Kilrone (1966)

by L'amour, Louis

  “Tonight,” Kilrone said. “There’s too much at stake.”

  The silence and the waiting brought on a broodin g feeling. Suddenly he wanted to get away from it all. He wanted to get away from the fighting, away from norther n Nevada, clear away from Denise and Frank Paddock , and everything connected with them. Frank was th e lucky one, having Denise. What good did it do a man t o keep moving from place to place, and never a place o f his own? Being around them had only intensified th e feeling.

  Of course he could not leave now. He owed it to to o many soldiers he had known, and to too many Indians.

  And he had to get Dave Sproul. Whatever else happened , Sproul must be exposed, defeated, driven fro m the western frontier. Too many men had died because o f him, both Indian and white.

  After that he would ride out again, yet even as he tol d himself this was what he would do, he knew it mean t only more riding. Somewhere, somehow he had misse d the boat. He had traveled, and he had seen much o f Europe and the United States, and he knew that here i n this far-western land was all he wanted of home.

  Well, not quite. It was all right to talk of riding free , of having a home wherever he hung his hat, but it di d not work out that way. With all that far horizons had t o offer, there was something that was missing. A ma n needed a woman … he needed someone to turn to i n the night, someone to share things with, someone t o whom he could say, “Look at that now!” So many time s he had seen the beautiful when there were no othe r eyes to share it with; too many times he had wished t o speak and to listen, and there had been only a horse an d a lonely campfire.

  He was no longer worried about Rybolt. The man wa s a good soldier, stern, but considerate of his men, aler t for trouble—a man careful when care was needed. Rybol t was in a secure position, and it would take man y more Indians than these to trouble him. And when th e attack broke in the north, if it did, it was unlikely thos e Indians would come south. They would ride east an d north toward the Bitterroots or the Beaverhead Mountains , and lose themselves there. A few might scatter int o the Steen Mountain country.

  Kilrone went to the gray horse, stripped off his gea r and let him roll, then rubbed him down with handfufi o f coarse grass. He let him drink from the trickle in th e bottom of the ravine, then saddled him again.

  There was only sporadic fire now. The Indians ha d lost their taste for it. They might make an attemp t during the night, but more likely toward dawn … i f they were still around. This was not an easy position t o attack. To approach from the ravine side was impossible , and on the other sides the charge must be uphil l and in the open.

  Kilrone drank coffee, chewed on some jerky, an d waited for darkness.

  Gus Rybolt came from the breastwork and dropped t o his haunches beside him. “You riding out?”

  Til have a look over at Cane Springs. If Sproul i s around hell be there.”

  “You’re sure about him? I always knew he was a crook, but I never figured he’d be dealing with th e Indians.”

  Before midnight, Kilrone led his horse from the ravine , shook hands with Rybolt, and then led the hors e away, keeping to the side of the knoll to leave no outlin e against the sky. Every few steps he paused to listen, bu t the night sounds were normal ones, and when he wa s out at least fifty yards and had found no trouble, h e turned at right angles and mounted the gray, ridin g toward Tony Creek.

  He crossed the creek and paused again to listen. He heard only the sounds of small animals stirring, and th e wind. Far off a coyote yapped irritably at the sky.

  Following the sandy bed of the stream, where wate r flowed only along one side, he rode on until he coul d smell the water at the springs and feel its coolness. He knew there were several good-size pools there much o f the time, and the stage station lay just north of them.

  Leaving the gray in a clump of brush, he went on u p to the buildings. There was a long, low-roofed structure , a shed, and a couple of pole corrals.

  He waited for several minutes, feeling of the night.

  Overhead the stars were out and, his eyes being accustome d to the darkness, he could see well enough, excep t for the deepest shadows under the trees or near th e station itself.

  There were no horses in the corral, but he believed h e detected a faint smell of smoke in the air. Moving wit h care, he crossed the yard and went along the side of th e corral.

  The place smeDed of trouble. Hesitating at the corne r of the corral,’ he listened again. The building seemed t o be empty. The shuttered windows showed no light, bu t the door stood slightly ajar. As he started to step forwar d something slipped under his boot and he caugh t himself. Curious, he crouched, feeling about with hi s fingers.

  Mud … on the bottom of his boot.

  Despite the rains of the past few days there was littl e mud anywhere around, for this was a dry, thirsty lan d that drank its water swiftly, or let it run off into th e sandy washes that carried it into the creeks. The are a around the stage station was hard and dry … but ther e had been mud when he passed one of the small pool s that lay behind him.

  Gently his fingers searched the ground. Near the corra l where the ground was softer, he found a track. Hi s fingers traced it out … a horse-shoe track; mud aroun d the edges, mud still wet. He sat back on his heels.

  If that mud had been dropped here as late as mid-afternoon it would now be dry, for the day had bee n hot; therefore whoever had left it there was likely to b e in the vicinity. There was every chance that he ha d come to this place since sundown … perhaps sinc e darkness, for he might not have wished to be seen.

  The track seemed to be smaller than that made by on e of the big horses Sproul would ride … when he rode.

  He felt around in the darkness, found a smear o f partial tracks. The horse might have been tied her e while the rider looked around inside.

  Was he still here? It seemed doubtful, but it mus t have been late when he arrived. Who was he? And wh y had he come here?

  If Barney Kilrone had learned one thing in his years , it was the necessity of waiting. Many troubles remove d themselves if one merely waited; and it was invariabl y bad policy to be too hasty. If there was a man insid e that building, he must move sooner or later; and if h e moved he would probably make some sound.

  Kilrone doubted the man would be Sproul, though i t was possible. He waited while the moments passed, an d when some time had gone by he heard a faint crea k from inside the building. A settling of timbers, caused b y changing temperature? A movement of some small animal?

  Not the latter, he was sure.

  After a minute the sound came again. There wa s movement within the house.

  Kilrone felt his heart beat with heavy emphasis. He took a deep breath, and waited again. There was n o further sound, nothing to be seen. He desperatel y wanted to move. The back of his neck itched, an d he wanted to dry his palms on his shir t Was that a movement near the window? Or was it hi s imagination?

  The rifle he had taken from the dead soldier he ha d left with his horse. He carried only his pistol and knife.

  What lay ahead would be close work, if any.

  Sproul? He had underrated the man before, and Sprou l might have waited, wanting Kilrone, and sure that h e would come.

  Down the valley all was quiet. The Indians might b e waiting until the hour before dawn, or they might hav e decided against a further attack. After all, for them th e loot was small.

  Suddenly something moved at the door. A man staggere d into view, leaning against the door jamb for a moment. He seemed to cling there, then staggered int o the open and fell to the ground.

  Startled, Kilrone made a step forward, then stopped.

  The man lay face down on the ground in the open an d in plain sight. It was a bright, still night, and the dar k figure lay against the white hard-packed sand of th e dooryard. In his right hand, flung out from his body, wa s a rifle.

  For a long moment Kilrone held himself back. Th e man appeared to be hurt; perhaps he was dying.r />
  Kilrone waited a minute, two minutes. He stepped out , moved into the shadow of the stable, and nothing happened.

  He moved closer, allowing himself to appea r briefly in the lighter area, and still nothing happened. He went forward, stopped near the man and bent forward , peering down at him.

  “What’s wrongr he asked. “What is it?”

  The man groaned, and Kilrone took him by the shoulde r with his left hand, about to turn him over. He starte d to turn him, and suddenly a derringer, clutched in th e man’s left hand, belched fire.

  An instant before Kilrone’s mind sensed the gleam o f metal that was the gun, his hand was moving. Instinct , trained so long, did not fail him now. Even before hi s mind could comprehend the trick, he was firing.

  The derringer blasted in his face, something stun g wickedly on his cheek. It was point-blank for both o f them, but the man on the ground had trusted to tha t one close-up shot… and it missed.

  Kilrone had let go the man’s shoulder and shot int o him three times before he could stop himself.

  He backed off, his gun poised. He crouched, waiting.

  The man on the ground did not move for a moment , then a leg moved, a toe dug in, and the leg stretche d out slowly.

  Gun ready, Kilrone went up to the man and turne d him over with his toe. It was the man who had been i n the Empire that night, the man at the bar who had don e nothing during the trouble.

  Blood gleamed wet in the vague light, dark bloo d forming a pool beneath him. Kilrone kicked the falle n derringer aside and the man’s eyes opened.

  “Luck,” he muttered, “you’re shot with luck.”

  “Dave Sproul send you?”

  “He’ll get you. He always gets them.”

  “Not me. This time I’m going to get him. I’m going t o beat him with my hands.”

  There was no reply. The dying man was breathin g hoarsely. It was ugly to hear. “Like … like to see …”

  The man’s eyes flared open. ‘I almost had you.”

  “It was a good try.”

  Barney Kilrone looked down at the man, wonderin g how much Sproul offered him. It could not have bee n much, and in any case it was not worth this. It neve r was worth it. Again he thought how foolish crime is.

  Here a man was dying … for how much? Two hundre d dollars? He had known them to die for less. No mor e women, no more bright mornings, no more gaiety an d laughter … all gone, thrown away, for this.

  “Anybody you want me to notify?” he asked. “I’d writ e a letter.”

  The man’s eyes opened again. His breathing wa s ragged and occasionally seemed almost to stop altogether.

  “Hell, no. Never had nobody … squaw, one time.” He lay there under the pure, still stars, and time seemed t o stand still. Then he said clearly. “She was a good squaw …I didn’t deserve her.”

  “Well, I could write to somebody.” There was no reply , and after a moment Kilrone said. “You got a name? I’l l put it on the marker. There’s somebody knew you … s omewhere. A man should leave some kind of a mark o n the land.”

  “Poole,” the man said. After a bit he added, “I was a scout for the Fifth Cavalry one time. I knew Injuns.”

  Another long minute went by, and then he opened hi s eyes again. “What you waitin’ for?”

  Kilrone squatted on his heels. “You tried to kill me , Poole, but no man ought to die alone … not like this. I’l l wait.”

  After another silence Poole said, “Thanks … I won’t be long.”

  Kilrone pushed his hat back on his head. It had bee n a warm day but it was cooler now. The coyote wa s talking again, and a nighthawk swooped and dipped i n the sky.

  Suddenly the dying man spoke. “Mag? Magi Damn it , Mag, I… An d that was all , Kilrone got to his feet, feeling no animosity for th e man. “So there was somebody, after all,” he muttered.

  “Or was that what he called the squaw?”

  And then there was only the sound of a spade in th e half light, a spade working, pausing, working. After that , a scratching on a board, the scratching of a knife.

  Finally, retreating hoof-beats, dying away, vand the n only the coyote, calling into the night.

  Chapter 16

  Major Frank Paddock, sober, alert, and in command , brought his cavalry down from the hills at a good tro t He had pushed them hard, taking only a few breaks.

  Time for water and feed, a quick meal, and back in th e saddle again. There was no time for sleep, and nobod y wanted to sleep.

  There were men in that command who had wives an d children at the post. There were others who had no one , anywhere, but they were soldiers. They cussed the riding , the lack of sleep, and their officers, one by one.

  They cussed their officers and did it well, cussed the m as Alexander’s men had cussed, as the legionnaires o f Rome had cussed as Napoleon’s men had sworn amon g themselves at their Little Corporal and his forced marches.

  They cussed them as good soldiers always had; an d like good soldiers they fought.

  They came down out of the hills near the post an d they spread in a hard line and they came riding hard.

  Before their attack the Indians broke for their horses.

  The Indian was never a fool: when a fight was over , he left. There was always another day. Of course, afte r this time there would be no other day, but that the y could not guess. The red man had both courage an d savvy; and his savvy told him now that there was n o sense in fighting under these circumstances.

  Like ghosts, they vanished into the night. There wa s no one trail; there were hundreds of trails, and a wis e man does not try to follow so. many. At one moment th e Indians were fierce fighting men, moving in for a kill a t this remote Alamo; then, Mice snow under a warm wind , they were gone. And with them went the dreams o f Medicine Dog.

  He had thought well, planned well, and his pla n should have worked. Who would have believed so fe w men could fight so hard a battle? These men wer e warriors, too, good warriors. Medicine Dog had onl y respect for a good fighting man.

  In the meantime he would ride east, he would rid e very fast. He knew where there was an Indian agent wh o was a good man, and he would say, “Me Medicine Dog… good Indian.”

  He chuckled into the night. Oh, they would believ e him, all right! They would pat him on the back, giv e him a blanket and a beef ration. Of course, the othe r Indians would know better, but the other Indians woul d not talk.

  He had a good horse, a rifle, a pistol, and he kne w where there were a few more horses nobody would b e claiming now … He wished he had a watch—he ha d always wanted a big gold watch like that one Dav e Sproul had. Maybe he could find one. He would b e passing some lonely cabin somewhere .. * but that coul d wait.

  Medicine Dog, the Indian Napoleon who stubbed hi s toe when he went against a handful of soldiers in a n adobe warehouse, rode eastward. He would cam p tonight where the horses were, in Paradise Valley.

  They were standing outside the buildings when th e troopers returned from the fighting—the women and th e children and the surviving men.

  Hopkins had a flesh wound in the shoulder. Ironically , with almost the last shot of the battle, Dawson had bee n killed. He had stood up to fire at the retreating Indians , and one of the braves, turning in his saddle, let go a random shot and the farrier fell across the window sill , dead.

  Denise was not among those outside the warehouse.

  When the Indians fled she had gone to her own house.

  The place had been looted, but there was were som e things left. She found a coffeepot and a small store o f coffee the Indians had missed. She started the fire an d put on the pot and began to straighten up the room.

  Betty Considine came across the parade ground t o her. “Can I do something?” she asked.

  “No,” Denise replied. “You’ll think I am foolish, but I w ant to do this myself. And I want Frank to find m e here when he comes in.”

  Betty hesitated a moment longer, looking at
the shamble s about her, and watching the way in which Denis e was bringing order out of chaos. “You are lucky,” sh e said at last. “You’ve somebody coming home to you.”

  “Dr. Hanlon will be coming back. I saw him rid e through with the troops.”

  “Dr. Hanlon is my uncle, and I love him, but that wa s not what I meant.”

  Denise put a chair in place, looked ruefully at a tabl e with a broken leg, and propped up the corner with a box.

  “Betty, you’re a fool if you let him get away,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “You’re in love with him,” was the reply. “Don’t thin k I have missed seeing that. And he’s a good man—one o f the very best.”

  “He’s a drifter.” “

  “Try him. I never knew a man who would appreciat e a home as much. He’s been long enough without one.”

  “I haven’t seen him out there. He may have bee n killed.” As she spoke something within her went col d and tight, and for the first time she knew fear. “He ma y not come back.”

  “He’ll come back. He’s that sort.”

  Betty Considine walked down the row of buildings t o her uncle’s quarters. Surprisingly, she found little damag e there. Windows had been broken by stray bullets , but there had been no looting. To the Indians, Dr.

  Hanlon was a medicine man. He had treated Indian s when they were injured with the same attention he ha d given the soldiers or the white civilians. Partly becaus e of that and partly because of superstition, they had lef t his quarters alone, and all the strange bottles, instruments, and equipment that Dr. Hanlon kept in his hom e had not been touched.

  Nor had the hospital been looted, except for blanket s and food left there by the soldiers. The medicines an d all the instruments here had also been left untouched.

  Then she thought of Iron Dave Sproul.

  She went to the door and shaded her eyes against th e sun. The first man she saw was Teale. He had caught u p a horse and was looking among a lot of debris for a saddle. Quickly she crossed the parade ground. “Mr.

  Teale,” she called.

  Startled at the unfamiliar title, he turned.