He turned and stumped down the narrow stairs behind the clerk.
A thorough examination of the drifting cowpuncher’s gear got Kilkenny exactly nowhere. It was typical of a wandering cowpuncher of the period. There was nothing more, and nothing less.
There was still no solution, and out on the plains he knew there had been no settlement of the range war situation. His own warnings had averted a clash tonight, but he could not be everywhere, and sooner or later trouble would break open on the range. Already, in other sections, there was fighting over the introduction of wire. Here, the problem was made worse by the plot of the rustlers, or what he believed was their plot.
He could see a few things. For one, the plan had been engineered by a keen, intelligent, ruthless man. That he had already decided. It would have gone off easily had he not suddenly, because of Mort Davis, been injected into the picture. The fact that the mysterious man behind the scenes hated him was entirely beside the point, even though that hate had evidently become a major motive in the mysterious man’s plans.
Well, what did he have? Somewhere behind the scenes were the Brockmans. Neither of them was a schemer. Both were highly skilled killers, clansmen of the old school, neither better nor worse than any other Western gunmen except that they fought together. It was accepted by everyone that they would always fight together. The Brockmans he did not know. From the beginning he had accepted the fact that someday he would kill them. That he did not doubt. Few of the real gunfighters doubted. To doubt would have been to fail. There was the famous case of the duel between Dave Tutt and Bill Hickok as an example. Hickok shot Tutt and turned to get the drop on Tutt’s friends before the man shot had even hit the ground. Bill had known he was dead.
The Brockmans no doubt felt as secure in the belief they would win as Kilkenny did. Somebody had to be wrong, but he could not make himself believe that was important. It was something he would have to live through, and it in no way could affect the solution of the plot on which he was working. True, he might be killed, but if so the solution wouldn’t matter, anyway.
Every way he looked at it, the only actual member of the outlaw crew he could put a finger on was Bert Polti, and there was a measure of doubt there. He had not seen Polti at Apple Cañon. The man had a house there, but apparently spent most of his time at Botalla. Polti might have killed Wilkins and Carter. It seemed probable he had. Yet there was no proof. No positive proof.
Again and again Kilkenny returned to the realization that he must go up to the cliff house at Apple Cañon. He was not foolish enough to believe he could do it without danger. He had none of the confidence there that he would have in facing any man with a gun, for in the attack on the cliff house, an attack must be made alone. There were too many intangibles, too many imponderables, too many things one could not foresee. Lord and Steele might postpone their fighting for a day or two. They might never fight, but the problem of Lost Creek Valley would not be settled, and the man at Apple Cañon would try to force the issue at the first moment.
Standing in the dimly lit room, Kilkenny let his gaze drift about him. He had turned then, to go, when an idea hit him. The man who had fired at him before, and who had killed Carter, had stopped on the spot to reload. A careful man. But then, a smart man with a gun always was.
Carefully Kilkenny began to search the room, knowing even as he did that the search would be useless, for the man had left too quickly to have left anything. Then he went down the stairs and out back. With painstaking care, and risking a shot from the dark, he examined the ground. He found footsteps, and followed them.
Sixty feet beyond the hotel, he found what he sought. The running man had dropped the shell here, and shoved another into the chamber. Kilkenny picked up the brass shell. A glance told him what he had half expected to find. The unseen gunman was the man who had killed Sam Carter.
“Found somethin’?”
He straightened swiftly. It was Gates, standing there, his hand on his pistol butt, staring at him.
“A shell. Where’s Polti?”
“Left town for Apple Cañon, ridin’ easy, takin’ his time.”
“You been with him like I said?” Kilkenny demanded.
“Yeah.” Rusty nodded. “He didn’t do that shootin’ a while ago if that’s what you mean. I heard the shootin’, then somebody come in and told us you was playin’ target down here, and I’d had Polti within ten feet of me ever since you left me.”
Kilkenny rubbed his jaw and stared gloomily into the darkness. So it wasn’t Bert Polti. The theory that had been half formed in his mind that Polti was himself the unseen killer, and a close agent of the man on the cliff, was shattered.
Suddenly a new thought came to him. What of Rusty? Where had Rusty Gates been? Why had Rusty joined him? Was it from sheer love of battle and admiration for him, Kilkenny? Or for some deeper purpose?
He shook his head. He would be suspecting himself if this continued. Turning, followed by Gates, he walked slowly back to the street. He felt baffled, futile. Wherever he turned, he was stopped. There were shootings and killings, then the killer vanished.
The night was wearing on, and Kilkenny mounted the buckskin and rode out into the desert. He had chosen a place, away from the town, for his camp. Now he rode to it and unsaddled Buck. Within a few minutes he had made his camp. He lit no fire, but the moon was coming up.
It was just clearing the tops of the ridges when he heard a ghost-like movement. Instantly he rolled over behind a boulder and slid his six-gun into his hand. On the edge of the wash, not fifteen feet away, a man was standing.
“Don’t shoot, Kilkenny,” a low voice drawled easily. “This is a friendly call.”
“All right,” Kilkenny said, rising to his full height. “Come on up, but watch it. I can see in the dark just as well as the light.”
The man walked forward and stopped within four feet of Kilkenny. He was smiling a little.
“Sorry to run in on you thisaway,” he said pleasantly, “but I wanted a word or two in private, and you’re a right busy man these days.”
Kilkenny waited. There was something vaguely familiar about the man. Somewhere, sometime he had seen him.
“Kilkenny,” the man said, “I’ve heard a lot about you. Heard you’re a square shooter, and a good man to tie to. Well, I like men like that. I’m Lee Hall.”
Lee Hall! The famous Texas Ranger, the man known as Red Hall who had brought law and order to more than one wild Texas cow town, and who was known throughout the border regions! He walked around a little, then stopped.
“Kilkenny,” he said slowly, “I suppose you’re wonderin’ why I’m here? Well, as I said, I’ve heard a lot about you. I need some help, and I reckon you’re the man. What’s been happenin’ down here?”
Briefly Kilkenny sketched in the happenings since his arrival, and what had happened before, from what he had heard. He advanced his theories about Apple Cañon.
“Nita Riordan?” Hall nodded. “I knew her old man. He came out from the East. Good man. Hadn’t lived in Carolina long, came there from Virginia, but good family, and a good man. Heard he had a daughter.”
“What did you want me t’do?” Kilkenny asked.
“Go ahead with what you’re doin’, and keep this cattle war down. I’m puttin’ up wire on my own place now, and we’re havin’ troubles of our own. If you need any help, holler. But you’re bein’ deputized here and now. Funny thing,” Hall suggested thoughtfully, “you tellin’ me about the killin’ of Wilkins and Carter. These ain’t the first of the kind from the Live Oak country. For the past six years now people have been gettin’ mysteriously shot down here. In fact, Chet Lord’s half-brother was dry-gulched, and not far from Apple Cañon. Name of Destry King. Never found who did it, and there didn’t seem any clue. But he told me a few days before he died that he thought he knew who the killer in the neighborhood was.”
Chapter X
Hall left after over two hours of talk. Kilkenny stretched out with his sadd
le for a pillow, and stared up at the stars.
Could it be there was some other plot, something that had been begun before the present one? Could the old killings be connected with the new? There was only a hint. Destry King, half-brother to Chet Lord, had been killed when he had thought he had a clue. Had he confided in his half-brother?
It was high time, Kilkenny thought, that he had a talk with Chet Lord. So far circumstances had conspired to keep him so occupied that there had been no chance, and his few messages had been sent through Steve.
Long before daylight Kilkenny rolled out of his blankets and saddled up. He headed out for Cottonwood and the railroad and arrived at the small station to find no one about but the stationmaster. Carefully he wrote out three messages. One of them was to El Paso, and one to Dodge. The third was to a friend in San Antonio, a man who had lived long in the Live Oak country, and who before that had lived in Missouri.
When he left Cottonwood, he cut across country to the Apple Cañon trail and headed for the Chet Lord Ranch. He was riding through a narrow defile among the rocks, when suddenly he saw two people riding ahead. They were Tana Steele and Victor Bonham.
“Howdy,” he said, touching his Stetson. “Nice day.”
Tana reined in and faced him.
“Hello,” she said evenly. “Are you still as insulting as ever?”
“Do you mean, am I still as stubborn about spoiled girls as ever?” He grinned. “Bonham, this girl’s shore enough a wildcat. Plenty of teeth, too, although pretty.”
Bonham laughed, but Kilkenny saw his eyes drop to the tied-down guns. When they lifted, there was a strange expression in them. Then Bonham reined his horse around a bit, broadside to Kilkenny.
“Going far?” Bonham asked quietly.
“Not far.”
“Chet Lord’s, I suppose? I hear he’s not a pleasant man to do business with.”
Kilkenny shrugged. “Doesn’t matter much. I do business with ’em, pleasant or otherwise.”
“Aren’t you the man who killed the Weber brothers?” Bonham asked. “I heard you did. I should think it would bother you.”
“Bother me?” Kilkenny shrugged. “I never think of it much. The men I kill ask for it, an’ they don’t worry me much one way or the other.”
“It wasn’t a matter of conscience,” Bonham replied dryly. “I was thinking of Royal Barnes. I hear he was a relative of theirs, and one of the fastest men in the country.”
“Barnes?” Kilkenny shrugged. “I never gave him a thought. The Webers asked for it, an’ they got it. Why should Barnes ask for anything? I’ve never even seen the man.”
“He might,” Bonham said. “And he’s fast.”
Kilkenny ignored the Easterner and glanced at Tana. She had been sitting there watching him, a curious light in her eyes.
“Ma’am,” he said slowly, “did you know Destry King?”
“King?” Tana’s eyes brightened. “Oh, certainly. We all knew Des. He was Chet Lord’s half-brother. Or rather, step-brother, for they had different parents. He was a grand fellow. I had quite a crush on him when I was fourteen.”
“Killed, wasn’t he?” Kilkenny asked.
“Yes. Someone shot him from behind some rocks. Oh, it was awful. Particularly as the killer walked up to his body and shot him twice more in the face and twice in the stomach.”
Bonham sat listening, and his eyes were puzzled as he looked at Kilkenny. “I don’t believe I understand,” he said. “I thought you were averting a cattle war, but now you seem curious about an outdated killing.”
Kilkenny shrugged. “He was killed from ambush. So were Sam Carter and Joe Wilkins. So were several others. Of course, they all cover quite a period of time, but none of the killin’s was ever solved. It looks a bit odd.”
Bonham’s eyes were keen. He looked as if he had made a discovery. “Ah, I see,” he said. “You imply there may be a connection? That the same man may have killed them all? That the present killings weren’t part of the range war?”
“I think the present killin’s was part of the range war,” Kilkenny said positively, “but the way of killin’ is like the killin’s in them old crimes.” He turned to Tana. “Tell me about Des King.”
“I don’t know why I shouldn’t,” she said. “As I told you, Des was a wonderful fellow. Everyone liked him. That was what made his killing so strange. He was a fast man with a gun, too, and one of the best riders on the range. Everyone made a lot of Des. Several riders had been shot, then an old miner. I think the first person killed was an old Indian. Old Comanche, harmless enough…used to live around the Lord Ranch. Altogether I think there were seven men killed before Des was. He started looking into it, having an idea they were all done by the same man. He told me once that I shouldn’t go riding, that I should stay home and not ride in the hills. Said it wasn’t safe.”
“You rode a good deal as a youngster?”
“Oh, yes. There weren’t many children around, and I used to ride over to talk and play with Steve Lord. Our fathers were good friends then, but it was six miles over rough country to his house then…wild country.”
“Thanks. I’ll be gettin’ on. Thanks for the information, ma’am. Glad to have seen you again, Bonham.”
Bonham smiled. “I think we may see each other often, Kilkenny.”
Suddenly Tana put out her hand. “Really, Kilkenny,” she said, “I’m sorry about that first day. I knew you were right that first time, but I was so mad I hated to admit it. I’m sorry.”
“Shore.” Kilkenny grinned. “But I’m not takin’ back what I said about you.”
Tana stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Mean?” He raised his eyebrows innocently. “Didn’t I say you were mighty pretty?”
He touched his spurs lightly to the buckskin’s flanks and took off at a bound. After a brisk gallop for about a quarter of a mile he slowed down to a walk, busy with his thoughts.
Hall’s information had been correct. Des King had had a theory as to who the killer was. He had been steadily tracking him down. Then the killer must have seen how near he was to capture, and had killed King. But what was the thread that connected the crimes? There was no hint of burglary or robbery in any of them. Yet there had to be a connection. The pattern was varied only in the case of King, for he had been shot several times, shot as if the killer had hated him, shot through and through. And why a harmless old Indian? A prospector? Several riders? Kilkenny rode on, puzzling.
Ahead of him the ground dipped into a wide and shallow valley down which led the cattle trail he was following. Nearby were rocks, and a wash not far away.
Kilkenny rolled a smoke and thoughtfully lighted it. He flipped the match away and shoved his sombrero back on his head. The situation was getting complicated, and nowhere closer to a solution. The Steele and Lord fight was hanging fire. Twice there had been minor bursts of action, and then both had petered out after his taking a hand, yet it wasn’t fooling anybody. The basic trouble was still there, and Davis hadn’t been brought together with Steele and Lord.
Above the Live Oak, the country was seething, too. Wire cutters were loose, and fences were torn down nightly. Cattle were being rustled occasionally, but in small bunches. There was no evidence they had come through the Live Oak country and down to Apple Cañon.
Kilkenny had almost reached the Lord ranch house when he saw Steve come riding toward him, a smile on his face. Steve looked closely at Kilkenny, his eyes curious.
“Didn’t expect to see you over here,” he said. “I figgered you was goin’ back to Apple Cañon!”
“Apple Cañon?” Kilkenny asked. “Why?”
“Oh, most people who see Nita want to see her again,” Steve said. “You lookin’ for Dad?”
“That’s right. Is he around?”
“Uhn-huh. That’s him on the roan hoss.”
They rode up to the big man, and Kilkenny was pleased. Chet Lord was typically a cattleman of the old school. Old Chet turned and stared at Kilken
ny as he approached, then looked quickly from him to Steve. He smiled and held out his hand.
“Kilkenny, huh? I thought so from the stories I been hearin’.”
Lord’s face was deeply lined, and there were creases of worry about his eyes. Either the impending cattle war was bothering Chet Lord or something else was. He looked like anything but a healthy man now. Yet it wasn’t a physical distress. Something, Kilkenny felt instinctively, was troubling the rancher.
“Been meanin’ to see you, Mister Lord,” Kilkenny said. “Got to keep you an’ Steele off each other’s backs. Then get you with Mort Davis.”
“You might get me and Webb together,” Lord said positively, “but I ain’t hankerin’ for no parley with that cow-stealin’ Davis.”
“Shucks.” Kilkenny grinned. “You mean to tell me you never rustled a cow? I’ll bet you rustled aplenty in your time. Why, I have myself. I drove a few over the border couple of times when I needed a stake.”
“Well, mebbe,” said Lord. “But Davis come in and settled on the best piece of cow country around here. Right in the middle of my range.”
“Yours or Steele’s,” Kilkenny said. “What the devil? Did you expect him to take the worst? He’s an old buffalo hunter. He hunted through there while you was still back in Missouri.”
“Mebbe. But we used this range first.”
“How’d you happen to come in here? Didn’t like Missouri?”
Chet Lord dropped a hand to the pommel of his saddle and stared at Kilkenny. “That’s none of your cussed business, gunman! I come here because I liked it…no other reason.”
His voice was sharp, irritated, and Kilkenny detected under it that the man was dangerously near the breaking point. But why? What was riding him? What was the trouble?
Kilkenny shrugged. “It don’t mean anythin’ t’me. I don’t care why you came here. Or why you stay. By the way, what’s your theory about the killin’ of Des King?”
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