“She’s beautiful. I saw her once on the street.”
“Yes, she is, and she has an excellent mind. Very clear thinker.” He picked up his hat. “Sally you’ve a good mind, too. Don’t let it go to seed. A brain is only as good as you give it a chance to be, and just as important to a woman as to a man.”
Saul looked up as they entered the house. He indicated the two strangers. “Wilson an’ Miller, both burned out. They killed Wilson’s partner. Shot him down when he went to rope a horse.”
Miller was a stocky, solid-looking man, unshaved for several days. His beard was black and his eyes also. “Hi,” he said. “I’ve seen you before.”
“I’ve been places before,” Trent replied mildly. This was it. He could tell by the expression in Miller’s eyes.
“I’d have known you even if it wasn’t for that big fellow down in Cedar.”
“What big fellow?” Trent asked.
“Bigger’n you. He rode in about sundown yesterday askin’ about a man fittin’ your description. Wants to find you pretty bad.”
“Flat face? Deep scar over one eye?”
“That’s him! Looks like he’s been in a lot of fights, and bad ones.”
“He was in one that I know of. That one was all he needed.”
Cain Brockman!
Even before he heard from Lee Hall he had known this moment would come sooner or later. All that was almost two years ago now, but Cain wasn’t a man who was apt to forget. He had been one of a hard-riding, fast-shooting pair, the Brockman twins, widely notorious on both sides of the border. In a fight down in the Live Oak country Trent had killed Abel Brockman, and later, in a hand-to-hand fight, had whipped Cain into a staggering, punch-drunk hulk. And now Cain was here, hunting him down. And Cain Brockman was a good man with a gun.
As if it were not enough to have King Bill Hale on his hands!
Parson Hatfield sat staring at Trent. “You say you know this man, Miller. I’d like to, my ownself!”
“The name,” Trent said slowly, “is Lance Kilkenny.”
“Kilkenny?” Bartram dropped his plate, startled. “You’re Kilkenny?”
“I am,” he replied, “although the reputation that goes with it is not one I’ve tried for.”
Turning, he walked outside and across the clearing. He did not want to talk about being Kilkenny nor to answer the questions that might be asked. While he was gone, they could talk if they wished, and there were stories enough, most of them untrue.
Whenever the names of gunfighters were mentioned, his was sure to come up. John Wesley Hardin, Wild Bill Hickok, Billy Brooks, Cullen Baker, Bill Longley, Farmer Peel, John Bull, Bat Masterson, Luke Short, Long-Haired Jim Courtright . . . there was a legion of them, some alive and some dead.
Most of them followed the boom towns; some were gamblers and law officers combined, like the Earps; some had inflated reputations, like John Ringo, whose reputation was great when stories were told but hard to pin down when it came to names, dates, and places.
Ringo had been involved in the Mason County War in Texas and had served time in prison for it, had been involved in the killing of the Haslett brothers, storekeepers at Huachita, New Mexico, and in various robberies and ambushes, the killing of a man in a saloon who ordered beer when Ringo wanted him to drink whiskey (the man was unarmed), and other such incidents. It is very likely that had he stuck to his family name of Ringgold he might never have been heard of, but the name Ringo had a sound to it. And too bad, too, Kilkenny reflected, for he came of a good family.
Cain Brockman was here. The thought made him suddenly weary. It meant that sooner or later he must shoot it out with Cain. In his reluctance to face a shoot-out with Cain Brockman there was more than his dislike of killing. He had whipped Cain with his hands, and he had killed Abel when the latter was trying to kill him. It should be enough.
Moreover, he had always felt that Cain Brockman, good as he was with a gun, might never have gotten into trouble had it not been for Abel. Left to himself, Cain was a hard-working man and a capable cowhand or trail driver. Without doubt he was hunting Kilkenny because he believed it his duty to avenge his brother.
If there was to be any killing here . . . His mind skipped past Dunn and Ravitz and centered on Cub Hale.
It was possible that Cub Hale was the evil genius behind all the trouble in this section of the country. Arrogant and self-loving as his father might be, Kilkenny doubted there was viciousness in the man. Except, he thought ruefully, when he was in a fight.
What would King Bill Hale do next? Without doubt the beating he had taken from Kilkenny had hurt his pride, and he might simply withdraw. This, Kilkenny did not believe. No, it was more likely that he would find some way of striking back.
It was not only the beating which would rankle, but the fact that the nesters he had sought to drive out had fought back and had driven off his men. Then the man called Trent or someone had come into Cedar and secured a large amount of supplies after he had ordered them refused.
The power of any man or any nation is founded largely on the belief of others in that power. To maintain leadership, Hale must win victories, and now on three occasions he had been defeated or set back. The answer seemed plain. Hale must do something to win back what prestige he might have lost. But what would he do?
Despite the success of the nesters, Hale was still very much in the driver’s seat. He was also in possession of all or most of the facts. He would know how many men they had, and he could make a fair estimate of the food required to supply them.
Hale could, if he were so minded, just withdraw his forces, put a strong guard across the trail to Blazer, and sit tight. Starvation would sooner or later put an end to resistance. Or he could attack again with greater force.
Kilkenny—and it seemed strange to be thinking of himself as Kilkenny again, he had used the name of Trent for so long—did not believe in the all-out strike. By now Hale understood that the Hatfields and those with them were strongly entrenched, and win or lose, he would lose more men than he could afford.
There was no good route from the Hatfields’ to Blazer. There was a trail for riders, at best, and that one could be blocked off. Moreover, he had men of his own in Blazer and owned the livery stable there.
His thoughts turned to the Smoky Desert, which was a purely local name used only by the nesters themselves and picked up from an Indian who had called it that on one occasion. He refused to believe it could not be passed. In his time he had covered a lot of country, and there was always a way . . . or there always had been.
O’Hara walked out to where he stood. “Miller and Wilson want to try to get to Bazer. What d’ you think of it?”
“Not much. I want to try, but I want to cross the rough country. I believe there’s a trail out there that’s been lost, but if we try the other route, Hale will be waiting for us, going and coming.”
“Wilson said he tried the Smoky Desert route. Says it can’t be done. There are deep canyons out there, and miles of bare rock.”
Jackson Hight, Miller, and Wilson came over to him. “We’ve been talking it over, and we believe if we cut into the trail to Blazer this far up that it won’t be watched. We think we can make it.”
“It’s up to you,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t send a man over that trail, but if you want to tackle it, you can.”
He paused, looking down the slope through the trees. “The trouble is that Hale has many men and we have but few, and we can’t afford to lose even one.
“I’d advise against it, and I think Hale will be waiting for you.”
“This far from town?” Miller protested.
“One man can patrol a long stretch of that trail and just send a signal back. Hale is thorough, and you can bet he won’t miss a trick.”
He knew how they felt. None of them liked being cooped up here, waiting for Hale to make his move. Each had the desire to be doing, to be striking out.
“Go if you like,” he said, “but go prepa
red to fight. They’ll be waiting for you.”
At midnight the wagon pulled out of the Cup. Miller was driving, with Wilson, Hight, and Lije Hatfield riding escort. Kilkenny was there to watch them go, and then he returned to his bed under the trees to sleep.
Twice during the night he awakened with a start, to lie listening for the distant sound of shots, but heard nothing.
At daybreak he was up. Sally and Ma Hatfield were making breakfast, and two of the younger girls were helping. Nobody talked; all listened from time to time at the door or near one of the open windows. They heard nothing.
“Maybe they got through,” Sally suggested.
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
When he had finished eating, he saddled up and rode out of the Cup. The Parson was at the entrance, and he looked up at him. “You be careful, Kilkenny.”
“I will.” He gestured down the trail. “I am not going far. I just want to read the sign.”
He followed the dim trail of the wagon past the Moffit cabin to the Blazer trail. As he rode, he stopped frequently to listen. So far, the wagon was not followed, nor did he see any evidence that it had been seen.
Lije and Hight had been riding well ahead of the wagon, often as much as a half-mile ahead. Several times he saw where they had paused to wait for the wagon to come up to them, and once they had stood talking for some time before moving on.
Had they seen something? Heard something?
Suddenly the hills seemed to fall away before him, and he sat his horse looking over a vast area of broken hills, canyons, folded rock, sheer rims, shattered along the top, its rock falling to long talus slopes below. The dim trail led down from where he waited, and disappeared into a fold of the hills.
There were no tracks, so that meant that somebody, probably Lije, had thought of leaving none. Blazer was not far, yet by the route they had taken it was doubtful that a wagon could make ten miles in a day, and every day on the trail increased the danger of attack.
There was nothing to be gained by following them. He turned his mount, a sturdy black, and started back to the Cup. On a sudden whim he turned off and rode through the trees by a devious route to the ledge from which he could look over what was called the Smoky Desert.
Actually, it was not a desert in the usual sense, and much of the time it was without the dust or haze by which it had won its name. Far below he could see the remains of a ruined wagon—a few boards and a wheel; there seemed to be another half-buried in the sand.
He rode slowly along the rim, looking for a way down. If some way could be found from where he now sat his horse, it would shorten the distance by half, for Blazer must be almost straight across the rough country. Most of the way the rim was a sheer drop for anywhere from sixty to a couple of hundred feet, and in every case that drop ended in a steep talus slope. These cliffs and canyons that lay farther out had caused the road to Blazer to swing in a wide semicircle, but the Indians said there had been a way, and he had learned to believe Indians when they said something like that. So he rode carefully, studying the lay of the land.
At places he got down from his horse and walked along, the horse following. Yet search as he might, it was almost noon before he found anything that resembled a way down.
It was scarcely three feet wide, so he found a place where the cedars cast some shade and tied his horse there. Taking his Winchester, he followed what seemed to be a path down through some great, tilted slabs of rock. The trail, if such it was, carried him out to the very edge, and when it seemed his next step must be into space, the trail turned sharply right along the very face of the cliff.
He hesitated, taking off his hat and mopping his brow. The path seemed to lead right along the face of the cliff, but was at times almost broken away where the edge had crumbled or been knocked off by a falling boulder. One thing was certain. This was no way to bring a wagon or even a horse. Yet he walked on, edging along the sheer face, working his way slowly down.
The end was abrupt. The trail simply stopped. An hour of walking had brought him to a dead end. If in some prehistoric time this had indeed been a trail, it had long since ceased to be one.
He had turned carefully to start back when his eyes caught something half-buried in the sand below. It was a wagon wheel, perhaps from the same wagon he had seen earlier.
There were vague indications of something that might at one time have been a road, yet he could see little of it, for it vanished under the bulge of the cliff. He drew back in a cold sweat.
It was a good three hundred feet to the bottom, and obviously someone at some time had had a wagon down there. But how had he gotten it there?
Had the shelf upon which the road had run broken off in a slide? Or an earthquake? Quakes were not infrequent, for he had experienced one minor shake since his arrival, and had heard of others from the old Indian who had told him of the way across toward Blazer.
Taking a point of black rock for a landmark, he retraced his steps. At once he realized that in his enthusiasm he had come farther than he expected, and also that the trail was much harder when one was climbing back up. By the time he reached his horse, he was tired, dead tired. He had walked about six miles, going and coming, and his boots were built for riding, not walking.
Yet there was a way down there, and there could be a way across the rough country between.
It was up to him to find it.
CHAPTER 9
WHEN KILKENNY RODE into the Cup that night, Parson Hatfield looked up from the rifle he was cleaning. “Howdy, son! You look about done in!”
He swung down and stood for a moment beside his horse. He was dead tired, and his shirt, which had been soaked with sweat, now felt stiff and uncomfortable. For the first time he wondered if they really could win. Without food they were helpless, and he had no faith in the success of the few who had gone with the wagon. If they made it through without losing somebody, they would have to have more luck than a man is allowed.
King Bill Hale simply had too many guns, too much on his side. And without food and more ammunition, they could neither escape nor continue to resist. Including those who had gone with the wagon, there were fourteen men, six women, and nine children to feed here. It was too many.
That night they were on short rations. There was no complaint. Only on the faces of those women who had men gone with the wagon could he see any worry. And they had reason.
“Any sign from Hale?” he asked.
“He’s got men out in the rocks,” O’Hara said. “They aren’t trying to shoot anybody. They’re just a-watchin’. But they are there, all right.”
“I doubt if he will try anything now until after the celebration,” Bartram said. “He’s planning on making a lot of friends with that affair, and he’s invited some outsiders in. I think the last thing he would want right now is trouble.”
Jesse Hatfield pushed back his torn felt hat. “I taken me a ride today. Done slipped out through the bresh and I got clean to Cedar ’thout bein’ seen. I edged up close to town an’ I could see a lot of work bein’ carried on.
“They’ve built a reg’lar fightin’ ring out in front of the livery stable near the hoss corral. Ropes an’ everything. Lots of talk about Tombull Turner and whoever will fight him.”
Kilkenny listened with only half his attention. He was remembering all he had seen that day; rested a little, with a few cold drinks of water and a good meal in him, he was having second thoughts. The problem nagged at him, and he had a distaste for leaving any task unfinished. He had set out to find a way to Blazer, and he did not wish to give up. After all, that wagon was down there, and it had no wings.
His thoughts were going along the rim, searching at every possible angle, trying for a way down. That old Indian, now—just what had he told him?
“This Dan Cooper was there,” Jesse Hatfield was saying, “an’ he was doin’ a lot of talkin’. He said that Turner hadn’t been brought here by accident, that he was here for just one reason. To whip Kilkenny!”
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br /> “Did he actually use that name?” Kilkenny’s attention was arrested. “Do they know who I am?”
“He said Trent. I don’t reckon they know.”
Tombull Turner brought in to beat him? Kilkenny doubted it. In the first place, he was no prizefighter and had no intention of fighting anyone. He remembered the bullet head, the knotted cauliflower ears, the flat nose, and the hard, battered face of the man.
Tombull was a fighter, and what was more, he was a brute. He was an American who had fought much in the prize rings of England. He had met Joe Goss and Paddy Ryan, and he was good. Of course, he did swing too wide with his left.
Long ago, when Kilkenny had worked out with Jem Mace, one of the first men to bring science to the game, Jem had taught him to watch a man for faults. “We all have habits,” he said, “me an’ you as well as the others. Watch for the way a man moves, throws his punches, how he reacts when hit, how he advances, retreats, and sidesteps. Nobody does everything right.”
Dan Cooper was indulging in idle speculation, no more. Trent was not in Cedar, and not likely to be, and with matters as they were, there was no communication between them.
Conversation died out, and the men sat still, smoking or simply daydreaming, or seeming to be. What they were all thinking of, Kilkenny knew, was that wagon on the road to Blazer.
They would have to rest soon. Rest the horses, no matter how much they wished to go on. Hours out on the road with no chance of support from anyone if trouble developed. They were men alone, isolated, cut off.
The food and ammunition were necessary, but four men were out there, four of their own, men who had shared their work, their trials, and some of them had even come west with them over the long trail from Kentucky or Missouri. Lije Hatfield was among them, and knowing the family, Kilkenny realized that if he were killed no Hatfield would rest until those responsible had paid the price for his death.
Knowing the route, he could picture the wagon rolling along over the rough, rocky way. Never a good trail, and used but rarely, there was no chance to go quickly. And they must have horsemen out to front and rear, watching, hoping, fearing.
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