"Yes." Her voice was shy, but he could sense the excitement in her, and the happiness.
"Well, Sally," he said slowly, "I reckon I'm as much a guardian as you've got now. I think if you love Bartram an' he loves you, that's all that's needed. I know him. He's a fine, brave, serious young fellow who's goin' to do right well as soon as this trouble clears up. Yes, I reckon you can marry him."
She was gone, running.
For a few minutes he stood there, one foot in the stirrup. Then he swung his leg over the gray horse and shook his head in astonishment.
"That's one thing, Lance," he told himself, "you never expected to happen to you!"
But as he turned the horse into the pines, he remembered the Hatfields digging the grave for their brother. Men died, men were married, and the fighting and living and working went on. So it would always go. Lije Hatfield was gone, Miller and Wilson were gone, and Jesse Hatfield lay near to death in the cabin in the cup.
Yet Sally was to marry Tom Bartram, and they were to build a home. Yes, this was the country, and these were its people. They had the strength to live, the strength to endure. In such a country men would be born, men who loved liberty and would ever fight to preserve it.
The little gray was as surefooted as a mountain goat. Even the long-legged yellow horse could walk no more silently, no more skillfully than this little mountain horse. He talked to it in a low whisper and watched the ears flick backward with intelligence. This was a good horse.
Yet when he reached the edge of Cedar Bluff, he reined in sharply. Something was wrong. There was a vague smell of smoke in the air, and an atmosphere of uneasiness seemed to hang over the town. He looked down, studying the place. Something was wrong. Something had changed. It was not only the emptiness left after a crowd is gone, it was something else, something that made him uneasy.
He moved the gray horse forward slowly, keeping to sandy places where the horse would make no sound. The black bulk of a building loomed before him, and he rode up beside it and swung down. The smell of wood smoke was stronger. Then he peered around the corner of the building. Where the Mecca had stood was only a heap of charred ruins.
Hale's place-burned! He scowled, trying to imagine what could have happened. An accident? It could be, yet something warned him it was not that, and more, that the town wasn't asleep.
Keeping to the side of the buildings, he walked forward a little. There was a faint light in Bert Leathers' store. The Crystal Palace was dark. He went back to the gray horse and carefully skirting the troubled area, came in from behind the building and then swung down.
A man loomed ahead of him, a huge bulk of man. His heart seemed to stop, and he froze against the building. It was Cain Brockman!
Watching, Kilkenny saw him moving with incredible stealth, slip to the side of the Crystal Palace, work for an instant at the door, and then disappear inside.
Like a ghost, Kilkenny crossed the alley and went in the door fast. There he flattened against the wall. He could hear the big man ahead of him, but only his breathing. Stealthily, he crept after.
What could Brockman be doing here? Was he after Nita? Or hoping to find him? He crept along, closed a door after him, and lost Brockman in the stillness. Then suddenly a candle gleamed, and another. The first person he saw was Nita. She was standing there, in riding costume, staring at him.
"You've come, Lance?" she said softly. "Then it was you I heard?"
"No," he spoke softly, "it wasn't me. Cain Brockman's here."
A shadow moved against the curtain at the far side of the big room, and Cain Brockman stepped into the open.
"Yeah," he said softly, "I'm here."
He continued to move, coming around the card tables until he stood near, scarcely a dozen feet away. The curtains were drawn on all the windows, thick drapes that kept all light within. If he lived to be a thousand, Lance Kilkenny would never- forget that room.
It was large and rectangular. Along one side ran the bar; the rest, except for the small dance floor where they stood now, was littered with tables and chairs. Here and there were fallen chips, cards, cigarette butts, and glasses.
A balcony surrounded the room on three sides, a balcony with curtained booths. Only the candles flickered in the great room, candles that burned brightly but with a wavering uncertain light. The girl held the candles-Nita Riordan, with her dark hair gathered against the nape of her neck, her eyes unusually large in the dimness.
Opposite Kilkenny stood the bulk of Cain Brockman. His big black hat was shoved back on his huge head. His thick neck descended into powerful shoulders, and the checkered shirt was open to expose a hairy chest. Crossed gun belts and big pistols completed the picture, guns that hung just beneath the open hands.
Cain stood there, his flat face oily and unshaven in the vague light, his stance wide, his feet in their riding boots seeming unusually small.
"Yeah," Cain repeated. "I'm here."
Kilkenny drew a deep breath. Suddenly a wave of hopelessness spread over him. He could kill this man. He knew it. Yet why kill him? Cain Brockman had come looking for him, had come because it was the code of the life he had lived and because the one anchor he had, his brother Abel, had pulled loose.
Suddenly, Kilkenny saw Cain Brockman as he had never seen him before, as a big man, simple and earnest, a man who had drifted along the darker trails because of some accident of fate, and whose one tie, his brother, had been cut loose. He saw him now as big, helpless, and rather lost. To kill Kilkenny was his only purpose in life--
Abruptly, Kilkenny dropped his hands away from his guns. "Cain," he said, "I'm not going to shoot it out with you. I'm not going to kill you. I'm not even goin' to try. Cain, there's no sense in you an' me shootin' it out. Not a mite."
"What d'you mean?" The big man's brow was furrowed, his eyes narrowed with thought as he tried to decide what deception was in this.
"I don't want to kill you, Cain. You an' your brother teamed up with the wrong crowd in Texas. Because of that, I had to kill him. You looked for me, an' I had to fight you an' whip you. I didn't want to then, an' I don't now.
"Cain, I owe somethin' to those people up there, the Hatfields an' the rest. They want homes out here. I've got a reason to fight for them. If I kill, it'll be for that. If I die, it'll be to keep their land for them. There's nothin' to gain for you or me by shootin' it out. Suppose you kill me? What will you do then?"
Cain hesitated, staring, puzzled.
"Why, ride out of here. And go back to Texas."
"An' then?"
"Go to ridin', I guess."
"Maybe, for a while. Then some hombre'll come along an' you'll rustle a few cows. Then you'll rob a stage, an' one time they'll get you like they got Sam Bass. You'll get shot down or you'll hang.
"I'm not goin' to shoot you, Cain. An' you're too good a man to draw iron on a man who won't shoot! You're a good man, Cain. Just a good man on the wrong trail. You've got too much good stuff in you to die the way you'll die."
Cain Brockman stared at him, and in the flickering candlelight, Kilkenny waited. He was afraid for the first time, afraid his words would fail and the big man would go for his gun. He didn't want to kill him, and he knew that his own gunman's instinct would make him draw if Cain went for a gun.
Cain Brockman stood stock-still in the center of the room, and then he lifted a hand to his face and pawed at his grizzled chin.
"Well, I'll be-" he muttered. "I'll be eternally-"
He shook his head, turned unsteadily, and lurched into the darkness toward the door.
Chapter XVIII
Disaster Stalks
Kilkenny stepped back and wiped the sweat from his brow. Nita crossed the room to him, her face radiant with relief.
"Oh, Lance!" she exclaimed. "That was wonderful! Wonderful!"
Kilkenny grinned dazedly. "It was awful- just plain awful."
He glanced around. "What's happened here? Where's Brigo?"
"He's in my room, Lance," Nita s
aid quickly.
"I was going to tell you, but Brockman came. He's hurt, very badly."
"Brigo? Hurt?" It seemed impossible. "What happened?"
"It was those two gunmen of Hale's. Cub sent them here after me. Brigo met them right here, and they shot it out. He killed both Dunn and Ravitz, but he was hit three times, once through the body."
"What happened to the Mecca? What happened in town?"
"That was before Dunn and Ravitz came. Some miners were in the Mecca, and they were all drinking. A miner had some words with a Hale gunman about the fight and about the nesters. The miner spoke very loudly, and I guess he said what he thought about Hale.
"The gunman reached for a gun, and the miner hit him with a bottle, and it was awful. It was a regular battle. Miners against the Hale hands, and it was bloody and terrible.
"Some of the Hale riders liked your fight and your attitude, and they had quit. The miners drove the others out of the Mecca and burned it to the ground. Then the miners and the Hale riders fought all up and down the streets. But no one was killed. Nobody used a gun then. I guess all of them were afraid what might happen."
"And the miners?" Kilkenny asked quickly.
"They mounted up and got into wagons and rode out of town on the way back to their claims. It was like a ghost town then. Nobody stirred on the streets. They are littered with bot- ties, broken windows, and clubs. Then everything was quiet until Dunn and Ravitz came."
"What about Hale? King Bill, I mean?"
"We've only heard rumors. Some of the cowhands who quit stopped by here to get drinks. They said that Hale acts like a man who'd lost his mind. He had been here after the fight, before he went home. He asked me to marry him, and I refused. He said he would take me, and I told him Brigo would kill him if he tried. Then he went away. It was afterward that Cub sent the gunmen after me. He wanted me for himself.
"Something has happened to Hale. He doesn't even look like the same man. You won fifteen thousand dollars from him, and he paid you. He lost money to the miners, too, and to Cain Brockman. It hit him hard. He's a man who has always won, always had things his own way. He isn't used to being thwarted, isn't used to adversity, and he can't take it.
"Then before he left, Halloran told him he would have to let the law decide about the nesters, and Hale declared that he was the law. Halloran told him he would find out he was not and that if he had ordered the killing of Dick Moffitt, he would hang."
"And then?"
"He seemed broken. He just seemed to go to pieces. I think he had ruled here these past ten years and that he actually believed he was king, that he had the power and that nothing could win against him. Everything had gone just as he wanted until you came along."
"You mean," Kilkenny said dryly, "until he tried to turn some good Americans out of their homes."
"Well, anyway, you'd managed to get food from here right under his nose. Then when the attempt along the Blazer trail was tried, and he practically wiped your men out, he was supremely confident. But his attack on the cup failed.
"What really did it all was your defeat of Turner, and at the moment when he had finished paying off, he was told for the first time of the death of Sodermann at Blazer.
"Then some of the cowhands who quit took the opportunity to drive off almost a thousand head of cattle. These defeats and what Halloran told him have completely demoralized the man."
"What about Cub?"
"He's wild. He hated you, and he was furious that some of the men quit. He doesn't care about Halloran, for he's completely lawless. He's taken a dozen of the toughest men and gone after the stolen cattle."
"Good! That means we have time." Kilkenny took her by the arms. "Nita, you can't stay here. He might just come back. You must go to the cup and send Price Dixon down here. He can do something for Brigo. Tell him to get here as fast as he can. And you'll be safe there."
"But you?" Nita protested.
He smiled gently and put his hand on her head. "Don't worry about me, Nita. I've lived this way for years. I'll do what I can for Jaime. But hurry."
She hesitated only an instant. Then, suddenly on tiptoe, she kissed him lightly on the lips and turned toward the door.
"Just take my horse," he said. "It'll be quicker. The little gray. Give him his head and he'll go right back to the cup. I got him from Parson Hatfield."
Nita was gone.
Kilkenny turned swiftly and took a quick look around the darkened room. Then he walked through the door and over to the bed where Brigo lay.
The big Yaqui was asleep. He was breathing deeply, and his face was pale. When Kilkenny laid a hand on his brow, it was hot to the touch. Yet he was resting and was better left alone.
Kilkenny walked back into the main room and checked his guns by the candles. Then he got Brigo's guns, reloaded them, and hunted around. He found two more rifles, a double- barrelled shotgun and many shells, and two more pistols. He loaded them all and placed the pistols in a neat row on the bar. One he thrust into his waistband, leaving his own guns in their holsters.
Then he doused the candles and sat down in Brigo's chair by the door. It would be a long time until morning.
Twice during the long hours he got up and paced restlessly about the great room, staring out into the vague dimness of the night at the ghostly street. It was deathly still. Once, something struck a bottle, and he was out of his chair, gun in hand. But when he tiptoed to the window, he saw it was merely a lonely burro wandering aimlessly in the dead street.
Toward morning he slept a little, only restlessly and in snatches, every nerve alert for trouble or some sound that would warn of danger. When it was growing gray in the street, he went in to look at the wounded man. Brigo had opened his eyes and was lying there. He looked feverish. Kilkenny changed the dressing on the wound after bathing it and then checked the two flesh wounds.
"Serior? Is it bad?" Brigo asked, turning his big black eyes toward Kilkenny.
"Not very. You lie still. Dixon is coming down."
"Dixon?" Brigo was puzzled.
"Yeah, he used to be a doctor. Good, too."
"A strange man." Sudden alarm came into Brigo's eyes. "And the senorita?"
"I sent her to the cup, to the Hatfields. She'll be safe there."
"Bueno. Cub, he has not come?"
"No. You'd better rest and lay off the talk. Don't worry if they come. I've got plenty of guns."
He put the water bucket close by the bed, and a tin cup on the table. Then he went out into the saloon.
In the gray light of dawn it looked garish and tawdry. Empty glasses lay about, and scattered poker chips. Idly, he began to straighten things up a little. Then, after making a round of the windows, he went to the kitchen and started a fire. Then he put on water for coffee.
Cub Hale would come. It might take him a few hours or a few days to find the herd. He might grow impatient and return here first. He would believe Nita was still here, and his gunmen had not returned.
Or he might send some men. Nita would not go over the trail as fast as he or the Hatfields. If all was well at the cup, the earliest Price could get here would be midday.
No one moved in the street. The gray dawn made it look strange and lonely in its emptiness. Somewhere, behind one of the houses, he heard the squeaking of a pump handle and then the clatter of a tin pail. His eyelids drooped and he felt very tired. He shook himself awake and walked to the kitchen. The water was ready, so he made coffee, strong and black.
Brigo was awake when he came in and the big man took the coffee gratefully."Bueno" he said.
Kilkenny noticed the man had somehow managed to reach his gun belt and had his guns on the table.
"Any pain?" he asked.
Brigo shrugged, and after a look at him, Kilkenny walked out. Out in the main room of the saloon, he looked thoughtfully around. Then he searched until he found a hammer and nails. Getting some loose lumber from the back room, he nailed boards over the windows, leaving only a narrow space as a
loophole from which each side of the building might be observed. Then he prepared breakfast.
The work on breakfast showed him how dangerously short of food they were. He thrust his head in the door and saw Brigo's eyes open.
"We're short of grub an' might have to stand a siege. I'm goin' down to Leathers' store."
The street was empty when he peered out of the door. He took a step out onto the porch. One would have thought the town was deserted. There was no sound now. Even the squeaky pump was still. He stepped down into the street and walked along slowly, little puffs of dust rising at every step. Then he went up on the boardwalk. There was still no sign of life.
The door of Leathers' store was closed. He rattled the knob, and there was no response. Without further hesitation he put his shoulder to the door, picked up on the knob and shoved. It held, but then he set himself and lunged. The lock burst and the door swung inward. Almost instantly, Leathers appeared from the back of the store.
"Here!" he exclaimed angrily. "You can't do this!"
"When I rattled the door you should have opened it," Kilkenny said quietly. "I need some supplies."
"I told you once I couldn't sell to you," Leathers protested.
Kilkenny looked at him with disgust. "You're a yellow-belly, Leathers," he said quietly. "Why did you ever come west? You're built for a neat little civilized community where you can knuckle under to authority and crawl every time somebody looks at you. We don't like that in the West."
He picked up a slab of bacon and thrust it into a sack, and then he began piling more groceries into the burlap sack, until it was full. He took out some money and dropped it on the counter. He turned then to go. Leathers stood watching him angrily.
"Hale will get you for this," he snapped out.
Kilkenny turned patiently. "Leathers, you're a fool. Can't you realize that Hale is finished? That whole setup is finished-and you sided with them, so you're finished.
"You're the kind that always has to bow to authority. You think money is everything and power is everything. You've spent your life living in the shadow and cringing before bigger men. A good part of it's due to that sanctimonious wife of yours. If King Bill smiled at her she walked in a daze for hours. It's because she's a snob and you're a weakling.
the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986) Page 36