that crowd?”
“They wanted to go for a ride,” Kilkenny smiled, “so I took ’em for one.”
“The man that hit my place was half dead. He must have drunk a gallon of water. He said he hadn’t had a decent drink, not more than enough to wet his lips in two days.”
“Dolan, how many boys can you muster? I mean boys with sand?”
“Enough. What do you want to do?”
“Stampede the Forty herd.”
Dolan was silent, but his eyes glinted. That would be hitting them where it hurt, and right at home.
“When?” he asked then.
“Tomorrow night. They are bunching them for another push toward the KR. I’d like to run them right back over their own camp.”
“That might be tough. They’ve too many hands.”
“I’ve got a plan. It calls for roping a half dozen of their steers.” Kilkenny suddenly was tired, more tired than he had believed possible. “I’d need about four good, solid men.”
“You’ll get them. Where?”
“That lightning-struck cottonwood in Whiskers Draw. Nine tomorrow night.”
“They’ll be there.” Dolan stepped closer to him. “Man, you’re all in. You’d better get some sleep. You’d better sleep until then.” Without awaiting a reply, he turned and walked to a narrow gate in the corral, a very convenient gate for getting a horse into the trees without it being seen. “I saddled this gray when I first saw you. He’s cornfed. He’ll go all day and all night and was mountainbred.”
“Good, and thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. Get some rest.”
When he was gone, Dolan walked around to the steps again and lighted a cigar. Havalik was just leaving with his men. One man wore the white of a bandage. “What yuh mean?” this man was saying. “Yuh think Kilkenny was in that house before us?”
“I know he was!” That was Havalik.
“Think he was hurt?”
Havalik turned and his voice was low and fierce, yet clearly heard by Dolan in the desert air. “How could he be hurt? Who would hurt him? Did you see him? Did I? Are you crazy?”
“What about the Doc?”
“Leave him to me.” There was icy promise in Havalik’s voice. “Not now, but wait. All of this town that works against me or Forty. I’ll take care of them once Forty’s in the saddle.”
“Dolan’s place is right back there. Let’s go back and bust it up and get Dolan.”
Dolan took the cigar from his mouth and looked at the end of it.
“Later. He’s got men with him. We’ll get him when he’s alone and nobody will care. Who cares about a crook?”
Dolan put the cigar in his teeth. “That’s right,” he muttered. “Who does?”
He was the vulnerable one. Early and Blaine were respected citizens. Kilkenny was elusive. Only Dolan could be hit without fear of retaliation. He could always, he reflected, go to Tetlow and make a deal.
He chuckled with wry humor. That was the one thing impossible for him. He could rustle cattle, plan a bank or stage robbery or hide a wanted man, but it was not in him to betray a friend or sell out a cause.
T HE DAPPLED GRAY Dolan had given him was all horse. Kilkenny rode southwest out of town, dipped into a tangle of washes and then turned south until he finally camped with the battlements of Comb Ridge towering above him. He rolled into his blankets nearer dead than alive.
His tight muscles let go their hold, and clogged with weariness. He slept. The long hours of riding, the constant alertness, all left him and he sank deeper and deeper into a sleep of utter exhaustion. Over the hills men rode and horses moved and cattle lowed gently in the night air. Stars faded and a faint gray crept up the east, barred from him by the gigantic wall of the Ridge, a bulwark that lay across his path to the KR.
He stirred in his sleep, then relaxed. Some faint stimulus made him stir again and a violent need within him culminated suddenly in his eyes. They snapped open and for a time he lay still, unable to bring his thoughts into focus. It was a voice that did it for
“They wanted to go for a ride,” Kilkenny smiled, “so I took ’em for one.”
“The man that hit my place was half dead. He must have drunk a gallon of water. He said he hadn’t had a decent drink, not more than enough to wet his lips in two days.”
“Dolan, how many boys can you muster? I mean boys with sand?”
“Enough. What do you want to do?”
“Stampede the Forty herd.”
Dolan was silent, but his eyes glinted. That would be hitting them where it hurt, and right at home.
“When?” he asked then.
“Tomorrow night. They are bunching them for another push toward the KR. I’d like to run them right back over their own camp.”
“That might be tough. They’ve too many hands.”
“I’ve got a plan. It calls for roping a half dozen of their steers.” Kilkenny suddenly was tired, more tired than he had believed possible. “I’d need about four good, solid men.”
“You’ll get them. Where?”
“That lightning-struck cottonwood in Whiskers Draw. Nine tomorrow night.”
“They’ll be there.” Dolan stepped closer to him. “Man, you’re all in. You’d better get some sleep. You’d better sleep until then.” Without awaiting a reply, he turned and walked to a narrow gate in the corral, a very convenient gate for getting a horse into the trees without it being seen. “I saddled this gray when I first saw you. He’s cornfed. He’ll go all day and all night and was mountainbred.”
“Good, and thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. Get some rest.”
When he was gone, Dolan walked around to the steps again and lighted a cigar. Havalik was just leaving with his men. One man wore the white of a bandage. “What yuh mean?” this man was saying. “Yuh think Kilkenny was in that house before us?”
“I know he was!” That was Havalik.
“Think he was hurt?”
Havalik turned and his voice was low and fierce, yet clearly heard by Dolan in the desert air. “How could he be hurt? Who would hurt him? Did you see him? Did I? Are you crazy?”
“What about the Doc?”
“Leave him to me.” There was icy promise in Havalik’s voice. “Not now, but wait. All of this town that works against me or Forty. I’ll take care of them once Forty’s in the saddle.”
“Dolan’s place is right back there. Let’s go back and bust it up and get Dolan.”
Dolan took the cigar from his mouth and looked at the end of it.
“Later. He’s got men with him. We’ll get him when he’s alone and nobody will care. Who cares about a crook?”
Dolan put the cigar in his teeth. “That’s right,” he muttered. “Who does?”
He was the vulnerable one. Early and Blaine were respected citizens. Kilkenny was elusive. Only Dolan could be hit without fear of retaliation. He could always, he reflected, go to Tetlow and make a deal.
He chuckled with wry humor. That was the one thing impossible for him. He could rustle cattle, plan a bank or stage robbery or hide a wanted man, but it was not in him to betray a friend or sell out a cause.
T HE DAPPLED GRAY Dolan had given him was all horse. Kilkenny rode southwest out of town, dipped into a tangle of washes and then turned south until he finally camped with the battlements of Comb Ridge towering above him. He rolled into his blankets nearer dead than alive.
His tight muscles let go their hold, and clogged with weariness. He slept. The long hours of riding, the constant alertness, all left him and he sank deeper and deeper into a sleep of utter exhaustion. Over the hills men rode and horses moved and cattle lowed gently in the night air. Stars faded and a faint gray crept up the east, barred from him by the gigantic wall of the Ridge, a bulwark that lay across his path to the KR.
He stirred in his sleep, then relaxed. Some faint stimulus made him stir again and a violent need within him culminated suddenly in his eyes. They snapped open and for a time he lay still, unable to bring his thoughts into focus. It was a voice that did it for
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