the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986) (36 page)

They were men of the blood of Dan Boone, Kit Carson, Jim Bridger, the Green Mountain Boys, Dan Freeman, and those who whipped the cream of the British regulars at Concord, Bunker Hill, and New Orleans.

They knew nothing of Prussian methods of close-order drill. They did nothing by the numbers. Many of them had flat feet and many had few teeth. But they fought from cover and they made every shot count-and they lived while the enemy died.

The Hale Ranch was a tremendous power, and they had many riders, and they were men hired for their ability with guns as well as with ropes and cattle. King Bill Hale, wise as he was, was grown confident, and he did not know the caliber of such men as the Hatfields. The numbers Hale had might lead to victory, but not until many men had died.

O'Hara? The big Irishman was blunt and hard. He was not the shrewd fighter the Hatfields were, but he was courageous, and he knew not the meaning of retreat.

Himself? Trent's eyes narrowed. He had no illusions about himself. As much as he avoided trouble, he knew that within him there was something that held a fierce resentment for abuse of power, for tyranny. There was something in him that loved battle, too. He could not dodge the fact. He would avoid trouble, but when it came he would go into it with a fierce love of battle for battle's sake.

Someday, he knew, he would ride back to the cattle in the high meadows, back to the cabin in the pines, and he would take down his guns and buckle them on, and then Kilkenny would ride again.

The trail skirted deep canyons and led down toward the flat bottomland of the valley. King Bill, he knew, was learning what he should have known long ago, that the flatlands, while rich, became hot and dry in the summer weather, while the high meadows remained green and lush, and there cattle could graze and grow fat. And King Bill was moving to take back what he had missed so long ago.

Had the man been less blinded by his own power and strength, he would have hesitated over the Hatfields. One and all, they were fighting men.

Riding into Cedar Bluff would be dangerous now. Changes were coming to the West, and Trent had hoped to leave his reputation in Texas. He could see the old days of violence were nearing an end. Billy the Kid had been killed by Pat Garrett. King Fisher and Ben Thompson were heard of much less; one and all, the gunmen were beginning to taper off. Names that had once been mighty in the West were already drifting into legend.

As for himself, few men could describe him. He had come and gone like a shadow, and where he was now, no man could say, and only one woman.

King Bill even owned the law in Cedar. He had called an election to choose a sheriff and a judge. Yet there had been no fairness in that election. It was true that no unfair practices had been tolerated, but the few nesters and small ranchers had no chance against the fifty-odd riders from the Hale Ranch and the townspeople who needed the Hale business or who worked for him.

Trent had voted himself. He had voted for O'Hara. There had been scarcely a dozen votes for O'Hara. One of those votes had been that of Jim Hale, King Bill's oldest son. Another, he knew, had been the one person in Cedar whom he had studiously avoided, the half-Spanish, half-Irish girl, Nita Riordan.

Trent had avoided Nita Riordan because the beautiful girl from the Texas Mexican border was the one person who knew him for what he was-who knew him as Kilkenny, the gun- fighter.

Whenever Trent thought of the trouble in Cedar he thought less of King Bill but more of Cub Hale. The older man was huge and powerful physically, but he was not a killer. It was true that he was responsible for deaths, but they were of men whom he believed to be his enemies or to be trespassing on his land. But Cub Hale was a killer.

Two days after Trent had first come to Cedar Bluff he had seen Cub Hale kill a man. It was a drunken miner, a burly, quarrelsome fellow who could have done with a pistol barrel alongside the head, but needed nothing more. Yet Cub Hale had shot him down, ruthlessly, heedlessly.

Then there had been the case of Jack Lindsay, a known gunman, and Cub had killed him in a fair, standup fight, with an even break all around. Lindsay's gun had barely cleared its holster when the first of three shots hit him. Trent had walked over to the man's body to see for himself. You could have put a playing card over those three holes. That was shooting.

There had been other stories of which Trent had only heard. Cub had caught two rustlers, red-handed, and killed them both. He had killed a Mexican sheepherder in Magdalena. He had killed a gunfighter in Fort Sumner, and gut shot another one near Socorro, leaving him to die slowly on the desert.

And besides Cub, there were Dunn and Ravitz. Both were graduates of the Lincoln County War. Both had been in Trail City and had left California just ahead of a posse. Both were familiar names among the dark brotherhood who lived by the gun. They were strictly cash-and-carry warriors, men whose guns were for hire.

"Buck," Trent told his horse thoughtfully, "if war starts in the Cedar hills, there'll be a power of killin'. I got to see King Bill. I got to talk reason into him."

Cedar Bluff could have been any cow town. Two things set it off from the others. One was the stone stage station, which also contained the main office of the Hale Ranch; the other was the huge and sprawling Crystal Palace, belonging to Nita Riordan.

Trent loped the yellow horse down the dusty street and swung down in front of Leathers' General Store. He walked into the cool interior. The place smelled of leather and dry goods. At the rear, where they dispensed food and other supplies, he halted.

Bert Leathers looked up from his customer as Trent walked in, and Trent saw his face change. Leathers wet his lips and kept his eyes away from Trent. At the same time, Trent heard a slight movement, and glancing casually around, he saw a heavyset cowhand wearing a tied-down gun lounging against a rack of saddles. The fellow took his cigarette from his lips and stared at Trent from shrewd, calculating eyes.

"Need a few things, Leathers," Trent said casually. "Got a list here."

The man Leathers was serving stepped aside. He was a townsman, and he looked worried.

"Sorry, Trent," Leathers said abruptly, "I can't help you. All you nesters have been ordered off the Hale range. I can't sell you anything."

"Lickin' Hale's boots, are you?" Trent asked quietly. "I heard you were, Leathers, but doubted it. I figgered a man with nerve enough to come west an' set up for himself would be his own man."

"I am my own man!" Leathers snapped, his pride stung. "I just don't want your business!"

"I'll remember that, Leathers," Trent said quietly. "When all this is over, I'll remember that. You're forgettin' something. This is America, an' here the people always win. Maybe not at first, but they always win in the end. When this is over, if the people win, you'd better leave-understand?"

Leathers looked up, his face white and yet angry. He looked uncertain.

"You all better grab yourself some air," a cool voice suggested.

Trent turned, and he saw the gunhand standing with his thumbs in his belt, grinning at him. "Better slide, Trent. What the man says is true. King Bill's takin' over. I'm here to see Leathers doesn't have no trouble with nesters."

"All right," Trent said quietly, "I'm a quiet man myself. I expect that rightly I should take the gun away from you an' shove it down your throat. But Leathers is probably gunshy, an' there might be some shootin', so I'll take a walk."

"My name's Dan Cooper," the gunhand suggested mildly. "Any time you really get on the prod about shovin' this gun down my throat, look me up."

Trent smiled. "I'll do that, Cooper, an' if you stay with King Bill I'm afraid you're going to have a heavy diet of lead. He's cuttin' a wide swath."

"Uh-huh." Cooper was cheerful and tough. "But he's got a blade that cuts 'em off short."

"Ever see the Hatfields shoot?" Trent suggested. "Take a tip, old son, an' when those long Kentucky rifles open up, you be somewhere else."

Dan Cooper nodded sagely. "You got somethin' there, pardner. You really have. That Parson's got him a cold eye."

Trent turned and started for the street, but Cooper's voice halted him. The gunhand had followed him to the door.

"Say," Cooper's voice was curious. "Was you ever in Dodge?"

Trent smiled. "Maybe. Maybe I was. You think that one over, Cooper."

He looked at the gunhand thoughtfully. "I like you," he said bluntly, "so I'm givin' you a tip. Get on your horse an' ride. King Bill's got the men, but he ain't goin' to win. Ride, because I always hate to kill a good man."

Trent turned and walked down the street. Behind him, he could feel Dan Cooper's eyes on his back.

The gunman was scowling. "Now who the hell?" he muttered. "That hombre's salty, plumb salty."

Three more attempts to buy supplies proved to Trent he was frozen out in Cedar Bluff. Worried now, he started back to his horse. The nesters could not buy in Cedar Bluff, and that meant their only supplies must come by the long wagon trip across country from Blazer. Trent felt grave doubts that Hale would let the wagons proceed unmolested, and their little party was so small they could not spare men to guard the wagons on the three-day trek over desert and mountains.

"Trent!" He turned slowly and found himself facing Price Dixon, a dealer from the Crystal Palace. "Nita wants to see you. Asked me to find you and ask if you'd come to see her."

For a long moment, Trent hesitated. Then he shrugged. "All right," he said, "but it won't do any good to have her seen with me. We nesters aren't looked upon with much favor these days."

Dixon nodded, sober faced. "Looks like a shootout. I'm afraid you boys are on the short end of it."

"Maybe."

Dixon glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. "Don't you wear a gun? They'll kill you someday."

"Without a gun you don't have many fights."

"It wouldn't stop Cub Hale. When he decides to shoot, he does. He won't care whether you are packin' a gun or not."

"No. It wouldn't matter to him."

Price Dixon studied him thoughtfully. "Who are you, Trent?" he asked softly.

"I'm Trent, a nester. Who else?"

"That's what I'm wondering. I'm dry behind the ears. I've been dealing cards in the West ever since the war between the states. I've seen men who packed guns, and I know the breed. You're not Wes Hardin, and you're not Hickok, and you're not one of the Earps. You never drink much, so you can't be Thompson. Whoever you are, you've packed a gun."

"Don't lose any sleep over it."

Dixon shrugged. "I won't. I'm not taking sides in this fight or any other. If I guess, I won't say. You're a friend of Nita's, and that's enough for me. Besides, Jaime Brigo likes you." He glanced at Trent. "What do you think of him?"

"Brigo?" Trent said thoughtfully. "Brigo is part Yaqui, part devil, and all loyal, but I'd sooner tackle three King Bill Hale's than him. He's poison."

Dixon nodded. "I think you're right. He sits there by her door night after night, apparently asleep, yet he knows more about what goes on in this town than any five other men."

"Dixon, you should talk Nita into selling out. Good chance of getting the place burned out or shot up if she stays. It's going to be a long fight."

"Hale doesn't think so."

"Parson Hatfield does."

"I've seen Hatfield. He looks like something I'd leave alone." Dixon paused. "I was in Kentucky once, a long time ago. The Hatfields have had three feuds. Somehow, there's always Hatfields left."

"Well, Price," Trent threw his cigarette into the dust, "I've seen a few fighting men, too, and I'm glad the Hatfields are on my side, an' particularly the Parson."

Chapter
IV

One Girl in a Million

The Crystal Palace was one of those places that made the western frontier what it was. Wherever there was money to spend, gambling joints could be found, and some became ornate palaces of drinking and gambling like the Palace. They had them in Abilene and Dodge, but not so much as farther west.

Cedar Bluff had the highly paid riders of the Hale Ranch. They also drew miners from Rock Creek. The Palace was all gilt and glass, and there were plenty of games going, including roulette, faro, and dice. Around the room at scattered tables were at least a dozen poker games.

Nita Riordan, Trent decided, was doing all right. This place was making money and lots of it. Trent knew a lot about gambling houses, enough to know what a rake-off these games would be turning in to the house. There was no necessity for crooked games. The percentage was entirely adequate.

They crossed the room, and Trent saw Jaime Brigo sitting on a chair against the wall as he always sat. The sombrero on the floor was gray and new. He wore dark tailored trousers and a short velvet jacket, also black. The shirt under it was silk and blue. He wore, as always, two guns.

He looked up as Trent approached, and his lips parted over even white teeth. "Buenos dias, Senor!" he said.

Price stopped and nodded his head toward the door. "She's in there."

Trent faced the door, drew a deep breath, and stepped inside. His heart was pounding, and his mouth was dry. No woman ever stirred him so deeply or made him realize so much what he was missing in his lonely life.