the Mountain Valley War (1978) (9 page)

Yet he was intelligent enough to know that no matter how good a man can become, there is always, somewhere, a better. And he had a weakness, a weakness that Quince had sensed at once. He had compassion.

It was a land and a time when gentlemen settled disputes with guns, just as they for centuries settled them with battleaxes, lances, or swords. It was a tradition, not peculiar to the West, but common the world over. Perhaps someday it would end, but it was here now.

In Italy in one decade no less than 2,759 duels had been fought, most of them with swords and rapiers. It was also interesting to recall that while at least thirty of the duelists had been military men, twenty-nine were journalists, and the others a mixture of all types, but at least four had been members of Parliament.

The Chevalier d'Andrieux had killed seventy-two men in duels, and it had been rumored that Alexander Keith McClung, a nephew of former Chief Justice Marshall, had killed over a hundred.

The settling of disputes with weapons certainly was not confined to the West. Although some men had sought a reputation of skill with weapons, most of them had not, but had acquired their reputations simply because their skill--if not their intent--had given them victory.

"Pa figures you for a man good with guns," Quince said, "an' Pa ain't often wrong."

Did it show, then, as clearly as that? But of course. He himself could almost invariably spot a man who was dangerous, some because of uncommon skill, some because of some innate quality within them.

Mounting, Trent and Quince rode side by side into the Cup and saw Parson and young Bartram come forth to meet them.

"You surely got supplies," Parson commented. "I don't know how you done it."

"Oh, Leathers didn't object too much. When I took him over to the store and showed him what we needed, why, he just laid it out, nice as you please. Most men can be right accommodating if they are instructed in the right way."

Quince grinned. "Trent taken that poor man right out of bed, never so much as woke his wife. I could almost have felt sorry for him."

"I'd like to be hiding somewhere to see what happens when he wakes up," Bartram said. "Or when she wakes up."

Parson Hatfield was pleased, smiling through his handlebar mustache. "Well, I reckon we won the first round. Sure was a sight to see them punchers dust out o' there when you boys opened up on 'em."

"Who was the man we saw on the ground?" Trent asked.

"No-good renegade they called Indian Joe. He was no more Indian than you." He chuckled. "I can't say 'no more than me,' because I've got Injun blood. They call him Indian Joe, but he surely ain't Injun, no matter what he is. He was a bad one, so when he wouldn't stop comin', O'Hara gave it to him, dead center.

"That grub you brought in will sure come in handy, Trent, but you an' me know it ain't goin' to last us long. We got a passel o' folks here, and they be good eaters."

Parson seated himself on the doorstep. "We surely can't go into Cedar and do that again. We've got to figure some other way."

"We need a few days," Trent agreed. "And we've got to get to Blazer, there's no two ways about it. I wish I knew what they were planning right now, because I--"

"You ain't been payin' much mind," Parson said. "You stay to yourself so much. If you was payin' attention, you'd know what he's about, and you'd know that we won't be havin' too much trouble these next two weeks."

"Why? What's going on?"

"King Bill has got him a big celebration planned. A carnival like. He's been in this here country ten years now, so he figures to pull off a big celebration.

"They're going to have horse races, footraces, horseshoe pitching for prizes, and there's to be a prizefight. Hale is bringin' in a bare-knuckle fighter called Tombull Turner. A big feller... good, they say."

"He is good. I've seen him fight. He's big and strong and mean." Trent thought about it. "Maybe that will give us the time we need."

He got up. "I'm going to get some sleep." He touched his face gingerly. "I'm still sore."

"Color on your eye is fadin'," Quince said.

Trent studied his hands, still puffed and swollen from the pounding he'd given Hale. "It's these that worry me, but they aren't as sore and stiff as they were."

He unrolled his blanket in a place where the afternoon sun would not disturb him. It was early, but he hoped to sleep right on through, and was tired enough. He lay down on his blanket and stared up through the leaves.

Tombull Turner! Hale certainly tried for the best. At least, the best in this part of the country, which meant anything west of the Mississippi and short of San Francisco.

Then his thoughts shifted to the problem of getting to Blazer. Several times, from vantage points in the mountains he had studied the country to the west and south, seeking a possible route. He had good field glasses, a relic of his Civil War service, swapped for from a German officer who was returning to his own country. They were excellent for the time, and far out in the rugged waste he had spotted what seemed to be a trail. Whether a game trail or Indian path, he knew not, but obviously a route used by someone, and long enough to have established a path. That meant the trail went somewhere, and he had learned the folly of leaving desert or mountain trails to begin his own, for often such routes were the only possible way through the mountains.

It was nearly dusk when he awakened. He lay still, hands clasped behind his head, trying to assemble his thoughts about the forthcoming trip. Blazer was only a crossroads, one of those places born to die and leave only a few splintered boards and broken glass to mark its passing. Yet for the moment its existence was crucial.

Walking to the spring, he drank long and deep, then bathed his face; it was feeling less sore, and his jaw worked more easily, some of the stiffness having left it.

Sally brought him a rough towel with which he dried his face and hands; then, with the towel over his shoulder, he combed his hair, looking into a small piece of broken mirror nailed to a tree.

"Two more men came in," she said, "Tot Wilson, from down in the breaks near the Box Canyon, and Jody Miller, a neighbor of his'n.

"Jody's a Texas man. Used to ride the trail drives up to Kansas, and he's a good man."

Trent glanced at her, eyes twinkling. "How good a man? You interested in him?"

She blushed. "No, I am not! I ..." Her voice trailed off.

"Yes?"

She blushed. "You'd better come and eat." She paused. "I hear you're sparkin' that woman who runs the Palace, down to Cedar."

He smiled at her as he finished combing his hair, watching her in the mirror. "We're old friends, Sally. I knew her long ago."

"Is she a good woman?"

He nodded. "Yes, she is. She inherited a saloon down in Texas and had to run it or starve to death. She had helped with the accounts a long time before and knew a good deal about it. So she has done well.

"Jaime Brigo owed her father a debt, so he appointed himself her bodyguard, and nobody wants any part of Jaime, so she gets along all right."

"She's beautiful. I saw her once on the street."

"Yes, she is, and she has an excellent mind. Very clear thinker." He picked up his hat. "Sally, you've a good mind, too. Don't let it go to seed. A brain is only as good as you give it a chance to be, and just as important to a woman as to a man."

Saul looked up as they entered the house. He indicated the two strangers. "Wilson an' Miller, both burned out. They killed Wilson's partner. Shot him down when he went to rope a horse."

Miller was a stocky, solid-looking man, unshaved for several days. His beard was black and his eyes also. "Hi," he said. "I've seen you before."

"I've been places before," Trent replied mildly. This was it. He could tell by the expression in Miller's eyes.

"I'd have known you even if it wasn't for that big fellow down in Cedar."

"What big fellow?" Trent asked.

"Bigger'n you. He rode in about sundown yesterday askin' about a man fittin' your description. Wants to find you pretty bad."

"Flat face? Deep scar over one eye?"

"That's him! Looks like he's been in a lot of fights, and bad ones."

"He was in one that I know of. That one was all he needed."

Cain Brockman!

Even before he heard from Lee Hall he had known this moment would come sooner or later. All that was almost two years ago now, but Cain wasn't a man who was apt to forget. He had been one of a hard-riding, fast-shooting pair, the Brockman twins, widely notorious on both sides of the border. In a fight down in the Live Oak country Trent had killed Abel Brockman, and later, in a hand-to-hand fight, had whipped Cain into a staggering, punch-drunk hulk. And now Cain was here, hunting him down. And Cain Brockman was a good man with a gun.

As if it were not enough to have King Bill Hale on his hands!

Parson Hatfield sat staring at Trent. "You say you know this man, Miller. I'd like to, my ownself!"

"The name," Trent said slowly, "is Lance Kilkenny."

"Kilkenny?" Bartram dropped his plate, startled. "You're Kilkenny?"

"I am," he replied, "although the reputation that goes with it is not one I've tried for."

Turning, he walked outside and across the clearing. He did not want to talk about being Kilkenny nor to answer the questions that might be asked. While he was gone, they could talk if they wished, and there were stories enough, most of them untrue.

Whenever the names of gunfighters were mentioned, his was sure to come up. John Wesley Hardin, Wild Bill Hickok, Billy Brooks, Cullen Baker, Bill Longley, Farmer Peel, John Bull, Bat Masterson, Luke Short, Long-Haired Jim Courtright ... there was a legion of them, some alive and some dead.

Most of them followed the boom towns; some were gamblers and law officers combined, like the Earps; some had inflated reputations, like John Ringo, whose reputation was great when stories were told but hard to pin down when it came to names, dates, and places.

Ringo had been involved in the Mason County War in Texas and had served time in prison for it, had been involved in the killing of the Haslett brothers, storekeepers at Huachita, New Mexico, and in various robberies and ambushes, the killing of a man in a saloon who ordered beer when Ringo wanted him to drink whiskey (the man was unarmed), and other such incidents. It is very likely that had he stuck to his family name of Ringgold he might never have been heard of, but the name Ringo had a sound to it. And too bad, too, Kilkenny reflected, for he came of a good family.

Cain Brockman was here. The thought made him suddenly weary. It meant that sooner or later he must shoot it out with Cain. In his reluctance to face a shoot-out with Cain Brockman there was more than his dislike of killing. He had whipped Cain with his hands, and he had killed Abel when the latter was trying to kill him. It should be enough.

Moreover, he had always felt that Cain Brockman, good as he was with a gun, might never have gotten into trouble had it not been for Abel. Left to himself, Cain was a hard-working man and a capable cowhand or trail driver. Without doubt he was hunting Kilkenny because he believed it his duty to avenge his brother.

If there was to be any killing here ... His mind skipped past Dunn and Ravitz and centered on Cub Hale.

It was possible that Cub Hale was the evil genius behind all the trouble in this section of the country. Arrogant and self-loving as his father might be, Kilkenny doubted there was viciousness in the man. Except, he thought ruefully, when he was in a fight.

What would King Bill Hale do next? Without doubt the beating he had taken from Kilkenny had hurt his pride, and he might simply withdraw. This, Kilkenny did not believe. No, it was more likely that he would find some way of striking back.

It was not only the beating which would rankle, but the fact that the nesters he had sought to drive out had fought back and had driven off his men. Then the man called Trent or someone had come into Cedar and secured a large amount of supplies after he had ordered them refused.

The power of any man or any nation is founded largely on the belief of others in that power. To maintain leadership, Hale must win victories, and now on three occasions he had been defeated or set back. The answer seemed plain. Hale must do something to win back what prestige he might have lost. But what would he do?

Despite the successes of the nesters, Hale was still very much in the driver's seat. He was also in possession of all or most of the facts. He would know how many men they had, and he could make a fair estimate of the food required to supply them.

Hale could, if he were so minded, just withdraw his forces, put a strong guard across the trail to Blazer, and sit tight. Starvation would sooner or later put an end to resistance. Or he could attack again with greater force.

Kilkenny--and it seemed strange to be thinking of himself as Kilkenny again, he had used the name of Trent for so long--did not believe in the all-out strike. By now Hale understood that the Hatfields and those with them were strongly entrenched, and win or lose, he would lose more men than he could afford.

There was no good route from the Hatfields' to Blazer. There was a trail for riders, at best, and that one could be blocked off. Moreover, he had men of his own in Blazer and owned the livery stable there.