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Kilkenny
in Whetstone (Cont. . . )
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Suddenly there would be a
shocking instant
of roaring guns, and then he was gone!
Gibson had half-turned to the door, now he stopped as if struck.
He looked back, his mouth dry.
Kilkenny!
This, then was the mysterious gunfighter whose name had become
a legend on the cattle trails, the man who was compared with Wes
Hardin, Bill Hickok and Clay Allison. The man who had cleaned out
the rustlers of the Lost Creek country, the man who had killed Cub
Hale!
He was literally, the man nobody knew. He rode the trails, sometimes
as foreman, sometimes as a mere cowhand, quiet, easy-going, never
hunting trouble, always using some name other than his own. And
then, only when the moment of decision came did he tell his name.
Then, suddenly, he would step from the shadows of the unknown and
there would be a shocking instant of roaring guns, and then he was
gone.
Gibson started to speak, he stuttered, choked, and then went out
the door and slammed it behind him. When he reached the street he
was sweating profusely. He stopped to mop off his face. Kilkenny,
here! And looking for the Open AC herd! Asking questions about Art
Collins!
He mopped his face again. Well, he was clear there, but what of
the herd? These were some of the very cows he had arranged to sell
to Sharon Wales, and she demanded a cut be made! What would he do?
What could he do?"
 Sharon
Wales glanced curiously at Kilkenny. What about that name could
shock such a man as Alec Gibson? The rancher was, she knew, a man
of some influence locally. People respected him and listened to
him, yet here he was, shocked into speechlessness by a mere name!
Kilkenny ate quietly, and then got to his feet, paying the woman
who entered for his meal. "Thanks, Ma'am," he said politely, "I
enjoyed it very much!" He turned toward the door. "And thank you,"
he turned back to Sharon Wales, "I appreciate your insistence on
the cut." He put on his hat and stepped out.
She looked after him, then glanced at the dance hall girl. She
started to speak, then hesitated. It was not considered proper to
talk to such people, but….
"I'd seen him before," Marie said, "I saw him in Dodge. Oh, he's…he's
wonderful! He's…strange!"
"But why was Mr. Gibson afraid?" Marie's obvious admiration somehow
annoyed Sharon Wales. "I don't understand!"
"Why! Why, because he's Kilkenny!" Marie stared at Sharon. "Don't
tell me you haven't heard of him! He's a gunfighter, one of the
fastest men alive, and one of the coolest and deadliest!"
 "But
that's only part of it," she added, "I guess part of it is because
you never see him around like you do the others. Bat Masterson,
Ben Thompson, King Fisher-you always see them around. He comes and
he goes, a man may know him for months and never dream that he's
the notorious Kilkenny until it comes to trouble!"
"It all sounds rather fantastic and quite absurd," Sharon was irritated,
"I can't see why all the excitement over a common killer. Back east
they would simply put him in jail and that would be the end of it."
Marie turned on her. "You aren't in the east now!" she spoke sharply.
"And Lance Kilkenny never shot a man who wasn't asking for it."
"But a gunman!" Sharon protested.
"A gunfighter," Marie corrected, "there's a difference. The gunfighter
is on the side of the law, or at least, of fair play. "Out here,"
she added, "all men carry guns. Where they all carry guns some few
become more skillful than others, when they have trouble and it
comes to guns, naturally they win because of that extra skill. Then
the would-be tough ones come along, hoping to get the name of killing
a known gun handler, and so there are further killings."
"I'm afraid it is all beyond me." Sharon Wales got to her feet.
"Thank you for the information." She stepped out and closed the
door. "Well!" Marie was exasperated. "Ain't she the stuck up one!"
"Don't blame her," Mrs. Callahan said quietly, "she was raised
up back east where they don't have none of that. She's a right fine
girl, a fine girl!"
Sharon Wales paused outside. The man called Kilkenny had disappeared
from the street. How he had managed it so suddenly was quite beyond
her. Nevertheless, he was nowhere in sight.
Hours later, she walked along the street, enjoying the cool night
air of the desert. It never failed to astonish her that it could
be so hot by day and yet so cool at night. It was someone explained,
due to the thin atmosphere and lack of vegetation. There was nothing
to retain the heat. Every day it was hot, often blistering hot by
noon, but at night she slept comfortably under a blanket, and often
two of them.
It was strange to find herself here in this weather-beaten, sun-blistered
little border town, yet how else to salvage her father's estate?
The sum of it was far from small, yet it was made up of loose ends,
and they must be gathered painstakingly together and woven into
something compact and orderly. Her father had been a genius at making
money, but nobody ever understood what he was about himself. He
had a little money here, and a little more there, a dozen strings
out that when suddenly tightened in his hands wove themselves into
a tight skin of financial success.
She could not hope to duplicate that, nor approach it, all she
could hope would be to liquidate some of the assets, combine the
capital and carry on with only one or two of the projects. Unaccustomed
though she was to business, she had listened much to her father
and probably knew more about his financial entanglements than anyone
else. After listening to her lawyers she had decided that logically
she must handle the problem herself.
At first she had planned to sell the western holdings and use
the capital in the east, but that was before she had seen and ridden
across the vast Circle W range. At first the wide empty distances
shocked her, and then she was entranced by them. The towering mesas,
the endless reaches of the desert, purple in the distance, the sky,
the cacti, the dry stream beds, the lonely forested hills-all of
them suddenly acquired a charm she could not forfeit.
The house itself was a dream. Standing on the wide terrace her
father had built she could look east, west and south for fifty miles
over land that was almost entirely her own or controlled by her.
It was an empire, and she was not the one to give it up. For the
first time, she saw the house her father had built and knew that
here he had planned to stay, this he had built for the future, and
here she would stay.
"You got to have more cattle, Ma'am," her foreman told her, "you've
got the range, but to make it pay you need more cows. I'd say, buy
some. This here range would run five thousand head more than you've
got an' not over-graze one mite."
In the few weeks that followed she had covered miles of country.
She had sold several mining claims, and she had bought a few cattle,
she had also bought a few horses, and more than ever she was in
love with this amazing land. For the desert had ceased to be a vast
waterless waste to her, now she knew it for what it was, and she
came to know the desert plants that were good forage for cattle,
she came to know waterholes and to see the country as the men saw
it who lived in and around it.
Everywhere she had been treated with courtesy and respect. If men
were surprised at a girl buying horses and cattle or selling mining
claims they did not show it, and so far nobody had tried to take
advantage of her. Yet now she was not sure that Alec Gibson was
not planning to sell her a stolen herd. Turning, she went back into
the restaurant, passing Marie as she came out.
"Mrs. Callahan," she said abruptly, "in many ways I know nothing
about the west. You have lived here a long time. Is this man Kilkenny
honest? What is your opinion?"
"Ma'am," Amy Callahan stopped and placed her hands on her wide
hips. "How's a body to know? I can only say this. I think he is,
an' he has the name of it. This here's a rough country, an' a wild
one, but so far I've heard no bad word about Kilkenny. Some say
he kills too easy, but there's always them that say that when they've
never been in a like position. One thing nobody ever said: that
he killed without reason. The other man was always reachin' for
a gun. Yes, I'd say he was honest. I'd say he was to be trusted.
He has the name for it, an'those things get around."
Thoughtfully, Sharon Wales returned to the room at the Long Horn
Hotel. The voices from downstairs or the occasional rattle of glasses
did not disturb her, for she was thinking.
Sharon Wales was considered a great beauty in her own world. She
was also, by those who knew her, considered an intelligent, witty,
friendly girl. Yet Sharon Wales possessed much of her father, more
than even she believed. Along with the qualities for which she was
known she possessed more than a usual share of ordinary common sense.
She knew very well that so far she had been lucky. Men respected
her as a woman and had given her advantages, but that would not
always continue. She would need a man to handle her range, a man
who would be respected and who would command attention. Al Corbett,
her present foreman, had admitted he was incapable of handling the
vast ranch.
 "I
ain't young as I used to be, Miss Sharon," he had said, "your Daddy
run this place, not me. I just carried out his orders but he was
the big wheel. A ranch this size needs a strong hand. "Over there,"
he gestured vaguely toward the blue hills, "are some of he worst
rustlers in the country. Several of 'em are killers. They'll let
you build up, sure. They'll let your herds get fat, an' then they'll
come down. They would have done it with your Daddy, too, but he
would know how to fight 'em. Me, well, they wouldn't be afraid of
me. You need a younger man, Miss, a man who's got iron in him. You
need a man like Jim Gillette or John Slaughter."
Sharon Wales had been shocked by the effect of Kilkenny's name
on Alec Gibson. She had seen enough around Whetstone to know that
Gibson carried some weight, he was no small man, yet he had faded
to a shadow at the mere mention of a name. Despite herself, Sharon
was fascinated and repelled. She shrank from the idea of being near
a killer, but she saw very clearly that the vast miles and vast
herds of the Circle W would be a challenge to every rustler and
outlaw in the country. She knew it would take a strong hand to weld
a fighting force and care for the herds.
As much as she disliked the idea of hiring a killer, she saw that
such a name might be enough in itself to keep her herds free from
trouble. She remembered what her father had told her about Wild
Bill Hickok. "Sure, he was a killer, honey. He once said he killed
a hundred men. Maybe, counting Indians and men killed during the
War Between the States, he did kill that many. They hired him because
it was better to have one man kill a few outlaws than to have everybody
shooting all the time."
"When everybody carries a gun you've got to have a faster hand
with a gun to control 'em. They need a restraining influence."
Another faculty that Sharon shared with her father was his faculty
of decision. He made up his mind quickly and finally. Hers was suddenly
made up, but she decided to sleep on it, and see how she felt in
the morning. Besides, Al Corbett was due to come down in the morning,
and she would ask his opinion. Yet the final decision would be her
own, and she was quite sure what it would be.
Lance Kilkenny had no such decision to make. Rather, it was essential
he keep an open mind. Old Art Collins had been a man to tie to.
Lance had been over the trail to Dodge with him, and had encountered
him in several places. They had worked together, rode across the
country together. Young Art had been as much like his father as
any son could be, and when he did not return with the herd, Old
Art had asked Lance to investigate, and had given him the essential
authority.
Now he was not sure, but he suspected the herd Gibson was about
to sell might easily be more than half Open AC cattle. The easy
change from Open AC to the initials of Alec Gibson was almost too
simple to pass over. He grinned a little. "Might even do it myself,"
he said, then more soberly, he added, "but I wouldn't kill a man
to do it."
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