Read Online Novel 1966 - Kilrone (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour - Free Book Online Page B

he might have overlooked. If the attack lasted long, a barrel of water would not be enough—but there were no more barrels.
    “There’s barrels in Hog Town,” Teale commented, grinning tauntingly at Kilrone. “All you got to do is go get them.”
    “And I might do just that.”
    Teale looked at him skeptically. “From Iron Dave? He’d make you pay five times the price.”
    “Maybe we can find some others,” Kilrone said. “Otherwise, we might have to go get them.”
    “You,” Teale said, “not me.”
     
----
     
    A T HOG TOWN, Iron Dave Sproul sat at his roll-top desk and chewed on a long black cigar while he listened to Poole’s report.
    “They’ve pulled out of the barracks,” Poole said. “Hopkins even left his store. They’re holed up in Headquarters, the hospital, and the warehouse.”
    “You say Paddock rode out with sixty men? It doesn’t sound reasonable that he would leave the town and the post undefended.”
    “It ain’t likely Medicine Dog would make a try at this place,” Poole said. “And Paddock may trap him if he tackles Mellett.”
    “Who’s in command at the post? Rybolt?”
    “He ain’t due back until tomorrow or the next day.” Poole lifted his wary eyes to Sproul’s. “He went after the payroll. You’d figure,” he added, “he’d not risk it with Indians on the warpath. That there payroll could disappear an’ nobody be the wiser.”
    Sproul rolled his cigar in his jaws, considering that. Of course Poole was right. If the entire payroll guard was wiped out nobody would know how it happened, but the Indians would be blamed. There was risk, but all atrocities were blamed on the Indians anyway. In any event, he had no idea of letting Poole know how he was thinking, for the fewer who knew the better, and he wanted no one around to point a finger in the years to come.
    All his trade with the Indians he had handled himself, and so far as he knew not even one of the men who worked for him at Hog Town had any idea of it. The danger had always been that of being caught in the act, but he had moved with care, kept himself informed on troop movements, and had carefully avoided anything that would arouse suspicion. His “prospecting” had been a neat cover.
    “Sergeant Ryerson’s actually in command,” Poole went on, “but there’s some newcomer givin’ orders around. Some feller I never seen before.”
    “What’s his rank?”
    “That’s the funny part, Mr. Sproul. This man ain’t even in uniform. He’s some civilian friend of Paddock’s, from what they say.”
    Sproul was disturbed. A civilian giving orders on an army post? It didn’t sound reasonable. In fact, he’d never heard of such a thing…more than likely it was a mistake. But the unknown or ill-defined always disturbed him. Sproul was a planner, a conniver, and he based his actions on information, and that information he wanted exact and complete. This unknown civilian was a new consideration, and it irritated him that he knew nothing about him.
    “What’s he look like?”
    Poole shrugged. “I seen him around. He looks like some down-at-the-heel cowhand ridin’ the grub line. Big, rangy man, wide shoulders, narrow hips…mighty shabby. He rides a good horse though.”
    The description told Sproul nothing. It might have been that of any number of men he knew—of a dozen who came to Hog Town on Saturday night.
    A friend of Major Paddock? He mulled that over, remembering all he knew of Paddock. He seemed an unlikely person to have a friend, welcome in his home as this one was, who was simply a cowhand, a drifting cowhand at that. And Denise Paddock was French, so that left that out.
    After Poole was gone he considered what he had learned, dismissing the stranger for the time being. It was of no real importance anyway, he decided, for they could not hope to defend the post with so few men.
    The warehouse was the important building, for if the Bannocks could get the arms that were stored there, they would