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|
Kilkenny
in Whetstone
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|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
hetstone
was not the toughest town in the west but it was trying hard.
|
Beau's Notes: The first two Kilkenny stories were published in pulp magazines but Kilkenny, though written for the pulps, became one the several novels purchased for paperback publication prior to Hondo. I’m guessing that what we have here is the beginning of a new Kilkenny novel, The Kilkenny stories are: The
Rider of Lost Creek |
Yet rarely did the posse ride through. By the time their lathered horses charged into the Main Street the outlaw's dust would be crossing the border. Further pursuit being futile, the posse dismounted and bellied up to the bar in the Gold Miner's Daughter or The Longhorn.
An hour or two later when the posse was safely gone a wary rider would ease carefully into town, study the by-sitters and the horses along the rail, and then ride up, dismount, and then come to the same bar where the sheriff's posse had lined up, and there he, in turn, would have his drink.
Whetstone asked no questions and drew no lines or demarcation. Whetstone was neutral. As long as the coins rang true the drinks were available, and secretly, the town was just a little proud of its outlaws.
The inhabitants normally numbered one hundred and fifteen, with fluctuating population of an additional fifty or so. The latter group were hard-eyed men who squatted in shacks and buildings deserted by the boomers who had come, know their brief hour in the sun, and then as the gold strike fizzled out, had drifted.
South of the border and just over a mile from Whetstone was a cluster of weather-beaten shacks in a tiny canyon beside a water hole. Among the nondescript hovels were two adobe structures, one was an abandoned ranch house, doing duty now as a bunkhouse for itinerant border jumpers, and the other was the cantina.
No
posse followed the rider on the buckskin. He rode into town shortly
before noon and stabled his horse, then stopped at The Longhorn
for one drink. He was a tall man, broad in shoulder and chest, with
a sun-darkened face and green eyes. He wore black leather chaps,
a black flat-crowned, flat-brimmed hat and tied down guns.
He gathered the room into his intelligence with one glance, took in the bartender with another, allowed his eyes to rest briefly on Joe Cotton, who felt their strange glow with an uneasy feeling and then ordered a drink.
Glass on the bar, he walked to the window and looked up and down the street, measuring the town. Returning to the bar, he jerked his head toward the street. "That boarding house a good place to eat?"
"Best around here," Sam, the bartender was a bald, smooth-faced man who had tended bar in many places, "and maybe the best anywhere. It's good grub."
He watched the newcomer, noting the high cheekbones, the strongly drawn face, the faint weather lines around the eyes. Despite the quiet of the man's face there was something underlying that quiet which would be a warning to an observant man. Sam, wise in these things, had a feeling all men had not been observant.
As if conscious of Sam's attention the man turned sharply, resting his eyes on Sam, measuring him again. "What's in Linetown?" He asked suddenly.
Joe Cotton looked up. He replied before the bartender could. "A dozen shacks, couple of adobes, and a cantina."
"Men?"
"Maybe a dozen. Maybe forty." Cotton permitted himself a brief smile. "She fluctuates right sudden at times."
"Who's the big man?"
"Pete Geddis, if you mean who owns the place. Bay Rangle if you mean who runs it. Rangle," Cotton added gently, "is a fast hand with a gun. Fast as Hardin, maybe, or Jeff Milton."
"Thanks." The stranger tossed off his liquor, threw a coin on the bar, then stepped to the door. Again, that quick glance left and right, and then he walked diagonally across the street.
Joe
Cotton walked to the bar. "Now who would that be?" He asked, faintly
curious. "He's somebody, and you know 'em all."
"Not him." Sam was puzzled. "Although there's somethin' about him…"
"He's on the hunt," Cotton said, "he's not runnin'."
"No," Sam agreed thoughtfully, "he ain't runnin'."
The stranger walked across the street and entered the restaurant. It was a long room with two long tables, each with benches along each side. Two girls and a man sat at the table, the girl and the man facing each other, some distance from the other girl. The second girl had a light coat over a red dress spangled with silver. She wore heavy eye shadow and make-up. She looked up when he entered, then looked a second time, startled and curious.
The other girl was tall with very black hair and brown eyes, seeming even darker because of her fair skin. She was quietly dressed and undeniably beautiful. She glanced briefly at him, then away. She was talking to a well-dressed man who smoked a cigar.
The newcomer sat down facing the door and shared the dishes before the dance hall girl. "Riding through?" she asked.
"No." He spoke briefly, but he smiled to take the stiffness from it. "I'm as far as I go."
"Not much here. I work at the Daughter." She referred, obviously, to the saloon and dance hall known as the Gold Miner's Daughter. "It isn't like the other places, not like Abilene or Dodge or Leadville."
He glanced at her again, a quick, measuring glance, but said nothing. He had removed his hat and his dark, short-curled hair was neatly combed except where the sweatband of his hat had pressed it against his brow.
The other man got to his feet. "Then I'll be seeing you tomorrow, Miss Wales?"
"Yes. At noon, Mr. Gibson."
The stranger's eyes lifted. "You're Alec Gibson?" he asked. There was an edge to his voice and the dance hall girl moved hastily aside. Gibson noticed it and frowned, a bit surprised.
"That's my name," he said. "Why?"
"I'm down here to cut your herd," the newcomer's voice was cool, "I hear you've got some Open AC cows running with it."
Gibson took the cigar from his mouth. He was surprised and angry. He was a strongly made man with the square, domineering face of a man competent and strong-minded, who had his own way of doing things and liked it that way. "If there are any such cows in this country with such a brand, I've not heard of them. And they certainly are not on my range. Furthermore, nobody is cutting my herd."
The newcomer took a letter from his pocket and handed it across the table. "My authority, Mr. Gibson. I'm agent of the Open AC, fully authorized to cut herds. They lost a thousand head of steers down here."
"If they did," Gibson said, "which I doubt, they are over the border by now."
"I'll be out to cut that herd, Gibson."
The
voice was still cool. The dance hall girl was staring at him, and
her shocked and frightened expression annoyed Gibson. He turned
on her. "Marie, what's the matter with you?" He demanded irritably.
"Sit down and finish your lunch!"
She shook her head, not speaking, and stayed where she was.
Gibson turned back to the stranger. "You stay away from my herd. I've no cattle but my own and my herd is not being cut. I don't care what authority you have." He had not bothered to examine the papers. "You stay away, do you hear?"
"I'll be out, Gibson." The stranger picked up a biscuit and began to butter it. "While I'm there I'll want to ask questions. I'll want to know what happened to young Art Collins, who drove that herd."
Gibson's lips thinned down. He shot a quick glance at the girl with whom he had talked. She was watching the stranger. "I know nothing about him."
"I hope you don't." He took a bite from the biscuit. "Art was a friend of mine. So was his father. I also hope you haven't any of those cattle, but if you're wise, you'll not object to my cutting your herd."
"Save yourself the ride. I do object. If you come on my range I'll have you run off!"
The girl named Wales spoke up. "Mr. Gibson, I'll want a clear title to those cattle you are selling me. I want this man to cut that herd before I buy. I'll pay no money until he has, as I want no trouble later."
Gibson's face was ugly. He took the cigar from his lips and started to speak, but his anger overcame him and he stopped. What kind of fool business was this? A deal all made to sell fifteen hundred head of cattle for fifteen dollars per head, and then this fool had to come in and mess it up. Who did he think he was, anyway?
"Your herd will be clean!" He said sharply. He turned hard around on the stranger. "What's your name?" he demanded. "Who are you?"
The stranger lifted his eyes and the green seemed to glow; yet the brown face was still, only the faint weather lines showing around the eyes. "I'm Kilkenny," he said.
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