As he ate, Tom Kedrick studied his situation with care. He had taken this job in New Orleans, and at the time had needed money badly. Gunter had put up the cash to get him out here. If he did back out, he would have to find a way to repay him. Yet the more he looked over this group, the more he believed that he was in something that he wanted out of—but fast.
He had fought as a soldier of fortune in several wars. War had been his profession, and he had been a skilled fighting man almost from the beginning. His father, a one-time soldier, had a love for tactics, and Tom had grown up with an interest in things military. His education had mostly come from his father and from a newspaper man who lived with them for a winter and helped to teach the boy what he could.
Kedrick had grown up with his interest in tactics, and had entered the army and fought through the War Between the States. The subsequent fighting had given him a practical background to accompany his study and theory. But with all his fighting and killing it had entailed, he had not become callous.
To run a bunch of renegades off the land seemed simple enough and it promised action and excitement. It was a job he could do. Now he was no longer sure it was a job for him. His talk with Dai Reid as well as the attitude of so many of the people in Mustang convinced him that all was not as simple as it had first appeared. Now, before taking a final step, he wanted to survey the situation and see just whom he would be fighting, and where. At the same time, he knew the men who rode with him were going to ask few questions. They would do their killing, collect their money, and ride on.
Of them all, only Shad might think as he did, and Kedrick made a mental note to talk with the Texan before the day was over, find out where he stood and what he knew. He was inclined to agree with Shaw’s original judgment, that Shad was one of the best of the lot with a gun. The man’s easy way was not only natural to him, he was simply confident. He had that hard confidence that comes only from having measured his own ability and knowing what he could do when the chips were down.
After he finished his coffee he got to his feet and strolled over to the spring, had a drink, then arose and walked to his horse, tightening the cinch he had loosened when they stopped. The air was clear. Despite their lowered voices, he could catch most of what was said.
The first question he missed, but Fessenden’s reply he heard. “Don’t you fret about him. He’s a scrapper from way back, Dornie. I found that out. This here ain’t our first meetin’.”
Even at this distance and with his horse between him and the circle of men, Kedrick could sense their attention.
“Tried to finagle him out of that Patterson herd up in Injun Territory. He didn’t finagle worth a durn.”
“What happened?” Goff demanded. “Any shootin’?”
“Some. I was ridin’ partners with Chuck Gibbons, the Llano gunman, an’ Chuck was always on the prod, sort of. One, two times I figured I might have to shoot it out with him my own self, but wasn’t exactly honin’ for trouble. We had too good a thing there to bust it up quarrelin’. But Chuck, he was plumb salty, an’ when Kedrick faced him an’ wouldn’t back down or deliver the cattle, Chuck called him.”
Fessenden sipped his coffee, while the men waited impatiently. When they could stand the suspense no longer, Goff demanded, “Well, what happened?”
The big man shrugged. “Kedrick’s here, ain’t he?”
“I mean—what was the story?”
“Gibbons never cleared leather. None of us even seen Kedrick draw, but you could have put a half dollar over the two holes in Chuck’s left shirt pocket.”
Nobody spoke after that, and Tom Kedrick took his time over the cinch. Then leaving his horse, he walked away further and circled, scouting the terrain thoughtfully.
He was too experienced a man to fail to appreciate the importance of a knowledge of terrain. All this country from Mustang to the Territory line would become a battleground in the near future, and a man’s life might depend on what he knew. He wasted no opportunity to study the country or ask questions.
He had handled tough groups before and he was not disturbed over the problem this one presented. However, in this case he knew the situation was much more serious. In a group the men would be easier to handle than they would separately. These men were all individualists, and were without any group loyalty. In the last analysis, they had faith in only two things: six-gun skill and money. By these they lived and by these they would die.
That Fessenden had talked was pleasing, for it would, at least settle the doubts of some of the others. Knowing him for a gunhand, they would more willingly accept orders from him, not because of fear, but rather because they knew him for one of their own, and not some stranger brought in to command.
When once again they all moved out, taking their time, the heat had increased. Nothing stirred on the wide, shallow face of the desert but a far and lonely buzzard that floated high and alone over a far-off mesa. Tom Kedrick’s eyes roamed the country ceaselessly, and yet from time to time his thoughts kept reverting to the girl on the veranda. Connie Duane was a beautiful girl. Although Gunter’s niece, she apparently did not approve all he did.
Why was she here? What was her connection with Keith? Kedrick sensed the latter’s animosity and he welcomed it. A quiet man, he was slow to anger; but when he was pushed, a deep-seated anger arose within him in a black tide that made him a driving fury. Knowing this rage that lay dormant within him, he rode carefully, talked carefully, and held his temper and his hand.
Dornie Shaw drew up suddenly. “This here is Canyon Largo,” he said, waving his hand down the rift before them. “That peak ahead an’ on your right is The Orphan. Injuns won’t let no white man up there, but they say there’s a spring with a good flow of water on top.
“Yonder begins the country that Burwick, Keith and Gunter bought up. They don’t have the land solid to the Arizona border, but they’ve got a big chunk of it. The center of the squatters is a town called Yellow Butte. There’s maybe ten, twelve buildin’s there, among ’em a store, a stable, corrals, a saloon, an’ a bank.”
Kedrick nodded thoughtfully. The country before him was high desert country and could under no circumstances be called swamp. In the area where he stood there was little growth: a few patches of curly mesquite grass or black grama, with prickly pear, soapweed, creosote bush and catclaw scattered through it. In some of the washes he saw the deeper green of piñon or juniper.
They pushed on, entered the canyon and emerged from it, heading due west. He rode warily, and once, far off on his left, he glimpsed a horseman. Later, seeing the same rider, nearer than before, he deduced they were under observation and hoped there would be no attack.
“The country where most of the squatters are is right smack dab in the middle o’ the range the company is after. The hombre most likely to head ’em is Bob McLennon. He’s got him two right-hand men name of Pete Slagle an’ Pit Laine. Now, you asked me the other day if they would fight. Them three are shinnery oak. Slagle’s an oldish feller, but McLennon’s in his forties an’ was once a cowtown marshal. Laine, well, he’s a tough one to figure, but he packs two guns an’ cuts him a wide swath over there. I hear tell he had him some gun trouble up Durango way an’ he didn’t need no help to handle it.”
From behind him Kedrick heard a low voice mutter, “Most as hard to figure as his sister!”
DORNIE’S MOUTH TIGHTENED, but he gave no other evidence that he had heard. However, the comment served to add a little to Kedrick’s information. Obviously, Dornie Shaw had a friend in the enemy’s camp, and the information with which he had been supplying Keith must come from that source. Was the girl betraying her own brother and her friends? It could be; but could Shaw come and go among them without danger? Or did he worry himself about it?
There had been no mention of Dai Reid, yet the powerful little Welshman was sure to be a figure wherever he stood. He was definitely a man to be reckoned with.
Suddenly, a rider appeared from an arroyo not thirty yards o
ff and walked her horse toward them. Dornie Shaw swore softly and drew up. As one man, they all stopped.
The girl was small, well made, her skin as brown as that of an Indian, her hair coal black. She had large, beautiful eyes and small hands. Her eyes flashed from Dornie to the others, then clung to Tom Kedrick, measuring him for a long minute. “Who’s your friend, Dornie?” she said. “Introduce me.”
Shaw’s eyes were dark and hard as he turned slightly. “Cap’n Kedrick, I want yuh to meet Sue Laine.”
“Captain?” She studied him anew. “Were you in the army?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. Her pinto was not the horse of the rider who had been observing them; therefore, there was another rider out there somewhere. Who was he?
“You’re ridin’ quite a ways from home, Sue,” Shaw interrupted. “You think that’s wise?”
“I can take care of myself, Dornie!” Her reply was cool, and Kedrick saw blood rise under Shaw’s skin. “However, I came to warn you, or Captain Kedrick, if he is in charge. It won’t be safe to ride any farther. McLennon called a meeting this morning and they voted to open fire on any party of surveyors or strange riders they see. From now on, this country is closed. A rider is going to Mustang tonight with the news.”
“There she is,” Goff said dryly. “They are sure enough askin’ for it! What if we ride on, anyway?”
She glanced at him. “Then there will be fighting,” she said quietly.
“Well,” Poinsett said impatiently, “what are we talkin’ for? We come here to fight, didn’t we? Let’s ride on an’ see how much battle they got in them.”
Tom Kedrick studied the girl thoughtfully. She was pretty, all right, very pretty. She lacked the quiet beauty of Connie Duane, but she did have beauty. “Do they have scouts out?” he asked.
She glanced at him. “Not yet, but they will have.” She smiled. “If they had I’d never have dared ride to warn you.”
“Whose side are you on, Miss Laine?” Kedrick asked.
Dornie’s head came around sharply and his eyes blazed. Before he could speak, Sue Laine answered for herself. “That decision I make for myself. My brother does not make it for me, nor any one of them. They are fools! To fight over this desert!” Contemptuously, she waved a hand at it. “There’s no more than a bare living on it, anyway! If they lose, maybe we can leave this country!”
She swung her horse abruptly. “Well, you’ve had your warning. Now I’ll go back.”
“I’ll be ridin’ your way,” Shaw interposed.
Her eyes swung back to him. “Don’t bother!” Then she turned her attention deliberately to Kedrick and measured him again with her cool eyes, a hint of a smile in them now. “If anybody comes, let Captain Kedrick come. They don’t know him!”
Somebody in the group chuckled, and Dornie Shaw, his face white as death, swung his horse. His teeth were bared, his right hand poised. “Who laughed?” he said, his voice almost trembling.
“Miss Laine,” Kedrick said quietly, “I think Dornie Shaw could make the trip better than I. He knows the country.”
Shaw’s eyes glittered. “I asked: who laughed?”
Kedrick turned his head. “Forget it, Shaw.” His voice was crisp. “There’ll be no fighting with other men in this outfit while I’m in command!”
For an instant, Dornie Shaw held his pose. Then his eyes, suddenly opaque as a rattler’s, swung toward Kedrick. “You’re tellin’ me?” Incredulity mixed with sarcasm.
Tom Kedrick knew danger when he saw it, but he only nodded. “You, or anybody, Dornie. We have a job to do. You’ve hired on for that job as much as any man here. If we begin to fight among ourselves we’ll get nothing done, and right now we can’t afford to lose a good man.
“I scarcely think,” he added, “that either Keith or Burwick would like the idea of a killing among their own men.”
Shaw’s eyes held Kedrick’s and for an instant there was no sound. A cicada hummed in the brush, and Sue Laine’s horse stamped at a fly. Tom Kedrick knew in that instant that Dornie Shaw hated him. He had an idea that this was the first time Shaw had ever been thwarted in any purpose he held.
Then Shaw’s right hand slowly lowered. “Yuh got me on that one, Cap’n,” his voice was empty, dry. “I reckon this is too soon to start shootin’—an’ old man Burwick is right touchy.”
Sue Laine glanced at Kedrick, genuine surprise and not a little respect in her eyes. “I’ll be going. Watch yourselves!”
Before her horse could more than start, Kedrick asked, “Miss Laine, which of your outfit rides a long-legged grulla?”
She turned on him, her face pale. “A—a grulla?”
“Yes,” he said, “such a rider has been watching us most of the morning, and such a rider is not over a half mile away now. Also,” he added, “he has a field glass!”
Fessenden turned with an oath, and Poinsett glared around. Only Shaw spoke. His voice was strained and queer. “A grulla? Here?”
He refused to say more, but Kedrick studied him, puzzled by the remark. It was almost as if Shaw knew a grulla horse, but had not expected it to be seen here. The same might be true of Sue Laine, who was obviously upset by his comment. Long after they rode on, turning back toward the spring on the North Fork, Kedrick puzzled over it. This was an entirely new element that might mean anything or nothing.
There was little talking on the way back. Poinsett was obviously irritated that they had not ridden into a fight, yet he seemed content enough to settle down into another camp.
CHAPTER 4
DORNIE SHAW WAS silent. Only when Tom Kedrick arose after supper and began to saddle his horse did he look up. Kedrick glanced at him. “Shaw, I’m ridin’ to Yellow Butte. I’m going to look that setup over at first hand. I don’t want trouble an’ I’m not huntin’ any, but I want to know what we’re tacklin’.”
Shaw was standing, staring after him, when he rode off. Kedrick rode swiftly, pushing due west at a good pace to take advantage of the remaining light. He had more than one reason for the ride. He wanted to study the town and the terrain, but also he wanted to see what the people were like. Were they family men? Or were they outlaws? He had seen little thus far that tended to prove the outlaw theory.
The town of Yellow Butte lay huddled at the base of the long oval-shaped mesa from which it took its name. There, on a bit of flat land, the stone and frame buildings of the town had gathered together. Most of them backed against the higher land behind them, and faced toward the arroyo. Only three buildings and the corrals were on the arroyo side, but one thing was obvious. The town had never been planned for defense.
A rifleman or two on top of Yellow Butte could cover any movement in the village; and the town was exposed to fire from both the high ground behind the town and the bed of the arroyo, where there was shelter under its banks. The butte itself was scarcely one hundred and fifty feet higher than the town and looked right down the wide street in front of the buildings.
Obviously, however, some move had been made toward defense—or was in the process of being made—for occasional piles of earth near several of the buildings were plainly from recent digging. He studied them, puzzled over their origin and cause. Finally, he gave up and scouted the area.
Thoughtfully, he glanced at the butte. Had the squatters thought of putting their own riflemen up there? It would seem the obvious thing, yet more than one competent commander, at some time during his career, had forgotten the obvious. It might also be true of these men. He noted that the top of the butte not only commanded the town, but most of the country around, and was the highest point within several miles.
Kedrick turned his palouse down the hill toward the town. He rode in the open, his right hand hanging free at his side. If he was seen, nothing was done to disturb him. What if there were more than one rider?
He swung down before the Butte Saloon and tied his horse at the rail. He knew the animal was weary and in no shape for a long ride.
The street was empty. He stepp
ed up on the walk and pushed through the swinging doors into the bright lights of the interior. A man sitting alone at a table saw him, scowled and started to speak, then thought better of it and went on with his solitaire. Tom Kedrick crossed to the bar. “Rye,” he said quietly.
The bartender nodded and poured the drink. It was not until Kedrick dropped his coin on the bar that the bartender looked up. Instantly, his face stiffened. “Who’re you?” he demanded. “I never saw you before!”
Kedrick was aware that two men had closed in on him. Both of them were strangers. One was a sharp looking, oldish man, the other an obviously belligerent redhead. “Pour a drink for my friends, too,” he said. Then he turned slowly, so they would not mistake his intentions, until his back was to the bar. Carefully, he surveyed the room.
There were a dozen men here, and all eyes were on him. “I’m buying,” he said quietly. “Will you gentlemen join me?”
Nobody moved and he shrugged. He turned back to the bar. His drink was gone.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to the bartender. “I bought a drink,” he said quietly.
The man stared back at him, his eyes hard. “Never noticed it,” he said.
“I bought a drink, paid my money, and I want what I paid for.”
All was still. The men on either side of him leaned on the bar, ignoring him.
“I’m a patient man,” he persisted, “I bought a drink, an’ I want it—now.”
“Mister,” the bartender thrust his wide face across the bar, “we don’t serve drinks to your kind here. Now get out before we throw you out!”
Kedrick’s forearms were resting on the edge of the bar, and what followed was done so swiftly that neither man beside him had a chance to move.
Tom Kedrick’s right hand shot out and grabbed the bartender by the shirt collar under his chin, then he turned swiftly, back to the bar, and heaved. The bartender came over the bar as if he were greased and hit the floor with a crash. Instantly, Kedrick spun away from the two men beside him and stood facing the room, gun in hand.
Novel 1953 - Showdown At Yellow Butte Page 3