the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986)

by L'amour, Louis

  "I know, but I must fight him. It is my only chance to get close to Halloran." He explained quickly. "If we can just let them know that we aren't outlaws! If they could only realize what is happening here, that these are good men, trying only to establish homes! To fight him is my only chance."

  "I heard you would. Brigo told me the word had come that you would fight him."

  "What did Brigo say?" Kilkenny suddenly found he was very anxious to know. The big Yaqui had an instinct for judging the fighting abilities of men, Powerful, fierce, and ruthless himself, he knew fighting men, and he had been long in lands where men lived by courage and strength.

  "He says you will win." She said it simply. "I cannot see how anyone could defeat that man, but Brigo is sure. He has made bets. And he is the only one who dares to bet against Turner."

  "Nita, if there's a chance, say something to Halloran."

  "There won't be. Hale will see to that. But if there is, I surely will."

  "Nita, when the fight is over, I'll come for you. I'm going to take you away from this. Will you go?"

  "Need you ask?" She smiled up at him in the dimness. "You know I will go, Kilkenny. Wherever you go I will go, Kilkenny. I made my choice long ago."

  Kilkenny slipped from the house and returned to his horse. The black stood patiently, and when Lance touched his bridle, he jerked up his head and was ready to go. Yet when he reached the turn, Lance swung the black horse down the street of Cedar Bluff.

  Walking the horse, he rode slowly up to the ring. It had been set up in an open space near the corrals. Seats had been placed around, with several rows close to the ringside. That would be where King Bill would sit with his friends. The emperor would watch the gladiators. Kilkenny smiled wryly.

  A light footstep sounded at the side of the ring, and Kilkenny's gun leaped from its holster. "Don't move!" he whispered sharply.

  "It's all right, Kilkenny." The man stepped closer, his hands held wide. "It's Dan Cooper."

  "So you know I'm Kilkenny?"

  Cooper chuckled.

  "Yeah, I recognized your face that first day, but couldn't tie it to a name. It came to me just now. Hale will be wild when he hears."

  "You're a good man, Cooper," Kilkenny said suddenly. "Why stay on the wrong side?"

  "Is the winnin' side the wrong side? Not for me it ain't. I ain't sayin' as to who's right in this squabble, but for a gunhand, the winnin' side is the right one."

  "No conscience, Cooper?" Kilkenny questioned, trying to see the other man's eyes through the darkness. "Dick Moffitt was a good man. So were Jody Miller, Tot Wilson, an' Lije Hatfield."

  "Then Lije died?" Cooper's voice quickened. "That's not good, for you or us. The Hales, they don't think much of the Hatfields. I do. I know 'em. The Hales will have to kill every last Hatfield now or die themselves. I know them."

  "You could have tried a shot at me, Cooper," Kilkenny suggested.

  "Me?" Cooper laughed lightly. "I'm not the kind, Kilkenny. Not in the dark, without a warnin'. I ain't so anxious to get you, anyway. I'd be the hombre that killed Kilkenny, an' that's like settin' yourself up in a shootin' gallery. Anyway, I want to see the fight."

  "The fight?"

  "Between you and Tombull. That should be good." Cooper leaned against the platform of the ring. "Between the two of us, I ain't envyin' you none. That hombre's poison. He ain't human. Eats food enough for three men. Still," Cooper shoved his hat back on his head, "you sure took King Bill, an' he was some shakes of a scrapper."

  Cooper straightened up. "Y'know, Kilkenny, just two men in town are bettin' on you."

  "Two?"

  "Uh-huh. One's that Yaqui gunman, Brigo. The other's Cain Brockman."

  "Cain Brockman?" Kilkenny was startled.

  "Yeah. He says he's goin' to kill you, but he says you can whip Turner first. He told Turner to his face that you was the best man. Turner was sure mad."

  Dan Cooper hitched up his belt. "Almost time for my relief. If I was you, I'd take out. The next hombre might not be so anxious to see a good fight that he'd pass up five thousand dollars."

  "You mean there's money on my head?" Kilkenny asked.

  "Yeah. Five thousand. Dead or alive." Cooper shrugged. "Cub didn't like the idea of the reward. He figures you're staked out for him."

  "Okay, Dan. Enjoyed the confab."

  "Thanks. Listen, make that fight worth the money, will you? An' by the way-watch Cub Hale. He's poison mean and faster than a strikin' rattler!"

  Kilkenny rode out of town and took to the hills. The route he took homeward was not the same as that by which he had approached the town. Long ago he had learned it was very foolhardy to retrace one's steps. He bedded down about daylight and slept until early afternoon.

  So Cain Brockman was betting on him. For a long time, Kilkenny sat in speculation. He lived over again that bitter, bloody afternoon in the Trail House when he had whipped the huge Cain. It had seemed that great bulk was impervious to anything in the shape of a human fist. Yet he had brought him down, had beaten him into helplessness.

  Parson and Quince strolled over and sat down. Their faces were grave. It was like these men to hide their grief, yet he knew that under the emotionless faces of the men there was a feeling of family and unity stronger than any he had ever known. These men loved each other and lived for each other.

  "Kilkenny, you set on fightin' this Turner?" Parson inquired.

  "Yes, I am," Kilkenny said quietly. "It's our big chance. It is more than a chance to talk to Halloran, too. It's a chance to hit Hale another wallop."

  "To hurt him, you got to beat Turner," Quince said, staring at Kilkenny. "You got to win."

  "That's right," Kilkenny agreed. "So I'm goin' in to win. I've changed my mind about some things. I was figurin' just on stayin' in there long enough to talk to the officials from Santa Fe, but now I am goin' in there to win.

  "If I win, I make friends. People will like to see Hale beat again. Halloran is an Irishman, an' an Irishman loves a good fighter. Well, I got to win."

  They were silent for a few minutes and Parson chewed on a straw. Then he looked up from under his bushy gray eyebrows.

  "It ain't the fight what worries me. If the good Lord wants you to win, you'll win. What bothers me is after-win or lose, what happens then? Think Hale will let you go?"

  Kilkenny smiled grimly. "He will, or there'll be blood on the streets of Cedar. Hale blood!"

  Chapter XV

  The Chips Are Down

  The crowds had started coming to Cedar by daylight. The miners had come, drifting over for the rodeo and the fight. The gold camps had been abandoned for the day, as there was rarely any celebration for them, rarely any relief from the loneliness and the endless masculinity of the gold camps.

  The cowhands from the Hale Ranch were around in force. The bars were doing a rushing business even before noon, and the streets were jammed with people.

  Kilkenny rode into town on the buckskin when the sun was high. For over an hour he had been lying on a hillside above the town, watching the movement. It was almost certain that King Bill would avoid trouble today. There were too many visitors, too many people who were beyond his control. He would be on his good behavior today, making an impression as the upright citizen and free-handed giver of celebrations.

  A rider under a flag of truce had appeared in the cup the evening before with an invitation to Kilkenny and the actual challenge for the fight. Word of Kilkenny's willingness for the fight had seeped into town by the grapevine several days before, so no tricks were needed. Kilkenny was to report to a man named John Bartlett, at the Crystal Palace.

  Kilkenny, accompanied by Parson Hatfield and Steve Runyon, rode down to the Palace and dismounted. Quince Hatfield and O'Hara had already arrived in town, and they moved up outside the Palace and loafed where they could watch the horses. Only a few of the Hale riders actually knew them by sight.

  Pushing open the batwing doors, Kilkenny stepped inside, Parson at his elbow. T
he place was crowded, and all the games were going full blast. Kilkenny's quick eyes swept the place. Jaime Brigo was in his usual chair across the room, and their eyes met. Then Kilkenny located Price Dixon. He was dealing cards at a nearby table.

  There was a warning in Dixon's eyes, and then Price made an almost imperceptible gesture of his head. Turning his eyes, Kilkenny felt a little chill go over him. Cain Brockman was standing at the bar, and Cain was watching him.

  Slowly, as though subtly aware of the tension in the room, eyes began to lift. As if by instinct they went from the tall, broad-shouldered man with the bronzed face, clad completely in black, to the towering bruiser in the checked shirt and the worn levis.

  Then, his hands hanging carelessly at his sides, his flat-brimmed hat tipped just a little, Kilkenny started across the room toward Cain Brockman. A deadly hush fell over the room. Cain had turned, his wide unshaven face still marked by the scars of his former battle with Kilkenny, marked with scars he would carry to his grave.

  Through narrow eyes the big man looked at Kilkenny, watching his slow steps across the floor, the studied ease, the grace of the man in black, the two big guns at his hips. Unseen, Nita Riordan had come to the door of her room, and eyes wide, she watched Kilkenny walk slowly among the tables and pause before Cain Brockman.

  For a minute the two men looked at each other. Then Kilkenny spoke. "I hear you've come to town to kill me, Cain," he said quietly.

  Yet in the deathly hush of the room his voice carried to each corner.

  "Well, I've another fight on my hands, with Tombull Turner. If we shoot it out, I'm going to kill you, but you're a good man with a gun, and I reckon I'll catch some lead. Fighting Tombull is going to be enough without carrying a crawful of lead when I do it. So how about a truce until afterward?"

  For an instant, Cain hesitated. In the small gray eyes, chill and cold, there came a little light of reluctant admiration. He straightened.

  "I reckon I can wait," Cain drawled harshly. "Let it never be said that Cain Brockman broke up a good fight!"

  "Thanks." Abruptly, Kilkenny turned away, turning his back full on Cain Brockman, and with the same slow walk crossed the room to Price Dixon. A big red-headed man stood at the table near Price.

  As he walked up to the table, the batwing doors pushed open and four men walked in. Kilkenny noticed them and felt the flash of recognition of danger go over him. It was King Bill Hale, Cub Hale, and the gold-dust twins, Dunn and Ravitz.

  Ignoring them, Kilkenny walked up to the red-headed man. "You're John Bartlett?" he asked. "I'm Kilkenny."

  "Glad to meet you." Bartlett thrust out a huge hand. "How'd you know me?"

  "Saw you in Abilene. Again in New Orleans."

  "Then you've seen Turner fight?" Bartlett demanded keenly. He glanced up and down Kilkenny with a quick, practiced eye.

  "Yes. I've seen him fight."

  "An' you're not afraid? He's a bruiser. He nearly killed Tom Hanlon."

  Kilkenny smiled. "An' who was Tom Hanlon? A big chunk of beef so slow he couldn't get out of his own way. I see nothing in Turner to fear."

  "You'll actually fight him then?" Bartlett was incredulous.

  "Fight him?" Kilkenny asked. "Fight him? I'm going to whip him."

  "That's the way to talk!" A big, black- bearded miner burst out. "I'm sick of this big bull of a Turner struttin' around. My money goes on Kilkenny."

  "Mine, too," another miner said. "I'd rather he was a miner, but I'll even bet on a cowhand if he can fight."

  Kilkenny turned and looked at the miner, and then he grinned. "Friend," he said. "I've swung a single jack for many a day and tried a pan on half the creeks in Arizona."

  Bartlett leaned forward. "This fight is for a prize of one thousand dollars in gold, put up by King Hale. However, if you want to make a side bet-?"

  "I do," Kilkenny said. He unbuttoned his shirt and took out a packet of bills. "Five thousand dollars of it."

  "Five thousand?" Bartlett swallowed and saw Hale frown. "I don't think we can cover it."

  "What?" Kilkenny looked up, and his eyes met those of King Bill. "I understood that Hale was offering three to one, and no takers. That's the money I want. Some of that three to one that Bill Hale is offering."

  "Three to one?" Hale demanded. "Why, I never-" The astonishment in his voice was plain enough, but Kilkenny knew he had him, and every move was calculated to win the crowd, not for himself, but for the men he represented. To back down would mean loss of prestige to Hale; to declare he knew of no three-to-one offer would make many believe he had welshed on his bet. And if Kilkenny won, Hale would never dare order him killed because all would think it was revenge for losing the bet. And if Kilkenny lost, it would still put Hale in a bad light if he were suddenly murdered.

  "What's the matter, Hale?" Kilkenny demanded sharply, and his voice rang loud in the crowded room. "Are you backing down? Have you decided the man who whipped you on your own ground can whip Turner, too? Didn't you bring Tombull Turner here to whip me or to force me to back down?"

  "I'm calling you, Hale. Put up or shut up! I'm betting five thousand against your fifteen thousand that I win. I'm betting all I own, aside from that little claim you're trying to take away from me, against a mere fifteen thousand. Are you backing down?"

  "No, by the Lord Harry, I'm not!" Hale's face was purple with anger. "I'm not going to let any fence-crawling nester throw money in my face. I'm covering you."

  Kilkenny smiled slowly. "Looks like an interesting afternoon," he said carefully. Then he turned and walked slowly from the room, conscious that at every step he took, the white cold eyes of Cub Hale followed him, their hatred almost a tangible thing.

  When they got outside, Parson stared at him. "You sure made King Bill look bad in there. You made some friends."

  "You mean, we made friends," Kilkenny said quietly. "That's the point. We've got to make friends, we've got to get the sympathy of these miners and the outside people Hale can't touch. If we can get enough of them, we've got a fighting chance. Hale can't get too raw. There's law in this country now, an' he can win only so long as he can make what he's doin' seem right.

  "If it stopped right here, an' he got me killed or took my land, a lot of people would be asking questions. They'll remember what I said. You see, Parson, we're little people buckin' a powerful an' wealthy man. That makes us the underdogs.

  "I'm the smaller man in this fight, too. I'm a cowhand and a miner fightin' a trained prizefighter with my fists. A good part of that crowd is goin' to be with me for that reason, even some of Hale's cowhands."

  It was midafternoon when Kilkenny walked down to the ring. The corral fence was covered with cowhands and miners, and the intervening space was filled with them. They were crowded along roofs and in every bit of space. Scanning the crowd, Kilkenny's eyes glinted. The miners were out in strength, and with them had come a number of gamblers, cowhands from outside the valley, and a few odds and ends of trappers.

  The cluster of seats near the ring was empty, and two men guarded them. Kilkenny walked down to the ringside and stripped to the waist. He slipped off his boots and pulled on a pair of Indian moccasins that fitted snugly.

  There was a roar from the crowd, and he saw Tombull Turner leaving the back door of Leathers' store and striding toward the ring, wrapped in a blanket. As he climbed through the ropes and walked to his corner, King Bill Hale, Cub Hale, and two men in store clothes left the Mecca and started toward the ring. Behind them walked Dunn and Ravitz.

  Then, escorted by Jaime Brigo, Nita Riordan left the Palace and walked slowly through the crowd toward the ring. She was beautifully dressed, in the very latest of fashion, and carried her chin high. Men drew aside to let her pass, and those along the way she walked removed their hats.

  Nita Riordan had proved to Cedar Bluff that a woman could run a gambling joint and still remain a lady. Not one word had ever been said against her character. Even the most skeptical had been convinced, both by her own lad
ylike manner and by the ever-watchful presence of Brigo.

  Price Dixon walked down to Kilkenny's corner. He hesitated and then stepped forward.

  "I've had some experience as a handler," he said simply, "if you'll trust a gambling man."

  Kilkenny looked at him and then smiled. "Why, I reckon we're all gambling men after a fashion, sir. I'd be proud to have you."

  He glanced around quickly. John Bartlett was to referee, and the big red-headed man was already in the ring. Parson Hatfield, wearing a huge Walker Colt, lounged behind Kilkenny's corner. Runyon was a short distance away, and near him was Quince Hatfield. O'Hara was to work in Kilkenny's corner also.

  Chapter XVI

  Test of Battle

  Kilkenny climbed quickly into the ring and slipped off the coat he had hung around his shoulders. He heard a low murmur from the crowd. He knew they were sizing him up.

  Tombull Turner was the larger by thirty pounds. He was taller, broader, and thicker, a huge man with a round, bullet head set on a powerful neck and mighty shoulders. His biceps and forearms were heavy with muscle, and the deltoid development on the ends of his shoulders was large. His stomach was flat and solid, his legs columns of strength.

  Kilkenny was lean. His shoulders were broad and had the strength of years of living in the open, working, fighting and struggling. His stomach was flat and corded with muscle and his shoulders splendidly muscled, yet beside the bigger man, he appeared much smaller.

  Actually, he weighed two hundred pounds. Yet scarcely a man present, if asked to guess his weight, would have made it more than one hundred and eighty.

  Bartlett walked to the center of the ring and raised a huge hand. "The rules is no punches below the belt. Hit as long as they have one hand free. No gouging or biting allowed. Holding and hitting is fair. When a man falls, is thrown, or is knocked to the floor, the round ends. The fight is to a finish." He strode back, glancing with piercing eyes from Turner to Kilkenny.