the Rider Of Lost Creek (1976) (9 page)

He had been cornered by Kiowas in a buffalo wallow and left three dead, one wounded, and took the gun from the last man and set him afoot to tell the story to his people. Two weeks later he had stopped three tough white men from abusing a Kiowa boy, bought him a horse and sent him to his people carrying the rifle he had taken from the fight at the wallow.

But the true stories were few, the man himself elusive. Many talked of him, but descriptions varied. None seemed to be altogether accurate. Before the shooting started, he attracted little attention. And after it was over, when men would have been able to take a good look at him, he was gone.

Some said he had killed eighteen men. The cattle buyer in Dodge claimed the actual figure was twenty-nine. But all of it was talk and nobody knew for sure. Not being a tinhorn, Kilkenny filed no notches on his guns.

"You know
... Rusty said suddenly, "the Brockmans hang out at Apple Canyon."

"I know
... Kilkenny agreed. "And we may run into them."

Rusty Gates bit "off a chew of tobacco.

"There's better places to tangle with them than in Apple Canyon. There'll be fifty men there, maybe a hundred, and all of them friends of the Brockmans."

Kilkenny grinned at him, whimsically. "What are you worried about? You've got fifty rounds, haven't you?"

"Fifty rounds"..."... Rusty rolled the tobacco in his jaws and spat "Shucks, man, I miss once in awhile."... He threw a speculative glance at Kilkenny. "You seen the Brockmans? You're a big man ... must weigh one ninety or better, and either of the Brockmans will outweigh you by forty pounds!

And I seen Cain Brockman shoot a crow on the wing!"

"Did the crow have a gun"..."... Kilkenny asked, slyly.

That, Rusty decided, was a good question, a mighty good question. It was one thing to shoot at a flying target, another when the moving target was shooting back.

They circled a stand of brush and drew up in the shade. "Let's let him catch up
... Kilkenny said.

"Catch up? Who?"

"Steve Lord. I picked him up a few miles back."

"You mean to say you can see that well"..."... Rusty stared back over the way they had come. "I can barely make out it's a man!"

"Look again. Lord has a hatband made of polished silver disks that catch the sun, and he rides straight up like a military man..."

Rusty rolled his quid and spat again. Easy enough, he reflected, when you know how. Now that it was mentioned he remembered that hatband. He had seen it so many times it no longer left an impression.

"By the way
... Kilkenny said, "I want the Brockmans myself."

"Both of them? Listen, I"

"Both of them
... Kilkenny replied. "You can keep the sidewinders off my back."

The distant horseman was closing the gap.

Kilkenny took off his hat and ran his fingers through his damp hair. He glanced again at the clouds. Broken here and there, but a promise of rain.

"About that Mendoza deal. I was in Sonora right after you took him They said he was the fastest man in the world with a gun, yet you beat him. Did you get the jump or were you just faster?"

"Didn't amount to much, but he did beat me to the draw."

"I didn't think anybody ever beat you
... Rusty said.

"Several men have, and he did. It may be he saw me a split second sooner. Fact is, I think he did."

"How come he didn't kill you?"

"He made a mistake. He drew faster, but he missed his first shot. He didn't get another."

A faint breeze stirred among the oak leaves.

Kilkenny looked again at the approaching rider. It was Steve Lord, all right, but why here? At this time?

They rode on, taking their time, watching the approaching rider as well as the trail ahead.

Steve Lord came up at a gallop, reining in when he recognized Lance. He glanced sharply from one to the other.

"I didn't know you had interests down this way
... He said.

"We're takin' a look at Apple Canyon
... Rusty said. "An' I want to introduce Kilkenny to Nita."

Steve glanced at the gunfighter. "I heard somebody say that you were Kilkenny, but I didn't believe it You don't fit any of the descriptions."

"Just as well
... Kilkenny commented. "I'm not anxious to be known."

"I should think you'd"... He paused. For the first time it dawned on him what Rusty had said. "What's your interest in Miss Riordan?"

"None at all
... Kilkenny replied. "Rusty is showing me the sights, and from all I hear, she's one of them."

"She is beautiful
... Steve agreed, "but I'm not sure she would appreciate being considered one of the "sights.""

"No offense meant
... Rusty said cheerfully. "But any man who wouldn't ride a hundred miles just to be in the same room with her is no kind of man. She's a woman!"

Kilkenny glanced at Steve, who obviously agreed but was somewhat disturbed by this talk about her. Was he infatuated? Well, it would not be surprising.

He was young, very good-looking, and obviously very concerned with himself.

"You know, Steve
... He suggested, "I had a talk with Webb Steele last night. And if we're going to avoid a war that will do nobody any good, we've got to get your father and Mort Davis together with him."

"Mort Davis"..."... Steve exploded. "Why, Dad's threatened to shoot him on sight! They'd never dare get in the same room!"

"I'll be there
... Kilkenny commented grimly. "And if there's any shooting done, I'll do it."

Steve was doubtful "I'll talk to him, but it won't do any good. He's pretty hard-headed."

"So's Webb Steele
... Rusty added, "but we'll bring him around."

"Did you ever see a cattle war, Steve"..."... Kilkenny asked.

"No, I never did
... He admitted. "But we heard about the Sutton-Taylor fight and the trouble between the Regulators and the Moderators."

"Well, then you know how many men can die. Most younger men think they're going to live forever, but there's no guarantee of that. The young can die as quickly as the old, and if there's a shooting war started you'd be sitting up there as a first-rate target. And nobody's even going to hesitate about shooting."

"I'm not afraid
... Steve protested.

"Not now ... Nobody is shooting at you.

Surprising how quick a man's feeling can change when lead starts flying. Because a bullet doesn't care who it hits. A man always has the idea that it's the others who will die, not him. But all the dead men thought that, too."

"You think that? You... Kilkenny?"

"Of course
... Lance said simply. "Any man is vulnerable. And I think a man who knows he can die is a more dangerous antagonist than one who believes he cannot. Fearlessness is often the very thing that gets a man killed."

"Anyway
... Rusty said, "why fight when it's in somebody else's interest?"

Steve turned sharply around to look at him. "What does that mean? Whose interest?"

Kilkenny let his horse walk on a few steps before he replied to the question. Rusty had made a sort of gesture implying, that he should explain.

He glanced over the country before him from a bit of a rise. He was riding into unknown country and he did not really like traveling with others. Any conversation was distracting, and to one who lived his kind of life, such distractions could be a matter of life and death.

Yet the years had tuned his ears for the slightest
sound and
his eyes to any change in the terrain, or any flicker of light or dust.

"Because somebody else is involved
... He said then.

"Somebody who wants Lord and Steele out of the way, somebody who stands to win a good deal if they kill each other off or weaken themselves for him to move in.

"Your father and Steele think that they are the movers and shakers of things around here, but they aren't They are being moved like a couple of pawns on a chessboard and for the advantage of some player whom we do not know."

"I don't believe it! That's all poppycock!"

"The fact remains that the men who killed Sam Carter and Joe Wilkins, and the men who attacked Davis the other night, were not either your men or Steele's. Find out who is behind those shootings and you'll find out who is stirring up this fight"

"You won't find anybody at Apple Canyon who knows anything about x"... Steve Lord said irritably. He looked from Lance Kilkenny to Rusty Gates. "And you'd better watch your step! The Brockmans are there!"

Steve Lord suddenly spurred his horse and rode rapidly off down the trail ahead of them.

"Now what's bitin' on him"..."... Gates asked.

Kilkenny shrugged, but he had an idea. Yet as he rode he was not thinking of that, but of himself something he rarely permitted. Beyond seeing to the few essential details of living, he lived a Spartan existence, and he permitted himself few luxuries, few friendships. It was a hard and lonely life, one that had grown more so as he had grown older, for the life of a man known to be good with a gun is never a secure one, never an easy one.

There were always the few would-be tough kids who wanted to prove something, and Lance avoided them, for he had nothing to prove. He had never wanted to be known as a gunfighter. It had simply happened to him.

In a land and a time when all men carried weapons, and when they were essential to survival, some men were killed by those guns. It was, and had been for many years, the accepted manner of settling disputes, not only in the west but in the east as well.

Nor was it only in America that insults or disputes were settled with weapons, for it had been the practice over most of the world, recorded since time began. Senators and Congressmen, members of the cabinet and generals, captains and midshipmen or warships, all had settled their disputes with swords or pistols. In the west it was simply more casual, more offhand, less formal.

Yet in a land where all men carry weapons, some men are sure to be more skillful and adept than others.

Some have that dexterity in handling a pistol, that coolness of nerve and steadiness of hand that allows them to win when gun shots are exchanged. And after a few of these battles, a man would become known. If he emerged a victor three or four times, he was certain to be considered a "gunman"... Or "gunfighter."... It was as simple as that Kilkenny had known many, and among them were lawyers and gamblers, doctors and businessmen, cattlemen and farmers. Oddly enough, except for the few who had been outlawed for killing the wrong man or killing too many, few of the men who were on the dodge were actually gunfighters. Among cow thieves and bandits, really good men with guns were few.

His own case had been like the others. He had been hunting since childhood, had grown up with guns and respected them. He had no desire for reputation.

Yet there had been certain difficulties, certain situations, and he had won. He could use guns as few men could--two guns at once, yet it was something he rarely did.

What was happening hereabouts he had seen happen elsewhere, and he knew it would happen over and over again in the years to come. Struggle was the law of growth, and the west was growing up the hard way.

The very nature of the men involved made such troubles inevitable. Each was strongly individualistic, each was proud, and each demanded respect. They were strong men living a rough life, taking on in the process much of the culture of the Indian through whose land they were passing or settling. The Indian warrior was also a proud man, with his own standards of behavior, and his status as a fighting man was all-important.

In the immediate fight that Lance Kilkenny saw as inevitable unless something could be done immediately good men would die. And the west needed its strong men. And here in this wild borderland, such men were even more essential.

As for himself, he was tired. Young hi years, he had ridden the long trails for much of his life, and knew only too well what such a fight entailed.

He had wanted none of this, but Mort was a friend, a man who had risked his own life when Kilkenny was in trouble. And being the man he was, Kilkenny could do nothing else but come to the help of Mort Davis.

And then another long trail, and perhaps death at the
end. That was always the way.

Chapter
VI

There was much that was familiar about this ride. He had taken many such rides into unknown country, with known trouble at the end.

He knew all about the Brockmans. They were huge, enormous men, muscular and strong. They were feared as fist-fighters as they were with guns, aggressive and quarrelsome rowdies in their own country and here. They picked fights, hunted trouble, and often hired themselves out as thugs or gunmen.

Huge as they were, and skillful with weapons, they went about where they liked and did as they pleased, approaching the inevitable time when they would cross the wrong man and die. Sooner or later, it always came.