The Kilkenny Series Bundle

by Louis L'Amour

  Quince prodded the man with his rifle muzzle. “Move! Get those packs outside. Quick, now!”

  It was growing gray in the east when all the horses were packed. Bartram had been gone for some time and should be well along the trail by now. Quickly they hog-tied the two men and then Leathers, gagging all three. From his pocket Trent took money to pay for what they had taken and tucked it into Leathers’s pocket; then he released Leathers’s right hand long enough to sign the receipt.

  Saul started with the second batch of packhorses, and Quince mounted, rifle in hand. Trent picked up Leathers, and walking into the house, less quietly this time, placed him on the bed beside his wife. Elsa sighed heavily and turned in her sleep, but she did not awaken.

  Trent waited an instant, then tiptoed outside and stepped into the saddle. They walked their horses down the lane, turned past the corral and the shadow of two barns, and disappeared into the trees.

  “Leathers was scared,” Quince said, “but by the time his wife wakes up and cuts him loose, he’ll be sore as a boiled owl!”

  “There will be a chase,” Trent said, “so let’s let them get up on the trail with the packhorses.”

  At an opening in the trees he glimpsed Bartram several miles ahead and higher up the mountain. Bartram was a tough, wiry young farmer and woodsman who had spent three years convoying wagon trains over the Overland Trail before he came north to settle on his own place. He knew how to handle a pack train and showed it now.

  “You paid Leathers?”

  “Yes, I did. And I have his receipt.”

  Using every device they knew to cover their trail, they moved steadily into the mountains.

  Several times they paused to look back but saw no sign of pursuit. Trent got down from his horse and stretched. He doubted if anyone else knew this trail or would find it, and he hoped it would simply be assumed they had taken the regular road. Neither of the two tied-up men had seen the packhorses, and since the horses had been well to one side in the shadows, he doubted Leathers had. All there would be to see would be a confused pattern of hoof prints, and the immediate assumption might be that they had used a wagon. There were always plenty of wagon tracks on the road.

  Trent walked back and dusted a few handfuls of dirt to blur their tracks and scattered some leaves. Then they rode on. They were still several miles from the Hatfield place when they heard distant shots.

  Quince reined in. “They’ve attacked our place, Trent. Should we leave this to Saul and Bart and ride on in?”

  Trent considered it, then shook his head. “We will trust to your pa and the others. We will just take our time with this grub. It’s needed, and we daren’t lose it.”

  They started on. The occasional shooting was a relief, for obviously the place had not been taken. Trent was only a little worried. Nobody was going to tree an old he-coon like the Parson that quick.

  “Somebody comin’ up the trail,” Quince said. “Turned into it back yonder a ways.”

  “Trying to outflank the Parson,” Trent said. “Saul? You keep going, but watch out for the attackers. They are trying to scout a way around your place. We’ll handle this.”

  Saul wheeled his horse and started up the trail after the pack animals. Trent, taking a quick look around, led the way into a nest of boulders slightly above the trail. Riding up, they swung down and hid their mounts among the cedars. A good place for the horses and a good place to get away from if necessary.

  The riders were coming fast now. Something must have alerted them, or they were sure they had found a back way into the Hatfields’, which in fact they had.

  Waiting, behind the boulders, Winchester in hand, Trent could hear them coming. A hundred yards away they suddenly broke into sight around a bend of the trail.

  “Dust ’em!” Trent suggested, and fired.

  The two rifles went off with the same sound, and dust leaped up in front of the nearest horse. Startled, the horse reared up and turned halfway around. Trent hesitated, to note the effect of their shots, then aimed high and saw the sombrero of one of the riders go sailing into the brush. The men whipped their horses around and disappeared down the trail.

  Quince chuckled, then bit off a chew and tucked his plug of tobacco into his shirt pocket. “That will give them something to worry over!

  “Say!” he exclaimed suddenly. “What’ll you bet one o’ them ain’t shinnyin’ up amongst those rocks yonder?”

  There was a notch in the rocks, and they could see a boulder beyond, not four feet beyond, by the look of it. Quince lifted his Kentucky rifle and fired into the notch. There was a startled yell, then muttered curses. Quince chuckled.

  “They won’t try that again.” Quince glanced over at Trent. “But we got to get out of here.”

  “I know. You keep them under cover and I’ll ride around and get up yonder against the sky. Once I’m up there, I can drive them out and you come on up.”

  He was gone in an instant. Mounting, he rode down into an arroyo, working his way through the cedars until he could find a dim trail up into the tower of rocks overlooking the trail. It was a matter of minutes, and once in position, he left his mount and scrambled to a good position.

  Now he could see the two men below, and he opened fire. He had no desire to kill either man, just to drive them from their position. His first bullet spattered them with flakes of granite, and they went scrambling from their now-exposed position.

  Quince joined him a few minutes later. “They’ll be slow showing theirselves again,” Quince suggested. “We’ll be nigh to home before they do.”

  They reached the trail again and rode on up the steep switchback trail, following the tracks of the pack animals. When they had ridden a good four miles, they came upon Bartram with the eight packhorses.

  “Firing up ahead. Saul’s gone on up to scout the situation. I’m holding fast.”

  Low-voiced, Trent and Quince explained what had happened, and they waited for Saul. Occasionally they heard a shot. In a few minutes Saul came down through the trees.

  “Pa’s got ’em stopped outside the Cup. I think only one man of theirs is down. I could see him lyin’, all sprawled out. I reckon he’s the only one who got into the Cup, an’ you can be sure he ain’t goin’ out under his own power.”

  “Is there any way we can get these horses in?” Trent asked.

  Saul nodded. “If’n you all can keep ’em worried over there for a bit, we can sure enough take ’em in.”

  “Consider it done.” Trent fed shells into the magazine of his rifle. “When Quince and me open up on them, you boys hightail it in there. Then take shelter and cover us while we follow.”

  “Let’s go,” Saul said.

  Quince opened fire, and with a whoop Saul and Bartram started the horses. Only one shot was fired from the other side, and it was high. Quince fired, and then Trent. After that the horses had disappeared and all was quiet.

  The Hatfield place lay in a cuplike depression surrounded on three sides by high, rocky walls that leaned inward so there was no way to get atop them and fire down without risking a dangerous fall from the steep, smooth sloping rock atop the cliffs. On the other side there were scattered boulders.

  There were two openings in the cliffs, one at the back of the house, the other at the side where they now were. Emerging from a split in the rock, they must race across open ground to the protection of the rock-walled barn and rock corrals. The house lay behind them.

  Hale’s men were scattered among the boulders, but they had been stopped there by Parson Hatfield and O’Hara.

  From their present position they had two alternatives. They could make the break across the floor of the Cup, covered by fire from the house, or they could manage a flank attack on the men among the boulders.

  Not more than five acres lay in the bottom of the Cup, a spot not unlike Trent’s own, but farther down the mountain. There was here, as in his own place, a fine cold spring. However, if a rifleman could get up close to the front of those roc
ks, he could stop all movement in the bottom of the Cup. It was the weak spot of the stronghold.

  Those men had to be dislodged, and it could only be done from where Trent and Quince now were. Leaving their horses in a sheltered position, they edged forward, Indian-style, until they could look down into the nest of boulders. There were a half-dozen men there, and they could see but one of them. Then another moved forward, and instantly Quince fired.

  The man stumbled and fell. Got up, dragging a leg, and fell again, this time behind a boulder.

  Trent saw a boot projecting from behind a rock and let it have one. There was a yell, and the boot disappeared. Trent could see what was probably the remains of a heel still lying on the rust-red rock.

  Suddenly it dawned on the attackers that their position was no longer tenable, and as one man they fled. Quince put a shot among them to hurry them along, and Trent held his fire, watching.

  A few minutes later they were mounted, riding away. At least one man was cursing at the pain of a wounded leg.

  They waited, watching, but there was no further sound, no further movement.

  “Drove ’em off, I reckon,” Quince said, “but they’ll be back.”

  “That they will,” Trent agreed. “And we’ve got to get us a man out in those boulders or up here where he can cover them.”

  Quince spat. “Trent, you’re a good man, but you’re showin’ ’em mercy and they don’t deserve it.”

  “You’re right, and they don’t. Trouble is, Quince, every man of them is alive. He’s got his dreams, his hopes, his ambitions. Some of them have womenfolks who wait for them. A bullet is an end to all of it and I don’t like to use that bullet unless I must.”

  “I reckon you’re right, Trent, but they’re comin’ at us, we ain’t a-comin’ at them.”

  Trent got up and brushed off his pants. “When the time comes, I’ll do what needs to be done, Quince, don’t worry about that.

  “Right now I think some of those boys are ready to draw their time and ride out of here. It’s one thing to carry a gun and talk fight, it’s another when the lead starts to fly and you know it can be you.

  “Two of them are out of action, anyhow, and I think some of the others are having second thoughts. If it comes to that, I’ll have to go get Dunn and Ravitz myself.”

  Quince glanced at him. “You reckon you could? The two of them?”

  “I could, Quince. Indeed, I could.”

  “And Cub Hale?”

  Trent hesitated. “He’s another matter, another matter altogether.”

  CHAPTER 8

  WHEN HE THOUGHT about it, he realized he had never doubted his ability to beat another man. It was a part of his strength, he was sure. He was gifted with uncommon speed of hand, steadiness of nerve, and the ability to shoot instinctively. He sometimes aimed with a rifle, he never did with a six-gun. He just drew, pointed as he would with a finger, and fired.

  Yet he was intelligent enough to know that no matter how good a man can become, there is always, somewhere, a better. And he had a weakness, a weakness that Quince had sensed at once. He had compassion.

  It was a land and a time when gentlemen settled disputes with guns, just as they for centuries settled them with battleaxes, lances, or swords. It was a tradition, not peculiar to the West, but common the world over. Perhaps someday it would end, but it was here now.

  In Italy in one decade no less than 2,759 duels had been fought, most of them with swords and rapiers. It was also interesting to recall that while at least thirty of the duelists had been military men, twenty-nine were journalists, and the others a mixture of all types, but at least four had been members of Parliament.

  The Chevalier d’Andrieux had killed seventy-two men in duels, and it had been rumored that Alexander Keith McClung, a nephew of former Chief Justice Marshall, had killed over a hundred.

  The settling of disputes with weapons certainly was not confined to the West. Although some men had sought a reputation of skill with weapons, most of them had not, but had acquired their reputations simply because their skill—if not their intent—had given them victory.

  “Pa figures you for a man good with guns,” Quince said, “an’ Pa ain’t often wrong.”

  Did it show, then, as clearly as that? But of course. He himself could almost invariably spot a man who was dangerous, some because of uncommon skill, some because of some innate quality within them.

  Mounting, Trent and Quince rode side by side into the Cup and saw Parson and young Bartram come forth to meet them.

  “You surely got supplies,” Parson commented. “I don’t know how you done it.”

  “Oh, Leathers didn’t object too much. When I took him over to the store and showed him what we needed, why, he just laid it out, nice as you please. Most men can be right accommodating if they are instructed in the right way.”

  Quince grinned. “Trent taken that poor man right out of bed, never so much as woke his wife. I could almost have felt sorry for him.”

  “I’d like to be hiding somewhere to see what happens when he wakes up,” Bartram said. “Or when she wakes up.”

  Parson Hatfield was pleased, smiling through his handlebar mustache. “Well, I reckon we won the first round. Sure was a sight to see them punchers dust out o’ there when you boys opened up on ’em.”

  “Who was the man we saw on the ground?” Trent asked.

  “No-good renegade they called Indian Joe. He was no more Indian than you.” He chuckled. “I can’t say ‘no more than me,’ because I’ve got Injun blood. They call him Indian Joe, but he surely ain’t Injun, no matter what he is. He was a bad one, so when he wouldn’t stop comin’, O’Hara gave it to him, dead center.

  “That grub you brought in will sure come in handy, Trent, but you an’ me know it ain’t goin’ to last us long. We got a passel o’ folks here, and they be good eaters.”

  Parson seated himself on the doorstep. “We surely can’t go into Cedar and do that again. We’ve got to figure some other way.”

  “We need a few days,” Trent agreed. “And we’ve got to get to Blazer, there’s no two ways about it. I wish I knew what they were planning right now, because I—”

  “You ain’t been payin’ much mind,” Parson said. “You stay to yourself so much. If you was payin’ attention, you’d know what he’s about, and you’d know that we won’t be havin’ too much trouble these next two weeks.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “King Bill has got him a big celebration planned. A carnival like. He’s been in this here country ten years now, so he figures to pull off a big celebration.

  “They’re going to have horse races, footraces, horseshoe pitching for prizes, and there’s to be a prizefight. Hale is bringin’ in a bare-knuckle fighter called Tombull Turner. A big feller . . . good, they say.”

  “He is good. I’ve seen him fight. He’s big and strong and mean.” Trent thought about it. “Maybe that will give us the time we need.”

  He got up. “I’m going to get some sleep.” He touched his face gingerly. “I’m still sore.”

  “Color on your eye is fadin’,” Quince said.

  Trent studied his hands, still puffed and swollen from the pounding he’d given Hale. “It’s these that worry me, but they aren’t as sore and stiff as they were.”

  He unrolled his blanket in a place where the afternoon sun would not disturb him. It was early, but he hoped to sleep right on through, and was tired enough. He lay down on his blanket and stared up through the leaves.

  Tombull Turner! Hale certainly tried for the best. At least, the best in this part of the country, which meant anything west of the Mississippi and short of San Francisco.

  Then his thoughts shifted to the problem of getting to Blazer. Several times, from vantage points in the mountains he had studied the country to the west and south, seeking a possible route. He had good field glasses, a relic of his Civil War service, swapped for from a German officer who was returning to his own country. They
were excellent for the time, and far out in the rugged waste he had spotted what seemed to be a trail. Whether a game trail or Indian path, he knew not, but obviously a route used by someone, and long enough to have established a path. That meant the trail went somewhere, and he had learned the folly of leaving desert or mountain trails to begin his own, for often such routes were the only possible way through the mountains.

  It was nearly dusk when he awakened. He lay still, hands clasped behind his head, trying to assemble his thoughts about the forthcoming trip. Blazer was only a crossroads, one of those places born to die and leave only a few splintered boards and broken glass to mark its passing. Yet for the moment its existence was crucial.

  Walking to the spring, he drank long and deep, then bathed his face; it was feeling less sore, and his jaw worked more easily, some of the stiffness having left it.

  Sally brought him a rough towel with which he dried his face and hands; then, with the towel over his shoulder, he combed his hair, looking into a small piece of broken mirror nailed to a tree.

  “Two more men came in,” she said, “Tot Wilson, from down in the breaks near the Box Canyon, and Jody Miller, a neighbor of his’n.

  “Jody’s a Texas man. Used to ride the trail drives up to Kansas, and he’s a good man.”

  Trent glanced at her, eyes twinkling. “How good a man? You interested in him?”

  She blushed. “No, I am not! I . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Yes?”

  She blushed. “You’d better come and eat.” She paused. “I hear you’re sparkin’ that woman who runs the Palace, down to Cedar.”

  He smiled at her as he finished combing his hair, watching her in the mirror. “We’re old friends, Sally. I knew her long ago.”

  “Is she a good woman?”

  He nodded. “Yes, she is. She inherited a saloon down in Texas and had to run it or starve to death. She had helped with the accounts a long time before and knew a good deal about it. So she has done well.

  “Jaime Brigo owed her father a debt, so he appointed himself her bodyguard, and nobody wants any part of Jaime, so she gets along all right.”