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  “Yeah, they had a hard day of it. That Comb Ridge sure is a help though. Like a fence, only it never needs to be fixed. No post holes to dig. Reckon yuh got about a thousand head scattered between Westwater an’ Comb.”

  “In the morning, Jaime,” Nita Riordan turned suddenly to the Yaqui, “have my horse saddled. I’m riding into town.”

  “Si.” Jaime Brigo dropped into a chair wondering if the tall rider from the shadow of the trees would be in town. Cain had asked a good question: where was he living? It would be wise to find out in case they needed him.

  “Also,” she added, “I want none of the men riding the range alone from now on. I want them to ride two by two, and keep their eyes open. If they have killed one man, they will not hesitate to kill others. However, I’m going to see Leal Macy.”

  DAWN BROKE OVER the hills and Kilkenny rolled out of his bed in the Westwater Hotel and began to dress. He had been rising at daybreak for so long that he could no longer sleep even if he wanted to. This morning he was anxious to be up and around. He wanted to judge the town’s reaction to the killing of Carson.

  He went down the stairs and turned into the dining room. Doc Blaine was the only man there, but a few minutes later the young man he had spotted as Tetlow came into the room. He glanced at Doc and then at Kilkenny with friendly, questioning eyes. Neither appeared to notice him, and flushing, he seated himself alone.

  The waitress came in and took their orders and Blaine ate in silence. “Trouble?” Kilkenny asked at last.

  “Usual. Root’s wife is ailing. She’s worked all her life to help her husband build a home and she’s killing herself. She needs a rest more than anything else. She don’t want me to examine her, but I’m going to. Nice family. Poor,” he added, “but energetic. The kind of people who do half the work of the world but never succeed in profiting from it. Stubborn, sincere, hard-working, but not acquisitive.”

  “You find them all over the West,” Kilkenny said. He grinned suddenly. “Maybe I’m one of them.”

  Blaine looked up briefly, looking right into Kilkenny’s eyes directly and with faint humor. “You’re a Western type, as familiar as they are,” he said, “but different.”

  “You’ve got me pegged?”

  “Of course. You’re a cut above the average of your type, but still one of them. You’re not even strictly a Western product. Your type has drifted up and down the world since it began. The lone hunter, the man on the prowl, the fighter for lost causes, the man who understands weapons better than women and understands women quite well. Yes, I know your type. They sailed with Drake, they built the Hudson Bay Company. They were the backbone of the free companies of the Middle Ages.”

  “You’re flattering.”

  “Am I?” Blaine looked up quickly. “Well, it depends on how you take it. Flattering, perhaps, but not reassuring. Your type fights the wars of the world and gets nothing from it but a lonely grave somewhere and the memory in the minds of a few men who die and then there is nothing.”

  Kilkenny laughed softly, his green eyes lighting up. “Yes, maybe you’re right.” As the doctor got to his feet, he added, “Give my regards to the Roots. Tell them a man named Trent will call on them some day.”

  When Blaine had gone, Kilkenny turned to his meal with interest and a hunger he had not realized he possessed. He was aware of the presence of Ben Tetlow but he said nothing and made no move to speak. The door opened and another man entered. Both looked up. This was a tall, fine appearing man with a trimmed gray mustache, gray hair and a fine, aristocratic face and the bearing to match. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Robert Early.”

  “Trent, here.”

  The lawyer looked at him keenly. “Heard about you. My niece tells me you gave her quite a shock at Clifton’s.”

  Ben Tetlow was scarcely listening, but at that name he stiffened. Kilkenny threw him a quick glance, but Ben Tetlow did not look up. Sensing something wrong, Early glanced quickly from one to the other, puzzled by their reaction.

  Tetlow was thinking swiftly. Yesterday Laurie Webster, this man’s niece, had mentioned seeing Trent kill a man. Now Early said it had happened at Clifton’s. Of course, other men had been killed there, but this could only mean one man. Trent had killed his brother!

  Ben glanced sharply around, staring at this man. He recalled what they had said. The flashing draw, the one shot, the gun only half-drawn from his brother’s holster. And his brother had been considered fast, had bragged that he was faster than Billy the Kid.

  “Your niece is a very lovely girl,” Kilkenny was saying, “and I’m truly sorry for what happened. One can’t always choose the course of one’s actions. I wanted no trouble.”

  “So I heard.” Early ordered and looked back at him. “Staying with us?”

  “Yes.” Kilkenny was acutely aware of the presence of Tetlow. Inwardly he was wondering what Ben’s course of action would be. This was the only Tetlow he had actually talked to except for the dead brother, but he seemed agreeable and anxious to be friendly. “Yes, I like it here and I think I’ll stay.”

  He finished his meal and got to his feet. Outside the street was crowded with Tetlow riders. A dozen horses were tied in front of the sheriff’s office and he glanced over that way. What had Macy done about the death of Carson?

  He strolled across the street, walking around a knot of armed men. They were typical cowhands in dress, but there was that about them that told him they were something more. He knew the breed. These were fighting men, drawing warriors’ wages.

  Behind his desk stood Leal Macy. The jailer lounged in the corner. Macy was speaking, and the man to whom he talked was Havalik. Beside the latter was Phin Tetlow.

  “The inquest,” Macy said sternly, “will be at ten o’clock. You be there, Havalik. We’ll get this matter settled right now.”

  Havalik shrugged. “Oh, all right, but it’s a lot of fuss over nothin’. The hombre asked for it.”

  “That will be established at the inquest,” Macy replied coolly.

  “Supposin’,” Havalik jeered, “that you decide I’m guilty. What happens then?”

  “You’ll be arrested, put in jail and held for trial,” Macy replied quietly.

  Havalik laughed, a laugh echoed by several of the Forty riders. “Arrest me?” he laughed. “Why, you ain’t man enough to arrest me in the first place, an’ no Forty hand ever did a day in jail in the second place. The outfit would pull this jail down around your ears.”

  “They might,” Macy replied, “but if they did the law would hunt down every man jack of them. It may have escaped your notice, Havalik, but times are changing. You fellows are on short notice everywhere now. The day when killing could go unpunished in the West is over.”

  “Yeah?” Havalik laughed again. “That’s right interestin’ to know. I sure would admire to see you ride onto any range held by the Forty to take one o’ their men.”

  Leal Macy was not cowed. Calmly, he replied, “If that becomes necessary, that is exactly what I shall do. We will hold the inquest in the Diamond Palace at ten. Be there.” Deliberately, he turned his back and walked into the jail behind the desk. The others turned and trooped out and there was a rush for the Pinenut Saloon. Kilkenny stood out of the way and watched them go, and then he stepped into the office. Macy reappeared from the jail, his face cold.

  He nodded to Kilkenny. “That bunch is riding for a fall,” he said.

  “Uh huh.” Kilkenny dropped in the chair in which he had sat on the previous day. “How much help can you get here in town?”

  Macy looked at him quickly, then he smiled without humor. “Very little, I’m afraid. A few good men. The rest will be looking at the buttered side of their bread.”

  “What I figured.” Kilkenny ran his fingers through his hair and looked down at his boots. “I like a man with nerve, Macy. Count me in if you need help.”

  Macy studied him carefully. “All right,” he replied, “but no obliga
tions, understand? Wherever my duty takes me, I’ll go.”

  “Sure.” Kilkenny got to his feet. “I’m asking no favors nor giving any. This fight if it comes will be everybody’s fight, only most of them won’t know it until it’s too late.”

  Leal Macy nodded shortly and as Kilkenny reached the door, Macy glanced up. “Thanks, Trent. I appreciate this.”

  “Sure.” Kilkenny stepped out into the street. If there was going to be trouble there was little sense in delaying action and allowing the Tetlows to get too firmly situated. He wanted no trouble, but he knew now there would be no avoiding it. If Ben had been the boss—that fellow could be talked to. Maybe it would be worth attempting.

  Three men were standing in front of the stage station. They were the same men he had seen in the hotel dining room. The big man with the lumbering gait was staring at him truculently. Suddenly, he yelled, “Hey, you!”

  Kilkenny ignored him and the man yelled again, then wheeled and started for Kilkenny, who came along and stepped up on the walk in front of the Westwater. There the big man reached him. “When I call, yuh stop!” he bellowed, thrusting his face at Kilkenny.

  Suddenly, Lance Kilkenny was coldly, bitterly furious. The attitude of the man, his bullying voice, the attitude of the Forty outfit toward the sheriff, all of it had culminated in this. His right jerked up, not in a close fist, but striking up with the butt of his palm. The movement was so swift the big man had no chance to avoid it and the hard butt of that palm smashed under his jaw, slamming his head back on his neck. The man tottered, and Kilkenny stepped in and struck him a slashing blow across the side of the face with the edge of his palm. The blow laid the man’s cheek open for four inches, showering him with blood. Then Kilkenny looked up, facing the other two men.

  The man with the white eyes and the gun tucked in his waistband and the man with the missing finger and scarred face. Both stared down at the big fellow on the ground and then looked at Kilkenny unbelieving. “Never even closed his fist!” somebody said from the gathering crowd.

  “This gent’s hunting trouble, Grat,” the scar-faced man said softly. “He’s askin’ for it.”

  “Then we’ll give it to him, Red.” Grat started to move, but he was too late. Kilkenny had seen the situation developing and preferred it to be settled with fists rather than guns. Infinitely more experienced at this sort of thing than the average cowhand, he struck swiftly. The blow caught Grat high on the face, and as his hands came up to protect his face, he whipped an underhand blow to the wind. Grat’s knee caved and he pitched forward into the cracking left hook that Kilkenny had ready for him.

  When he stepped in to meet Grat he had turned in such a way as to put Grat between himself and Red. It gave him just time enough to put Grat out of the running, and as Red rushed him, Kilkenny vaulted over the hitch rail into the street. Red brought up short and in the split second of hesitation, Kilkenny grabbed his outstretched arm and threw his back under him, jerking him over the rail and off his back with a flying mare. Stunned, Red stared up, gasping for breath at the man who stood over him.

  “I’m not hunting trouble,” Kilkenny said, “but it’s time somebody showed you where to head in. If you’ve picked me for the job, I’m the man who can do it.”

  Jared Tetlow shoved through the crowd, his face flushed and angry. “Here! What goes on here?”

  Kilkenny turned sharply at the authority in the voice. His head dropped a little, his hands went wide. “Tetlow!” His voice rang in the narrow street. “You came into this country hunting trouble and you brought a bunch of no-good trouble-hunters with you! These hands of yours jumped me!”

  A devil was driving him now and he was cold with fury. He stepped toward the older man, his hands ready to his guns. He felt it building inside him but was helpless to stop it. He was berserk with fury and ready for anything, heedless of anything. He could not have stopped had he faced the whole Forty outfit.

  “Take ’em and get out of the country! Move ’em out! You’ve come looking for trouble and here it is! And if you don’t like what I say—fill your hand!”

  Jared Tetlow was appalled. Accustomed to command, surrounded by tough gunhands who protected him from every danger, it had been years since he had personally faced a gun. In company with his men he faced up to them readily, but now, suddenly, he felt lost, alone. He fought for words and none would come. Suddenly, he knew with cold certainty that if he reached for his gun he would die.

  Never had he been so aware of the imminence of death. This man would kill him. That realization shook him to the depths of his being. Normally courageous, he had been so protected in the past years that now, naked and alone, he was helpless to move.

  Slowly, Kilkenny relaxed. “So that’s how it is?” he said contemptuously. “Nerve enough to order a man killed but not nerve enough to face it yourself!”

  Deliberately, he turned his back and walked across the street and into the hotel, leaving behind him a blanket of silence.

  Jared Tetlow stared around him as if coming out of a trance. Realization came to him. He had been challenged, had been dared to draw and he had made no move. There were thinly veiled smiles on some of the faces, worry on others. Around him the crowd was melting away.

  His definite, known world seemed suddenly shaky. He had grown to manhood in a family that fought as a unit. He had trained his sons and his riders the same way. It was always the Forty against everything and everybody, but one man had thrown a challenge into their teeth and he himself had backed down.

  Grat got to his feet, sullenly beating the dust from his clothing. The wide cut on Jess Baker’s face seeped blood. Red, at the hitch rail, was being violently sick. Tetlow glanced around and saw Ben standing in front of the harness shop. His emptiness filled with fury. “You!” he roared. “Where were you? Why didn’t you do something?”

  “What could I do? If I had made a move he would have killed you—just like he killed Bud.”

  Jared Tetlow went stiff with shock. “That…it was…he killed Bud?”

  “That’s the man,” Ben said quietly, “and if anyone had made a wrong move he would have killed you!”

  Chapter 4

  KILKENNY ENTERED THE hotel to find Leal Macy waiting for him. The sheriff seemed unusually quiet. “That took nerve,” he commented, “what if he had tried it?”

  “He wouldn’t,” Kilkenny said. “He’s a cinch killer. I saw them work against Lott the other day.”

  “But he might have.”

  “Yes, I thought he would, to be honest. Or maybe I just didn’t think. Their kind get in my craw.”

  “Mine, too. But you’d better get out of town for a few days at least. They’ll never rest now until they get you.”

  “What about the hearing?”

  “We’ll have it.” Macy spoke flatly. “We’ll have it and we’ll see what a local jury does. The fact is, your stand here in the street may make all the difference. They may not hesitate to bring in a bill against them. Or against Havalik.”

  “You’ll have a fight if you try to arrest him.”

  “Then I’ll have it.” Macy was grim and quiet. “There are a few good men in town. Early is one of them, Doc Blaine is another.”

  “Doc?” Kilkenny was surprised.

  Macy nodded. “Oddly enough, he’s a fighter. Plenty of sand and a fine rifle shot.”

  “You can count on Dolan.”

  “Dolan?” Macy stared, half angry. “You think I’d call on him for help?”

  “Why not? It doesn’t look to me like you have much choice. I’d say call on him. Dolan,” he added, “is a former Army man. He was a soldier for quite some years. Despite the fact that he’s on the edge of the law now, such a man is deeply marked with his former experience, and against mob action. Dolan will stand hitched, and keep his boys so. Also, he considers the Forty as fair game.”

  Macy considered that. It went against the grain to ask help or even accept offered help from a man of Dolan’s stamp, yet Macy had been
a soldier himself, and he knew how deeply the years of training were imbedded in a man’s nature. And Dolan had not been a citizen soldier, but a Regular Army man, a sergeant of long experience, accustomed to order and discipline. He still bore the mark of it in his neat dress, his square shoulders and his walk, and the sharpness of his actions. It was possible that Kilkenny was right.

  “I’ll stay if you want,” Kilkenny volunteered. He admired the stand this man was taking. It was such men whom the West needed if ever there was to be peace and order.

  “No, you’d only be another bone of contention. They’ll be out to get you now, and your presence might make all the difference. You better leave town—and watch your back trail.”

  “That,” Kilkenny said wryly, “is something I always do.”

  When he was gone, Leal Macy looked after him, a faint frown between his eyes. He had not quite decided what to think about this man. Kilkenny talked right and sized up as all man, yet out there in the street he had been a man driven by the urge to kill, a man literally aching for the fight he expected. That could be a bad thing unless regulated by a stern will. Macy turned that last thought over in his mind, and shook his head. He was not sure.

  Kilkenny got his horse and started out of town. The streets were deserted now, but he rode west, his horse’s hoofs pounding briefly on the bridge. In front of Dolan’s he drew up and called. Dolan came to the door, his hands thrust in his coat pockets, a cigar clamped in his teeth. Kilkenny had an urge to shout “Attention!” but stifled it. He had no doubt Dolan would snap to, and might enjoy it. No matter which side of the law this man now stood upon, he would stand under fire, a cool disciplined mind and hand.

  “Leaving town,” Kilkenny commented. “Macy may need help. I told him he could count on you.”

  Dolan was startled. He took the cigar from his teeth and spat, then stared at the end of it before he looked up. “What the devil inspired that?”

  “I know the breed, Dolan.” He turned his horse and rode off down the street.

  Dolan swore, threw his cigar into the street, then walked into the club and dropped into the chair behind his desk. Without being aware of it he lighted a fresh cigar and stared into the blue smoke of it.