Free Kilkenny 02 - A Man Called Trent (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Page A

sleep were already snoring, and those who wanted the bright lights and red liquor were already at the Trail House or the Spur.
    Somewhere in his own past, Kilkenny now felt sure, lay the secret of the man in the cliff house, and this strange rider out of the past who had been killed a short time before might be a clue. Perhaps—it was only a slim chance—there was something in his war bag that would be a clue, something to tell the secret of his killing. For of one thing Kilkenny was certain—the killing of Tyson had been deliberate, and not the result of a barroom argument.
    The hallway was dark, and he felt his way with his feet, then when safely away from the stair head, he struck a match. The room opposite him was number 14. In a few minutes he tried again, and this time he found room 22.
    Carefully he dropped a hand to the knob and turned it softly. Like a ghost he entered the room, but even as he stepped in, he saw a dark figure rise from bending over something at the foot of the bed. There was a quick stab of flame, and something burned along his side. Then the figure wheeled and plunged through the open window to the shed roof outside. Kilkenny went to the window and snapped a quick shot at the man as he dropped from the roof edge. But even as he fired he knew he had missed.
    For an instant he thought of giving chase, then the idea was gone. The man, whoever he was, would be in the crowds around the Spur or the Trail Housewithin a matter of minutes, and it would be a fool’s errand. In the meantime, he would lose what he sought here.
    There was a pounding on the steps, and he turned, lighting the lamp. The door was slammed open, and the clerk stood there, his old chest heaving. Behind him, clutching a shotgun, was Duval.
    “Here!” Duval bellowed. “What the consarn you doin’ in there? And who’s a-shootin’? I tell you I won’t have it!”
    “Take it easy, Dad,” Kilkenny said, grinning. “I came up to have a look at Tyson’s gear and caught somebody goin’ through it. He shot at me.”
    “What right you got to go through his gear your ownself?” Duval snapped suspiciously.
    “He was killed in the Trail House. Somebody told me he had a message for me. I was lookin’ for it.”
    “Well, I reckon he ain’t fit to do no kickin’,” Duval admitted grudgingly, “and I heard him say he had a word for Kilkenny. All right, go ahead, but don’t be shootin’! Can’t sleep no-ways.”
    He turned and stumped down the narrow stairs behind the clerk.
    A thorough examination of the drifting cowpuncher’s gear got Kilkenny exactly nowhere. It was typical of a wandering cowpuncher of the period. There was nothing more, and nothing less.
    There was still no solution, and out on the plains he knew there had been no settlement of the range war situation. His own warnings had averted a clash tonight, but he could not be everywhere, and sooner or later trouble would break open on the range. Already, in other sections, there was fighting over the introduction of wire. Here, the problem was madeworse by the plot of the rustlers, or what he believed was their plot.
    He could see a few things. For one, the plan had been engineered by a keen, intelligent, ruthless man. That he had already decided. It would have gone off easily had he not suddenly, because of Mort Davis, been injected into the picture. The fact that the mysterious man behind the scenes hated him was entirely beside the point, even though that hate had evidently become a major motive in the mysterious man’s plans.
    Well, what did he have? Somewhere behind the scenes were the Brockmans. Neither of them was a schemer. Both were highly skilled killers, clansmen of the old school, neither better nor worse than any other Western gunmen except that they fought together. It was accepted by everyone that they would always fight together. The Brockmans he did not know. From the beginning he had accepted the fact that someday he would kill them. That he did