Showdown at Yellow Butte (1983) Read Free Page A

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. The big man was slowly sitting up, shaking his big head. He started 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 slowl y 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 an busted it!"
    With Keith, John Gunter had also come up, and he was 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 tonight, 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, an d 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 that 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. All of him seemed the 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 sprea d to broad, thick shoulders. On his right