the Mountain Valley War (1978) (20 page)

"What!" Hale was furious. "Why, that ..." He stopped abruptly.

"You mean there's to be no fight?" Halloran protested. "I'd been looking forward to it."

"I've tried, but there doesn't seem to be another fighter within miles. There's some miner in Butte, but nobody knows much about him and it would take several days to get him here."

Hale leaned over the table. "John, think of somebody! We can set up fresh horses and rush him in here."

"John C. Heenan is in New York. Tom Sayers is supposed to be on his way back to England. There is nobody around who could even hope to give Tombull a match."

"There might be," Nita said quietly.

Hale either did not hear or chose to ignore her. "The miner you spoke of. Can he fight?"

"As a matter of fact ... no. He's big, strong, and that's about it. I doubt if he could stand up for a round."

Halloran turned to Nita. "You know of someone?"

"Well, Mr. Hale knows him, and so does about everybody else around here. He's not a professional, but he is a fighter, and a very good one."

"What about it, Hale?" Wallace said. "After all, you promised us a fight."

Hale hesitated, but Cub broke in. "Turner would beat him to death, and I'd like to see it."

"The man's not a professional," Hale protested.

"But he's good, is that it?" Wallace insisted.

"There's already talk around town," Nita interposed quietly. "That newcomer, Cain Brockman? You saw him. He believes Trent could beat Turner."

"Who is this Brockman? Is he around?" Bartlett asked.

"The big man standing at the bar ... the man with the broken nose and the red vest. That's Brockman."

"Can we talk to him, Mr. Hale? After all, I've brought Turner up here at considerable expense. If there's a chance of a fight, we should have it."

"The man's an outlaw!" Hale said irritably. "He's one of that bunch up in the hills that I've been telling you about. I know nothing about him."

Bartlett got up from the table and walked over to Cam Brockman. After a minute he came back, followed by Brockman.

"Do you know this man they call Trent?" Bartlett asked him.

"I know him."

"We need to know only one thing about him," Halloran suggested. "Can he fight?"

"If you mean can he whip Turner, I've got five hundred dollars says he can." Cain leaned his big fists on the table. "I came here to kill him, and I intend to, but he can fight.

"Nobody ever whupped me until he did it. I had many a fight on tie-cutting camps, railroad-construction camps, everywhere. I whupped everbody. That man you call Trent weighs less'n two hundred. I weigh two-sixty. I got four inches in height on him, and the reach, and he whupped me."

"What more do you want?" Nita said quietly. "You need a fighter, and you have one. What difference does it make Mr. Hale, whether he's run out of here before the fight or after it?"

Hale still hesitated, and Wallace looked around curiously at Cain. "You said you came here to kill him. Why?"

"He killed my brother, Abel. Shot him dead."

"Was it a gun battle?" Halloran asked.

"It was fair shootin', if that's what you're askin', an' it'll be a fair shootin' when I kill him."

"What about it, Hale?" Halloran said. "Is this man our fighter?"

John Bartlett was waiting. King Bill Hale did not like it. He wanted to see Trent whipped, and whipped badly, but he did not want the man in town, he did not want him acknowledged or recognized or given attention. He wanted him dead. At the same time, he had invited these men here to see a fight. He had imported John Bartlett and his fighter for the purpose.

"I don't know how we can get him," he said after a moment. "That's a lawless crowd up there."

"I could send my man Brigo after him. He's a neutral party."

King Bill was irritated. Why didn't she stay out of this? She and Cub.

"All right," he said, "if we can get him."

"I'm genuinely curious about the man now," Wallace said. "He must be quite a fighter."

"Turner will kill him," Hale said irritably.

Cain Brockman reached in his pocket. "What odds are you givin'?"

Hale threw Brockman an angry look, but Cain was not awed. "I ain't one of your outfit, Mr. Hale, and I'm driftin' on after this here's over. I got five hundred on Trent at the odds."

Wallace glanced at Nita. "You run a gambling house. What odds would you give?"

"We will not be taking bets on the fight," she replied, "although we would be willing to hold stakes. Turner is a skilled professional who has fought many of the best. Trent is at best an amateur. He will be outweighed by at least thirty pounds. The odds should be ten to one, but I would say four to one."

"That seems fair," Halloran commented.

"I got five hundred at that price," Brockman said. "Five hundred in gold."

"Ill take it!" Cub said.

Nita Reardon looked up at Brockman. "Will you ask Price to step over here? He'll record the bet and we will hold stakes."

Hale turned his back to the room and filled his glass. He was profoundly irritated. The last thing he wanted was that man Trent coming into town now, fight or no fight, yet he did not wish to throw his weight around in the presence of Halloran and Wallace. He needed them too much. If he could get the territory to ratify, in one way or another, his claim to the land he was holding, many of his problems would be settled. Before any further discussion came up, he would be in complete possession and he could get some of his hands to file on claims that he could then buy from them.

This was wild land, grazing land, and there were millions of acres unclaimed, largely unwanted. It was coming into the possession of various men by a variety of means, and many of their claims would not stand in court, but for the time being they had possession. With the cattle business what it was, and beef prices in the mining camps what they were, a man could double and even triple his money in three or four years.

Halloran sat back in his chair and bit the end from a cigar. "Well, that's a relief! We will at least have our fight, Hale, and we're lucky to have this man so close by." He glanced at Hale again, "I take it you don't like him?"

"I do not," Hale said flatly.

The crowds started coming into Cedar before daylight. There were miners from Silver City, a contingent from Mountain City, and even one from Florence. They camped outside of town, filled the hotels, crowded the bars. The gold camps had been abandoned for the day, for entertainment of any kind was scarce, and an excuse to come to town and let off some steam was sorely needed.

There was much talk around town. Turner was a known man, Trent was not. The odds mounted and Jaime Brigo got his money down at six to one.

So far as Lance knew, only three people in town knew him as Kilkenny. Perhaps four. And that was the way he wanted it.

He knew what he had to do, and he knew that once he spoke to Halloran, the man would listen. He had that to tell him which would grip his attention.

Kilkenny rode into town when the sun was high. For over an hour he had been lying out in the hills watching the movements through his glasses. He was sure that King Bill would avoid trouble today. There were too many visitors, too many people who lived beyond his control. He would be wanting to make the best impression as what he believed himself to be--an honest, upright citizen.

Brigo had ridden into the Cup with Nita's message and the story of Cain Brockman's bet. Kilkenny was to report to John Bartlett in the Crystal Palace.

Kilkenny rode into town with Parson Hatfield and Quince. Steve Runyon and O'Hara had come in more than an hour before, and O'Hara had immediately fallen in with several old friends from the mines in Silver City, several Irish miners with whom he had worked laying track for the Central Pacific. Only a few of the Hale riders knew any of the hill men by sight.

Pushing through the batwing doors, Kilkenny took in the big room at a glance, a skill developed from long practice and an awareness that enemies might be anywhere, The place was crowded and all the games going full blast.

Nita Riordan was known as a decent woman, but she was also beautiful, and in a hard land with too little of feminine grace or beauty, many men came just to look. She had an easy, friendly way, permitted no liberties, but had a word for everyone. She had developed an excellent memory and knew very well how people liked to be remembered, so here and there she would stop to ask a man how his claim was doing, how deep he had gone, or how the drought was affecting the range. Here and there she had a word about a favored horse, and those men whose families she knew of were always asked about them.

In all of this, both Price Dixon and Jaime Brigo had been of help, for both were good listeners and reported to her what they had heard. The bartenders passed through her office each evening, relating what they had heard.

She was in no sense wishing to pry, but she had learned from her father, and from observation since, that the West was a lonely place. Many men had no one, others had left families back east until they could establish themselves; men more often than not rode alone, worked alone, and lived alone, doing their own cooking. A friendly word and a few minutes of conversation with someone who seemed interested outdid all the glitter and the spangles that some other places tried to provide.

Kilkenny glimpsed Brigo across the room, tilted back in his usual chair. Their eyes met in brief acknowledgment, and then Kilkenny saw Price Dixon. He was dealing cards at a nearby table.

There was a scarcely perceptible warning in Dixon's eyes and a slight movement of the head toward the bar. Kilkennv felt a chill.

Cain Brockman was at the bar, a huge man in plaid pants, boots with Mexican spurs, a black coat, red vest, and a black flat-brimmed hat like the one he himself wore. Cain was watching him.

Almost instinctively men sensed the sudden tension.

In a land and a time when gunfights exploded without warning, men had learned to sense impending trouble and get out of the way. Eyes began to lift, seeing the tall, broad-shouldered man who had entered and the huge figure of the man in the red vest at the bar.

Kilkenny walked between the tables to the bar. A deadly hush gripped the room. Already Brockman's statement that he had come to town to kill the man called Trent was well known, and this newcomer must be the man.

Cain's broad, strong-boned face still carried the scars of their fight, and Kilkenny was well aware that the man was dangerous as a wounded grizzly. That he had whipped him once meant nothing, for Cain was a fighter and would fight again. Moreover, the big man was one of the best men with a gun Kilkenny had ever seen.

Through narrowed eyes Brockman watched Kilkenny come across the room toward him, noting the ease and the grace of the man. Unseen, Nita Riordan had come into the room, watching Kilkenny as he approached Brockman.

"Been a long time, Cain," Kilkenny said.

"Too long."

"I hear you've come to town to kill me, Cain." He spoke quietly, but in the deadly hush the words were heard distinctly in all parts of the room. "If we shoot it out, I'm going to kill you, Cain, but you're a good man with a gun and you'll surely get some lead into me.

"I've come to ask you to hold off. As you may have heard, I'm supposed to fight Tombull Turner. That's going to be trouble enough without carrying a craw full of lead when I do it. So how about a truce until the fight's over?"

Cain hesitated. His small gray eyes were chill and cold, but there came into them a light of reluctant admiration. A mild humor came over his face and he said, "I can wait. Let it never be said that Cain Brockman broke up a good fight. Besides," he added, "I've got money on you. Nobody knows more about your fightin' ability than me."

"It's a deal, then? Until after the fight?" Kilkenny held out his hand.

"It's a deal," Cain agreed and they shook.

Somebody cheered, and then they all did. Flushed and a little embarrassed by the sudden attention, Brockman turned his back on the crowd and tossed off his drink.

Kilkenny turned and walked back to Price Dixon, who was now standing near his table with a big redheaded man.

He was nearing them when the doors pushed open and King Bill Hale entered, with Cub right behind him, and behind them the Gold Dust Twins, Dunn and Ravitz.

Ignoring them, Kilkenny walked up to Bartlett. "I'm Trent," he said.

"Pleasure." Bartlett's cool eyes took in the wide shoulders and the easy movements and approved. "You know me?"

"I've seen you several times. In New Orleans and in Abilene."

"Then you've seen Turner fight?" Bartlett asked quickly.

"Yes, I've seen him. He's good."

"And you're not worried? He nearly killed Tom Hanlon."

Kilkenny smiled. "And who was Hanlon? A big chunk of beef so slow he couldn't get out of his tracks."

"Then you will actually fight Turner?" Bartlett was surprised, but pleased.

"Fight him? I'm going to whip him!"

"That's the way to talk!" A black-bearded miner shoved himself close. "I'm sick of this Tombull Turner struttin' around like he was cock of the walk. My money goes on Trent or whatever your name is."