Monument Rock (Ss) (1998) (34 page)

In a doorway on his left a hand was visible, lying flat and lax, palm down on th
e
floor. It was an old hand, worn and brown.

Stepping quickly around the table, Kilkenny saw the man who lay there, his bald hea
d
rimmed with a fringe of graying hair, his shirt dark with blood, and the floor beneat
h
him stained with it.

A six-shooter lay near his hand and he still wore the apron that marked him for wh
o
and what he was. Dave Betts was dead. He had been shot twice through the chest.

Stepping quickly past him, Kilkenny looked into the room from which Betts had apparentl
y
emerged. It was definitely bachelor quarters. Turning to the room beside it, he foun
d
a mussed bed, and bending over, he sniffed the pillow, detecting a faint perfume.

This, then, was where Lena had spent the night, but where was she?

And where were they all?

Stepping past the old man's body, Kilkenny moved the length of the long table an
d
stepped through the open door into the large living room.

No one. This, too, was empty and still.

Somewhere, thunder rumbled distantly, mumbling in the far-off hills like a gian
t
disturbed in his sleep. A faint breath of wind coming alive stirred out over th
e
desert, and he heard the rustle of the peppers on their strings i
n
the patio, and the curtain stirred faintly as though moved by a ghostly hand.

Kilkenny mopped his face of sweat and moved carefully across the room. The wind stirre
d
again, and suddenly he heard another sound, a sound that sent a faint chill ove
r
him, making his shoulders twitch with the feeling of it. It was the sound of a straine
d
rope, a rope that hung taut and hard, creaking a little, with a burden.

He stepped quickly to the door, his mouth dry. As though drawn by foreknowledge
,
his eyes went to the stable, whose wide-open door he could now see. From the cros
s
beam over the high door, made high to admit racks of hay, he saw a long and heav
y
form suspended by a short rope.

Nearer, sprawled upon the ground in the open, lay an outstretched body. Gun in hand
,
Kilkenny stepped quickly outside, his eyes shooting right and left, then he ran acros
s
to the stable. One glance at the face, and he straightened, sorely puzzled. The ma
n
was a total stranger!

Crossing to the barn, he found where the rope was tied and unfastened it, lowerin
g
the man who had been hanged. His spurs jingled as the dead man's heels touched th
e
ground. One glance at the blue face and he knew. It was Socorro.

Walking to the bunkhouse, he hesitated, for the steps were bloodstained. Then h
e
moved inside. On the floor before him lay another stranger, his body fairly riddle
d
with bullets, and against the end of the room sat Sam Starr, his head hanging o
n
his chest, guns lax near his hands, and his shirt and trousers soaked in blood.

Crouching beside him, Kilkenny lifted Starr's chin, and miraculously, the man's lid
s
stirred, and his lips worked to form words. "Shot... me," he whispered, his lip
s
working at the words he could not shape, "Mulhavens."

Kilkenny motioned to the dead man inside the door. "Is that a Mulhaven?"

Starr indicated assent. "Tough," he said, "plenty . . . tough."

"Where's Dunning?"

Starr shook his head.

Kilkenny grasped the dying man's shoulder. "Tell me, man! Where's that girl! Where'
s
Lona? Dammit, speak up!"

Starr's eyes forced themselves open and he struggled to speak. "D ... d ... don'
t
know. Poke, he ... away."

"Poke Dunning has her," Kilkenny said. "Is that it?"

Starr nodded. "Mailer's crazy. Plumb gone bats ..." Sam Starr's voice traile
d
away, and he fainted.

Carefully, Kilkenny eased the man to a prone position and grabbed a pillow for hi
s
head from the nearest bunk.

Swiftly, he worked over the dying man, doing what he could to ease his position an
d
his pain. Then he hurried from the bunkhouse and made a quick survey of the ranch.

He found no one else. Four dead men and the dying Sam Starr. Dunning, Mailer, Lona
,
Rusty Gates, and Gordon Flynn were all gone.

Hurrying back with a bucket of cool water, he found Starr conscious. Holding a gour
d
dipper to the man's mouth, he helped him drink. Starr looked his gratitude. "Mailer'
s
gone after . .. after your girl," he gasped. "He's crazy!"

"My girl?" Kilkenny was dumbfounded. "At Salt Creek?"

Starr nodded weakly. "An'... an' the Mulhavens are after G ... G ... Gates."

"What?" Kilkenny sprang to his feet. "But he wasn't an outlaw!"

"You try tellin' 'em that!" Starr's face was turning gray.

Kilkenny stood flat-footed and still above the dying man. Frank Mailer, kill-craz
y
and full of fury, was gone to Salt Creek after Nita. Somewhere, Poke Dunning wa
s
escaping with Lona, and his friend Rusty Gates, the man who had come into this onl
y
to help him, and probably with a wounded man for company, was riding to escape
a
blood-hungry posse whose reason had been lost in a lust for revenge for the killin
g
of their own friends and brothers!

Kilkenny knew of the Mulhavens. A family of tough Irishmen, three of them veteran
s
of the Indian wars. Hard, honest, capable men. He knew, too, the men of Aztec Crossing
,
and they were not men to take the bloodletting Mailer had visited upon them withou
t
retaliation. If they had trailed those men to this ranch, they would regard all upo
n
it as tarred with the same brush and would make a clean sweep. Two of their grou
p
had died here, and that would make matters no easier.

Leaving Starr, he dashed outside and stopped in the sunlight. Where to go? Nita wa
s
in danger. Rusty was being pursued by a hanging mob, and Lona ...

Kilkenny forced himself to coldness. Brigo was at Salt Creek with Nita, and so wa
s
Cain Brockman. He would have to gamble that they were protection enough. Lona, whereve
r
she was, must wait, for it was not immediately apparent what danger she might b
e
in. Rusty had evidently taken Flynn and somehow managed an escape, knowing that th
e
wounded Flynn would certainly be taken as one of the outlaws. Rusty had come int
o
this only to help him, and to have him hanged by mistake would be a horrible responsibility.

He took swift strides toward the corral, glancing over the remaining horses. Rusty'
s
mount was not there.

Turning, he whistled shrilly, and in a moment saw Buck come trotting around the buildin
g
toward him.

Again in the saddle, Kilkenny began a painstaking sweep of the ranch, yet his jo
b
was in a measure simplified by knowing that Gates must make his escape by some rout
e
that would take him from the rear of the buildings. Forcing himself to take his time
,
Lance Kilkenny soon found the tracks of Gates's horse and another. He studied th
e
hoofprints of this other horse carefully, then mounted and worked the trail out o
f
the brush and rocks to a shallow dip south and west of Blue Hill.

Apparently, Rusty was heading for the rough country of Malpais Arroyo, and walkin
g
his horses. Was that because of the wounded Flynn? Or to keep from attracting attention?

He was something over a mile south of the ranch when a bunch of tracks made by hard-runnin
g
horses came in from the north. Lance felt his stomach turn over within him. The Azte
c
posse! They had seen them and were in pursuit. Touching a spur to the buckskin, h
e
went into a lope, then a run. The tracks were easy to follow now. The wind whippe
d
at his face, and thunder rumbled over the mountains beyond Monument Rock. The bri
m
of his hat slapped back against his skull, but the buckskin, loving to run, ate int
o
the distance with swiftly churning hooves.

The trail dipped into the arroyo and led along it, and heedless of ambush, thinkin
g
only of his friend, Kilkenny rode on, his face grim and hard. He knew mobs and ho
w
relentless and unreasoning they could be. There would be no reasoning with this bunch.

If he met them, it could well be a payoff in blood and bullets. He had never, t
o
his knowledge, killed an honest man, but to save his friend he would do just that.

Suddenly he saw that the pace of the horses he followed had slowed, and he drew u
p
himself, walking his horse, and listening. Then, carried by the echoing walls o
f
the arroyo that had now deepened to a canyon, he heard a yell. Soon somebody called
,
"Boost him up here, durn it! Let's get this job over with!"

The voices were just around a bend in the rocks ahead. His stomach muscles tigh
t
and hard, his mouth dry, Kilkenny slid from his horse. His hands went to walnut-butte
d
guns and loosened them in their holsters, then he moved around the bend and int
o
sight.

There, beneath a huge old cottonwood, stood Rusty Gates, and beside him, Gordon Flynn.

The wounded man was being held up by a man who stood directly in front of him. Ther
e
were seven men here, seven hard, desperate men.

Flynn's eyes went past them and he saw Kilkenny.

"Kilkenny!" he yelled.

As one man, the posse turned to face the owner of that dread name.

He spoke, and his voice was clear and strong. "Step back from those men, damn yo
u
for a lot of brainless killers! Get away, or I'll take the lot of you!"

Chapter
6

Surprise held the men of the posse immobile, and in the moment of stillness Kilkenn
y
spoke again. His voice was sharp and clear. "You've got the wrong men there! Whil
e
you try to string up a couple of honest cowhands, the real killers are gettin' away!"

"Oh, yeah?" Terry Mulhaven's voice was sharp. He had suddenly decided he was no
t
going to be bluffed, Kilkenny or no Kilkenny. "You keep out of this! Or maybe," he added, his voice lowerin
g
a note, "you're one of them?"

Kilkenny did not reply to him. Instead, he asked quickly, "Did any of you see th
e
holdup? Actually see it?"

"I did," Worth said sharply. "I saw it."

"All right, then. Look again at these men. Were they among those you saw?"

Worth hesitated, glancing uneasily at Terry Mulhaven. "The redhead wasn't. I sa
w
no redheaded man, but we wounded two of them, anyway, and this man is wounded." H
e
gestured at Flynn. "That's enough for me."

"It's not enough!" Kilkenny returned crisply. "If all you want to do is kill, the
n
kill each other or try killing me. But if you want justice, then try thinking rathe
r
than stringing up the first men you meet!"

"All right, mister. You tell us how we should be thinking. You talk quick, though."

"That man was shot by Poke Dunning when he tried to help a girl get away from tha
t
bunch of outlaws." Kilkenny spoke swiftly, for he had them listening now, and h
e
knew Western men. Quick to anger and quick to avenge an insult or a killing, the
y
were also, given a chance, men of good heart and goodwill, and essentially reasonabl
e
men. They were also men of humor. Such men had been known to let a guilty man g
o
free when he made some humorous remark with a noose around his neck, or under a gun.