West Of Dodge (Ss) (1996) (7 page)

Stroud was awake and breathing heavily when Kilkenny stepped to the bed. The marshal looked up at him. Kneeling beside the bed, Kilkenny began to talk. He told what had happened as he saw it clearly, concisely.

"Now," he said, "you make me your deputy."

Stroud's brow puckered. "What--?"

"Don't worry. I'll carry on while you're down. Just make me your deputy."

Speaking in a hoarse whisper, Stroud swore him in before Pike Taylor and Corey Hatch.

Leaving the two to guard the wounded man, Kilkenny let himself out the back door. It would soon be daylight. He had little hope of finding anything that would lead him to the ambushers, but it was a chance.

From somewhere, they might be watching. On the other hand, as it was nearing day, they might return home and stay quiet, waiting for the news of the morning. For whatever had happened would be known to everyone shortly after daybreak.

Circling around, Kilkenny examined the ground where the ambushers had been concealed. They had hidden behind a water trough that stood near the mouth of an alley. No brass shells remained. The tracks were confusion.

Kilkenny went down the street and crossed, in the first graying of the eastern sky, to the house where Laurie Archer slept. He was starting up the walk when he stopped, frowning.

The yard had been watered the evening before with a hand sprinkler, and water had run across the sand path to the doorway. So much water had been used that the sand had been left quite damp, and it was smooth, unbroken by any tracks!

Circling the house, he found there was no back door. The windows were high, too high to be used with comfort.

He was standing, staring around, when she spoke to him from the window.

"Just what exactly are you looking for?"

He walked toward the window. "I'd like to talk to you.

It's important."

She wore a wrapper, and her hair was rumpled, but she looked even more lovely and exciting. "All right. I'll open the door."

When he was inside, he looked around. It was a pleasant sitting room, not so cluttered with bric-a-brac as most such rooms of the period, but done in the Spanish style, with Indian blankets and only a couple of pictures. It was somehow like her; it had charm and simplicity.

"Where's your gray jacket?" he asked abruptly. "And that gray hat?"

She waited an instant, studying him. "Why . . . why, I left them at the restaurant. Is it important?"

"Yes . . . Did you leave this house last night? Or Very early this morning?"

She shook her head. "I had a headache. I came home early and went to bed. I had just gotten up when you came."

He glanced around him again. Everything was neat, perfect. Had it been someone else wearing her clothes last night, one of the girls from down on the tracks, perhaps?

She noticed the star on his chest, and she frowned. "Where did you get that?" Her voice was a little sharp. "Where's Tom Stroud?"

Briefly, he explained. He was startled to see her face turn deathly pale. She put a hand on the table at her side. "He . . . he'll live? I mean . . . ?"

"I think so."

"I must go to him."

"No."

The harshness of his reply startled her. She looked up quickly, but before she could speak he said abruptly, almost brutally, "Nobody will see him but myself and my two men until this is cleared up. He's being cared for."

"But--"

"No," he said firmly and definitely. "Too many people want him dead."

Leaving her house, he walked swiftly down the street. The limping man . . . Pike had said his name was Turner, and told him where to find him. He went up the walk to the house and, without knocking, shoved the door open and stepped in.

Two men were sitting at a table cleaning rifles. They took one look, glimpsed the badge, and the nearest one grabbed for his gun. Kilkenny shot him in the throat, his Colt swinging to cover the other man who slowly lifted his hands, gray-faced.

"Fast," the man said. "You're fast, Lance."

"I've had to be." Lance looked at him and said, "The other name is Kilkenny."

The man jumped as if stabbed. "Kilkenny," he said, "the Neuces gunfighter!"

"Who hired you?" Kilkenny's voice was low. "Just tell me that, and you can ride out of here."

"Nobody." He started to continue, but Kilkenny's gun muzzle tilted and he stopped. "Look, I--"

"You've got one minute," Kilkenny said, "then you get a hole in your ear. I don't reckon I'll miss. Howsoever, I might notch it a little close."

The man swallowed. "All right. It was Turner."

He saw the man into a saddle, and then walked back to the house and sat down. The body of the dead man had been removed to the barn. He looked around the bare room and saw on the wall a picture. It was a faded tintype of the main street of Dodge.

Kilkenny stood up for a closer look, and suddenly, it hit him like a flash. He started to turn, and then stopped. The limping man stood in the open door, and he held a gun in his hand. "Howdy, Lance." His eyes were faintly amused, yet wary. "Like that picture?"

Kilkenny lifted a hand slowly to his cigarette and dusted the ash from it, then returned it to his lips. "I went up the trail a couple of times," he drawled conversationally. "She was quite a town, wasn't she?"

Obviously, the two men he had surprised in the cabin had been two of those who ambushed Stroud. Turner would be another. The three could have done it, but there had probably been at least one more.

"Where's the boys?" Turner moved into the room, keeping Kilkenny covered.

"One's lyin' out in the barn." Kilkenny's voice did not change. "He's pretty dead. The other one got a chance to take out, and he pulled his freight."

Turner studied him. He was puzzled. Kilkenny was so obviously in complete possession of himself. This man who called himself Lance was a mystery in many ways. He--

"When you were in Dodge," Kilkenny said, "did you ever hang out at the Kansas House?"

Turner's face seemed to tighten and his eyes went blank. "Remember the place," he said.

"So do I."

Kilkenny drew deep on his cigarette. "Better put that gun down, Turner. You're through here. Stroud isn't dead. I'm the deputy marshal." He jerked his head toward the town. "The folks over there know it. You try anything now, and they'll all come down here and burn you out. I might say they've been considerin' it."

Turner hesitated, not liking it. He hitched around, looking quickly out the door. Kilkenny made no attempt to grab for his gun. He just waited. "You're through, Turner."

Kilkenny's words repeatedly went through his head. He had a deep-seated fear of the people across the tracks. He knew many of them disliked the saloons and gambling houses, and lived only for the day when the town could be cleaned up.

"You fellows should know when you're well off," Kilkenny continued. He was remembering bloody Kansas and a cold rage was settling over him. "If you'd only known, Stroud was keepin' you alive. With him down, there ain't a thing to prevent them comin' across here and makin' a cleanup. As long as he kept the peace, they kept their hands off. But you were greedy. Those trail town days are over. You can't turn the clock back."

Turner suddenly looked up. "All right," he said, "give me a chance and I'll ride."

"No," Kilkenny said, and drew. His Colt came out fast and Kilkenny stepped in close to Turner and had the muzzle pressed against his ear before the crippled man could bring his gun to bear. He snatched Turner's pistol away with his left hand and pushed Turner back into one of the chairs.

"That picture got me thinking. I remember you from Kansas ... a long time ago. You were using the name Barney Houseman back then. You and your family skinned a lot of good people out of their money. Killed a few, too." Kilkenny moved to one side and gestured with his free hand. "Get up."

"Lance." The man turned in the chair. "You let me ride out of here. I know I can make it worth your while."

"You're wrong. Stroud made me take an oath when I pinned on this badge. If I hadn't, you'd be dead right now." Barney Houseman looked at him blankly. "We've never met, but I've heard of you. I'm Kilkenny."

Houseman's eyes narrowed, and his knuckles stood out white where he gripped the chair. "All right," he croaked. He struggled to get his lame foot under him as he stood.

Awkwardly, he reached down to steady himself against the chair--and pulled a short-barreled Colt Lightning from a hideout holster!

Kilkenny stepped back and Houseman's gun roared, the slug catching him across the front of the shoulder. He shot, but he was already falling and the bullet went wild. Houseman frantically pulled the trigger three more times as Kilkenny scrambled for cover behind the table, hot lead catching him again, this time in the thigh. His gun was gone, the room full of powder smoke.

Houseman slammed out the door and half fell into the road. He headed for Main Street, reloading. Kilkenny was wounded, maybe dying. They had to move quickly but, he consoled himself, they had done it before and it was time. This had been a good bet, but he knew when his time was up. He had always known. The others had stayed behind at Bannock and at Dodge and other places. He pulled stakes before the Vigilance Committees and United States Marshals got wind of him. He had always moved when the time was ripe. It was ripe now.

Hillman had just opened his store when Houseman limped across Main Street and followed him inside. "Open the safe, Hill," Turner said, "we're getting out. I've just had a shoot-up with Kilkenny."

Hillman looked incredulous, and the limping man shrugged. "I'm not crazy. That gunfighter Lance--he was Kilkenny. I should have remembered. He's used the name before.

"We've got to move! Get the safe. He's in no shape, but people heard the shots and he'll get help."

The look in Hillman's eyes stopped him. Hillman was looking in back of him, over his shoulder.

Houseman turned and stared, his hands hanging. Kilkenny stood in the doorway, his chest covered with blood from the still-oozing cut across collarbone and shoul- der. Standing silent in the doorway he was a grim, dangerous figure, a looming figure of vengeance.

Hillman drew back. "Not me, Kilkenny. I'm out of it. He's made life hell for all of us, Barney has. He's made us all do his dirty jobs. And I won't move on to rob another town."

Kilkenny did not speak. He was squinting his eyes against the pain. He could feel the blood trickling down his stomach. He was losing a lot of blood, and he had little time.

Barney Houseman was a murderer many times over. He was a thief and a card cheat, but always he had let his brother and uncle carry the burden of suspicion while he handled the reins. In Dodge they had believed it was he who left Kilkenny's saddle partner dead in an alley with a knife in his back.

Kilkenny had long given up the chase, but his memory was good.
v The Lumping man . . . Barney Houseman.

"I beat you just now," Barney said, "I'll do it again." His hand went down for the gun and grasped the butt, and then Kilkenny took a step forward, his gun sprang to his fist, and something slapped at Barney's pocket. He was angry that anything should disturb him now. He started to lift his gun, and something else slapped him and he suddenly felt very weak and he went down, sinking away, and saw the edge of the table go by his eyes. Then he was on his back, and all he could see was a crack in the ceiling, and then the crack was gone and he was dead.

Hillman twisted his big-knuckled hands. "He was my nephew," he said, "but he was a devil. I was bad, but he was worse."

Kilkenny asked him then, "Who is Laurie Archer?"

"My daughter."

Kilkenny walked back through the street and people stared at him, turned when he passed, and stared after. He walked up to the jail, and Laurie stood on the steps. Her face was drawn and pale. "Can I see him now?"

"Yes," he said. Then he added, "Barney's dead."

She turned fiercely, her eyes blazing. "I'm glad! Gladl"

"All right." He was tired and his head ached. He wanted to go back to the hotel and wash up and then sleep for a week, and then get a horse, and--

He indicated the man on the bed inside. "You're in love with Stroud?"

"Yes."

"Then go to him. He's a good man."

Kilkenny turned around and started back up the street, and the morning sun was hot on his shoulder blades and there were chickens coming out into the street, and from a meadow near the creek, a smell of new-mown hay. He was tired, very tired . . . rest . . . and then a horse.

*

The Passing of Rope Nose
.

To err is human, and Bill McClary was all too human, which accounted for the fact that the six-shooter pride of the Big Bend lay flat on his face in the bottom of a sandy draw with a hole in his head.

McClary was a reckless and ambitious young man known from Mescal to Muleshoe as fast on the draw, and finding that punching cows failed to support him in a style to which he wanted to become accustomed, he acquired a proclivity for cashing in his six-shooter at various cow country banks. To say that this practice was frowned upon by the hardworking sons of the sagebrush was putting it mildly, and Ranger Johnny Sutton had been called upon to correct McClary's impression that the country owed him a living. Now the Big Bend of the Rio Grande has spawned some tough characters, and during his brief hour in the sun Bill McClary had been accounted by all, including himself, as one of the toughest. For a long time McClary had been hearing of Sutton, and had memorized descriptions of him until he knew he would recognize the Ranger at once. He had long entertained the idea that Johnny Sutton was an overrated four-flusher, an impression he was determined to substantiate.