Judgment at Red Creek (14 page)

“Yes siree!” he replied, “and I'm sure lookin' forward. He told me to bring 'em belly down on their saddles if that was how I found 'em.” Henry's smile was humorless.

“Well, my friend, you'll be riding back alone. But you can tell Oakley that you saw a couple of fresh graves up on top.” He paused. “And tell him his horses are missing.”

The old trail boss beamed with anticipation.

“...an I'm gonna hafta carry the sad news that ole Jake and young Clay here is probab'ly occupyin' same.”

“For a minute,” Clayt observed, “that was real close to the truth.” Kate Williams's shoulders sagged and she lowered her head in an act of prayerful gratitude.

Rising, Clayt turned to his mother and Nelda. “Buck's got a hard ride and a hard time ahead of him. Let's send him on his way with a good noon dinner.”

The meal was not hurried. After a bit of initial shyness at a properly set and served family meal, Buck answered questions easily about Oakley and Harmer without allowing his own growing hatred to color his responses. But it remained for Clayt to tell them of Buck Tanner's early life, of his dreams, his kindness at the hands of the Mormons, their slaughter, the mistaken death of his small son and later, his wife's death.

“I didn't really want to get into it,” Buck said quietly, ' 'on account of what you folks bin through.” He brightened suddenly and patted his stomach. “But I sure as shoot...” He broke off with a sheepish expression and coughed. “But I sure wanta tell you folks that you've ruint me for Gavilan grub. Jes' plumb ruint me!”

Clayt and Henry rode with him to the top of the trail. In the piñon clump to the left, they walked him into the spot where they had found the bodies of the two gun slingers.

Buck stared at the stones outlining the graves.

“Lookin' back now,” he said, “I reckon I never did trust them devils. That scrawny half-breed give me the willies. Never seen it before. He ach'lly slept with his eyes open.”

“One thing,” Clayt said, “you can truthfully tell Oakley that you didn't see any horses and you did see a couple of graves. He can put any bodies in them he cares to.”

“He'll do more'n that,” Buck agreed, “he'll also figger out that with you and Jake dead, he's not gonna be in any way to give you folks more trouble fur a long time—'least not until he can get a new crew together. And by that time, if you sweat a confession outa Jake—which ain't likely to happen until he's jes' before climbin' his last set of stairs—T.K. 's gonna be fresh outa any more hankerin' to blow things up!” He looked from one to the other. “I'll take off now, but I sure feel good about the way things is turnin' out. I got a notion if T.K. didn't think Jake was dead, he'd see to it himself!”

There were still two hours of working light when Buck turned his horse loose in the corral and pulled down some feed for the other animals there. Oakley sauntered over and stood watching him until he finished putting his things away. Buck was grateful that the superintendent had not begun the questioning immediately. When he was done Oakley indicated the wash trough.

“Clean up and come over to the house.”

Still full from the first really fine meal he had eaten in years, Buck freshened up and found Oakley waiting for him on the porch.

Buck told him of finding two new graves. “I looked around up top but didn't see no horses.”

“You'd have seen them if you'd been fool enough to go poking around their corral. Jake probably went off half cocked and got them killed for it.” The only evidence of the man's deep hatred for the two who had bungled the job was the black diamond glint in his eyes and the taut muscles in his long, dark face.

When Buck finished his account, Oakley handed him a ten dollar gold piece, then turned abruptly without further talk and went inside. The old trail boss lingered uncertainly for a minute or so then left for the bunkhouse. The other hands glanced at him curiously from time to time, apparently waiting for him to speak. When he didn't they curbed their curiosity but the evidence was unsettling. Within a short time two riderless horses had been led in and now two more men were missing, one of them the foreman himself. The only conclusion possible was one that did not make for untroubled sleep.

Oss rode into Las Vegas with orders from his father to find out if the new Federal Marshall had arrived. Once again his source of information was the garrulous old fellow who met the stages and guarded the express shipments.

“He ain't showed up yet, mister. All we got is still that fool town constable who oughta be in the calaboose hisself fur stealin' his fifty a month!”

Oss thanked him, watered his horse, and turned back down the rutted wagon road leading south. The news he brought was disappointing.

“Did he give you any idea when a new man would be there?” Henry asked.

“No, father,” Oss replied. “I asked him and he took ten minutes to tell me that he didn't know and that the stage driver from Santa Fe didn't know either. He also said Vegas was getting to be a rough town and the constable—or sheriff or whatever he is—is always away or looking the other way when anything happens. I don't think we're going to get much help.” The reaction to the discouraging news could be clearly read in the faces of the survivors. Jakob Gruen spoke for most of them.

“If we've got to wait, then there's no use to put up with him banging and kicking and spouting filth. Break the man down, Henry, like you said you used to do with prisoners. Get the murdering devil to say he did it. Clayt knows. Tanner knows the same—that he did it—or maybe did it for that Oakley fella.”

When a majority of settlers expressed their agreement, Henry decided to bear down harder. In the room, with Clayt and Oss standing guard, he began the interrogaton that, as an officer, he had used to wring confessions out of Northern spies. Once identified, they were executed summarily. In Harmer's case, there was more than enough justification to hang him immediately, except for the promise to Asa.

The door to the storage shed had been left open to vent some of the stifling heat. Even so, sweat trickled down the necks of the four of them as Henry battered Jake Harmer with Gatling-gun rapidity, alternating the same questions in an effort to confuse and trick the man into admissions.

Jake Harmer proved tougher than expected. He alternately sneered and laughed at them, and not once did he back off an inch. Instead, he countered with a tirade of vile abuse and threats of his own, their certain fate when Oakley and the new men he was hiring blew them to Hell with dynamite sticks raining down on them from the canyon rim. The foreman's language was so foul that Clayt picked up the half full slop bucket in which Harmer relieved himself. “Shut up, Harmer, or you're going to get this filth right in the face!“

“Go ahead,” Harmer sneered. “It'll be one more thing to even up fur, you rotten double crossin' son of...” A sudden pained grunt cut off the last word as Oss gave Harmer a vicious jab in the solar plexus with the barrel of his tengauge shotgun.

“As God is my witness, I'd love to splatter your guts all over that wall behind you, but the law's going to take care of you, Harmer, unless one of us gets fed up and saves them the trouble!”

Jake Harmer sank back on his bunk trying to recover the wind that had been knocked out of him. Henry stared at him with utter disgust, then motioned to Clayt and Oss.

“Let's let him stew in his own juice for a while longer.”

Speechless with rage, Jake Harmer slumped on his bunk. More like a trapped animal than a human, his eyes darted to every corner of his improvised jail cell, searching for anything he could use for a weapon. As he pushed himself upright, his hand moved the sideboard that held his blankets and straw ticking in place. Trying it, he found it could be torn loose by hand. Carefully, to keep the old square nails from squeaking, he pulled the narrow plank free. From both ends three-inch-long rusty, hand-forged nails protruded, long enough to penetrate the skull of an unwary victim.

A vicious smile spread across his face as hope flared. If he could surprise Clayton and get his gun, he might be able to shoot his way out. Carefully he pried the nails straight at one end and flattened them at the other.

The angle of the shadows he could see from the high, footsquare barred window at the back of the building told him that he'd have to wait at least an hour before they came with his food.

He passed the time planning his strategy. In the end he decided not to be caught holding the club. As his eyes darted around the cell-like room, they fell on the half full slop bucket. Suddenly he laughed. “He was gonna throw this in my face, was he?” He pulled the container of filth over to the foot of his bunk, then took the bludgeon and stood it beside the door frame. Shock and surprise were his only chance. If he could catch Clayton off guard, slosh him full in the face with his filth, grab the club and drive it into his head, and snatch his revolver, all in a matter of seconds, he could shoot them both, make a break for it, and head downstream. There were a dozen places where he could hide until dark. Then he would scramble out of the canyon, make his way to Tres Dedos and get a horse from Santos. He'd run it flat out to the Gavilan and get it to Oakley. It would be alright from then on. The superintendent would be as eager as he to square accounts.

Harmer's jaws clamped in deadly determination. He'd do it! He'd make it, and when he did, it would be the end of those water-thieving settlers, and the beginning of a new place for him because he had figured out now, how to get rid of the settlers once and for all. The hand bombs he'd improvised, and the new explosive, dynamite, would do the trick. All hell would rain down on them from the canyon rim and they couldn't do a thing about it but what they ought to do—die in their own tracks.

Confident that he could get away with it, Harmer waited with nervous anticipation. As the time grew nearer he went over each move in his mind until it was letter perfect. Shock would be added to surprise and even Clayton, fast as he was, couldn't do a thing about it.

When he heard the hammering on the dam repairs stop he climbed up on the bunk in time to see Clayt coming with a covered tin plate of food. Walking behind him came Oss carrying his ten-gauge double-barreled shotgun.

Controlling his excitement, he turned his back to the door and stood facing the bucket. When he heard the lock and chain hang free, he prepared to use the bucket.

“Your grub's here, Harmer,” Clayt called. “Sit down on the bunk.“

“Come in,” Harmer replied. “I'm usin' the bucket.” Oss pushed the door open a few inches and peered in.

“That's what he's doing alright,” he said.

“Go ahead, open it,” Clayt ordered. The rusty iron hinges squeaked as the door scraped free of the sill. Clayt started to enter. He had just cleared the doorway, with Oss close behind him, when Harmer suddenly reached down, grabbed the bucket, whirled, and threw the contents frill in his face.

Clayt let out a shocked roar of disgust, dropped the food and lifted both hands to his face. Catlike, Harmer leaped at him and snatched the Smith and Wesson from its holster. His hand was sweaty and the gun butt was wet. In his anxiety to pull back the hammer he lost his hold and the gun dropped to the floor. Panicked for a split second, he recovered, grabbed the spiked plank and raised it to strike. Oss let out a warning cry. Instinctively, he slammed his body against Clayt's. The bludgeon grazed Clayt's ear, struck his shoulder, and broke into two pieces. The lethal nails in the free end fell harmlessly to the floor. Clayt let out a bellow of rage and charged Harmer. The force sent them sprawling backwards on the bunk with Clayt on top. Diving for it, Oss recovered the revolver, wiped the butt on his pants and shoved it into Clayt's hand.

“You don't need excuses now,” he shouted. “Kill him and get it over with!”

Clayt pushed the gun aside with his left arm and fended off an attempt by Harmer to claw out his eyes. “Yeah! Let's git it over with,” Harmer screamed. “Let's finish it!”

As he uttered the challenge he heaved upright and toppled Clayt off the bunk. As Clayt recovered his feet, Harmer lunged with arms wide and grasped him around the waist in a rough and tumble bear hug. In the past his viselike grip had broken the ribs and squeezed the wind out of many an adversary. Clayt drove a knee into his groin and broke the grip long enough to free an arm. Harmer tripped him and they both went down into the sheet of slime smeared over most of the floor.

Oss, unable to use his shotgun in such close quarters, grasped it by the barrel and prepared to use it as a club. Twice he lifted it to strike but could not get a clean blow at Harmer whose sweat-soaked face was jammed against Clayt's chest. Catching sight of him out of the corner of his eye, Clayt warned, “Don't try it! I want to finish it my way!”

For a moment Oss backed off and considered running for help, but he didn't dare leave in case the bull-strong foreman managed to gain a critical advantage.

Again, Harmer clawed viciously at Clayt's eyes and a horny thumbnail broke the flesh on his cheekbone. When the blood began to cloud his vision, Clayt smeared it away on the foreman's head, and managed to jerk an arm free. Making a fist, he hammered short punches against Harmer's cheek until he twisted violently, broke free, and scrambled to his feet.

“We'll finish it
my
way,” Harmer gasped, “
my
way!” As he repeated the words he charged full against Clayt and both of them went staggering toward the wall. A half step before Clayt's head would have smashed against one of the rough uprights that supported the rafters, he twisted. Harmer took the full impact on the back of his head. Hurt and momentarily dazed, he stared at Clayt with his arms loose and useless. Instantly, Clayt shot a deadly left fist at Harmer's face and an iron hard right hammered the foreman's cheekbone. Then, in a split second, the right smashed into the man's sore belly. He let out a grunt and pitched forward. As he did Clayt battered him with a wild, unmerciful flurry of blows until Harmer toppled unconscious.