the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986) (40 page)

There was a startled yell and then curses. Quince chuckled a little. "Dusted him with granite off that boulder," he said. "They won't hurry to get up there again."

Trent thought swiftly. If he took the arroyo and circled back, he could then get higher up on the mountain. With careful fire, he could still cover the open spot and so give Quince a chance to retreat while he held them. Swiftly, he told Hatfield. The big mountaineer nodded.

"Go ahead. They won't move none till you get there."

It took Trent ten minutes to work his way out of the arroyo and up the mountain. As distance went, he wasn't so far, being not more than four hundred yards away. He signaled his presence to Quince Hatfield by letting go with three shots into the shelter taken by their pursuers. From above, that shelter was scarcely more than concealment and not at all cover.

In a few minutes Quince joined him. They each let go with two shots and then, mounting, rode swiftly away, out of view of the men in the brush below.

"They'll be slow about showin' themselves, I reckon," Quince said, "so we'll be nigh to home afore they get nerve enough to move."

When they had ridden four miles, Quince reined in sharply. "Horses ahead," he advised. "Maybe they're ours."

Approaching cautiously, they saw Bartram with the eight packhorses. He was sitting with his rifle in his hands, watching the brush ahead. He glanced around at their approach and then with a wave of the hand, motioned them on.

"Firing up ahead. Saul's gone up. He'll be back pretty soon."

Low voiced, Trent told him what had happened. Then as they talked they saw Saul Hatfield coming through the brush on foot. He walked up to them and caught his horse by the bridle.

"They got 'em stopped outside the cup," he said. "I think only one man of theirs is down. He's a-lyin' on his face in the open not far from the boulders where O'Hara is. There must be about a dozen of them, no more."

"Is there a way into the cup with these horses?" Trent asked.

Saul nodded. "Yeah, I reckon if they was busy over yonder for a few minutes we could run 'em all in."

"We'll make 'em busy, eh, Quince?" Trent suggested. "Bart, you an' Saul whip 'em in there fast as soon as we open up." He had reloaded his rifle, and the two turned their horses and started skirting the rocks to outflank the attackers.

Trent could see what had happened. The Hatfield place lay in a cuplike depression surrounded on three sides by high, rocky walls and on the other by scattered boulders. Through the cliffs, there were two ways of getting into the cup. One of these, now about to be attempted, lay partly across an open space before the cup was entered.

The attackers were mostly pinned down by O'Hara and someone else. Two men there could hold that ground against thirty. Obviously, some of the others were up in the cliffs above the cup, waiting for any attack.

Approaching as they were, Trent and Quince were coming down from the south toward the west end of the cup, where the scattered boulders lay. By working up close there, they could find and dislodge the attackers or at least keep them so busy the pack animals could get across the open to the cup.

About three acres of land lay in the bottom of the cup. There was a fine, cold spring, the barn, horse corrals, and adequate protection. The cliffs were ringed with scattered cedar and rocks, so men there could protect the approach to the boulders. However, if a rifleman got into those rocks on the edge of the cup, he could render movement in the cup impossible until he could be driven out. It was the weak spot of the stronghold.

When they had ridden several hundred yards the two men reined in and dismounted. Slipping through the cedars, Indian fashion, they soon came to the edge of the woods overlooking the valley of boulders. Not fifty yards away, two men lay behind boulders facing toward the Hatfield cup.

Trent lifted his Winchester and let go with three fast shots. One, aimed at the nearest man's feet, clipped a heel from his boot; the others threw dust in his face, and with a yell the fellow scrambled out of there. Trent followed him with two more shots, and the man tumbled into a gully and started to run.

The other man started to get up, and Quince Hatfield made him leap like a wild man with a well-placed shot that burned the inside of his leg. Scattering their shots, the two had the rest of the attackers scattering for better cover.

Chapter
VIII

Cain Brockman Rides In

Parson Hatfield walked out to meet them as they rode in. He grinned through his yellowed handlebar mustache. "Well, I reckon we win the first round," he chuckled. "Sure was a sight to see them punchers dustin' out of there when you all opened up on 'em!"

"Who was the man we saw down?" Trent asked.

"Gunhand they called Indian Joe. A killer. He wouldn't stop comin', so O'Hara let him have it. Dead center."

They walked back to the cabin. "We got grub to keep us for a few days, but we got a passel of folks here," Parson said, squatting on his hunches, "an' I don't reckon you're goin' to be able to hit Cedar again."

Trent nodded agreement. "We've got to get to Blazer," he said. "There isn't any two ways about it. I wish I knew what they'd do now. If we had a couple of days' leeway-"

"You know anythin' about the celebration Hale's figurin' on down to Cedar? They's been talk about it. He's been there ten years, an' he figures that's reason to celebrate."

"What's happenin'?" Trent asked.

"Horse races, horseshoe pitchin', wrestlin', footraces, an' a prize fight. King Bill's bringing in a prizefighter. Big feller, they called him Tombull Turner."

Trent whistled. "Say, he is good! Big, too. He fought over in Abilene when I was there. A regular bruiser."

"That may keep 'em busy," Quince said. He had a big chunk of corn pone in his hand. "Maybe we'll get some time to get grub."

Trent got up. "Me, I'm goin' to sleep!" he said. "I'm fairly dead on my feet. You'd better, too," he added to Quince Hatfield.

It was growing dusk when Trent awakened. He rubbed his hand over his face and got to his feet. He had been dead tired, and no sooner had he lain down on the grass under the trees than he had fallen asleep.

Walking over to the spring he drew a bucket of water and plunged his head into it. Then he dried himself on a rough towel Sally handed him.

"Two more men came in," Sally told him. "Tot Wilson from down in the breaks by the box canyon, and Jody Miller, a neighbor of his."

Saul looked up as he walked into the house. "Wilson an' Miller were both burned out. They done killed Wilson's partner. Shot him down when he went out to rope him a horse."

"Hi." Miller looked up at Trent. "I've seen you afore."

"Could be." Trent looked away.

This was it. He could tell by the way Miller looked at him and said, "I'd have knowed you even if it wasn't for that hombre down to the Mecca."

"What hombre?" Trent demanded.

"Big feller, bigger'n you. He come in there about sundown yesterday, askin' about a man fittin' your description. Wants you pretty bad."

"Flat face? Deep scar over one eye?"

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

"He was in one," Trent said dryly. "One was enough."

Cain Brockman!

Even before he'd heard from Lee Hall he had known this would come sooner or later. All that was almost two years behind him, but Cain wasn't a man to forget. He had been one of the hard-riding, fast-shooting duo, the Brockman twins. In a fight at Cottonwood, down in the Live Oak country, Trent, then known by his real name, had killed Abel. Later, in a hand- to-hand fight, he had beaten Cain Brockman into a staggering, punch-drunk hulk.

Now Brockman was here. As if it weren't enough to have the fight with King Bill Hale on his hands!

Parson Hatfield was staring at Trent. Then he glanced at Miller. "You say you know this feller?" he gestured at Trent. "I'd like to, myself!"

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

"Kilkenny!" Bartram dropped his plate. "You're Kilkenny."

"Uh-huh." He turned and walked outside and stood there with his hands on his hips, staring out toward the scattered boulders at the entrance to the Hatfield cup. He was Kilkenny. The name had come back again. He dropped his hands, and almost by magic the big guns leaped into them, and he stood there, staring at them. Slowly, thoughtfully, he replaced them.

Cain Brockman was here. The thought made him suddenly weary. It meant, sooner or later, that he must shoot it out with Cain. In his reluctance to fight the big man there was something more than his hatred of killing. He had whipped Cain Brockman with his hands; he had killed Abel. It should be enough.

If there was to be any killing-his thoughts skipped Dunn and Ravitz, and he found himself looking again into the blazing white eyes of a trim young man in buckskin, Cub Hale.

He shook his head to clear it and walked toward the spring. What would King Bill do next? He had whipped Hale. Knowing what he had done to the big man, he knew he would still be under cover. Also, Hale's pride would be hurt badly by his beating.

Also, it was not only that he had taken a licking. He had burned out a few helpless nesters, only to have those nesters band together and fight off his raiding party, and in the meantime they had ridden into his own town and taken a load of supplies, supplies he had refused them!

The power of any man is built largely on the belief of others in that power. To maintain leadership, he must win victories, and King Bill had been whipped and his plans had been thwarted. The answer to that seemed plain- King Bill must do something to retrieve his losses. But what would he do?

Despite the victories the nesters had won, King Bill was still in the driver's seat. He knew how many men they had. He knew about what supplies they had taken from the store, and he knew the number they had at the Hatfields' could not survive for long without more food.

Hale could, if he wished, withdraw all his men and just sit tight across the trail to Blazer and wait until the nesters had to move or starve. He might do that. Or he might strike again, and in greater force.

Kilkenny-it seemed strange to be thinking of himself as Kilkenny again, he had been Trent so long-ruled out the quick strike. By now Hale would know that the Hatfields were strongly entrenched.

The main trail to Blazer led through Cedar Bluff. There was a trail, only occasionally used, from the Hatfields' to the Blazer mountain trail, but Hale knew that, and would be covering it. There was a chance they might slip through. Yet even as he thought of that, he found himself thinking again of the vast crater that was the Smoky Desert. That was still a possibility.

O'Hara walked out to where he was standing under the trees. "Runyon an' Wilson want to try the mountain trail to Blazer," he told him. "What do you think?"

"I don't think much of it," Kilkenny said truthfully, "yet we've got to have grub."

"Parson told 'em what you said about Smoky Desert. Wilson says it can't be done. He said he done tried it."

Jackson Hight, Miller, and Wilson walked out. "We're all for tryin' the mountain trail," Wilson said. "I don't believe Hale will have it watched this far up. What do you say, Kilkenny?"

Kilkenny looked at his boot toe thoughtfully. They wanted to go, and they might get through. After all, his Smoky Desert seemed an impossible dream, and even more so to them than to him. "It's up to you," he said finally, "I won't send a man over that trail, but if you want to try it, go ahead."

It was almost midnight when the wagon pulled out of the cup. Miller was driving, with Wilson, Jackson Hight, and Lije Hatfield riding escort. Kilkenny was up to watch them go, and when the sound of the wagon died away, he returned to his pallet and turned in.

Twice during the night he awakened with a start to lie there listening in the stillness, his body tense, his mind fraught with worry, but despite his expectations, there were no sounds of shots, nothing.

When daybreak came he ate a hurried breakfast and swung into the saddle. He left the cup on a lope and followed the dim trail of the wagon. He followed it past the charred ruins of his own cabin and past those of Moffitt's cabin, yet as he neared the Blazer trail, he slowed down, walking the buckskin and stopping frequently to listen.

He could see by the tracks that Lije and Hight had been riding ahead, scouting the way. Sometimes they were as much as a half mile ahead, and he found several places where they had sat their horses, waiting.

Suddenly, the hills seemed to fall away and he saw the dim trail that led to Blazer, more than forty miles away. Such a short distance, yet the trail was so bad that fifteen miles a day was considered good.

There was no sign of the wagon or of the men. There were no tracks visible, and that in itself was a good thing. It meant that someone, probably Lije, was remembering they must leave no trail.

He turned the buckskin then and rode back over the trail. He took his time, and it was the middle of the afternoon before he reached the ledge where he could look down into the awful haze that hung over the Smoky Desert. Once, in his first trip up over this route, it had been clearer below, and he had thought he saw a ruined wagon far below.