Novel 1953 - Showdown At Yellow Butte Page 2

  A big man lurched from the crowd. Tom glanced at him, and their eyes met. Obviously, the man had been drinking and was hunting trouble. In Kedrick, he thought he found it. Sensing a fight, other passers-by became wary and stopped to watch.

  “So?” The big man stood wide legged, his sleeves rolled about thick, hairy forearms. “’Nother one of them durn thieves! Land stealers!” He chuckled suddenly. “Well, your murderer ain’t with you now to save your bacon, an’ I aim to git my share of you right now! Reach!”

  Kedrick’s mouth was dry, but his eyes were calm. He held the cigarette in his right hand near his mouth. “Sorry, friend. I’m not packing a gun. If I were, I’d still not kill you. You’re mistaken, man, about that land. My people have a rightful claim to it.”

  “Have they, now?” The big man came a step nearer, his hand on the butt of his gun. “The right to take from a man the land he’s sweated over? To tear down his home? To run his kids out on the desert?”

  Despite the fact that the man was drunk, Tom Kedrick saw beyond it a sullen and honest fury—and fear. Not fear for him, for this man was not afraid, nor would he be afraid of Dornie Shaw. He was afraid for his family. The realization of that fact struck Kedrick and disturbed him anew. More and more he was questioning the course he had chosen.

  The crowd murmured and was ugly. Obviously, their sympathies were with the big man, and against Kedrick.

  A low murmur, then a rustling in the crowd, and suddenly: deathly silence. Kedrick saw the big man’s face pale, and heard someone whisper hoarsely, “Look out, Burt! It’s Dornie Shaw!”

  Kedrick was suddenly aware that Shaw had moved up beside him. “Let me have him, Cap’n,” Shaw’s voice was low. “It’s time this here was stopped.”

  Kedrick’s voice was sharp, cold. “No! Move back, Shaw! I’ll fight my own battles!”

  “But you ain’t got a gun!” Shaw’s voice was sharper in protest.

  Burt showed no desire to retreat. That the appearance of Shaw had shocked him was evident, but this man was not Peters. He was going to stand his ground. His eyes, wary now, but puzzled, shifted from Shaw to Kedrick, and Tom took an easy step forward, putting himself almost within arm’s length of Burt.

  “Shaw’s not in this, Burt,” he said quietly. “I’ve no quarrel with you, man, but no man calls me without getting his chance. If you want what I’ve got, don’t let the fact that I’m not armed stop you. I wanted no quarrel, but you do—so have at it!”

  Suspicion was in the big man’s eyes. He had seen guns come from nowhere before, and especially from men dressed as this one. He was not prepared to believe that Kedrick would face him unarmed. “You got a gun!” he snapped. “You got a hideout, you durned coyote!”

  He jerked his gun from the holster and in that instant, Tom Kedrick moved. The edge of his left hand chopped down on the rising wrist of the gunhand, and he stepped in, whipping up his right in an uppercut that packed all the power in his lean, whipcord body. The punch was fast and perfectly timed, and the crack of it on the corner of Burt’s jaw was like the snap of a teamster’s whip. Burt hit the walk just one split second after his gun, and he hit it right on his shoulder blades.

  Coolly then, Kedrick stooped and picked up the gun, an old 1851 Model Navy revolver. He stood over the man, his eyes searching the crowd. Wherever he looked there were hard, blank faces. He glanced down at Burt. The big man was slowly sitting up, shaking his big head. He started to lift his right hand, and gave a sudden gasp of pain. He stared at it, then looked up. “You broke my wrist!” he said. “It’s busted! An’ me with my plowin’ to do!”

  “Better get up,” Kedrick said quietly. “You asked for it, you know.”

  When the man was on his feet, Kedrick calmly handed him his six-shooter. Their eyes met over the gun and Kedrick smiled. “Take it. Drop it down in your holster an’ forget it. I’m not worried. You’re not the man to shoot another in the back.”

  Calmly, he turned his back and walked slowly away down the street. Before the St. James, he paused. His fingers trembled ever so slightly as he took out a paper and shook tobacco into it.

  “That was slick.” It was Dornie Shaw’s soft voice. His brown eyes probed Kedrick’s face curiously. “Never seen the like! Just slapped his wrist an’ busted it!”

  With Keith, John Gunter had also come up, and he was smiling broadly. “Saw it all, son! That’ll do more good than a dozen killings! Just like Tom Smith used to do! Old Bear Creek Tom who handled some of the toughest rannies that ever came over the trail with nothin’ but his fists!”

  “What would you have done if he had jerked that gun back and fired?” Keith asked.

  Kedrick shrugged, wanting to forget it. “He hadn’t time,” he said quietly. “But there are answers to that, too!”

  “Some of the boys will be up to see you tonight, Tom,” Gunter advised. “I’ve had Dornie notify Shad, Fessenden and some of the others. Better figure on a ride out there tomorrow. Makin’ a start, anyway. Just sort of ride around with some of the boys to let ’em know we ain’t foolin’.”

  Kedrick nodded, and after a brief discussion went inside and to his room. Certainly, he reflected, the West had not changed. Things still happened fast out here.

  He pulled off his coat, waistcoat and vest, then his boots. Stripped to the waist, he sat down on the bed and dug into his valise. For a couple of minutes he dug around and then drew out two well-oiled holsters and gun belts. In the holsters were two .44 Russian pistols, a Smith & Wesson gun, manufactured on order for the Russian Army, and one of the most accurate shooting pistols on the market up to that time.

  Carefully, he checked the loads, then returned the guns to their holsters and put them aside. Digging around, he drew out a second pair of guns, holsters and belts. Each of these was a Walch twelve-shot Navy pistol, caliber .36, and almost identical in size and weight to the Frontier Colt or the .44 Russian.

  Rarely seen in the West, and disliked by some, Kedrick had used the guns on many occasions and found them always satisfactory. There were times when the added fire power was a big help. As for stopping power, the .36 in the hands of a good marksman lacked but little that offered by the heavier .44 caliber.

  Yet, there was a time and a place for everything, and these guns had an added tactical value. Carefully, he wrapped them once more and returned them to the bottom of his valise. Then he belted on the .44 Russians, and digging out his Winchester, carefully cleaned, oiled and loaded it. Then he sat down on the bed and was about to remove his guns again and stretch out, when there was a light tap at the door.

  “Come in,” said Kedrick, “and if you’re an enemy, I’ll be pleased to know you!”

  The door opened and closed all in a breath. The man that stood with his back to it facing Kedrick was scarcely five-feet-four, yet almost as broad as he was tall. All of him seemed the sheer power of bone and muscle, and not an ounce of fat anywhere. His broad brown face might have been graved from stone, and the bristle of shortcropped hair above it was black as a crow’s wing. The man’s neck spread to broad, thick shoulders. On his right hip he packed a gun. In his hand he held a narrow-brimmed hard hat.

  Kedrick leaped to his feet. “Dai!” The name was an explosion of sound. “Dai Reid! What are you doing in this country?”

  “Ah? So it’s that you ask, is it? Well, it’s trouble there is, much of trouble! An’ you that’s by way of bringin’ it!”

  “Me?” Kedrick waved to a chair. “Tell me what you mean.”

  The Welshman searched his face, then seated himself, his huge palms resting on his knees. His legs were thick muscled and bowed. “It’s the man Burwick you’re with? An’ you’ve the job taken to run us off the land? There is changed you are, Tom, an’ for the worse!”

  “You’re one of them? You’re on the land Burwick, Keith and Gunter claim?”

  “I am that. And a sight of work I’ve done on it, too. An’ now the rascals would be puttin’ me off. Well, they’ll have a fight to move me—an’
you, too, Tom Kedrick, if you’re to stay one of them.”

  Kedrick studied the Welshman thoughtfully. All his doubts had come to a head now … for this man, he knew. His own father had been Welsh, his mother Irish, and Dai Reid had been friend to them both. Dai had come from the old country with his father, had worked beside him when he courted his mother, and although much younger than Gwilym Kedrick, he had come West with him, too.

  “Dai,” he said slowly, “I’ll admit that today I’ve been having doubts of all this. You see, I knew John Gunter after the war, and I took a herd of cattle over the trail for a friend of his. There was trouble that year, the Indians holding up every herd and demanding large numbers of cattle for themselves, the rustlers trying to steal whole herds, and others demanding money for passage across land they claimed. I took my herd through without paying anything but a few fat beefs for the Indians, who richly deserved them. But not what they demanded—they got what I wanted to give.

  “Gunter remembered me from that, and knew something of my war record, so when he approached me in New Orleans, his proposition sounded good. And this is what he told me.

  “His firm, Burwick, Keith and Gunter, had filed application for the survey and purchase of all or parts of nearly three hundred sections of land. They made oath that this land was swampland, or overflowed and came under the General Land Office ruling that it was ‘land too wet for irrigation at seeding time, though later requiring irrigation, and therefore subject to sale as swamp.’

  “He went on to say that they had arranged to buy the land, but that a bunch of squatters were on it who refused to leave. He wanted to hire me to lead a force to see the land was cleared, and he said that most of them were rustlers, outlaws or renegades of one sort or another. There would be fighting and force would be necessary.”

  Dai nodded. “Right he was as to the fighting, but renegades, no. Well,” he smiled grimly past his pipe. “I’d not be saying that now, but there’s mighty few. There are bad apples in all barrels, one or two,” he said. “But most of us be good people, with homes built and crops in.

  “An’ did he tell you that their oath was given that the land was unoccupied? Well, it was! And let me tell you. Ninety-four sections have homes on them, some mighty poor, but homes.

  “Shrewd they were with the planning. Six months the notices must be posted, but they posted them in fine print and where few men would read, and three months are by before anything is noticed, and by accident only. So now they come to force us off, to be sure the land is unoccupied and ready. As for swamp, ’tis desert now, and always desert. Crops can only be grown where the water is, an’ little enough of that.”

  Dai shook his head and knocked out his short-stemmed pipe. “Money we’ve none to fight them, no lawyers among us, although one who’s as likely to help, a newspaper man, he is. But what good without money to send him to Washington?”

  The Welshman’s face was gloomy. “They’ll beat us, that we know. They’ve money to fight us with, and tough men. But some of them will die on the ground, and pay for it with their red blood. And those among us there are who plan to see ’tis not only the hired gunners who die, but the high an’ mighty. You, too, lad, if among them you stay.”

  Kedrick was thoughtful. “Dai, this story is different from the one I’ve had. I’ll have to think about it, and tomorrow we ride out to look the land over and show ourselves.”

  Reid looked up sharply. “Don’t you be one of them, bye! We’ve plans made to see no man gets off alive if we can help it.”

  “Look, man!” Kedrick leaned forward. “You’ve got to change that! I mean, for now. Tomorrow it’s mainly a show of force, a threat. There will be no shooting, I promise you. We’ll ride out, look around, then ride back. If there’s shooting, your men will start it. Now you go back to them and stop it. Let them hold off, and let me look around.”

  Dai Reid got slowly to his feet. “Ah, lad! ’tis good to see you again, but under happier circumstances I wish it were! I’d have you to the house for supper and a game, as in the old days! You’d like the wife I have!”

  “You? Married?” Kedrick was incredulous. “I’d never believe it!”

  Dai grinned sheepishly. “Married it is, all right, and happy, Tom.” His face darkened. “Happy if I can keep my ground. But one promise I make! If your bloody riders take my ground, my body will be there when they ride past, and it will be not alone, but with dead men around!”

  Long after the Welshman had gone, Tom Kedrick sat silently and studied the street below the window. Was this what Consuelo Duane had meant? Whose side was she on? First, he must ride over the land, see it for himself, and then he must have another talk with Gunter. Uneasily, he looked again at the faces of the men in his mind. The cold, wolf-like face of Keith; the fat, slobby face of Burwick, underlined with harsh, domineering power; and the face of Gunter, friendly, affable, but was it not a little … sly?

  From outside came the noise of a tinny piano, and a strident female voice, singing. Chips rattled, and there was the constant rustle of movement and of booted feet. Somewhere a spur jingled, and Tom Kedrick got to his feet and slipped into a shirt. When he was dressed again, with his guns belted on, he left his room and walked down the hall to the lobby.

  From a room beside him, a man stepped and stared after him. It was Dornie Shaw.

  CHAPTER 3

  ONLY THE DWELLER in the deserts can know such mornings, such silences, drowsy with warmth and the song of the cicadas. Nowhere but in the desert do the far miles stand out so clearly, the mesas, towers and cliffs so boldly outlined. Nowhere will the cloud shadows island themselves upon the desert, offering their brief respite from the sun.

  Six riders, their saddles creaking, six hard men, each lost in the twisted arroyos of his own thoughts, were emerging upon the broad desert. They were men who rode with guns, men who had used their guns to kill and would use them so again. Some of them were already doomed by the relentless and ruthless tide of events; and to the others their time, too, would come.

  Each of them was alone, as men who live by the gun are always alone. To them, each man was a potential enemy, each shadow a danger. They rode jealously, their gestures marked by restraint, their eyes by watchfulness.

  A horse blew through his nostrils, a hoof clicked on a stone, someone shifted in his saddle and sighed. These were the only sounds. Tom Kedrick rode an appaloosa gelding, fifteen hands even, with iron-gray forequarters and starkly white hindquarters splashed with tear-shaped spots of black—a clean-limbed horse, strong and fast, with quick, intelligent eyes and interested ears.

  When they bunched to start their ride, Laredo Shad stopped to stare at the horse, walking around it admiringly. “You’re lucky, friend. That’s a horse! Where’d you find him?”

  “Navajo remuda. He’s a Nez Percé war horse, a long ways off his reservation.”

  Kedrick noticed the men as they gathered and how they all sized him up carefully, noting his Western garb, and especially, the low-hung, tied-down guns. Yesterday, they had seen him in the store clothes he had worn from New Orleans, but now they could size him up better, judge him with their own kind.

  He was tall and straight, and of his yesterday’s clothing only the black, flat-crowned hat remained, the hat, and the high-heeled rider’s boots. He wore a gray wool shirt now and a black silk kerchief around his neck. His jeans were black, and the two guns rode easily in position, ready for the swing of his hand.

  Kedrick saw them bunch, and when they all were there, he said simply, “All right, let’s go!”

  They mounted up. Kedrick noted slender wiry Dornie Shaw; the great bulk of Si Fessenden; lean, bitter Poinsett and the square blond Lee Goff; sour-faced Clauson, the oldest of the lot and the lean Texan, Laredo Shad. Moving out, he glanced at them. Whatever else they might be, they were fighting men. Several times Shaw glanced at his guns.

  “You ain’t wearin’ Colts?”

  “No, .44 Russians. They are a good gun, one of the most accurate
ever built.” He indicated the trail ahead with a nod. “You’ve been out this way before?”

  “Yeah, we got quite a ride. We’ll noon at a spring I know just over the North Fork. There’s some deep canyons to cross, then a big peak. The Indians an’ Spanish called it The Orphan. All wild country. Right beyond there we’ll begin strikin’ a few of ’em.” He grinned a little, showing his white even teeth. “They are scattered all over hell’s half acre.”

  “Dornie,” Goff asked suddenly, “you figure on ridin’ over to the Malpais this trip?”

  Clauson chuckled. “Sure, he will! He should’ve give up long ago, but he’s sure hard to whip! That girl has set her sights higher’n any West country gun slinger.”

  “She’s shapely, at that!” Goff was openly admiring. “Right shapely, but playin’ no fav’rites.”

  “Maybe they’re playin’ each other for what they can git,” Poinsett said, wryly. “Maybe that’s where he gets all the news he’s tellin’ Keith. He sure seems to know a sight o’ what’s goin’ around.”

  Dornie Shaw turned in his saddle, and his thin features had sharpened. “Shut up!” he said coldly.

  The older man tightened and his eyes blazed back with genuine hate, yet he held his peace. It was educational to see how quickly he quieted down; for Poinsett, a hard, vicious man with no love for anybody or anything, obviously wanted no part of what Shaw could give him.

  As the day drew on, Kedrick studied the men, and noticed they all avoided giving offense to Shaw, even the burly Fessenden who had killed twenty men, and was the only one of the group Kedrick had ever seen before. He wondered if Fessenden remembered him and decided he would know before the day was out.

  Around the noon camp there was less friendly banter than would occur in a cow camp. These men were surly and touchy. Only Shad seemed able to relax, and everything came easily for him. Clauson seemed to take over the cooking job by tacit consent, and the reason was soon obvious: he was an excellent cook.