Chet Lord’s face went deathly pale, and he clutched suddenly, getting a harder grip on the saddle horn. Kilkenny saw his teeth set, and the man turned tortured, frightened eyes at Kilkenny.
“You better get,” Lord managed after a minute. “You better get goin’ now. If you’ll take a tip from a friendly man, keep movin’.”
He wheeled his horse and walked it away. For a moment, Kilkenny watched him, then turned his head to find Steve staring at him, in his eyes that strange, leaping white light Kilkenny had seen once before.
“Don’t bother Dad,” Steve said. “He ain’t been well lately. Not sleepin’ good. I think this range war has got him worried.”
“Worried?”
“Uhn-huh. We need money. If we lose many cows, we can’t pay off some debts we’ve got.”
After a few minutes’ talk, Kilkenny turned his buckskin and rode away from the ranch. He rode away in a brown study. Something about Des King had Chet Lord bothered. Was Lord the murderer of his own step-brother? But no! Chet might shoot a man, but he would do it in a fair, stand-up fight. There was no coyote in Chet Lord any more than there was in Webb Steele or Mort Davis.
Chapter XI
More and more the tangled skein of the situation became more twisted, and more and more he felt the building up of powerful forces around him, with nothing he could take hold of. He was in serious danger, he knew, yet danger was something he had always known. It was the atmosphere he had breathed since he had gunned his first man in a fair stand-up fight at the age of sixteen.
There was something about Chet Lord’s fear that puzzled him. Lord had seemed more to be afraid for him, than for himself. Why? What could have aroused Lord’s fear so? And what had made the man so upset? Was he really in debt? Somehow, remembering the place and the fat cattle, and knowing the range as he did, Kilkenny could not convince himself that Steve’s statement was true. It was a cover-up for something else. There was fresh paint, all too rare in the Texas of those days, and new barbed wire, and new ranch buildings, and every indication that money was being spent.
Yet somewhere on that range a killer was loose, a strange, fiendish killer. It was unlike the West, a man who struck from ambush, a man who would kill an old Indian, who would ambush a prospector, and who would shoot down lonely riders. Somewhere, in all the welter of background, there was a clue.
Kilkenny lifted his head and stared gloomily down the trail. He was riding back through the shallow valley and down the cattle trail along which he had just traveled. He looked ahead, and for some reason felt uneasy.
Lord’s gettin’ his fear into me, he told himself grimly. Still, in a country like this a man’s a fool to ride twice over the same trail.
On the impulse of the moment, he wheeled his horse and took it in two quick jumps for the shelter of the wash. As the horse gathered himself for the second jump, a shot sounded, and Kilkenny felt the whip of the bullet past his head. Then another and another.
But Buck knew what shooting was, and he hit the wash in one more jump and slid into it in a cascade of sand and gravel. Kilkenny touched spurs to the horse and went down the wash on a dead run. That wash took a bend up above. If he could get around that bend in a hurry, he might outflank the killer.
He went around the bend in a rush and hit the ground running, rifle in hand. Flattening himself behind a hummock of sand and sagebrush, he peered through, trying to locate the unseen rifleman. But he moved slightly, trying to see better, and a shot clipped by him, almost burning his face. A second shot kicked sand into his eyes. He slid back into the wash in a hurry.
“The devil!” he exploded. “That hombre is wise! Spotted me, did he?”
He swung into saddle and circled farther, then tried again from the bank. Now he could see into the nest of rock where the killer must have waited and from which the first shot had come. There was no one in sight. Then he saw a flicker of movement among the rocks higher up. The killer was stalking him!
Crouching low, he waited, watching a gap in the rocks. Then he saw the shadow of a man, only a blob of darkness from where he huddled, and he fired. It was a quick, snapped shot and it clipped the boulder and ricocheted off into the daylight, whining wickedly.
Then it began—a steady circling. Two riflemen trained in the West, each maneuvering for a good shot, each wanting to kill. Twice Kilkenny almost got in shots, and then one clipped the rock over his head. An hour passed, and still he had seen nothing. He circled higher among the rocks and, after a long search, found a place where a man had knelt. On the ground nearby was a rifle shell, a shell from a Winchester carbine, Model 1873.
Mebbe that’ll help, he told himself. Ain’t too many of ’em around. The Rangers mostly have ’em. And I’ve got one. I think Rusty still uses his old Sharps, and I expect Webb Steele does. But say! He stopped, scowling. Why, Tana Steele has a ’Seventy-Three! Yeah, and if I ain’t mistaken, so has Bonham!
This couldn’t continue. Three times now the killer had tried shots at him, if indeed all had been fired by the same man. Bonham was in the vicinity, but why should Bonham shoot at him? Tana Steele was near, also, and Tana might have a streak of revenge in her system. But Chet Lord wasn’t far away, either, and there were other men on the range who might shoot. Above all, this was an uncertain country where every man rode with an itch in his trigger finger these days.
One thing was sure. He was no nearer a solution than he had been. He had shells from the killer’s six-gun and now from a Winchester 1873. Yet he had no proof beyond a hunch that the attempts at killing had been made by the same man.
The mysterious boss of Apple Cañon apparently had not wanted him killed. Hence, why the attempts now, if he were responsible? Or had the attempts, as he had suspected before, been the work of different men? But if not the Apple Cañon boss, and if not Bert Polti, then who? And why? Who else had cause to kill him?
Yet, so far as he knew, many of the mysterious killings in the past had been done without cause. At least, there had been no reason of which he was aware. Underneath it all, some strange influence was at work, something cruel and evil, something that was not typical of the range country where men settled their disputes face to face.
Kilkenny kept to back trails in making his way back to Botalla. The thing now was to get Steele, Lord, and Davis together and settle their difficulties if they could be settled. Knowing all three men, and knowing the kind of men they were, he had little doubt of a settlement.
The two bigger cattlemen were range hungry and Davis was stubborn. Like many men, each of them wanted to work his own way, each was a rugged individualist who had yet to learn that many more things are accomplished by co-operation than by solitary efforts.
Botalla lay quietly under the late sun when the buckskin walked down the street. A few men were sitting around, and among them were several cowpunchers from the Lord and Steele spreads. Kilkenny reined in alongside a couple of them. A short cowpuncher with batwing chaps and a battered gray sombrero looked up at him from his seat on the boardwalk, rolled his quid in his jaws, and spat.
“How’s it?” he said carefully.
“So-so.” Kilkenny shoved his hat back on his head and reached for the makings. “You’re Shorty Lewis, ain’t you?”
The short cowpuncher looked surprised. “Shore am. How’d you know me?”
“Saw you one time in Austin. Ridin’ a white-legged roan hoss.”
Lewis spat again. “Well, I’ll be durned! I ain’t had that hoss for three year. You shore got a memory.”
Kilkenny grinned and lighted his cigarette. “Got to have, livin’ like I do. An hombre might forget the wrong face!” He drew deeply on the smoke. “Shorty, you ride for Steele, don’t you?”
“Been ridin’ for him six year,” Lewis said. “Before that I was up in the Nations.”
“Know Des King?” Kilkenny asked casually.
Lewis got to his feet.
“Just what’s on your mind, Kilkenny?” he asked. “Des King was a half-brother of
Lord’s, but we rode together up in the Nations. He was my friend.”
Kilkenny nodded. “I thought mebbe. Lewis, I got me a hunch the hombre that killed Wilkins and Carter also killed Des King. I got a hunch that hombre tried to kill me.”
“But King was killed some time ago,” Lewis protested. “Before this fight got started.”
“Right. But somebody is ridin’ this range that has some other reason for killin’ men. Somebody who’s cold-blooded and vicious like nobody you ever seen, Shorty. Somebody that’s blood-thirstier than an Apache.”
“What kind of man would be killin’ like that?” Lewis demanded. Then he nodded. “Mebbe you got somethin’, feller. Nobody would’ve shot into Des after he was down, mebbe already dead, except somebody who hated him poison mean, or somebody who loved killin’.”
“There was an old Indian killed, and a prospector,” reminded Kilkenny. “Know anything about them?”
“Yeah. Old Yellow Hoss was a Comanche. He got to hittin’ the bottle purty hard and Chet Lord kept him around and kept him in likker because of some favor the old Injun done for him years ago. Well, one day they found him out on the range, shot in the back. No reason for it, so far’s anybody could see. The prospector’s stuff had been gone over, but nothin’ much was missin’ except an old bone-handled knife…a Injun scalpin’ knife he used to carry. Had no enemies anybody could find. That seems to be the only tie up betwixt ’em.”
“Where were they killed?”
“Funny thing, all of ’em were killed betwixt Apple Cañon and Lost Creek Valley. All but one, that is. Des King was killed on the Lord range not far from Lost Creek.”
Kilkenny nodded. “How about you tellin’ Chet to come in tomorrow mornin’ for a peace talk, Shorty? I’ll get Webb and Mort Davis in.”
After he had told some of the Steele hands that he wanted to see Webb, Kilkenny rode down to the general store. Old Joe Frame was selling a bill of goods to Mort Davis’s boy. Through him word was sent to Mort.
Rusty was waiting on the boardwalk in front of the Trail House when Kilkenny returned. He looked up and grinned.
“If you swing a loop over all three of ’em,” he said, “you’re doin’ a job, pardner. It’ll mean peace in the Live Oak.”
“Yes,” Kilkenny said dryly, “peace in the Live Oak after the gang at Apple Cañon is rounded up.”
Gates nodded. Touching his tongue to a cigarette paper, he looked at Kilkenny. “May not be so hard. You been makin’ friends, pardner. Lots of these local men been a-talkin’ to me. Frame, Winston, the lawyer, Doc Clyde, Tom Hollins, and some more. They want peace, and they want some law in Botalla. What’s more, they’ll fight for it. They told me I could speak for ’em, say that when you need a posse, you can dang’ soon get it in Botalla.”
“Good.” Kilkenny nodded with satisfaction. “We’ll need it.”
“Think any effort’ll be made to break up your peace meetin’?” Rusty asked. “I been wonderin’ about that.”
“I doubt it. Might be. They better not, if they are goin’ to try, because I got us a plan.”
Morning sunlight bathed the dusty street when the riders from the Steele Ranch came in. There were just Webb, Tana, Weston, and two Steele riders. One of them was Shorty Lewis.
Rusty and Kilkenny were loafing in front of the Trail House.
“She’s shore purty,” Rusty said thoughtfully, staring after Tana as she rode toward the hotel. “Never saw a girl so purty.”
Kilkenny grinned. “Why don’t you marry the gal?” he asked. “Old Webb needs him a bright young son-in-law, and Tana’s quite a gal. Some spoiled, but I reckon a good strong hand would make quite a woman of her.”
“Marry her?” Rusty exploded. “She wouldn’t look at me. Anyway, I thought mebbe you had your brand on her.”
“Not me.” Kilkenny shook his head. “Tana’s all right, Rusty, but Kilkenny rides alone. No man like me has a right to marry and mebbe break some woman’s heart when someday he don’t reach fast enough. No, Rusty, I’ve been ridin’ alone, and I’ll keep it up. If I was to change, it wouldn’t be Tana. I like to tease her a bit, because she’s had it too easy with men and with everything, but that’s all.”
He got up, and together they walked down the street toward the hotel. Webb Steele and Tana were idling about the lobby. In a few minutes, Chet Lord came in, followed by Steve. Then the door opened, and Mort Davis stood there, his tall, lean figure almost blocking the door. He stared bleakly at Steele, then at Lord, and walked across the room to stand before the cold fireplace with his thumbs hooked in his belt.
“Guess we better call this here meetin’ to order,” Kilkenny suggested, idly riffling a stack of cards. “The way I hear it, Steele an’ Lord are disputin’ about who fences in Lost Creek, while Mort here is holdin’ Lost Creek.”
“He’s holdin’ it,” Steele said harshly, “but he ain’t got no right to it.”
“Easy now,” Davis said. “How’d you get that range of your’n, Steele? You just rode in an’ took her. Well, that’s what I done. Anyway, I figgered on Lost Creek for ten year. I come West with Jack Halloran’s wagon train fifteen year ago and saw Lost Creek then.”
“Huh?” Webb Steele stiffened. “You rode with Halloran? Why, Tana’s mother was Jack Halloran’s sister.”
Davis stared. “Is that a fact? You all from Jackson County?”
“We shore are! Why, you old coot, why didn’t you tell me you was that Davis? Jack used to tell us about how you and him…” Webb stopped, looking embarrassed.
“Go right ahead, Steele,” Kilkenny said dryly. “I knew if you and Mort ever got together and quit fightin’ long enough to have a confab, you’d get along. Same thing with Lord here. Now, listen. There ain’t no reason why you three can’t get together. You, Steele, are importin’ some fine breedin’ stock. So is Lord. Mort hasn’t got the money for that, but he does have Lost Creek, and he’s got a few head of stock. I don’t see why you need to do any fencin’. Fence out the upper Texas stock, but keep the Live Oak country, this piece of it, as it is. Somebody has moved into Apple Cañon and has gathered a bunch of rustlers around. Well, they’ve got to be cleared out. Lock, stock, and barrel. I’m takin’ that on myself.”
“We need some law here,” Webb Steele said suddenly. “How about you becomin’ marshal?”
“Not me,” Kilkenny said. “I’m a sort of deputy now. Lee Hall dropped by my camp the other night and he gave me this job. Makes it sort of official. But before I leave here, I’m goin’ to take care of that bunch at Apple Cañon. Also,” he added, “I’m goin’ to get the man responsible for all these killin’s.”
His eyes touched Chet Lord’s face as he spoke, and the big rancher’s face was ashen.
Steve spoke up suddenly. “You sound as if you believed there’s no connection between the killin’s and this fight?”
“Mebbe there is, mebbe there isn’t. What I think is that the man who’s doin’ the killin’ is the same man who killed Des King, the same who killed old Yellow Horse.”
Chapter XII
Chet Lord was slumped in his chair and Kilkenny thought he had never seen a man look so old. Tana Steele was looking strange, too, and Kilkenny, looking up suddenly, saw that her face was oddly white and puzzled.
“I think,” Kilkenny said, after he had made his disturbing accusation about the mysterious killer, “that Des King knew who the killer was. He was killed to keep him from exposing that rattler, and also, I believe, because the killer hated King.”
“Why didn’t he tell then?” Steve Lord demanded.
Kilkenny looked up at Steve. “Mebbe he did,” he said slowly. “Mebbe he did.”
“What d’you mean by that?” Webb Steele demanded. “If he told, I never heard nothin’ of it.”
Kilkenny sat quietly, but he could see the tenseness in Tana’s face, the ashen pallor of Chet Lord, slumped in his chair, and Steve’s immobile, hard face.
“Des,” Kilkenny said slowly, “had a little hangout
in the hills. In a box cañon west of Forgotten Pass. Well, Des kept a diary, an account of his search for the killer. He told Lee Hall that, and Lee told me. Tomorrow I’m goin’ to that cabin in the cañon and get that diary. Then I’ll know the whole story.”
“I think…,” Tana began, but got no further because suddenly there was a hoarse yell from the street and the sharp bark of a six-gun. Then a roll of heavy firing.
Kilkenny left his chair with a bound and kicked the door open. There was another burst of firing as he lunged down the steps. His foot caught and he plunged headlong into the dust, his head striking a rock that lay at the foot of the steps.
Rusty and the others plunged after him. They were just in time to see two big men lunging for their horses while rifles and pistols began to bark from all over town. One of the big men threw up his pistol and blazed away at the group on the porch. Rusty had just time to grab Tana and push her against the wall as bullets spattered the hotel wall.
Kilkenny, his head throbbing from the blow of his fall, crawled blindly to his feet, eyes filled with dust. There was a wild rattle of hoof beats, then horses charged by him. One caught him a glancing blow with its shoulder and knocked him flat again. There was another rattle of gunfire, and then it was over.
Kilkenny got to his feet again, wiping the dust from his eyes.
“What was it?” he choked. “What happened?”
Frame had come running up the street from the general store carrying an old Sharps rifle.
“The Brockmans!” he shouted. “That’s who it was! Come to bust up your meetin’ and wipe you out, Kilkenny. Jim Weston, Shorty, and the other Steele rider tried to stop ’em.”
Webb Steele stepped down, eyes blazing. “So that was the Brockmans that rode by! Cussed near killed my daughter!”
“Yeah,” Frame agreed. “They got Weston. Lewis is shot bad, and they got the other boy…O’Connor, I think his name was. Weston never had a chance. He dropped his hand for his gun and Cain drilled him plumb center. Abel took Lewis, and they both lowered guns on the last one. It was short and bloody, and I don’t think either of them got a scratch.”
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