Dornie Shaw was silent, saying nothing at all. 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 set-up over firsthand. 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. He 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 flatland, 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 before the buildings.
Obviously, however, some move had been made toward defense, or was in the process of being made, for there were some piles of earth, plainly from recent digging, near several of the buildings. He studied them, puzzled over their origin and cause. Finally, he gave up and scouted the area.
He glanced at the butte thoughtfully. Had they thought of putting their own riflemen up there? It would seem the obvious thing, yet more than one competent commander had forgotten the obvious at some time during his career, and it might also be true of these men. The top of the butte not only commanded the town, but most of the country around, and was the highest point within several miles.
That could come later. Now Kedrick turned his Appaloosa down the hill toward the town, riding in the open, his right hand hanging free at his side. Yet, if he was seen, nothing was done to disturb him. How would it have been if there were more than one rider?
He swung down before the Butte Saloon and tied his horse at the rail. The animal was weary, he knew, and in no shape for a long ride, but he had made his own plans, and they did not require such a ride. The street was empty, so he stepped 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 went on with his solitaire. Tom Kedrick crossed to the bar. “Rye,” he said quietly.
The bartender nodded and, without looking up, poured the drink. It was not until Kedrick dropped his coin on the bar that he did raise his glance. Instantly, his face stiffened: “Who’re you?” he demanded. “I never saw you before!”
Kedrick was aware that men had closed in on both sides of him, both of them strangers. One was a sharp-looking, oldish man, the other an obviously belligerent redhead. “Pour a drink for my friends, too,” he said, and 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 my drink.”
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 happened 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 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.
Men had started to their feet, and several had moved toward him. Now they froze where they were. The .44 Russian had appeared as if materialized from thin air.
“Gentlemen,” Kedrick said quietly, “I did not come here hunting trouble. I have been hired for a job as all of you, at some time or another, have been hired for a job. I came to see if you were the manner of men you have been represented as being. Evidently, your bartender is hard of hearing, or lacking in true hospitality. I ordered a drink. You”—Kedrick gestured at the man playing solitaire—“look like a man of judgment. You pour my drink and pour it on the end of the bar nearest me. Then”—his eyes held the room—“pour each of these gentlemen a drink.” With his left hand, he extracted a gold eagle from his pocket and slapped it on the bar. “That pays.”
He took another step back, then coolly he holstered his gun. Eyes studied him, but nobody moved. The redhead did not like it. He had an urge to show how tough he was, and Kedrick could see it building. “You!” Kedrick asked quickly. “Are you married? Children?”
The redhead stared at him, then said, his voice surly: “Yeah, I’m married, and I got two kids. What’s it to you?”
“I told you,” Kedrick replied evenly. “I came to see what manner of men you are.”
The man who was pouring the drinks looked up. “I’ll answer your questions. I’m Pete Slagle.”
“I’ve heard of you.”
A slight smile came to Slagle’s mouth. “Yeah,” he said, “an’ I’ve heard of you.”
Nobody moved or spoke while Slagle calmly poured the drinks, then he straightened and glanced around the room. “Men,” he said, “I reckon there’s no use goin’ off half-cocked an’ gettin’ somebody killed. Let’s give this man a chance to speak his piece. We sure don’t have to buy what he wants to sell us if we don’t like his argument.”
“Thanks, Slagle.” Kedrick studied the room. Two of the faces seemed hard, unrelenting. Another was genuinely interested, but at the door in the rear, a man loitered who had shifty eyes and a sour face. He could have been, in disposition at least, a twin brother to the former outlaw Clauson.
“The land around here,” Kedrick said quietly, “is about to be purchased from the government by the firm who has employed me. The firm of Burwick, Keith, and Gunter. In New Orleans, where I was hired, I was told that there were squatters on the land, a bunch of outlaws, renegades, and wasters, that they would resist being put off, and would aim to keep the badlands for themselves. My job was to clean them out, to clear the land for the company. I have come here for that purpose.”
There was a low murmur from the back of the room. Kedrick took time to toss off his drink and then calmly begin to roll a smoke. To his right, the door opened and two men came in. One of these was as tall as himself with coal-black hair turning gray at the temples. His eyes were gray and cold, his face firmly cut. He glanced sharply around the room, then at Kedrick.
“Cap’n Tom Kedrick, Bob,” Slagle said quietly, “speakin’ his piece. He’s just explained that we’ve been represented as a bunch of renegades.”
“That sounds like Burwick,” McLennon said. “Get on with it, Kedrick.”
“I’ve little to say but this. Naturally, like any good fighting man, I wanted to look over the terrain. Moreover, since arriving in Mustang, certain rumors and hints have reached me that the picture is not one-sided. I have come out here to look you over, to see exactly what sort of people you are, and if you are the outlaws and wasters you have been represented to be. Also, I would like to have a statement from you.”
Red’s face was ugly. “We got nothin’ to say to you, Kedrick,” he said harshly, “nothin’ at all! Just you come down here with your killers an’ see how many get away alive!”
“Wait a minute, Red!” Slagle interrupted. “Let Tom have his say.”
“Aw, why bother?” Red said roughly. “The man is scared, or he’d never have come huntin’ information!”
Kedrick’s eyes held Red’s thoughtfully, and he said slowly: “No, Red, I’m not scared. If I decide the company is right and you are to be run off, that is exactly what I’ll do. If the men I have are not enough, I’ll get more. I’m used to war, Red. I’ve been at it all my life, and I know how to win. I’m not here because I’m scared. I have come simply because I make a pass at being a just man. If you have a just claim to your places here, and are not as represented, I’ll step out of this.
“Naturally,” he added, “I can’t speak for the others, but I will advise them as to my conclusions.”
“Fair enough,” McLennon agreed. “All right, I’ll state our case. This land is government land like all of it. The Navajos an’ Utes claim some of it, an’ some of us have dickered with them for land. We’ve moved in an’ settled on this land. Four or five of us have been here upward of ten years, most of us have been here more than three. We’ve barns built, springs cleaned out, some fences. We’ve stocked some land, lived through a few bad summers and worse winters. Some of us have wives, an’ some of us children. We’re makin’ homes here. The company is tryin’ to gyp us. The law says we were to have six months’ notice. That is, it was to be posted six months before the sale by the government to the company. This land, as we understand it, is supposed to be unoccupied. Well, it isn’t. We live on it. Moreover, that notice was posted five months ago, stuck in out-of-the-way places, in print so fine a man can scarcely read it without a magnifyin’ glass. A month ago one of the boys read it, but it took him a few days to sort out the meanin’ of the legal phrasin’, and then he hightailed it to me. We ain’t got the money to send a man to the government. So all we can do is fight. That’s what we figure on. If the company runs us off, which I don’t figure you or nobody can do, they’ll buy ever’ inch of it with their blood, believe me.”
A murmur of appreciation went through the room, and Kedrick scanned their faces thoughtfully. Dornie Shaw had judged these men correctly. They would fight. Moreover, with men like McLennon and Slagle to lead them, they would be hard to handle. Legally, the company seemed to be in the best position; the squatters were bucking a stacked deck. From here it would take a man all of two weeks, and possibly three, even to get to Washington, let alone cut through all the government red tape to get to the men who could block the sale—if it could be blocked.
“This here’s a speculation on their part,” McLennon stated. “There’s rumor this here land is goin’ into an Injun reservation, an’, if it does, that means they’ll stick the government a nice price for the land.”
“Or you will,” Kedrick replied. “Looks like there’s two sides to this question, McLennon. The company has an argument. If the federal government does make this a reservation, you’ll have to move, anyway.”
“We’ll face that when it comes,” Slagle said. “Right now we’re buckin’ the company. Our folks aren’t speculators. We aren’t gunmen, either.”
Another man had entered the room, and Kedrick spotted him instantly. It was Burt, the big man he had whipped in the street fight. The man stopped by the wall and surveyed the room.
“None of you?” Kedrick asked gently. “I have heard some stories about Pit Laine.”
“Laine’s a good man!” Red burst out heatedly. “He’ll do to ride any river with!”
Neither McLennon nor Slagle spoke, and the latter shifted his feet uneasily. Evidently, there was a difference of opinion here. He made a note to check on Laine, to find out more about him.
“Well,” Kedrick said finally, “I reckon I’ll study it a little. In the meantime, let’s keep the peace. I’ll keep my men off, if you will do likewise.”
“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, 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, who 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 pointed a finger that trembled with anger. “While he stands an’ talks to us, his outfit murders Bob!”
“Git him!” somebody yelled. “Git 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 Appaloosa. 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 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 of its foot. His safety was a matter of minutes, for they must know they had him.
The Appaloosa was tired, he knew, for he had been going all day, and the day had been 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 deep enough to allow no escape on horseback, at least. The shouts of pursuit had stopped, 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 Appaloosa stopped and Tom Kedrick sat silently, feeling the labored breathing of the horse and knowing this was an end. He was trapped. Fairly trapped!
Behind him, a light flared briefly, 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.