Monument Rock (Ss) (1998)

by L'amour, Louis

  At this hour on nearly every night Dave Betts made coffee for the two of them. Dunning suddenly heard a new voice, Flynn’s, making some laughing comment.

  Poke’s eyes narrowed. What was going on here? What was Flynn doing in the house so late at night? The hands rarely came for coffee this late unless working cattle close by, and they were not now. He turned and started for the kitchen.

  Voices suddenly stilled as he opened the door. He glanced at Lona, her face bright with laughter, the light catching in her auburn hair, and then at Flynn. Dave had drawn back near the big cooking range, his face drawn.

  “What’s goin’ on here?” Dunning demanded. “Flynn, you should be in bed asleep. Ain’t nothin’ for you at the house this time of night.”

  “I was just palaverin’,” Flynn replied.

  “We was havin’ coffee,” Betts offered. “You want a cup?”

  “Yes, won’t you have some?” Lona looked up at him, and there was something level and hard in her eyes that he had never seen there before. “I like to talk to Gordon.”

  “So it’s Gordon, is it?” He glared balefully at the puncher. “Get out!” he growled.

  Flynn hesitated, and Dunning’s gun flashed in his hand. He was thinking that something else had been going on behind his back, that this Flynn … “Get out!” he said quickly.

  Gordon Flynn backed to the door. Never before had he seen the old man go for a gun, and on his best day he could not have come within twice the time to match that draw.

  He was no gunfighter. On the other hand, his eyes met Lona’s. “Go, Gordon. I’m all right.” She spoke softly and he opened the door and backed out, his face white.

  Poke Dunning stood very still, first glaring at Dave, then at Lona. “You come in here!” he said. “I want to talk to you!”

  “All right.” Lona got to her feet. She felt a queer, frightened sensation inside her, yet in another sense she was perfectly calm, her thoughts working carefully.

  Kilkenny had come to see Dunning. The man might know his secret, kept for so long, was now about to be exposed. What would he do? What would he try?

  She stepped past him into the big room and walked past the long dining-room table in the huge old parlor of the ranch house. She crossed to the fireplace, and stood there straight and looking suddenly taller than she was as she awaited him.

  Poke Dunning slammed the door behind him and crossed the room. He dug his pipe into a can of tobacco and tamped it home. Then he looked up, his eyes bitter and hard, like flecks of steel under his shaggy brows. “We’ve got to have a talk. Sorry I got sore out there. Don’t like to think of you wastin’ time on those cowhands. You’re too good for them.”

  “But you approve of Frank Mailer?” she asked coolly.

  He looked up then, measuring her with his glance. “No,” he said flatly, “and you ain’t goin’ to marry him. That was a bad idea.”

  “I agree.” Lona waited, wondering.

  He rubbed his chin. “Lona,” he said hesitantly, “I got a confession to make. When Mailer first come down here, I figured him a right upstandin’ young feller. Lately, he ain’t seemed so much what he should be; in fact I been hearin’ some things from up Durango way.”

  “Things?” She looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Stories. Stories of robberies and such. When he comes back I may have to fire Frank Mailer.”

  At that moment they both heard a shout, then a sound of running horses, and Mailer’s hard voice, talking to Socorro.

  Dunning turned on the girl. “Get to your room!” he said. “An’ Lona, you keep your mouth shut to what we’ve been talking about!”

  Chapter 5

  Miles back, along the trails north and west of Aztec Crossing, there rode a small, grim-faced group of men. In the van were three men on gray horses, three men who answered to the names of Jim, Pat, and Terry Mulhaven, the brothers of Johnny, who was alive but badly shot up back in Aztec.

  There were eight of these men in all, headed by an Apache tracker, and these were the men who had built the Crossing from nothing to a fairly stable little outpost.

  Storekeeper Worth, answering to the name of Bill, was among them, his old Sharps across his saddlebow.

  The peace and contentment of their town had been violated and good citizens had been done to death, so the attitude of the posse, self-appointed, was harsh and determined.

  A dozen times they had lost the trail, and a dozen times they had found it again.

  Their progress had been slow, but it was relentless.

  Most often, it was the distinctive tracks of the blood bay ridden by Mailer that they found. They knew this horse by sight, and they knew his tracks.

  “I wonder how much further?” Worth asked.

  “We got all summer,” Jim Mulhaven replied shortly. “This is one trail I ain’t leavin’ until those hombres stretch hemp.”

  A good day and a half behind the outlaws, they had come upon the body of Kane Geslin. The sign made evident what had happened here.

  “Killed by one of his own men,” Worth commented.

  “One less for us,” Pat said grimly. “Let’s be ridin’!” They rode on, into the hot, still afternoon, their eyes grimly upon the trail.

  At Blue Hill, Mailer had wasted no time in facing Poke Dunning. He went at once to the ranch house, opened the door, and closed it, looking at the older man across the big room. “Poke, let’s get this over with. Come Saturday, I’m marrying Lona!”

  He could see that something had happened-what, he did not know-but Mailer was a changed man, not suddenly insistent, demanding, but with some deeper, more deadly change.

  “I don’t think so, Frank. She doesn’t want to marry you. And now I agree with her.”

  Frank Mailer looked at old Poke Dunning through narrowed eyes. “You double-crossin’ me, Dunning?” he asked.

  “It could be I’m protectin’ myself from a double cross. An’ don’t think that I’m scared of you telling people who I really am. I’ve been here for years and most of those that haven’t forgot who Poke Dunning was are dead.”

  “What if you died, mighty sudden,” Mailer suggested, his eyes holding Poke’s, “an’

  I married Lona?^’

  Dunning shrugged. “The trouble with that is”-he spoke carefully, knowing how slender was the thread along which their course was holding, a thread that might snap with a burst of gunfire at any moment-“that Kilkenny knows.”

  “Who?” Mailer started at the name. “Kilkenny? Is he here?”

  “Who do you think whipped you, Frank?” Dunning asked. “That was him, all right. Kansas tipped me off.”

  “Kilkenny!” All thoughts were suddenly gone from Mailer’s mind but the one. It was fantastic. He had heard of the gunfighter for years, but had never seen him. Remembering the description that Gates had given in the saloon the first night they met, he knew Poke was telling the truth. Despite himself, he was awed and worried.

  Had anyone suggested that the name frightened him, he would have scoffed at it. He had never been frightened of anything, but one could not hear the countless stories surrounding that name without it taking on an almost magical quality. He felt a strange, deadly chill within him. Kilkenny! And the man had beaten him with his fists, but perhaps with a gun … ?

  “Look,” Poke said softly, “we’ve had our troubles, Frank. We both have it in for each other, but it ain’t necessary. We started in this deal an’ we can do all right with it yet. I can’t let you marry Lona yet… not until I can trust you. We can settle this; the only thing in the way is this Kilkenny. We’ve got to get rid of him.”

  “We?” Mailer looked at Dunning, trying to assemble his thoughts. The knowledge that Kilkenny was in this deal disturbed him.

  “Sure! Look, alone neither of us can win. Together we can. As long as Kilkenny is in the picture, we stand to lose, so what we’ve got to do is get him out of it. Then we can settle this deal between us, or work partners on it. Our first job is
to be rid of him.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Mailer agreed grudgingly, “but that won’t be so easy. Got any ideas?”

  “Sure. I’ve been thinking about it. Look, he came over to the ranch once, so we can get him here again. He was a friend of Lona’s father. All right, we send him a message from her. He’ll come, an’ when he does, we’ll be waitin’ for him. Geslin, Starr, Socorro, an’ us.”

  “Not Geslin. He’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yeah.” Mailer’s cold eyes shifted to Dunning’s. “We had some words an’ he tried to draw on me. I killed him.”

  Poke Dunning absorbed that and didn’t like it. He had known Mailer was good, but if he was good enough to get Geslin and not even collect a slug in the process, then he was even more dangerous than Poke had believed.

  “Ethridge is dead, too.” Mailer was rolling a smoke. “We took that bank at Aztec Crossing.”

  Rage boiled up inside of Poke Dunning. He had refused to allow anything of the kind.

  This was going directly against his orders. For an instant he was about to give vent to his fury, but he throttled his anger. “That’s no matter. We can use Socorro an’

  Starr. It will be easy enough. You an’ me an’ Starr will be out of sight. We can have Socorro mendin’ a saddle or something. Kilkenny rides in, an’ we take him in a cross fire. Four guns. He won’t beat that.”

  “All right,” Mailer agreed. “It’s a good plan. Can you get word to him?”

  “Sure. Through Kansas or that Spanish girl.”

  “You’re right, there’s something between them.”

  “Yeah”-Dunning nodded-“we should have guessed it. She’s that Nita Riordan who was with him on the border and at the Cedars. Remember? We heard about her.”

  So that was it? Kilkenny’s girl? But after Kilkenny died?

  “Poke,” Mailer said suddenly, “I think I’m goin’ to like this. You get word to Kansas or the girl. Let’s get started on this an’ get it over with.”

  Sam Starr walked into the bunkhouse and pulled off his boots. Behind him Socorro followed, and Rusty Gates opened his eyes and looked at them in the darkness. He could see only vague outlines, but he heard Socorro’s muttered curse, then Starr’s low question. “How do you feel?”

  “Bad,” Socorro said. “My whole arm and shoulder are so stiff it hurts to move.”

  “You feel better than Geslin.”

  Socorro did not say anything for a minute. Then he said, “Frank should have buried him. If there’s a posse, they are liable to stumble on the body.”

  Rusty Gates was wide-awake now. What went on here? To speak would cause them to clam up, and he wanted to hear more. He lay still and listened.

  “There will be a posse,” Starr said. “Aztec is a tough place. I knew that kid who opened up on us. He was one of the Mulhaven boys, an’ there’s four or five more.”

  “Gunfighters?”

  “No, but tough hands, and clannish as all get out. You can bet we’ve got a Mulhaven on us now, somewhere.”

  “What you plannin’ to do?”

  Sam Starr let that question slide. It was not that he did not know, but Socorro was pretty thick with Mailer. Starr planned to get his share of the loot and light a shuck for Texas. But fast.

  A long time after, Gates saw Gordon Flynn come into the room, get something out of his bunk, and leave again. Mailer still had not come in. When he did he undressed and fell right into bed.

  After Mailer left him, Dunning moved swiftly. He had to prepare for battle on two fronts. The trap had to be set for Kilkenny and he needed to be ready for Mailer’s next move, whether they’d done in Kilkenny or not. He crossed the patio and rapped lightly on Lena’s door. “Who’s there?” she asked.

  “It’s me … Pa. Get your clothes an’ come out of there. You sleep in the back room tonight. Beside Dave Berts.”

  Lona thought quickly. Why Dunning wanted her to move she could not guess, but being close to Dave would make her feel much safer. She knew the old man’s affection for her, and his loyalty. “All right,” she said after a minute.

  “You’ll be all right there. Mailer’s back.”

  She said nothing but went to the room mentioned, barred the door, and climbed into bed. Poke Dunning walked into Lona’s bedroom and sat down on the empty bed with his six-shooter in his hand.

  His hunch might be wrong, but Lona was the pawn in the game now. Possession of her person was as important as possession of the ranch itself, even more important, as things stood. If Mailer came … it was almost daylight when he heard the soft rustle of grass, then heard a low voice. “Lona!”

  He sat very still, and then a head and shoulders loomed at the open window. “Lona!” the voice called.

  Poke Dunning fired.

  Mailer, Gates, and Starr came awake on the instant. Starr thought first of a posse, Gates and Mailer were thinking of Kilkenny. Gates kicked off the blankets and reached for his boots. Mailer stared at him, then leaned back in bed. Going out into that yard was something he had no idea of doing right now. Firing a pistol and then waiting might be just the trick Poke Dunning would try. “See what it is,” he said, and sagged back in his bunk.

  Rusty Gates walked out into the yard, but there was no sound and no movement. He waited, then crossed the hard-packed earth of the ranch yard toward the house. He heard a faint stirring and turned toward the wing of the house. Someone had lighted a lantern, and he rounded the corner to see the dark figure of a man bending over another one on the ground.

  Rusty had his gun out. “Who is it?” he demanded.

  Dunning turned, saw Gates, and saw the gun. “It’s Flynn,” he said. “He tried to get into Lena’s window and got shot.”

  “Shot? Lona shot Flynn?” Gates could not believe that.

  He bent over the cowhand. “Dead?”

  “No, he ain’t, but he’s bad hurt. Let’s get him inside.”

  Poke was cursing his luck, for when he fired he was sure that it was Mailer he had under his gun. But why was”

  Flynn here? Had Lona planned to escape?.

  When they put the boy down on Lena’s bed, Gates’ worked over him, and Dunning watched. “Where do you stand in this, Gates?” Poke asked suddenly.

  Rusty looked up. He had wondered if he would be asked. “Now, that’s a good point, Dunning. I don’t know where I stand. I don’t know what the fuss is all about. However,” he added, “this is a deal where I’d look to see where the money was.”

  “I’ve got it. You work for me an’ you can make yourself a fast stake.”

  “That sounds good to me. What do I do?”

  “Saddle a horse an’ see that girl at the Fandango. Tell her Poke Dunning wants to see Kilkenny tomorrow at three. Then you get back here and stand ready to side me … against anybody.”

  “What does it get me?” Rusty knew the question was expected.

  “Two-fifty for five days. Double if you have to fight.”

  Rusty saddled up and rode out of the ranch but he did not ride more than a half mile before he swung off the road and headed for Monument Rock. He would ride directly to Kilkenny. Whatever this meant he did not know, but Kilkenny could make his own decision after he apprised him of the facts.

  Kilkenny heard him out in silence. The return of three men to Blue Hill when five had gone out, the shooting of Gordon Flynn. “No,” Gates said, when asked, “he’s not dead. But he’s got a bad wound and lost a lot of blood. When I left, Dave was takin’ care of him, and old Betts is a good hand with a gunshot.”

  Kilkenny got to his feet and paced nervously beside the fire. It was daylight now, but the morning was still cool. They wanted him there at three o’clock, and between now and three many things could happen, and Gates was here. “You get back to the ranch,” he said. “You watch your chance, and if there is one, get that girl out of there. If there isn’t, watch her close. Maybe it’s just best to do that.”

  “Are you comin’ at three?”

/>   “I think so.”

  “It may be a trap.”

  “Could be. Anyway, tell him I’ll be there.”

  He watched Rusty go with misgiving. Dunning, Mailer, Starr, and Socorro would be there to meet him, yet there seemed to be no suspicion of Rusty, and it would be only a matter of hours until he would go himself.

  Over his coffee, he considered the whole setup at Blue Hill, remembering every detail of the ranch and its layout.

  This was to be a showdown, he knew that. Whether or not Poke Dunning wanted to talk business, Kilkenny knew very well that if he did not agree to whatever Dunning demanded, he would have to fight his way out. Knowing this, he made plans to stay in. Dunning was going to deal the cards, but he would play his own hand the way that suited him best.

  The killing of Geslin interested him. Frank Mailer was fast, for Geslin had been very fast and an excellent shot. And Mailer had killed him.

  From what Gates said, they had been in some sort of a gun battle, for Ethridge, too, was dead. They had brought back sacks stuffed with money, and that might mean a holdup at any one of a dozen places.

  Shortly before noon Kilkenny mounted the buckskin and left his hideout, but he did not ride out into the flat—n lands toward Blue Hill; instead he crossed Salt Creek Wash” and rode up the canyon that opened opposite Monument Rock and ran due north. Emerging from the canyon at a place just west of Popping Rock, he struck an old trail across the highlands back of the cliffs that formed the northern boundary of the Blue Hill range. It was a trail he had used before, and one he well knew. Within an hour of easy riding, he was on the point of rocks opposite Blue Hill, and here, after concealing his horse among the pinons, he found a place on the crest of the cliffs and began to make a systematic study of the ranch through his glasses.

  His point of observation could scarcely have been better, for he was at an altitude of some six thousand feet, while the ranch itself was all of five hundred feet lower and scarcely a mile away. From his vantage point in the clear mountain air, he could easily see the figures and, knowing them, could distinguish one from the other, even though features would not be discernible. Yet after fifteen minutes of careful study, he saw no one.