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, and the big man was slowly sitting up, shaking his big head. He darted 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 and busted it.”
With Keith, John Gunter had come up, 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 to night, 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 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, but all of it 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 short-cropped 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! And what are you doing in this country?”
“Ah? So it’s that you ask, is it? Well, it’s trouble there is, bye, 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, 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 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 swamp-land 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 as 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, 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, given 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 could 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 a
nd 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 like to 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 where 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 beyond 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 his, a man stepped and stared after him. It was Dornie Shaw.
III
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 shall the far miles stand out so clearly, the mesas, towers, and cliffs so boldly outlined. Nowhere will the cloud shadows island themselves as on 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 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, each man 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 solid black—a clean-limbed horse, strong and fast, with quick, intelligent eyes and interested ears.
When they had bunched to start their ride, Laredo Shad had 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 had 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. They had seen him yesterday, 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 had seen them bunch, and, while they all were there, he had said simply: “All right, let’s go!”
They had mounted up. Kedrick had noted slender, wiry Dornie Shaw, the great bulk of Si Fessenden, lean, bitter Poinsett, the square, blond Lee Goff, sour-faced Clauson, the oldest of the lot, and the lean Texan, Laredo Shad. Moving out, he had glanced at them. What ever else they might be, they were fighting men. Several times Shaw had glanced at his guns.
“You ain’t wearin’ Colts?”
“No, Forty-Four Russians. They are a good gun, one of the most accurate ever built.” He had 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 cañons to cross, then a big peak. The Indians an’ Spanish called it The Orphan. All wild country. Right behind 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 had asked suddenly, “you figure on ridin’ over to the malpais this trip?”
Clauson had 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 gunslinger.”
“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 had 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 had turned in his saddle, and his thin features had sharpened. “Shut up!” he had said coldly.
The older man had tightened and his eyes had blazed back with genuine hate, yet he had 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 in a cow camp. These men were surly and touchy. Only Shaw seemed to relax much, 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 really an excellent cook.
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, and, 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 into 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 newspaperman 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 the 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 he wanted to do, for his talk with Dai Reid as well as the attitude of so many people in Mustang had 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 an
d see just who 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 with that hard confidence that comes only from having measured his 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, and 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 damn.”
“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.”
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