Novel 1966 - Kilrone (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Page A

about Sproul—that the man had been selling guns and whiskey to the Indians—but something more than that. Iron Dave Sproul was one of those men who had merely to enter a room to raise the hackles on the back of Kilrone’s neck.
    The man was a brute, physically and mentally, and he carried himself with a hard-shouldered assurance that for Kilrone was like waving a red flag at a bull. Several times soldiers had been found in the alley behind his place who had been brutally beaten, but nothing could ever be proved. One of those soldiers had been a man from Kilrone’s own company.
    “Tim,” Kilrone said, “I haven’t any official position here, of course, but Major Paddock is gone and I know you can use every rifle you can get. I think we are going to be attacked.”
    “I’ve been thinking about it.”
    “If you don’t mind a suggestion…”
    “Captain, I’d welcome any suggestion you’d make.”
    “Pull everybody back to Headquarters. Man that building, the warehouse, and the hospital. You haven’t men enough to defend the whole post.”
    “What about the horses?”
    “Forget about them. If there’s an attack you couldn’t protect them, anyway.”
    “How much time do you figure we’ve got?”
    “Until tonight or tomorrow, I think, but I’d be moved within the hour. You can’t afford to risk it.”
    Kilrone went outside and stood in the light drizzle that had begun to fall. So Sproul was here, after all this time. Iron Dave Sproul, whose fists had killed at least one man and who prided himself on his ability to fight bar-room style.
    There were many such men as Sproul, and Kilrone had met them before this: men who came west, bringing nothing with them but the lust for gold, the desire to get rich and get out; men who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. But few came as well equipped for what he planned to do as Iron Dave.
    Aside from the cunning of the man, and his sheer physical strength and stamina, he was a man of considerable intelligence, and possessed a will for survival earned in the bitter struggles of New York’s slums of the 1840’s. Barney Kilrone was uncertain as to what Sproul’s eventual goal might be, but he was sure that it was more than mere money. The man wanted power…and perhaps something more than that. There was more behind his conniving than the desire to sell whiskey and rifles to the Indians.
    Sproul was careful to keep himself in the clear. It might be that, like many other man, he saw the possibilities in frontier politics? Certainly, Sproul’s early background had been a place where politics was part of the power struggle, and he had learned his tricks in a rough but practical school.
    Betty had stayed behind to prepare the hospital to receive casualties, but Barney Kilrone wanted to see more of his surroundings. He walked along the line of buildings, spoke to the farrier, who was still in the smithy, and then crossed to the corral where his horse was.
    He was turning away from the corral when he saw the Indian girl. Mary Tall Singer was dressed as any American girl of the period would be. She was a pale copper-skinned girl with dark, beautiful hair and large eyes. That she was Indian he knew at once.
    He spoke to her, and she turned her dark eyes on him, seeming somewhat embarrassed or frightened, though why he could not guess.
    “I am Barney Kilrone,” he went on. “I rode in yesterday.”
    “I know. I am Mary Tall Singer.” Then she added, “I work for the sutler.”
    The way in which she spoke and her composure, now that she was past her immediate embarrassment, told him that she not only had education but was accustomed to being treated by whites as an equal.
    “You’re fortunate. It could be a good job.”
    “It is. I enjoy my work.” She hesitated. “Is there some way I can help?”
    “I was looking for a buckboard. Is there one on the post?”
    “No. The only one I know of belongs to Mr. Sproul.” Yet even as she spoke she seemed to be