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

  Men had started to their feet, and several had moved toward him. Now they froze where they were. The .44 Russian had appeared as if materialized from thin air.

  “Gentlemen,” Kedrick said quietly, “I did not come here hunting trouble. I have been hired for a job. I came to see if you were the manner of men you have been represented as being. Evidently your bartender is hard of hearing, or lacking in true hospitality. I ordered a drink.

  “You,” Kedrick gestured at the man playing solitaire, “look like a man of judgment. You pour my drink and put it on the end of the bar nearest me. Then,” his eyes held the room, “pour each of these gentlemen a drink.” With his left hand he extracted a gold eagle from his pocket and slapped it on the bar. “That pays.”

  He took another step back, then coolly, he holstered his gun. Eyes studied him, but nobody moved. The redhead did not like it. He had an urge to show how tough he was and Kedrick could see it building. “You!” Kedrick asked quickly. “Are you married? Children?”

  The redhead stared at him, then said, his voice surly, “Yeah, I’m married, an’ I got two kids. What’s it to you?”

  “I told you,” Kedrick replied evenly, “I came to see what manner of men you are.”

  The man who was pouring the drinks looked up. “I’ll answer your questions. I’m Pete Slagle.”

  “I’ve heard of you.”

  A slight smile came to Slagle’s mouth. “Yeah,” he said, “an’ I’ve heard of you.”

  Nobody moved nor spoke while Slagle calmly poured the drinks. Then he straightened and glanced around the room. “Men,” he said, “I reckon there’s no use goin’ off half cocked an’ gettin’ somebody killed. Let’s give this man a chance to speak his piece. We sure don’t have to buy what he wants to sell us if we don’t like his argument.”

  “Thanks, Slagle.” Kedrick studied the room. Two of the faces seemed hard, unrelenting. Another was genuinely interested. But at the door in the rear, loitered a man who had shifty eyes and a sour face. He could have been, in disposition at least, a twin brother to the former outlaw, Clauson.

  “The land around here,” Kedrick said quietly, “is about to be purchased from the Government by the firm that’s employed me. The firm of Burwick, Keith and Gunter. In New Orleans, where I was hired, I was told that there were squatters on the land, a bunch of outlaws, renegades and wasters, that they would resist being put off, and would aim to keep the badlands for themselves. My job was to clean them out, to clear the land for the company. I have come here for that purpose.”

  There was a low murmur from the back of the room. Kedrick took time to toss off his drink, and then calmly began to roll a smoke. To his right, the door opened and two men came in. One of these was as tall as himself with coal black hair turning gray at the temples. His eyes were gray and cold, his face firmly cut. He glanced sharply around the room, then at Kedrick.

  “Cap’n Tom Kedrick, Bob,” Slagle said quietly, “speakin’ his piece. He’s just explained that we’ve been represented as a bunch of renegades.”

  “That sounds like Burwick,” McLennon said. “Get on with it, Kedrick.”

  “I’ve little to say but this. Naturally, like any good fighting man, I wanted to look over the terrain. Moreover, since arriving in Mustang certain rumors and hints have reached me that the picture is not one-sided. I have come out here to look you over, to see exactly what sort of people you are, and if you are the outlaws and wasters you have been represented to be. Also, I would like to have a statement from you.”

  Red’s face was ugly. “We got nothin’ to say to you, Kedrick,” he said harshly, “nothin’ at all! Just you come down here with your killers an’ see how many get away alive!”

  “Wait a minute, Red!” Slagle interrupted. “Let Bob have his say.”

  “Aw, why bother?” Red said roughly. “The man is scared or he’d never have come huntin’ information!”

  Kedrick’s eyes held Red’s thoughtfully, and he said slowly, “No, Red, I’m not scared. If I decide the company is right and you are to be run off, that is exactly what I’ll do. If the men I have are not enough, I’ll get more. I’m used to war, Red. I’ve been at it all my life, and I know how to win. I’m not here because I’m scared. I have come simply because I make a pass at being a just man. If you have a just claim to your places here, and are not as represented, I’ll step out of this.

  “Naturally,” he added, “I can’t speak for the others, but I will tell them of my conclusions.”

  “Fair enough,” McLennon agreed. “All right, I’ll state our case. This land is Government land, like all of it. The Navajos an’ Utes claim some of it, an’ some of us have dickered with them for land. We’ve moved in an’ settled on this land. Four or five of us have been here upwards of ten years, most of us have been here more than three.

  “We’ve barns built, springs cleaned out, some fences. We’ve stocked some land, lived through a few bad summers and worse winters. Some of us have wives, an’ some of us children. We’re makin’ homes here. The company is tryin’ to gyp us.

  “The law says we were to have six months’ notice. That is, it was to be posted six months before the sale by the Government to the company. This land, as we understand it, is supposed to be unoccupied. Well, it ain’t. We live on it. Moreover, that notice was posted five months ago, stuck around in out-of-the-way places, in print so fine a man can scarcely read it without a magnifyin’ glass.

  “A month ago one of the boys read it, but it took him a few days to sort the meanin’ out of the legal phrasin’, an’ then he high-tailed it to me. We ain’t got the money to send a man to the Government. So all we can do is fight. That’s what we figure on. If the company runs us off, which I don’t figure you or nobody can do, they’ll buy ever’ inch of it with their blood, believe me.”

  A murmur of approbation went through the room, and Kedrick thoughtfully scanned the faces of the men. Dornie Shaw had judged these men correctly. They would fight. Moreover, with men like McLennon and Slagle to lead them, they would be hard to handle.

  Legally, the company seemed to be in the best position; also, the squatters were bucking a stacked deck. From here it would take a man all of two weeks, and possibly three, to get to Washington, let alone cut through all the Government red tape to get to the men who could block the sale—if it could be blocked.

  “This here’s a speculation on their part,” McLennon stated. “There’s rumors this here land is goin’ into an Injun reservation, an’ if it does, that means they’ll stick the Government a nice price for the land.”

  “Or you will,” Kedrick replied. “Looks like there’s two sides to this question, McLennon. The company has an argument. If the Federal Government does make this a reservation, you’ll have to move, anyway.”

  “We’ll face that when it comes,” Slagle said. “Right now we’re buckin’ the company. Our folks aren’t speculators. We aren’t gunmen, either.”

  Another man had entered the room, and Kedrick spotted him instantly. It was Burt, the big man he had whipped in the street fight. The man stopped by the wall and surveyed the room.

  “None of you?” Kedrick asked gently. “I have heard some stories about Pit Laine.”

  “Laine’s a good man!” Red burst out heatedly. “He’ll do to ride any river with!”

  Neither McLennon nor Slagle spoke, and the latter shifted his feet uneasily. Evidently, there was a difference of opinion here. He made a note to check on Laine, to find out more about him.

  “Well,” he said finally, “I reckon I’ll study on it a little. In the meantime, let’s keep the peace. I’ll keep my men off if you will do likewise.”

  “We aren’t huntin’ trouble,” McLennon said. “As long as there’s no shootin’ at us, an’ as long as the company men stay off our land, there’ll be no trouble from us.”

  “Fact is,” Slagle said, “we sent Roberts ridin’ in with a message to Burwick to that effect. We ain’t huntin’ for no trouble.”


  Kedrick turned toward the door, but the bartender’s voice stopped him. “You forgot your change,” he said dryly.

  Kedrick glanced at him, grinned, then picked the coins up. “Be seein’ you,” he said and stepped away.

  At that instant, the door burst open and a man staggered into the room, his arm about another man, whom he dropped to the floor. “Roberts!” the man said. “He’s been murdered!”

  All eyes stared at the man on the floor. That he had been shot many times was obvious. He had also been ridden over, for his body was torn and beaten by the hoofs of running horses. Tom Kedrick felt his stomach turn over. Sick with pity and shock, he lifted his eyes.

  He looked up into a circle of accusation: McLennon, shocked and unbelieving; Slagle, horrified; Red and the others crowding closer. “Him!” Red pointed a finger that trembled with his anger. “While he stands an’ talks to us, his outfit murders Bob!”

  “Git him!” somebody yelled. “Git him! I got a rope!”

  Kedrick was standing at the door, and he knew there was no reasoning with these men. Later, they might think and reason that he might have known nothing about the killing of Roberts. Now, they would not listen. As the men yelled, he hurled himself through the swinging doors and jerking loose his reins, hit the saddle of the palouse. The startled horse swung and lined out, not down the street, but between the buildings.

  Behind him men shouted and cursed. A shot rang out, and he heard a bullet clip past his head as he swung between the buildings. Then he knew his escape had driven him into a cul-de-sac, for he was now facing—not more than two hundred yards away—the rim around the flat where the town lay. Whether there was a break in that wall he could not guess, but he had an idea both the route up and down along the arroyo would be covered by guards. Swinging his horse, he charged into the darkness toward Yellow Butte itself.

  He remembered that coming into town he had noticed a V-shaped opening near its base. Whether there was a cut through the rim there he did not know. It might only be a box canyon, and a worse trap than the one into which he had run on his first break.

  He slowed his pace, knowing that silence was the first necessity. If they heard him, he could easily be bottled up. The flat was small, and aside from crossing the arroyo there were but two routes of escape. Both would surely be watched.

  The butte towered high above him now, and his horse walked softly forward in the abysmal darkness. Kedrick’s safety was a matter of minutes.

  The palouse was tired, he knew, for it had been going all day. The riding had been hard and he was a big man. He knew he was in no shape for a hard run against men with fresh horses. The only possible escape lay in some shrewd move that would keep them guessing and give him time. Yet he must be gone before daylight or he was through. By day they would comb this area and surely discover him.

  Now the canyon mouth yawned before him. The walls were not high but at least were steep enough to allow no escape on horseback.

  The shouts of pursuit had stopped now, but he knew the men were hard at work to find him. By now they would know from the guards on the stream that he was still on the flat, and had not escaped. Those guards might be creatures of his own imagination, but knowing the men with whom he dealt, he felt it was a safe bet that if they had not guarded the openings before his arrival, they certainly would have sent guards out at once.

  The canyon was narrow. He rode on, moving with extreme caution, yet when he had gone but a short distance he saw the end of the canyon rising above him, black and somber. His throat tightened and his mouth went dry. The palouse stopped and Tom Kedrick sat silent, feeling the labored breathing of the horse and knowing he faced a stone wall. He was trapped.

  Behind him, a light flared briefly, then went out. There was a shout. That had been a struck match—somebody looking for tracks. They had found them. In a few minutes, for they would move cautiously, they would be on him.

  There would be no reasoning with them now. They had him. He was trapped!

  CHAPTER 5

  CAPTAIN TOM KEDRICK sat very still, listening. He heard some gravel stir. A stone rattled down the canyon. Every move would count now, and he must take no unnecessary chance. He was cornered, and while he did not want to kill any of these men, he had no intention of being killed.

  Carefully, he dismounted. As his boot touched the sand he tested it to make sure no sound would result when his weight settled. Haste now was his greatest danger. There might be nothing he could do, but he was a man of many experiences, and in the past there had always been a way out. Usually there was, if a man took his time and kept his head.

  Standing still beside the appaloosa, he studied the situation. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness under the bulk of Yellow Butte. He stared around, seeing the faint gray of sand underfoot, the black bulk of boulders and the more ragged stretch of underbrush. Leading his horse, he followed a narrow strip of gray that showed an opening between boulders.

  Scarcely wide enough to admit his horse, the opening led back for some twenty feet, then widened. These were low boulders, rising scarcely above his waist, with the brush somewhat higher. The horse seemed to sense the danger, for it, too, walked quietly and almost without sound.

  Literally, he was feeling his way in the dark. But he knew that trail of sand must come from somewhere, for water had run here, and that water might spill off the cliff edge, or might come through some opening. Walking steadily, he found himself going deeper into a tangle of boulders, weaving his way along that thin gray trail into he knew not what.

  Twice he paused and with his hat, worked back along the path brushing out the tracks. He could not see how good a job he was doing, but the opening was narrow enough to give him a good chance of success. When he had pushed back into the tangle for all of ten minutes, he was brought up sharply by the cliff itself. He had found his way up the slope, through the talus, brush and scattered boulders, to the very face of the rock.

  Above him, and apparently out of reach, was a notch in the cliff, and this was probably the source of the sandy trail he had followed. Worried now, he ground-hitched the palouse and moved along the cliff, feeling his way along the face, searching each crack.

  To his left, he found nothing. Several times he paused to listen, but no sound came from down the canyon. If this was a box canyon, with no exit, the men would probably know it and make no attempt to close in until daylight. In the darkness a man could put up quite a fight in here. Yet, because of their eagerness to avenge the dead man, they might push on.

  Speaking softly to the horse, he worked his way along the face to the right, but here the pile of talus fell off sharply and he dipped into a hollow. It was cool and the air felt damp. There might even be a spring there, but he heard no water running.

  Despite the coolness he was sweating and he paused, mopping his face and listening. As he stood there he felt a faint breath of wind against his cheek!

  He stiffened with surprise, then with a sudden surge of hope, he turned and eagerly explored the rocky face. But could find no source for that breeze. He started on, moving more cautiously. Then the talus began to steepen under his feet, so he worked his way up the cliff alone. He carried his rifle with him.

  At the top he could turn and glance back down the canyon at the faint grayness in the distance that indicated the way he had come. Here the canyon turned a bit, ending in a sort of blind alley on an angle from the true direction of the canyon. There, breaking the edge of the cliff above him, was a notch. A steep slide led to the top.

  It must have been some vague stirring of wind from up there on the rim that had touched his cheek. He noted that the slide was steeper than a stairway and might start sliding underfoot. Certainly, such a sound would give away his attempt, and it would be the matter of only a few minutes before he would be encircled. As far as that went, the men could even now be patrolling the rim above him.

  Turning, his foot went from under him and only a frenzied grasp at some brush kept him from fall
ing into whatever hole he had stumbled upon. Scrambling back to good footing, he dropped a pebble and heard it strike some fifteen or twenty feet down. Working his way along the edge, he reached the foot of the slide and knew what he had come upon.

  Water, flooding down that slide during heavy rains, had struck a soft stratum of sand or mud and, striking it with force, had gouged out a deep cut that probably ran back into the canyon itself. There was always a chance that deep within this crack there might be some hiding place, some concealment. Turning abruptly, he returned for his horse.

  The slide continued steeply to the bottom of the crevasse scooped from the earth, and when they reached bottom he glanced up. The cut had taken him at least fifteen feet below the regular terrain of the area. Above him he saw a swath of dark sky that stretched about seven feet between the sides of the cut. He led the horse deeper along the narrow bed, and after only a short distance he noted that the top of the cut immediately above him was almost covered by a thick growth of brush growing together from the sides near the top.

  It was cool and still down here, and he pushed on until he found a spot where the rush of water had made a turn, and had gouged deeply under the bank, making a sort of cave beneath the overhang. Into this he led his horse, and here he stopped. A little water stood at the deepest part of the turn, and he allowed the palouse to drink. When the horse had finished, the shallow pool was gone.

  Kedrick tried the water in his canteen, then stripped the saddle from the horse and rubbed him down with a handful of coarse grass. Then he tied the horse, and spreading his blanket, rolled up in it. He was philosophical. He had done what he could. If they found him now there was nothing to do but shoot it out where he was.

  Surprisingly, he slept, and when he awakened it was the startled breathing of the palouse that warned him. Instantly, he was on his feet, speaking in a whisper to the horse and resting his hand on its shoulder. Day had come, and somewhere above them, yet some distance, there were voices.