Read Online Kilkenny 02 - A Man Called Trent (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour - Free Book Online
Authors: Louis L’Amour
Tags: Usenet
Ads: Link
too much weight on a woman’s emotions, Rusty. They ain’t reliable…”
Behind them, in the saloon at Apple Cañon, a door slowly opened. The man who stood in the door looking at Big Ed was even larger than the bartender. He seemed to fill the open door, seemed huge, almost too big to be human. Yet there was nothing malformed about him. He was big, but powerfully, splendidly built, and his Indian face was dark and strangely handsome. He moved down the bar with no more noise than a sliding of wind along the floor, and stopped close to Big Ed.
The bartender turned his battered, bloody face toward him.
“No,” Brigo said softly, “you will not betray the señorita .” His black eyes were dark with intent as hestared into Big Ed’s. “If one word of this reaches him , I kill you! And when I kill you, amigo mío , it will not be nice, the way I kill.”
“I ain’t talkin’,” Big Ed said gruffly through battered lips. “I had enough.”
Chapter VIII
Nita was standing in her garden, one hand idly fingering a rose, when Brigo came through the hedge. He looked at her, and his lips parted over perfect teeth.
“You have found him, señorita ,” he murmured. “I see that. You have found this man for whom you waited.”
She turned quickly. “Yes, Jaime. It is he. But has he found me?”
“Did you not see his face? His eyes? Sí, señorita , Jaime think he find you, too. He is a strong man, that one. Perhaps”—he canted his head speculatively—“so strong as Jaime.”
“But what of him? ” Nita protested. “He will kill him. He hates him.”
“ Sí, he hates. But he will not kill. I think now something new has come. This man, this Kilkenny.He is not the same.” Brigo nodded thoughtfully. “I think soon, señorita , I return to my home…”
Trailing a few yards behind Kilkenny, Rusty Gates stared up at the wall of the valley. A ragged, pine-spread slope fell away to a rocky cliff, and the sandy wash that ran at the base of it. It was a wild, lonely country. Thinking back over what he knew of this country, he began to see that what Kilkenny had said was the truth. Someone had planned to engineer the biggest rustling plot in Western history.
With this Live Oak country under one brand, cattle could be eased across its range and poured down through the mouth of the funnel into Mexico. By weeding the bigger herds carefully, they might bleed them for years without anyone finding out what was happening. On ranges where cattle were numbered in thousands, a few head from each ranch would not be missed, but in the aggregate it would be an enormous number. This was not the plan of a moment. It was no cowpuncher needing a few extra dollars for a blow-out. This was a steal on the grand scale. It was the design of a man with a brain, and with ruthless courage. Remembering the three men dead back at Apple Cañon, Rusty could see even more. The boss, whoever he was, would kill without hesitation, and on any scale.
Kilkenny was doing some thinking, too. The leader, whoever he was, was a man who knew him. Slowly and carefully he began to sift his past, trying to recall who it might be. Dale Shafter? No, Shafter was dead. He had been killed in the Sutton-Taylor feud. Anyway, he wasn’t big enough for this. Card Benton? Too small. A small-time rustler and gambler. One by onehe sifted their names, and man after man cropped up in his mind, men who had never rustled, men who were gamblers and gunslingers, men who had cold nerve and who were killers. But somehow none of them seemed to be the type he wanted. And who had fired at him that night in the hollow as he waited for Mort Davis? Who had killed Sam Carter? Was it the same man? Was he the leader? Kilkenny doubted it. This man wanted him alive, and that one had tried to kill him. Indeed, the man had left him for dead. Someone, too, had killed Joe Wilkins. That would take some looking into.
Kilkenny walked his horse down a weathered slide, and crossed a wash. The
Behind them, in the saloon at Apple Cañon, a door slowly opened. The man who stood in the door looking at Big Ed was even larger than the bartender. He seemed to fill the open door, seemed huge, almost too big to be human. Yet there was nothing malformed about him. He was big, but powerfully, splendidly built, and his Indian face was dark and strangely handsome. He moved down the bar with no more noise than a sliding of wind along the floor, and stopped close to Big Ed.
The bartender turned his battered, bloody face toward him.
“No,” Brigo said softly, “you will not betray the señorita .” His black eyes were dark with intent as hestared into Big Ed’s. “If one word of this reaches him , I kill you! And when I kill you, amigo mío , it will not be nice, the way I kill.”
“I ain’t talkin’,” Big Ed said gruffly through battered lips. “I had enough.”
Chapter VIII
Nita was standing in her garden, one hand idly fingering a rose, when Brigo came through the hedge. He looked at her, and his lips parted over perfect teeth.
“You have found him, señorita ,” he murmured. “I see that. You have found this man for whom you waited.”
She turned quickly. “Yes, Jaime. It is he. But has he found me?”
“Did you not see his face? His eyes? Sí, señorita , Jaime think he find you, too. He is a strong man, that one. Perhaps”—he canted his head speculatively—“so strong as Jaime.”
“But what of him? ” Nita protested. “He will kill him. He hates him.”
“ Sí, he hates. But he will not kill. I think now something new has come. This man, this Kilkenny.He is not the same.” Brigo nodded thoughtfully. “I think soon, señorita , I return to my home…”
Trailing a few yards behind Kilkenny, Rusty Gates stared up at the wall of the valley. A ragged, pine-spread slope fell away to a rocky cliff, and the sandy wash that ran at the base of it. It was a wild, lonely country. Thinking back over what he knew of this country, he began to see that what Kilkenny had said was the truth. Someone had planned to engineer the biggest rustling plot in Western history.
With this Live Oak country under one brand, cattle could be eased across its range and poured down through the mouth of the funnel into Mexico. By weeding the bigger herds carefully, they might bleed them for years without anyone finding out what was happening. On ranges where cattle were numbered in thousands, a few head from each ranch would not be missed, but in the aggregate it would be an enormous number. This was not the plan of a moment. It was no cowpuncher needing a few extra dollars for a blow-out. This was a steal on the grand scale. It was the design of a man with a brain, and with ruthless courage. Remembering the three men dead back at Apple Cañon, Rusty could see even more. The boss, whoever he was, would kill without hesitation, and on any scale.
Kilkenny was doing some thinking, too. The leader, whoever he was, was a man who knew him. Slowly and carefully he began to sift his past, trying to recall who it might be. Dale Shafter? No, Shafter was dead. He had been killed in the Sutton-Taylor feud. Anyway, he wasn’t big enough for this. Card Benton? Too small. A small-time rustler and gambler. One by onehe sifted their names, and man after man cropped up in his mind, men who had never rustled, men who were gamblers and gunslingers, men who had cold nerve and who were killers. But somehow none of them seemed to be the type he wanted. And who had fired at him that night in the hollow as he waited for Mort Davis? Who had killed Sam Carter? Was it the same man? Was he the leader? Kilkenny doubted it. This man wanted him alive, and that one had tried to kill him. Indeed, the man had left him for dead. Someone, too, had killed Joe Wilkins. That would take some looking into.
Kilkenny walked his horse down a weathered slide, and crossed a wash. The
Similar Books
