Collection 2008 - Big Medicine (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “Get back there,” Burwick said to Hirst, “and keep me informed of the movements. Watch everything closely now, and don’t miss a trick. You will be paid.”

  When Hirst had gone, Burwick turned to Keith and smiled with his fat lips. “So does it matter if they slow it up a little? Let them have their investigation. It will come too late.”

  “Too late?” Keith was incredulous. “With such witnesses against us as Kedrick, Shad, Connie, and the rest of them?”

  “When the time comes,” Burwick said quietly, “there will be no witnesses! Believe me, there won’t be!”

  XI

  Keith turned on Burwick, puzzled by the sound of his voice. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Burwick chuckled and rolled his fat lips on his cigar. There was malice and some contempt in the look he gave Keith. How much better, he thought, had Kedrick not been so namby-pamby. He was twice the man Keith was, for all the latter’s commanding presence.

  “Why,” he said, “if there’s no witnesses, there’ll be no case. What can these people in town tell them? What they suspect? Suspicions won’t stand in a court of law, nor with that committee. By the time they get here, this country will be peaceful and quiet, believe me.”

  “What do you want to do?” Keith demanded. “Do? What is there to do? Get rid of Kedrick, Laredo Shad, and that girl. Then you’ll take a posse and clean out that rat’s nest back of the rim. Then who will they talk to? Gunter might have weakened, but he’s dead. With the rest of them out of it…”

  “Not Connie?” Keith protested. “Not her! For heaven’s sake, man!”

  Burwick snorted and his lips twisted in an angry sneer as he heaved his bulk from the chair. “Yes, Connie!” he said. “Are you a complete fool, Keith? Or have you gone soft? That girl knows more than all of them. Suppose Gunter talked to her, and he most likely did? She’ll know everything, everything, I tell you!”

  He paced back across the room, measuring Keith. The fool! He was irritated and angry. The sort of men they made these days, a weak and sniveling crowd. Keith had played out his time. If he finished this job alive... well, Dornie didn’t like Keith. Burwick chuckled suddenly. Dornie! Now there was a man! The way he had killed that Bob McLennon!

  “Now get this. Get the boys together. Get Fessenden, Goff, Clauson, Poinsett, and the Mixus boys and send them out with Dornie. I want those three killed, you hear me? I want them dead before the week is out, and no bodies, understand?”

  Keith touched his dry lips, his eyes haunted. He had bargained for nothing like this. It had all seemed such an easy profit, and only a few poverty-stricken squatters to prevent them from acquiring wealth in a matter of a few months. Everything had started off just as Burwick had suggested, everything had gone so well. Gunter had provided the money, and he had fronted for them in Washington. Uneasily now Keith realized that, if trouble was made over this, it would be he upon whom the blame would rest. Burwick somehow had been in the background in the East as much as he, Keith, had been kept in the background here. Yet it would be his guilt if anything went wrong. And with Ransome investigating everything had gone wrong.

  He sighed deeply. Of course, Burwick was right. There was only one thing to do now. At least, Dornie and the others would not hesitate. Suddenly he remembered something.

  “You mentioned Clauson. He’s out of it, Burwick. Clauson came in last night tied to his horse. He had been dead for hours.”

  “What?” Burwick stopped his pacing and walked up to Keith. “You just remembered?” He held his face inches away from Keith’s and glared. “Is anybody backtracking that horse? You blithering idiot! Clauson was dynamite with a gun, so if he’s dead, shot, it has to be by one of three men, and you know it!”

  Burwick’s face was dark with passion and he wheeled and walked the length of the room, swearing in a low, violent voice that shocked Keith with its deep, underlying passion. When he turned again, Burwick’s eyes were ugly with fury. “Can’t you realize,” he demanded hoarsely, “those men are dangerous? That every second they are alive we are in danger? You have seen Dornie in action. Well, believe me, I’d sooner have him after me than Kedrick. I know Kedrick! He’s a former Army officer... that’s what you’re thinking all the time... an officer and a gentleman. But he’s something more, do you hear? He’s more. He’s a gentleman …that’s true enough, but the man’s a fighter, he loves to fight! Under all the calmness and restraint there’s a drive and power that Dornie Shaw could never equal. Dornie may be faster, and I think he is, but don’t you forget for one instant that Kedrick won’t be through until he’s down, down and dead.”

  Loren Keith was shocked. In his year’s association with Burwick he had never seen the man in a passion, and had never heard him speak with such obvious respect, and even—yes, even fear, of any man. What had Alton Burwick seen that he himself had not seen?

  He stared at Burwick, puzzled and annoyed, but some of the man’s feeling began to transmit itself to him, and he became distinctly uneasy. He bit his lips and watched Burwick pacing angrily.

  “It’s not only him, but it’s Shad. That cool, thin-faced Texan. As for Laine…”—Burwick’s eyes darkened—“he may be the worst of the lot. He thinks he has a personal stake in this.”

  “Personal?” Keith looked inquiringly at the older man. “What do you mean?”

  Burwick dismissed the question with a gesture. “No matter. They must go, all of them, and right now.” He turned and his eyes were cold. “Keith, you fronted us in Washington. If this thing goes wrong, you’re the one who will pay. Now go out there and get busy. You’ve a little time, and you’ve the men. Get busy!”

  When he had gone, Burwick dropped into his chair and stared blindly before him. It had gone too far to draw back even if he was so inclined, and he was not. The pity of it was that there had been no better men to be had than Keith and Gunter. Yet, everything could still go all right, for he would know how to meet any investigating committee, how to soft-pedal the trouble, turn it off into a mere cow-country quarrel of no moment and much exaggerated. The absence of any complaining witness would leave them helpless to proceed, and he could make it seem a mere teapot tempest. Keith was obviously afraid of Ransome. Well, he was not.

  Burwick was still sitting there when the little cavalcade of horse men streamed by, riding out of town on their blood trail. The number had been augmented, he noticed, by four new arrivals, all hard, desperate men. Even without Keith, they might do the job. He heaved himself to his feet and paced across the room, staring out the window. It went badly with him to see Connie Duane die, for he had plans for Connie—maybe. His eyes narrowed.

  Out on the desert the wind stirred restlessly, and in the brassy sky above a lone buzzard circled as if aware of the creeping tension that was slowly gripping the country beneath it. Far to the north, toward Durango, a cattle buyer pulled his team to a halt and studied the sky. There was no hint of storm, yet he had felt uneasy ever since leaving town on his buying trip down to Yellow Butte and Mustang. There had been rumors of trouble down that way, but then there had been intermittent trouble there for some time, and he was not alarmed. Yet he was somehow uneasy, as though the very air carried a warning.

  South of him, and below the rim, Laredo Shad and Kedrick turned aside from the Mustang trail and headed toward Yellow Butte. It was only a little way out of their line of travel, but both men wanted to see what had happened there. Yet, when they approached the town, aside from the blackened ruins of the destroyed buildings, everything seemed peaceful and still. Eight or ten families had moved back into the town and a few had never left. They looked up warily as the two riders drew near, then nodded a greeting.

  They knew now that these two were siding with them against the company, but hardship and struggle had wearied them, and they watched the two enter the settlement without excitement. The saloon had opened its doors in the large roomy office of the livery stable, and they went there now. A couple of men leaned on the bar, and both turned as th
ey entered, greeted them, and returned to their conversation.

  It was growing cool outside and the warmth of the room felt good. Both men stepped to the bar, and Kedrick ordered and paid. Shad toyed with his drink. He seemed uneasy, and finally he turned to Tom. “I don’t like it,” he said, low-voiced, “somehow or other Burwick is goin’ to know about Ransome, 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 sign along the same trail. The only way out for the company now was to face the committee, if Ransome managed one, with a plausible tale and an accomplished fact, and then let them make the most of it.

  “Burwick’s a snake,” Shad commented. “He’ll 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 Laine looked at Kedrick, then moved on to the bar. Dai looked 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, once—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 horse men 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. No, that’s not Poinsett. That’s one of the Mixus 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 a while, but finally placed only one of them, a badman 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 stooping 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 the 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, 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, for it was he who Keith wanted in the right position for Poinsett 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, and, while Bob had been something of a hand with a gun, he definitely had not been a soldier or even an Indian fighter. Moreover, they had not expected an all-out battle for the town. What ever the reason, he had committed a fatal error, for that pile of boulders and brush offered almost perfect concealment while affording complete coverage of the town, its one street, and the back as well as front of most of the buildings.

  Keith had been quick to see this on his earlier visits to the town, and had planned to have Poinsett and Starrett approach the place some time before the main force moved in. In this, owing to their own experience, they had been successful.

  Poinsett finished his cigarette and took up his rifle, then settled down to 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—and his first shot must kill.

  Shad and Kedrick had returned to the saloon and Pit Laine was loitering in front. Dai had gone across the street. Laine was in a position out of sight of Poinsett, but the latter had glimpsed Dai. The Welshman, however, offered only a fleeting target and Poinsett did not consider firing. His chance came at once, however.

  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 target 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 lurch sidewise, tried to straighten, 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 that even at this 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,” Alf said, apologetically, “but I ruint 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, followed almost at once by two more, their 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 and, leaning out a bit, 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 door?”

  Kedrick dove for the door followed by the others as the bartender indicated the way, then caught up his shotgun. His pockets were already stuffed with shells. At the door Kedrick halted, then, flattened against the wall, stared up the draw. From here he could see the edge of the bunch of boulders and guessed the fire came from there. “Pinned down,” he said. “They are up the draw.”

/>   Nobody moved. His 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 the three men down there could not long withstand the attack and would fall back on the town to be taken in the rear.

  XII

  Kedrick made up his mind quickly. Defense of the town was now impossible and they would be wiped out or burned alive if they attempted to remain here. “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 cañon at the foot of Yellow Butte.”

  He took a step back and glanced at the trap 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 you?” Shad demanded.

  “I’ll make 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 downstream, and evidently the killers were momentarily stopped there. He hoisted himself through, swung to the ridge 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 ridgepole near his face and splattered him with splinters. Kedrick moved downroof a bit, then, catching the signal from the window across the street, he deliberately shoved his rifle and head up and fired four fast shots, then two more.