Kilkenny (1954) Read online

  Behind his desk stood Leal Macy. The jailer lounged in the corner. Macy was speaking, and the man to whom he talked was Havalik. Beside the latter was Phin Tetlow.

  “The inquest,” Macy said sternly, “will be at ten o’clock. You be there, Havalik. We’ll get this matter settled right now.” Havalik shrugged. “Oh, all right, but it’s a lot of fuss over nothin’. The hombre asked for it.”

  “That will be established at the inquest,” Macy replied coolly.

  “Supposin’,” Havalik jeered, “that you decide I’m guilty. What happens then?”

  “You’ll be arrested, put in jail and held for trial,” Macy replied quietly. Havalik laughed, a laugh echoed by several of the Forty riders. “Arrest me?” he laughed. “Why, you ain’t man enough to arrest me in the first place, an’ no Forty hand ever did a day in jail in the second place. The outfit would pull this jail down around your ears.”

  “They might,” Macy replied, “but if they did the law would hunt down every man jack of them. It may have escaped your notice, Havalik, but times are changing. You fellows are on short notice everywhere now. The day when killing could go unpunished in the West is over.”

  “Yeah?” Havalik laughed again. “That’s right interestin’ to know. I sure would admire to see you ride onto any range held by the Forty to take one o’ their men.”

  Leal Macy was not cowed. Calmly, he replied, “If that becomes necessary, that is exactly what I shall do. We will hold the inquest in the Diamond Palace at ten. Be there.” Deliberately, he turned his back and walked into the jail behind the desk. The others turned and trooped out and there was a rush for the Pinenut Saloon. Kilkenny stood out of the way and watched them go, and then he stepped into the office. Macy reappeared from the jail, his face cold. He nodded to Kilkenny. “That bunch is riding for a fall,” he said.

  “Uh huh.” Kilkenny dropped in the chair in which he had sat on the previous day.

  “How much help can you get here in town?”

  Macy looked at him quickly, then he smiled without humor. “Very little, I’m afraid. A few good men. The rest will be looking at the buttered side of their bread.”

  “What I figured.” Kilkenny ran his fingers through his hair and looked down at his boots. “I like a man with nerve, Macy. Count me in if you need help.” Macy studied him carefully. “All right,” he replied, “but no obligations, understand? Wherever my duty takes me, I’ll go.” “Sure.” Kilkenny got to his feet. “I’m asking no favors nor giving any. This fight if it comes will be everybody’s fight, only most of them won’t know it until it’s too late.”

  Leal Macy nodded shortly and as Kilkenny reached the door, Macy glanced up.

  “Thanks, Trent. I appreciate this.”

  “Sure.” Kilkenny stepped out into the street. If there was going to be trouble there was little sense in delaying action and allowing the Tetlows to get too firmly situated. He wanted no trouble, but he knew now there would be no avoiding it. If Ben had been the boss—that fellow could be talked to. Maybe it would be worth attempting.

  Three men were standing in front of the stage station. They were the same men he had seen in the hotel dining room. The big man with the lumbering gait was staring at him truculently. Suddenly, he yelled, “Hey, you!” Kilkenny ignored him and the man yelled again, then wheeled and started for Kilkenny, who came along and stepped up on the walk in front of the Westwater. There the big man reached him. “When I call, yuh stop!” he bellowed, thrusting his face at Kilkenny.

  Suddenly, Lance Kilkenny was coldly, bitterly furious. The attitude of the man, his bullying voice, the attitude of the Forty outfit toward the sheriff, all of it had culminated in this. His right jerked up, not in a close fist, but striking up with the butt of his palm. The movement was so swift the big man had no chance to avoid it and the hard butt of that palm smashed under his jaw, slamming his head back on his neck. The man tottered, and Kilkenny stepped in and struck him a slashing blow across the side of the face with the edge of his palm. The blow laid the man’s cheek open for four inches, showering him with blood. Then Kilkenny looked up, facing the other two men. The man with the white eyes and the gun tucked in his waistband and the man with the missing ringer and scarred face. Both stared down at the big fellow on the ground and then looked at Kilkenny unbelieving. “Never even closed his fist!” somebody said from the gathering crowd.

  “This gent’s hunting trouble, Grat,” the scar-faced man said softly. “He’s askin’ for it.”

  “Then we’ll give it to him, Red.” Grat started to move, but he was too late. Kilkenny had seen the situation developing and preferred it to be settled with fists rather than guns. Infinitely more experienced at this sort of thing than the average cowhand, he struck swiftly. The blow caught Grat high on the face, and as his hands came up to protect his face, he whipped an underhand blow to the wind. Grat’s knee caved and he pitched forward into the cracking left hook that Kilkenny had ready for him.

  When he stepped in to meet Grat he had turned in such a way as to put Grat between himself and Red. It gave him just time enough to put Grat out of the running, and as Red rushed him, Kilkenny vaulted over the hitch rail into the street. Red brought up short and in the split second of hesitation, Kilkenny grabbed his outstretched arm and threw his back under him, jerking him over the rail and off his back with a flying mare. Stunned, Red stared up, gasping for breath at the man who stood over him.

  “I’m not hunting trouble,” Kilkenny said, “but it’s time somebody showed you where to head in. If you’ve picked me for the job, I’m the man who can do it.” Jared Tetlow shoved through the crowd, his face flushed and angry. “Here! What goes on here?”

  Kilkenny turned sharply at the authority in the voice. His head dropped a little, his hands went wide. “Tetlow!” His voice rang in the narrow street. “You came into this country hunting trouble and you brought a bunch of no-good troublehunters with you! These hands of yours jumped me!” A devil was driving him now and he was cold with fury. He stepped toward the older man, his hands ready to his guns. He felt it building inside him but was helpless to stop it. He was berserk with fury and ready for anything, heedless of anything. He could not have stopped had he faced the whole Forty outfit. “Take ‘em and get out of the country! Move ‘em out! You’ve come looking for trouble and here it is! And if you don’t like what I say—fill your hand!” Jared Tetlow was appalled. Accustomed to command, surrounded by tough gunhands who protected him from every danger, it had been years since he had personally faced a gun. In company with his men he faced up to them readily, but now, suddenly, he felt lost, alone. He fought for words and none would come. Suddenly, he knew with cold certainty that if he reached for his gun he would die.

  Never had he been so aware of the imminence of death. This man would kill him. That realization shook him to the depths of his being. Normally courageous, he had been so protected in the past years that now, naked and alone, he was helpless to move.

  Slowly, Kilkenny relaxed. “So that’s how it is?” he said contemptuously. “Nerve enough to order a man killed but not nerve enough to face it yourself!” Deliberately, he turned his back and walked across the street and into the hotel, leaving behind him a blanket of silence. Jared Tetlow stared around him as if coming out of a trance. Realization came to him. He had been challenged, had been dared to draw and he had made no move. There were thinly veiled smiles on some of the faces, worry on others. Around him the crowd was melting away.

  His definite, known world seemed suddenly shaky. He had grown to manhood in a family that fought as a unit. He had trained his sons and his riders the same way. It was always the Forty against everything and everybody, but one man had thrown a challenge into their teeth and he himself had backed down. Grat got to his feet, sullenly beating the dust from his clothing. The wide cut on Jess Baker’s face seeped blood. Red, at the hitch rail, was being violently sick. Tetlow glanced around and saw Ben standing in front of the harness shop. His emptiness filled with
fury. “You!” he roared. “Where were you? Why didn’t you do something?”

  “What could I do? If I had made a move he would have killed you—just like he killed Bud.”

  Jared Tetlow went stiff with shock. “That… it was… he killed Bud?” “That’s the man,” Ben said quietly, “and if anyone had made a wrong move he would have killed you!”

  Chapter 4

  Kilkenny entered the hotel to find Leal Macy waiting for him. The sheriff seemed unusually quiet. “That took nerve,” he commented, “what if he had tried it?” “He wouldn’t,” Kilkenny said, “He’s a cinch killer. I saw them work against Lott the other day.”

  “But he might have.”

  “Yes, I thought he would, to be honest. Or maybe I just didn’t think. Their kind get in my craw.”

  “Mine, too. But you’d better get out of town for a few days at least. They’ll never rest now until they get you.”

  “What about the hearing?”

  “We’ll have it.” Macy spoke flatly. “We’ll have it and we’ll see what a local jury does. The fact is, your stand here in the street may make all the difference. They may not hesitate to bring in a bill against them. Or against Havalik.”

  “You’ll have a fight if you try to arrest him.”

  “Then I’ll have it.” Macy was grim and quiet. “There are a few good men in town.

  Early is one of them, Doc Blaine is another.”

  “Doc?” Kilkenny was surprised.

  Macy nodded. “Oddly enough, he’s a fighter. Plenty of sand and a fine rifle shot.”

  “You can count on Dolan.”

  “Dolan?” Macy stared, half angry. “You think I’d call on him for help?”

  “Why not? It doesn’t look to me like you have much choice. I’d say call on him.

  Dolan,” he added, “is a former Army man. He was a soldier for quite some years. Despite the fact that he’s on the edge of the law now, such a man is deeply marked with his former experience, and against mob action. Dolan will stand hitched, and keep his boys so. Also, he considers the Forty as fair game.” Macy considered that. It went against the grain to ask help or even accept offered help from a man of Dolan’s stamp, yet Macy had been a soldier himself, and he knew how deeply the years of training were imbedded in a man’s nature. And Dolan had not been a citizen soldier, but a Regular Army man, a sergeant of long experience, accustomed to order and discipline. He still bore the mark of it in his neat dress, his square shoulders and his walk, and the sharpness of his actions. It was possible that Kilkenny was right. “I’ll stay if you want,” Kilkenny volunteered. He admired the stand this man was taking. It was such men whom the West needed if ever there was to be peace and order.

  “No, you’d only be another bone of contention. They’ll be out to get you now, and your presence might make all the difference. You better leave town—and watch your back trail.”

  “That,” Kilkenny said wryly, “is something I always do.” When he was gone, Leal Macy looked after him, a faint frown between his eyes. He had not quite decided what to think about this man. Kilkenny talked right and sized up as all man, yet out there in the street he had been a man driven by the urge to kill, a man literally aching for the fight he expected. That could be a bad thing unless regulated by a stern will. Macy turned that last thought over in his mind, and shook his head. He was not sure. Kilkenny got his horse and started out of town. The streets were deserted now, but he rode west, his horse’s hoofs pounding briefly on the bridge. In front of Dolan’s he drew up and called. Dolan came to the door, his hands thrust in his coat pockets, a cigar clamped in his teeth. Kilkenny had an urge to shout “Attention!” but stifled it. He had not doubt Dolan would snap to, and might enjoy it. No matter which side of the law this man now stood upon, he would stand under fire, a cool disciplined mind and hand. “Leaving town,” Kilkenny commented. “Macy may need help. I told him he could count on you.”

  Dolan was startled. He took the cigar from his teeth and spat, then stared at the end of it before he looked up. “What the devil inspired that?” “I know the breed, Dolan.” He turned his horse and rode off down the street. Dolan swore, threw his cigar into the street, then walked into the club and dropped into the chair behind his desk. Without being aware of it he lighted a fresh cigar and stared into the blue smoke of it. He picked up a week-old San Francisco paper and straightened it with a jerk that almost tore it. Then he looked up at a square-built man who sat against the wall. “Pete, round up Clyde and Shorty. Maybe two or three others who’ll stand hitched. We’re going to that inquest. We,” he added, “are going to side the sheriff.”

  “The sheriff?” Pete blinked.

  “Yes.” Dolan had never explained his actions before. “We’ve a choice. If they bust Macy we’ll have to fight the Forty alone. We want to keep Macy in action.” “That makes sense. The Forty stacks up to be mighty mean.” West of town Kilkenny took a trail into some scattered junipers. The background was desert and sandrock, dotted with greasewood. Against such a background his horse would merge into the landscape. From long practice he avoided metal on his clothing or horse. No man would wear glittering ornaments who was not a braggart or a fool. A chance reflection on a bright buckle or spangle had guided more than one bullet.

  He worked to leave little trail, then emerged on a vast table land and, swinging at right angles, rode east. He bedded down for the night on high ground among some rocks where he could overlook miles of country. Just before dusk he saw two groups of men riding trails out of town, five in each group, at a rough guess. When it was completely dark he rolled in his blankets and was soon asleep.

  At the camp of the Forty all was silent. Men ate quietly and slipped away to their bedrolls. All avoided the eyes of Jared Tetlow. Deeply shaken, the old man stared long into the fire.

  The realization of failure lay heavy upon him but he had been too long in command not to know what he must do now. Anything less than prompt action would end his hold upon the men who followed him, and he knew that reprisal must be swift, sure, and bitter. They had always known he was not a gunman, but they also knew that whoever this man Trent was, he was gunslick. Now that Ben’s account of how he knew that Trent was the man who killed Bud was around camp, all knew that Trent was a gunfighter.

  Under the circumstances they would not blame him, but if he held back now they would lose faith in his courage. Moreover, the inquest on this day had not gone well. He had planned to strike there, to carry it off with a high hand and deny the right of Macy or anyone to question his actions. Then the man Dolan had arrived with several hardcase riders, all armed. They had said nothing, but Dolan was obviously with the sheriff, which was surprising. Moreover, despite the number of businessmen who had remained away, Bob Early had been there, and Doc Blaine as well, and their position had left no doubt. Autocratic as he might be, there was that something deep within Tetlow that made him respect the authority of leading citizens. They were his kind of men, he felt, and their prestige counted for more than the threat of Dolan’s guns. Early himself had conducted the inquest. It had been sharp and direct. There were no witnesses except those for Havalik, but several witnesses were put on the stand who testified that Carson had never carried a gun. The possibility that he might have had one on that day remained and there was insufficient evidence to warrant holding Dee Havalik. Nevertheless, the weight of public opinion had made itself felt, and Tetlow was irritated by it. Viewing the matter from the distance, he regretted the shooting of Carson not one whit. He regretted only that they had hesitated to ride roughshod over Carpenter, Marable and the lot of them. There was little that public opinion or anyone could do against the accomplished fact.

  The first thing had been to find Kilkenny and wipe him out, and realizing that at once, two groups of Forty riders had been sent out to track him down and kill him. Moreover, Tetlow had been shrewd enough to let it be known that Kilkenny, or Trent as he knew him, had killed his son at Clifton’s. So far the riders sent after him had n
ot been heard from, but they were covering all trails and should find him without trouble. That they would kill on sight, or hang him if they caught him alive, had been their orders as well as their conviction. Bud had been the most popular of his sons with the rougher element. Ben walked up to the fire and seated himself close to his father. For awhile he smoked in silence. “Dad, let’s drive on west. Let’s leave this place.” When there was no answer, he steeled himself to go on. It took courage, for Ben Tetlow knew how his father hated weakness, and he also knew what must be going through his father’s mind tonight after the facing down he had taken in the streets of Horsehead.

  “We’re buckin’ a stacked deck. There isn’t enough range here unless we take it all, and if we start fighting women and other settlers, we’re out of luck. They’ll band together against us.”

  “If you ain’t got the guts for it, Ben,” Tetlow replied stiffly, “get out!”

  “No,” Ben said quietly, “I’m staying. You’re my father and this is our outfit. I’m stickin’ even if I think you’re wrong, and I do think you are. That’s the trouble, Dad, you’re committing others to your policy. If you go down you take a lot of men down with you. Some of them mighty good men.” “Leave him alone,” Phin spoke from the darkness. “Like he says, if you don’t like it, get out while the gettin’s good.”

  Ben was silent, despair mounting in him. He had always entertained doubts of this business of riding roughshod over others, of insisting that their larger herd held inherent rights over all smaller herds and less powerful outfits. Yet there was no give in Leal Macy. The man would stand his ground until death, and for one, Ben was sure that Macy held the right stand. Dolan was another. He knew how surprised he had been when Dolan showed, and how surprised his father had been. They had heard he was a leader or directing brain behind rustling and rustlers. They heard his place was a resort of the hardcase element, but the way the man stood and his looks belied that. Dolan was a fitting partner for Macy, and the two made a dangerous combination. Ben had not thought much about Kilkenny. The fact that the man had killed his brother remained in his mind and for that reason he felt he should hate him, yet he could not bring himself to do so. He had the story from one of the older hands who had seen it all, and Bud had deliberately picked the fight, forced it when the man was ready to let it pass. And there had been no quarrel to precede it. Moreover, he felt drawn to the tall, quiet man with the brown face and the easy smile. He was, he appeared, a friendly man. And then today in the street when he had called Ben’s father, he had seen a different personality. In a land where fighting men were the rule rather than the exception, where courage was admired and strength and agility to be looked up to, Kilkenny was a commanding figure. The man had stepped out into that street heedless of all the Forty riders and their threat of power. He had slashed his way through three of them with his bare hands and then faced down his father in such a way as Ben had never seen a man faced. Ben had the courage of his convictions and his convictions were strong enough, but he saw something indomitable in that single-handed stand against the whole Forty outfit. He had seen something else that none of the others seemed to see. It had not been superior strength that won that fight of one against three. Nor had it even been the violence, shocking in itself, of his onslaught. It had been superior skill and strategy. Kilkenny had never wasted a move. He had known exactly what to do and how to do it. Such skill was no accident. This man was a trained, experienced fighting man.