Novel 1953 - Showdown At Yellow Butte Page 7

  “So much the better.” Burwick pursed his fat lips and mopped perspiration from his face. “He’ll have a contact he can use to make a deal.” He chuckled. “Suppose you two run along and let me talk to Captain Kedrick?”

  Hours later, Tom Kedrick paused on the street and studied it with care. Burwick had been more than reasonable. Little as he was able to trust him, he thought it possible that Burwick was sincere in his agreement to buy off a few of them, and to try to convince others. Certainly, if the Government moved in they would have to move, anyway. With McLennon and Slagle out of the picture the chances were there would be no fight, for the others lacked leadership. No fighting meant no deaths, and the settlers at least would come out of it with a little money.

  He paced the street irritably, avoiding company. Burwick stank of deceit, but the man was a practical man. He realized that a sudden mess of killings preceding the sale of the land would create a furor that might cause them to lose out all around. At least, trouble had been avoided for the time and even Connie was hopeful that something might be done. Tomorrow Kedrick intended returning again to try to make some deal with McLennon and Slagle. A neutral messenger was leaving tonight.

  “They won’t come to town,” Burwick had agreed, “so why not pick some intermediate point? Meet them, say, at Largo Canyon or Chimney Rock? Have your talk there, and I’ll come with you. Just you and me, McLennon and Slagle. We can talk there and maybe make peace. Ain’t it worth a try?”

  It was only that chance for peace that had persuaded him and helped him to persuade Connie. She had listened in silence as he explained the situation. Then she had turned to him frankly. “Captain, you don’t trust them, and neither do I. Uncle John has never been this way before, and I believe somehow he has fallen under the domination of those other men. However, I think that if Burwick is willing to talk, we should at least agree. I’ll stand by you in this and we’ll hope something can come of it that will prevent trouble.”

  Kedrick was less hopeful than he had let it appear, and now he was studying the situation from every angle. As things stood, it was a stalemate. He was confident that with McLennon and Slagle to lead them, the settlers could manage a stiff defense of their town and their homes. Certainly, they could prevent the survey being completed and prevent any use being made of their lands.

  Yet there were fiery elements on both sides, and Keith did not like the turn things had taken. Colonel Loren Keith had from the beginning planned on striking fast and wiping out the opposition. It would be merely another unsolved mystery of the West. Kedrick resolved to keep an eye on the man and be prepared for anything.

  He returned to the St. James and to bed, yet he awakened early and was surprised to see Keith mounted and riding out of town at daybreak.

  With a bound he was out of bed and dressing. Whatever Keith had in mind, he meant to know. Swiftly, he descended the stairs and went to the livery stable. Mounted, he headed out of town, found Keith’s tracks with ease, and followed them. Keith turned off the trail and headed west and slightly north. But after a few miles, Kedrick lost the trail and took a wide swing to try and cut it again. He was unable to. Keith had vanished somewhere in the vicinity of Largo Canyon.

  Returning to the hotel he found a message from Bob McLennon. He and Slagle would meet with Burwick and Kedrick at Chimney Rock at three in the afternoon on Wednesday. It was now Monday, and a whole day lay between. Yet during the remainder of Monday he saw nothing of Dornie Shaw, although Laredo Shad appeared a couple of times, then vanished into one of the saloons.

  At midnight the door of his room opened slowly and Tom Kedrick, gun in hand, sat up. It was Laredo Shad.

  “Somethin’s up,” he said, dropping on the bed, “an’ she looks mighty peculiar. Couple of hours ago Poinsett an’ Goff showed up an’ said they had quit. No fightin’ here, so they were pullin’ out for Durango. About a half hour later they mounted up an’ took out.”

  “What’s peculiar about that?” Kedrick inquired, building a smoke. “That’s in line with Burwick’s talk with me.”

  “Yeah,” Shad replied dryly, “but both of them came in here with a good deal of gear. They lost their pack horses somewheres and went out only with what they could carry on the one horse, and durned little o’ that.”

  “What about Fessenden?”

  “Ain’t seen him.”

  “Any of the others gone?”

  “Clauson is. At least, he ain’t around in sight. I ain’t seen him since morning.”

  That left Shaw, who had been around little himself, and Fessenden, if he was still in town. Despite himself, Kedrick was disturbed. But if Burwick was getting rid of his gunfighters it was a good sign, and probably he, Tom Kedrick, was getting too suspicious. Nothing, Shad said, had been said to him about quitting. “In fact,” he said dryly, “the Mixus boys pulled in this morning, an’ they went right to Burwick.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Killers. Dry-gulchers, mostly. Bean an’ Abe Mixus. They were in that Sandoval affair. Couple of men died awful opportune in that affair, an’ come to think of it, Burwick was around. Fact is, that was where I met him.”

  “Were you in that?”

  “Uh uh. I was in town, though, an’ had me a run-in with Roy Gangle. Roy was a mighty tough ranny who’d been ramroddin’ a big spread down thataway, an’ when he got into the war he went bad, plumb bad. We’d had trouble over a steer, an’ he braced me. He was a mite slow.”

  It made no sense—gunmen leaving, but others arriving. Of course, the Mixus boys could have been spoken to before the change of plans. That must be it. He suggested as much to Laredo and the Texan nodded dubiously.

  “Maybe. I don’t trust that hombre none. Your man Gunter is in over his head. Keith, well, he’s all around bad when it comes to that, but neither of them can hold a candle to that Burwick.”

  STUDY THE SITUATION as he would, Tom Kedrick could see no answer to it, and the fact remained that they were to meet Slagle and McLennon for a peace conference. Out of that anything might come and he had no real cause to distrust Burwick.

  The morning was bright and clear with the sun promising a hot day. It was still cool when Kedrick appeared on the street and crossed to the little restaurant where he ate in silence. He was on his second cup of coffee when Connie came in.

  Her face brightened with a smile as she saw him, and she came over to his table. “You know, you’re the one bright spot in this place. I’m so tired of that old stone house and seeing that dirty old man around that I can scarcely stand it. I’ll be glad when this is all over.”

  He studied her. “What will you do then?”

  “You know, I’ve not really thought of that. What I want to do is to get a ranch somewhere, a place with trees, grass, and some running water. It doesn’t have to be a big place.”

  “Cattle?”

  “A few, but horses are what I want. Horses like that one of yours, I think.”

  “Good idea. It takes less land for horses, and there’s always a market for good stock.” He studied the beauty of her mouth, the quietness and humor of her eyes. “Somehow I’m glad to think you’re staying. It wouldn’t be the same without you. Not now.”

  She looked at him quickly, her eyes dancing with laughter, but with the hint of a question in their depths. “Why, Tom! That sounds almost like gallantry. Like you were trying to make love to me, like all the cowboys.”

  “No, Connie,” he said quietly, “when I make love to you there won’t be any doubt about it. You’ll know and I won’t be fooling.”

  “Somehow I think you’re right. You wouldn’t be fooling.”

  “Over west of here,” he said, “west and south there’s a great rim that stretches for miles across the country, and a splendid pine forest atop it. There’s trees, water, game, and some of the finest mountain meadows a man ever saw. I know a place over there where I camped once, a good spring, some tall trees, graceful in the wind, and a long sweep of land clear to the rim’s edge, and b
eyond it miles upon miles of rolling, sweeping range and forest.”

  “It sounds fascinating, like what I’ve been wanting ever since I came West.”

  He pushed back his chair. “Maybe when this is over, you’d ride over that way with me? I’d like to show it to you.”

  She looked up at him. “All right, Tom. We’ll look at it together.”

  He paused, hat in hand, staring out the door. “Together …” he mused. Then he glanced down at her. “You know, Connie, that’s the most beautiful word in the language—together.”

  He walked away then, pausing to pay his check and hers, then stepping outside into the warmth of the street. A buckboard had stopped and a man was getting out of it, a man who moved warily and looked half frightened. He glanced around swiftly, then ducked through the door into the store.

  CHAPTER 8

  TWO MEN CROSSED the street suddenly. One of them was a man Kedrick had never seen before, the other was the sly-looking loafer he had seen hanging around the back door in the saloon at Yellow Butte. The loafer, a sour-faced man called Singer, was talking. They stopped, and he indicated the buckboard to the man with him. “That’s him, Abe,” Singer was saying: “He’s one of that crowd from across the way. He’s brother-in-law to McLennon.”

  “This is a good place to start,” Abe replied shortly, low voiced. “Let’s go!”

  Tom Kedrick turned on his heel and followed them. As they stepped into the door, he moved forward and caught it before it slammed shut. Neither man seemed to be aware of his presence, for they were intent on the figure at the counter.

  “Hello, Sloan,” Singer said softly. “Meet Abe Mixus!”

  The name must have meant something to Sloan, for he turned, his face gray. He held a baby’s bottle, which he was in the act of buying, in his right hand. His eyes, quick and terror stricken, went from one to the other. He was frightened, but puzzled, and he seemed to be fighting for self-control. “You in this squabble, Singer? I figured you to be outside of it.”

  Singer chuckled. “That’s what I aim for folks to think.”

  Mixus, a lean, stooped man with yellow eyeballs and a thin-cheeked face drew a paper from his pocket. “That’s a quit claim deed, Sloan,” he said. “You can sign it an’ save yourself trouble.”

  Sloan’s face was gray. His eyes went to the deed and seemed to hold there. Then slowly, they lifted. “I can’t do that. My wife’s havin’ a child in the next couple of days. I worked too hard on that place to give it up. I reckon I can’t sign.”

  “I say you better.” Mixus’ voice was cold, level. The storekeeper had vanished, and the room was empty save for the three, and for Tom Kedrick, standing in the shadows near some hanging jeans and slickers. “I say you better sign because you don’t own that prop’ty anyhow. Want to call me a liar?”

  Sloan’s face was gray and yet resolution seemed to have overcome his immediate fear. He was a brave man, and Kedrick knew that whatever he said now, he would die. Tom Kedrick spoke first.

  “No, Abe,” he said softly, “I’ll call you a liar!”

  Mixus stiffened as if struck. He was a killer, and dangerous, but he was a smart, sure-thing killer, and he had believed himself alone but for Singer. Now somebody was behind him. He stood stock still, then started to turn. Singer had fallen back against the wall, his eyes staring to locate Kedrick.

  “It’s Kedrick!” he said. “The boss gunman!”

  Mixus scowled. “What’s the matter?” he said irritably. “What yuh buttin’ in for?”

  “There’s to be no more killing, Abe.” Kedrick held his ground. “We’re havin’ a peace conference tomorrow. This killing is over.”

  “Got my orders,” Mixus persisted. “You talk to Burwick.”

  There was a movement from Sloan, and Mixus whirled on him. “You stand still!” he barked.

  “You can go, Sloan,” Kedrick said. “Get in your outfit an’ head back an’ tell McLennon my word is good. You’d better stop thinking about him, Abe. You’re in trouble, and I’m the trouble.”

  Mixus was confused. He knew Kedrick was ramrodding the gunmen for the company, and he was puzzled. Had he been about to do the wrong thing? But no, he had—“You fool!” His confusion burst into fury. “Keith tol’ me to git him!”

  “Shut up!” Singer yelled. “Dang it! You—”

  Abe Mixus was a cold-blooded killer and no heavy-weight mentally. Orders and counterorders had come to him, and worked up to a killing pitch he had been suddenly stopped in the middle of a job and switched off into this back trail where he floundered hopelessly. Now Singer seemed to be turning on him, and he swung toward him, his teeth bared, his face vicious.

  “Don’t you tell me, you white-livered coyote!” he snarled.

  One hand hung over a gun, and Singer, frightened, grabbed for his own gun. Instantly Mixus whipped out his .44 and flame stabbed at Singer. The renegade turned on his heel. His knees slowly buckled and he slid to the floor, his head against a sack of flour, blood welling from his mouth.

  Mixus stared down at him, and then slowly, he blinked, then blinked again. Awareness seemed to return to him, and his jittery nerves calmed. He stared down at Singer almost unbelieving.

  “Why, I—I—kilt Singer,” he said.

  “That’s right.” Kedrick was watching him, knowing now upon what a slender thread of irritation this man’s muscles were poised. “What will Keith say to that?”

  Cunning came over Abe’s horselike face. “Keith? What give you the idee he had anythin’ to do with this?” he demanded.

  Slowly, attracted by the shooting and made confident by its end, people were gathering in front of the door. The storekeeper had come into the room and stood watching, his face drawn and frightened.

  Tom Kedrick took a slow step back as Abe’s eyes turned toward the front of the store. Putting the hanging slickers between them, he moved on cat feet to the opening between the counters and slid through into the living quarters and out into the alley behind the store.

  Crossing the street below the crowd, he wound up in front of the St. James, pausing there. Laredo Shad materialized beside him. “What happened?” he asked swiftly.

  Kedrick explained. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Keith may be moving on his own. Burwick was to hold off until we had our talk, and I know Keith didn’t like that. He spoke right up about it.”

  “Ain’t Singer s’posed to be a settler?” Shad asked. “Won’t this serve to get ’em all riled up? Who knew that Singer was with Keith an’ the company?”

  “You’ve a point there,” Kedrick said thoughtfully. “This may be the very thing that will blow the lid off!”

  “Both of them were mighty jumpy. It looked like they had Sloan marked because he was McLennon’s relative. I sprung a surprise on them, an’ Mixus just couldn’t get himself located.”

  The crowd separated, then gathered in knots along the street to discuss the new event. Shad loitered beside Kedrick, and was standing there when Loren Keith came up. He glanced sharply at Shad, then at Kedrick. “What’s happened over there?”

  He kept his eyes on Kedrick as he spoke, and Kedrick shrugged. “Shooting, I guess. Not unusual for Mustang from what I hear.”

  “Mixus was in there,” Shad commented. “Wonder if he had a hand in it?”

  Keith turned and looked at Laredo, suspicion in his eyes. “Who was shot?” he inquired, his eyes going from one to the other.

  “Singer, they tell me,” Shad said casually. “I reckon Mixus killed him.”

  “Mixus? Kill Singer?” Keith shook his head. “That’s preposterous!”

  “Don’t know why,” Laredo drawled. “Mixus come heah to fight, didn’t he? An’ ain’t Singer one o’ them settlers?”

  Colonel Keith hesitated, his sharp, hard features a picture of doubt and uncertainty. Watching him, Kedrick was amused and pleased. The storekeeper had not seen him, and it was doubtful if anyone had but Mixus, the dead man, and the now missing Sloan.

  What Abe Mixus
would offer as an explanation for shooting Singer, Tom couldn’t conceive, but a traitor had died, and the enemy was confounded. Little as it might mean in the long run, it was for the moment a good thing. The only fly in the ointment was the fact that Singer had been a squatter, and that few, if any, knew of his tie-up with Keith and the company.

  Watching the crowds in the street, Tom Kedrick began to perceive a new element shaping itself. Public opinion was a force Burwick had not reckoned with, and the faces of the men talking in the streets were hard and bitter.

  These were mostly poor men who had made their own way or were engaged in making their way, and they resented the action of the company. Few had known Singer well, and those few had little use for the man. But to them, it wasn’t important who was gunned down. To them, it was a fight between a bunch of hard-working men against the company, made up largely of outsiders, seeking to profit from the work of local people. Furthermore, whatever Singer was, he was not a gunman and he was a local man. Abe Mixus was a known killer, a gunman whose gun was for hire.

  Tom Kedrick nodded toward the street. “Well, Colonel,” he said, “you’d better start thinking about that unless you want to stretch hemp. That bunch is sore.”

  Keith stared at them nervously, then nodded and hurried away toward headquarters. Shad watched him go and turned toward Kedrick. “You know, we’re sort of tied in with the company, an’ I don’t aim to hang for ’em. Let’s light a shuck out of here an’ stick in the hills a few days.”

  “Can’t. I’ve got to make that meeting with Burwick. But you might get out of town, anyway. Scout around and see what you can find of Goff and the others—if they really left the country or not. Meet me at Chimney Rock about sundown tomorrow.”

  LEAVING SHAD, KEDRICK hurried to his room in the St. James and bundled his gear together. He carried it down to the livery stable and saddled the palouse. When that was done, staying off the main street, he headed for headquarters. It was Connie Duane he wanted to see, and not Burwick or Keith.