“I can’t guess. Feeling is changing in the cattle country. They want law and order now, and they’ll go a long way to have it. Lots of nesters coming into the country and they’ll welcome a chance to see the issue decided in the courts.” “This change you speak of. Won’t that make a difference to men like you and Havalik?”
“We’re as outmoded as the buffalo. That’s why I’m buying cattle. I’m going to work my stock and stay out of trouble.”
Kilkenny’s eyes went to the narrowing gap between Texas Canyon and North Fork. Cain Brockman, as if sensing his thought, suddenly rode past them, cutting over toward Texas and Shorty rode into North Fork. Both searched the rocks and brush with drawn guns.
“Nothing stays the same,” Kilkenny said. “A man has to go with the times. No man can put a rope on the past and hope to snub it down. The best thing is to learn to ride the new trails.”
He glanced at Ben. “You’ve learned.”
Ben shrugged. “Dad says I take after my mother.” “Maybe. You were the first in your generation. You’ll have kids and most of them will go the way you do.”
From Texas Flat the trail mounted to Long Point and led over the route taken by Kilkenny on previous occasions. By nightfall they would be at Duck Lake. From there a trail led east into the mountains and thence to the valley. Now that there was no pursuit and no necessity for keeping the valley a secret, they need no longer use the devious routes.
By high noon the drive was passing through the Notch. On the far side they paused for lunch and Cain Brockman rode up to Kilkenny and swung from the saddle. His heavy jaws were unshaven and he looked tough and rugged as always. He moved over to Kilkenny, his huge bulk moving with the ease of a big cat. He dropped on his haunches.
He jerked his head toward the west. “They’ve spotted us. Fresh tracks over there.”
“How many?”
“Five in that bunch. Shorty saw somebody over east, too.” Kilkenny finished his plate and got to his feet. He walked over to where Ben Tetlow sat with his men. “I don’t expect any of you to do anything but handle cattle. Havalik is out in the hills with a bunch of riders. You leave it to the three of us.”
His eyes swept the group. These men had all been Forty riders, had worked beside those men in the hills. On the other hand, these were the best of the lot, cowhands rather than gunmen. And the drive and day to day work had enabled them to see the kind of man Kilkenny was.
A sour-faced man looked up from his beef and beans. “Three against twenty-five or thirty?”
Swede Carlson shifted his weight. “I never did cotton to Havalik, and this fight’s over. So if you need help, count on me.” “Thanks.”
The sour-faced man spat. “I’ll herd cattle.”
Ben Tetlow had sat silent. Now he spoke up. “A man can get mighty saddle-sore trying to straddle a fence. I’ve made my play and I’m backing it. So I say this. If there’s anybody here who figures to help Havalik or Andy, for that matter, he can ride out now. When trouble starts those who want can herd cattle. If any of you want to, you can lend a hand to Kilkenny. It’s every man to his own conscience. I’ll herd cattle. I couldn’t draw a gun against my brother. One more thing. Anybody who decides to help Kilkenny, don’t expect anything from Andy. When he starts shooting he ain’t going to mind where his shots go. He’s my brother, but I want no man to die because of that.” He walked away from the fire and Cain Brockman went to his bedroll and got out his extra gun. Few men could equal him with a pair of sixguns. Kilkenny had beaten him, but nobody else ever had.
Horns bobbing, the herd moved steadily north. Dust arose and filled the air. The lowing cattle and occasional shrill yells of the cowhands were the only other sounds. Kilkenny rode ahead, scouting the trail. There was a tenseness in the air, an expectation. Cain rode lazily, but under his battered brim his eyes were ceaselessly moving. If Havalik planned to hit the herd he would not do it until it was in the valley. If he had not learned the circumstances of Ben Tetlow’s deal he would be puzzled by the personnel of the riders. Yet there was no reason why he, should hold off any attack on Kilkenny or his own riders. Until the cattle reached the valley it was a Tetlow herd. Once there it belonged to Kilkenny and was fair game.
As the day drew on, Kilkenny grew increasingly restless and irritable. He rode far ahead of the herd, anxious to meet the issue and face it out. His eyes were never still and his nerves were on a hair trigger. For the first time there was much at stake besides his own life, for now he had definitely committed himself and had bound, both in his own mind and in words, his future to that of Nita. Yet knowing the danger could not be avoided he wanted it to be now, quickly, and then over and done. Cain Brockman, who knew his friend, watched him warily. When action came it would be explosive. Lance Kilkenny was a man who could be pushed only so far and Brockman could see that a devil was riding him. Suddenly Kilkenny smelled dust in the air. He swung wide and saw the tracks of four riders where they had cut across the trail the herd was taking. He wheeled his buckskin and rode dowa the trail after them. They were standing in a tight group not sixty yards off the trail, concealed from it by a rocky projection. As the buckskin walked in sand they did not hear his approach.
Kilkenny drew up, his right hand resting oa his thigh. “Huntin’ trouble or just riding?”
They jerked around, their faces written large with surprise. All four were tough men. “What’s it to you?” The speaker was a big, wide-faced man. Kilkenny’s eyes had gone flat and hard. For three long breaths he did not reply. Nor did he think. He had it in him, and he felt something rising strong and hot inside him. He walked his horse nearer.
“You’ve been ridin’ with Forty. This herd will be Forty until it reaches my ranch, but I won’t have any saddle bums riding my flanks. If you think this is bluff, suppose you grab iron.”
Silence hung heavy in the small canyon. The man who had spoken wanted to act, but he knew he looked into the eyes of death.
Fury mounted within Kilkenny. He stepped his horse nearer and, sensing his master’s urgency, the buckskin began to tremble. “Come on, damn you! If you want trouble, start it! Otherwise start ridin’ and don’t stop until you’re out of the country!”
The man with the wide face possessed his own righting pride. Something exploded within him. “I’ll be damned if I’ll run! I’ll—“ He grabbed at his gun butt and Kilkenny slammed home the spurs.
The buckskin leaped like a startled rabbit and hit the other man’s horse a glancing blow. Caught off balance, the horse staggered, then fell. And then Kilkenny was in the circle of horsemen, not shooting, but slashing with his gun barrel.
One man caught a blow across the skull and crumpled from his saddle. Another caught the tip of a raking blow that laid his cheek open. Wheeling his horse, he headed south at a dead run, blood steaming from his ripped face. The man who had talked was struggling to get from under his horse. The remaining man backed off, hands in the air. His face was white, for he had never seen such berserk fury. “Lay off!” he yelled. “I ain’t huntin’ it!” As suddenly as the fury had come, it was gone. “Get down there, and pull your partner from under that horse.”
The fellow reached for his belt buckle. “That isn’t necessary,” Kilkenny told him. “Keep your guns. You might feel lucky.”
Carefully the man got down from the saddle and catching the horse by the bridle he helped it up. The man who had tried for his gun lay en the sand. “You busted my leg!” he complained bitterly. “You busted it!” “You’re playing a rough game, amigo. Any time you draw chips you should figure what you can stand to lose.”
Nevertheless, he swung down. “Let’s get that leg set. Then you can come on to our camp. You’re in no shape to travel.”
Together they set the man’s broken leg, and as they bound the splints the rider who had been knocked out began to groan. Kilkenny jerked his head toward him. “Get his gun. He might start shooting before he has a chance to think.”