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

vest. The only incongruous note was the pistol in its holster.
    “How are you, Poole?”
    “He’s seein’ things,” the bartender said, “an’ before he started drinkin’. He claims he saw a soldier just now.”
    “A soldier? Where?”
    “Headed back yonder.” Poole indicated the back of the saloon. “There were two men, and I think one of them was a soldier. Too far off to see their faces.”
    Sproul turned sharply. “Dick! Pete! You and Shack get out there and have a look at the wagon! Quick now!”
    He turned on Poole. “Go with ’em! If you see anybody, shoot!”
    Poole remained where he was. “I hired on as a scout,” he said, “and a guide if need be. But I ain’t shootin’ at no soldier. Not in uniform, I ain’t.”
    Sproul gave him a hard look. “I’ll remember that, Poole.”
    “Been my experience,” Poole said dryly, “that a man who starts trouble with the army usually winds up with the short end of the stick.”
    Teale led the way almost directly to the wagon with its load of barrels. Quickly they swung the mules into place, lifted the tongue, and hitched up as fast as they could. Kilrone was snapping the trace chains when they heard a door slam.
    “Here they come, Teale. Get up on the seat and start the wagon.”
    “What about you?”
    “I’ll meet you in front. You swing down along the creek and come around in the street headed back toward the fort. I’ll be out front in a jiffy. If anybody tries stopping you…shoot.”
    The team started, and from the edge of the brush there came a shout. The man called Pete came through the brush, lifting a pistol. He did not even see Kilrone until it was too late.
    Kilrone’s pistol barrel smashed down on Pete’s wrist just as he was lifting the gun. He cried out and dropped the gun. Kilrone turned sharply, a pistol flowered with flame not fifteen yards away, and he fired instantly, shifted his position, and fired at a splash of water. Stepping over two feet he waited, listening, while ejecting the spent shells and reloading the empty chambers.
    He heard no sound, waited a moment longer, and then rounded a tree and walked back through the brush. Behind him, Pete was moaning and cursing, undoubtedly with a broken wrist. If there had been anyone else there, whoever it was had decided to remain still, not liking the sound of what he had heard.
    Kilrone holstered his gun, crossed the back lot, passed the barn, and went up the walk to the back door of the saloon. Opening it, he stepped into a hall perhaps fifteen feet long, and walked along this to another door. When he opened this and went through, he was in the saloon.
    The room was empty except for the bartender, a sleepy-eyed man standing at the end of the bar with a bottle, and Iron Dave himself.
    “Hello, Dave,” Kilrone said mildly. “Still up to your old tricks, I see.”
    “Kilrone, is it? I might have known it was you. Well, I’m glad you’re here. Now we can settle something.”
    Kilrone shook his head. He stood with his feet a little apart, ready to move quickly. He was listening for the sound of the wagon, and knew there was little time. “I’d like to stay on, Dave, and give you the whipping you’ve had coming. There really isn’t so much iron in you, Dave, and what there was has been turning soft, or you wouldn’t be fool enough to think you can get away with this.”
    “With what?”
    “Your plotting with Medicine Dog.”
    Kilrone said this because he knew Dave Sproul. He knew how the man thought, or believed he did, and it would be like him to use the Dog—if he could. “It’s obvious enough, you know. But what you don’t seem to grasp is that the Dog may turn on you. He isn’t to be trusted, maybe even less than you are.”
    “I’m going to kill you,” Iron Dave said, matter-of-factly, “and this time you don’t have the army to hide behind.”
    Kilrone heard the sound of the wagon and went toward the door. “As I said, I haven’t time now. Later, if the