the Rider Of Lost Creek (1976) (19 page)

Kilkenny turned off into the brush, unrolled his poncho, and was asleep almost as soon as he hit the ground.

Chapter
XV
II

Botalla's
man
street was crowded with horsemen when Kilkenny rode back to town. They were in for the finish, these lean, hard-bitten, range-tried veterans of the Texas cattle country. Riders from the Steele and Lord ranches were there, men who had ridden the cattle trails north, men who had fought the Comanches and the Kiowas, men who were veterans of the War Between the States ... on one side or the other.

Yet as Kilkenny rode up the street, his eyes searched for Steve Lord, and as he rode through the crowd he wondered how many of these men would be alive when the week had ended.

They would be facing men as tough as themselves, men reared in the same hard school, desperate as men can only be when faced at last with the results of their own misdeeds.

They would fight shrewdly and well, for they were uncommon criminals, tough young men who for one reason or another had found themselves on the wrong side of the law. With a different turn of events, they might be punching cows or trail-bossing herds.

Certainly, they would ask no quarter or give none. A fight with them was a fight to the finish. They might have taken the wrong trail but they had courage.

Kilkenny wanted none of that fight. He wanted but one
man, Royal
Barnes.

How would he know him? Somehow, Kilkenny had the feeling he would know Royal Barnes when he saw him.

This meeting would be different, just as the fight with the Brockmans was different. He had been fortunate in timing his meeting and his moves so Brockmans' combination would not work. He had killed Abel Brockman without having to fight Cain, too.

That fight would come. Cain was around, and Cam had announced his intention of killing Kilkenny.

Another thing he knew. He had never drawn against a man as fast as Royal Barnes ... with blinding speed, exceptional accuracy, and a coldness Kilkenny, himself, did not have. Barnes had killed Blackie Slade, and Kilkenny remembered Slade only too well. He had seen Slade in action and the man had been poison, pure unadulterated poison in a gun battle.

Yet according to reports, Barnes had shot him down like he was an amateur.

He swung down from his horse and walked into the Trail House.

"We're all set
... Steele told him. "We've just been waitin' to see what shape Lord is in."

"Chet Lord is dying
... Kilkenny said, "and he told me about the killings. Steve Lord has been dry-gulching those people. Des King uncovered it and told Lord, but then Steve killed Des, and the old man just didn't have the heart to take his own son up.

But now Chet Lord knows he's got to be stopped."... M backslash Steele shook his head sadly. "Too bad! But, we T
s
hould have known. Steve was always a strange one."

"There's something else, too. The man up in the cliff house that I was telling you about, the leader of all this trouble, is Royal Barnes."

In the stillness that followed, men stared at one another. And into the minds of each came the stories they had heard of the man, stories told in barrooms and around camp fires on the range. It was said that Royal Barnes had killed thirty men, but nobody knew for sure. Yet in the mind of each was the realization that he himself might be the next to go down.

Few killers had sought trouble. For the most part the gunfighters, while known to each other and with considerable mutual respect, had not hunted trouble. Royal Barnes had, both as a boy and as a man.

He had been a fairly good hand with cattle, but he had not worked at it. He had ridden shotgun for a stage line when he was seventeen . . . and killed two men who had tried to hold up his stage. Then he had hunted down the man who got away.

Only a few months
later
. Royal Barnes had received a tip that a holdup was to be attempted, so he followed the stage.

There were four men there, all hi position, ready for the holdup.

Royal came up on them from behind and opened fire.

One survived to tell the story. Afterwards, there were no more holdups when Royal Barnes rode the stage..

That had been the beginning. Then, for several months, he was marshal of a mining boom town hi Nevada, and was reported to have killed two men. But from that time on, he seemed to have gone to the side of the lawless. It was reported, but unproven, that he had himself held up a stage hi Montana. There had been several robberies on the trails of men who had struck it rich in the gold fields, and then Barnes had gone to Mexico.

He had been seen hi Kansas City, had killed a gambler on a riverboat, had been hi Abilene and then in Ellsworth. The next report had come from Leadville, where he had killed a man reputed to have been a minor member of the James gang.

Kilkenny was thinking fast of all these things when suddenly, the doors burst open. As one man, the men gathered in the Trail House turned to stare.

A full step inside the door, his big head thrust forward, stood a huge, broad-jawed, unshaven man in a checked shirt, black jeans, and heavy cowhide boots.

"Cain Brockman
... Old Joe Frame exclaimed.

Brockman walked toward Kilkenny and stopped, three paces from him. He unbuckled his gunbelt and put his guns on the bar. "I'm goin' to kill you, Kilkenny, with my bare hands!"

"Nothing doing
... Webb Steele said. "We've no time for that, Kilkenny! We've got a job to do!"

"The job will have to wait
... Kilkenny said. "Cain has chosen his weapons. He'll have his chance."

With a hoarse grunt, Cain Brockman lunged, swinging a ponderous right fist. Kilkenny stepped inside with a left to the face, then closed with the bigger man, slamming both fists to his midriff. Cain grabbed Kilkenny and threw him bodily across the room into some tables and chairs, then lunged after him.

Kilkenny stepped away, stabbing a left that caught Brockman on the cheekbone. Then Brockman caught Kilkenny with a swinging right that knocked him to his knees.

A kick aimed at Kilkenny's head just grazed his shoulder as he was starting to rise. He lost his balance, toppling over on the floor. But as Cain rushed in to put the boots to him, Kilkenny rolled over quickly and came up swinging.

Brockman was savage, with a killing fury, and he was forty pounds the heavier man, with two inches of height and at least that much of reach. And he had before him the man who had killed his twin.

Another right caught Kilkenny a glancing blow, which he partially evaded. He went under a swinging left and countered with a wicked right to the ribs. He then hooked a left to the chin and sprang back before Cain could grab him.

It was toe-to-toe, slam-bang fighting then, with neither man taking precautions. They fought like savages. They stood wide-legged in the center of the floor and swung until it seemed impossible that they could continue. Then Kilkenny slipped under another left, and uppercut hard with both hands to the body.

The bigger man backed off and Kilkenny hit him with a long left that split his swollen cheekbone, showering him with blood. They grappled, and went to the floor, kicking and gouging.

Brockman was a brute for strength, and filled with so much hatred and fury that he was almost immune to pain.

There were no rules here, none of the niceties of combat. This was fighting to maim or to kill, and all the spectators knew it.

Blood streaming from a cut on his own cheek, Kilkenny lanced a left to Cain's mouth, missed a right and took a wicked left to the body.

He took the punch going in, and landed both hands to the face.

Cai
n
's head rocked with the force of the blows and he spat a tooth onto the floor. He swung hard to the head, staggering Kilkenny. But the gunfighter came back fast, ripping a short right uppercut to the chin, then a left and a right to the face.

Kilkenny was boxing now. Long ago he had worked with some of the best boxers of the day. He needed every bit of his skill.

It was not merely defeating Brockman. Kilkenny would soon be facing Royal Barnes as well, and his hands must be strong and ready. He stepped inside of a right and whipped a right to the heart, then hooked a left to the same place and battered away with both hands at the big man's torso, his head on Brockman's shoulder. Body punches had less chance of hurting his hands, and Kilkenny knew he must fight with care.

He stepped around, putting Brockman offside, then crossed a right to Cain's bleeding eye, circled farther and crossed the right again. He stabbed three fast lefts to the face and men, as Brockman lunged close, he butted him under the chin with his head.

Brockman let out a muffled roar and crowded Lance to the bar, but Kilkenny wormed away and slugged the big man in the ribs.

Brockman seemed to be slowing down. His face was bloody and both eyes were swollen almost shut.

He backed slowly away from a stabbing left and was suddenly brought up hard against the wall. Putting a boot against the wall, he shot himself off it like a battering ram, head down, and caught Kilkenny in the chest. Off-balance, Kilkenny went to the floor.

Brockman rushed in, trying to kick him in the ribs, but Kilkenny got to hands and knees and hurled himself against Brockman's legs. The big man tumbled over him, and then spun around on the floor and grabbed Kilkenny's head, groping for his eyeballs with his thumbs.

Mad with pain and fear for his eyes, Kilkenny tore loose and scrambled to his feet. Brockman came up swiftly and Kilkenny jabbed with a left to that wide, granite-hard face. Blood flew and he felt the nose crunch under the blow.

Cain crowded in, seemingly impervious to pain, pounding at Kilkenny's midsection, but Kilkenny blocked swiftly, catching most of the blows on his arms and shoulders. Driven back, Kilkenny swayed like a tree in a high wind, fighting desperately to stave off the attack.

There was a taste of blood in his mouth, and he felt his lungs gasping for breath. Every gasp was a tearing pain.

Had he a broken rib? It felt like he had.

Brockman closed in, sensing some weakness, and threw a left that might have ended the fight, had it landed. But Kilkenny went under it, butting the larger man in the chest. Missing a left, he split Cain's face with his elbow, turning his head half-around.

Despite the fierceness of the fighting, Kilkenny was not badly hurt Many of the bigger man's blows had been wasted on
his
arms or shoulders. One of his eyes had a bad cut, and he knew by the feel that his jaw was swollen. But mainly he was fighting to stave off the big man's attacks, while trying to slow him down and sap his strength with body punches. But now he was growing desperate.

His hardest punches seemed to have no effect on Cain Brockman. The big man's face was bleeding from several cuts. Undoubtedly his nose was broken, and his lips were badly battered, but he now seemed to have gotten his second wind, and to be no less strong than when he threw his first punch.

Kilkenny realized that one of his eyes was rapidly swelling shut His breath was coming in tearing gasps.

Brockman bored in, swinging. Kilkenny pushed the left outward and stepped in with a hard left uppercut to the wind that stopped Brockman in his tracks. But the big man bowed his head and moved in.

Dropping an open palm to Brockman's skull as the man pushed forward, he shoved him off-balance, then as his hands went wide to gain balance, Kilkenny stabbed a left to the cut eye.

Cain swung a kick for Kilkenny's kneecap.

Kilkenny drove at him and hit Brockman at the knees. Both went down to the floor, Brockman's head hitting hard as he landed.

Dazed, Brockman started up, then lunged in a long dive at Kilkenny, who promptly stepped back, then brought a knee up to Brockman's face.

Brockman went back down to his hands and knees on the floor, his face a bloody mask. He was still trying to get up. Kilkenny was sick of the fight, and sick of the beating he was now giving the big man.

As Brockman struggled up, Kilkenny feinted, then hit him in the solar plexus. Cain went down, gasping, struggling to get up but unable to.

Kilkenny stepped back. "It's enough. You're a tough man, Brockman, but I've other business."

Weaving, Kilkenny walked to the bar and braced himself with both hands, which were battered and swollen from punching.

He stood there, panting heavily.

Rusty came up beside him. "Kilkenny, call it off! You're hi no shape for that raid now! You're certainly in no condition to tackle Royal Barnes."

"To hell with it
... Kilkenny said. "You do your part, I'll do mine."

Walking back to the washbasin he spilled water from the pitcher and bathed his cut face and his bruised and swollen hands. Turning to Gates, who had followed him, he said, Til need some hot water and some salts ... Epsom salts."

"Got a-plenty of it at the store
... Frame said.

"I'll get it"

Lance let his hands soak and gingerly bathed the caked blood from around the cuts. Frame returned not only with the salts but with a fresh shirt as well. "You'll need this
... He said. "Consider it a gift. What a scrap! Man, I've seen a few, but"