L'Amour, Louis - SSC 32

by The Collected Short Stories Vol 3

  Stroud seated himself, glanced at the menu, and then his eyes lifted and met those of Kilkenny. Instant recognition was there … not of him as a name, but as a “gunfighter. There was also something else, a narrow, measuring gaze.

  The slope-shouldered, limping man that he had seen at Hillman’s earlier entered the room and crossed to Stroud’s table. Stroud’s face indicated no welcome, but the man sat down and leaned confidentially across the table. The man talked, low-voiced. Once, Stroud’s eyes flickered to Kilkenny. Deliberately, Kilkenny prolonged his coffee.

  The woman, Laurie Archer, walked over to him. “Will you be with us long?”

  “A day … perhaps two.”

  “You would be wise to move on—tonight.”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps you would take a job outside of town? I have cattle, and I need a foreman.”

  “How many hands?”

  “Two … now.”

  In reply to his unspoken question she added quietly, “I had a foreman—Jim Denton.”

  Neither spoke for several minutes and then, knowing he needed the job, he said, “I would only hire to handle cows. Denton was none of my affair.”

  “I want it no other way.”

  “My name’s Lance. By the way, what about him?” He indicated Stroud. “What will he think about you hiring me?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  At the ranch two men awaited him, a capable, tough-looking man of past fifty named Pike Taylor, and a gawky youngster of seventeen, Corey Hatch. There was a small cabin where Laurie Archer stayed when on the ranch, a bunkhouse, a stable, and corrals. There was a good bit of stacked hay, and several thousand acres of unrestricted grazing, much of it bottom land.

  For a solid week, Kilkenny worked hard. He rode the fence, repaired broken stretches, put in new posts. He fenced off some loco weed, cleaned several water holes, dug out a fresh one where the green grass indicated water near the surface. He found some fifty head of mavericks and branded them, moving all the cattle to lower ground for the best grass. And he thought about Laurie Archer.

  Corey Hatch liked to talk. “Some folks don’t take much to Stroud,” he said. “Hillman an’ them, they hired him to clean up the town, but some figure he done too good a job. The gamblers an’ them, they’d like to get a shot at him.”

  When he rode into town he stabled his horse and then dropped in at the store. Hillman filled his order, then said, low-voiced, “Watch yourself. There’s been talk.”

  “Talk?”

  “That you’re takin’ up for Denton. Stroud will be watchin’ his chance.”

  The warning made him angry. Why couldn’t people let well enough alone? No doubt Stroud was getting the same sort of talk … was it planned that way? Deliberately, to build it into trouble?

  But Hillman had been the man who hired Stroud, so that made no sense. He himself did not want trouble. He had a good job on the ranch, and was earning sorely needed money. He wanted no trouble. He considered going to Tom Stroud, having it out.

  Yet that might precipitate that very trouble he was attempting to avoid. He crossed to the restaurant and was scarcely seated before Stroud came in. Two men at an intervening table got up and left without finishing their meals.

  After dinner he walked down the street and across the tracks to a saloon. He sat at a table, apparently lost^ in thought but keeping an ear on the conversations around him. “Used to be a live town,” a man said, “before they hired Stroud.”

  “Whyn’t they fire him?”

  “Them across the way hired him. Hillman, an’ them shopkeepers. They want to keep him.”

  Restless, and disturbed by the feeling in town, he walked outside. From up the street there was a sudden shot, then a wild yell and pounding hoofs. A rider came down the street and slid from his horse. He was swaying and drunk, waving a drawn pistol. It was Pike Taylor, from the ranch.

  “Where’s that murderin’ son? I’ll kill—!”

  Tom Stroud materialized from a dark alley beside the saloon. Pike’s side was toward the marshal. Pike had fired a gun, still held it gripped in his fist, had threatened to kill. Stroud had only to speak and shoot.

  It would be murder, cold-blooded, ruthless, efficient. Kilkenny stepped out on the street, waiting. His mouth was dry, his hands loose and ready.

  Stroud did not see him, yet he knew that if Stroud moved to kill the old man, he would kill Stroud.

  Stroud had hesitated an instant only, then he walked through the soft dust toward Pike. Taylor started to turn but the marshal was swift, incredibly so. His left hand dropped to the old man’s wrist with a grasp of iron, while his right hand came up under the barrel and broke the gun back against Pike Taylor’s thumb.

  Death had stalked the street, and then Pike stood disarmed and helpless. Seizing the old man’s arm, Stroud started him toward the jail. And as he turned he saw Kilkenny.

  Thirty yards apart their eyes met. Stroud’s gun hand gripped the old man’s arm.

  Kilke nny heard a sharp intake of breath, then from the shadows a voice. “Now’s your chance—take him”

  Kilkenny walked slowly forward. “Havin’ trouble, Marshal?”

  Stroud’s eyes, wary but faintly curious, met his in the light from the windows. “Careless shootin’. Are you going to take him back to the ranch, or does he sleep it off in jail?”

  “In jail—it will keep him out of trouble.”

  Stroud nodded, started to turn away. Kilkenny said, “You could have killed him, Marshal.”

  Stroud turned sharply. “I never kill men,” his voice was utterly cold, “unless it has to be done.”

  Kilkenny walked back to the saloon and ordered a drink. The bartender came leisurely down the bar and slammed a glass before Kilkenny. He slopped whiskey into it. His eyes were insolent when he looked up.

  Kilkenny did not change expression. “Drink that yourself. Then get a fresh glass and pour it without spilling.”

  The bartender hesitated, not liking it, but not liking what might follow. Suddenly, he tossed off the whiskey and followed instructions.

  The man with the sloping shoulder and the limp edged along the bar, faint contempt in his eyes. “Had him dead to rights. He got you buffaloed?”

  “Why should I shoot him? He means nothing to me.”

  “He’s gunnin’ for you.”

  “Is he?”

  “Everybody knows that. Sure he is.”

  “I’ve seen no signs of it.” Kilkenny lifted his eyes. “And I can read sign. If you ask me there’s a lot of skunk tracks around here.”

  Kilkenny gave him time to reply, but the man stood silent, his face tight and worried. Events had taken a turn the limping man did not like. After a moment he shrugged, then shuffled back across the room and sat down at a table covered with papers. He took up a pencil and began adding what looked like a column of figures. Again, Kilkenny had that strange feeling that he’d met this man before, and that the man had just done something that by all rights should have told Kilkenny where that memory came from.

  “I never knew Jim Denton,” Kilkenny said then. “His troubles were his own. Anybody who hopes to promote a battle is wastin’ time. I fight my own wars … this one ain’t mine.”

  Irritably, Kilkenny walked to the hotel, got a room, and turned in. He had slept scarcely an hour when, restless, he awakened. He sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette.

  Obviously, he had been elected to kill Tom Stroud, but who had done the electing? Whoever, they would not cease planning because of his statement in the saloon. What they seemed to need was a scapegoat, for evidently the powers in town were evenly balanced, and the Hillman crowd— What was it about him that never ceased to worry Kilkenny?

  What about Laurie? Where did she stand? Despite her comment that he was not to take up Denton’s quarrel, Kilkenny was not at all sure. She was poised, intelligent. Her interests would seem to be aligned with those of the storekeepers, but was she not a little ruthless? Ye
t, he had seemed to detect something in her manner to Stroud that was different.

  Was he becoming too suspicious? Maybe, but if he killed Stroud or they killed each other, it could be set down ** as a gunman’s quarrel. Perhaps a certain group would then find a marshal more susceptible to corruption.

  What would they do now? Still considering that, he fell asleep.

  He awakened for the second time with a faint scratching outside his window. He swung his feet to the floor and moved swiftly to where he could see. The alley was empty.

  The moon was behind a cloud, but as he flattened against the wall he suddenly caught a faint flicker of movement. Somebody was at the end of the alley, standing in the shadows. It was a woman. It was Laurie Archer. He could see the arm of her gray coat … she gestured to him.

  He held his watch to the faint light—it was past three o’clock. What would she be doing up and around at this hour?

  Hurriedly, he dressed. Belting on his guns, he stepped from the window into the alley. Swiftly and silently he moved to the end of the alley where Laurie had disappeared, and then he saw her, some distance off. He hurried after her, and then she vanished.

  He crouched at the base of a huge old cottonwood, debating this. Suddenly, he heard a horse stamp. Turning his head, he beheld the animal standing not a dozen yards away, bridle reins trailing … and that meant the horse had been ridden lately and would be ridden soon again. He went to the horse … its flanks were damp. He touched the brand—a Lazy A, Laurie Archer’s brand!

  There had been no time for her to get to the ranch and return. Therefore, Corey Hatch must be in town.

  Why?

  A kid … proud, defiant, loyal … a kid riding for the brand, and Pike Taylor arrested. Remembering his own youthful feelings, Kilkenny knew how Corey must feel. He would believe Pike must be freed—but how had he known about Pike?

  Somehow, someone had gotten word to him. That meant the man behind the scenes was setting up a situation that could only lead to violence, and somehow, in the confusion, Stroud would be killed.

  Only Stroud?

  Very likely he, Kilkenny, was to be killed, too. That meant they had to get him on the scene of the fight, and that meant Laurie was part of it somehow. But she had led him nowhere, she—he stared around him, suddenly.

  A half dozen cottonwoods and some willows behind a building … a blacksmith shop. And next door? Suddenly he came to his feet, tense and ready.

  They had succeeded, they had led him into a trap. They had gotten him close to Stroud, and when they killed both it could be signed off as a gun battle. Didn’t everybody know they were hunting each other?

  For the building next door to the blacksmith shop was the jail—and Tom Stroud lived in the front of the jail.

  Time was short, only seconds must remain, for they could not hope to keep him here long… .

  A crash from the jail started him running. He ducked around the blacksmith shop, and was just in time to see the marshal step into the door. The moon had come from under a cloud and he caught a fleeting glimpse of Stroud in the doorway. At the corner of the building was Corey Hatch, gun in hand!

  Kilkenny opened his mouth to shout a warning, and then the night was ripped apart by a crashing volley. Tom Stroud took one step forward and then fell headlong, sprawled across the steps.

  Kilkenny triggered his gun into the darkness from which the shots had come, then ducked and ran to the fallen man. Corey stood where he had been, his mouth opened wide, then, the surprise wearing off, he dropped to the ground.

  Stroud was hit several times, but alive. Kilkenny looked up. “Corey! Over here!”

  Startled, yet knowing the voice, the boy slipped onto the porch. Together they got the marshal inside and stretched on a bed. Taking a sawed-off shotgun from the wall, Kilkenny handed it to the boy. “Take that and guard the door. Let nobody in! Understand? Nobodyl”

  Kilkenny stripped the shirt from Stroud’s body. He had been hit once high in the chest, once in the leg. His side had been grazed by another bullet, his shirt torn in several other places.

  Swiftly, Kilkenny went to work. From of old, he knew bullet wounds and what to do about them. A half hour later, he joined the boy near the front of the jail.

  “Nobody stirrin’,” Corey said. “What happened, boss? I don’t get it.”

  “I’ll explain later. Let’s get Pike.”

  Taylor was on his feet and at the door of his cell. He had, he explained, received a note. When he read the note he got loaded and started for town.

  The note? He took it from his shirt pocket. It was printed on a coarse bit of wrapping paper:

  Jim Denton was bringing this bottle to you when he was murdered by Stroud. Figured you should have it. He’s going to get your new boss the same way. A Friend

  The very simplicity of it angered Kilkenny. The writer must have known the old man would have a drink, and then another, and he would think about Denton dead, and this new boss, Lance, about to be killed. So he got a gun and started for town.

  “How about you?” Kilkenny asked Corey.

  Corey took a note from his jeans. It was the same coarse paper, the same pencil style:

  Stroud’s got Pike in jail. Pull the bars off the window while I handle Stroud.

  Lance Kilkenny explained the situation. Obviously, whoever led the element opposed to Stroud hoped to get him killed, and to kill Kilkenny or one of the men from the ranch in the fight. That tied it to a grudge battle over Denton, and would arouse no controversy with the townspeople, nor would they be likely to suspect a plot.

  Kilkenny walked back to the door. The blinds were drawn and tightened down. Nobody outside could see what happened inside. They might know Kilkenny was there, and if they did they would act, and soon.

  Stroud was awake and breathing heavily when Kilkenny stepped to the bed. The marshal looked up at him. Kneeling beside the bed, Kilkenny began to talk. He told what had happened as he saw it clearly, concisely.

  “Now,” he said, “you make me your deputy.”

  Stroud’s brow puckered. “What—?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll carry on while you’re down. Just make me your deputy.”

  Speaking in a hoarse whisper, Stroud swore him in before Pike Taylor and Corey Hatch.

  Leaving the two to guard the wounded man, Kilkenny let himself out the back door. It would soon be daylight. He had little hope of finding anything that would lead him to the ambushers, but it was a chance.

  From somewhere, they might be watching. On the other hand, as it was nearing day, they might return home and stay quiet, waiting for the news of the morning. For whatever had happened would be known to everyone shortly after daybreak.

  Circling around, Kilkenny examined the ground where the ambushers had been concealed. They had hidden behind a water trough that stood near the mouth of an alley. No brass shells remained. The tracks were confusion.

  Kilkenny went down the street and crossed, in the first graying of the eastern sky, to the house where Laurie Archer slept. He was starting up the walk when he stopped, frowning.

  The yard had been watered the evening before with a hand sprinkler, and water had run across the sand path to the doorway. So much water had been used that the sand had been left quite damp, and it was smooth, unbroken by any tracks!

  Circling the house, he found there was no back door. The windows were high, too high to be used with comfort.

  He was standing, staring around, when she spoke to him from the window.

  “Just what exactly are you looking for?”

  He walked toward the window. “I’d like to talk to you.

  It’s important.”

  She wore a wrapper, and her hair was rumpled, but she looked even more lovely and exciting. “All right. I’ll open the door.”

  When he was inside, he looked around. It was a pleasant sitting room, not so cluttered with bric-a-brac as most such rooms of the period, but done in the Spanish style, with Indian blankets and only a
couple of pictures. It was somehow like her; it had charm and simplicity.

  “Where’s your gray jacket?” he asked abruptly. “And that gray hat?”

  She waited an instant, studying him. “Why … why, I left them at the restaurant. Is it important?”

  “Yes … Did you leave this house last night? Or Very early this morning?”

  She shook her head. “I had a headache. I came home early and went to bed. I had just gotten up when you came.”

  He glanced around him again. Everything was neat, perfect. Had it been someone else wearing her clothes last night, one of the girls from down on the tracks, perhaps?

  She noticed the star on his chest, and she frowned. “Where did you get that?” Her voice was a little sharp. “Where’s Tom Stroud?”

  Briefly, he explained. He was startled to see her face turn deathly pale. She put a hand on the table at her side. “He … he’ll live? I mean … ?”

  “I think so.”

  “I must go to him.”

  “No.”

  The harshness of his reply startled her. She looked up quickly, but before she could speak he said abruptly, almost brutally, “Nobody will see him but myself and my two men until this is cleared up. He’s being cared for.”

  “But—“

  “No,” he said firmly and definitely. “Too many people want him dead.”

  Leaving her house, he walked swiftly down the street. The limping man … Pike had said his name was Turner, and told him where to find him. He went up the walk to the house and, without knocking, shoved the door open and stepped in.

  Two men were sitting at a table cleaning rifles. They took one look, glimpsed the badge, and the nearest one grabbed for his gun. Kilkenny shot him in the throat, his Colt swinging to cover the other man who slowly lifted his hands, gray-faced.

  “Fast,” the man said. “You’re fast, Lance.”

  “I’ve had to be.” Lance looked at him and said, “The other name is Kilkenny.”