Kilkenny explained, then added, “It’s time to take to the hills. We can fight from there. Stay here and sooner or later they’ll get you.” Dolan took his cigar from his teeth and knocked off the ash. “Of course,” he said. He turned and went inside. In a matter of a minute the corral was swarming with men. Brigo walked to the door of Savory’s and pushed it open. Two startled Forty riders leaped to their feet. They turned their heads and their guns. Brigo fired and his first shot knocked a man to the floor, coughing from a chest wound. The second took a bullet through the hand and he dropped his rifle and stepped back, hands lifted.
Brigo gestured to Savory. “Fix his hand. And stay out of this or I’ll kill you!” He walked out the door in time to see Kilkenny move into the center of the bridge. The shooting had drawn Jared Tetlow into the street and what he saw was Lance Kilkenny standing alone in the middle of the bridge. There was no mistaking the tall figure with the flat-crowned black hat. Jared Tetlow looked down the street and felt a queer chill. Over a hundred and fifty yards separated them but there could be no mistake. The hills were covered with riders searching for this man and here he stood in the middle of town. Defeatism was not familiar to Tetlow, yet now he felt its first premonitory wave. With all the armed men at his command he had failed to stop this man or bring him down.
“Tetlow!” Kilkenny’s voice sounded like a clarion in the silent clap-boarded street. “Take your cattle and leave the country! You brought this war. Now take it away or we’ll break you!”
Tetlow felt the heat on his shoulders. Sweat trickled down his leather-like cheeks. He was strangely alone, and then from deep within him came a welling, over-powering fury. It was loosed in one great cry of fury at his defeat, pain at the loss of his sons, and shock at what was happening to all he had lived by.
“You!” he roared. “I’ll—”
Only the bridge was empty, and where Kilkenny had stood there were only dancing heat waves and a faint stirring of dust. Had he imagined it? Or had Kilkenny actually been there?
A redheaded cowhand with blunt features came into the door of the Diamond Palace. “I’ll give five hundred dollars to see that man dead!” Tetlow shouted. The redhead’s eyes shifted. He remembered what he had heard about Kilkenny and drew back into the shadows of the saloon. Five hundred was a year’s wages, but a dead man couldn’t spend a dime.
In a close knot the defenders of the Blaine house began their retreat. Most of the Forty riders were gone from town, and those who remained had no desire to dare the guns of that tight little group. So the Blaine group rode west at an easy trot. Dolan, Blaine and Shorty led the group. Early, Ernleven and Macy brought up the rear. In the middle were Laurie Webster, Mrs. Carpenter, Mrs. Early and two other women surrounded by four men from Dolan’s. Kilkenny scouted ahead and Cain Brockman brought up the rear. Brigo scouted on the far flanks. Kilkenny had chosen the little lake as their first stop with some misgiving. If Havalik returned in time he might easily move across country and intercept them. As they neared the lake, Kilkenny waited for them to come up to him. “Drink up, water the stock and fill your canteens. We’ll push on.” “Tonight?” Early glanced doubtfully at his wife’s drawn face. She was not used to riding and they had come long miles since leaving Horsehead. “Tonight.” Kilkenny was positive. “It’s better to be dog-tired than dead. They’ll come after us and our only hope is my place.”
“Do they know this lake?” Dolan asked.
Kilkenny explained about the capture of Nita at this point. He had made his plans. There was doubt that the women would stand the long ride to the valley by the route they must take. His idea was to strike due north into the unknown country, then swing west to the valley. By so doing they might avoid or lose the Forty altogether. Mounting once more, he led them north until they struck a dim, ancient trail.
It would soon be dark and he was in known country. Far off on the skyline were the Blues, but what lay between he had no idea. The night was fresh and cool and there was a faint smell of sage in the air.
When the moon came out its pale yellow light lay upon a broken land of rock like a frozen sea of gigantic waves. Knowing the restlessness of Havalik, Kilkenny rested but little, pushing on toward the north. Finally, at daybreak they made dry camp. There was a little grass and the horses ate. The women fell asleep at once, and most of the men. Only Dolan seemed sleepless. “Know where we are?” Macy asked. His own face looked tired and drawn.
“Roughly.” He nodded to indicate direction. “My place is over there.”
“How far?”
“As the crow flies, maybe ten miles. The way we’ll have to go, twice that far.” Macy was worried. “Lance, this doesn’t look right to me. We should have stayed in town.”
“We couldn’t.” Dolan’s tone brooked no argument. “It was either that or be burned out. That would have come next.”
The sky was gray and the morning was cold and sharp due to the altitude. From a small peak Kilkenny studied their backtrail. Once he believed he saw far off dust, but he could not be sure.
All night his thoughts had been of Nita. Yet if she was undisturbed she would get along well. There was food, and there was water and ammunition. She was an uncommonly good shot with a rifle. She would be all right. He could tell from the way the women got to their feet that they were still stiff and sore from the long ride. Yet there was no escape from it now. It was go on or die here. When all were mounted he led the way up the trail again. By midmorning they had crossed the flat and were headed toward a gap in the range. There were a few cottonwoods in the bottoms, and the mountain mahogany was everywhere. Greasewood lessened and from time to time they saw a pine. Soon the number of pines increased, and twice he paused to allow the women rest. Before noon they struck an old Indian trail up the bottom of a smaller canyon. Most of the canteens were dry and the horses were suffering from thirst. A turn in the canyon left them looking up a long slope mantled with evergreens. Kilkenny headed up the slope and was overtaken by Macy.
“Mrs. Early’s just fainted. We’ve got to stop.”
“Carry her,” Kilkenny said. “There’s water ahead.” Macy looked doubtfully at the slope and Kilkenny indicated the Indian trail he followed. “An Indian never made a trail without purpose. And look,” he pointed out a fain thread of game trail down the slope, “deer have been going the way we’re headed.” Within ten minutes they dismounted beside a clear mountain stream. The water was cold and sweet. All drank and drank again, then filled their canteens.
Bob Early came up to him. “We can’t go on. My wife’s all in and Mrs. Carpenter is quite ill.”
“All right. You’re close enough and safe enough.” Picking up an ax, Lance walked into the surrounding pines. Forcing his way into a tight clump of second growth, all ten or twelve feet high, he cut down several close to the ground. Then he drew the tops of the surrounding trees down and tied them together until he stood under a living hut of green. With branches from the cut-down trees he wove a quick thatch over the hut. Cain and Bob lent a hand with the thatch and soon the hut was tight and strong. Then with more boughs they made several beds for the women.
Blaine walked around the hut. “First time I ever saw that done. I’m minded to stay here myself.”
“You’d better. I’ll go on ahead with Brigo and Cain.” “Shorty and I’ll come with you,” Dolan said. “One of us can return for these people when they are feeling better.”
The trail was not easy. Crossing the creek, they found themselves facing a mountainside that could not be climbed on horseback. Circling, they were fronted by an even steeper cliff. Only after several hours of searching did they find a shallow creek that could be followed higher into the timbered mountains. When it seemed they had found a way through they were stopped by a ten-foot fall. Brigo found a way around. Part of a cave had been cut by water. The ledge at the top had proved too hard for the slow-cutting water and as the rock below was softer, the stream had cut under, forming one more arch to add to those in the area.
Riding under part of the fall and getting well splashed, they went under the arch and clambered up a steep rock slope and found good going before them. They emerged suddenly into the valley not fifty yards from the house. Nita was standing on the steps looking toward them, a rifle in her hands. Her recognition was immediate and she turned at once and went back into the house. When she emerged they were swinging from their saddles. “I’ve coffee on, Lance. It will be ready in a few minutes.”
He could see the relief in her eyes and he pressed her arm gently. As the others looked around he quietly explained the situation. Brockman had sat down at once, his face showing the exhaustion of the long trip after his injuries. Only his great strength and iron resistance could have stood up under the punishment. Shorty remained only to eat and to rest a little. Then he mounted up and started back.
The night came slowly and the dusk seemed to remain over long. Kilkenny had gone to sleep in the bedroom, exhausted after his long ordeal, almost without sleep. Dolan sat with Cain and Brigo on the steps, watching the shadows gather under the lodgepole pines. The air was cool at that altitude and hour, but none of them thought of going inside.
The situation was brutally apparent to them all. They had gained a respite, but Jared Tetlow would never stop until they were dead. Not only had he lost a second son but he had been thwarted, and it was galling to a man of his ego and firm belief in his own strength and rightness.
Horsehead lay quiet. In the lobby of the Westwater Hotel, Jared Tetlow sat in a huge leather chair, his face old and bitter. Several heavily armed men loitered on the steps outside.
The town was his. The range was his. He, Jared Tetlow, had taken them and he would hold them. Yet his cattle were scattered, two of his sons were dead, and he had lost men. Jared Tetlow knew nothing of military tactics. He did not know that the end result of all tactics is not only victory but the destruction of the enemy’s power to strike back.
Yet, despite his victory, some subconscious realization of his position left him uneasy. Despite his possessions of the range and the town, Kilkenny was alive. Brigo and Cain Brockman were alive. Dolan, Blaine—all of them had gotten safely away. They would not run. He knew fighting men when he saw them and he knew they were not defeated. They would be waiting somewhere for a chance to strike again. And so these men outside guarded him.
Two of his sons remained. Andy, the tough one. The gun slinger. And Ben, the quiet one. Perhaps, the thought came unbidden to his mind, perhaps Ben was right after all? It galled him to think of Ben being right, yet looking back down the years it had always been Ben who talked prudence and peace. And he was the only cattleman of the lot. Phin had never been more than a steady worker. Bud had been a trouble hunter, Andy the fighting man. But it was Ben who had managed the herds, sold the cattle, assured their prosperity. Jared Tetlow stared at his gnarled hands and a kind of anger welled up within him. No matter. Their cattle were here, on good grass, and no gunfighter could stop him. This would pass. He would win, somehow, and time, like the grass, would cover all scars. If the law did come in he would show them his herds, his ranch, and the quiet countryside where before there had been only these shabby holdings. This was a land for the strong, and he was strong. He got up from his chair and strode across the room. His own cook was in Ernleven’s kitchen, but the food was merely rough ranch fare. Why had the big Frenchman chosen to join Kilkenny?
The waitress had refused to come to work and the stores had not opened. He held the town in the palm of his hand but the town was an empty shell. Happy Jack Harrow walked into the dining room, looked around, then swore. Tetlow glanced up. “Set down. There’ll be grub soon.”
“Yeah? But what kind of grub? I’m no chuckline rider!”
Tetlow did not resent the remark. “Seen times I’d been glad to get it.”
“Any news?”
“No.”
“They got away?”
“Seems like.”
“Why not let ‘em go, then? What’ll you do if you get ‘em?” Harrow had not slept well. He was doing his own worrying now. He had not sided with Early, but he liked the man, and he liked his wife. Doc Blaine was solid, too. Looking around him Harrow found no comfort in the situation. “What about the women? Do you plan to murder them?”
“Hush that talk,” Tetlow replied irritably. “What has to be done will be done.” Tetlow shifted irritably in his chair. For the first time he began seriously to think about the women, and they worried him. He had never been able to cope with women. He had never been able to cope with his wife. “You’ll never keep them quiet,” Harrow said, “and Mrs. Early comes of good family. If anything happens to her there will be questions asked. And if they talk there will be a United States marshal out here.” Jared Tetlow was not worried about the marshal. Let him win this fight and there would be no witnesses to accuse him. He did not like troubling women, but Harrow’s wandering comments decided him. The women must die. He had seen a man hung for striking a woman. He had seen Western men hunt down men who molested women. He knew the rage he could incite by any move against the women. But they were in the hills. Who knew where they were now? And if they did not come back, who could say what happened to them? Yet he did not relish the thought. How had he got into this corner, anyway? “If they turn Kilkenny over to me I’ll bother them no longer,” he said. “Fat chance!” Harrow scoffed. “And if you had him you’d wish you’d never seen him.” Harrow leaned toward the older man. “Tetlow, call off your men and gather your herd. Head west for new country. Then this will all blow over.” Tetlow turned his head sharply. “Be damned if I will! This is my country now!
Here I’ll stay!”
“You’ll stay then.” Harrow accepted the plate and cup from the cook. “They’ll bury you here.”
Tetlow stared at the beef and beans, feeling old and tired. Why had he come out here? What had gotten him into this mess? Would there be no end to killing? Yet now he could not stop. Irritation filled him. He stared at Harrow. The man was nobody. He had swung to his side quickly enough, and at the first intimation of change he would swing again. There was only one answer now that it had begun. Kill them.
Kill Harrow, too. Once he would have been appalled by the thought. He only killed in battle. Now these were merely insignificant humans who interfered with him. Harrow had succeeded in making him realize what he had subconsciously known all along. There could be no safety for him as long as any of them lived. Bob Early was a strong, capable man. Leal Macy was a duly constituted officer of the law. Their words would carry weight and outside people did not realize the circumstances here.
He got up suddenly and strode to the door. “Ernie, take this note to Havalik!” He scratched words on a bit of paper. When the man was in the saddle he returned to the table.
“You’re right, of course. They’d talk.”
Something in his tone made Harrow look up quickly. “You told me so yourself,” Tetlow said, watching Harrow almost absently. “I can’t leave them alive.”
A man stood in the doorway with two guns. Harrow stared at him. If Tetlow would kill those women then his own life wasn’t worth a plugged nickel. His appetite gone, he sat over his food trying to think of a way out. “Well,” he tried to keep his tone casual, “I’d better check on my bartender. I can’t trust him too much.”
Jared Tetlow looked up at Harrow as he got to his feet, and at something in his eyes Harrow felt a faint chill go over him.
Why had he been such a fool as to straddle the fence? You never could, not when the chips were down. He turned on his heel and walked to the door, his spine crawling. Jared Tetlow watched him to the door, then got to his feet again. “Jack?”
Harrow turned and saw the drawn gun in Tetlow’s hand. He grabbed wildly for his own gun, but Tetlow fired, the crashing report louder in the closed room. Happy Jack Harrow’s knees folded and he went down, rolling over on the floor, the half-drawn gun spilling from relaxed fingers.
The man with the two guns had stepped inside. “
Bury him.” Tetlow said. “He was going for the U. S. marshal.”
He sat down at the table again and the acrid smell of gunpowder mingled with the smell of fresh coffee.
Chapter 9
The killing of Jack Harrow did not pass unnoticed. Men who had remained on the sidelines saw it with misgiving. East of Horsehead two Forty hands came together on a little branch that emptied into the Westwater. “Tetlow killed Harrow.”
“Hear he figures to kill them women, too.”
“The Old Man’s losin’ his grip. Killin’ in a fight, that’s one thing. Massacre, that’s another.”
The first cowhand wiped his mustache with the back of his hand and took a sidelong glance at his companion. “Personal, I ain’t goin’ to have no hand in it.”
“Sort of been thinkin’ thataway myself.”
“I got two months comin’.”
“So’ve I, but if we try to draw our time there’ll be trouble.” The first man waved a hand at the scattered cattle. “They’ll never git ‘em all rounded up, an’ they’ll pay your wages. Cross country, it ain’t so far to Santa Fe.”
“What are we waitin’ for?”
Two cowhands and two hundred head of cattle headed south. Before noon three other riders came upon the trail. Being skilled readers of sign, they recognized the horse tracks and read the story in the dust. “Not a bad idea,” one of them commented casually. It took no more than minutes to reach a meeting of the minds. Cattle and men made a new trail. In Horsehead Jared Tetlow heard the story from Andy with sullen fury. Had it been Ben who reported the stolen stock and the vanished riders he would have waved him aside and stomped out to begin a chase, but this was Andy, the tough one.
He could see only one way out. Wipe out all opposition and then go after the rustlers and cattle.
“Pick fifteen tough men,” Tetlow said, “mount them with the best. Promise each one hundred dollars cash when the job is done and take them to Havalik. Tell him I’ll give him forty-eight hours.”
Kilkenny (1954) Page 12