“I’m genuinely curious about the man now,” Wallace said. “He must be quite a fighter.”
“Turner will kill him,” Hale said irritably.
Cain Brockman reached in his pocket. “What odds are you givin’?”
Hale threw Brockman an angry look, but Cain was not awed. “I ain’t one of your outfit, Mr. Hale, and I’m driftin’ on after this here’s over. I got five hundred on Trent at the odds.”
Wallace glanced at Nita. “You run a gambling house. What odds would you give?”
“We will not be taking bets on the fight,” she replied, “although we would be willing to hold stakes. Turner is a skilled professional who has fought many of the best. Trent is at best an amateur. He will be outweighed by at least thirty pounds. The odds should be ten to one, but I would say four to one.”
“That seems fair,” Halloran commented.
“I got five hundred at that price,” Brockman said. “Five hundred in gold.”
“I’ll take it!” Cub said.
Nita Riordan looked up at Brockman. “Will you ask Price to step over here? He’ll record the bet and we will hold stakes.”
Hale turned his back to the room and filled his glass. He was profoundly irritated. The last thing he wanted was that man Trent coming into town now, fight or no fight, yet he did not wish to throw his weight around in the presence of Halloran and Wallace. He needed them too much. If he could get the territory to ratify, in one way or another, his claim to the land he was holding, many of his problems would be settled. Before any further discussion came up, he would be in complete possession and he could get some of his hands to file on claims that he could then buy from them.
This was wild land, grazing land, and there were millions of acres unclaimed, largely unwanted. It was coming into the possession of various men by a variety of means, and many of their claims would not stand in court, but for the time being they had possession. With the cattle business what it was, and beef prices in the mining camps what they were, a man could double and even triple his money in three or four years.
Halloran sat back in his chair and bit the end from a cigar. “Well, that’s a relief! We will at least have our fight, Hale, and we’re lucky to have this man so close by.” He glanced at Hale again. “I take it you don’t like him?”
“I do not,” Hale said flatly.
THE CROWDS STARTED coming into Cedar before daylight. There were miners from Silver City, a contingent from Mountain City, and even one from Florence. They camped outside of town, filled the hotels, crowded the bars. The gold camps had been abandoned for the day, for entertainment of any kind was scarce, and an excuse to come to town and let off some steam was sorely needed.
There was much talk around town. Turner was a known man, Trent was not. The odds mounted and Jaime Brigo got his money down at six to one.
So far as Lance knew, only three people in town knew him as Kilkenny. Perhaps four. And that was the way he wanted it.
He knew what he had to do, and he knew that once he spoke to Halloran, the man would listen. He had that to tell him which would grip his attention.
Kilkenny rode into town when the sun was high. For over an hour he had been lying out in the hills watching the movements through his glasses. He was sure that King Bill would avoid trouble today. There were too many visitors, too many people who lived beyond his control. He would be wanting to make the best impression as what he believed himself to be—an honest, upright citizen.
Brigo had ridden into the Cup with Nita’s message and the story of Cain Brockman’s bet. Kilkenny was to report to John Bartlett in the Crystal Palace.
Kilkenny rode into town with Parson Hatfield and Quince. Steve Runyon and O’Hara had come in more than an hour before, and O’Hara had immediately fallen in with several old friends from the mines in Silver City, several Irish miners with whom he had worked laying track for the Central Pacific. Only a few of the Hale riders knew any of the hill men by sight.
Pushing through the batwing doors, Kilkenny took in the big room at a glance, a skill developed from long practice and an awareness that enemies might be anywhere. The place was crowded and all the games going full blast.
Nita Riordan was known as a decent woman, but she was also beautiful, and in a hard land with too little of feminine grace or beauty, many men came just to look. She had an easy, friendly way, permitted no liberties, but had a word for everyone. She had developed an excellent memory and knew very well how people liked to be remembered, so here and there she would stop to ask a man how his claim was doing, how deep he had gone, or how the drought was affecting the range. Here and there she had a word about a favored horse, and those men whose families she knew of were always asked about them.
In all of this, both Price Dixon and Jaime Brigo had been of help, for both were good listeners and reported to her what they had heard. The bartenders passed through her office each evening, relating what they had heard.
She was in no sense wishing to pry, but she had learned from her father, and from observation since, that the West was a lonely place. Many men had no one, others had left families back East until they could establish themselves; men more often than not rode alone, worked alone, and lived alone, doing their own cooking. A friendly word and a few minutes of conversation with someone who seemed interested outdid all the glitter and the spangles that some other places tried to provide.
Kilkenny glimpsed Brigo across the room, tilted back in his usual chair. Their eyes met in brief acknowledgment, and then Kilkenny saw Price Dixon. He was dealing cards at a nearby table.
There was a scarcely perceptible warning in Dixon’s eyes and a slight movement of the head toward the bar. Kilkenny felt a chill.
Cain Brockman was at the bar, a huge man in plaid pants, boots with Mexican spurs, a black coat, red vest, and a black flat-brimmed hat like the one he himself wore. Cain was watching him.
Almost instinctively men sensed the sudden tension. In a land and a time when gunfights exploded without warning, men had learned to sense impending trouble and get out of the way. Eyes began to lift, seeing the tall, broad-shouldered man who had entered and the huge figure of the man in the red vest at the bar.
Kilkenny walked between the tables to the bar. A deadly hush gripped the room. Already Brockman’s statement that he had come to town to kill the man called Trent was well known, and this newcomer must be the man.
Cain’s broad, strong-boned face still carried the scars of their fight, and Kilkenny was well aware that the man was dangerous as a wounded grizzly. That he had whipped him once meant nothing, for Cain was a fighter and would fight again. Moreover, the big man was one of the best men with a gun Kilkenny had ever seen.
Through narrowed eyes Brockman watched Kilkenny come across the room toward him, noting the ease and the grace of the man. Unseen, Nita Riordan had come into the room, watching Kilkenny as he approached Brockman.
“Been a long time, Cain,” Kilkenny said.
“Too long.”
“I hear you’ve come to town to kill me, Cain.” He spoke quietly, but in the deadly hush the words were heard distinctly in all parts of the room. “If we shoot it out, I’m going to kill you, Cain, but you’re a good man with a gun and you’ll surely get some lead into me.
“I’ve come to ask you to hold off. As you may have heard, I’m supposed to fight Tombull Turner. That’s going to be trouble enough without carrying a craw full of lead when I do it. So how about a truce until the fight’s over?”
Cain hesitated. His small gray eyes were chill and cold, but there came into them a light of reluctant admiration. A mild humor came over his face and he said, “I can wait. Let it never be said that Cain Brockman broke up a good fight. Besides,” he added, “I’ve got money on you. Nobody knows more about your fightin’ ability than me.”
“It’s a deal, then? Until after the fight?” Kilkenny held out his hand.
“It’s a deal,” Cain agreed and they shook.
Somebody
cheered, and then they all did. Flushed and a little embarrassed by the sudden attention, Brockman turned his back on the crowd and tossed off his drink.
Kilkenny turned and walked back to Price Dixon, who was now standing near his table with a big red-headed man.
He was nearing them when the doors pushed open and King Bill Hale entered, with Cub right behind him, and behind them the Gold Dust Twins, Dunn and Ravitz.
Ignoring them, Kilkenny walked up to Bartlett. “I’m Trent,” he said.
“Pleasure.” Bartlett’s cool eyes took in the wide shoulders and the easy movements and approved. “You know me?”
“I’ve seen you several times. In New Orleans and in Abilene.”
“Then you’ve seen Turner fight?” Bartlett asked quickly.
“Yes, I’ve seen him. He’s good.”
“And you’re not worried? He nearly killed Tom Hanlon.”
Kilkenny smiled. “And who was Hanlon? A big chunk of beef so slow he couldn’t get out of his tracks.”
“Then you will actually fight Turner?” Bartlett was surprised, but pleased.
“Fight him? I’m going to whip him!”
“That’s the way to talk!” A black-bearded miner shoved himself close. “I’m sick of this Tombull Turner struttin’ around like he was cock of the walk. My money goes on Trent or whatever your name is.”
“Mine, too!” another miner said. “I’d rather you was a miner, but my money’s on you even if you are nursin’ cows!”
Kilkenny smiled at him. “Friend, I’ve swung a single or double jack in almost as many mines as you have, and dipped a pan in half the creeks in the country.”
Bartlett interposed. “Look, this fight is for a thousand dollars, winner-take-all, the money put up by Mr. Hale, here. But if you’d like to make a side bet . . .”
Kilkenny reached into his shirt pocket and took out a fat wad of bills. “I do want to bet,” he said, “and I understand that Mr. Hale is giving odds of four to one. I have five thousand dollars here.”
“That’s more than I can cover,” Bartlett said.
“It was my impression”—Kilkenny was purposely speaking a little louder—“that Hale was offering four-to-one odds and covering all bets.”
Hale was angered and embarrassed. He was not a gambling man and had no intention of betting on the fight, but he had been trapped into one bet and now he was being led into another; to back out now would look like welshing, and the story would go all over the country.
Moreover, if he did bet and Kilkenny won, then Hale would scarcely dare order him killed, because all would believe it was revenge for his losses. Hale was no fool and was quick to see he had been trapped; nor at the moment could he see any clear way out of it except, of course, that Turner would win.
The thought brought relief. Of course Turner would win! And he would win, and this man called Trent would lose, and if he made more trouble, it would seem that he was doing so purely out of malice.
“I’m calling you, Hale. Five thousand dollars at your own odds, four to one. Put up or shut up.”
Hale still hesitated, and all in the room were listening. Coldly furious, he started to speak, but Kilkenny spoke first.
“Backing down, Hale? Or don’t you believe Turner can whip me? Have you decided the man who whipped you on your own ground can whip Turner, too?”
“No!” Hale spoke angrily. “I’m covering your bet, and no fence-crawling nester can talk to me that way! Win or lose, when the fight is over, you get out! Out! Do you* hear me?”
A miner booed, and then the room did. Cub turned on them, his face white and angry. Seeing his face, Kilkenny had the sudden feeling that Cub Hale was insane. It was only a fleeting impression, but it left him cold and wary. He must be careful. Cub’s reactions might not be those of a normal man.
Partly it was that King Bill had been top dog ever since Cub could remember. He had carried himself like a king, had owned or possessed vast acreage, and everyone spoke to him with respect. Cub had grown up with a sense of his father’s unlimited power. His father’s, and hence his own, as his father’s surrogate.
Now that power had been challenged by men whom Cub saw as nothing more than the dirt beneath his feet.
When they were outside in the street, Parson Hatfield commented, “You made King Bill look mighty bad in there. You made some friends, too.”
“We made friends. That’s what’s important. We’ve got to make more friends, Parson. Don’t ever forget that the opinion of those people out there is what matters. People will tolerate such a man as Hale only so long, and if we get enough friends, we have a fighting chance.
“Hale can win only so long as he can make what he’s doing seem right. He’s painted our picture as rustlers and interlopers, people crowding on his land, although he never had claimed it and never explains how it came to be his.
“If it stopped right here and Hale had me killed or took my land, there would be a lot of questions asked, and Hale would have to come up with answers. We’ve got to make friends in the areas around Cedar, places Hale can’t touch. They’ll remember what I said today.
“We’ve got something going for us. We’re a few poor people bucking a powerful and a wealthy man. In this fight I am the underdog. I’m a cowhand and miner fighting a trained prizefighter with my fists, and a good part of that crowd is going to be with me. Some of them will be Hale’s own people.
“Whenever a man becomes so arrogant, even many of those who work for him and take his money will dislike him. They dare say nothing, but I’d bet a little money that some of his own people will be wanting me to win.”
O’Hara came up beside him. “We found a room where you can lie down an’ rest up a bit,” he said, “and you’d best do it. That fight may last for hours.
“Back in 1856 in Australia James Kelly and Jack Smith fought for six hours and fifteen minutes.”*
The room wasn’t much, but the bed was a good one. O’Hara drew the blinds and left the room, and Kilkenny pulled off his boots, hung his gun belts over the back of a chair, and stretched out. He knew he could not sleep, but he did.
CHAPTER 17
IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON when Lance Kilkenny walked down to the ring. The balconies of the Crystal Palace and the Mecca were crowded, as were the rooftops and the top of the corral fence. The intervening space had been filled with chairs right to the ringside. The miners from Silver City were there in full strength, and others had come down by stage from Florence and some neighboring mining towns.
The bunting-decorated booth near the ring was empty and two men guarded it to keep interlopers out.
Kilkenny climbed into the ring and stripped to the waist. He had no trunks or tights so was wearing a pair of buckskin breeches and moccasins that fitted snugly. On hand he had a pair of skintight gloves ready to put on as soon as they could be examined by the opposing seconds to ascertain that they were not weighted or doctored in any way.
O’Hara draped an Indian blanket over Kilkenny’s shoulders, and he sat down on the stool.
A roar from the gathered crowd told him that Tombull Turner was coming. Turner climbed through the ropes, never wasting a glance on Kilkenny. This was his business, and he was about to go about it. Who or what his opponent was made no difference. His job was to go out and get him with the least trouble possible.
“Lance?” It was Price Dixon. “I’ve had some experience as a handler, if you will trust a gambling man.”
“We’re all gamblers, more or less. I’d appreciate it, Price. O’Hara here knows a little, but he will be the first to tell you he’s had no experience.”
Kilkenny stood up to stretch his legs and look carefully around. Parson Hatfield and Runyon sat right behind his corner. Jesse and Saul Hatfield were, rifles in hand, one on the roof of the Palace, one the Mecca. Quince Hatfield sat behind Turner’s corner.
Suddenly the crowd parted and King Bill Hale came striding to his box, closely followed by Cub Hale with Wallace and Halloran. Behind
them were Dunn and Ravitz.
Almost at the same time Nita Riordan came from the Palace accompanied by Jaime Brigo, and they joined Hale in his booth, Brigo taking up a position behind it near the Gold Dust Twins.
John Bartlett walked across the ring to Kilkenny. “Look,” he said, “we haven’t been able to find a referee, and they’ve asked me. Now, I am associated with Turner, but I—”
“You’ve the reputation of being an honest man,” Kilkenny said, “an honest man in a game where there have been too few. So why not?”
“Good! Come to the center of the ring, then.”
Turner was thirty pounds heavier, taller, longer of arm. His arms and shoulders were heavy with muscle, almost too heavy for the kind of speed he would need, Kilkenny thought.
“London prize-ring rules,” Bartlett said. “When a man goes down, that’s the end of the round, whether he’s knocked down, thrown down, or falls down. No hitting below the belt, no eye-gouging.”
Tombull was big, and he was obviously in the best shape a man could be. His deltoid development was massive, his stomach was flat, his legs were columns of muscle.
Kilkenny was lean and dark. He had the strength of years of hard work with ax or rope, wrestling steers, riding wild broncs, felling timber, and using a crosscut saw. Actually he weighed two hundred pounds but was built so compactly that people regularly estimated his weight at twenty pounds less.
“All right,” Bartlett said, “go to your corners, then come to scratch and go to fighting. Any man who fails to toe the scratch at the beginning of a round loses.”
They turned away, and then Kilkenny stopped. “One thing, Bartlett, on your qualifications as a referee.”
Bartlett stopped, surprised. Turner stopped, too, turning half-around and frowning.
“What’s that?” Bartlett said sharply.
Kilkenny’s expression was innocent. “Can you count up to ten, sir? In a loud enough tone so that Turner will hear it, even though half-conscious? I want him to have every chance.”
Bartlett smiled, glancing at Turner. “Don’t worry about me. I always count loud!”
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