Judgment at Red Creek (10 page)

At sun up, when Clayt left the bunkhouse for the cook shack, he saw T.K. Oakley riding his big gelding up the Las Vegas road. Clayt watched him, studying the dusty tracks. Just before he reached the main gate with its crudely painted hawk nailed to the overhead cross piece, he pulled up, hesitated for a moment, then decided to turn right through the mesquite and scrub oak. To the east a few yards, a shallow barranca angled across the mesa, passed south of the buildings, then swung right and petered out in a sandy splay as it reached the Pecos. It was deep enough for cattle to hide in, and a girl could easily conceal herself there, too.

When Oakley eased the horse down the bank and disappeared, Clayt hurried to the cook shack. Harmer looked up from a bowl of yellow cornmeal mush, “What kept ya?”

Clayt ignored the question, got his food and coffee, and settled on the bench a few feet away.

“I said, 'What kept ya?' ” Harmer repeated.

“Nothing,” Clayt replied. “I'll be finished when you are.”

The retort made the other four hands exchange nervous glances. Any friction between the new man and the foreman now had possible dangerous consequences since both men were wearing their six-guns.

Ignoring the rebuff, Harmer poured another coffee and stood up. Calling down the long table to the men, he said, “There's a dozen mavericks northeast of the gate about a mile. They're loafin' in the scrub. Run 'em in and brand 'em, then haze 'em down toward the river with them others.”

He put down his cup and moved toward the door.

“Let's git goin', Clayton.”

Again there was no answer as Clayt pulled his legs free of the bench and followed Harmer out of the cook shack.

As they moved toward the corral, the foreman chuckled.

“You see Oakley ridin' out early, lookin'?”

“I did,” Clayt replied.

“T.K. sure as hell aint happy. Seems like his purty little filly jumped the fence last night.”

Clayt shrugged. “Guess that's his problem.”

“And the girl's,” Harmer said smirking, “an' mebbe yourn too.”

Clayt stopped. “What do you mean 'mine too'?”

“Well, the girl stole the buckskin mare you like.”

“Guess she knows horses,” Clay replied.

“She took a bridle, too, an' rode off bareback sometime in the night.” He eyed Clayt suggestively. “If ya had yur eye on her, it's a shame t'lose a purty lil' filly, ain't it?”

“I have my eye on nothing that isn't strictly my business,” Clayt replied flatly.

“Sure. Sure.” Harmer slapped his leg and hitched at his denims. “He's either gonna take her t' bed and break her in good, or kill 'er.” The thought made him guffaw. “I sure wisht he'd give me the job. I'd fatten her up, and sure as hell, when I was done teachin' her, she'd be a willin' woman!”

There could be no end to the loathing Clayt felt for Jake Harmer. When he had carried the girl from the corral to the barn, and later when he had held her to reassure her, the feel of her body, a woman's body for all of its slenderness, had reawakened half-denied longings that had become a part of a troublesome preoccupation that robbed him of sleep.

His mother had often said that Hazel Coates was as beautiful and fragile as a finely painted figurine of English porcelain. From time to time he wondered—still did occasionally—whether Hazel might have survived the virulent tick fever if she had not been so finely made and fragile. Some of the sturdier ones had. Oakley's housegirl, as he called her, was not one such.

At the corral, Harmer pointed to the shed. “I'm gonna fuss with some fuse. Finish up them gate braces. After supper we can time some burnin'. The biscuit shooter's saved me some little bakin' soda cans that'll make real good hand bombs—just in case we need 'em.”

A step or two in the lead, Harmer chuckled and shook his head. “Yes sir,” he said to himself, “I'd sure learn that skinny little kid.”

The vision of the stinking, foul-hearted foreman rutting over the girl sickened Clayt. He would spare a rabid coyote before he'd spare Harmer if his father's pledge had not stayed him.

Clayt followed him into the shed. He gathered his tools and left to finish his work on the corral. Engrossed, he did not look up until two proud cut stallions in the
caballada
started to whinny. When the whinnying became more persistent, he did look up and a shock ran through him. Oss was riding into the ranch at a fast walk.

Unable to believe his eyes, Clayt dropped the tools, shot an apprehensive glance toward the open shed door, and ran down the road to intercept him.

Signaling for silence, he grabbed Oss' mount by the bridle and pulled it up short. “Keep your mouth shut!” he called in a hoarse whisper. “I'm alright.” He jerked his head toward the corral. “The man we want is in that shed. Tell Henry I'm coming down tonight—late. I'll leave my horse up top. Right now I'm the stranger who borrowed one of your horses when mine went lame with a cut frog. You're worried about getting yours back. You've come after it. Now do exactly as I say or we're both dead!”

Recovering from his confusion, Oss nodded. “I get it.” He glanced toward the shed. “You're sure you know who did it?”

“Dead sure! And I think I know how we can trap him. Have Henry and the rest wait up for me. If I don't show, something's gone wrong, but don't come looking. Don't!”

Oss glanced past him. “Somebody's coming,” he whispered.

Clayt turned to see Jake Harmer heading toward them, and he was looking for trouble. Turning back to Oss, Clayt spoke in a loud, unfriendly voice. “I told you, mister, I'd get your horse back as soon as I could. I just hired on here. I was fixing to bring it soon to see if mine's alright now.”

When Harmer reached them Clayt nodded toward Oss.

“He's from Red Creek. I borrowed his horse and he thinks I forgot to return it.”

Oss swung down from the saddle. “I didn't say you stole it—if that's what you're saying. I didn't come looking for trouble. We've had enough of that. The horse you borrowed is harness-broke, too. We need it when you can spare it.”

“Why didn't you bring my horse with you?” Clayt challenged.

Oss thought fast. “His frog was bad cut. I figured if you'd found work you could ride a ranch horse and let me take mine.”

Harmer bumped Clayt's arm. “Give 'im his broken-down plug, Clayton, and git him outta here.”

“I only want him back if you're done using him,” Oss explained mildly. “You can keep him for another week or more if you need him.”

Harmer spat a stream of tobacco juice with unerring accuracy. It missed Oss' boot by an inch. “We're not so damned hard up around here,” he growled, “that we gotta put our hands up on spavined plough horses. We don't want no trouble with neighbors. You go git your horse and hit the trail, mister.” He jerked his head toward the corral. “Ride on down there and pick him up. An' keep sumpthin' in mind, too—we don't hire hands that takes things and fergits t' return 'em.”

At the corral Harmer watched while Clayt handed over the halter lead on his horse. Oss did a credible job of playing his role. “I thank you, mister. We'll keep your horse until it's well then bring it to you.”

“Never mind comin' here agin,” Harmer snapped. “My boys'll pick him up next trip to Vegas.”

“Thank you, sir,” Oss replied. “We try to be friendly neighbors, too.”

Clayt watched until he had passed through the main gate then returned to his work. A few minutes later Harmer walked up. “Is he the one you talked to before?”

“...and his father, I think it was,” Clayt replied. Harmer spat in disgust and sauntered off.

For the remainder of the day Clayt concentrated on his repair work. Several times he grew aware that Harmer was watching him, studying him, really. Shortly before quitting time, he came by.

“I noticed sumpthin',” he said. “I noticed, like you, the sodbuster don't carry no Colt, an' he had a Henry in a saddle boot like yourn.”

Strung tight in anticipation of his night ride, Clayt found it difficult to appear casual. “Not everybody favors a sixgun,” he replied. “I know a lot of men who would rather work with a rifle—a repeater, that is—even close in.”

“Some would, I guess,” Harmer agreed, “but I noticed his rifle boot too. It's the same as yourn.”

Clayt turned to him with a cold, level gaze.

“If you know anything about Indian work, you should recognize it, Harmer. There are probably a thousand of them in the Plains country.”

The foreman ducked his head in conditional agreement.

“S'possible. But there's one more thing that needs answerin'.”

Clayt dropped his tools so abruptly that Harmer's right arm jerked toward his Colt. “I want to know two things right now, Jake. What's this 'one more thing,' and what are you getting at?”

Harmer managed a wan smile. “Now don't go gittin' hot. When a man's pickin' a partner fur a dangerous job, he's got a right t'ease his mind some.”

“Well, ease it, then,” Clayt replied. “You talk straight and so will I. What's this one more thing?”

“Prob'ly aint nuthin' much, but I noticed you an' that sodbuster talk the same way, sorta.”

Clayt knew that Harmer's observation was correct.

“I understand,” he said, “that those people came from the South after the war. I told you where my people came from. Everybody from that part of the country talks pretty much the same way—and most people don't lost their born accents, anymore than Texas folks or Kansas flatlanders do. You can't make anything more out of it than that, so don't waste your time.”

Harmer's eyes hardened, then he seemed to ease. “That figgers, I guess. Anyways, when I note things, I like to find out about 'em. That's how I've stayed out of a burial blanket this long.”

The hours dragged by. Clayt had considered plans for getting away from the ranch on one pretext or another and had abandoned them all. Now a new horse added to his problem. The girl had taken the buckskin mare that seemed to have adopted him. There's a curious chemistry between a horse and a rider and while he did not understand it, Clayt was acutely aware of it. The closeness of the relationship could spell the difference between life and death in the territory. A good horse often could sense approaching danger sooner and faster than the rider. That's why he had given the girl the buckskin mare.

There were a dozen horses in the ranch's
caballada
. There was one big chestnut gelding that he had considered first. It was skittish at times, but not particularly so around him when he was in the corral. The biggest trouble he would have would be getting there unseen and getting a saddle on the animal.

When the lamp went out in Harmer's cabin, he waited an hour. There was only a sliver of waning moon. That would help. A sudden dangerous oversight jolted him. He had meant to stash his Winchester in the shed in case some of the boys happened to see him going with it. Without it he could pretend to be going to the outhouse.

It was after nine o'clock when he decided to make his try. Pleading weariness, he had cut short the usual pointless palaver with Tanner. When the old trail boss turned his face to the wall and soon began his familiar snoring, Clayt picked up his rifle and boots and made for the shed. Once inside, he brushed off his socks and got into his boots. A minute later his saddle and saddle blanket were resting atop the corral rail.

Carrying the bridle over his arm, he moved quietly among the horses until he found the chestnut. When he reached to give it a reassuring pat, it tossed its head and sidestepped.

“Easy, boy...easy...” he whispered. It took several tries before the gelding accepted the bit. As he started to lead him to the fence, one of the other animals whinnyed. Clayt held his breath for a long moment then saddled up.

Unwilling to take a chance on mounting in the corral, Clayt led the gelding several hundred yards up the road. When he put his foot in the stirrup, his left hand on the horn with the reins bunched, and his right on the cantle, the animal took a short step forward and swung him into the saddle.

For ten minutes he held him to a fast walk. When he was safely out of hearing, he urged the long-legged gelding into a ground-covering lope.

An hour later the sound of a lone rider passing caused Manuel Santos to lift up from his shambled bed.

“
Qué pasa?
” he whispered.

“
Quién sabe
,” his wife replied.

He listened a moment longer then sat up. Very seldom did late riders pass Tres Dedos. When they did they were usually hands from the Gavilan who had been spending their pay gold in the store and the saloon in Las Vegas.

“
Tal vez un hombre de Gavilan
,” he said, “
Pero porqué tan tarde
?”

Rosita did not reply. He listened a moment longer, then rose and peered into the night. One of the horses in his corral had whinnyed softly but the rider had gone on out of earshot. Nothing could be heard or seen. A candle left on the crude table was guttering. He blew it out and returned to the bed.

Jake Harmer sat on the edge of his bunk studying the explosives he had prepared earlier. To be effective and still allow reasonable time to get away, the fuses would have to be carefully timed and cut to length. The more he worried over the fuses, the more uncertain he was. To be extra sure, he decided to recheck the burn time on the longest fuse. The roll of spare fuse was on the bench in the shed. Checking to make certain he had his knife and a block of phosphorus matches, he picked up the lantern and went out.

It took only a few minutes to measure out a long length of fuse from the spare roll. As he was about to leave, an empty saddle rack caught his eye. Curious, he paused to check and found that Clayton's saddle and bridle were missing.