Kilkenny
in Whetstone (cont. . .)
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"They was enough shootin'
to have whipped Cochise twict afore it let up, an' then there was
quiet. . . "
Only four of the hands riding with young Art had been Open AC riders.
These four he knew by name only, but he knew something about them.
Rumors had drifted back to the Collins ranch to the effect that
there had been a midnight ambush of the riders, but that young Art
himself, and one hand, had been trapped in a gun battle in the cantina
at Linetown.
Long ago Kilkenny had learned that asking questions was only one
way of acquiring information. The best way was simply to listen,
to look, and to put two and two together. Over a glass and a game
of solitaire in the Longhorn, he listened.
Alec Gibson had only a smallholding, not far away; his main business
was cattle buying. A long-geared cowhand playing poker at a nearby
table commented, "Reckon some o' them calves he drives get mighty
lonesome for their mommies." Another man chuckled. "I better never
see one o' them AG branded calves a-suckin' one o' my cows. I sort
of ask questions."
All of which implied a doubt as to the origin of Gibson's cattle,
and at least a foundation for suspicion that he might not hold as
close to the right side of the law as custom demanded. There were
other comments, and there was other gossip. Kilkenny absorbed it
and waited, hoping for more. Finally, he left his game, forfeiting
the table to several would-be poker players, and he strolled across
the street to the Gold Miner's Daughter.
The Daughter was booming. Alec Gibson stood at the bar with a dark,
saturnine man with wide shoulders and two guns. Neither of them
noticed Kilkenny, but were deep in conversation.
 Lance
found a table at one side that was, surprisingly enough deserted.
There he sat down and gathering in the ever-available deck of cards,
he shuffled and dealt. Yet he was scarcely started with his game
when a short, squat cowhand, bristling with unshaved whiskers dropped
into the chair opposite him. Kilkenny measured the man with a glance
and returned to his game.
The worn shirt was soiled, the hands were thick and strong, the
eyes were blue and the sun-darkened face was seamed. The cowhand
took a wisp of cigarette from wind-chapped lips. "A gal named Marie
sent me over here, said I should talk to you."
Kilkenny measured the man again. "Did she say what you should talk
about?"
"Not perzactly. She said you was Kilkenny-that right?"
"It is."
"Heard o' you. I'm Shorty McClean. Seems as how Marie's a sort
o' friend o' mine. She seems to be friendly to you, too."
"Just met her," Kilkenny said, "seems like a nice girl."
Shorty was visibly pleased. He leaned a thick forearm on the table
and began to build a smoke. "What I say. Cain't always tell a book
by the cover. She's good, that girl is." He touched the tip of his
tongue to the paper. "You was askin' about the Open AC herd."
Kilkenny nodded. "I was…and any of the outfit. Most particular,
about young Art Collins."
"Never knowed him. None o' that outfit. I did hear talk about Collins
gittin' hisself hornswoggled into a tight down to Linetown. 'Pears
Bay Rangle an' some others jack-knifed the boy."
Kilkenny waited, studying his cards. "What Marie figured I should
tell you was somethin' else. Mebbe three weeks ago I was rolled
up in my soogan in a clump o' Palos Verde when I'm waked up by shootin'.
"They was enough shootin' to have whipped Cochise twict afore it
let up, an' then there was quiet. Mebbe an hour after, three riders
drawed up not twenty yards away from me, an' I hears 'em talkin'.
Seems they'd dry-gulched some riders an' stampeded the herd toward
the border, where they would pick 'em up shortly."
"You see any of those men?"
"No more'n shadders. But I heard a name. One o' them men was a
mighty big gent they called Hoss. He seemed to be a sort of segundo
or somethin', an' at first I figured it was Boss they called him,
but it wasn't. They called him Hoss. An' I heard this said by Hoss,
he says, "Well, we done our part. If they done theirs the kid's
dead by now."
"Thanks, Shorty." Kilkenny shuffled his cards together. "You got
any money?"
Shorty McClean shook his head. "I sure ain't." He grinned a little.
"I'm rustlin' for a job, but the way things is up no'th I figured
my job would have to keep me close to the border."
"All right, Shorty, you've told me something that helps. An' thank
Marie for me. Meantime, as of now, you're workin' for me. I expect
to have a herd to take north soon, or to sell, and I'll need hands."
Kilkenny placed a twenty-dollar gold piece on the table. "That starts
it, you stick around. When I need you, I'll holler."
Hoss. At least, he now had a time to tie to. And Bay Rangle. The
latter was a gunman, the man reported to run Linetown.
He got to his feet and then for the first time saw the big, dark
man who had been talking to Gibson. Yet he did not actually see
the two together, yet the dark man walked away from beside Gibson
and started toward the door, as he did so, his eyes turned and they
looked directly into those of Kilkenny.
 Bay
Rangle felt the impact of those eyes from under the black hat brim
and felt a distinct shock. Suddenly, he knew as if he had been told
that this was Lance Kilkenny. A queer excitement leaped within him,
this tall, slim-waisted, wide-shouldered young man was the fabulous
and almost unknown gunfighter whose deeds were legendary in cow
camps and around the green cloth of gambling tables.
Rangle walked on to the door, remembering what Gibson had been
telling him. This man was looking for Art Collins and the Open AC
herd. That could mean but one thing. If he looked far he would come
face to face with him, with Bay Rangle. And, he Bay Rangle would
then have to kill or be killed.
The thought chilled him. The look in those cold green eyes had
shocked him a minute ago, but suppose they were facing each other
over gun barrels? What then? What then, Bay Rangle, he asked himself.
And he did not like the thought.
The night air was cool. He stopped outside the light and considered
the matter, and then suddenly, he decided not to wait. He would
take him now, before he expected trouble. He would take him right
now. He crossed the street and disappeared into the shadows near
the wagon yard. These were the now unused ore wagons, huge wagons
that had wound down the long trails of the mountains pulled by a
dozen mule teams. From among them a man could see the door of the
Longhorn. Bay Rangle got his horse and ground-hitched it under the
cottonwoods. The horse would not move now. Taking his Colt, Rangle
checked it carefully, and then walked through the wagons until he
could see the door. It was no more than thirty yards and he regularly
smashed bottles at twice that distance.
 He
leaned against the bulk of the wagon and watched the saloon door.
There were broad windows, double-windows actually, casting their
light over the boardwalk and to the center of the street. One of
the awning posts was a black column against the light. He wanted
to smoke, but hesitated, then shrugged. What difference could it
possibly make? He would be ready, and if Kilkenny lived long enough
he would see the blaze of the gun. He lighted his cigarette, standing
then with legs apart.
He would kill Lance Kilkenny. He would stop him…the door opened
and his gun came up…it was someone else, too narrow a hat brim.
He drew deep on the cigarette, and waited. He swore softly. Why
didn't he come? His mouth grew dry, impatience stirred him. Why
not go right in there and call him? No…that wouldn't do. More than
one top-notch gunman had avoided a meeting with an equal simply
because he knew that although he might and probably would kill the
other man, that he would die himself. Of course, it had been done.
Luke Short had done it, twice in fact. He had done it with Charlie
Storms and Jim Courtwright, and killed both of them.
But it was too great a chance. Bay Rangle wanted to live. He balanced
his Colt and waited. He heard no sound until a whisper of cloth
moving against cloth behind him. He started to turn, but the voice
stopped him. "You just havin' a smoke? Or are you waitin' for somebody?"
 Rangle
turned, dry-mouthed. Foolishly, he was holding his six-shooter.
Why he did it, he never afterwards knew, but he dropped it into
his holster. The man facing him was Kilkenny.
He could only see the outline, but he knew that's who it was. "Bad
idea," Kilkenny was saying, "waitin' out here in the dark. Somebody
mighty get the wrong impression."
Rangle stared through the darkness. Kilkenny held no gun. He had
not even bothered to draw. The thought angered Rangle, but the gunfighter
was close…too close.
"I was havin' a smoke," he said. "What you worried about?"
"I'm not worried," Kilkenny said quietly, "just careful. I'm always
careful. Are you Rangle?"
"Yeah."
"I'll be over to see you in a few days, Rangle. I want to talk
to you."
"You name the time." Rangle had recovered a little of his certainty,
but it still bothered him that Kilkenny stood so close. What did
he want to crowd him for? Was the man crazy? If they started shooting
at this range nobody would have a chance.
He threw his cigarette down, careful not to move his hand too far.
The very hesitation angered him. What was he afraid of?
"Be seein' you," he said, and started away, taking his time. Yet
his nerves were jumpy as a kid. He walked up the steps of the saloon
and into the crowd at the bar, elbowing his way close. He wanted
a drink.
Kilkenny watched him go, then turned on his heel and walked back
through the wagon yard. He heard a horse blow and hesitated, looking
toward the trees. He turned then and walked through them until he
came to the horse. His fingers felt for the brand, feeling it out
carefully. A Half Circle Bar…the brand of Bay Rangle. The waiting
horse could mean but one thing.
Standing by her window, Sharon looked out at the town, feeling
curiously alone. The room behind her was dark. She watched Bay Rangle
come from the wagon yard, unaware of his identity. A little later
she saw Kilkenny come up the street, walking alone.
How tall he was! And strangely, he did not have the usual rider's
walk. More like a woodsman or an Indian.
And then she saw a short, thickset man come from the shadows of
a building and walk slowly toward Kilkenny, who stopped. She could
not hear their words, but she saw that they talked.
It was Shorty McClean. "What's the matter?" Shorty asked. "Didn't
he want it? I've been watching him. I seen him come out. I seen
him get his horse, then seen him waitin' in the wagon yard."
"Why did you watch him?"
"Why," Shorty was a little surprised, "I'm workin' for you, ain't
I? What else would I do?"
Kilkenny considered that briefly. In the darkness, he smiled. "Good
man," he said, "only just watch. I fight my own battles."
Somebody came out of the Daughter and the door slammed. He stood,
swaying a little, in the light of the window, and then he stepped
down, almost missing both steps, and started up the street.
His voice lifted in untuneful song,
"Oh, don't you remember, Sweet Betsy from Pike,
Who…"
Shorty chuckled. "Sure," he said, "I figured you did."
****** END *******
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