Dismounting the wounded man, he carried him back under the cottonwoods. Here there was a place where the willows hung low, leaving a deep shade. Here, with Kilkenny’s slicker for a pillow, he made the big man as comfortable as possible. With water from his canteen he bathed the man’s forehead and washed his wounds, leaving him from time to time to take a look around for approaching riders. Then, drawing one of Cain’s pistols, he left it close beside the big man, and with him Kilkenny left his canteen. Then swiftly he wiped out with a willow branch the cracks in the sand, and scattered free handfuls of sand over that, then mounted up and rode swiftly out of the draw and across country keeping to the cover of the cedars. When he was far enough away, he rode swiftly on and followed a dim trail that led through various draws until he was almost on the outskirts of Horsehead. Here he worked his way into Cottonwood Creek and started toward town.
This was the creek that divided east from west Horsehead, the social line of demarcation in the cowtown. It was also the draw that led throilgh the trees past Doc Blaine’s.
From the creek bed, he climbed out into the trees and then worked his way up through the brush until he was within a few feet of Blaine’s house. The first person he saw was Laurie Webster. Her eyes widened and he motioned her to silence. When she came to the fence near the trees he spoke softly. Briefly he explained what he had done, where he had found Cain and how he had left him, and told the girl to explain the change in plans to Dolan, although to keep riders on call. “Better not try to get Brockman before dark,” he warned, “that country’s alive with riders and they’d be sure to take him away from you and kill him, if not anybody who went after him.”
“All right.” Laurie was quiet. Her eyes searched his. “You … you’re all right?”
“Sure. How are things here?”
“Bad.” Doc Blaine had told her of what Havalik had said and now she repeated this. “It’s going to come to a fight in town. I’m staying down here with Doc and Mrs. Carpenter. My sister is coming down soon, and I think Bob and a couple of others may move to this side of the creek. We want to be together in case of trouble.”
“How’s Macy?”
“All right, but he’s worried. The Tetlows are in town in force now, and Harry Lott is drinking.”
Lott? Kilkenny had forgotten the big marshal. A hard, cruel man. Where did he stand, Kilkenny wondered. And he knew there was no answer to that. Probably Lott himself did not know.
“I’ll be back.” He explained about Nita Riordan and saw the quick frown on the girl’s face.
Without thinking of that, he returned to his horse and mounted. Getting around town was going to take him far out of his way. Suddenly a daring plan came to mind.
Why not ride right up the creek bed through town? Except right at the bridge it was tree-shaded and there was small chance of anyone being close unless they were crossing the small bridge. The cut was deep enough to keep him out of sight. He would be in view from the bridge for all of fifty yards before he reached it, but for only about ten yards beyond, for then the creek curved slightly to the west, then made an easy swing back toward the north and then slightly west again. In fact, the trend of the creek bed was in the exact direction he wished to go to reach the lake where he had told Nita to meet him. Kilkenny was not a man who puzzled about a course of action. The danger of the creek bed was enormous for that sixty yards or so, and to be seen there would probably mean being trapped, yet there was less danger, although extended over several hours by a roundabout route that also entailed loss of time. Without hesitation he put the gray down the bank once more and turned north. He walked the horse in the sand, taking his time, one hand resting on his thigh within inches of his gun butt. He paused before turning the last bend into that fifty yards of open creek and listened. He heard no sound of approaching horses, nor any voices that sounded close. Taking a quick look and seeing the bridge empty, he rode out into the creek.
They would hear his horse if anyone was close to the creek, but there were horses grazing about the town, owned by the townspeople, so that might not attract attention. They would know it was not a cow they heard for the difference in the sound of their walk is great. He had to gamble, and he accepted the gamble.
The sun was very hot in the bottom and he was sheltered from the breeze. The sweat trickled down his face and down his sides under his arms. He dried his palms on his chaps and rode steadily forward, his eyes roving. To the right he could see several trees and beyond them the roof of the jail. To the left there was only the thick clump of trees that divided the creek bed from the home of Doc Blaine.
When no more than ten yards from the bridge, he heard footsteps of an approaching man, and the slight jingle of spurs. There was nothing for it now but to continue on, and he did so, his hand ready to grab for a gun butt if it became necessary.
The walking man hove into sight and, despite himself, glanced up. It was Leal Macy.
Macy’s face did not change, nor did he pause in his stride until he reached the bridge. Then he stopped and leaned on the rail, looking back the way Kilkenny had come. “Rider coming. Stay under the bridge!” he said. Kilkenny halted and heard the horses approaching, and then their hoofs on the bridge. They drew up and stopped, and the voice was that of Jared Tetlow! “Howdy!” Tetlow’s voice was cool. “Seen that Kilkenny? We’re huntin’ him.”
“Taking a lot on yourself, aren’t you?” Macy demanded. “I’m sheriff here.” “We ain’t askin’ no law’s advice,” Tetlow replied shortly. There was a harshness in his voice that grated, yet there was indifference too. “Keep out of the way an’ you won’t get hurt.”
“Tetlow,” Leal Macy replied quietly, “I am ordering you to withdraw your cattle from the range you have forcibly occupied. If you do not do that, you will be arrested and brought before the courts.”
Tetlow chuckled without humor. “What courts? In this town?” He waved a hand. “I already know your judge is back an’ he favors me. So do most of the folks here.” Macy ignored him. “I’m preparing charges against you,” he replied, “for manslaughter. I refer to the killings of Carson and Carpenter. You will be arrested, as will all those who participated, and you will be tried in the courts of the land. Withdraw your cattle, pay the damages we will agree upon, and I will allow you to go free on my own initiative. Otherwise, you will be prosecuted.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Tetlow was impatient. “What do you take me for, man? An idiot? What witnesses do you have? Who will testify against me? I had no reason to dislike Carson and Carpenter. Carson made the mistake of trying for a gun while Carpenter got caught in front of a stampede. As for my cattle, why shouldn’t they move on empty range? There’s no one on the KR.” “There was until you drove them off.”
“Prove it.” Tetlow had spoken his last word. Clapping spurs to his horse, he rode on across the bridge into the east side of town. Dust from the disturbed planking fell down Kilkenny’s neck. He started to move when another voice interrupted. He recognized the hoarse voice of Harry Lott, thickened now by liquor.
“How long you puttin’ up with this, Macy? You standin’ by while they run the town right out from under you? I thought you was a tough sheriff?” “I’m waiting, Harry.” Macy’s voice was patient. “I want to avoid a pitched battle if I can. I’ve seen a cow outfit hit a town like this before. I know what happens. I know how the innocent suffer. You’re right, and something should be done, and it’s up to us, but the time is not yet. When I can muster enough support, I’ll arrest Tetlow and Havalik both, and I’ll hold them for trial.” Harry Lott laughed. “Yeah? Well, you won’t arrest Havalik! I got him figured! He’s their backbone! Git him an’ they’d blow up higher’n them clouds! An’ that’s what I aim to do—git Havalik!”