The Kilkenny Series Bundle Read online

  Three men seated in the room were covertly watching. Two of them sat against the south and west walls. The third man was across the room almost directly behind Kilkenny and against the east wall. The bar covered most of the north wall except for a door at each end that led into rooms back of the bar.

  “Once more,” Kilkenny suggested mildly. “I’d like a drink.”

  The burly bartender walked nonchalantly down the bar. He stared at Kilkenny with hard eyes. “I just don’t hear you, stranger. And I don’t know you.”

  What happened then was to make legend in the border country. Kilkenny’s hand shot out and grasped the bartender’s shirt collar in a tight grip and jerked … hard enough to bring the bartender right over the bar and to the floor, where he sprawled in the sawdust.

  “Let’s get acquainted,” Kilkenny said mildly, and as the bartender came off the floor he lanced his cheekbone with a straight left. A right to the chin made the man’s knees sag.

  Before he could recover his balance, Kilkenny grasped his shirt front and landed a stiff uppercut to the windpipe that made the man’s mouth drop open, then pushed him away and hit him in the face with both fists. Kilkenny stepped back. The bartender slid toward the floor, caught at the bar, and tried to pull himself up.

  Kilkenny watched him and said quietly, “Now we know each other, don’t we? Get back of that bar and let’s have a drink for myself and my partner. Or you can have the second barrel.”

  As the bartender started to weave toward the end of the bar, Kilkenny turned. Rusty was standing to one side of the door facing the man against the east wall.

  Kilkenny glanced at the other two. “The name is Kilkenny.” He paused a moment to let the name sink in. “If you want me, turn loose your dogs.”

  The name rang like a challenge in the room, but the three men made no move. The gunman against the west wall put a nervous tongue to dry lips. In his own mind he was sure of one thing, and one thing only. If they went through with their plan he himself was sure to die. No one had warned him the man they were to face was Kilkenny.

  The name had caught all three of them flatfooted. They stood deathly still, their faces stiff with shock. Slowly, the man against the south wall began letting his hands ease away from his guns.

  “Now that’s over,” said Lance (the bartender was spilling whiskey as he poured their drinks), “let’s talk a little. It was mighty nice of you folks to welcome us like this, but how can I express my feelings about it unless you tell me who sent you?”

  “We weren’t going to kill you,” one man said, “just make you a prisoner.”

  “Sorry, boys, I just don’t take to becoming a prisoner. Now you know where Mexico is, so why don’t you just head on down that way before I get nervous and go to shooting?”

  The three men headed for the door and ran into the street.

  Kilkenny turned toward the bar. The bartender had stepped back, the bottle in his hand, listening.

  There was a shot, then two more. Kilkenny stepped over to the window and looked out.

  One man was halfway across the street, sprawled in the dust. The other two had just stepped off the stoop when they were hit.

  “Who the hell did that?” Rusty asked.

  “Seems their boss doesn’t like failure,” Kilkenny said.

  He walked back to the bar. The bartender was sitting down, holding his head in his hands. They were shaking.

  “If we want more drinks,” Rusty commented, “I guess we’ll have to pour them ourselves.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” It was a smooth, lovely, feminine voice.

  CHAPTER 9

  A GIRL STOOD at the end of the bar, facing them. She stood erect, her chin lifted a little, one hand resting on the bar. Her skin was the color of old ivory, her hair jet-black and gathered in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. But it was her eyes that were most arresting, her eyes and her mouth.

  Her eyes were hazel with tiny flecks of a darker color, and they were very large, her lashes long. Her lips were full, but not too full, and they were beautiful. Yet despite her obvious beauty there was a certain wistfulness in her expression, a certain elusive charm that prevented the lips from being sensual.

  Her figure was seductively curved, and she moved with a sinuous grace that had no trace of affectation.

  She came up to them and held out her hand to Kilkenny. “I am Nita Riordan,” she said simply. “May I pour you a drink?”

  Kilkenny looked into the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, eyes that looked strangely into his as if searching for something lost. “Nita Riordan,” he said gently, “you could indeed.”

  Taking up the bottle she poured two drinks and handed one to each of them. She did not even glance at Big Ed, the bartender, who was beginning to move about.

  “It seems there has been trouble,” she said calmly.

  “No more than any man would willingly encounter to meet a girl like you,” Kilkenny replied.

  “You are gallant, señor.” She looked directly into his eyes. “Gallantry is always pleasant, and especially pleasant here, where one finds it so rarely.”

  “I’m only gallant when I am sincere,” Kilkenny said. “And I say little for effect.”

  She glanced at him—a slow, level, curious glance as if anxious to find something in his face. Then she looked away.

  “Sincerity is difficult to find in the Live Oak, señor. It has little value here.”

  “It has value to me anywhere.” He glanced at Big Ed, who was now somewhat recovered. “I don’t like to fight, but sometimes it becomes necessary.”

  “Now that,” she said coolly, “is not sincere! No man who did not like to fight could have done that!” She gestured at Big Ed’s face. “Perhaps you like to fight, but you do not like having to fight. There is a difference, you know.”

  “There is,” Lance agreed, “and it is to avoid having to fight that I have come here. Nita Riordan, who is the man in the house on the bluff?”

  She hesitated, then shrugged slightly. “If there is such a man, señor, why do you not ask him?”

  “I’m afraid he has no intention of giving me the opportunity, señorita,” Lance said. “But he seems very interested in all who come to Apple Canyon.”

  He paused. “Why is it called that?”

  “I am told there was once an apple tree planted here … or several of them. There are other stories, too, but that is the accepted one.

  “It was, for some time, a very lonely place. For nobody came this way, and the route to the border was untraveled except by occasional Comanches or Apaches. To most travelers it is out of the way, off the beaten track, and they have no reason for coming. Yet it is, after all, only one of many routes across the border.”

  “But an almost hidden route,” Lance added. “One could come to Apple Valley if one wished, by devious routes, and remain unseen. One might even drive stolen cattle or horses this way without it being known.”

  “Perhaps you are right, señor. I only live here, and what others do does not concern me.”

  “The law does not concern you?”

  “What law? This is a border settlement. Is it Texas law? The law of Mexico? Or the law of survival? I believe the law of survival is the oldest of them all, señor, and I wish to survive … at least, up to this point.”

  She gestured toward the street, where the bodies of the three men had been removed. “Survival is not always easy, señor, and you saw what happened to the three who failed in their mission.

  “I do not wish to die. There is much joy in living—even here, where there are only outlaws and thieves. Yet even here the world can be bright, even here one can find a little happiness, however incomplete.

  “To do that one must be a diplomat, careful to be careful in one’s judgments, to censure no one, to be considerate of all men while showing favor to none. What these men do when they are not here is their affair. But of this matter today, words will be exchanged. I will not have this sort of things happ
ening in my place. I will have nothing to do with it.”

  “I was more or less expecting it. Especially here, although it often happens to a stranger in a strange town.”

  “I’m sorry it happened. For a cause, señor, I could die, if need be. But I have no cause. I am a neutral who prefers to remain so. Nor can I die for nothing, and to tell you of anyone here would be to die for nothing. I abhor waste.”

  “They told me you were the boss of Apple Valley?”

  “Things are not always what they seem, señor. I was boss. There are changes taking place, changes not yet complete.”

  “I see I must talk to the man on the cliff. I’ll ask him what he wants with Kilkenny, and why he wants me alive … rather than dead.”

  “Kilkenny?” She took a half step forward, incredulous. “You?”

  “I am Kilkenny,” he said.

  “Long ago I heard of you. I heard many stories, but in most of them you were a good man. It was said that you fought only when absolutely necessary.”

  “I like it that way. I’ve tried to keep it that way.”

  “And you ride alone, Kilkenny?”

  “Usually. Today Rusty Gates is with me, I think we have some interests in common.”

  “Are you never lonely, señor? For me it is sometimes so.”

  “Yes, it has been lonely,” he said somberly. “It will be more so now.”

  Suddenly he saw her eyes widen a little, perhaps at something she saw in his. He took an involuntary step forward, and she seemed almost to lean to meet him, but he turned roughly away.

  He had taken a stride toward the door when her voice caught at him. “No! Not now to the cliff, señor! The time is not now! There will be many guns! Trust me, señor, for there will be another time!” She stepped closer to him. “He alone will be enough for you … even for you, Kilkenny, without the others. And he hates you!

  “Why, I do not know, but he hates you! He is evil, señor, a fiend! He will not rest until he kills you, but he would do it himself, and slowly, with malice.

  “Go now, and quickly! He will not shoot you if you ride away. He wishes to face you, señor. He wishes to see you die, to watch you die, and he wishes you to look upon his face, knowing it was he who killed you! This has been said, señor!”

  Kilkenny was watching her, listening rather to her tone than her words, and now he turned half to the door. Then he looked back.

  “Nita, I will do as you suggest. I will ride away. I do not know why you wish it, and it may be that you are protecting the man you love. But I do not believe that.

  “I will go because I trust you, and trust your judgment. It may be that a man who trusts a woman is one who writes his name upon water, but this time I shall take the chance.”

  He went through the door to the street and Rusty followed. Lance untied the bridle reins and stepped into the saddle.

  The doors opened and Nita Riordan stood there, looking at him.

  “Who are you?” she asked, almost despairingly. “What are you?”

  “I am Kilkenny,” he said quietly, “only Kilkenny. No more than that.”

  He walked his horse down the street and out of town without looking back, and Rusty Gates rode with him, somewhat behind, as if to cover his back.

  When they were safely out of town, Rusty rode up beside Lance. “I don’t know what you did, Mister,” he said grimly, “but you sure started something back there! I never saw Nita Riordan as she was today! She’s always mighty cool, almost never smiles, never gives an inch on anything.

  “A lot of men have made their move and most of them got a jolt. She hoss-whipped a couple, knifed one, and Jaime Brigo killed a couple. But mostly they just ride in and look, then ride away talking to themselves.”

  “Never put trust in a woman’s emotions, Rusty. Or read anything into them. Every woman has her own way of showing what she is, and this one is no different.

  “We just talked, that’s all. No doubt she is lonely. I have been lonely also, and she sensed that, and then she did not want me killed … That’s all there was, so don’t imagine more.”

  Behind them, in the saloon at Apple Valley, one of the doors at the end of the bar opened and a man stood framed there. He was a large man, powerfully built with a dark, Indian, strangely handsome face. He was a big man, larger even than the bartender.

  He moved down the bar with no more sound than that of wind along the floor, and he stopped close to Big Ed, who was now more calm.

  “No,” Brigo spoke softly. “You will not betray the señorita!” His black eyes were dark with intent as they looked into those of Big Ed Gardner. “If one word of what was said here reaches him, you will die. Not easily, amigo mío, not easily at all!

  “There was the fight, then they talked quietly, those two together, the red-haired one and the man Kilkenny, and then they left. Do you comprehend, señor?”

  “I ain’t talkin’,” Ed said irritably. “I got enough trouble! When I’m feelin’ better I’m goin’ to clear out! Out! Do you hear?”

  “I hear … But wherever you go, you will say nothing of this, or I will follow and find you. I have followed others, señor, for less.”

  “Forget it!” Ed shook his head. “I’m quittin’.”

  CHAPTER 10

  NITA WAS STANDING in her garden, one hand idly fingering a rose, when Brigo came through the hedge. His lips parted over perfect teeth.

  “You have found him, señorita,” he murmured, “I can see that. You have found this man for whom you have waited.”

  “Yes, Jaime, I have found him. But has he found me?”

  “Did you not see his face? His eyes? Sí, señorita, Jaime thinks he found you, too. He is a strong man, that one. Perhaps,” he canted his head, “as strong as Brigo!”

  “But what of him?” Nita protested. “He will kill Kilkenny. He hates him!”

  “Sí, he hates. But I do not think he will kill. I think something new has come. This man, this Kilkenny, he is not like anyone else.” Brigo paused. “I think soon, señorita, my work will be done, and I shall return to my home. I think that now he will do my work, this Kilkenny.”

  “What can we do, Brigo?”

  “Nothing now, señorita. We must wait, and watch while we wait. But do not forget, señorita, this man is not the same. This Kilkenny, he is different, I think.”

  Trailing a few yards behind Kilkenny, Rusty stared up at the wall of the valley. A ragged, tree-clad slope fell away from the rim. It was a wild, lonely country, and he began to see that what Kilkenny suspected was probably the truth: someone planned to bring off the most colossal rustling plot in western history.

  With this corner of the Live Oak country under one brand, cattle could be eased across its range and poured through the mouth of the funnel into Mexico. By weeding the larger herds carefully, they might bleed them for years without anyone discovering what was taking place. On ranges where cattle were numbered in the thousands, a few head from each ranch would scarcely be missed. But in the aggregate it would be an enormous number.

  This was not a sudden plan of the moment. This was no foolhardy scheme devised by a puncher needing a few dollars for a binge in town. This was stealing on a grand scale. It was the plan of a man with a brain and ruthless courage. Remembering the three men killed in the street, Rusty understood that the “boss” would kill without hesitation and on any scale.

  Kilkenny, as he rode, was doing his own thinking. The man who was directing the action was someone who knew him. Carefully, Lance began to sift through his memory for some hint as to who he might be.

  Dale Shafter? No … Shafter was dead, killed in a fight stemming from the Sutton-Taylor feud. Anyway, he was not big enough for this.

  Card Benton? Too small, a mere small-time rustler and gambler.

  One by one Lance sifted their names, and man after man cropped up in his thoughts, but few living men had reason to hate him. And although a few had reason enough to fear, they were not the kind to conceive this sort of plan,
nor act as this man was acting.

  Who had fired upon him the night in the hollow as he waited for Mort? Who had killed Sam Carter?

  Was it the same man? Or had the killings been done by such as the three who had attempted to take him in the Border Bar?

  Try as he might he could find no man who fitted the picture he had, and the more Lance thought the more he wondered if it were only a simple rustling scheme. Yet what more could it be?

  This job of helping Mort Davis, of saving his place, was developing into something far greater. Yet one thing he had done. He had proved to himself that neither Steele nor Lord was involved.

  Men who were deadly with guns were as much a part of the West as Indians or buffalo. It stood to reason that when all men used guns, some would be better than others. And they were both, good and bad, essential to the building of the West. Kilkenny was one of the few who understood his rightful place in the western lands. He knew what he was and what he stood for.

  Billy the Kid, Pat Garrett, Wes Hardin, Bill Hickok, Earp, Masterson, Tilghman, John Selman, Dallas Stoudenmire, Bill Longley and Pink Higgins … all were gunfighters. They belonged to the rough outer bark of the spreading westward tree.

  Many of the gunfighters became marshals of western towns. No matter how lawless they themselves might have been, they became a force for order who kept anyone from disturbing the peace, bothering citizens or interfering with business.

  Yet the man upon the cliff was different. He held himself aloof. He might have been one of the others, but one who had somehow changed his pattern and his style.

  Shadows grew longer as they moved. A light breeze, picked up from the south, brought the scents of Mexico. There was a faint smell of dust in the air. Kilkenny glanced at Gates.

  “Somebody fogged it along this trail,” Kilkenny commented, “and not very long ago.”

  Rusty agreed. “Means no good for us,” he said. After a moment he added, “Wonder what his next move will be?”

  “Seems likely they’ll try to bust things wide open between Lord and Steele before we can get them stopped,” Kilkenny said. “It’s all they can do.”