Was there anyone inside? The blackness of the squat cabin gave off no sound. Despite himself, Kilkenny felt uneasy. It was too still, and there was something unearthly about this lost cañon and the lonely little shack. Carefully he put down his rifle and slipped a six-gun into his hand. The rifle would be a handicap if he had to fight in the close quarters of the shack. Then he looked in.
It was black inside, yet between himself and the hole that passed for a window he could see the vague outline of a sleeping man’s head. A man’s head bowed forward on his chest.
“All right,” he said clearly. “You can get up and come out!”
There was neither sound nor movement. Kilkenny stepped inside quickly, and there was still no move. Taking a chance, he struck a match. The man was dead.
Searching about, he found a stump of candle that some passing rider had left. Lighting it, he looked at the man. He was a stranger. A middle-aged man, and a cowhand by his looks. He had been shot in the right temple by someone who had fired from outside the window. The room had been thoroughly ransacked.
Kilkenny scowled. An innocent man killed, and his fault. If he hadn’t told that story, this might not have happened. But at the time he had needed some way for the killer to betray himself. It wasn’t easy to do everything right.
He walked out quickly and swung into saddle. There was nothing to do now but to return. He could make it in time, and morning would be the time to attack. In the small hours, just before daylight.
Buck took the trail with a quickened step as though he understood an end was in sight. Kilkenny lounged in the saddle. Steve would be riding hard now. He would be heading for Apple Cañon.
Weary from the long riding and the fight with Cain Brockman, Kilkenny lounged in the saddle, more asleep than awake. The yellow horse ambled down the trail through the mountains like a ghost horse on a mysterious mission.
There was a faint light in the sky, the barest hint of approaching dawn, when Kilkenny rode up to join the posse. They had stopped in a shallow valley about two miles from Apple Cañon. Dismounted, aside from guards, they were gathered about the fire.
He swung down from his horse and walked over, his boots sinking into the sand of the wash. The firelight glowed on their hard, unshaven faces.
Webb Steele, his huge body looking big as a grizzly’s, looked up.
“Find Steve?” he demanded.
“No. But he killed another man.” Briefly Kilkenny told of what he had found at the cabin. “Steve’s obviously come on here. He’s somewhere in there.”
“You think he worked with this gang?” Frame asked. “Against his own pa?”
“Uhn-huh. I think he knows Barnes. I think they cooked up some kind of a deal. I think Steve Lord has a heavy leanin’ toward Nita Riordan, too. That’s mebbe why he come here.”
Rusty said nothing. He was looking pale, and Kilkenny could see that the ride had been hard on him. He shouldn’t have come with that wound, Kilkenny thought. But men like Rusty Gates couldn’t stay out of a good fight. And wounded or not, he was worth any two ordinary men.
Not two like Webb Steele, though. Or Frame. Either of them would do to ride the river with. They might be bull-headed, they might argue and talk a lot, but they were men who believed in doing the right thing, and men who would fight in order to be able to do it.
Chapter XVII
Glancing around at the others, Kilkenny saw that they looked efficient and sure. All of those men had been through the mill. There probably wasn’t a man in the lot who hadn’t fought Comanches and rustlers. This was going to be tough, because they were fighting clever men who would kill, and who were fighting from concealment. It is one thing to fight skilled fighting men, who know Indian tactics, and to fight those who battle in the open.
“Well,” Kilkenny said, as he tasted the hot, bitter black coffee, “we got to be movin’. The stars are fadin’ out a little.”
Webb Steele turned to the men.
“You all know what this is about,” he said harshly. “We ain’t plannin’ on no prisoners. Every man who wants to surrender will get his chance. If a man throws down his shootin’ iron, take him. We’ll try ’em decent, and hang the guilty ones. Although,” he added, “ain’t likely to be any innocent ones in Apple Cañon.”
“One thing,” Kilkenny said suddenly. “Leave Nita Riordan’s Border Bar and her house alone.”
He wasn’t sure how they would take that, and he stood there, looking around. He saw tacit approval in Rusty’s eyes, and Steele and Frame nodded agreement. Then his eyes encountered those of a tall, lean man with a cadaverous face and piercing gray eyes. The man chewed for a minute in silence, staring at Kilkenny.
“I reckon,” he said then harshly, “that if we clear the bad ’uns out of Apple, we better clear ’em all out. Me, I ain’t stoppin’ for no woman. Nor that half-breed man of her’n, neither!”
Steele’s hand tightened, and his eyes narrowed. Kilkenny noticed tension among the crowd. Would there be a split here? He smiled. “No reason for any trouble,” he said quietly, “but Nita Riordan gave me a tip once that helped. I think she’s friendly to us, an’ I think she’s innocent of wrong doin’.”
The man with the gray eyes looked back at him. “I aim to clear her out of there as well’s the others. I aim to burn that bar over her head.”
There was cruelty in the man’s face, and a harshness that seemed to spring from some inner source of malice and hatred. He wore a gun tied down, and had a carbine in the hollow of his arm. Several other men had moved up behind him now, and there was a curious similarity in their faces.
“Time to settle that,” Kilkenny said, “when we get there. But I’m thinkin’, friend, you better change your mind. If you don’t, you’re goin’ to have to kill me along with her.”
“She’s a scarlet woman,” the man said viciously, “and dyin’s too good for her kind. I’m a-gettin’ her, and you stay away.”
“Time’s a-wastin’,” Steele said suddenly. “Let’s ride!”
In the saddle, Kilkenny swung alongside of Steele in the van of the column.
“Who is that hombre?” he demanded.
“Name of Calkins. Lem Calkins. He hails from West Virginia…lives up yonder in the mountains. He’s a feuder. You see them around him? He’s got three brothers, and five sons. If you touch one of ’em, you got to fight ’em all.”
They rode up the rise before coming to Apple Cañon, and then Kilkenny wheeled his horse toward the cliff. Almost instantly a shot rang out, and he wheeled the buckskin again and went racing toward the street of the town.
More shots rang out, and a man at the well dropped the bucket and grabbed for his gun. Kilkenny snapped a shot and the man staggered back, grabbing at his arm. A shot ripped past Kilkenny, scarring the pommel of his saddle as he lunged forward. He snapped another shot, then raced the buckskin between Nita’s house and the Border Bar, dropping from the saddle.
He was up the back steps in two jumps, and had swung open the door. Firing had broken out in front, but Kilkenny’s sudden attack from the rear of the bar astonished the defenders so much that he was inside the door before they realized what was happening. He snapped a shot at a lean, red-faced gunman in the door. The fellow went down, grabbing at his chest.
The bartender made a grab at the sawed-off shotgun under the bar, and Kilkenny took him with his left-hand gun, getting off two shots. A third man let out a yelp and went out the front door, fast.
Jaime Brigo sat very still, his chair tipped back against the wall. He just watched Kilkenny, his eyes expressionless.
Kilkenny reloaded his pistols.
“Brigo,” he said abruptly, “there are some men among us who would harm the señorita. Lem Calkins, and his brothers and sons. They would burn this place, and kill her. You savvy?”
“Sí, señor.”
“I must go up on the cliff. You must watch over the señorita.”
Jamie Brigo got up. He towered above Kilkenny, and he smiled. “O
f course, señor. I know Señor Calkins well. He is a man who thinks himself a good man, but he is cruel. He is also dangerous, señor.”
“If necessary, take the señorita away. I shall be back when I have seen the man on the cliff.”
The firing was increasing in intensity.
“You have seen Steve Lord?” Kilkenny asked Brigo.
“Sí. He went before you to the cliff. The señorita would not see him. He was very angry, and said he would return soon.”
Kilkenny walked to a point just inside the window of the bar and out of line with it. For a time he studied the street. The bulk of the outlaws seemed to be holed up in the livery stable, and they were throwing out a hot fire. Some of the defenders were firing from the pile of stones beyond the town, and others from the bunkhouse. There was no way to estimate their numbers.
Some of the attacking party had closed in and got into position where they could fire into the face of the building. But for a time at least it looked like a stalemate.
Walking to the back door of the bar, Kilkenny slipped out into the yard and walked over to Buck. Safely concealed by the bar building, he was out of the line of fire of the defenders. Suddenly he heard a low call and, glancing over, saw Nita standing under the roses. An instant he hesitated, then walked over, leading Buck. For a moment he was exposed, but appeared to get by unseen.
Briefly he told her of Lem Calkins. She nodded.
“I expected that. He hates me.”
“Why?” Kilkenny asked.
“Oh, because I’m a woman, I think. But he came here once, and had to be sent away. He seemed to think I was somewhat different than I am.”
“I see.”
“You are going to the cliff?” Her eyes were wide and dark.
“Yes.”
“Be careful. There are traps up there, spring guns, and other things.”
“I’ll be careful.”
He swung into saddle and loped the buckskin away, keeping the buildings between him and the firing.
When he cleared her house, a shot winged past him from the stone pile, but he slipped behind a hummock of sand and let the buckskin run. He was going to have to work fast.
Skirting the rocks, he worked down to the stream and walked Buck into it, then turned upstream. The water was no more than a foot deep, flowing over a gravel bottom, clear and bright. For a half mile he walked the horse upstream, then turned up on the bank, and followed a weaving course through a dense thicket of willows that slowly gave way to pine and cedar. After ten minutes more of riding, he rode out on a wide plateau.
Using a high, thumb-shaped butte for a marker, he worked higher and higher among the rocks until he was quite sure he was above and behind the cliff house. Then he dismounted, and dropped the bridle over Buck’s head.
“You take care of yourself, Buck,” he said quietly. “I’ve got places to go.”
Leaving his carbine in its scabbard, he left the horse and walked down through the rocks toward the cliff edge.
The view was splendid. Far below he could see the scattered houses of Apple Cañon, all of them silent in the morning sun. There were only a few. Around the cluster of buildings that made the town, there were occasional puffs of smoke. From up here he could see clearly what was happening below. The defenders were still holding forth in the livery stable and bunkhouse, and apparently in Sadler’s house. His own attacking party had fanned out until they had a line of riflemen across the pass and down close to the town. They were fighting as the plan had been, shrewdly and carefully, never exposing themselves.
Kilkenny had worked out that plan himself. He was quite sure from what he had learned, and from what Rusty and a couple of others who knew Apple Cañon had told him, that the well across from Nita’s house was the only source of water. That one bucket was empty, he knew, for it lay there beside the well, and alongside of it the gun that had fallen from the man’s hand after Kilkenny had shot him. There were a lot of men defending Apple Cañon, and it was going to be a hot day. If they could be held there, and kept from getting water, and, if during that time he could eliminate Royal Barnes, there would be chance of complete surrender on the part of the rustlers. He believed he could persuade Steele and Frame to let them go if they surrendered as a body and left the country. His only wish was to prevent any losses among his own men while breaking up the gang.
Suddenly, even as he watched, a man dashed from the rear of the bunkhouse and made a run for the well and the fallen bucket. He was halfway to the well before a gun spoke. Kilkenny would have known that gun in a million. It was Mort Davis who was firing.
The runner sprawled face down in the dust. That would keep them quiet for a while. Nobody would want to die that way. It was at least 600 feet to the floor of the valley from where Kilkenny stood. Remembering his calculations, he figured it would be at least fifty feet down to the cliff house and the window he had chosen. Undoubtedly there was an exit back somewhere not far from his horse, or at least somewhere among the boulders and crags either on top or behind the cliff. There had to be at least two exits. But there wasn’t time to look for them now.
He had taken his rope from the saddle, and now he made it fast around the trunk of a gnarled and ancient cedar. Then he dropped it over the cliff. Carefully he eased himself over the edge and got both hands on the rope. Then, his feet hanging free, he began to lower himself. His hands gave him no trouble.
He was halfway down when the first shot came, followed by a yell. The shot was from the livery stable, and it clipped the rock wall he was facing. His face was stung with fragments of stone.
Immediately his own men opened up with a hot fire, and he lowered himself a bit more, then glanced down looking for the window. He saw it. A little to the right.
Another shot clipped close to him, but obviously whoever was shooting was taking hurried shots without proper aim or he would not have missed. He was just thanking all the gods that the men behind the stone pile hadn’t spotted him when he heard a yell, and almost instantly a shot cut through his sleeve and stung his arm. Involuntarily he jerked, and almost lost his hold. Then, as bullets began to spatter around him, he found a foothold on the window sill, and hurriedly dropped inside.
Instantly he slipped out of line with the window and froze. There was no sound from inside. Only the rattle of rifle fire down below.
The room he was in was a bedroom, empty. It was small, comfortable, and the Indian blankets spread on the bed matched those on the wall. There was a crude table and a chair.
Kilkenny tiptoed across the room and put his hand on the knob. Then slowly he eased open the door.
A voice spoke.
“Come in, Kilkenny!”
Chapter XVIII
Quietly Kilkenny swung the door open and stepped into the room, poised to go for a gun.
A man sat in a chair at a table on which there was a dish of fruit. The man wore a white shirt, a broad leather belt, and gray trousers that had been neatly pressed and were tucked into cowhide boots. He also wore crossed gun belts and two guns. He was clean shaven except for a small mustache, and there was a black silk scarf about his neck. It was Victor Bon-ham.
“So,” Kilkenny said thoughtfully, “it’s you.”
“That’s right. Bonham or Barnes, whichever you prefer. Most people call me Royal Barnes.”
“I’ve heard of you.”
“And I’ve heard of you.”
Royal Barnes stared at him, his eyes white and ugly. There was grim humor in them, too. “You’re making trouble for me again,” Barnes said.
“Again?” Kilkenny lifted an eyebrow.
“Yes. You killed the Webers. They were a bungling lot, but they were kinfolk, and people seem to think I should kill you because you killed them. I expect that’s as good a reason as any.”
“Mebbe.”
“You were anxious to die, to come in that way.”
“Safer than another way, I think,” Kilkenny drawled.
Royal Barnes’s eyes sharpened.
“So? Somebody talks, do they? Well, it was time I got new men, anyway. You see, Kilkenny, you’re a fool. This isn’t going to stop me. This is merely a setback. Oh, I grant you it is going to cause me to recruit a new bunch of men. But this will rid me of some of your men, too. Some of the most dangerous men in the Live Oak country will be killed today. The next time, it will be easier. And, you see, I intend to come back, to reorganize, and to carry on with my plans. I’d have succeeded already but for you. Steele will fight, but if he isn’t killed today, I’ll have him killed within the week. The same for Frame and your friend, Gates. Gates isn’t dangerous alone, but he might find someone else to work with, someone as dangerous as you.”
The sound of firing had grown in tempo now, but Royal Barnes did not let his eyes shift one instant. He was cool, casual, but wary as a crouched tiger. In the quiet, well-ordered room away from the confusion below, he seemed like someone from another world. Only his eyes showed what was in him.
“You seen Steve Lord?” demanded Kilkenny.
“Lord?” Barnes’s eyes changed a little. “He never comes here.”
“He worked with you,” Kilkenny flatly accused.
Barnes shrugged carelessly. “Of course. I had to use what tools I could find. I held Nita out to him as bait, and power. I told him I would give him the Steele Ranch. He is a fool.”
Slowly Kilkenny reached for cigarette papers and began building a smoke, his fingers poised and careful. “You’re wrong, Barnes. Steve is crazy. He’s crazy with blood lust and a craving for power. He killed Des King. He killed Sam Carter and a half dozen other men. Now he’s gunnin’ for you, Barnes.”
Royal Barnes sat up. “Are you tellin’ the truth?” he demanded. “Steve Lord killed those men?”
Kilkenny quietly told him of all that had transpired. Outside, the shooting had settled to occasional shots, no more. A break was coming, and the tension was mounting with every second.
“Now,” Kilkenny added, “if you want my hunch, I think Steve figgers to get you. He figgers with you gone, he’ll be king bee around here.”
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