Novel 1953 - Showdown At Yellow Butte (v5.0) Read online

  Poinsett was a man without mercy. Coolly and carefully, he squeezed off his second shot. The man stiffened, jerked spasmodically and lay still.

  “Missed my man,” Alf said, apologetically, “but I ruint his shootin’ iron.”

  Poinsett spat, his eyes cold. “Could happen to anybody,” he said philosophically, “but I figured you burnt him anyways.”

  Within the saloon Kedrick had a glass half to his mouth when the shot boomed. It was followed almost at once by two more, the reports sounding almost as one.

  “Blazes!” Shad whirled. “They ain’t here yet?”

  “They’ve been here,” Kedrick said with quick realization. He swung to the door, glancing up the street. He saw the body of the last man to fall. Leaning out a bit, he glimpsed the other. His lips tightened, for neither man was moving.

  “Somebody is up the draw,” he explained quickly. “He’s got the street covered. Is there a back way?”

  Kedrick dove for the door followed by the others as the bartender indicated the exit, catching up his shotgun. His pockets were already stuffed with shells. At the door Kedrick halted. Flattening against the wall, he stared up the draw. From here he could see the edge of the bunch of boulders and guessed the fire came from there. “Pinned down,” he said. “They are up the draw.”

  Nobody moved. Kedrick’s memory for terrain served him to good purpose now. Recalling the draw he remembered that it was below the level of the town beyond that point. But right there the boulders offered a perfect firing point.

  Scattered shots came from down the draw, and nobody spoke. All knew that they could not long withstand the attack.

  CHAPTER 12

  KEDRICK MADE UP his mind quickly. Defense of the town was now impossible. They would be either wiped out or burned alive if they attempted to remain. “Shad,” he said quickly, “get across the street to Dai and Pit. Yell out to the others and get them to fall back, regardless of risk, to the canyon at the foot of Yellow Butte.”

  He took a step back and glanced at the trap door to the roof. The bartender saw the intent and shook his head. “You can’t do it, boy. They’d git you from down the crick.”

  “I’m going to chance it. I think they are still too far off. If I can give you folks covering fire you may make it.”

  “What about you?” Shad demanded.

  “I’ll make it. Get moving!”

  Laredo wheeled and darted to the door, paused an instant and lunged across the street. The bartender hesitated, swore softly, then followed. Kedrick picked up a bottle of the liquor and shoved it into his shirt, then jumped for the edge of the trap door, caught it and pulled himself through into the small attic. Carefully, he studied the situation.

  Hot firing came from down stream, and evidently the killers were momentarily stopped there. He hoisted himself through, swung to the ride of the roof, and carefully studied the boulders. Suddenly, he caught a movement, and knew that what he had first believed to be a gray rock was actually a shirt. He took careful aim with his Winchester, then fired.

  The gray shirt jumped, and a hand flew up, then fell loose. Instantly a Spencer boomed and a bullet tore a chunk from the ridge near his face and splattered him with splinters. Kedrick moved down roof a bit. Then catching the signal from the window across the street, he deliberately shoved his rifle and head up, fired four fast shots, then two more.

  Ducking his head, he reloaded the Winchester. Another bullet smashed the ridgepole. Then a searching fire began, the heavy slugs tearing through the roof about three to four inches below the top.

  Kedrick slid down the roof. He hesitated at the edge of the trap door, and seeing a distant figure circling to get behind the men in the wash, he took careful aim and squeezed off his shot. It was all of five hundred yards, and he had only a small bit of darkness at which to aim.

  The shot kicked up sand short of the mark by a foot or more as nearly as he could judge. He knew he had missed, but the would-be sniper lost his taste for his circling movement and slid out of sight. Kedrick went down the trap and dropped again into the saloon. Regretfully, he glanced at the stock of whisky, then picked up two more bottles and stuffed them into his pockets.

  Hesitating only a second, he lunged across the street for the shelter of the opposite building. The Spencer boomed, and he knew that the hidden marksman had been awaiting this effort. He felt the shock of the bullet, staggered but kept going.

  Reaching the opposite side, he felt the coldness of something on his stomach and glanced down. The bottle in his shirt had been broken by the bullet and he smelled to high heaven of good whisky. Picking the glass out of his shirt, he dove for the livery stable and swung into the saddle on the palouse.

  The Spencer boomed again and again as he hit the road riding hard, but he made it. The others cheered as he rode pell mell through the canyon mouth and swung to the ground.

  “This is no good,” Laine said. “They can get behind us on the ridge.”

  Two men limped in from the draw, having withdrawn from boulder to boulder. Kedrick glanced around. There were fourteen men and women here who were on their feet. One man, the one who had the rifle knocked from his hand, had a shattered arm. The others were slightly wounded. Of them all, he had only seven men able to fight.

  Quickly, he gave directions for their retreat. Then with Dai and Shad to hold the canyon mouth and cover them, they started back up the canyon.

  Tom Kedrick measured his group thoughtfully. Of Laredo, Dai and Laine, he had no doubts at all. Of these others, he could not be sure. Good men, some of them, and one or two were obviously frightened. Nobody complained, however, and one of the men whose face was pale, took a wounded man’s rifle and gave him a shoulder on which to lean. Kedrick led them to the crevasse and down into it.

  Amazed, they stared around. “What d’you know?” The bartender spat. “Been here nigh seven year an’ never knowed o’ this place!”

  There were four horses in the group, but they brought them all into the cave. One of the men complained, but Kedrick turned on him. “There’s water, but we may be glad to eat horse meat.” The man swallowed and stared.

  Laine pointed at Kedrick’s shirt. “Man, you’re bleedin’!”

  Kedrick grinned. “That isn’t blood, it’s whisky. They busted one of the bottles I brought away.”

  Pit chuckled. “I’d most as soon it was blood,” he said, “seems a waste of good likker.”

  The able men gathered near the escape end of the crevasse, and one of them grinned at Kedrick. “I wondered how you got away so slick. Is there another way out down there?”

  He shook his head. “If there is, I don’t know it. I waited and got out through the canyon when it wasn’t watched.”

  Laine’s face was serious. “They could hold us in here,” he said, anxiously. “We’d be stuck for sure.”

  Kedrick nodded. “I’m taking an extra canteen and some grub, then I’m going atop the butte to join Burt Williams. I’d like one man with me. From up there we can hold them off, I think.”

  “I’m your man,” Laredo said quietly. “Wait’ll I get my gear.”

  A rifle boomed, and then Dai Reid joined them. “They are comin’ up,” he said. He glanced at Kedrick. “One man dead in the boulders. I got the look of him by my glass. It was Alf Starrett. Poinsett was the other.”

  “Starrett was a skunk,” Burnett, one of the settlers said, “a low down skunk. He kilt a man up Kansas way, an’ a man disappeared from his outfit once that occasioned considerable doubt if he didn’t git hisself another.”

  Kedrick turned to Pit Laine. “Looks like your show down here,” he said. “Don’t open fire until you have to, and don’t fire even one shot unless it’s needed. We’ll be on top.”

  He led the way out of the crevasse and into the boulders and brush behind it. There was no sign of the attackers, and he surmised they were holed up awaiting the arrival of some supporting fire from the rim back of the canyon.

  Tom glanced up at the tower
ing butte. It reared itself all of a hundred and fifty feet above him and most of it was totally without cover. As they waited, a rifle boomed high above them and there was a puff of dust in the canyon mouth. Burt Williams had opened up.

  Their first move toward the butte brought fire, and Laredo drew back. “No chance. We’ll have to wait until dark. You reckon they’ll hit us before then?”

  “If they do, they won’t get far.” Tom Kedrick hunkered well down among the slabs of rock at the foot of the Butte. “We’ve got us a good firing point right here.” He rolled a smoke and lit up. “What are you planning when this is over, Shad? Do you plan to stay here?”

  The tall Texan shrugged. “Ain’t pondered it much. Reckon that will take care of itself. What you aimin’ to do?”

  “You know the Mogollons southwest of here? I figured I’d go down there and lay out a ranch for myself.” He smoked thoughtfully. “Down in East Texas, before I came west, a fellow arrived there named Ikard. Had some white-faced cattle with him, and you should see ’em! Why, they have more beef on one sorry critter than three longhorns. I figured a man could get himself a few Hereford bulls and start a herd. Might even buy fifty or sixty head for a beginning, and let ’em mix with the longhorns if they like.”

  “I might go for somethin’ like that,” Laredo said quietly. “I always wanted to own a ranch. Fact is, I started one once, but had to git shut of it.”

  He stared down the canyon toward the mouth, his rifle across his knees. He did not look at Kedrick, but he commented casually, “We need luck, Cap’n, plenty of luck.”

  “Uh huh,” Kedrick’s face was sober. “I wonder who was on watch up the canyon? Or supposed to be?”

  “Somebody said his name was Hirst. Sallow-faced hombre.”

  “We’ll have to talk to him. Was he down below?”

  “Come to think of it, he wasn’t. He must have hid out back there.”

  “Or sold out. Remember Singer? He wouldn’t have been the only one.”

  Laredo rubbed out the last of his cigarette. “They’ll be makin’ their play soon. You know, Kedrick, I’d as soon make a break for it, get a couple of horses an’ head for Mustang. When we go we might as well take Keith an’ that dirty Burwick with us.”

  Kedrick nodded agreement, but he was thinking of the men below. There were at least four good men aside from Shad, Laine and Dai Reid. That left the numbers not too unevenly balanced. The fighting skill and numbers were slightly on the enemy’s side, as they had at least twelve men when the battle opened, and they had lost Starrett. That made the odds eleven to eight unless they had moved up extra men, which was highly probable. Still, they were expecting defense. But an attack might …

  He studied the situation. Suddenly, a dark shape loomed on the rim of the canyon some hundred and fifty yards off and much higher. The figure lifted his rifle and fired even as both Shad and Kedrick threw down on him with rifles, firing instantly. The man vanished, but whether hit or not they could not tell.

  Desultory firing began, and from time to time, they caught glimpses of men advancing from the canyon mouth—never in sight long enough to offer a target, and usually rising from the ground some distance from where they dropped. The afternoon was drawing on, however, and the sun was setting almost in the faces of the attackers, which made their aim uncertain and their movements hesitant. Several times Shad or Kedrick dusted the oncoming party, but they got in no good shots. Twice a rifle boomed from the top of the butte, and once they heard a man cry out as though hit.

  “You know, Laredo,” Kedrick said suddenly, “it goes against the grain to back up for those coyotes. I’m taking this grub up to Burt. When I come back down, we’re going to move down that canyon and see how much stomach they’ve got for a good scrap.”

  Shad grinned, his eyes flickering with humor. “That’s ace high with me, pardner,” he said dryly. “I never was no hand for a hole, an’ the women are safe.”

  “All but one,” Kedrick said, “that Missus Taggart who lives in that first house. Her husband got killed and she wouldn’t leave.”

  “Yeah, heard one o’ the women folks speak on it. That Taggart never had a chance. Good folks, those two.”

  COLONEL LOREN KEITH stared gloomily at the towering mass of Yellow Butte. That man atop the butte had them pinned down. Now if they could just get up there. He thought of the men he had commanded in years past, and compared them with these attacking the town. A pack of murderers. How had he got into this, anyway? Why couldn’t a man know when he took a turning where it would lead him? It seemed so simple in the beginning to run off a bunch of one-gallused farmers and squatters.

  Wealth—he had always wanted wealth, the money to pay his way in the circles where he wanted to travel. But somehow it had always eluded him, and this had seemed a wonderful chance. Bitterly, he stared at the butte and remembered the greasy edge of Burwick’s shirt collar, and the malice in his eyes—Burwick who used men as he saw fit, and disposed of them when he was through.

  In the beginning it hadn’t seemed that way. His own commanding presence, his soldier’s stride, his cold clarity of thought, all these had led him to despise Gunter as a mere business man and Burwick as a conniving weakling. But then suddenly Burwick began to show his true self, and all ideas of controlling the whole show left Keith while he stared in shocked horror as the man unmasked. Alton Burwick was no dirty weakling, no mere ugly fat man, but a monster of evil, a man with a brain like a steel trap, stopping at nothing. By his very depth of wickedness he had startled Keith into obedience.

  Gunter had wanted to pull out. Only now would Keith admit even to himself the cause of Gunter’s death, and he knew he would die as quickly. How many times had he not seen the malevolence in the eyes of Dornie Shaw, and well he knew how close Shaw stood to Burwick. In a sense, they were of a kind.

  His feeling of helplessness shocked and horrified Keith. He had always imagined himself a strong man, and had gone his way, domineering and supercilious. Now he saw himself as only a tool in the hands of a man he despised. Yet he was unable to escape. However, deep within him there was the hope that they still would pull their chestnuts from the fire and take the enormous profit the deal promised.

  One man stood large in his mind, one man drew all his anger, his hate and bitterness. That man was Tom Kedrick.

  From that first day, Kedrick had made him seem a fool. He, Keith, had endeavored to put Kedrick firmly in his place, speaking of his rank and his twelve years of service, and then Kedrick had calmly paraded such an array of military experience that few men could equal, and right before them all. He had not doubted Kedrick, for vaguely now, he remembered some of the stories he had heard of the man. That the story was the truth, and that Kedrick was a friend of Ransome’s infuriated him still more.

  He stepped into the makeshift saloon and poured a drink, staring at it gloomily. Fessenden came in, Goff with him.

  “We goin’ to roust them out o’ there, Colonel?” Goff asked. “It will be dark, soon.”

  Keith tossed all his drink. “Yes, right away. Are the rest of them out there?”

  “All but Poinsett. He’ll be along.”

  Keith poured another stiff shot and tossed it off as quickly, then followed them into the street of Yellow Butte.

  They were all gathered there—all but the Mixus boys, who had followed along toward the canyon, and a couple of the newcomers who had circled to get on the cliff above and beyond the boulders and brush where the squatters had taken refuge.

  Poinsett was walking down the road in long strides. He was abreast of the first house when a woman stepped from the door. She was a square-built woman in a faded blue cotton dress and man’s shoes, run down at the heel. She held a double-barreled shotgun in her hands. As Poinsett drew abreast of her, she turned on him and fired.

  She shot both barrels, at point-blank range, and Poinsett took them right through the middle. Almost torn in two, he hit the ground, gasping once, his blood staining the gray gravel before th
e shocked eyes of the clustered men.

  The woman turned on them, and they saw she was not young. Her square face was red and a few strands of graying hair blew about her face. As she looked at them, her work-roughened hands still clutching the empty shotgun, she motioned at the fallen man in the faded check shirt.

  In that moment, the fact that she was fat, growing old, and that her thick legs ended in the grotesque shoes seemed to vanish—and in the blue eyes were no tears. Her chin trembled a little as she said, “He was my man. Taggart never give me much, an’ he never had it to give, but in his own way, he loved me. You killed him—all of you. I wish I had more shells.”

  She turned her back on them. Without another glance, she went into the house and closed the door behind her.

  They stood in a grim half circle, each man faced suddenly with the enormity of what they were doing and had done.

  Lee Goff was the first to speak. He stood straddle legged, his thick hard body bulging all his clothes, his blond hair bristling. “Anybody bothers that woman,” he said, “I’ll kill him.”

  CHAPTER 13

  KEITH LED HIS attack just before dusk and lost two men before the company men withdrew. But the attack had paid off—they had learned of the hole. Dornie Shaw squatted behind the abutment formed by the end wall of the canyon where it opened on the plain near the arroyo. “That makes it easy,” he said. “We still got dynamite.”

  Keith’s head came up and he saw Shaw staring at him, his eyes queerly alight. “Or does that go against the grain, Colonel? About ten sticks of dynamite dropped into that crevasse an’ Burwick will get what he wants—no bodies.”

  “If there’s a cave back there,” Keith objected, “they’d be buried alive!”