Through the plains country his name had become a legend, a mysterious rider whose gun skill compared with that of Hickok, Thompson and Earp. He was said to be faster than Hardin, colder than Doc Halliday. Yet few knew him well enough to describe him, for he moved often and used many names. Partly concealed by the awning post and the shade of a huge cottonwood, he saw the three men come from the hotel and mount their horses. All wore the 4T brand. He watched them ride out, then he crossed to the Emporium and bought the supplies he needed. He crossed the bridge to west town and drew up at the livery stable.
“Got a pack horse for sale?”
“See Dolan. He’s the man with horses to sell.”
Kilkenny hesitated. Dolan might know him. A lot of men had ridden with Sheridan, but the last thing he wanted was to be recognized in this town. Yet to pack the supplies he wanted he needed at least one more horse. The man indicated the corrals. “He might sell that paint.” The fellow got up, taking his pipe from his mouth. He was a small man with work-hardened hands. “Seen the marshal yet?”
“Macy? Yes, I’ve seen him.”
“He’s the sheriff. I mean the marshal, Harry Lott. If you ain’t seen him, you will. He aims to get the jump on strangers. Says the way to run a town is to keep it buffaloed.”
“How do he and Macy get along?”
“They don’t. Macy’s a solid citizen.”
The man still hesitated. “My name’s Hammett. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll see if Dolan has a pack horse to sell.”
“It’ll be a favor.”
Kilkenny walked to the corral and studied the horses. They were not the kind to be found on any cattle spread, but chosen animals, the sort preferred by outlaws who needed speed and bottom. He had walked around the corner of the corral when a big, heavy-shouldered man strode down to where he had been standing and looked around. He had a long, hard-jawed face. He wore two guns tied down and he was roughly and carelessly dressed. On his vest was a badge. Lott looked across the street toward Dolan’s, then settled down to wait.
Kilkenny rolled a smoke. Hammett came out of Dolan’s and stopped on the step. Lott called to him and Hammett crossed the street. Kilkenny could hear their voices. “Where’s the man who rode this horse?”
“He said something about getting a drink,” Hammett said. “Stranger to me.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Looks all right. But nobody to monkey with. Looks mighty salty.”
“He got to Savory’s?”
“Didn’t see. He ain’t in Dolan’s.”
Lott walked past Hammett and headed for Savory’s Saloon. Hammett watched him go, then caught up the buckskin’s reins and brought him to Kilkenny. “Dolan said you could have the paint for fifteen bucks, but you’d better ride out of town until Lott gets over his sweat. He’s drinkin’ and huntin’ trouble.” “Thanks.” Kilkenny handed fifteen dollars to Hammett, then got into the corral and roped the paint. Putting on a halter and lead rope, he mounted his own horse and with a wave to Hammett, rode through the trees into the creek. He would avoid crossing the bridge in case the sound drew Lott back to the street. At the Emporium he bought a pack saddle and loaded up, keeping a watchful eye out for Harry Lott. Irritably he realized he was only avoiding an issue that must soon be faced.
At a thunder of hoofs he turned to see a dozen riders charge into the street. A pistol bellowed, then another. They swung down in front of the Diamond Palace and the Pinenut and charged inside, yelling and laughing. The tall man in black who had led them remained in the street. With him was a man, slender and gray-faced. His eyes seemed to be almost white. The tall man bit the end from a cigar and Harry Lott came up the street. “Who made that racket?” he demanded. “Who was shootin’?” The reply came, ice-cold and domineering. “Those were my men, Marshal, and the shooting was harmless. They will come to town often, and we will have no trouble. Understand?”
Harry Lett’s eyes glowed. This man, Kilkenny saw, was a killer. Yet he saw more than that. The gray-faced man had moved to one side. The movement drew Kilkenny’s attention and for the first time he saw the man’s face in the sunlight. It was Dee Havalik.
In the Sonora cattle war his ruthless killings had won him the name of Butcher Havalik. Unassuming in appearance, he was deadly as a rattler and blurred lightning with a gun.
Harry Lott had not even noticed him. Lott was watching the older man, and Lott was in a killing mood.
Why he did it, Kilkenny would never know. Perhaps he wanted to see no man murdered. He spoke softly, just loud enough for Lott to hear. “Careful, Lott! The other one’s Havalik!”
Lott stiffened at the name, and Kilkenny saw his eyes shift, then return to Tetlow. “And who are you?” Lott demanded of the older man. “You mark well the name.” The old man stood a little straighter. “I’m Jared Tetlow! And I’ve fifty riders, enough to sweep this town off the map!” Harry Lott was no fool. And at that moment he saw the third man. It was the big man Kilkenny had seen earlier in the Westwater dining room. He was fifty yards away, only his face was rifle muzzle showing over the back of a horse. That rifle was leveled at Harry Lott.
It was a cold deck, and Lott knew it.
“Keep your men in line,” he said, “and we’ll have no trouble.” Turning on his heels he walked toward the Emporium, slanting his eyes toward Kilkenny. Tetlow and Havalik went inside. The man with the rifle loafed in front of the barber shop.
Lott studied Kilkenny suspiciously. “You saved my neck,” he said. “They had me in a cross fire.”
“I don’t like to see a man murdered.”
“I heard about Havalik.” Lott had buck teeth and a heavy body. “Who are you?”
“I’ve been called Trent. Seems like a good name.” When he had packed his supplies he swung into the saddle and rode out of town, taking the route across the bridge, past Dolan’s and turning right into the hills when he passed Savory’s.
The tall old man with the autocratic manner was Jared Tetlow, father of the man he had killed at Clifton’s! And such a man would be a desperate and implacable enemy. And this man commanded the guns of Dee Havalik!
Chapter 2
Kilkenny rode west from Horsehead. The Valley of the Whispering Wind was almost due north but he had no intention of leaving a trail that could be easily followed.
One sight of Tetlow had indicated the nature of the man who would be his enemy. Once the cattleman knew the man who had killed his son was nearby he would not rest until that man was dead. Nor was Kilkenny unaware of the danger that lay in Harry Lott.
Several times he paused just over ridges to look back along his trail. As he suspected, he was followed. At dusk he turned into the head of Butts Canyon, riding down a switchback trail that was rarely used. He took his time entering and made sure there were visible tracks. Within the canyon it was black as a cavern, yet he trusted his horse, knowing the mountain-bred gelding would take him through safely. It was cool, almost cold at the canyon bottom. At the first fork he rode into a narrow, cavernous passage that led back into the plateau to the northwest. He had no idea if there was any trail out, but it was a chance he must take.
When they had gone some distance up the branch canyon the buckskin pulled to the right. With carefully shielded matches Kilkenny studied the ground and found the buckskin had started into a trail apparently used by deer and wild horses. Swinging back into the saddle, he let the buckskin have his head. Nearly an hour later they emerged atop the mesa. A notch in the hills to the north promised a pass and he headed toward it.
The night was cool and the stars seemed amazingly close. Several times he paused to rest his horses, and when traveling stuck to rocky ledges whenever possible. Toward daybreak he made dry camp in a clump of juniper, picketing his horses on a small patch of grass.
He made breakfast over a fire of dry and smokeless wood at daybreak, but before he moved out he took his glasses and from a nearby rock devoted fifteen minutes to a careful survey of the country. He saw no sign of life, no trail of smoke. Mounting, he rode into wilder and even more lonely hills. It was a desolate land, a jumbled heap of uptilted, broken ledges, enormous basins, knife-like, serrated ridges and toppling towers of sandstone. The sun climbed and grew hot, weirdly eroded sandstone danced like demons in the heat-waved air. Dust devils moved mockingly before him, and the distant atmosphere gathered splendid blue lakes in distant bottoms.