Kilkenny Page 7

  “We don’t know what happened.” Woolrich owned the Emporium. “We don’t know Carpenter was run down a-purpose. We only got a hysterical woman’s word for it.”

  Happy Jack Harrow of the Pinenut Saloon agreed. “My sentiments. Tetlow’s bringing prosperity. My take’s doubled since he came. This here’s hard country. If a man ain’t fit, he can’t last.”

  “Who are we to fight a rancher’s battles?” Savory agreed. “There’s always been range wars. Far as that goes, what d’you suppose they’d do to the town if we started something? They’d wipe us out.”

  “So you’ll stand by and see men murdered, robbed of their homes, and women driven into the desert?” Macy was disgusted. “Now we know the brand you wear, anyway.”

  “Easy with that, Sheriff.” Savory’s face was angry. “Because you’re the law doesn’t give you license to make free with your tongue. A bullet’ll stop you soon as any man.”

  “Forget that,” Early broke in. “Let’s not fight among ourselves.” He looked around. “I take it then that you’re not in favor of taking action?”

  “That’s right,” Savory said. Woolrich, Harrow, and a half dozen others nodded agreement.

  Early turned to Macy. “Well, Leal, that shakes out the deck a little but the right cards can still win. I want you to deputize me.”

  “And me,” Doc Blaine replied shortly.

  A big man with a shock of black curly hair stepped up from the back of the room. His face was heavy-jawed and sullen. “I want you make me ziss deputy, too.”

  Pierre Ernleven was rarely seen away from his kitchen. He liked nothing so much as preparing food and seeing it eaten, and he took no part in the affairs of Horsehead. If he did not like a man’s conversation or his attitude he would refuse to serve him. He was not above throwing a man bodily from the premises.

  “Thanks, Pierre,” Macy said. “There’s no man I’d sooner have.”

  Ernleven looked around, his eyes bitter with contempt. “The rest of you don’t come to my dining room. That goes for you, Harrow. Stay out.”

  Harrow got up, flushed and angry. “Cut your throats if you want. You don’t know where your bread is buttered.”

  “That’s probably right, Jack.” Early spoke quietly. “We’re thinking about a little word that has meant an awful lot to this country. A word called Justice. We’re thinking of a country where there will be no feudal power, where no one man can control the destinies of others. It was little men who built this country, and little men who have been its backbone. You should read Jefferson, Harrow. Had you lived in ‘76 you’d have been a Tory.”

  “You call me a traitor?” Harrow’s face went white.

  “Examine your conduct,” Early replied, “then judge for yourself. As for me,” he got to his feet, “my Winchester needs oiling. Call on me, Leal, when you’re ready.” He turned away, then glanced back. “See you later, gentlemen!”

  Harrow glared around him, then stamped out and slammed the door. Woolrich walked after him. He was gloomy. His wife would give him the devil for this. She thought anything Bob Early did was all right.

  Macy smiled with wry humor. “There it is, Doctor. If you ever wanted a lost cause, you’ve got it.”

  Blaine refused to admit it. “The cause of right is never lost, Leal. I’ve often thought the biggest damned fool in the world could go down in history as a great man if he would just consistently vote for the greatest good of the greatest number.

  “Take Andy Johnson. They hated him, called him a little man, reviled him, tried to impeach him to get the presidency in the hands of a man they could control. He voted as he believed right and acted as he believed. Now the reaction is setting in and most people believe he was right. This is a good cause, not a lost one.”

  “What about Dolan?”

  “He’s a seasoned fighter who’ll take no back talk from any man. Also,” Blaine smiled, “Dolan’s Irish and the Irish have an inborn resentment against power and privilege. They imbibe it with their mother’s milk.”

  They were silent, then Blaine looked up. “Who is this man Trent?”

  Leal Macy hesitated. This question he had known would come. “I think,” he said quietly, “that Trent is probably the fastest man with a gun in the West. I think Trent is Kilkenny.”

  “Kilkenny?” Blaine was shocked.

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Kilkenny …” Blame muttered. “Kilkenny … here!”

  Chapter 5

  DEE HAVALIK HAD his order. They were to hunt down and kill Lance Kilkenny.

  Macy’s identification of Trent had swept the town. The dramatic scene when he challenged Tetlow and manhandled three of Tetlow’s tough riders took on a new glow.

  Dee Havalik heard the name with satisfaction. His gun speed was his great pride, and to hear another man named as fast aroused irritation in him. Small, slender-boned and pinched of face, he was a man compact of nervous energy and drive. Far from pleasant at any time, with a gun in his hand he became ice cold and passionless.

  By choice three of those riding with him were the men Kilkenny had whipped in the street, and there were four others. One of these was an Apache trailer.

  Within a few hours after they took the trail Kilkenny was aware of it. He studied them through his carefully shielded field glass. The make-up of the crew was evidence of its intention. The saddle packs and pack horses meant it was a hunt to the death. The issue was clearcut now. They must die or he would.

  At once he struck north into the wildest and loneliest country. If they wanted a hunt, he would give it to them. This was the life he knew best, and there was no trick of white man or savage that he did not know. He rode north and the sun blazed down from a hot and copper sky. He struck out across the sage brush levels where no cattle grazed and where the rattler buzzed and the buzzard soared. He struck north and west and he left a trail they could read without trouble, and deep in his chest something violent and frightening began to grow, the desire to turn on his pursuers and mow them down, to ride with the red lust of battle in him, ride right into their midst with guns blazing. But the time was was not ripe for that, first he would show them what hell was like, he would show them what they had started!

  The horizon danced and was lost in a haze of heat, the buzzards were the only spot of movement and the sun baked down upon the desert and the sand threw back the heat in his face like the top of a red hot stove. Their faces grew dusty, their throats parched, and riding on and on, he looked back upon his trail and saw the distant rising dust and chuckled. “Let ‘em come!” he whispered. “Let ‘em come!”

  The surface of the desert broke into a maze of canyons, but he rode on. At waterholes he hesitated and waited, then pushed on when dark came. The days marched past and still he led them on, weaving among the canyons and taking them deeper and deeper into one of the most awful lands on the face of God’s sometimes green earth. It was a land raw from the furnace of creation, a land without soil, rock shaped like flame and a sky that held no clouds but only a vast and blazing sun. Behind him his pursuers sweated and cursed, their lips parched and they nursed their canteens like mothers over a newborn child. They snarled at each other and grew vicious, and only Dee Havalik did not change except to grow thinnier, leaner and more vicious.

  Tempers grew short and the men began to hate the land, the sun, each other. And then suddenly the chase changed, and it changed on one bright and awful morning when suddenly from a ridge ahead of them, a shot rang out!

  Half asleep in their saddles, the men cursed and slapped spurs to their horses to race for shelter. And there was none.

  They were caught on an open flat and the shots came from a ridge all of four hundred yards ahead, but they were accurate shots. The first burned Red Swilling’s arm, the second dropped a horse, the third carried away the pommel of Lee Jaeger’s saddle. The riders scattered and ran and bullets followed them in their flight.

  Remounting the hard-fleshed buckskin, Kilkenny circled swiftly toward
a canyon where one of the riders was headed. When he reached it he slid to the ground.

  The air was still. Heat waves rippled and then gravel rattled. Then the rider came into view. “Drop the rifle!” Kilkenny held his own in his hands. “Let go your gun belt. A wrong move and I’ll gut shoot you!”

  The rider’s unshaven face was red from the sun. His hesitation was momentary. The rifle left no room for argument. He complied with the order, careful to make no mistakes.

  Taking the man’s rifle, Kilkenny shattered the stock over a boulder, and jammed the action. The rider stared bitterly as his rifle was ruined.

  “That rifle cost two months’ wages!” he protested.

  “Tough,” Kilkenny said wickedly. “You’d have killed me with it, wouldn’t you?”

  “What d’you want with me? Dee will kill you for this! He’ll never quit until he kills you!”

  “Dee? That white-bellied weasel? Tell him when I’m ready for him I’ll come an’ get him. First I want him done brown by the sun. I don’t like that pasty hide in front o’ me.”

  The man stared back at him. “What you aim doin’ with me?” he demanded.

  Kilkenny smiled then. “Why, what do you think? Want a gun in your hand and an even break?”

  The fellow touched a tongue to his dry lips. “That wouldn’t be no break. I ain’t got your speed an’ you know it.”

  Kilkenny smiled and picked up the man’s guns and cartridge belts. “All right then,” he said, “you want to manhunt. I’ll let you, but it won’t be comfortable without a saddle.”

  “Huh?” The man stared, puzzled and suddenly worried.

  Coolly, Kilkenny moved toward the man’s horse, his eyes faintly humorous.

  An hour later, several miles to the south, Spade Woolley joined Havalik and the others. He was dark-faced from cussing and was astride a horse with only a bridle, his saddle gone and his guns gone. Also his canteen was gone.

  “What happened to you?” Swilling demanded.

  “He headed me off an’ laid for me.” Woolley was sullen and bitter. “Told me I could go on huntin’ but I’d be damn sick of it. He was right, I am sick of it, an’ I hope somebody shoots me if I ever throw leather on another razor-backed hoss!”

  Havalik stared at him, red-eyed and furious. “What are you? A baby?” he sneered. “Lettin’ him sneak up on you? What are we s’posed to do now? Wetnurse you? No canteen, an’ you’ll want to drink our water, no guns, no saddle. Start for the outfit, Woolley, an’ start now.”

  “Huh?” Woolley’s face was ludicrous in its amazement. “Without a canteen? I’d die afore I got anywheres!”

  “Tough, ain’t it?” Havalik sneered. “That’ll learn you a lesson. Get goin’!”

  Red Swilling stared at Havalik. “Dee, you don’t mean that! Hell, the man wouldn’t have a chance!”

  Havalik turned like a poised rattler. “Want to make somethin’ of it? You want to go with him an’ leave your canteen? Or you want to go for your gun? You got a choice o’ that or shuttin’ your trap an’ obeyin’ orders.”

  Red Swilling swallowed and moved his hands carefully away from his guns. Havalik was trembling with eagerness and ready to kill. Swilling was shocked and frightened. “Hell, you’re the boss, Dee,” he protested, “I only���” His voice trailed off.

  Havalik’s eyes were on Woolley. “You startin’?” he demanded. “Or do I cut you down? I got no use for a damn fool!”

  Spade Woolley stared back at the man and suddenly all the years of his life came up in him to curse him. He looked into those red-rimmed eyes, and suddenly he said, “I’ll go, Dee,” his voice was low, “an’ I hope I get through. I want to get through now just for one reason. I want to be there when Lance Kilkenny shoots your rotten heart out!”

  Woolley was beyond caring what happened. He knew the nature of the man before him, could see that flat, ugly mouth, the cold chill of that still gray face, the viciousness of the man’s eyes, but deep within him was the courage he had been born with. “You know what he told me to tell you? He named you for a white-bellied weasel and said when he wanted you he’d come for you. He said he wanted your pasty hide done brown before he came for you, but he was wrong, Dee, that dirty white hide o’ yours won’t brown. It’s the hide of a dead man!” Spade leaned forward. “A dead man, d’you hear? You’re dead an’ you’re rotten before you lie down!”

  Dee Havalik’s flat lips writhed suddenly and his hand was a blur of movement. The gun came up and flame stabbed, and Spade Woolley folded up and slid from the back of his horse, hitting the sand on his side, then rolling over. For an instant, his eyes flared wide. “You saved me, Dee. Saved me from dyin’ o’ thirst out there! But … but you … you’re dead! Dead!” Blood frothed at his lips and only his eyes were alive, brilliantly, horribly alive. “Dead! Kilkenny will kill you! He’s faster than you! He’s … he’s my kind o’ man! I … I wish …”

  “Mount up!” Havalik’s voice was shrill. “Hit the leather! We’re goin” on!”

  Red Swilling stared for a moment at Havalik, his face somber with brooding realization. His eyes flicked to Baker and Grat. They were staring unseeingly at the sand. Slowly Red moved to his horse and the others followed. Nobody spoke of the dead man lying on the sand, but none of them was forgetting. And that ended the seventh day of the chase.

  Kilkenny took a narrow wild horse trail that led up to North Point and then turned down the plateau. Far below him he could see the pursuers. He had heard the shot and wondered at it, but supposed a horse had broken a leg. He pushed on into the afternoon, and at night he doubled back again, locating their camp by the firelight.

  From a safe distance he watched through his glass. The men’s lips were not moving. They were not talking or looking at one another. Havalik sat alone, and nowhere among them was the rider he had seen this morning. Finally, one by one they crept to their blankets. Havalik was the last to go. One man remained, a guard.

  For an hour Kilkenny rested. Then, leaving his horse, he crept forward, flat on his stomach. It was a slow and painstaking progress, but soon he was at the edge of camp.

  The fire was dying. Straight before him was the guard, his back to Kilkenny. Beyond the fire was a low bank, some eight to ten feet high, and between it and the fire were the horses, cropping grass within plain view of the guard. East and west of the fire the men were rolled in their blankets, sleeping.

  A stick fell and sparks leaped up. The guard got to his feet and gathered a few more sticks to lay on the blaze. The flames eagerly embraced the sticks with glowing arms and thin tendrils Of flame and smoke crept along the length of the sticks. The guard yawned and scratched, staring around into the darkness, but Kilkenny lay among the clumps of bunch grass and was not worried. The guard had been watching the fire and would be almost blind to the outer darkness. No Indian would do that.

  Finally the guard seated himself again and began to roll a smoke. Kilkenny studied the situation with care and then found what he wanted. Not far from the nearest sleeper were his saddlebags and canteen. With infinite care, Kilkenny slid forward the stick he had brought with him and, sliding it into the canteen carrying strap, he turned it round and round, winding up the strap. Then he lifted the canteen with care and drew it back to him.

  Easing back deeper into the darkness he put the canteen beside a whitish, water-worn boulder and then circled the camp. It took him more than an hour of painstaking effort and waiting, but at the end of that time he had gathered four of the seven canteens. One of those was Dee Havalik’s.

  When he was a good two hundred yards off, he paused. His horse was close by and he had the four canteens fastened to the saddle. Lifting his Winchester .44-40 he shot three times into the flames as fast as he could lever a rifle.

  The guard dove for the outer darkness and men scrambled to get out of sight. Kilkenny reloaded his rifle and walked back to his horse and mounted up. “Come on, Havalik!” he yelled. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you read signs any
more?”

  Behind him there was a yell of rage but he cantered off into the darkness and now he turned west and then south. At daybreak he was camped on an eminence where he could overlook his back trail. He had deliberately avoided all waterholes, having plenty of water himself, and knowing they would be splitting the water of three canteens among seven men.

  Riding into a maze of canyons, he deliberately rode and rerode over his trail, confusing it purposely, then he headed out straight east and was on the outskirts of Horsehead by sundown. After two hours of rest he left the buckskin picketed on rich grass and slipped into town, making his way toward the light he saw in Doc Blaine’s.

  Doc was reading in his study when Kilkenny opened the door, and he glanced up sharply. “Just me, Doc.” Kilkenny sat down on the settee in the shadow. “What’s been happenin’?”

  Blaine put his book down. He could see the fine drawn lines of Kilkenny’s face, for the trials of the last few days, the sleeplessness, that heat, shortage of water and all the rest of it were plainly etched there.

  “Quiet enough right now,” he said, “everybody knows who you are now. Dolan told me, I don’t know who told the others.”

  “Any trouble at the KR?”

  “Some. The Forty started to push cattle on the place two days ago and ran into something they didn’t like. The KR outfit had tied up with old Dan Marable and the Roots and they opened fire at long range. Knocked one rider out of his saddle, killed a horse and about forty head of cattle, laying them in a line right along the boundary. I hear Tetlow was fit to be tied. He ranted and raved for hours, but none of his boys were very anxious to try to push cattle into that straight shooting. Since then things have been hanging fire, waiting for Havalik to get back I suppose.”

  “He was following me.”

  “So I heard. What happened?”

  Kilkenny shrugged. “Not much. I made them chase me, shot their camp up, stole most of their canteens an’ generally raised a hob just to make ‘em miserable. They’ve had a mighty dry ride.”