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

by Louis L'Amour

  Chapter XV

  The crowds had started coming to Cedar Bluff by daylight. The miners had come, drifting over for the rodeo and the fight. The gold camps had been abandoned for the day, as there was rarely any celebration for them, rarely any relief from the loneliness and the endless masculinity of the gold camps. The cowhands from the Hale Ranch were around in force. The bars were doing a rushing business even before noon, and the streets were jammed with people.

  Kilkenny rode into town on the buckskin when the sun was high. For over an hour he had been lying on a hillside above the town, watching the movement. It was almost certain that King Bill would avoid trouble today. There were too many visitors, too many people who were beyond his control. He would be on his good behavior today, making an impression as the upright citizen and free-handed giver of celebrations.

  A rider under a flag of truce had appeared in the cup the evening before with an invitation to Kilkenny and the actual challenge for the fight. Word of Kilkenny’s willingness for the fight had seeped into town by the grapevine several days before, so no tricks were needed. Kilkenny was to report to a man named John Bartlett, at the Crystal Palace.

  Kilkenny, accompanied by Parson Hatfield and Steve Runyon, rode down to the Palace and dismounted. Quince Hatfield and O’Hara had already arrived in town, and they moved up outside the Palace and loafed where they could watch the horses. Only a few of the Hale riders actually knew them by sight.

  Pushing open the batwing doors, Kilkenny stepped inside, Parson at his elbow. The place was crowded, and all the games were going full blast. Kilkenny’s quick eyes swept the place. Jaime Brigo was in his usual chair across the room, and their eyes met. Then Kilkenny located Price Dixon. He was dealing cards at a nearby table.

  There was a warning in Dixon’s eyes, and then Price made an almost imperceptible gesture of his head. Turning his eyes, Kilkenny felt a little chill go over him. Cain Brockman was standing at the bar, and Cain was watching him. Slowly, as though subtly aware of the tension in the room, eyes began to lift. As if by instinct they went from the tall, broad-shouldered man with the bronzed face, clad completely in black, to the towering bruiser in the checked shirt and the worn Levi’s.

  Then, his hands hanging carelessly at his sides, his flat-brimmed hat tipped just a little, Kilkenny started across the room toward Cain Brockman. A deadly hush fell over the room. Cain had turned, his wide unshaven face still marked by the scars of his former battle with Kilkenny, marked with scars he would carry to his grave. Through narrow eyes the big man looked at Kilkenny, watching his slow steps across the floor, the studied ease, the grace of the man in black, the two big guns at his hips. Unseen, Nita Riordan had come to the door of her room, and, eyes wide, she watched Kilkenny walk slowly among the tables and pause before Cain Brockman.

  For a minute the two men looked at each other. Then Kilkenny spoke. “I hear you’ve come to town to kill me, Cain,” he said quietly. Yet in the deathly hush of the room his voice carried to each corner. “Well, I’ve another fight on my hands, with Tombull Turner. If we shoot it out, I’m going to kill you, but you’re a good man with a gun, and I reckon I’ll catch some lead. Fighting Tombull is going to be enough without carrying a crawful of lead when I do it. So how about a truce until afterward?”

  For an instant, Cain hesitated. In the small gray eyes, chill and cold, there came a little light of reluctant admiration. He straightened. “I reckon I can wait,” Cain drawled harshly. “Let it never be said that Cain Brockman broke up a good fight.”

  “Thanks.” Abruptly Kilkenny turned away, turning his back fully on Cain Brockman, and with the same slow walk crossed the room to Price Dixon. A big redheaded man stood at the table near Price.

  As he walked up to the table, the batwing doors pushed open and four men walked in. Kilkenny noticed them and felt the flash of recognition of danger go over him. It was King Bill Hale, Cub Hale, and the gold-dust twins, Dunn and Ravitz.

  Ignoring them, Kilkenny walked up to the redheaded man. “You’re John Bartlett?” he asked. “I’m Kilkenny.”

  “Glad to meet you.” Bartlett thrust out a huge hand. “How’d you know me?”

  “Saw you in Abilene. Again in New Orleans.”

  “Then you’ve seen Turner fight?” Bartlett demanded keenly. He glanced up and down Kilkenny with a quick, practiced eye.

  “Yes. I’ve seen him fight.”

  “An’ you’re not afraid? He’s a bruiser. He nearly killed Tom Hanlon.”

  Kilkenny smiled. “An’ who was Tom Hanlon? A big chunk of beef so slow he couldn’t get out of his own way. I see nothing in Turner to fear.”

  “You’ll actually fight him, then?” Bartlett was incredulous.

  “Fight him?” Kilkenny asked. “Fight him? I’m going to whip him.”

  “That’s the way to talk!” a big, black-bearded miner burst out. “I’m sick of this big bull of a Turner strut-tin’ around. My money goes on Kilkenny.”

  “Mine, too,” another miner said. “I’d rather he was a miner, but I’ll even bet on a cowhand if he can fight.”

  Kilkenny turned and looked at the miner, and then he grinned. “Friend,” he said, “I’ve swung a single-jack for many a day and tried a pan on half the creeks in Arizona.”

  Bartlett leaned forward. “This fight is for a prize of one thousand dollars in gold, put up by King Hale. However, if you want to make a side bet…?”

  “I do,” Kilkenny said. He unbuttoned his shirt and took out a packet of bills. “Five thousand dollars of it.”

  “Five thousand?” Bartlett swallowed and saw Hale frown. “I don’t think we can cover it.”

  “What?” Kilkenny looked up, and his eyes met those of King Bill. “I understood that Hale was offering three to one, and no takers. That’s the money I want. Some of that three to one that Bill Hale is offering.”

  “Three to one?” Hale demanded. “Why, I never…” The astonishment in his voice was plain enough, but Kilkenny knew he had him, and every move was calculated to win the crowd, not for himself, but for the men he represented. To back down would mean loss of prestige to Hale; to declare he knew of no three-to-one offer would make many believe he had welshed on his bet. And if Kilkenny won, Hale would never dare order him killed because all would think it was revenge for losing the bet. And if Kilkenny lost, it would still put Hale in a bad light if he were suddenly murdered.

  “What’s the matter, Hale?” Kilkenny demanded sharply, and his voice rang loudly in the crowded room. “Are you backing down? Have you decided the man who whipped you on your own ground can whip Turner, too? Didn’t you bring Tombull Turner here to whip me or to force me to back down? I’m calling you, Hale. Put up or shut up! I’m betting five thousand against your fifteen thousand that I win. I’m betting all I own, aside from that little claim you’re trying to take away from me, against a mere fifteen thousand. Are you backing down?”

  “No, by the Lord Harry, I’m not!” Hale’s face was purple with anger. “I’m not going to let any fence-crawling nester throw money in my face. I’m covering you.”

  Kilkenny smiled slowly. “Looks like an interesting afternoon,” he said cheerfully. Then he turned and walked slowly from the room, conscious that at every step he took the white cold eyes of Cub Hale followed him, their hatred almost a tangible thing.

  When they got outside, Parson stared at him. “You sure made King Bill look bad in there. You made some friends.”

  “You mean we made friends,” Kilkenny said quietly. “That’s the point. We’ve got to make friends, we’ve got to get the sympathy of these miners and the outside people Hale can’t touch. If we can get enough of them, we’ve got a fighting chance. Hale can’t get too raw. There’s law in this country now, an’ he can win only so long as he can make what he’s doin’ seem right. If it stopped right here, an’ he got me killed or took my land, a lot of people would be asking questions. They’ll remember what I said. You see, Parson, we’re little people buckin’ a powerful an’
wealthy man. That makes us the underdogs. I’m the smaller man in this fight, too. I’m a cowhand and a miner fightin’ a trained prize fighter with my fists. A good part of that crowd is goin’ to be with me for that reason, even some of Hale’s cowhands.”

  It was mid-afternoon when Kilkenny walked down to the ring. The corral fence was covered with cowhands and miners, and the intervening space was filled with them. They were crowded along roofs and in every bit of space. Scanning the crowd, Kilkenny’s eyes glinted. The miners were out in strength, and with them had come a number of gamblers, cowhands from outside the valley, and a few odds and ends of trappers.

  The cluster of seats near the ring was empty, and two men guarded them. Kilkenny walked down to the ringside and stripped to the waist. He slipped off his boots and pulled on a pair of Indian moccasins that fitted snugly.

  There was a roar from the crowd, and he saw Tombull Turner leaving the back door of Leathers’s store and striding toward the ring, wrapped in a blanket. As he climbed through the ropes and walked to his corner, King Bill Hale, Cub Hale, and two men in store clothes left the Mecca and started toward the ring. Behind them walked Dunn and Ravitz.

  Then, escorted by Jaime Brigo, Nita Riordan left the Palace and walked slowly through the crowd toward the ring. She was beautifully dressed, in the very latest of fashion, and carried her chin high. Men drew aside to let her pass, and those along the way she walked removed their hats. Nita Riordan had proved to Cedar Bluff that a woman could run a gambling joint and still remain a lady. Not one word had ever been said against her character. Even the most skeptical had been convinced, both by her own lady-like manner and by the ever-watchful presence of Brigo.

  Price Dixon walked down to Kilkenny’s corner. He hesitated, and then stepped forward. “I’ve had some experience as a handler,” he said simply, “if you’ll trust a gambling man.”

  Kilkenny looked at him, and then smiled. “Why, I reckon we’re all gambling men after a fashion, sir. I’d be proud to have you.”

  He glanced around quickly. John Bartlett was to referee, and the big redheaded man was already in the ring. Parson Hatfield, wearing a huge Walker Colt, lounged behind Kilkenny’s corner. Runyon was a short distance away, and near him was Quince Hatfield. O’Hara was to work in Kilkenny’s corner, also.

  Chapter XVI

  Kilkenny climbed quickly into the ring and slipped off the coat he had hung around his shoulders. He heard a low murmur from the crowd. He knew they were sizing him up.

  Tombull Turner was the larger by thirty pounds. He was taller, broader, and thicker, a huge man with a round bullet head set on a powerful neck and mighty shoulders. His biceps and forearms were heavy with muscle, and the deltoid development on the ends of his shoulders was large. His stomach was flat and solid, his legs columns of strength.

  Kilkenny was lean. His shoulders were broad and had the strength of years of living in the open, working, fighting, and struggling. His stomach was flat and corded with muscle and his shoulders splendidly muscled, yet beside the bigger man he appeared much smaller. Actually he weighed 200 pounds. Yet scarcely a man present, if asked to guess his weight, would have made it more than 180.

  Bartlett walked to the center of the ring and raised a huge hand. “The rules is no punches below the belt. Hit as long as they have one hand free. No gouging or biting allowed. Holding and hitting is fair. When a man falls, is thrown, or is knocked to the floor, the round ends. The fight is to a finish.” He strode back, glancing with piercing eyes from Turner to Kilkenny.

  The call of time was made, and the two men came forward to the scratch. Instantly Tombull rushed, swinging with both hands. Kilkenny weaved inside and smashed hard with a right and left to the body. Then Turner grabbed him and attempted to hurl him to the canvas, but Kilkenny twisted himself loose and struck with a lightning-like left to the bigger man’s mouth.

  Turner set himself and swung a left that caught Kilkenny in the chest and knocked him back against the ropes. The crowd let out a roar, but, unhurt, Kilkenny slipped away from Turner’s charge and landed twice to the ribs. The big man closed in, feinted a left, and caught Kilkenny with a wicked overhand right that hit him on the temple.

  Groggy, Kilkenny staggered into the ropes, and Turner charged like a bull and struck twice, left and right, to Kilkenny’s head. Lance clinched and hung on tightly. Then, slipping a heel behind Turner’s ankle, he tripped him up and threw him hard to the canvas!

  He walked to his corner, seeing through a mist. They doused him with water, and at the call of time he came out slowly until almost up to the scratch. Then he lunged forward and landed with a hard left to the side of the neck. Tombull took it flat-footed and walked in, apparently unhurt. Kilkenny evaded a right and then lashed back with both hands, staggering the big man again.

  Turner lunged forward, hitting Kilkenny with a short right, and then, slipping Kilkenny’s left, he grabbed him and threw him to the canvas. The third round opened with both men coming out fast, and, walking right together, they began to slug. Then Kilkenny blocked Turner’s left and hit him in the body with a right. They broke free, and, circling, Kilkenny got a look at the two men sitting with Hale.

  One was Halloran. The other was a leaner, taller man. Lance evaded a rush, and then clipped Turner with a right. He had been doing well, but he was no fool. Turner was a fighter, and the big man had not been trying yet, was just getting warmed up now. He was quite sure Tombull was under orders to beat him, to pound him badly, but to keep him in the ring as long as possible. Hale was to have his revenge, his bloodletting.

  Tombull Turner moved in, landing a powerful left to the head and then a right to the body. Kilkenny circled away from Turner’s heavy-hitting right. Turner bored in, striving to get his hands on the lighter man and to get his fists where he could hit better. He liked to use short punches when standing close. Kilkenny slid away, stabbed a long left to Turner’s mouth, feinted, and, when Tombull swung his right, stepped in and smashed both hands to the body.

  For all the effect the punches had he might have been hitting a huge drum. Turner rushed, crowding Kilkenny against the ropes, where he launched a storm of crashing, battering blows. One fist caught Kilkenny over the eye, and another crashed into the pit of his stomach. Then a clubbing right hit Kilkenny on the kidney. He staggered away, and Turner, his big fists poised, crowded closer.

  He swung for the head, and Kilkenny ducked the right but caught a chopping blow from the left that started blood flowing from a cut over one eye. Kilkenny backed away, and Turner rushed and floored Kilkenny with a smashing right.

  Dixon worked over the eye rapidly and skillfully. Kilkenny found time to be surprised at his skill. “Watch that right,” O’Hara said. “It’s bad.”

  Kilkenny moved up to scratch and then sidestepped just in time to miss Turner’s bull rush. He stepped in and stabbed a left to the head, and then Tombull got in close and hurled him to the canvas again.

  Taking the rest on the stool, Kilkenny relaxed. Then at the call, he came to the scratch again, and, suddenly leaping in, he smashed two rocking punches to Turner’s jaw. The bigger man staggered, and, before he could recover, Kilkenny stepped in, stabbed a hard left to the mouth, and then hooked a powerful right to the body. Turner tried to get his feet under him, but Kilkenny was relentless. He smashed a left to the mouth and a right to the body, and then landed both hands to the body as Turner hit the ropes.

  Tombull braced himself and, summoning his tremendous strength, bulled in close, literally hurling Kilkenny across the ring, and then followed with a rush. The crowd was on its feet now. Kilkenny feinted, and then smashed a powerful right to the ribs. Turner tried a left, and, pushing it aside, Kilkenny stepped in with a wicked left uppercut to the wind. Turner staggered.

  The crowd, still on its feet, was yelling for Kilkenny. He shook Turner with a right, but Tombull set himself and threw a mighty right that caught Kilkenny coming in and flattened him on the canvas.

  When he got to his c
orner, he could see the crowd was excited. He was badly shaken, but not dazed by the blow. Suddenly he was on his feet, and before anyone could realize what was happening, he had stepped across to the ringside where Hale sat with the two officials.

  “Gentlemen,” he said swiftly, “I’ve little time. I am fighting here today because it is the only way I could get to speak to you. I am one of a dozen nesters who have filed on claims among the peaks, claims from which Hale is unlawfully trying to drive us. One man has been cruelly murdered…”

  The call of time interrupted. He wheeled to see Tombull charging, and he slid away along the ropes. Then Turner hit him and he staggered, but Turner lunged close, unwilling to let him fall. Shoving him back against the ropes, Turner shoved a left to his chin and then clubbed a powerful right.

  Blasting pain seared across Kilkenny’s brain. He saw that right go up again and knew he could never survive another such punch. With all his strength, he jerked away. Turner intended to kill him now.

  In a daze, he could see Hale was on his feet, as were the officials. Cub Hale had a hand on his gun, and Parson Hatfield was facing him across the ring. Then Kilkenny jerked loose.

  But Turner was on him like a madman, clubbing, striking with all his mighty strength, trying to batter Kilkenny into helplessness before the round ended. The crowd was in a mighty uproar, and in a haze of pain and waning consciousness Kilkenny saw Steve Runyon had slipped behind Cub Hale and had a gun on him.

  Somebody was shouting outside the ring, and then Turner hit him again and he broke away from Tombull and crashed to the canvas.

  O’Hara carried him bodily to his corner, where Dixon worked over him like mad. The call of time came, and Kilkenny staggered to his feet and had taken but one step toward the mark when Tombull hit him like a hurricane, sweeping him back into the ropes with a whirlwind of staggering, pounding, battering blows. Weaving, swaying, slipping, and ducking punches, Kilkenny tried to weather the storm.