The call of time was made, and the two men came forward to the scratch. Instantly, Tombull rushed, swinging with both hands. Kilkenny weaved inside and smashed hard with a right and left to the body. Then Turner grabbed him and attempted to hurl him to the floor, but Kilkenny twisted himself loose and struck with a lightninglike left to the bigger man's mouth.
Turner set himself and swung a left that caught Kilkenny in the chest and knocked him back against the ropes. The crowd let out a roar, but unhurt, Kilkenny slipped away from Turner's charge and landed twice to the ribs. The big man closed in, feinted a left, and caught Kilkenny with a wicked overhand right that hit him on the temple.
Groggy, Kilkenny staggered into the ropes, and Turner charged like a bull and struck twice, left and right, to Kilkenny's head. Lance clinched and hung on tight. Then, slipping a heel behind Turner's ankle, he tripped him up and threw him hard to the canvas!
He walked to his corner, seeing through a mist. They doused him with water, and at the call of time he came out slowly until almost up to the scratch. Then he lunged forward and landed with a hard left to the side of the neck. Tombull took it flat-footed and walked in, apparently unhurt. Kilkenny evaded a right and then lashed back with both hands, staggering the big man again.
Turner lunged forward, hitting Kilkenny with a short right, and then, slipping Kilkenny's left, he grabbed him and threw him to the floor. The third round opened with both men coming out fast, and walking right together they began to slug. Then Kilkenny blocked Turner's left and hit him in the body with a right. They broke free, and circling, Kilkenny got a look at the two men sitting with Hale.
One was Halloran. The other was a leaner, taller man. Lance evaded a rush and then clipped Turner with a right. He had been doing well, but he was no fool. Turner was a fighter, and the big man had not been trying yet, was just getting warmed up now. He was quite sure Tombull was under orders to beat him, to pound him badly, but to keep him in the ring as long as possible. Hale was to have his revenge, his bloodletting.
Tombull Turner moved in, landing a powerful left to the head and then a right to the body. Kilkenny circled away from Turner's heavy- hitting right. Turner bored in, striving to get his hands on the lighter man and to get his fists where he could hit better. He liked to use short punches when standing close. Kilkenny slid away, stabbed a long left to Turner's mouth, feinted, and when Tombull swung his right, stepped in and smashed both hands to the body.
For all the effect the punches had he might have been hitting a huge drum. Turner rushed, crowding Kilkenny against the ropes, where he launched a storm of crashing, battering blows. One fist caught Kilkenny over the eye, and another crashed into the pit of his stomach. Then a clubbing right hit Kilkenny on the kidney. He staggered away, and Turner, his big fists poised, crowded closer.
He swung for the head, and Kilkenny ducked the right but caught a chopping blow from the left that started blood flowing from a cut over one eye. Kilkenny backed away, and Turner rushed and floored Kilkenny with a smashing right.
Dixon worked over the eye rapidly and skillfully. Kilkenny found time to be surprised at his skill. "Watch that right," O'Hara said. "It's bad."
Kilkenny moved up to scratch and then sidestepped just in time to miss Turner's bull rush. He stepped in and stabbed a left to the head, and then Tombull got in close and hurled him to the canvas again.
Taking the rest on the stool, Kilkenny relaxed. Then at the call, he came to the scratch again, and suddenly, leaping in, he smashed two rocking punches to Turner's jaw. The bigger man staggered, and before he could recover, Kilkenny stepped in, stabbed a hard left to the mouth, and then hooked a powerful right to the body. Turner tried to get his feet under him, but Kilkenny was relentless. He smashed a left to the mouth and a right to the body and then landed both hands to the body as Turner hit the ropes.
Tombull braced himself and, summoning his tremendous strength, bulled in close, literally hurled Kilkenny across the ring, and then followed with a rush. The crowd was on its feet now. Kilkenny feinted and then smashed a powerful right to the ribs. Turner tried a left, and pushing it aside, Kilkenny stepped in with a wicked left uppercut to the wind. Turner staggered.
The crowd was on its feet now, yelling for Kilkenny. He shook Turner with a right, but Tombull set himself and threw a mighty right that caught Kilkenny coming in and flattened him on the canvas.
When he got to his corner, he could see the crowd was excited. He was badly shaken, but not dazed by the blow. Suddenly, he was on his feet, and before anyone could realize what was happening, he had stepped across to the ringside where Hale sat with the two officials.
"Gentlemen," he said swiftly, "I've little time. I am fighting here today because it is the only way I could get to speak to you. I am one of a dozen nesters who have filed on claims among the peaks, claims from which Hale is unlawfully trying to drive us. One man has been cruelly murdered-"
The call of time interrupted. He wheeled to see Tombull charging, and he slid away along the ropes. Then Turner hit him and he staggered, but Turner lunged close, unwilling to let him fall. Shoving him back against the ropes, Turner shoved a left to his chin and then clubbed a powerful right.
Blasting pain seared across Kilkenny's brain. He saw that right go up again and knew he could never survive another such punch. With all his strength, he jerked away. Turner intended to kill him now.
In a daze, he could see Hale was on his feet, as were the officials. Cub Hale had a hand on his gun, and Parson Hatfield was facing him across the ring. Then Kilkenny jerked loose.
But Turner was on him like a madman, clubbing, striking with all his mighty strength, trying to batter Kilkenny into helplessness before the round ended. The crowd was in a mighty uproar, and in a haze of pain and waning consciousness, Kilkenny saw Steve Runyon had slipped behind Cub Hale and had a gun on him.
Somebody was shouting outside the ring, and then Turner hit him again and he broke away from Tombull and crashed to the canvas.
O'Hara carried him bodily to his corner, where Dixon worked over him like mad. The call of time came, and Kilkenny staggered to his feet and had taken but one step toward the mark when Tombull hit him like a hurricane, sweeping him back into the ropes with a whirlwind of staggering, pounding, battering blows. Weaving, swaying, slipping and ducking punches, Kilkenny tried to weather the storm.
Somehow he slipped under a right to the head and got in close. Spreading his legs wide, he began to slug both hands into the big man's body. The crowd had gone mad now, but he was berserk. The huge man was fighting like a madman, eager for the kill, and Kilkenny was suddenly lost to everything but the battering fury of the fight and the lust to put the big man down and to keep him down.
Slipping a left, he smashed a wicked right to the ribs and then another and another. Driving in, he refused to let Turner get set and smashed him with punch after punch. Turner threw him off, but he leaped in again, got Tombull's head in chancery with a crude headlock, and proceeded to batter blow after blow into the big man's face before Turner did a back somersault to break free and end the round.
Panting, gasping for every breath when each stabbed like a knife, Kilkenny swung to the ropes. "We've been refused food in Cedar!" Kilkenny shouted hoarsely at the officials. "We sent a wagon to Blazer, and three men were waylaid and killed. On a second attempt, we succeeded in getting a little, but only after a pitched battle."
The call of time came and he wheeled. Turner was on him with a rush, his face bloody and wild. Kilkenny set himself and struck hard with a left that smashed Turner's nose and then with a wicked right that rocked Turner to his heels. Faster than the big man, he carried less weight and was tiring less rapidly. Also, the pounding of his body blows had weakened the bigger man.
Close in, they began to slug, but here, too, despite Turner's massive strength, Kilkenny was the better man. He was faster, and he was beating the big man to the punch. Smashing a wicked left to the chin, Kilkenny stepped in and hooked both
hands hard to the body. Then he brought up an uppercut that ripped a gash across Turner's face. Before Tombull could get set, Kilkenny drove after him with a smashing volley of hooks and swings that had the big man reeling.
Everyone was yelling now, yelling like madmen, but Turner was gone. Kilkenny was on him like a panther. He drove him into the ropes and, holding him there, struck the big man three times in the face. Then Tombull broke loose and swung a right that Kilkenny took in his stride. He smashed Turner back on his heels with a right of his own.
The big man started to fall, and Kilkenny whipped both hands to his face with cracking force! Turner went down, rolled over, and lay still.
In an instant, Kilkenny was across the ring. Grabbing his guns, he strapped them on. His fists were battered and swollen, but he could still hold a gun. He caught a quick glimpse of Nita and saw Brigo was hurrying her from the crowd. Parson and Quincy Hatfield closed in beside him, guns drawn.
"I'll have to go with you," Dixon said. "If I stay now they'll kill me."
"Come on," Kilkenny said grimly. "We can use you."
Backing after them, Runyon kept Cub Hale at the end of his gun. The younger Hale's face was white. Then as the Hale cowhands began to gather, a mob of miners surged between them.
"Go ahead," a big miner shouted. "We'll stand by you."
Kilkenny smiled suddenly, and swinging away from his men he walked directly toward the crowding cowhands. Muttering sullenly, they broke ahead of him, and he strode up to King Bill Hale. The big rancher was pale, and his eyes were cold as ice and bitter. Halloran stood behind him, and the tall, cool-eyed man stood nearby.
"I will take my fifteen thousand dollars now," Kilkenny said quietly.
His face was sullen and stiff, Hale counted out the money and thrust it at him. Kilkenny turned then, bowed slightly to Halloran and the other man, and said quietly:
"What I have told you here, gentlemen, is true. I wish you would investigate the claims of Hale to our land, and our own filings upon that land."
Turning, he walked back to the miners, mounted, and rode off with the Hatfields, O'Hara, and Runyon close about him.
"We'll have to move fast!" Kilkenny said. "What happens will happen quick now!"
"What can he do now?" Runyon asked. "We got our story across."
"Supposin' when they come back to investigate, there aren't any of us left?" Kilkenny demanded. "What could anybody do about that? There'd be no witnesses, an' even if they asked a lot of questions it wouldn't do us any good. The big fight will come now."
They rode hard and fast, sticking to little- known trails through the brush. They threaded the bottom of a twisted, broken canyon and curled along a path that led along the sloping shoulder of a rocky hill among the cedars.
Kilkenny rode with his rifle across the saddle in front of him and with one hand always ready to swing it up. He was under no misapprehension about King Bill. The man had been defeated again, and he would be frantic now. His ego was being sadly battered, and to prove to himself that he was still the power in the Cedar Valley country he must wipe this trouble from the earth.
He would have lost much. Knowing the man, and knowing the white lightning that lay beneath the surface of Cub Hale, he knew the older man must more than once have cautioned the slower, surer method. Now Cub would be ranting for a shootout. Kilkenny knew he had gauged that young man correctly. He was spoiled. The son of a man of power, he had ridden wild and free and had grown more arro- gant by the year, taking what he wanted and killing those who thwarted him.
Dunn and Ravitz would be with him, he knew. That trio was poison itself. He was no fool. He believed he could beat Hale. Yet he had no illusions about beating all three. There was, of course, the chance of catching them off side as he had caught the Brockmans that day in Cottonwood. The Brockmans! Like a flash he remembered Cain. The big man was free to come gunning for him now!
Chapter XVII
Fight in the Gorge
Winding around a saddle trail leading into a deep gorge, they came out on the sandy bottom, and he speeded their movement to a rapid trot. Despite himself, he was worried. At the cup, there were only Jesse and Saul Hatfield, Bartram, and Jackie Moffitt. Suppose Hale had taken that moment to sweep down upon them and shoot it out? With luck, the defenders might hold the cup, but if the breaks went against them--
He turned his horse up a steep slope toward the pines. Ahead of him, suddenly, there was a rifle shot-just one. It sounded loud and clear in the canyon, yet he heard no bullet. As if by command, the little cavalcade spread out and rode up through the trees. It was Kilkenny who swept around a clump of scrub pine and saw several men scrambling for their horses. He reined in and dropped to the ground.
A rifle shot chunked into the trunk of the pine beside him, but he fired. One of the riders dropped his rifle and grabbed for the saddle horn, and then they swept into the trees. He got off three carefully spaced shots, heard Runyon, off to his left, opening up, and then, further along, Parson himself.
He wheeled the buckskin and rode the yellow horse toward the canyon, yelling his name as he swept into the cup. What he saw sent his face white with fear! Jesse Hatfield lay sprawled full length on the hard-packed ground of the cup, a slow curl of blood trickling from under his arm, a bloody gash on his head.
As he reined in alongside Jesse, the door of the house burst open and Jackie Moffitt came running out. "They hit us about two hours ago!" Jackie said excitedly. "They nicked Bart, too!"
Kilkenny dropped to his knees beside Hatfield and turned him gently. One bullet had grazed his scalp; another had gone through his chest, high up. He looked at the wound and the bubbling froth on the man's lips, and his lips tightened.
Price Dixon swung down beside him. Kneeling over Hatfield, he examined the wound. Kilkenny's eyes narrowed as he saw the gambler's fingers working over him with almost professional skill. He quickly cut away the cloth and examined the wound.
"We'll have to get him inside," he said gravely. "I've got to operate."
"Operate!" Parson Hatfield stared at him. "You a doc?"
Dixon smiled wryly. "I was once," he said. "Maybe I still am."
Ma Hatfield came to the door bearing a rifle. Then putting it down she turned and walked back inside, and when they brought the wounded man in, a bed was ready for him. Her long, thin-cheeked face was grave, and only her eyes showed pain and shock. She worked swiftly and without hysteria. Sally Crane was working over a wound in Bartram's arm, her own face white.
Kilkenny motioned to Parson and stepped outside. "I've got to go back tonight an' get Nita," he said quietly. "I'll go alone."
"You better take help. There's enough of us now to hold this place. You'll have you a fight down to Cedar. An' don't forget Cain Brockman."
"I won't. By night I can make it, I think. This is all comin' to a head now, Parson. They can't wait now. We've called their hand an' raised 'em. They never figured on me talkin'. They never figured on me winnin' that fight."
"All right," Parson said, "we'll stand by." He looked down at the ground a moment. "I reckon," he said slowly, "we've done a good day's work. I got me a man back on the trail, too. Jackie says Jesse got one up on the rim. A couple more nicked. That's goin' to spoil their appetite for fightin', an' spoil it a heap!"
"Yeah," Kilkenny agreed. "I'm ridin' at sundown, Parson."
Yet it was after sundown before he got started. Jesse Hatfield was in a bad way. Price Dixon had taken a compact packet of tools from his saddlebags, and his operation had been quick and skilled. His gambler's work had kept his hands well, and he showed it now. Kilkenny glanced at him, curiosity in his eyes. At one time this man had been a fine surgeon.
He was never surprised. In the West you found strange men-noblemen from Europe, wanderers from fine old families, veterans of several wars, schoolboys, and boys who had grown up along the cattle trails. Doctors, lawyers, men of brilliance, and men with none, all had thronged west, looking for what the romantic called adventur
e and the experienced knew was trouble, or looking for a new home, for a change, or escaping from something.
Price Dixon was one of these. The man was observant, shrewd, and cultured. He and Kilkenny had known each other from the first, not as men who came from the same life, but men who came from the same stratum of society. They were men of the lost legion, the kind who always must move.
Despite his lack of practice, Dixon's moves were sure and his hands skilled. He removed the bullet from dangerously near the spine. When he finished he washed his hands and looked up at Parson.
"He'll live, with rest and treatment. Beef broth, that's what he needs now, to build strength in him."
Parson grinned behind his gray mustache. "He'll get it," he said dryly. "He'll get it as long as King Bill Hale has a steer on the range."
Sally Crane caught Kilkenny as he was saddling the little gray horse he was riding that night. She hurried up to him and then stopped suddenly and stood there, shifting her feet from side to side. Kilkenny turned and looked at her curiously from under his flat-brimmed hat.
"What's the trouble, Sally?"
"I wanted to ask-" she hesitated, and he could sense her shyness. "Do you think I'm old enough to marry?"
"To marry?" He stopped, startled. "Why, I don't know, Sally. How old are you?"
"I'm sixteen, most nigh seventeen."
"That's young," he conceded, "but I've heard Ma Hatfield say she was just sixteen when she married, an' down in Kentucky and Virginia many a girl marries at that age. Why?"
"I reckon I want to marry," Sally said shyly. "Ma Hatfield said I should ask you. Said you was Daddy Moffitt's friend, an' you was sort've my guardian."
"Me?" He was thunderstruck. "Well, I reckon I never thought of it that way. Who wants to marry you, Sally?"
"It's Bart."
"You love him?" he asked. He suddenly felt strangely old, and yet, looking at the young girl standing there so shyly, he felt more than ever before the vast loneliness there was in him, and also a strange tenderness such as he had never known before.
the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986) Page 35