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

not doubt. Few of the real gunfighters doubted. To doubt would have been to fail. There was the famous case of the duel between Dave Tutt and Bill Hickok as an example. Hickok shot Tutt and turned to get the drop on Tutt’s friends before the man shot had even hit the ground. Bill had known he was dead.
    The Brockmans no doubt felt as secure in the belief they would win as Kilkenny did. Somebody had to be wrong, but he could not make himself believe that was important. It was something he would have to live through, and it in no way could affect the solution of the plot on which he was working. True, he might be killed, but if so the solution wouldn’t matter, anyway.
    Every way he looked at it, the only actual member of the outlaw crew he could put a finger on was Bert Polti, and there was a measure of doubt there. He had not seen Polti at Apple Cañon. The man had a house there, but apparently spent most of his time at Botalla. Polti might have killed Wilkins and Carter. It seemed probable he had. Yet there was no proof. No positive proof.
    Again and again Kilkenny returned to the realization that he must go up to the cliff house at Apple Cañon. He was not foolish enough to believe he could do it without danger. He had none of the confidence there that he would have in facing any man with a gun, for in the attack on the cliff house, an attack must be made alone. There were too many intangibles, too many imponderables, too many things one could not foresee. Lord and Steele might postpone their fighting for a day or two. They might never fight, but the problem of Lost Creek Valley would not be settled, and the man at Apple Cañon would try to force the issue at the first moment.
    Standing in the dimly lit room, Kilkenny let his gaze drift about him. He had turned then, to go, when an idea hit him. The man who had fired at him before, and who had killed Carter, had stopped on the spot to reload. A careful man. But then, a smart man with a gun always was.
    Carefully Kilkenny began to search the room, knowing even as he did that the search would be useless, for the man had left too quickly to have left anything. Then he went down the stairs and out back. With painstaking care, and risking a shot from the dark, he examined the ground. He found footsteps, and followed them.
    Sixty feet beyond the hotel, he found what he sought. The running man had dropped the shell here, and shoved another into the chamber. Kilkenny picked up the brass shell. A glance told him what he had half expected to find. The unseen gunman was the man who had killed Sam Carter.
    “Found somethin’?”
    He straightened swiftly. It was Gates, standing there, his hand on his pistol butt, staring at him.
    “A shell. Where’s Polti?”
    “Left town for Apple Cañon, ridin’ easy, takin’ his time.”
    “You been with him like I said?” Kilkenny demanded.
    “Yeah.” Rusty nodded. “He didn’t do that shootin’ a while ago if that’s what you mean. I heard the shootin’, then somebody come in and told us you was playin’ target down here, and I’d had Polti within ten feet of me ever since you left me.”
    Kilkenny rubbed his jaw and stared gloomily into the darkness. So it wasn’t Bert Polti. The theory that had been half formed in his mind that Polti was himself the unseen killer, and a close agent of the man on the cliff, was shattered.
    Suddenly a new thought came to him. What of Rusty? Where had Rusty Gates been? Why had Rusty joined him? Was it from sheer love of battle and admiration for him, Kilkenny? Or for some deeper purpose?
    He shook his head. He would be suspecting himself if this continued. Turning, followed by Gates, he walked slowly back to the street. He felt baffled, futile. Wherever he turned, he was stopped. There were shootings and killings, then the killer vanished.
    The night was wearing on, and Kilkenny mounted the buckskin and rode out into the desert. He had chosen a place, away from the town, for his camp. Now he