Kilkenny 03 - Kilkenny (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Page A

yelled again, then wheeled and started for Kilkenny, who came along and stepped up on the walk in front of the Westwater. There the big man reached him. “When I call, yuh stop!” he bellowed, thrusting his face at Kilkenny.
    Suddenly, Lance Kilkenny was coldly, bitterly furious. The attitude of the man, his bullying voice, the attitude of the Forty outfit toward the sheriff, all of it had culminated in this. His right jerked up, not in a close fist, but striking up with the butt of his palm. The movement was so swift the big man had no chance to avoid it and the hard butt of that palm smashed under his jaw, slamming his head back on his neck. The man tottered, and Kilkenny stepped in and struck him a slashing blow across the side of the face with the edge of his palm. The blow laid the man’s cheek open for four inches, showering him with blood. Then Kilkenny looked up, facing the other two men.
    The man with the white eyes and the gun tucked in his waistband and the man with the missing finger and scarred face. Both stared down at the big fellow on the ground and then looked at Kilkenny unbelieving. “Never even closed his fist!” somebody said from the gathering crowd.
    “This gent’s hunting trouble, Grat,” the scar-faced man said softly. “He’s askin’ for it.”
    “Then we’ll give it to him, Red.” Grat started to move, but he was too late. Kilkenny had seen the situation developing and preferred it to be settled with fists rather than guns. Infinitely more experienced at this sort of thing than the average cowhand, he struck swiftly. The blow caught Grat high on the face, and as his hands came up to protect his face, he whipped an underhand blow to the wind. Grat’s knee caved and he pitched forward into the cracking left hook that Kilkenny had ready for him.
    When he stepped in to meet Grat he had turned in such a way as to put Grat between himself and Red. It gave him just time enough to put Grat out of the running, and as Red rushed him, Kilkenny vaulted over the hitch rail into the street. Red brought up short and in the split second of hesitation, Kilkenny grabbed his outstretched arm and threw his back under him, jerking him over the rail and off his back with a flying mare. Stunned, Red stared up, gasping for breath at the man who stood over him.
    “I’m not hunting trouble,” Kilkenny said, “but it’s time somebody showed you where to head in. If you’ve picked me for the job, I’m the man who can do it.”
    Jared Tetlow shoved through the crowd, his face flushed and angry. “Here! What goes on here?”
    Kilkenny turned sharply at the authority in the voice. His head dropped a little, his hands went wide. “Tetlow!” His voice rang in the narrow street. “You came into this country hunting trouble and you brought a bunch of no-good trouble-hunters with you! These hands of yours jumped me!”
    A devil was driving him now and he was cold with fury. He stepped toward the older man, his hands ready to his guns. He felt it building inside him but was helpless to stop it. He was berserk with fury and ready for anything, heedless of anything. He could not have stopped had he faced the whole Forty outfit.
    “Take ’em and get out of the country! Move ’em out! You’ve come looking for trouble and here it is! And if you don’t like what I say—
fill your hand!
”
    Jared Tetlow was appalled. Accustomed to command, surrounded by tough gunhands who protected him from every danger, it had been years since he had personally faced a gun. In company with his men he faced up to them readily, but now, suddenly, he felt lost, alone. He fought for words and none would come. Suddenly, he knew with cold certainty that if he reached for his gun he would die.
    Never had he been so aware of the imminence of death. This man would kill him. That realization shook him to the depths of his being. Normally courageous, he had been so protected in the past years that now, naked and alone, he was helpless to