The man showed above the edge of the bank, then dropped over. It was Phin Tetlow.
A big, wide-shouldered man, he walked with easy step and he looked curiously around. Obviously he had seen something here that he felt warranted investigation, and he had returned alone for that purpose. He looked around, then walked to a clump of willows and peered into it, then cautiously approached a bunch of boulders.
Kilkenny crouched lower, cursing his luck. He could not shoot it out with Phin and then run for it to leave Cain helpless in this position. His horse was out of sight, but further search might show it to Phin. Kilkenny drew back, easing away from Cain, and the big man watched him go, his eyes wide and trusting as those of a big dog from whose paw one extracts a thorn. Phin was working nearer and nearer, and now he straightened and looked toward the fallen earth. Quickly, as if having an idea, he strode toward it. He paused when he came in sight of Cain. Kilkenny could see the expression on Phin Tetlow’s face, and was puzzled by it.
Phin moved closer. “The big one, huh? I figured the herd must have got somebody here. I seen you a minute or so afore they hit this bank. It would have been a miracle if you was safe.”
He sat down on a boulder and calmly lit a cigarette. “Can’t move, huh? Well, I reckon you’re my meat then. Funny thing. I never kilt a man. Andy has. He kilt eight or nine. Andy’s good, maybe better than Havalik. Even Ben kilt an outlaw down in the Big Bend, and a couple of Indians. Me, I never kilt nobody.” He chuckled. “Well, I won’t have to say that tomorrow. Because I’m fixin’ to kill you.
“Makes a man,” he said, “feel mighty small when he ain’t blooded. Even Ben, an’ he don’t like to fight. He thinks too much.” He drew deep on the cigarette. “Pap figured you for the tough one. Now here you are, caught like a rabbit in a trap. I don’t even need to waste a shot. I’m going to bash your head in with a rock.” He got to his feet and stretched, and Kilkenny, close behind him now, reached out and grabbed him by the gun belt. He gave a tremendous jerk and Phin Tetlow’s heels flew up and he hit the boulder hard and turned heels over head to the ground behind it. Kilkenny swung a wicked backhand blow that smashed Tetlow’s nose, stifling his yell to a squealing gnmt. Then he slugged him on the chin. A full, powerful swing. Phin’s head snapped back and he lay still. Swiftly Kilkenny tied his hands and feet, then went to work to free Cain. A quick examination showed no bones broken but the man was frightfully bruised and skinned. Moreover, he seemed to have lost blood from a scratch or cut in his side. Stopping, Kilkenny rifted the big man on his shoulders and started for the gray. The load was almost too much for the gray, for between them they made a weight of over four hundred pounds, but there was no hope for it. Returning the way he had come, the gray stayed with it beautifully, but when they reached Whiskers Draw, Kilkenny swung down and walked ahead, leading the horse. He might have made the attempt to get Phin’s horse but had been afraid somebody from the ranch would see him up on the bank, and had not dared to take a chance as Phin had been wearing a brilliantly red shirt that could not have been mistaken.
It was slow going and hot, but he made it back to the cottonwoods. Cain Brockman rolled in the saddle, his huge body swaying to the moves of the horse. His face was gray and his eyes glazed over. Worriedly, Kilkenny spoke to him and there was no answer. The big man was sitting there by sheer will and animal strength. He might be injured internally—Kilkenny crept to the top of the bank and looked around. Far away, several miles off now, he could see the lone horse standing where Phin had left it. How long before that horse would attract attention and investigation? Or how long before Phin would get free? It was almost noon, of course, and the hands might be eating. There was no more than another hour before the pursuit would begin, for they would notice Phin’s absence and if they saw his horse, it would immediately draw them to it. What Cain needed was a doctor, but it was all of five miles to Horsehead from their present position and the last two miles would be across open country. There was no hope for it but to conceal him here and hope for the best. Alone, he could run for it, but the gray could never carry that weight over a fast run nor could Kilkenny keep the dead weight of the now unconscious man in the saddle before him.
Dismounting the wounded man, he carried him back under the cottonwoods. Here there was a place where the willows hung low, leaving a deep shade. Here, with Kilkenny’s slicker for a pillow, he made the big man as comfortable as possible. With water from his canteen he bathed the man’s forehead and washed his wounds, leaving him from time to time to take a look around for approaching riders. Then, drawing one of Cain’s pistols, he left it close beside the big man, and with him Kilkenny left his canteen. Then swiftly he wiped out with a willow branch the cracks in the sand, and scattered free handfuls of sand over that, then mounted up and rode swiftly out of the draw and across country keeping to the cover of the cedars. When he was far enough away, he rode swiftly on and followed a dim trail that led through various draws until he was almost on the outskirts of Horsehead. Here he worked his way into Cottonwood Creek and started toward town.
This was the creek that divided east from west Horsehead, the social line of demarcation in the cowtown. It was also the draw that led throilgh the trees past Doc Blaine’s.
From the creek bed, he climbed out into the trees and then worked his way up through the brush until he was within a few feet of Blaine’s house. The first person he saw was Laurie Webster. Her eyes widened and he motioned her to silence. When she came to the fence near the trees he spoke softly. Briefly he explained what he had done, where he had found Cain and how he had left him, and told the girl to explain the change in plans to Dolan, although to keep riders on call. “Better not try to get Brockman before dark,” he warned, “that country’s alive with riders and they’d be sure to take him away from you and kill him, if not anybody who went after him.”
“All right.” Laurie was quiet. Her eyes searched his. “You … you’re all right?”
“Sure. How are things here?”
“Bad.” Doc Blaine had told her of what Havalik had said and now she repeated this. “It’s going to come to a fight in town. I’m staying down here with Doc and Mrs. Carpenter. My sister is coming down soon, and I think Bob and a couple of others may move to this side of the creek. We want to be together in case of trouble.”
“How’s Macy?”
“All right, but he’s worried. The Tetlows are in town in force now, and Harry Lott is drinking.”
Lott? Kilkenny had forgotten the big marshal. A hard, cruel man. Where did he stand, Kilkenny wondered. And he knew there was no answer to that. Probably Lott himself did not know.
“I’ll be back.” He explained about Nita Riordan and saw the quick frown on the girl’s face.
Without thinking of that, he returned to his horse and mounted. Getting around town was going to take him far out of his way. Suddenly a daring plan came to mind.
Why not ride right up the creek bed through town? Except right at the bridge it was tree-shaded and there was small chance of anyone being close unless they were crossing the small bridge. The cut was deep enough to keep him out of sight. He would be in view from the bridge for all of fifty yards before he reached it, but for only about ten yards beyond, for then the creek curved slightly to the west, then made an easy swing back toward the north and then slightly west again. In fact, the trend of the creek bed was in the exact direction he wished to go to reach the lake where he had told Nita to meet him. Kilkenny was not a man who puzzled about a course of action. The danger of the creek bed was enormous for that sixty yards or so, and to be seen there would probably mean being trapped, yet there was less danger, although extended over several hours by a roundabout route that also entailed loss of time. Without hesitation he put the gray down the bank once more and turned north. He walked the horse in the sand, taking his time, one hand resting on his thigh within inches of his gun butt. He paused before turning the last bend into that fifty yards of open creek and listened. He heard no sound of a
pproaching horses, nor any voices that sounded close. Taking a quick look and seeing the bridge empty, he rode out into the creek.
They would hear his horse if anyone was close to the creek, but there were horses grazing about the town, owned by the townspeople, so that might not attract attention. They would know it was not a cow they heard for the difference in the sound of their walk is great. He had to gamble, and he accepted the gamble.
The sun was very hot in the bottom and he was sheltered from the breeze. The sweat trickled down his face and down his sides under his arms. He dried his palms on his chaps and rode steadily forward, his eyes roving. To the right he could see several trees and beyond them the roof of the jail. To the left there was only the thick clump of trees that divided the creek bed from the home of Doc Blaine.
When no more than ten yards from the bridge, he heard footsteps of an approaching man, and the slight jingle of spurs. There was nothing for it now but to continue on, and he did so, his hand ready to grab for a gun butt if it became necessary.
The walking man hove into sight and, despite himself, glanced up. It was Leal Macy.
Macy’s face did not change, nor did he pause in his stride until he reached the bridge. Then he stopped and leaned on the rail, looking back the way Kilkenny had come. “Rider coming. Stay under the bridge!” he said. Kilkenny halted and heard the horses approaching, and then their hoofs on the bridge. They drew up and stopped, and the voice was that of Jared Tetlow! “Howdy!” Tetlow’s voice was cool. “Seen that Kilkenny? We’re huntin’ him.”
“Taking a lot on yourself, aren’t you?” Macy demanded. “I’m sheriff here.” “We ain’t askin’ no law’s advice,” Tetlow replied shortly. There was a harshness in his voice that grated, yet there was indifference too. “Keep out of the way an’ you won’t get hurt.”
“Tetlow,” Leal Macy replied quietly, “I am ordering you to withdraw your cattle from the range you have forcibly occupied. If you do not do that, you will be arrested and brought before the courts.”
Tetlow chuckled without humor. “What courts? In this town?” He waved a hand. “I already know your judge is back an’ he favors me. So do most of the folks here.” Macy ignored him. “I’m preparing charges against you,” he replied, “for manslaughter. I refer to the killings of Carson and Carpenter. You will be arrested, as will all those who participated, and you will be tried in the courts of the land. Withdraw your cattle, pay the damages we will agree upon, and I will allow you to go free on my own initiative. Otherwise, you will be prosecuted.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Tetlow was impatient. “What do you take me for, man? An idiot? What witnesses do you have? Who will testify against me? I had no reason to dislike Carson and Carpenter. Carson made the mistake of trying for a gun while Carpenter got caught in front of a stampede. As for my cattle, why shouldn’t they move on empty range? There’s no one on the KR.” “There was until you drove them off.”
“Prove it.” Tetlow had spoken his last word. Clapping spurs to his horse, he rode on across the bridge into the east side of town. Dust from the disturbed planking fell down Kilkenny’s neck. He started to move when another voice interrupted. He recognized the hoarse voice of Harry Lott, thickened now by liquor.
“How long you puttin’ up with this, Macy? You standin’ by while they run the town right out from under you? I thought you was a tough sheriff?” “I’m waiting, Harry.” Macy’s voice was patient. “I want to avoid a pitched battle if I can. I’ve seen a cow outfit hit a town like this before. I know what happens. I know how the innocent suffer. You’re right, and something should be done, and it’s up to us, but the time is not yet. When I can muster enough support, I’ll arrest Tetlow and Havalik both, and I’ll hold them for trial.” Harry Lott laughed. “Yeah? Well, you won’t arrest Havalik! I got him figured! He’s their backbone! Git him an’ they’d blow up higher’n them clouds! An’ that’s what I aim to do—git Havalik!”
Macy did not reply and Kilkenny heard the drunken marshal’s footsteps as he moved off toward the east side of town.
“Be seein’ you!” Kilkenny said softly, and rode on up the creek. Rounding the bend in the creek bed, he walked his horse faster and when the last buildings were behind he pushed him into a trot.
There was far to go and it was midafternoon. He would never reach the lake now before dark. There was not a chance of it. Not a chance. Near a lone waterhole high on Black Mesa, south of the KR ranch house, a big man crouched alone in the darkness, cleaning his rifle. That man was Jaime Brigo. Hunted like an animal, he had contrived to escape. To the best of his knowledge, all on the ranch had been killed except Nita Riordan and Maria. The former had gone riding in the early dawn and so had missed the attack. Where she was he did not know, but he had infinite respect for her judgment, and she had been mounted on a good horse and had been armed. Further, he was sure he had later seen Kilkenny atop the ridge overlooking the ranch. As for Maria, she was an old woman and would not be harmed. They would need her services to care for the house.
Of Cain Brockman, Ed, and the other three men, he thought only with a dumb pain. He had known these men and worked with them. Ed he had seen go down shooting, trying to stem that awful mass of cattle. One of the other men had been roped and dragged to death by Andy Tetlow. So far as he knew, he alone was left of the KR outfit. He was an educated man, but beneath the knowledge he possessed he was first, last and always an Indian, a Yaqui. He was basically still a savage, and his home and his friends had been attacked. Now he was moving out on his own private war.
He had no horse. He had discarded his boots and made of his saddle bags a pair of crude moccasins. Now he was starting out and he was not thinking of prisoners. He was thinking of death. Huge, powerful and cleanly muscled, he was not disturbed by what lay ahead. In the darkness he moved out, and in the darkness he struck.
Carl Hadley was a tough young Missouri rider of the old Bald Knob breeding. He had killed three men in his time, robbed a bank and rustled a good many cows. The first job he had held had been with the Forty, and he had helped them to take over range before this. He was enjoying the power of the brand he rode for. He was happy to see the herd take over the KR. He had been one of those who looked upon the murder of Carson with satisfaction. On this night he was riding along a dun trail north of Black Mesa. Ahead of him, a stone fell, then rolled. He rode forward, gun in hand. Above him loomed a boulder, and as he rode past it he had a sensation as of something huge and black dropping upon him. He was wrenched from the saddle and hurled to the ground.
Stunned, he started to stagger to his feet and was struck and knocked rolling. He came up and grabbed for the knife he always carried, but his knife wrist was seized by a big hand that shut down hard and the bones in his wrist crunched under that power and a scream of agony rang from his lips, and then another huge hand seized his throat and there was a brief instant of blind struggling before a darkness washed over him and he went limp and helpless. Brigo dropped the body of Carl Hadley and walked to the horse. It shied slightly, then hearing the easy voice of the big man, it thrust out a nose at him. Brigo had a way with animals. They understood him and he them. He swung into the saddle and felt the scabbard. There was a rifle here. Jaime Brigo started toward the KR. Somewhere his hat had been lost. The wind ruffled his straight black hair, his big jaws moved ponderously over the chew of tobacco. Enemies had moved against his beloved employer, the girl he had seen grow from childhood, whose father had meant more to him than any living being. He was counterattacking with all that was in him. He struck again, later, with that knife, killing one of them and injuring the other. The injured man told a wild and incoherent story. Cowhands of the Forty listened uneasily and avoided each other’s eyes. They were superstitious men, but sometimes things happened, and … two men left the Forty that night. They just rode off.
Phin was found, still bound. He could give no good account of what had happened except that the man who struck him down had been Kilkenny. Jared Tetlow k
new men too well not to realize what he must do if he was to keep his hands in line. The time had come to move.
The moon was high before Kilkenny reached the tiny lake. An hour before, Brigo had killed his first man. Fifteen minutes earlier, Phin Tetlow had been found and released. News had not yet come in of the attacks by Brigo. In town the lines were being harshly drawn. Bob Early with his family had moved across the creek to Doc Blaine’s older but sturdier home, a home moreover that was backed by Dolan’s. Ernleven had deserted his beloved stove and come across the creek bringing with him two finely engraved pistols and a twin-barrel shotgun. He also brought a burlap sack of shotgun shells. In his saloon, Happy Jack sat staring at the cards he was riffling. Harry Lott had stopped drinking and was staring sullenly up the street. Aside from Macy, he had been king in this town. He was so no longer. He wore both guns and he was thinking of his own express gun upstairs in his room. The streets were empty and still. Few men loitered around the bars and as the evening drew on, these grew fewer. Somehow the news that Kilkenny had been in town filtered through and was whispered around the bars and tables. Dee Havalik rode through in the afternoon accompanied by several men, but he had taken the road west and had not stopped in the streets.
Doc Blaine went with Dolan and Shorty to pick up Cain Brockman. They found him conscious and wary, and they got safely back to town. All he could tell them was that Nita had been away from the ranch when the Forty struck, and that he thought Brigo had escaped. He remembered Kilkenny coming for him, remembered his fight with Phin, and the beginning of the ride on the horse. He had passed out and recalled little else. He had awakened in darkness under the willows and found the gun and canteen. The rest he surmised and waited. Elsewhere in the town people talked and there was much disputing about the rights and wrongs of the fight. And very little about the impending result. Agreement was unamimous that Forty could not lose. As the night drew on, the east side of town waited, breathless. On the west side, the people in Doc Blaine’s house went to sleep with their clothing on, ready to rise at a moment’s notice.
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