Showdown at Yellow Butte (1983) (14 page)

It was growing cool outside and the warmth of the room felt good. Both men stepped to the bar
,
and Kedrick ordered and paid. Toying with his drink, Shad seemed uneasy. Finally he turned to Tom. "I don't like it," he said, low voiced. "Somehow or other Burwick is goin' to know about Ran-some, an' he'll be in a sweat to get Connie out of the way, an' you an' me with her."

Kedrick agreed, for his own mind had been reading signs along the same trail. Now the only way out for the company was to face the committee, if Ransome managed one, with a plausible tale and an accomplished fact, and then let the investigating body make the most of it.

"Burwick's a snake," Shad commented. 'Hell never quit wigglin' until the sun goes down for the last time. Not that one. He's in this deep, an' he ain't the man to lose without a fight."

Horses' hoofs sounded on the road outside and when they turned, Pit Laine and Dai Reid were dismounting before the door. They walked in, and Lane looked at Kedrick, then moved on to the bar. Dai appeared worried, but said nothing. After a minute, Laine turned suddenly and went outside. "What's the matter?" Kedrick asked.

"It be worry, bye, and some of it shame, an' all for that sister o' his. Who would think it o' her? To go over to the other side? He's that shy about it, you would scarce believe. When a man looks at him, he thinks it's his sister they are thinkin' on, and how she sold out to that traitor to mankind, that rascal, Keith."

Kedrick shrugged. "Ambition and money do strange things. She has the makings of a woman, too."

Laine opened the door. "Better come out," he said, "we've got trouble."

They crowded outside. Men were hurrying toward the houses, their faces grave. "What is it?" Kedrick asked quickly.

"Burt Williams signaled from the top of the butte. There's riders coming from Mustang, a bunch of them."

As they looked, the small dark figure of a man appeared on the edge of the mesa once more. This time they saw his arm wave: one . . . two . . . three times, and continue until he had waved it six times. When he had completed, he gestured to the southeast. Then he signaled four more times from the southwest.

"Ten riders," Laine spat. "Well, we've got more than that here, but they aren't as salty as that crowd."

Burt Williams, favoring his broken arm, knelt behind a clump of brush on top of Yellow Butte and studied the approaching horsemen through the glass. He knew all in this group by sight but not by favor. One by one he named them off to himself, "Keith, Dornie Shaw, Fessenden an'
Goff Poinsett
." He scowled. "No, that ain't Poinsett. That's one o' the Maus boys. Yep, an' there's the other." He swung his glass. The four riders spaced well apart, were approaching at a steady pace. None of their faces was familiar. He stared at them awhile, but finally placed only one of them, a bad man from Durango who ran with Port Stockton and the Ketchum outfit. His name was Brokow.

Stirred, he searched the country all around the town for other movement, then turned back to the larger cavalcade of riders. Had he held on a certain high flat a minute longer he would have seen two unmounted men cross it at a stoopin
g
run and drop into the wide arroyo northeast of town.

As it was, he had been studying the approaching group for several minutes before he realized that Poinsett was not among them. He was with neither group.

Worried, Williams squinted his eyes against the sun, wondering how he could apprise them of the danger down below, for the absence of Poinsett disturbed him. The man was without doubt one of the most vicious of the company killers. He was a bitter man, made malignant by some dark happening in his past, but filled now with a special sort of venom all his own. Williams would have worried even more had he seen Poinsett at that moment.

The attack had been planned carefully and with all of Keith's skill. He surmised who they would be looking for, and hoped their watcher would overlook the absence of Poinsett. It was Poinsett whom Keith wanted in the right position for he was unquestionably the best of the lot with a rifle.

At that moment, not two hundred yards from town, Poinsett and his companion, Alf Starrett, were hunkered down in a cluster of brush and boulders at one side of the arroyo. Poinsett had his Spencer .56 and was settling into position for his first shot. Starrett, with a fifteen-shot Henry .44 was a half dozen yards away.

Poinsett pulled out a huge silver watch and consulted it. "At half after two, he says. All right, that's when he'll get it." With utmost composure he began to roll a smoke, and Alf Starrett, a hard-faced and wizened little man, noticed that his fingers were steady as he sifted tobacco into the paper.

Bob McLennon had planned the defense of Yellow Butte, if such a defense became necessary. Bob had been something of a hand with a gun, but he definitely had not been a soldier nor even an Indian fighter. Moreover, he had not expected an all out battle for the town. Whatever the reason, he had committed a fatal error. That pile of boulders and brush offered perfect concealment and almost perfect cover while affording complete range of the town, its one street, and the back as well as front of most of the buildings.

Keith had been quick to see the vantage point on his earlier visits to the town. He had carefully planned to have Poinsett and Starrett approach the place some time before the main force moved in. So far, no hitch in the plan had developed.

Poinsett finished his cigarette and took up his rifle, then settled down to a careful watching and checking of the time. He had his orders and they were explicit. He was to fire on the first
target
offered after half past two. His first shot must kill. Shad and Kedrick had returned to the saloon while Pit Laine loitered out front. Dai had gone across the street. Although Laine was out of Poinsett's sight, Dai made a perfect target. The Welshman, however, offered only a fleeting target and Poinsett did not get a chance to fire. In the next instant, however, the opportunity came.

The door of one of the nearest shacks opened
and a man came out. He wore a broad-brimmed gray hat, torn at the crown, and a large checked shirt tucked into jeans supported by suspenders. He turned at the door and kissed his wife. Poinsett took careful aim with his .56, choosing as his aiming point the man's left suspender buckle. Taking a good deep breath he held it and squeezed off his shot.

The big bullet struck with a heavy thump. The man took a heavy lurch sidewise, tried to straighten and then went down. His wife ran from the door, screaming. Up the street a door banged and two men ran into the street, staring. Starrett's first shot knocked the rifle from the hand of one, splintering the stock. Poinsett dropped his man, but the fellow began to drag himself, favoring one leg which even from a distance they could see covered with a dark blotch at the knee.

Poinsett was a man without mercy. Coolly and carefully, he squeezed off his second shot. The man stiffened, jerked spasmodically and lay still.

"Missed my man," All said, apologetically, "but I mint his shootin' iron."

Poinsett spat, his eyes cold. "Could happen to anybody," he said philosophically, "but I figured you burnt him anyways."

Within the saloon Kedrick had a glass half to his mouth when the shot boomed. It was followed almost at once by two more, the reports sounding almost as one.

"Blazes!" Shad whirled. "They ain't here yet?" "They've been here," Kedrick said with quick realization. He swung to the door, glancing up the street. He saw the body of the last man to fall. Leaning out a bit, he glimpsed the other. His lips tightened, for neither man was moving.

"Somebody is up the draw," he explained quickly. "He's got the street covered. Is there a back way?" Kedrick dove for the door followed by the others as the bartender indicated the exit. Catching up his shotgun. His pockets were already stuffed with shells. At the door Kedrick halted. Flattening against the wall, he stared up the draw. From here he could see the edge of the bunch of boulders and guessed the fire caine from there. "Pinned down," he said. "They are up the draw."

Nobody moved. Kedrick's memory for terrain served him to good purpose now. Recalling the draw he remembered that it was below the level of the town beyond that point. But right there the boulders offered a perfect firing point.

Scattered shots came from down the draw, and nobody spoke. All knew that they could not long withstand the attack.

Chapter
XII

KEDRICK made up his mind quickly. Defense of the town was now impossible. They would be either wiped out or burned alive if they attempted to remain. "Shad," he said quickly, "get across the street to Dai and Pit. Yell out to the others and get them to fall back, regardless of risk, to the canyon at the foot of Yellow Butte."

He took a step back and glanced at the tra
p
door to the roof. The bartender saw the intent and shook his head. "You can't do it, boy. They'd git you from down the crick."

`I'm going to chance it. I think they are still too far off. If I can give you folks covering fire you may make it."

"What about your Shad demanded.
m
ake it. Get moving!"

Laredo wheeled and darted to the door, paused an instant and lunged across the street. The bartender hesitated, swore softly, then followed. Kedrick picked up a bottle of the liquor and shoved it into his shirt, then jumped for the edge of the trap door, caught it and pulled himself through into the small attic. Carefully, he studied the situation.

Hot firing came from down stream, and evidently the killers were momentarily stopped there. He hoisted himself through, swung to the ride of the roof, and carefully studied the boulders. Suddenly, he caught a movement, and knew that what he had first believed to be a gray rock was actually a shirt. He took careful aim with his Winchester, then fired.

The gray shirt jumped, and a hand flew up, then fell loose. Instantly a Spencer boomed and a bullet tore a chunk from the ridge near his face and splattered him with splinters. Kedrick moved down roof a bit. Then catching the signal from the window across the street, he deliberately shoved his rifle and head up, fired four fast shots, then two more. Ducking his head, he reloaded the Winchester. Another bullet smashed the ridgepole. Then a searching fire began, the heavy slugs tearing through the roof about three to four inches below the top.

Kedrick slid down the roof. He hesitated at the edge of the trap door, and seeing a distant figure circling to get behind the men in the wash, he took careful aim and squeezed off his shot. It was all of five hundred yards, and he had only a small bit of darkness at which to aim.

The shot kicked up sand short of the mark by a foot or more as nearly as he could judge. He knew he had missed, but the would-be sniper lost his taste for his circling movement and slid out of sight. Kedrick went down the trap and dropped again into the saloon. Regretfully, he glanced at the stock of whisky, then picked up two more bottles and stuffed them into his pockets.

Hesitating only a second, he lunged across the street for the shelter of the opposite building. The Spencer boomed, and he knew that the hidden marksman had been awaiting this effort. He felt the shock of the bullet, staggered but kept going.

Reaching the opposite side, he felt the coldness of something on his stomach and glanced down. The bottle in his shirt had been broken by the bullet and he smelled to high heaven of good whisky. Picking the glass out of his shirt, he dove for the livery stable and swung into the saddle on the pa-louse.

The Spencer boomed again and again as he hit the road riding hard, but he made it. The others cheered as he rode pell mell through the canyon mouth and swung to the ground.

"This is no good," Lane said. "They can get behind us on the ridge."

Two men limped in from the draw, having withdrawn from boulder to boulder. Kedrick glanced around. There were fourteen men and women her
e
who were on their feet. One man, the one who had the rifle knocked from his hand, had a shattered arm. The others were slightly wounded. Of them all, he had only seven men able to fight.

Quickly, he gave directions for their retreat. Then with Dai and Shad to hold the canyon mouth and cover them, they started back up the canyon. Tom Kedrick measured his group thoughtfully. Of Laredo, Dai and LaMe, he had no doubts at all. Of these others, he could not be sure. Good men, some of them, and one or two were obviously frightened. Nobody complained, however, and one of the men whose face was pale, took a wounded man's rifle and gave him a shoulder on which to lean. Kedrick led them to the crevasse and down into it.

Amazed, they stared around. "What d'you know?" The bartender spat. "Been here nigh seven year an' never knowed o' this place!"

There were four horses in the group, but they brought them all into the cave. One of the men complained, but Kedrick turned on him. 'There's water, but we may be glad to eat horse meat." The man swallowed and stared.

Laine pointed at Kedrick's shirt. "Man, you're
bleedin.
Kedrick grinned. "That isn't blood, it's whisky. They busted one of the bottles I brought away."

Pit chuckled. "I'd most as soon it was blood," he said, "seems a waste of good nicker."

The able men gathered near the escape end of the crevasse, and one of them grinned at Kedrick. "I wondered how you got away so slick. Is there another way out down there?"