He saddled the gray, chewed on the jerky, and considered the situation before him.
He had to get into town and he had to find Sproul. He had to challenge him in such a way that he dared use no help, for Kilrone himself would have none. He had purposely avoided the post, knowing that there were some there who might wish to come with him, but he preferred not to involve anyone else.
He considered his own condition. He had not boxed in a long time, but he was in good shape. Sproul had come off the New York streets, had known street-fighting days in politics—he would know all the tricks of dirty fighting. As for himself, he had served his time at that sort of fighting, too, in the years of his knocking about.
There was no shooting from the direction of the post. Everything seemed to have quieted down there. Several times he went to the edge of the trees and looked out, but he saw no Indians anywhere.
Finally, when it was almost sundown, he heard a sound of activity from the post—some hammering, the crash of something falling. Evidently they had already started demolishing some of the half-burned structures in preparation for rebuilding.
He mounted his horse then and started toward Hog Town. At the outskirts of the tiny settlement he waited, studying the layout again, and then rode in, keeping himself out of view from all but a couple of windows. He came into the town’s street, a street no more than a hundred and fifty yards long.
Behind him he heard movement and turned in his saddle. Teale was there, and with him McCracken, Lahey, Reinhardt, and half a dozen men he did not know.
“You boys looking for something?” Kilrone said.
Teale grinned at him. “Now, you didn’t expect us to miss the best fight in years, did you? We figured to see the show and sort of pick a few fights ourselves if anybody elected to interfere.”
“Thanks,” Kilrone said. “Let’s go inside.”
His mouth was dry as he went up the steps and pushed through the door.
The big room was almost empty. The bartender stood behind the bar, and there were a few other men around, one of them with a bandage on his head. More than likely it was a memento of the night they came after the wagon. Iron Dave Sproul himself stood at the end of the bar, a big man in shirt sleeves and wearing a vest, with a massive chain of gold nuggets draped across the front. The vest was plaid, the shirt white, his trousers black and somewhat baggy-looking, as was the fashion.
Sproul took the cigar from his mouth and dusted the ash from it, then spat into the brass cuspidor. He threw a hard look at the soldiers who slowly moved around the room.
“Poole didn’t make it, Dave,” Kilrone said. “He was too good a man to work for you.”
“I don’t know anything about him.”
“No? He told a different story.”
Anger was rising in Sproul. This man had thwarted him, wrecked his plans. The destruction of the army post and its cavalry had failed. No telling where Medicine Dog was…if he was even alive. In any event, the moment was past. He would never be able to pull it off again…not here, at least.
“What do you want?” he said finally.
Kilrone was suddenly amused, and eager. It was coming up in him now, the old driving urge to destroy. He had built up a long antagonism for this man, and there was a time to end it…now.
“I came to whip you, Dave. I’ve heard about all that iron. Is it really there? Or are you a fraud?”
Sproul put down his cigar, placing it carefully on the edge of the counter. “Don’t move that,” he said to the bartender. “I’ll want to finish it in a moment.”
Kilrone unbelted his gun and handed it to McCracken, who was nearest to him. Sproul placed his on the bar and turned casually as if to face Kilrone, and then struck out viciously.
Kilrone, starting to turn, caught the blow on the corner of the jaw and it slammed him to the floor. He hit hard and skidded, his head bursting with lights. He heard the pound of boots as Sproul came at him and he rolled over, braced himself when he saw the man was too near, and dove at his knees.
Sproul sidestepped and laughed, kicking at Kilrone’s head. The boot just scraped his skull, and then Kilrone lunged at the leg that was still on the floor. Sproul staggered, but caught his balance. Kilrone came up fast, went under a left hand, and hooked both fists into the mid-section. He smashed the second punch home with his left and then threw a high overhand right that caught Sproul on the cheekbone and staggered him, drawing blood.
They circled warily, Kilrone’s head still buzzing from the first punch, a blow that by all rights should have finished him off. The iron was there, all right, in Dave Sproul’s fists. He had never doubted that it was, knowing so much about the man, and had used the term only to taunt him.
Kilrone was being careful. He wanted desperately to win, to whip Sproul decisively, to beat him at his own game of knuckle and skull, but he dared take no chances. He not only had to guard himself against Sproul’s attack, but against his own eagerness. His tendency was to wade in throwing punches, but a man would be a fool to trade punches with Sproul.
Sproul feinted and Kilrone started to step in. Sproul threw his punch and Kilrone dropped under the blow, and whipped a wicked punch to the mid-section. Sproul grunted, then came on. He struck Kilrone in the chest, staggered him, and then clubbed him brutally in the ribs and kidneys.
Kilrone crowded in, trying to trip the bigger man, but Sproul was used to that and braced his powerful legs. Kilrone found himself flung off balance and staggering against the bar. Sproul’s eyes were gleaming with blood lust now. He came in, smashing a blow to Kilrone’s ear that made his head ring; then he put a hook into his mid-section that almost lifted his feet from the floor.
Kilrone felt himself falling; but Sproul, suddenly sure of victory, caught Kilrone’s shirt front in his left hand and shoved him back against the bar, drawing his right back for a finishing blow. Kilrone threw his right arm over Sproul’s left and grasped the top of his vest, jerking him forward, and at the same instant Kilrone dropped his head and butted Sproul in the face with the top of his skull.
Sproul staggered back, his lips smashed and his nose streaming blood. With an inarticulate curse, he rushed, swinging with both big fists. There was no chance to sidestep, no chance to evade. Kilrone lunged to meet Sproul and, dropping his head against the bigger man’s chest, he began battering at his body with both fists. Sproul pushed him away, smashed a left to Kilrone’s head and then a right, and as Kilrone tried to get inside the next punch, Sproul half turned and kicked him in the ribs.
A knife of pain stabbed at Kilrone’s side and he gasped, his legs suddenly weak, and started to fall. Sproul kicked again at Kilrone’s head; but in falling, Kilrone took the kick on the shoulder. He hit the floor on his hands and knees and scrambled forward, trying to grab Sproul’s legs, but the big man skipped easily out of the way, amazingly light on his feet. Then stepping in, Sproul swung his boot and kicked Kilrone in the side.
Kilrone tried to pull away and he missed the full force of the blow; he staggered up, caught a smashing right on the chin, but his own weakness saved him and he was falling away from the punch into a table. With his last strength, he swung the table into Sproul’s path and stopped the big man long enough to get his feet braced under him.
Kilrone shook his head, half blind with pain and fury, and as Sproul closed in for the kill, he leaped forward, stepping in fast and stopping the rush with a straight left to the mouth. He missed with a right, but curled his arm around Sproul’s head and, catching hold of his left arm, threw Sproul over his hip to the floor.
The big man hit heavily, but came up fast. Kilrone hit him on the chin with a right before he could straighten up, and Sproul went to his knees, diving forward to grab Kilrone’s legs. But Kilrone drove up with his knee, which caught Iron Dave in the face, smashing his nose into a bloody pulp.
Sproul came up and they stood toe to toe then, trading punches. Kilrone was a little faster, landing just often enough to take some of the drive from the punc
hes he was catching. Every time he drew a breath he felt a stabbing pain in his side, and he knew he had at least one broken rib—probably more.
Sproul, shrewd enough to know Kilrone had been hurt, swung a hard right at his injured side, but Kilrone caught the blow on his forearm, then drove his fist into Sproul’s mouth. By this time Sproul’s lips were shredded and bloody, his nose was bleeding, and he had a welt over one eye, but he had hardly slowed down and was still coming in.
Backing away, trying to get his wind, Kilrone sidestepped. Sproul caught up a chair in one hand and swung it at arm’s length in a sweeping blow that barely missed, shattering against a pillar. He closed in, landed a left to Kilrone’s face, then a right. He was still cool, still confident. The big man had learned his fighting in many a bloody brawl such as this. He swung and missed, and for an instant was bent far over, and Kilrone clubbed him with a hammer blow to the kidney.
Sproul grunted and almost went to his knees. He started to come up, and Kilrone moved and hit him again in the same spot. He rolled to one side, flinging out a hand. His fingers grasped at Kilrone’s shirt and it ripped in his hand. He struck with a left and Kilrone crossed his right over it, splitting the skin over Sproul’s eye.
Kilrone was crouching now, to ease the pain in his side. Sproul circled, his big fists poised. He struck and Kilrone turned his head to avoid the blow, bringing his leg around in a sweeping kick that caught Sproul behind the knee. He fell forward, caught himself on one hand; but before he could straighten, Kilrone smashed him with another hammer blow to the kidney.
Sproul grunted and went to his knees. Kilrone split his cheekbone with a blow, and when Sproul got to his feet he backed away, studying the big man. Kilrone was badly hurt, and he had no idea how much longer he could stay on his feet. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, sweat trickled in his eyes, and they stung with the salt. He moved in, feinting; Sproul struck with his left and Kilrone pushed the punch over with his right palm, and then uppercut hard to the belly with his left. Sproul backed off and Kilrone followed. It had to be quick.
He blinked his eyes against the sweat, and crowded after the big man. Suddenly Sproul pivoted on the ball of one foot and kicked out with the other, swinging the leg around in a sweeping arc. Sucking in his mid-section to avoid the kick, Kilrone grasped Sproul’s ankle with both hands and swung from the shoulder with all his strength. Already swinging with the impetus of the kick, Sproul plunged across the room when Kilrone let go, his head crashing into a chair. He fell, started to get up, but fell again.
Kilrone drew back, gasping, each breath a stab of pain. He backed off, watching the fallen man. Suddenly Sproul started to move. He pushed himself up, got his knees under him, and staggered to his feet.
There was no question of quitting now. Kilrone, unable to straighten up, moved in, one hand holding his injured side, the other fist cocked. Sproul got his hands up, but Kilrone moved in, set himself and hooked viciously to the head. Sproul struck out, but the blow missed. Kilrone swung again from the hip, and Sproul staggered and almost went down. Kilrone knew he had strength for one more…just one more. This one had to be it.
He cocked his fist, set himself and let go, his whole side swinging with the leverage of the blow. It caught Sproul on the point of the chin and he turned halfway around and fell, out cold before he hit the floor.
Bloody and battered, his shirt only a few trailing ribbons, Kilrone crouched over him, his breath coming in great gasps. Sweat and blood were dripping down his face, and he blinked at the fallen man, and prayed he would not get up again.
There was scarcely a sound in the room but his own breathing. Slowly, he backed off a step, then went to his knees. He stayed there, staring down at Sproul. But Iron Dave neither stirred nor even seemed to breathe.
Kilrone felt hands lifting him, and he allowed them to help him to his feet. As he turned away he caught a glimpse of a wild, bloody figure in the mirror, a face he no longer recognized. There was a great purplish welt over one eye, a long cut on his cheekbone, lips puffed and swollen…most of the punches he could not even remember.
He turned his head, seeing a hand on his arm, feeling an arm about his waist. It was Betty.
“How did you get here?” he managed to say.
“Let’s go home,” she said. “You need to see Uncle Cart.”
“Not as much as he does,” he said, the words muffled by his swollen lips.
*
THE WHITE SHEETS were immaculate, the room was sunfilled and bright. Barney Kilrone clasped his hands behind his head and stared toward the window, wondering what was happening outside, but not curious enough to get up and look. He simply felt tired—tired from the fighting, tired from the riding, tired from the sheer strain of thinking, planning, wondering if each decision was the best one.
His muscles were sore. His side was taped and bandaged until he felt as if he was in a straight jacket, and every time he spoke or tried to smile he found his lips were stiff.
Betty Considine came into the room. “Uncle Cart will be back in a little while. He wants to look you over again.”
“I’m all right. Has anybody seen Dave Sproul?”
She shook her head. “The Empire is closed and shuttered. Sergeant Dunivant told me most of the people were gone. They just picked up and pulled out after Sproul took that beating from you.”
She looked down at him. “What are you going to do now?”
He shrugged, and tried to smile. “Drift, I guess. What else is there to do?”
“You could go back into the Army. Or you could be an engineer. Frank Paddock told Uncle Cart that you were one of the best in your class at the Point.”
“I won’t do it lying here.” He started to get up and felt a sharp twinge of pain.
Betty put her hands on his shoulders and pressed him back. “You stay there! You are in no condition—”
He was smiling. She flushed and quickly took her hands from his shoulders. “Uncle Cart said you were to stay in bed,” she said primly.
“Ever been to California?” he asked.
“California?”
“It’s a nice place for a honeymoon,” he said.
*
DAVE SPROUL TIPTOED across his saloon and peered through a crack in the shuttered window. The street was still…no horses, nothing.
He went back to his quarters, where he knelt and lifted a board in the floor; he could look down into an opening between two of the foundation blocks. He took two sacks of gold from the hole and stuffed them into his saddlebags.
After a last look around, he went to the door and looked across the yard toward the barn. Nothing stirred there.
They were all gone. Everybody was gone. He had been whipped and they had all turned tail and left him. But he knew it was not only that he had been beaten, but that they all knew an order had been issued for his arrest on the testimony of Mary Tall Singer. Selling guns to the Indians…They had other evidence, he supposed, and undoubtedly Kilrone would testify.
They could send him to prison. Dave Sproul faced the fact; he had never dodged reality, and reality in this case meant the law. Well, the West was a big country, and there was always a new name, a new place, and a new beginning.
He went out the back door, closed it softly, and went to the barn. His horse was already saddled, the pack horse loaded. He would ride east, avoid towns, and reach the railroad in Wyoming.
He was stiff and sore, his head throbbing with the heavy ache left from the fight, his face battered almost beyond recognition. He chuckled…anyone who saw him now would not recognize him.
The horses were ones he had never used before. There was every chance he would get away; and he had money banked with Wells Fargo, as well as that he carried with him.
He went along the East Fork trail, camped the first night on Raven Creek, and at daybreak was well away on the route he had chosen, riding southeast. By nightfall he was hunting a camping spot along Wolf Creek.
He was safely away. By the t
ime he got to the railroad he would have grown a beard, and within a month he would be back in business. To hell with them! They couldn’t stop him. As for Kilrone…the son-of-a-gun could hit, damn him…One day Kilrone would be riding or sitting down to eat and he would get a bullet right between the eyes.
That Indian girl, too. No wonder she was always around, watching, listening, saying nothing much. He’d figured she’d been gone on him, and all the while she was gathering evidence. He’d have a bullet for her too.
Sproul was not a frontier man, or a wilderness man, and he did not have the instincts and had not developed the senses as a man accustomed to living in those far-out places does. He found his camping place now, built a fire, and put water on to boil for coffee.
Far up on the slope he caught a flash of sunlight on something—probably it was mica or some other mineral formation. He picketed his horses, and was walking back to the campfire when the bullet hit him.
It took him right between the shoulder blades and turned him halfway around. He fell heavily, but got his hands under himself and, blindly, like a stricken animal, dragged himself toward the fire.
Medicine Dog wanted horses. Horses were important to an Indian: they made him a big man among his people. And the lone man he had seen had two fine animals. The Dog came down off the slope, approached the camp warily, and saw the man lying there, sprawled out. It was not until he turned him over that he saw who it was he had shot.
The Dog gave a grim chuckle. It was an odd thing that this should be the man he had killed. He was tugging the watch chain from Sproul’s vest when Sproul opened his eyes. “Dog!” he said. “I—”
Medicine Dog ignored him, and ripped the nugget chain and the watch from the vest. Sproul was wearing a gunbelt, so the Dog pulled that off too. Sproul tried to sit up, and the Dog calmly smashed him on the skull with the butt of his rifle and continued his looting.
When he had gathered all he wanted, the Dog dumped some coffee into the boiling water and after a while he drank some. He glanced toward the white man—he felt nothing toward him at all.
Novel 1966 - Kilrone (v5.0) Page 15