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  Suddenly Kilkenny froze.

  An idea was coming into his mind, all uncalled for. An idea that might change everything.

  CHAPTER 12

  BERT POLTI MIGHT have killed Wilkins and Carter, but Lance had no hard evidence. Again and again his thoughts returned to the house on the cliff and the feeling that he must go there. He was not foolish enough to believe he could do it without risk, for he must go alone, and there were too many imponderables, too many intangibles, too many unknown things that he could not foresee.

  Lord and Steele might postpone their fighting for a day or two. It might even come about that they wouldn’t fight, yet the problem of Lost Valley would remain. And the man at Apple Canyon would try to force the issue at any moment.

  Standing in the dimly lit hotel room, Kilkenny let his gaze drift about him. There was nothing. Obviously the man had entered the room, combed his hair and then gone out for a drink. Lance was starting to leave when the memory came to him.

  The man who had fired at him before, the man who had killed Carter, had stopped on the spot to reload.

  A careful man, obviously. But then, a smart man with a gun was always careful.

  Kilkenny searched the room again, knowing even as he did so the search was useless.

  Then he went down to examine the ground where the man had fallen, or dropped. He found two deep indentations where the man had landed … on his feet.

  The tracks were plain enough and Kilkenny followed them, holding a match to the ground here and there, occasionally catching a glimpse of a toe or heel mark in the light from a window.

  Sixty feet beyond the hotel he found what he sought. The running man had dropped the shell of the spent cartridge, ejecting it from his pistol to reload. Kilkenny picked up the shell … the same type used by the man who shot Carter.

  “Find somethin’?”

  He straightened up, moving to one side as he did so. He had already recognized the voice.

  It was Gates, standing there, his hand on his gun, facing him.

  “A shell. Where’s Polti?”

  “Left for Apple Canyon, ridin’ easy, takin’ his time.”

  “You been on him as I suggested?”

  “Yeah. If you’re thinkin’ that might have been him who did the shooting, forget it. I heard the shooting and then somebody came in and said you’d been playin’ target down here. Polti was in sight all the time.”

  Kilkenny stared gloomily into the darkness. So it was not Polti … The theory that had half-formed in his mind that Polti himself was the unseen killer had to be discarded.

  Suddenly he had a new thought. What about Rusty himself? What, after all, did he know about him? Why had Rusty joined him? From admiration, perhaps, or the sheer love of battle? Or for some deeper purpose?

  He shook his head. If this continued, he would soon be suspecting himself. Turning, Gates at his side, Lance walked back to the hotel. He felt baffled, defeated. At whatever turn, he was outwitted.

  The night was wearing on, and he was tired. Mounting the buckskin, he rode outside town. He had chosen a place some distance away. Tomorrow night it would be another place, which he would choose tonight.

  To sleep in the same place on more than one occasion was a treat he rarely permitted himself.

  Rusty had remained in town to keep an eye on what developed.

  Lance lit no fire, but unsaddled Buck, led him to water, then let him roll before picketing him on some grass near the rocks, where he himself would sleep. The moon was rising and there was light enough … much more than he needed.

  The moon was just clearing the ridge top when he heard a faint movement, the movement of somebody stirring around outside his camp.

  Instantly Kilkenny rolled over behind a boulder, six-shooter in his hand.

  Not fifty feet away, standing atop a small hummock, was the dark figure of a man.

  “Don’t shoot, Kilkenny.” The soft drawl was pleasant to hear. “This is a friendly call.”

  “Come on in, but be careful. I can see just as well in the dark as in the light.”

  The man walked slowly, giving Kilkenny plenty of time to see him. He was obviously a man accustomed to dealing with gun-handy individuals. He stopped a dozen feet off.

  “Sorry to come up on you thisaway, but I wanted a word in private and you’re a right busy man these days.”

  Kilkenny waited. There was something vaguely familiar about the man. Somewhere, sometime, he’d seen him before.

  “Kilkenny, you’ve the reputation of being a square-shooter. I need to know men like that. I’m Lee Hall.”

  Lee Hall! There wasn’t anyone in Texas who had not heard the name of one of its most famous Texas Rangers. “Red” Hall, they called him, and he had tamed a few wild towns and a good many wilder men. All the Texas cow towns knew him, and along the border he was famous … and respected.

  “Kilkenny, you’ve got a right to wonder why I’m here, but the truth is I need some information and I need some help. What’s been happening down here?”

  Briefly, Kilkenny sketched the events since his arrival, the message from Mort Davis that brought him here, and the shootings. He mentioned his efforts to quiet the cattle war and said a few things about his suspicions as to Apple Canyon.

  “Nita Riordan? Never met her myself, but I think I knew her pappy. Came out here from Carolina or Virginny. A good man, an honest man, but impractical. Heard he had a daughter, but just never had occasion to ride into Apple Canyon myself.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Kilkenny asked.

  “Keep on with what you’re doing. The last thing we need is a cattle war. I’m putting wire on my own place now, and we’ve having troubles, too. If you need any help, just send word. But consider yourself sworn in. You’re a deputy now.”

  They walked over and sat down together against the rock wall. “Funny thing, this mention of the killings of Carter and Wilkins. They aren’t the first who were killed in this neck of the woods. For the past six years there have been unexplained killings. Chet Lord’s half-brother was dry-gulched … and not far from Apple Canyon. Name of Destry King. Never did find out who did it and there wasn’t anything we could tie on to. Yet only a few days before he was killed Destry told me he thought he knew who was going to do it.”

  For two hours they talked, keeping their voices low. Much of the talk was speculation.

  “Can’t move in without some evidence,” Hall said, finally. “And no way to prove these shootings have any connection with the others, but I’ve a hunch you should fight shy of Nita Riordan … She’s trouble. I don’t mean personally, but trouble happens where she is, and I don’t like the look of it. Sometimes I think something’s going on down here that’s out of my field … away out.”

  Destry King? Kilkenny remembered the name from somewhere, but not here.

  “What about Nita Riordan?” Kilkenny asked.

  Hall shrugged. “Nothing against her but the company she keeps. In our books she’s clean as a whistle. Brigo’s killed a couple of men but I’ve no doubt they needed it. There’s a story that her pa once did something for Brigo or his family. Don’t quote me, as I only heard the story secondhand and it probably wasn’t right, but somebody told me that Brigo promised her father he’d see her safe and married before he returned to his own people.

  “So far as anybody can see he’s a man totally without interests except for her. He seems to consider himself her uncle or something of the sort, but whatever you do, steer clear of him. He’s hell on wheels with any kind of a weapon.”

  Long after Lee Hall rode away into the darkness, Kilkenny lay awake, puzzling over the little he knew.

  Using his saddle for a pillow, he stared up at the stars, turning over all the persons involved, and all the problems. The knowledge that there had been earlier killings was more information that refused to fit any theory he evolved of what was going on.

  Could it be there was something else happening here that had begun long ago? Something
that had nothing at all to do with cattle, rustling or barbed wire on the range?

  Destry King, half-brother to Chet Lord, had been killed when he thought he knew who the killer was going to be. Had he confided in Chet Lord? Or Steve?

  It was high time he had a talk with Lord, as he had with Steele. Circumstances had conspired to keep him busy, but now he would make the time. His messages until now had been sent through Steve.

  He slept then, and a low wind whispered through the clumps of oak, moaned softly around the rocky ledges, and the coyotes called plaintively to the lonely moon.

  It was night, a soft, beautiful night, a night of moonlight. And then the slow dawn came and the buckskin nudged him awake.

  CHAPTER 13

  LANCE KILKENNY HEADED out for Cottonwood before the sun was up. At the small station he sent three messages, one to El Paso, another to Dodge, and the third to a friend in San Antonio who had long lived in the Live Oak country, but who had grown up in Missouri.

  Leaving Cottonwood, he cut across country to the Apple Canyon trail and rode for the Chet Lord ranch. He was cutting through a narrow defile when he glimpsed two people riding toward him. They were Tana Steele and Victor Bonham.

  “Howdy,” he said cheerfully. “Nice day.”

  Tana reined in and faced him. “Hello. Are you as insulting today as ever?”

  Lance chuckled. “Do you mean am I still as stubborn about spoiled girls as ever?” He grinned. “Bonham, this girl is sure a wildcat, but she’s a pretty one.”

  Bonham laughed, but his eyes went to the tied-down guns and when they lifted there was a strange expression in them. Bonham reined his horse around, broadside to Kilkenny.

  “Going far?” he asked politely.

  “Not far.”

  “Chet Lord’s, I suppose. I hear he’s an unpleasant man with whom to do business.”

  “I suppose we all have our moments. We’ll get along, I think. I can do business with most men, pleasant or otherwise.”

  “Aren’t you the man who killed the Weber brothers?” Bonham asked. “I heard you were. I should think it would bother you.”

  “Bother me? I never think of it. I wasn’t hunting trouble. They were. It doesn’t worry me much, one way or the other.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of conscience,” Bonham said. “I was thinking of Royal Barnes. I have heard he was a relative of theirs, and one of the fastest men in the country.”

  “Barnes? I never gave him a thought. The Webers asked for it and they got it. Why should it bother Barnes? I’ve never seen the man, and wouldn’t know him if I did.”

  “He might not like his relatives being killed. And he’s said to be very fast.…”

  Kilkenny ignored the easterner, not liking the tone of his voice. For there was something pushing about it, something prying that he did not like.

  He turned to Tana who was watching him, a curious light in her eyes.

  “Ma’am? Did you know Destry King?”

  “Destry King?” Her eyes came alive. “Oh, yes! We all knew Des! He was Chet Lord’s half-brother. Stepbrother, rather, for they had different parents. He was a grand fellow. I had quite a crush on him when I was fourteen.”

  “Killed, wasn’t he?”

  “Murdered. Someone shot him from behind some rocks. Oh, it was awful! The killer walked up and shot him twice in the stomach, and then in the face.”

  Bonham sat listening, but his eyes on Kilkenny were puzzled.

  “I don’t believe I understand. I thought you were averting a cattle war, but now you seem curious about an outdated killing.”

  “He was killed from ambush, Bonham. So were Sam Carter and Joe Wilkins. So were several others. The murders do cover quite a period of time, but none of the killings was ever solved, and it looks a bit odd.”

  Bonham’s eyes were keen. “I see. You feel there may be a connection? And that the same man may have killed them all? That some of these killings had nothing to do with the cattle war?”

  “I think the present killings are part of the range war,” Kilkenny said, “but the style of the killings is like those old crimes.” He turned back to Tana. “Tell me about Des King.”

  “I don’t know why I shouldn’t,” she said. “Des was a wonderful fellow. Everyone liked him, and that’s what made his murder so strange. He was a very good man with a gun, and one of the best riders and ropers around. Everyone made a lot of Des, but he was a very regular fellow in spite of it.

  “There had been several riders killed, and then an old miner, but I think the first one was an Indian. He was an old Comanche, harmless enough, who used to live around the Lord ranch.

  “Altogether I think there were seven men killed before Des started to investigate. He had an idea that all seven were killed by the same man. He even warned me once that I shouldn’t go riding. He said it was no longer safe for anyone to ride alone.… All the victims had been alone at the time.”

  “You rode a good deal as a youngster?”

  “Oh, yes! There weren’t many children around and I used to ride over and talk to Steve Lord. Our fathers were good friends then, but it was six miles of rough country to their ranch … very wild country.”

  “Thanks,” said Lance. “I’ll be getting on. Much obliged for the information, ma’am. Glad to have seen you again, Bonham.”

  Bonham smiled. “We’ll probably see each other often, Kilkenny.”

  Suddenly Tana put out her hand.

  “Really, Kilkenny, I am sorry about that first day. I knew you were right the first time, but I was so mad I hated to admit it. I’m sorry.”

  “Think nothing of it. But I’m not going to take back what I said about you.”

  Tana stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “Mean?” Lance’s eyebrows lifted innocently. “Didn’t I say you were mighty pretty?” He touched a spur lightly to the buckskin’s flanks and was gone.

  After a brisk gallop of a quarter of a mile he slowed down, busy with his thoughts.

  Hall’s information had been correct, and Des King had indeed had a theory about the identity of his killer. No doubt such a man would have been tracking him down, putting together one item with another and drawing hourly closer. And then the killer, realizing he would soon be exposed, had killed King.

  But what was the thread that connected the crimes? None of the bodies had been robbed.

  Yet where was the connection, except in the manner of the killings? And why had the pattern varied in the case of King, who had been shot several times, shot as if the killer carried a particular hate for him?

  Why a harmless old Indian? A prospector? And several riders?

  Just ahead of him, the ground dipped into a wide and shallow valley following a cattle trail over which stock had recently been driven. Nearby was a wash, and a pile of rocks just beyond.

  Kilkenny glanced at both, taking in all the approaches to the rocks with a glance that missed nothing. He pushed his hat back on his head, looked toward the arroyo and shifted his Winchester a little. He did not believe an ambush awaited him, but he was prepared.

  So far the Steele-Lord fight was hanging fire. Either his suggestions had struck home or some other factor was in operation. Twice there had been minor bursts of action, but for the present all seemed quiet. Yet the basic trouble remained, and Mort Davis had not been brought together with Lord and Steele.

  North of the Live Oak the country was seething, too. Wire-cutters had been busy, and there had been sporadic fighting. Cattle had disappeared occasionally, but in small bunches, and there was no evidence that they had come down through the Live Oak country to the border.

  Kilkenny had almost reached the Lord ranch house when he saw Steve riding toward him. Steve threw him a quick, careful look, his eyes curious, but friendly.

  “Didn’t expect to see you over here. I thought you were headed for Apple Canyon.”

  “Apple Canyon? Why?”

  “Oh, most people who meet Nita Riordan once want to see her again.
Are you looking for Pa?”

  “That’s right. Is he around?”

  “Uh-huh. That’s him on the roan horse.”

  Together they rode up to the big man. Kilkenny was pleased. Chet Lord was a typical cattleman of the old school. Old Chet turned and eyed Kilkenny as he approached, looking quickly from him to Steve.

  He smiled and held out his hand.

  “Kilkenny, is it? I figured so from the stories I been hearin’.”

  Lord’s face was deeply lined, and there were creases of worry about his eyes. Either the impending cattle war was bothering Chet Lord, or something else was. He looked anything but a healthy man now, yet it was not a physical distress. Something, Kilkenny felt instinctively, was troubling the rancher.

  “Been meaning to ride over, Mr. Lord,” Kilkenny said. “I’ve got to keep you and Steele off each other’s backs, then get the two of you together with Mort Davis.”

  “You might get me an Webb together, but I’ll have no truck with that cow-stealin’ Davis!”

  “Shucks,” Kilkenny grinned. “You mean to tell me you never rustled a cow? You never slapped a brand on some critter with a doubtful ancestry? I don’t think there’s a cowman in Texas who hasn’t been a bit free with an iron now and again.”

  Lord chuckled a little. “Well … maybe. But that Davis came in here and settled on the best piece of grazing in the country!”

  “What did you expect him to do? Pick the worst? What kind of a man do you want for a neighbor? Mort’s an old buffalo hunter. He was in this country while you were still away back in Missouri.”

  “Maybe. But we used this range first.”

  “How’d you happen to come here, anyway? Didn’t you like Missouri?” asked Kilkenny.

  Chet Lord slapped a hard hand on his pommel and glared. “That’s none of your damn business! I come here because I damn well felt like it, an’ for no other reason!”

  His tone was sharp and irritated, and Kilkenny detected a sign that the man was very near the breaking point. But why? What was riding him? What was the trouble?