Showdown at Yellow Butte (1983) (6 page)

Literally, he was feeling his way in the dark. But he knew 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 crac
k
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, the men would probably know it and make no attempt to close in 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 his rifle with him.

At the top he could turn and glance back down the canyon at the faint grayness in the distance that 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, breaking the edge of the cliff above him, was a notch. 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. He noted that the slide was steeper than a stairway and might start sliding underfoot. Certainly, suc
h
a sound would give away his attempt, and it would be the matter of only a few minutes before he would be encircled. As far as that went, the men 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 and knew what he had come upon.

Water, flooding down that slide during heavy rains, had struck a soft stratum of sand or mud and, striking it with force, had gouged out a deep cut 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. The cut had taken him at least fifteen feet below the regular terrain of the area. Above him he saw a swath of dark sky that stretched about seven feet between the sides of the cut. He led the horse deeper along the narrow bed, and after only a short distance he noted that the top of the cut immediately above him was almost covered by a thick growth of brush growing together 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, 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 some distance, there were voices.

The cave in which he stood was dug in sandstone, no more than fifteen feet in depth, and probably eight feet high at the opening. Kedrick moved to the mouth, studied the crevasse down which he had come. It was as he had supposed, a deep-cut water course from the notch in the cliff. Evidently during heavy rains this bed 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. He could ask for no more.

He wanted to smoke, but dared not, for the smell of tobacco 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 th
e
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? Probably into the arroyo below, near town, and in that case the townspeople would certainly know of i
t
Yet as the morning wore on, although he heard occasionally the sound of voices, nobody approached his place of concealment, nor did anyone 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 farther 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 which looked like a bowl standing on edge. 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 itsel
f
through some cracks in the bottom of the larger hollow.

Although he penetrated no great distance he 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 someone went to the foot of the slide and found the opening into the crevasse, this place might never be discovered.

The run-off from the cliff, then, did not go to the arroyo, but ended here, in this deep cavern.

The day wore on slowly. Twice he walked back down to the cavern to smoke, leaving his horse where it was. In a few hours he would try to make his escape. Yet when dusk came, and he 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. They had rifles. They believed him concealed somewhere near and hoped to starve him out.

Kedrick knew that by this time Dornie Shaw must have returned to Mustang with news of his disappearance, and probably, of their murder of the messenger. For he 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 open violence 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 t
o
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 other men had come in. Tom Kedrick had not returned with them. 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 the startled expression when he saw 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. We 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 your he demanded.

"No one. It hasn't been necessary. I have walked around town, and I've seen that some of these outlaws, as you call them, have wives and children, that they buy supplies and look like nice, likeable 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. 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 can't. 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."

'They aren't that. Not murderers," Gunter protested uneasily, but refused to meet her eyes. 'Reckless, yes. And temperamental. Not murderers."

"Not even
Dornie
Shaw? The nice-looking, boyish one who has killed a dozen men and is so cold blooded and fiendish at times that others are afraid of him? No, Uncle, there is no way you can sidestep this. If you continue, you are going to countenance murder and the killing of innocent people.

"Loren doesn't care. He has always been cold blooded. You've wondered why I wouldn't marry him. That's why. He has the disposition of a tiger. He would kill anything or anyone that stood in his way. Even you, Uncle John."

He started and looked at her uneasily. "Why do you say that?"

"Because it's true. I know our tall and handsome man. He will allow nothing to come between him and what he desires. You've chosen some choice companions." She got to her feet. 'If you hear anything of Captain Kedrick, let me know, will you?"