“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, and then picked it up. “Be seein’ you,” he said, and stepped to the door. 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 anger.
“While he stands an’ talks to us, his outfit murders Bob!”
“Get him!” somebody yelled. “Get 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 man 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 upstream and that downstream of the arroyo would be covered by guards, so he swung his horse and charged into the darkness toward Yellow Butte itself.
As he had come into town, he had seemed to see 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 now, for 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, and both would be watched, as he had first surmised. The butte towered high above him now, and his horse walked softly in the abysmal darkness at its foot. His safety was a matter of minutes, for they must know they had him. The palouse was tired, he knew, for he had been going all day, and the day was warm and he was a big man. He was in no shape for a hard run against fresh horses, so the only possible escape lay in some shrewd move that would have 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 were steep enough to allow no escape on horseback, at least.
The shouts of pursuit had stopped now, but he knew they 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 was shrewd enough to realize that if they had not guarded the openings before his arrival, they certainly would have sent guards out at once.
The canyon was narrow and 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 this was an end. He was trapped, fairly trapped!
Behind him, a light flared briefly and then went out, but there was a shout. That had been a struck match, somebody looking for tracks. And they had found them.
In a few minutes more, for they would move cautiously, they would be here.
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, and 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 bulk 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 and 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, almost without sound.
Literally, he was feeling his way in the (lark, but 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, they would probably know it and make no attempt to close it 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 with him his rifle.
At the top he could turn and glance back down the canyon, and the faint grayness in the distance 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, breakin
g the edge of the cliff above him, was a notch, and 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, but the slide was steeper than a stairway and might start sliding under foot. Certainly, the rattle would give away his attempt, and it would be the matter of a few minutes only for them to circle around. As far as that went, they 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 falling 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, or nearly there, and knew what he had come upon.
Water, flooding down that slide during heavy rains, had struck a soft stratum of sand or mud at this point, and striking it with force, had gouged out a deep hole 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. He was walking, leading the horse, but the opening of the hole in which he stood was at least fifteen feet above him and not more than seven or eight feet in width. He moved on into it, and after only a short distance it was almost covered on top by a thick growth of brush growing on the surface or 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 and 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 at some distance, there were voices! The cave in which he stood was sandstone, no more than fifteen feet in depth and probably eight feet high at the opening.
Kedrick moved to the mouth and studied the crevasse down which he had come. It was as he had supposed, a deeply cut watercourse from the notch in the cliff.
Evidently, during heavy rains this roared full of water, almost to the brim. At the place where he now stood the brush on either side almost met over the top, and at one point a fallen slab bridged the crack. Glancing back the way he had come, Kedrick saw that much of it was also covered by brush, and there was a chance that he would not be found-a very, very slim chance, but a chance. He could ask for no more.
He wanted to smoke, but dared not, for the smell of it might warn them of his presence. Several times he heard voices, some of them quite near. He glanced toward the back of the cave and saw the gelding drinking again. Evidently water had seeped through during the night, even though not much. His canteen was over half full, and as yet water was not a problem.
His rifle across his knees, he waited, from time to time staring down the crevasse in the direction he had been going.
Where did this water flow? It must flow into the arroyo below, near town, and in that case they would certainly know of it. The men and women of the town might not know of it, but the children would without doubt. Trust them to find every cave, every niche in the rock, within miles!
Yet as the morning wore on, although he heard occasionally the sound of voices, nobody approached his place of concealment, nor did they seem aware of it. Once, he ventured out into the crevasse itself and pulled a few handfuls of grass growing on a slight mound of earth. This he fed to the horse, who ate gratefully. He dug some jerky from his own pack and chewed on it, wishing for a cup of coffee.
Later, he ventured father down the crevasse, which seemed to dip steeply from where he was. Hearing no voices, he pushed on, coming to a point where the crevasse turned sharply again. The force of the water had hollowed out a huge cave like a bowl standing on edge, and then the water had turned and shot down an even steeper declivity into the black maw of a cavern! Having come this far, he took a chance on leaving his horse alone and walked on down toward the cave. The entrance was high and wide, and the cave extended deep into the mountain, with several shelves or ledges that seemed to show no signs of water. There was a pool in the bottom, and apparently the water filled a large basin, but lost itself through some cracks in the bottom of the larger hollow.
He penetrated no great distance and could find no evidence of another outlet, nor. could he feel any motion of air. Yet, as he looked around him, he realized that with some food a man might well hide in this place for weeks, and unless they went to the foot of the slide and found the opening into the crevasse, this place might never be discovered.
The runoff from the cliff, then, did not go to the arroyo, but ended here, in this deep cavern.
The day wore on slowly, and twice he walked back down to the cavern to smoke, but left his horse where it was, for he had an idea he could escape later. Yet when dusk came and he had worked his way back up the crevasse slide and crawled out on the edge where he could look toward the entrance, he saw two men squatting there beside a fire, with rifles under their hands.
They believed him concealed inside and hoped to starve him out.
By this time Dornie Shaw must have returned to Mustang with news of his disappearance and probably of their murder of the messenger, for Kedrick was sure that it had been his own group who had committed the crime. It was scarcely possible that Gunter or Keith would countenance such a thing near town, where it could not fail to be seen and reported upon by unfriendly witnesses.
Returning, he studied the slide to the rim. It was barely possible that a horse might scramble up there. It would be no trick for an active man, and the palouse was probably a mountain horse. It was worth a gamble, if there was no one on top to greet him. Pulling an armful of grass from near the brush and boulders, he returned to the horse and watched it gratefully munch the rich green grass.
Connie Duane was disturbed. She had seen the messenger come to her uncle and the others and had heard their reply. Then, at almost noon the following day, Dornie Shaw and the others had come in, and they had returned without Tom Kedrick.
Why that should disturb her she could not have said, but the fact remained that it did. Since he had stepped up on the veranda she had thought of little else, remembering the set of his chin, the way he carried his shoulders, and his startled expression when he had seen her. There was something about him that was different, not only from the men around her uncle, but from any man she had known before.
Now, when despite herself she had looked forward to his return, he was missing.
John Gunter came out on the veranda, nervously biting the end from a cigar. “What happened?” she asked. “Is something wrong? Where’s Captain Kedrick?” “Wish I knew!” His voice was sharp with anxiety. “He took a ride to look over those squatters an’ never came back. I don’t trust Shaw, no matter how much Keith does.
He’s too bloodthirsty. W e could get into a lot of trouble here, Connie. That’s why I wanted Kedrick. He has judgment, brains.”
“Perhaps he decided he wanted no part of it, Uncle. Maybe he decided your squatters were not outlaws or renegades.”
Gunter glanced at her sharply. “Who has been talking to you?” he demanded. . “No one. It hasn’t been necessary. I have walked around town, and I’ve seen that some of these outlaws, as y
ou call them, have wives and children, that they buy supplies and look like nice, likable people. I don’t like it, Uncle John, and I don’t like to think that my money may be financing a part of it.”
“Now, now! Don’t bother your head over it. You may be sure that Loren and I will do everything we can for your best interests.”
“Then drop this whole thing!” she pleaded. “There’s no need for it. I’ve money enough, and I don’t want money that comes from depriving others of their homes. They all have a right to live, a chance.”
“Of course!” Gunter was impatient. “We’ve gone over all this before! But I tell you most of those people are trash, and no matter about that, they all will be put off that land, anyway. The government is going to buy out whoever has control. That will mean us, and that means we’ll get a nice, juicy profit.”
“From the government? Your own government, Uncle?” Connie studied him coolly. was I fail to understand the sort of man who will attempt to defraud his own government. There are people like that, I suppose, but somehow I never thought I’d find one in my own family.”
“Don’t be silly, child. You know nothing of business. You aren’t practical.”
“I suppose not. Only I seem to remember that a lot of worthwhile things don’t seem practical at the moment. No,” she got to her feet, “I believe I’ll withdraw my investment in this deal and buy a small ranch somewhere nearby. I will have no part in it.”
“You can’t do that!” Gunter exploded impatiently. “Your money is already in, and there’s no way of getting it out until this business is closed. Now, why don’t you trust me like a good girl? You always have before!” “Yes, I have, Uncle John, but I never believed you could be dishonest.”
She studied him frankly. “You aren’t very happy about this yourself. You know,” she persisted, “those people aren’t going to move without a fight. You believed they could be frightened. Well, they cant. I’ve seen Bob McLennon, and he’s not the kind of a man who can be frightened, even by that choice bunch of murderers Loren has gathered together.”
Showdown On the Hogback (1991) Page 4