Wind among the tall pines, among the rocks and the erosion-gnawed holes, a sound such as he had never heard, a sound like far off music in which no notes could be detected, a sound so strange that he could not stop listening. He turned then in his saddle and looked back over the valley he had found. At least two thousand acres! Grassy and lush with growth, water aplenty, and that whispering! The valley of the whispering wind!
It was a strange thing to find this place now, this place where he knew he could find happiness, the place from which he would not move again. He had told himself that before he realized what it might mean, and when he did know, he nodded his head as if at last he could be sure. Yes. Here he would stop. Here he would cease being the restless drifter that he had become, a man fleeing from a reputation, fleeing from the reputation of a killer. But in this place he would stay, and he would find peace—if they let him.
There was always the chance that some stranger from the plains might drift into the country and recognize him as Kilkenny, yet he was fortunate in that few men knew him well, and most descriptions of him were mistaken. There was always the chance of such a killing as the affair at Clifton’s. That man had not even known who he was, just a trouble-hunting kid wanting to prove how tough he could be. But that was over, and it was miles away over some of the roughest land in the world. And here he would stay.
His fire was a lonely gleam in the vast darkness of the valley, and in the morning he saw where the cougars had come down from the rocks to investigate, and once he found the tracks of a grizzly. Killing a deer for food, he started in then to work. Living on the ground under the stars, he laid the foundations of his home, choosing flat stones from the talus of the ridges, carefully laying the foundation and the floor. When a space for three rooms was carefully laid, he crushed limestone, and with sand made a crude mortar and began building the walls from selected chunks of rock.
It was slow, bitterly hard work, but he enjoyed it, and during that first month in the high meadow there was no sound or sight of anything man had done but what he did with his own hands. While he worked, he thought carefully of what he would do now. The house was nearing completion, and he had cleaned the waterholes and walled up the spring near the cabin. Soon he must go to a settlement for supplies and ammunition. He felt a curious hesitancy about that, for he had no desire to go. Always now he found himself remembering the queer horror on that girl’s face after he had shot Tetlow. True, she did not understand what it meant. She was new to the West. Still, it was not pleasant to have one looked at with such horror. Who was she? She was without doubt beautiful—very beautiful. As beautiful as … ? He shook his head. No. There was no other like Nita, and there would be no other like her.
On the first day of the seventh week in the high meadow, Kilkenny saddled up and started for town. He knew nothing of the place. Horsehead, they called it, and while riding toward it he had heard it mentioned, but no more. He did not even know how to get there, but must find his way through the canyons. Horsehead sprawled in lazy comfort along both banks of a creek called Westwater, and the town’s main street crossed the creek at right angles. The ancient stone stage station, a veteran of Indian fighting and earlier Mormon settlement, stood near the east bank of the creek. It was a low-roofed, single-storied building with an awning that projected eight feet from the roof and offered shelter to a couple of initial-carved benches polished by the seats of maay breeches. .Above the doorway was a crude sign lettered Horsehead Stage Station. Eat & Drink. Drinks were occasionally served over the tiny six-foot bar, but no meals had been served for six years. East of the stage station was the two-story Westwater Hotel & Saloon, and it was here the elite usually ate. East of the hotel in lazy comfort were the Harness Shop, Eli Putnam, Prop.; the Barber Shop, the office of Robt. Early, Lawyer, and a scattering of other structures steadily declining in height until they reached the usual Last Chance Saloon. Opposite the stage station was the sheriff’s office and jail. The town marshal had a desk in the same office but no love was lost between the two men. Alongside the sheriff’s office and facing the hotel was the assayer’s office, and beyond it in a row were the Pinenut Saloon, the Emporium, the real estate office and then the Diamond Palace Saloon & Gambling Hall and a trail of further buildings.
West of the creek was a section of town all by itself, and one largely ignored by the businesses and citizens who lived on the east bank. A grove of trees, mostly cottonwoods but mixed with willows and a scattering of others, occupied the immediate bank and partly shaded the bridge. Beyond the trees were the corrals and wagon yards of the livery stable, and then the huge and sprawling stable itself. Beyond the stable was the bunkhouse, which was a place for casual sleeping, and possessing no rooms, but merely a dozen tiers of bunks, two high, and a few tables.
Alongside the bunkhouse was Savory’s Saloon, but it was not considered very savory. This was the “tough” place of the town. A long, narrow building with a long bar and a good many tables, it had been ever since its construction a hangout for the town’s tough element as well as for occasional drifting cowhands.
Across the dusty street and beyond the usual line of hitching rails and opposite the corrals was the office of Doc Blaine, tall, undeniably handsome, forty, of mysterious background, but without doubt, gossip had it, the best surgeon west of the Rio Grande. Doc Blaine was usually drunk, but during his occasional periods of lucidity he removed bullets, patched knife-wounds and bottle-cuts, or otherwise administered to the well-being of the town’s wrong side. His office was, obviously, strategically located near the scene of most of the shootings, cuttings and beatings, their source being anywhere along the street in front of the bunkhouse or Savory’s.
West of the Doc’s was Dolan’s, a resort with one pool table, several card tables, too much cigar and cigarette smoke and drinks served from another tiny bar. Yet Dolan’s was not a saloon. Those who frequented the place were an interesting cross-section of the town. Dolan was an ex-soldier, a former sergeant of cavalry and a veteran of the Mexican, Civil and Indian Wars. Beyond Dolan’s to the west were two deserted buildings and then the blacksmith shop, and beyond it, the canyon. This last was a deep slash in the rock of the mesa, deeper than the nearby creek, but waterless except for the brief rushes of water following heavy rains. This was also bridged. Lance Kilkenny rode down from the hills into the east side of town, riding on until he reached the stage station, where he dismounted and tied the buckskin at the hitch rail. Pausing there, he took out the makings and rolled a smoke, scanning the town with careful eyes, alert to any attention he might be getting and curious about the town itself.
Ducking under the hitch rail he settled his hat back in place and glanced at the loafer, standing in front of the stage station. “Nice little town you’ve got here,” he suggested.
The loafer glanced at him out of the corners of his eyes, then at the two low-tied guns. “I reckon,” he agreed, wiping the back of has hand across his mouth, “You seen Dolan?”
“Don’t know him,” Kilkenny said. “Who’s he?”
The loafer stretched, then jerked his head toward the west side of town. “A good man to know if yuh figure to stick around.” Turning, the man sauntered away. His brow puckered slightly, Kilkenny watched him go, then turned east toward the hotel. He was a tall man, well over six feet, with wide shoulders, thick and powerfully shaped. His hips were lean and his waist small. When he walked, it was less the rider’s walk than the woodsman’s. Turning into the Westwater Hotel, he sought out the dining room and dropped to a seat at a table near the back of the room. He glanced curiously at the menu, then looked again, for here in this cow country hotel was a menu that would have favored any cafe in Paris. He turned the page, then turned it back again. One facing page listed the usual cow country meals, but on the other was a French menu listing at least fifty dishes!