Read Kilkenny 02 - A Man Called Trent (v5.0) for Free Online Page A

in the distance.
    Then she heard another horse start up, and watched it gallop down the trail after Lance Kilkenny.
    It was several minutes before the rider caught up with Kilkenny, and found him, gun in hand, facing downtrail from the shadows at the edge. It was Rusty Gates. “What do you want?” Kilkenny demanded.
    Rusty leaned forward and patted his black on the neck.
    “Why, I reckon I want to ride along with you, Kilkenny. I hear you’re a straight shooter, and I guess you’re the only hombre I ever met up with could get into more trouble than me. If you can use a man to side you, I’d shore admire to ride along. I got anidea,” he added, “that in days to come you can use some help.”
    “Let’s ride, Rusty,” Kilkenny said quietly. “It’s getting late…”
    When Lance Kilkenny rolled out of his blankets in the early dawn, he glanced over at Gates. The redhead was still snoring. Kilkenny grinned, then shook his boots carefully to clear out any wandering tarantulas or scorpions that might have holed up for the night. Grimly he contemplated a hole in his sock. No time for that now. He pulled the sock down to cover the exposed toe, and slid the boot on. Then he got up. Carefully he checked his guns.
    He moved quietly out of camp. For ten minutes he made a painstaking search of the area. When he returned to camp, he saddled his horse and rode quietly away. He was back, and had bacon frying when Rusty awakened and sat up.
    They had camped on a cedar-covered mountainside with a wide view of Lost Creek Valley. From the ridge above they could see away into the purple distance of the mountains of Mexico. The air was brisk and cool with morning.
    Coffee was bubbling in the pot when Rusty walked over.
    “You get around, pardner,” he said. “Shore, I slept like a log. Hey!” He looked startled and pleased. “You got bacon!”
    “Got it last night from that Mexican where we got the frijoles . He’s got him a half dozen hogs.”
    Rusty shook himself, and grinned. Then he looked up, suddenly serious.
    “Ever see this hombre Bonham before?” he asked.
    “No.” Kilkenny glanced sideward at Gates. “Know him?”
    “No. He ain’t from around here.”
    “I wonder.”
    “You wonder? Why? They said he was from New York. He looks like a pilgrim.”
    “Yeah, he does.” Lance poured coffee into two cups. “But he knew about Mort carin’ for me after the fight with the Webers.”
    “Heard it around probably. I heard that myself.” Rusty grinned. “You’re too suspicious.”
    “I’m still alive.” Lance Kilkenny grinned wryly.
    Rusty nodded. “You got something there. Don’t pay to miss no bets. Who you think Bonham is?”
    Lance shrugged. “No idea.”
    “You had an idea last night. You said this fightin’ wasn’t all Lord an’ Steele.”
    “You think it is?” asked Kilkenny.
    Rusty shook his head. “No. Can’t be. But who?”
    “You been here longer than I have. How does she stack up to you? Who stands to gain but Steele and Lord? Who stands to gain if they both get gunned out or crippled?”
    “Nobody. Them two have got it all, everywheres around here. Except for Mort, of course, but Mort ain’t grabby. He wants his chunk of Lost Creek Valley, that’s all.”
    “Rusty, you ever see a map of this country?”
    “Map? Shucks, no! Don’t reckon there is one. Who’d want a map?”
    “Maps are handy things,” Kilkenny said, sipping his coffee. “Sometimes a country looks a sight differenton a map than you think it does. Sometimes, when you get a bird’s eye view of things, you get a lot of ideas. Look here.”
    Drawing with his finger in the sand, Lance Kilkenny drew a roughly shaped V showing the low mountains and hills that girded the Live Oak country. Off to one side he drew in Lost Creek Valley.
    “Right here, where it opens on the main valley,” he said, “is where Lord and Steele’s fence lines come together.”
    “That’s right, plumb right,” Rusty agreed. “That’s