some other flowers. Gently he pushed open the gate. It creaked on rusty hinges, and for an instant they froze. All remained dark and still, so Trent moved on, and Quince deftly took the gate from him and eased it slowly shut.

  The air was heavy with lilac now, and the smell of damp grass. Trent stopped at the edge of the shadow and motioned to Quince to stand by. Ever so gently, he lifted one foot and put it down on the first step. Lifting himself by the muscles of his leg, he put down the other foot. Carefully, inch by inch, he worked his way across the porch to the house.

  Two people slept inside. Leathers and his wife. His wife was a fat, comfortable woman, one of those in the town who idolized King Bill Hale and held him up as an example of all the West should be and all a man should be. King Bill’s swagger and his grandiose manner impressed her. He was, she was convinced, a great man. Once, shortly after he had first come to Cedar Bluff, Trent had been in this house. He had come to get Leathers to buy supplies after the store had been closed. He remembered vaguely the layout of the rooms.

  The door he was now opening gently gave access to the kitchen. From it, there were two doors, one to a living room, rarely used, and one to the bedroom. In that bedroom, Leathers would be sleeping with his wife.

  Once inside the kitchen he stood very still. He could hear the breathing of two people in the next room, the slow, heavy breathing of Elsa Leathers and the more jerky, erratic breathing of the storekeeper. The kitchen smelled faintly of onions and of homemade soap.

  Drawing a large handkerchief from his pocket, he tied it across his face under his eyes. Then he slid his six-gun into his hand and tiptoed through the door into the bedroom. For a moment, Elsa Leathers’s breathing caught, hesitated, and then went on. He heaved a sigh of relief. If she awakene
d, she was almost certain to start screaming.

  Alongside the bed, he stooped and put the cold muzzle of his gun under the storekeeper’s nose. Almost instantly the man’s eyes opened. Even in the darkness of the room, Trent could see them slowly turn upward toward him. He leaned down, almost breathing the words.

  “Get up quietly.”

  Very carefully, Leathers eased out of bed. Trent gestured for him to put on his pants, and, as the man drew them on, Trent watched him like a hawk. Then Trent gestured toward the door, and Leathers tiptoed outside.

  “What’s the matter?” he whispered, his voice hoarse and shaking. “What do you want me for?”

  “Just a little matter of some groceries,” Trent replied. “You open your store an’ give us what we want, an’ you won’t have any trouble. Make one squawk an’ I’ll bend this gun over your noggin.”

  “I ain’t sayin’ anythin’,” Leathers protested. He buckled his belt and hurried toward the store with Trent at his heels. Quince Hatfield sauntered along behind, stopping only to pluck a blue cornflower and stick it in an empty buttonhole of his shirt.

  Leathers fumbled for the lock on the door. “If my wife wakes up an’ finds me gone, mister,” he said grumpily, “I ain’t responsible for what happens.”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Trent assured him dryly, “you just fill this order an’ don’t make us any trouble.”

  He motioned to Saul, who came forward. “As soon as you get four horses loaded, you let Bartram take ’em back to the trail an’ hold ’em there. Then, if anything happens, he can take off with that much grub.”

  As fast as Leathers piled out the groceries, Saul and Quince hurried to carry them out to the horses. Trent stood by, gun in hand.

  “You ain’t goin’ to get away with this,” Leathers stated finally. “When Hale finds out, he’s a-goin’ to make somebody sweat.”

  “Yeah,” Trent said quietly, “maybe he will. From all I hear, he’d better wait until he gets over one beatin’ afore he starts huntin’ another. An’, while we’re talkin’, you better make up your mind, too. When this war is over, if Hale doesn’t win, what d’you suppose happens to you?”

  “Huh?” Leathers straightened, his face a shade whiter. “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean, brother,” Trent said harshly, “that you’ve taken sides in this fuss. An’ if Hale loses, you’re goin’ out of town…but fast!”

  “He ain’t a-goin’ to lose!” Leathers brought out a sack of flour and put it down on the floor. “Hale’s got the money, an’ he’s got the men. Look what happened to Smithers’s place today, an’ O’Hara’s. An’ look what happened to…”

  “To Dick Moffitt?” Trent’s voice was cold. “That was murder.”

  Quince stepped into the door. “Somebody’s comin’,” he hissed. “Watch it.”

  “Let ’em come in,” Trent said softly, “but no shootin’ unless they shoot first.”

  Trent thrust a gun against Leathers. “If they come in,” he whispered, “you talk right, see? Answer any questions, but answer ’em like I tell you, because if there is any shootin’, Elsa Leathers is goin’ to be a widow, but quick.”

  Two men walked up to the door, and one tried the knob. Then, as the door opened, he thrust his head in.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  “It’s me,” Leathers said, and as Trent prodded him with the gun barrel, “fixin’ up an order that has to get out early.”

  The two men pushed on inside. “I never knew you to work this late afore. Why, man, it must be nearly four o’clock.”

  “Right,” Quince stepped up with a six-gun. “You hombres invited yourself to this party, now pick up them sacks an’ cart ’em outside.”

  “Huh?” The two men stared stupidly. “Why…?”

  “Get movin’!” Quince snapped. “Get them sacks out there before I bend this over your head!” The man hesitated and then obeyed, and the other followed a moment later.

  It was growing gray in the east when the orders were completed. Quickly they tied up the two men while Leathers stood by. Then, at a motion from Trent, Saul grabbed Leathers and he was bound and gagged. Carrying him very carefully, Trent took him back into his cottage and placed him in bed, drawing the blankets over him. Elsa Leathers sighed heavily, and turned in her sleep. Trent stood very still, waiting. Then her breathing became even once more, and he tiptoed from the house.

  Quince was standing in the shadow of the store, holding both horses. “They’ve started up the trail,” he said. Then he grinned. “Gosh a’mighty, I’ll bet old Leathers is some sore.”

  “There’ll be a chase, most likely,” Trent said. “We’d better hang back a little in case.”

  Bartram was ahead, keeping the horses at a stiff trot. He was a tough, wiry young farmer and woodsman who had spent three years convoying wagon trains over the Overland Trail before he came south. He knew how to handle a pack train, and he showed it now. Swinging the line of pack horses from the trail, he led them into the shallow water of Cedar Branch and walked them very rapidly through the water. Twice he stopped to give them a breather, but kept moving at a good pace, Saul riding behind the string, his long Kentucky rifle across his saddle.

  “You pay Leathers?” Quince asked, riding close.

  “Yeah.” Trent nodded. “I stuck it down between him an’ his wife after I put him in bed. He’ll be some surprised.”

  Using every trick they knew to camouflage their trail, they worked steadily back up into the hills. They were still five miles or more from the Hatfield place when they heard shots in the distance.

  Quince reined in, his features sharpened. “Looks like they’ve done attacked the place,” he said. “What d’you think, Trent? Should we leave this to Saul an’ ride up there?”

  Trent hesitated, and then shook his head. “No. They can hold ’em for a while. We want to make sure this food is safe.” Suddenly he reined in. “Somebody’s comin’ up our back trail. Go ahead, Saul. But don’t run into the attackin’ party.”

  Saul nodded grimly, and Trent, taking a quick look around, indicated a bunch of boulders above the trail. They rode up and swung down, and Quince gave an exclamation of satisfaction as he noted the deep arroyo behind the boulders—a good place for their horses and good for a getaway, if need be.

  The horsemen were coming fast now. Lying behind the boulders, they could see the dust rising above them as they wound their way through the cedars and huge rocks that bordered the narrow trail. Only yards away they broke into the open.

  “Dust ’em!” Trent said, and fired.

  Their two rifles went off with the same sound and two puffs of dust went up in front of the nearest horse. The horse reared sharply and spun halfway around. Trent lowered his rifle to note the effect of their shots, and then aimed high at the second horseman and saw his sombrero lift from his head and sail into the brush. The men wheeled and whipped their horses back into the brush.

  Quince chuckled and bit off a chew. “That’ll make ’em think a mite…say!” He nodded toward a nest of rocks on the other side. “What’ll you bet one of them rannies ain’t a-shinnyin’ up into that nest of rocks about now?”

  There was a notch in the rocks and a boulder beyond, not four feet beyond by the look of it. Quince Hatfield lifted his Kentucky rifle, took careful aim, and then fired. There was a startled yell, and then curses.

  Quince chuckled a little. “Dusted him with granite off that boulder,” he said. “They won’t hurry to get up there again.”

  Trent thought swiftly. If he took the arroyo and circled back, he could then get higher up on the mountain. With careful fire, he could still cover the open spot and so give Quince a chance to retreat while he held them. Swiftly he told Hatfield. The big mountaineer nodded.

  “Go ahead. They won’t move none till you get there.”

  It took Trent ten minutes to work his way out of the arroyo and up the mountain. As distance went, he wasn’t so far, being not more than 400 yards
away. He signaled his presence to Quince Hatfield by letting go with three shots into the shelter taken by their pursuers. From above, that shelter was scarcely more than concealment and not at all cover.

  In a few minutes Quince joined him. They each let go with two shots, and then, mounting, rode swiftly away, out of view of the men in the brush below.

  “They’ll be slow about showin’ themselves, I reckon,” Quince said, “so we’ll be nigh to home afore they get nerve enough to move.”

  When they had ridden four miles, Quince reined in sharply. “Horses ahead,” he advised. “Maybe they’re ours.”

  Approaching cautiously, they saw Bartram with the eight pack horses. He was sitting with his rifle in his hands, watching the brush ahead. He glanced around at their approach, and then with a wave of the hand, motioned them on.

  “Firing up ahead. Saul’s gone up. He’ll be back pretty soon.”

  Low voiced, Trent told him what had happened. Then, as they talked, they saw Saul Hatfield coming through the brush on foot. He walked up to them and caught his horse by the bridle.

  “They got ’em stopped outside the cup,” he said. “I think only one man of theirs is down. He’s a-lyin’ on his face in the open not far from the boulders where O’Hara is. There must be about a dozen of them, no more.”

  “Is there a way into the cup with these horses?” Trent asked.

  Saul nodded. “Yeah, I reckon if they was busy over yonder for a few minutes, we could run ’em all in.”

  “We’ll make ’em busy, eh, Quince?” Trent suggested. “Bart, you an’ Saul whip ’em in there fast as soon as we open up.” He had reloaded his rifle, and the two turned their horses and started skirting the rocks to outflank the attackers.

  Trent could see what had happened. The Hatfield place lay in a cup-like depression surrounded on three sides by high, rocky walls and on the other by scattered boulders. Through the cliffs, there were two ways of getting into the cup. One of these, now about to be attempted, lay partly across an open space before the cut was entered. The attackers were mostly among the scattered boulders, but had been stopped and pinned down by O’Hara and someone else. Two men there could hold that ground against thirty. Obviously some of the others were up in the cliffs above the cup, waiting for any attack.