Kilkenny 02 - A Man Called Trent (v5.0) (6 page)

Hall left after over two hours of talk. Kilkenny stretched out with his saddle for a pillow, and stared up at the stars.

Could it be there was some other plot, something that had been begun before the present one? Could the old killings be connected with the new? There was only a hint. Destry King, half-brother to Chet Lord, had been killed when he had thought he had a clue. Had he confided in his half-brother?

It was high time, Kilkenny thought, that he had a talk with Chet Lord. So far circumstances had conspired to keep him so occupied that there had been no chance, and his few messages had been sent through Steve.

Long before daylight Kilkenny rolled out of his blankets and saddled up. He headed out for Cottonwood and the railroad and arrived at the small station to find no one about but the stationmaster.
Carefully he wrote out three messages. One of them was to El Paso, and one to Dodge. The third was to a friend in San Antonio, a man who had lived long in the Live Oak country, and who before that had lived in Missouri.

When he left Cottonwood, he cut across country to the Apple Cañon trail and headed for the Chet Lord Ranch. He was riding through a narrow defile among the rocks, when suddenly he saw two people riding ahead. They were Tana Steele and Victor Bonham.

“Howdy,” he said, touching his Stetson. “Nice day.”

Tana reined in and faced him.

“Hello,” she said evenly. “Are you still as insulting as ever?”

“Do you mean, am I still as stubborn about spoiled girls as ever?” He grinned. “Bonham, this girl’s shore enough a wildcat. Plenty of teeth, too, although pretty.”

Bonham laughed, but Kilkenny saw his eyes drop to the tied-down guns. When they lifted, there was a strange expression in them. Then Bonham reined his horse around a bit, broadside to Kilkenny.

“Going far?” Bonham asked quietly.

“Not far.”

“Chet Lord’s, I suppose? I hear he’s not a pleasant man to do business with.”

Kilkenny shrugged. “Doesn’t matter much. I do business with ’em, pleasant or otherwise.”

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

“Bother me?” Kilkenny shrugged. “I never think of it much. The men I kill ask for it, an’ they don’t worry me much one way or the other.”

“It wasn’t a matter of conscience,” Bonham replied dryly. “I was thinking of Royal Barnes. I hear he was a relative of theirs, and one of the fastest men in the country.”

“Barnes?” Kilkenny shrugged. “I never gave him a thought. The Webers asked for it, an’ they got it. Why should Barnes ask for anything? I’ve never even seen the man.”

“He might,” Bonham said. “And he’s fast.”

Kilkenny ignored the Easterner and glanced at Tana. She had been sitting there watching him, a curious light in her eyes.

“Ma’am,” he said slowly, “did you know Destry King?”

“King?” Tana’s eyes brightened. “Oh, certainly. We all knew Des. He was Chet Lord’s half-brother. Or rather, step-brother, 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?” Kilkenny asked.

“Yes. Someone shot him from behind some rocks. Oh, it was awful. Particularly as the killer walked up to his body and shot him twice more in the face and twice in the stomach.”

Bonham sat listening, and his eyes were puzzled as he looked at Kilkenny. “I don’t believe I understand,” he said. “I thought you were averting a cattle war, but now you seem curious about an outdated killing.”

Kilkenny shrugged. “He was killed from ambush. So were Sam Carter and Joe Wilkins. So were several others. Of course, they all cover quite a period of time, but none of the killin’s was ever solved. It looks a bit odd.”

Bonham’s eyes were keen. He looked as if he had
made a discovery. “Ah, I see,” he said. “You imply there may be a connection? That the same man may have killed them all? That the present killings weren’t part of the range war?”

“I think the present killin’s was part of the range war,” Kilkenny said positively, “but the way of killin’ is like the killin’s in them old crimes.” He turned to Tana. “Tell me about Des King.”

“I don’t know why I shouldn’t,” she said. “As I told you, Des was a wonderful fellow. Everyone liked him. That was what made his killing so strange. He was a fast man with a gun, too, and one of the best riders on the range. Everyone made a lot of Des. Several riders had been shot, then an old miner. I think the first person killed was an old Indian. Old Comanche, harmless enough…used to live around the Lord Ranch. Altogether I think there were seven men killed before Des was. He started looking into it, having an idea they were all done by the same man. He told me once that I shouldn’t go riding, that I should stay home and not ride in the hills. Said it wasn’t safe.”

“You rode a good deal as a youngster?”

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

“Thanks. I’ll be gettin’ on. Thanks for the information, ma’am. Glad to have seen you again, Bonham.”

Bonham smiled. “I think we may see each other often, Kilkenny.”

Suddenly Tana put out her hand. “Really, Kilkenny,” she said, “I’m sorry about that first day. I
knew you were right that first time, but I was so mad I hated to admit it. I’m sorry.”

“Shore.” Kilkenny grinned. “But I’m not takin’ back what I said about you.”

Tana stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Mean?” He raised his eyebrows innocently. “Didn’t I say you were mighty pretty?”

He touched his spurs lightly to the buckskin’s flanks and took off at a bound. After a brisk gallop for about a quarter of a mile he slowed down to a walk, busy with his thoughts.

Hall’s information had been correct. Des King had had a theory as to who the killer was. He had been steadily tracking him down. Then the killer must have seen how near he was to capture, and had killed King. But what was the thread that connected the crimes? There was no hint of burglary or robbery in any of them. Yet there had to be a connection. The pattern was varied only in the case of King, for he had been shot several times, shot as if the killer had hated him, shot through and through. And why a harmless old Indian? A prospector? Several riders? Kilkenny rode on, puzzling.

Ahead of him the ground dipped into a wide and shallow valley down which led the cattle trail he was following. Nearby were rocks, and a wash not far away.

Kilkenny rolled a smoke and thoughtfully lighted it. He flipped the match away and shoved his sombrero back on his head. The situation was getting complicated, and nowhere closer to a solution. The Steele and Lord fight was hanging fire. Twice there had been minor bursts of action, and then both had petered out after his taking a hand, yet it wasn’t fooling anybody. The basic trouble was still there,
and Davis hadn’t been brought together with Steele and Lord.

Above the Live Oak, the country was seething, too. Wire cutters were loose, and fences were torn down nightly. Cattle were being rustled occasionally, but in small bunches. There was no evidence they had come through the Live Oak country and down to Apple Cañon.

Kilkenny had almost reached the Lord ranch house when he saw Steve come riding toward him, a smile on his face. Steve looked closely at Kilkenny, his eyes curious.

“Didn’t expect to see you over here,” he said. “I figgered you was goin’ back to Apple Cañon!”

“Apple Cañon?” Kilkenny asked. “Why?”

“Oh, most people who see Nita want to see her again,” Steve said. “You lookin’ for Dad?”

“That’s right. Is he around?”

“Uhn-huh. That’s him on the roan hoss.”

They rode up to the big man, and Kilkenny was pleased. Chet Lord was typically a cattleman of the old school. Old Chet turned and stared at Kilkenny as he approached, then looked quickly from him to Steve. He smiled and held out his hand.

“Kilkenny, huh? I thought 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 like anything but a healthy man now. Yet it wasn’t a physical distress. Something, Kilkenny felt instinctively, was troubling the rancher.

“Been meanin’ to see you, Mister Lord,” Kilkenny
said. “Got to keep you an’ Steele off each other’s backs. Then get you with Mort Davis.”

“You might get me and Webb together,” Lord said positively, “but I ain’t hankerin’ for no parley with that cow-stealin’ Davis.”

“Shucks.” Kilkenny grinned. “You mean to tell me you never rustled a cow? I’ll bet you rustled aplenty in your time. Why, I have myself. I drove a few over the border couple of times when I needed a stake.”

“Well, mebbe,” said Lord. “But Davis come in and settled on the best piece of cow country around here. Right in the middle of my range.”

“Yours or Steele’s,” Kilkenny said. “What the devil? Did you expect him to take the worst? He’s an old buffalo hunter. He hunted through there while you was still back in Missouri.”

“Mebbe. But we used this range first.”

“How’d you happen to come in here? Didn’t like Missouri?”

Chet Lord dropped a hand to the pommel of his saddle and stared at Kilkenny. “That’s none of your cussed business, gunman! I come here because I liked it…no other reason.”

His voice was sharp, irritated, and Kilkenny detected under it that the man was dangerously near the breaking point. But why? What was riding him? What was the trouble?

Kilkenny shrugged. “It don’t mean anythin’ t’me. I don’t care why you came here. Or why you stay. By the way, what’s your theory about the killin’ of Des King?”

Chet Lord’s face went deathly pale, and he clutched suddenly, getting a harder grip on the saddle
horn. Kilkenny saw his teeth set, and the man turned tortured, frightened eyes at Kilkenny.

“You better get,” Lord managed after a minute. “You better get goin’ now. If you’ll take a tip from a friendly man, keep movin’.”

He wheeled his horse and walked it away. For a moment, Kilkenny watched him, then turned his head to find Steve staring at him, in his eyes that strange, leaping white light Kilkenny had seen once before.

“Don’t bother Dad,” Steve said. “He ain’t been well lately. Not sleepin’ good. I think this range war has got him worried.”

“Worried?”

“Uhn-huh. We need money. If we lose many cows, we can’t pay off some debts we’ve got.”

After a few minutes’ talk, Kilkenny turned his buckskin and rode away from the ranch. He rode away in a brown study. Something about Des King had Chet Lord bothered. Was Lord the murderer of his own step-brother? But no! Chet might shoot a man, but he would do it in a fair, stand-up fight. There was no coyote in Chet Lord any more than there was in Webb Steele or Mort Davis.

More and more the tangled skein of the situation became more twisted, and more and more he felt the building up of powerful forces around him, with nothing he could take hold of. He was in serious danger, he knew, yet danger was something he had always known. It was the atmosphere he had breathed since he had gunned his first man in a fair stand-up fight at the age of sixteen.

There was something about Chet Lord’s fear that puzzled him. Lord had seemed more to be afraid for him, than for himself. Why? What could have aroused Lord’s fear so? And what had made the man so upset? Was he really in debt? Somehow, remembering the place and the fat cattle, and knowing the range as he did, Kilkenny could not convince himself that Steve’s statement was true. It was a cover-up for something else. There was fresh paint, all too rare in the Texas of those days, and new barbed wire, and
new ranch buildings, and every indication that money was being spent.

Yet somewhere on that range a killer was loose, a strange, fiendish killer. It was unlike the West, a man who struck from ambush, a man who would kill an old Indian, who would ambush a prospector, and who would shoot down lonely riders. Somewhere, in all the welter of background, there was a clue.

Kilkenny lifted his head and stared gloomily down the trail. He was riding back through the shallow valley and down the cattle trail along which he had just traveled. He looked ahead, and for some reason felt uneasy.

Lord’s gettin’ his fear into me
, he told himself grimly.
Still, in a country like this a man’s a fool to ride twice over the same trail
.

On the impulse of the moment, he wheeled his horse and took it in two quick jumps for the shelter of the wash. As the horse gathered himself for the second jump, a shot sounded, and Kilkenny felt the whip of the bullet past his head. Then another and another.

But Buck knew what shooting was, and he hit the wash in one more jump and slid into it in a cascade of sand and gravel. Kilkenny touched spurs to the horse and went down the wash on a dead run. That wash took a bend up above. If he could get around that bend in a hurry, he might outflank the killer.

He went around the bend in a rush and hit the ground running, rifle in hand. Flattening himself behind a hummock of sand and sagebrush, he peered through, trying to locate the unseen rifleman. But he moved slightly, trying to see better, and a shot clipped by him, almost burning his face. A second shot
kicked sand into his eyes. He slid back into the wash in a hurry.

“The devil!” he exploded. “That
hombre
is wise! Spotted me, did he?”

He swung into saddle and circled farther, then tried again from the bank. Now he could see into the nest of rock where the killer must have waited and from which the first shot had come. There was no one in sight. Then he saw a flicker of movement among the rocks higher up. The killer was stalking him!

Crouching low, he waited, watching a gap in the rocks. Then he saw the shadow of a man, only a blob of darkness from where he huddled, and he fired. It was a quick, snapped shot and it clipped the boulder and ricocheted off into the daylight, whining wickedly.

Then it began—a steady circling. Two riflemen trained in the West, each maneuvering for a good shot, each wanting to kill. Twice Kilkenny almost got in shots, and then one clipped the rock over his head. An hour passed, and still he had seen nothing. He circled higher among the rocks and, after a long search, found a place where a man had knelt. On the ground nearby was a rifle shell, a shell from a Winchester carbine, Model 1873.

Mebbe that’ll help
, he told himself.
Ain’t too many of ’em around. The Rangers mostly have ’em. And I’ve got one. I think Rusty still uses his old Sharps, and I expect Webb Steele does. But say!
He stopped, scowling.
Why, Tana Steele has a ’Seventy-Three! Yeah, and if I ain’t mistaken, so has Bonham!

This couldn’t continue. Three times now the killer had tried shots at him, if indeed all had been fired by the same man. Bonham was in the vicinity, but why
should Bonham shoot at him? Tana Steele was near, also, and Tana might have a streak of revenge in her system. But Chet Lord wasn’t far away, either, and there were other men on the range who might shoot. Above all, this was an uncertain country where every man rode with an itch in his trigger finger these days.

One thing was sure. He was no nearer a solution than he had been. He had shells from the killer’s six-gun and now from a Winchester 1873. Yet he had no proof beyond a hunch that the attempts at killing had been made by the same man.

The mysterious boss of Apple Cañon apparently had not wanted him killed. Hence, why the attempts now, if he were responsible? Or had the attempts, as he had suspected before, been the work of different men? But if not the Apple Cañon boss, and if not Bert Polti, then who? And why? Who else had cause to kill him?

Yet, so far as he knew, many of the mysterious killings in the past had been done without cause. At least, there had been no reason of which he was aware. Underneath it all, some strange influence was at work, something cruel and evil, something that was not typical of the range country where men settled their disputes face to face.

Kilkenny kept to back trails in making his way back to Botalla. The thing now was to get Steele, Lord, and Davis together and settle their difficulties if they could be settled. Knowing all three men, and knowing the kind of men they were, he had little doubt of a settlement.

The two bigger cattlemen were range hungry and Davis was stubborn. Like many men, each of them wanted to work his own way, each was a rugged individualist
who had yet to learn that many more things are accomplished by co-operation than by solitary efforts.

Botalla lay quietly under the late sun when the buckskin walked down the street. A few men were sitting around, and among them were several cowpunchers from the Lord and Steele spreads. Kilkenny reined in alongside a couple of them. A short cowpuncher with batwing chaps and a battered gray sombrero looked up at him from his seat on the boardwalk, rolled his quid in his jaws, and spat.

“How’s it?” he said carefully.

“So-so.” Kilkenny shoved his hat back on his head and reached for the makings. “You’re Shorty Lewis, ain’t you?”

The short cowpuncher looked surprised. “Shore am. How’d you know me?”

“Saw you one time in Austin. Ridin’ a white-legged roan hoss.”

Lewis spat again. “Well, I’ll be durned! I ain’t had that hoss for three year. You shore got a memory.”

Kilkenny grinned and lighted his cigarette. “Got to have, livin’ like I do. An
hombre
might forget the wrong face!” He drew deeply on the smoke. “Shorty, you ride for Steele, don’t you?”

“Been ridin’ for him six year,” Lewis said. “Before that I was up in the Nations.”

“Know Des King?” Kilkenny asked casually.

Lewis got to his feet.

“Just what’s on your mind, Kilkenny?” he asked. “Des King was a half-brother of Lord’s, but we rode together up in the Nations. He was my friend.”

Kilkenny nodded. “I thought mebbe. Lewis, I got me a hunch the
hombre
that killed Wilkins and
Carter also killed Des King. I got a hunch that
hombre
tried to kill me.”

“But King was killed some time ago,” Lewis protested. “Before this fight got started.”

“Right. But somebody is ridin’ this range that has some other reason for killin’ men. Somebody who’s cold-blooded and vicious like nobody you ever seen, Shorty. Somebody that’s blood-thirstier than an Apache.”

“What kind of man would be killin’ like that?” Lewis demanded. Then he nodded. “Mebbe you got somethin’, feller. Nobody would’ve shot into Des after he was down, mebbe already dead, except somebody who hated him poison mean, or somebody who loved killin’.”

“There was an old Indian killed, and a prospector,” reminded Kilkenny. “Know anything about them?”

“Yeah. Old Yellow Hoss was a Comanche. He got to hittin’ the bottle purty hard and Chet Lord kept him around and kept him in likker because of some favor the old Injun done for him years ago. Well, one day they found him out on the range, shot in the back. No reason for it, so far’s anybody could see. The prospector’s stuff had been gone over, but nothin’ much was missin’ except an old bone-handled knife…a Injun scalpin’ knife he used to carry. Had no enemies anybody could find. That seems to be the only tie up betwixt ’em.”

“Where were they killed?”

“Funny thing, all of ’em were killed betwixt Apple Cañon and Lost Creek Valley. All but one, that is. Des King was killed on the Lord range not far from Lost Creek.”

Kilkenny nodded. “How about you tellin’ Chet to
come in tomorrow mornin’ for a peace talk, Shorty? I’ll get Webb and Mort Davis in.”

After he had told some of the Steele hands that he wanted to see Webb, Kilkenny rode down to the general store. Old Joe Frame was selling a bill of goods to Mort Davis’s boy. Through him word was sent to Mort.

Rusty was waiting on the boardwalk in front of the Trail House when Kilkenny returned. He looked up and grinned.

“If you swing a loop over all three of ’em,” he said, “you’re doin’ a job, pardner. It’ll mean peace in the Live Oak.”

“Yes,” Kilkenny said dryly, “peace in the Live Oak after the gang at Apple Cañon is rounded up.”

Gates nodded. Touching his tongue to a cigarette paper, he looked at Kilkenny. “May not be so hard. You been makin’ friends, pardner. Lots of these local men been a-talkin’ to me. Frame, Winston, the lawyer, Doc Clyde, Tom Hollins, and some more. They want peace, and they want some law in Botalla. What’s more, they’ll fight for it. They told me I could speak for ’em, say that when you need a posse, you can dang’ soon get it in Botalla.”

“Good.” Kilkenny nodded with satisfaction. “We’ll need it.”

“Think any effort’ll be made to break up your peace meetin’?” Rusty asked. “I been wonderin’ about that.”

“I doubt it. Might be. They better not, if they are goin’ to try, because I got us a plan.”

Morning sunlight bathed the dusty street when the riders from the Steele Ranch came in. There were
just Webb, Tana, Weston, and two Steele riders. One of them was Shorty Lewis.

Rusty and Kilkenny were loafing in front of the Trail House.

“She’s shore purty,” Rusty said thoughtfully, staring after Tana as she rode toward the hotel. “Never saw a girl so purty.”

Kilkenny grinned. “Why don’t you marry the gal?” he asked. “Old Webb needs him a bright young son-in-law, and Tana’s quite a gal. Some spoiled, but I reckon a good strong hand would make quite a woman of her.”

“Marry
her?
” Rusty exploded. “She wouldn’t look at me. Anyway, I thought mebbe you had your brand on her.”

“Not me.” Kilkenny shook his head. “Tana’s all right, Rusty, but Kilkenny rides alone. No man like me has a right to marry and mebbe break some woman’s heart when someday he don’t reach fast enough. No, Rusty, I’ve been ridin’ alone, and I’ll keep it up. If I was to change, it wouldn’t be Tana. I like to tease her a bit, because she’s had it too easy with men and with everything, but that’s all.”

He got up, and together they walked down the street toward the hotel. Webb Steele and Tana were idling about the lobby. In a few minutes, Chet Lord came in, followed by Steve. Then the door opened, and Mort Davis stood there, his tall, lean figure almost blocking the door. He stared bleakly at Steele, then at Lord, and walked across the room to stand before the cold fireplace with his thumbs hooked in his belt.

“Guess we better call this here meetin’ to order,” Kilkenny suggested, idly riffling a stack of cards.
“The way I hear it, Steele an’ Lord are disputin’ about who fences in Lost Creek, while Mort here is holdin’ Lost Creek.”

“He’s holdin’ it,” Steele said harshly, “but he ain’t got no right to it.”

“Easy now,” Davis said. “How’d you get that range of your’n, Steele? You just rode in an’ took her. Well, that’s what I done. Anyway, I figgered on Lost Creek for ten year. I come West with Jack Halloran’s wagon train fifteen year ago and saw Lost Creek then.”

“Huh?” Webb Steele stiffened. “You rode with Hal-loran? Why, Tana’s mother was Jack Halloran’s sister.”

Davis stared. “Is that a fact? You all from Jackson County?”

“We shore are! Why, you old coot, why didn’t you tell me you was
that
Davis? Jack used to tell us about how you and him…” Webb stopped, looking embarrassed.

“Go right ahead, Steele,” Kilkenny said dryly. “I knew if you and Mort ever got together and quit fightin’ long enough to have a confab, you’d get along. Same thing with Lord here. Now, listen. There ain’t no reason why you three can’t get together. You, Steele, are importin’ some fine breedin’ stock. So is Lord. Mort hasn’t got the money for that, but he does have Lost Creek, and he’s got a few head of stock. I don’t see why you need to do any fencin’. Fence out the upper Texas stock, but keep the Live Oak country, this piece of it, as it is. Somebody has moved into Apple Cañon and has gathered a bunch of rustlers around. Well, they’ve got to be cleared out. Lock, stock, and barrel. I’m takin’ that on myself.”

“We need some law here,” Webb Steele said suddenly. “How about you becomin’ marshal?”

“Not me,” Kilkenny said. “I’m a sort of deputy now. Lee Hall dropped by my camp the other night and he gave me this job. Makes it sort of official. But before I leave here, I’m goin’ to take care of that bunch at Apple Cañon. Also,” he added, “I’m goin’ to get the man responsible for all these killin’s.”

His eyes touched Chet Lord’s face as he spoke, and the big rancher’s face was ashen.

Steve spoke up suddenly. “You sound as if you believed there’s no connection between the killin’s and this fight?”

“Mebbe there is, mebbe there isn’t. What I think is that the man who’s doin’ the killin’ is the same man who killed Des King, the same who killed old Yellow Horse.”