Monument Rock (Ss) (1998) (36 page)

All was sleepy, quiet, and peaceful. Although it was early, a lamp glowed here an
d
mere from a cabin window, and there was a light in the Express. The advancing skirmisher
s
of darkness had halted here and there in the cover of buildings, gathering forc
e
for an invasion of the street. Lance swung down, spoke softly to the buckskin, an
d
stepped up onto the boardwalk. There he turned again, and swept the street with
a
quick, sharp, all-encompassing glance. Then he pushed through the swinging door
s
into the almost empty saloon.

Brockman looked up quickly and jerked his head toward the door where Brigo sat, bu
t
Kilkenny walked directly to the bar, waving aside the bottle that Cain immediatel
y
lifted. "Has Mailer been in? "

Cain's eyes sparked. "No, ain't seen him. What's up?"

"Hell to pay!" Swiftly, Kilkenny sketched out what had happened. "He was headed fo
r
here," he added.

"Let him come!" Cain said harshly. "I've got an express gun loaded with buckshot."

Brigo was on his feet and coming over. Leaving Cain to tell him what had happened
,
Kilkenny went swiftly to Nita's door and rapped. At her reply, he opened the doo
r
and entered.

She stood across the room, tall, lovely, exciting. He went to her at once and too
k
her hands, then stood and held them, as he looked at her, his heart swelling withi
n
him, feeling now as no other woman had ever made him feel, as none ever could, non
e
but this Spanish and Irish girl from the far borderlands. "Nita, I've got to fin
d
Lona and Frank Mailer . .. then I'm going to come back, and when I do, we're goin
g
to make this a deal. If you'll have me, we'll be married. We'll go on further west
,
we'll go somewhere where nobody's ever heard of Kilkenny, and where we can have som
e
peace, and be happy."

"You've got to go now?"

"Yes."

It was like her that she understood. She touched him lightly with her lips. "The
n
go ... but hurry back."

He left it like that and walked back into the saloon. Brigo and Cain turned to loo
k
at him. With them was a tall, sandy-haired cowhand.

"This fellow says he saw Dunning and Lona riding east. He was some distance off
,
but he said it looked like she was tied. He lost them in the canyons of Salt Creek."

"All right. We'll have a look." Kilkenny took in the sandy-haired hand with a sharp
,
penetrating glance. This was a good man, a steady man. "You want to ride to Blu
e
Hill and tell Rusty? Then if you want, have a look. That girl's in danger."

"I'll look," Sandy said. "I've heard about the fightin' this mornin'."

"You be careful," Kilkenny warned. "Poke Dunning is handy with a gun."

"I know him," Sandy said shortly. "We had trouble over some strays, once. He's righ
t
handy with a runnin' iron, too."

Where to look for Lona was the next thing. While h
e
was looking for her he had to be cautious not to run afoul of Mailer. The man wa
s
dangerous, and he would be doubly so now.

"Night and day," Kilkenny told Cain and Brigo, "one of you be around. Never let up."

In the morning Kilkenny mounted the buckskin. He returned to the house at Blue Hil
l
and scouted around, but the profusion of tracks told him nothing. Working the trai
l
a bit farther out proved helpful in that he found the tracks of several riders. The
y
seemed to be scouting around some and he figured they were out looking for the los
t
girl, same as he was. Their tracks had obliterated the original trail and so he followe
d
them quickly, covering ground as fast as possible.

He had stopped at a well due west of Chimney Rock when he saw a rider approaching.

It was Sandy. His face was drawn and gray. "Been ridin'," he said. "Rusty is out
,
too. An' that Flynn."

"How is he?"

"In no shape, but he won't quit. Head poundin' like a drum, I can tell. Pale aroun
d
the gills. We tracked Poke as far as Monument Rock, then lost him. Other tracks wipe
d
his out."

"The posse, maybe?"

"I reckon." Sandy wiped his chin after a long drink. "Maybe they got him."

"If they found him, somebody is dead." Kilkenny knew the men. "They didn't like i
t
even when I stopped them hanging the wrong men. They wanted an eye for an eye."

"Dunning won't be taken easy," Sandy said. "Where you headin'?"

"Northeast. Look," he added, "why don't you swing back and follow the posse tracks?

If they turn off the route back to Aztec, you've got a lead."

Sandy turned his bronc. "See you," he said, and cantered off.

Kilkenny wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His eyes were dark with worry.

Someplace in these bleak hills that girl was with Dunning. Someplace Mailer lurked.

Neither was pleasant to think of. He swung into the saddle and glanced northeast.

The tower of Chimney Rock loomed against the sky, beyond it the mountains, and ther
e
was a trail into them by that route. He turned the buckskin.

He rode with a Winchester across his saddle, his eyes searching every bit of cover
,
his ears and eyes alert. He saw nothing, heard nothing.

On a point of rocks near Eagle Nest Arroyo, Frank Mailer, his face covered with
a
stubble of coarse black beard, watched Kilkenny riding north through his glasses
,
and he swore softly. Twice, the gunfighter had been close to him, and each time Maile
r
had held off rather than dare a confrontation. Being on the dodge had him worried
,
for too long he'd lived the easy life at Blue Hill, taking off to do jobs outsid
e
the territory but always with the safety of Dunning's ranch to return to if thing
s
got bad. He had learned of what had happened, knew of the end of Sam Starr and Socorro.

He had found the body of Poke Dunning, lynched for the crimes that he, Mailer, ha
d
committed, but strangely he felt depressed. There was the man that he had wante
d
dead, and he was dead. He had the nine thousand dollars from the Aztec bank, a goo
d
horse
,
and a beltful of ammunition. But the good old days were gone. The hanging of Pok
e
Dunning affected him as nothing else had; there was an inevitableness about it tha
t
frightened him.

Frank Mailer, six feet five in his socks and weighing over two hundred and fift
y
pounds, walked back to his gray horse. He stood with a hand on the pommel, and somethin
g
was gone out of him. For the first time since he was a youngster, he was really o
n
the dodge. He was running.

Poke had run, too, and it hadn't done him any good. Dunning had beat the game fo
r
years, and now look at him. Somehow it always caught up with you. Frank Mailer heave
d
himself into the saddle and turned his horse across country.

The sight of Dunning's body had even driven the lush beauty of Nita Riordan fro
m
his mind. He rode on, sullen and dazed; for the first time he had a feeling of bein
g
hemmed in, trapped.

Kilkenny was hunting something; was it him? Now there was something he could do.

He could seek out a showdown with Kilkenny and beat him. There was a deep, burnin
g
resentment against the man. If he had stayed out of it, all would have been well.

A mere half-dozen miles north, Kilkenny rounded a sandstone promontory and saw jus
t
beyond a horseman picking his way over the rounded gray stones and gravel of a wash.

The man looked up and waved. It was Sandy again. "Found her," he said when they wer
e
closer. "Flynn found her. She was tied in a shack back in the hills. Dunning lef
t
her there with water and a little grub. Never saw nothin' like it. She was tied i
n
the middle of the 'dobe with rope
s
running around her body an' off in all four directions. She couldn't move an inc
h
one way or the other, an' couldn't get free, but she had her hands loose. Those rope
s
were made fast in the walls an' windows, knots so far away she couldn't reach 'em.

She picked at one of the ropes until her fingers were all raw, tryin' to pull i
t
apart."

"She's all right?"

"I reckon so. They took her to Blue Hill." Sandy eyed him thoughtfully. "Dunnin
g
left her the day before yesterday. You ain't seen him?"

"No. Nor Mailer."

"I'm headin' home." Sandy was regretful. "The boss will be raisin' hell. See you."

He turned his horse, then glanced back. "Luck," he said.

Kilkenny sat his horse for a moment, then turned and started south again. Now h
e
was hunting Mailer, not to kill him, unless he had to, but to make sure he was gone
,
out of the country before he relaxed his guard.

"He will want to see," Kilkenny told Buck. "If he's on the dodge but hasn't lef
t
the country, he'll have headed for the ridgelines."

Shadows grew long and crawled up the opposite wall of the mountains, and Kilkenn
y
turned aside, and in a hollow in the rocks, he bedded down. He built no fire, bu
t
ate a little jerked beef and some hardtack before crawling into his blankets.

He was out at dawn, and had gone only a few miles when he saw the tracks of a bi
g
horse cutting across his trail. A big horse ... to carry a big man. Kilkenny turne
d
the buckskin abruptly. He had no doubt that this was Frank Mailer's horse. It wa
s
rough terrain into which the trail was leading, country that offered shelter fo
r
an ambush. Yet he followed on, taking his time, following the sign that grew mor
e
and more difficult. A bruised branc
h
of sage, a scratch on a rock, a small stone rolled from its place, leaving the eart
h
slightly damp where it had rested but a short time before. Once he saw a scar ato
p
a log lying across the trail where a trailing hoof had struck, knocking the loos
e
bark free and leaving a scar upon the bark and the tiny webs in the cracks beneat
h
the bark.

It was a walking trail. Whether Mailer knew he was tracked or not, once in the mountain
s
he had been exceedingly careful, and it could not be followed at a faster pace tha
n
a walk. Sometimes Kilkenny had to halt, searching for the line of travel, but alway
s
there was something, and his keen eyes read sign where another might have seen nothing
,
and they pushed on.

Kilkenny drew up, and sitting his horse close against a clump of pinon, he rolle
d
a smoke. His mouth tasted bad and his hair was uncombed. He squinted his eyes agains
t
the morning glare of the sun and studied the hills before him. He put the cigarett
e
in his lips and touched a match to it, feeling the hard stubble of beard on his chi
n
as he did so. His shirt felt hot and had the sour smell of stale sweat from muc
h
riding without time to change. He felt drawn and hard himself, and he worked hi
s
fingers to get the last of the morning damp out of them.

Then he rode out and he met the hard, flat sound of a rifle shot and felt the whi
p
of it, barely ahead of his hat brim. He left the saddle, Winchester in hand, bu
t
there was no further shot. Staring up at the rocks, his eyes hard and narrow, h
e
waited. There was no sound.