Louis LAmour - A Man Called Trent

A lone cowhand riding a hard-pressed horse reined in at the hitching rail before a Dodge barroom. Swinging from saddle, he pushed through the batwing doors, slapping the dust from his hat.

Make it rye, he said hoarsely, as he reached the bar.

When the raw, harsh liquor had cut the dust from his throat, he looked up at a nearby customer, a man known throughout the West as a gun expertPhil Coe.

Theyve begun it, he said, his voice rough with feeling. Theyre puttin wire on the range in Texas.

Wire? A burly cattle buyer straightened up and glared. Huh, they wont dare! Wire aint practical! This heres a free range country, and itll always be free range!

Dont make no difference, the cowhand who had just entered insisted grimly. Theyre a-doin it. He downed a second shot, shuddered, then glanced up slantwise at Coe. You seen Kilkenny?

He spoke softly, but a hush seemed to fall over the room, and mens eyes sought each other questioningly. Somewhere chips clicked, emphasizing the stillness, the listening.

No, Coe said after a minute, and you better not go around askin for him.

I got to see him, the cowpuncher insisted stubbornly. I been sent to find him, and I got to do my job.

What you want with Kilkenny? demanded a short, wide-faced young man with light hair and narrow, pig-like eyes.

The cowpuncher glanced at him and his own eyes darkened. Death, he knew, was never far away when anybody talked to this man. Along with Royal Barnes, Wild Bill Hickok, and Kilkenny himself, this Wes Hardin was one of the most feared men in the West. He was said to be fast as Hickok and as cold-blooded as the Brockman twins.

They want guns in the Live Oak country, Hardin, the cowpuncher said. Theres a range war comin.

Then dont look for Kilkenny, Coe said. He rides alone, and his gun aint for hire.

You seen him? the cowpuncher persisted. I got word for him from an old friend of his.

I hear tell he tied up with King Fisher, someone said.

Dont you believe it, the cattle buyer stated flatly. He dont tie up with nobody. He hesitated, then glanced at the cowpuncher. I did hear tell he was down in the Indian Territory a while back.

Whod you get the word from? Coe asked the cowpuncher quietly. Might be somebody here knows Kilkenny and could pass the word along.

Just say Mort Davis is in trouble. Kilkenny wont need no more than that. He sticks by his friends.

Thats right. The cattle buyer nodded emphatically. Mort nursed him through a bad time after Kilkenny gunned down the three Webers. Mort stood off the gang that come to lynch Kilkenny. Iffen Kilkenny hears Mort needs help, hell ride.

Funny Royal Barnes never hunted Kilkenny for killin the Webers, someone suggested. With Barnes bein half-brother to the Webers and all,

Thatd be somethinBarnes an Kilkenny, another agreed. Two of the fastest gunmen in the West.

Conversation flowered in the room, and through it all the name of Kilkenny was woven like a scarlet thread. One man had seen him in Abilene. Two men had cornered him there, two bad men trying to build a tough reputation. They had drawn, but both had died before they could fire a shot. Another man said he had seen Kilkenny hold his hand out at arms length with a poker chip on its back. Then he had tipped his hand slowly, and, when the chip fell free, he had drawn and fired before the chip reached the level of his waist.

Hes fastern Hickok, someone else said dogmatically, and hes got the nerve of Ben Thompson.

Whats he look like? still another demanded. I never seen the feller.

Nobody agrees, the cattle buyer said. Ive heard a dozen descriptions of Kilkenny, and no two alike. He never makes hisself known until the guns start shootin, and he fades right after. Nobody knows him.

This wire wont last in Texas, a lean, raw-boned Texan changed the subject to say. That Live Oaks country nor this n, either, they aint made for wire. Its free range and always will be. The buffalo was here before the longhorn, and it was free grass then. It always has been.

I dont know, someone else said doubtfully. Theres farmers comin out from the East. Hoemen wholl fence their own ground and break the sod for crops.

This country aint right for farmin, I tell you, a young cowhand said. You ever foller a trail herd? If-fen they ever plow this plains country up, it will blow clean to Mexico!

But even as the men in Dodge talked and condemned wires, along the right way in Botalla, in the Live Oak country, lay huge reels of it, gleaming and new. Literally miles of it, on great spools, unloaded from wagon trains and ready to be strung. Reports implied there would soon be a railroad in Texas. Fat beef, good beef, would soon be in great demand. In this year of 1880, 40,000 tons of steel barbed wire of the Haish and Glidden Star varieties were to be sold to Texas ranchmen.

In the bar of the old Trail House in Botalla, rancher Webb Steele smashed a ham-like fist upon the bar. Were puttin it up! he shouted. Hoss high, pig tight, and bull strong! If them who dont like it want war, its war theyll get!

Who fences Lost Creek Valley? some hardened soul demanded. You or Chet Lord?

Im fencin it! Steele declared, glaring about the room. And if necessary my riders will ride the fence with rifles!