Kilkenny 02 - A Man Called Trent (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “Barnes?” Rusty Gates’s face tightened, then turned gray as he looked at Kilkenny. “One of the slickest hombres that ever threw a six-gun.”

  In the stillness that followed, men stared at one another, and into the mind of each came stories they had heard of Royal Barnes and of the men who had gone down before his roaring guns. In the mind of each was a fear that he might be next.

  The silence was shattered by the crashing of a door, and as one man the crowd turned to stare at the rear door of the Trail House. Several steps inside that door, his head thrust forward and his eyes glaring with killing hatred, stood a huge, broad-jawed man in a checked shirt and black jeans stuffed into heavy cowhide boots.

  “Cain Brockman!” Frame yelled.

  The big man strode forward until he stood only three paces from Kilkenny. Then, with cold, merciless hatred in his eyes, he unbuckled his belt and shed his guns.

  “I’m goin’ to kill you, Kilkenny! With my bare hands!”

  “No!” Webb burst out, thrusting himself forward. “We got us a job to do, Kilkenny!”

  “Keep out of this,” Kilkenny said quietly.

  Without further word and without taking his eyes from Cain’s, he unbuckled his own belt and passed his guns to the big rancher.

  With a hoarse grunt, Cain Brockman lunged, swinging a ponderous right fist. Kilkenny stepped inside and snapped a lightning left to the face, then closed with the big man, slamming both fists to his midriff. Cain grabbed Kilkenny and hurled him across the room so that he brought up with a crash against the bar. Cain lunged after him.

  Kilkenny pivoted away, stabbing a left that caught the bigger man on the cheek bone, then Brockman swung and caught Kilkenny with a hard right swing that knocked him to his knees. A kick aimed at Kilkenny’s shoulder just grazed him as he was starting to rise. He lost balance, toppling over on the floor. He rolled away and came up swinging, and the two sprang together.

  Brockman’s face was savage with killing fury and an ugly glee at having his enemy and the man who had slain his brother actually in his hands. Another right caught Kilkenny a glancing blow, but he weathered it and stepped under a left, slamming a right to the ribs. Then he hooked a left to the chin, leaping away before Cain could grab him.

  It was toe-to-toe, slam-bang fighting, and neither man was taking any precaution. Both fought like savages, and Kilkenny’s face became set in a mask of fierce desperation as he met charge after charge of the huge Brockman. They stood, straddle-legged, in the middle of the floor and swung until the smacking sound of their blows sounded loudly in the room and blood streamed from cut and battered faces. Brockman was a brute for strength, and he was out for a kill, filled with so much fury that he was almost immune to pain.

  Kilkenny stepped inside a right and ripped his own right to the heart. He hooked both hands to the body, then they grappled and went to the floor, kicking and gouging. There were no rules here, no niceties of combat. This was fighting to maim, to kill, and there was only one possible end—the finish of one or the other.

  Blood streaming from a cut on his cheek, Kilkenny lanced a left to the mouth, then missed a right and took a wicked left to the middle. But he took the punch going in, punching with both hands to the head.

  Cain’s big head rocked with the force of the blows and he spat a tooth onto the floor, and swung hard to the head, staggering Kilkenny. The gunman came back fast, ripping a right uppercut to the chin, then a left and right to the head. Kilkenny was boxing now. Long ago he had taken lessons from one of the best fighters of the day, and he found now that he needed every bit of his skill.

  It was not merely a matter of defeating Cain Brockman. After that, and perhaps soon, he would be meeting Royal Barnes, and his hands must be strong and ready. He stepped inside of a right and smashed a right to the bigger man’s body, then hooked a left to the heart, and drummed with both hands against the big man’s torso. Body punches stood less chance of hurting his hands, and he must be careful.

  He stepped around, putting Brockman off side, and then crossed a right to Cain’s bleeding eye, circled farther left, and crossed the right again. Then he stabbed three lefts to the face, and, as Cain lunged, he stepped inside and butted him under the chin with his head.

  Brockman let out a muffled roar and crowded Kilkenny to the bar, but Lance wormed away and slugged the big man in the ribs. Brockman was slowing down now, and his face was bloody and swollen. His eyes gleamed fiercely, and he began to move slowly, more cautiously, moving in, watching for his chance.

  Cain backed up, backed slowly, trying to keep away from that stabbing left, then suddenly he brought up against the wall. Putting a foot against the wall, he shoved himself off it like a huge battering ram and caught Kilkenny fully in the chest with his big head. Kilkenny went crashing to the floor!

  Brockman rushed close, trying to kick him in the ribs, but Kilkenny got to his hands and knees and hurled himself against Brockman’s legs. The big man tumbled over him, then spun on the floor with amazing agility and grabbed Kilkenny’s head, groping for his eyeballs with his thumbs!

  Mad with pain and fear for his eyes, Kilkenny tore loose and lunged to his feet. Brockman came up with him and Kilkenny stabbed a powerful left into that wide granite-hard face. Blood flew in every direction, and he felt the nose bone crunch under his fist. With a cry of pain, Cain Brockman lunged forward, and his mighty blows pounded at Kilkenny’s body. But the lighter man blocked swiftly and caught most of the blows on his elbows and shoulders. Driven back, the gun expert swayed like a tree in a gale, fighting desperately to set himself, to stave off that terrific assault. There was the taste of blood in his mouth and he felt his lungs gasping for breath, and their gasping was a tearing pain.

  Brockman closed in and thrust out a left that might have ended the fight, but Kilkenny went under it and butted Cain in the chest, staggering the bigger man. Missing a right hook to the head, Kilkenny split Brockman’s cheek wide open with his elbow, ripped the elbow back, slamming the big man’s head around.

  Despite the fierceness of the fighting, Kilkenny was not badly hurt. Most of the bigger man’s blows had been wasted. One eye was cut, and he knew his jaw was swollen, but mainly he was fighting to stave off the big man’s fierce attacks. They swept forward with tremendous power, but little skill. Yet Kilkenny was growing desperate. His punches seemed to have no effect on the huge hulk of Cain Brockman. The big man’s face was bleeding from several cuts. His lips were battered, and one eye was badly swollen, but he seemed to have got his second wind, and was no less strong than when he had thrown his first punch. On his part, Kilkenny had one eye almost swollen shut. He could taste blood from a cut inside his mouth, and his breath was coming in those tearing gasps.

  Brockman bored in, swinging. Kilkenny pushed the left swing outward and stepped in, bringing up a hard left uppercut to the wind that stopped Brockman in his tracks. But the big man bowed his head and lunged. Kilkenny dropped an open palm to the head and shoved the fellow off balance, and, as his guard came down for an instant, he stabbed a left to Brockman’s cut eye. Then he circled warily.

  Cain lunged, kicked at Kilkenny’s middle. The lighter man jerked back, then stepped off to the left, and dived in a long flying tackle. He hit Brockman at the knees, grabbed, and jerked hard! Brockman came down with a thud, his head bouncing on the wood floor. Kilkenny rolled free and scrambled to his feet. Brockman was getting up, but he was slow. Half up, he lunged in a long dive himself, but Kilkenny jerked his knee into the big man’s face. Cain rolled off to one side, his face bloody and scarcely human. Yet even then he tried to get up.

  He made it. Kilkenny was sick of the fight, sick of the beating he was giving the bigger man. He stepped in, measured him with a left, and, when Cain tried to lift his hands, Kilkenny slugged him in the solar plexus. The big man went down, conscious, but paralyzed from the waist down.

  Kilkenny stepped back, weaving with exhaustion. Grimly he worked his battered, stiffened hands.

  “
You ain’t in shape for that raid now, Kilkenny,” Rusty expostulated. “Better call it off or stay behind.”

  “To thunder with that,” Kilkenny replied sharply. “I want Royal Barnes myself, and I’ll get him.”

  Walking back to the wash basin, he dipped up water from the bucket and bathed his cut and bruised face. He turned his head as Frame walked up, his face grave.

  “Get me some salts,” Kilkenny said.

  While he waited, he bathed his hands and replaced his torn shirt with one brought him by Gates.

  When he had the salts, he put them in hot water one of the men brought and soaked them. He knew there was nothing better for taking away soreness and stiffness, and it was only his hands he was worried about. He was bruised and battered, but not seriously. Although that one eye was swollen, he could still see through the slit.

  Finally he straightened. He turned and looked at the men around him. They would never ride without him, he knew, or, if they did, their hearts wouldn’t be in it. He laughed suddenly.

  “All-l-l set!” he yelled. “Let’s ride!”

  Chapter XVI

  On Buck, Kilkenny headed toward the Apple Cañon trail. He was tired, his muscles were weary and heavy, yet he knew that the outdoor life he had lived, and the rugged existence he had known most of his life would give him the stamina he needed now. Behind him a tight cavalcade of grim, mounted men were riding out to battle.

  Rusty Gates rode up alongside Kilkenny in the van of the column.

  “You had yourself a scrap,” Rusty said. “Can you see?”

  “Enough.”

  “How about your hands?” Gates noticed the swollen knuckles and his lips tightened. “Kilkenny, you can’t drag a fast gun with hands like that. Facin’ Barnes will be suicide.”

  “Nevertheless, I’m facin’ him,” Kilkenny said crisply. “He’s my meat, and I’ll take him. Besides, my hands ain’t as bad as they look, and most of that swelling will be gone soon. It ain’t goin’ to be speed that’ll win, anyway. Both of us are goin’ to catch lead. It’ll be who can take the most of it and keep goin’.” He nodded. “The way I figure it we’ll be spotted before we get there. They’ll be holed up around the buildin’s. The bunkhouse, the livery stable, and blacksmith shop all looked like they was built to stand a siege.”

  “They were,” said Rusty. “Heavy logs or stone, and built solid. Bill Sadler’s place, on the same side as the Border Bar, is ’dobe, and it has walls three feet thick. Them windows was built to cover the trail, an’ believe me, it ain’t a goin’ to be no picnic gettin’ tough men out of there.”

  “I know.” Kilkenny rubbed Buck’s neck thoughtfully. “Got to figger that one out. I’m thinkin’ of leavin’ you fellers anyway. I’m goin’ up to the castle.”

  “Alone?” Gates was incredulous. “Man, you’re askin’ for it. He’ll be forted up there, and plenty tight.”

  “I doubt it. I doubt if he ever lets more than one man up there with him. Royal Barnes, as I hear of him, ain’t a trustin’ soul. No, I’m goin’ to try comin’ down the cliffs above the castle.”

  “The what?” Gates swore and spat into the road. “Holy snakes, feller! They’re sheer rock! You’d need a rope and a lot of luck. Then he’d see you and get you before you ever got down!”

  “Mebbe, I got the rope, and mebbe the luck. Anyway, I’m comin’ down from behind where he won’t be expectin’ me, an’ I’m comin’ down while you fellers are hard at it in front. Now here…the way I see it…”

  As Webb Steele, Frame, and Rusty listened, he outlined a brief plan of attack. At the end, they began to grin.

  “Might work,” observed Steele. “I’d forgot that claim up in the pass. If that stuff is still there…”

  “It is. I looked.”

  Kilkenny had no illusions about the task ahead. With the plan he had conceived, carefully working it out during the previous days, he believed that the fort houses of Apple Cañon could be taken. It meant a struggle, and there would be loss of life. This riding column would lose some faces, and there would be hectic and bloody fighting before that return.

  Where was Steve Lord? Had Steve risen to his bait and ridden to the hidden cabin in the box cañon? It would be a place to find him, and there, if Steve should go for a gun, he could end it all. Kilkenny shrank from the task, and only the knowledge that other people would die, brutally murdered from ambush, made him willing to go through with keeping his promise to old Chet Lord. He had that job to do, and luckily the cañon was only a short distance from the route the cavalcade would follow.

  There had been no diary left by Des King. The idea had been created in Kilkenny’s own mind. It had been bait dropped for the killer, and it had been conceived even before Kilkenny had known that Steve was the man. That he would have discovered it soon, he knew, for slowly the evidence had been mounting, and he had been suspicious of Steve Lord, waiting only for a chance to inspect his guns and check them against the shells he had picked up as evidence.

  What would Steve Lord do now? To all intents, he would be outlawed. He knew his father had exposed him, and he must realize there was evidence enough to convict him, or to send him to an asylum. He would be desperate. Would he try to kill Kilkenny? To escape? Or would he go on a killing spree and gun down everything and everybody in sight? Kilkenny couldn’t escape the feeling that Steve would go to Apple Cañon. He turned suddenly to Webb Steele.

  “I’m ridin’ for the shack where I let Steve think Des King hid his diary,” he said. “If I ain’t back when you get to Apple Cañon, just go to work and don’t wait for me. I’m goin’ to get Steve Lord. When I find him, I’ll come back.”

  He wheeled the buckskin and took off up a draw into the deeper hills. He had been thinking of this route all the way along. He wasn’t sure this route would do it, but knew he could find a way.

  The draw opened into a narrower draw, and after a long time he rode out of that to a little stretch of bunch grass that led away to a ridge covered with cedar and pine. It was cool among the trees, and he stopped for a minute to wipe his hatband and check his guns once more. Then he slid his Winchester from the scabbard and took it across the saddle in front if him. His hands felt better than he had expected they would.

  He struck a path and followed it through the trees, winding steadily upward. Then the trees thinned, and he entered a region of heaped-up boulders among which the trail wound with all the casualness of cow trails in a country where cows are in no hurry. Twice rabbits jumped up and ran away from his trail, but the buckskin’s hoofs made no noise on the pine needles or in the dust of the boulder-bordered trail.

  Kilkenny was cutting across a meadow when he saw the prints of a horse bisecting the trail he was making. In the tall grass of the meadow he could tell nothing of the horse, but on a hunch he turned the buckskin and followed. Whoever the rider was, he was in a hurry, and was moving in as straight a line as possible for his objective.

  It had bad features, this trailing of a man native to the country. Such a man would know of routes, of places of concealment of which Kilkenny could know nothing. Such an advantage could mean the difference between life and death in such a country.

  Scanning every open space before he moved across it, Kilkenny followed warily. He knew only too well the small amount of concealment it required to prevent a man from being seen. A few inches of grass, clothes that blended with surroundings, and immobility was all that was essential to remain unseen.

  Sunlight caught the highest pinnacles of the mountains beyond Forgotten Pass, and slowly the long shadows crept up, and the day crept away down the cañons. Kilkenny rode steadily, every sense alert for trouble, his keen eyes searching the rocks ahead, roving ceaselessly, warily.

  The cabin was not far away when he dismounted and faded into the darkness under the gnarled cedars, and looked down through the narrow entrance between the cliffs into the box cañon.

  A squat, shapeless structure, built hurriedly by some wandering prospector or hopeful ran
cher in some distant period. Then in the years that followed it had slowly sagged here and there, the straw roof rotting and being patched with cedar bows, earth, and even heavy branches from the cedars until the roof had become a mound. It was an ancient, decrepit structure, its one window a black hole, its door too low for a tall man. About it the grass was green, for there was a stream nearby that flowed out of the rocks on one side and returned into the cliffs on the other, after diagonally crossing the cañon and watering a meadow in transit.

  Outside the shack, under an apple tree, stood a saddled horse, his head hanging.

  Well, here we are, Kilkenny, he told himself dryly. Now to get close.

  Leaving the buckskin in concealment, Kilkenny went at a crouching run to the nearest boulder. Then he ran closer, crouched behind some cedars, watching the cabin.

  He was puzzled. There was still no movement. It should take no time to find there was nothing in the cabin, and it was black in there. He should have seen a light by now, for there was no use trying to search in the blackness inside that cabin for anything.

  The saddled horse stood, his head low, waiting wearily. A breeze stirred leaves on the cottonwood tree, and they whispered gently. Kilkenny pulled his sombrero lower and, moving carefully with the whispering of the leaves to cover the rustle of his movement, worked along the cliff into the bottleneck entrance. Slowly, carefully he worked inside.

  There was no shot, no sound. In dead silence he moved closer, his rifle ready, his eyes searching every particle of cover. The horse moved a little, and began cropping grass absently, as though it had already eaten its fill.

  Suddenly he had a feeling that the cabin was empty. There was no reason for him to wait. He would go over to it. He stepped out, his rifle ready, and walked swiftly and silently across the grass toward the cabin.

  The horse stopped cropping grass and looked up, pricking its ears at him. Then he stepped up to the cabin.