Judgment at Red Creek (18 page)

Harmer stood breathing heavily. Pure rage burned in his eyes. Clayt watched him and waited for several minutes. When he saw signs of wavering, he started to rise.

“Alright, Jake, you've got one more minute.” He glanced at the Seth Thomas clock. “When that hand comes up to the top, nothing's going to save your neck. You sign and pull Oakley into this with you, or you get your neck stretched all the way to hell and back. It's up to you. Personally, we all hope you swing.”

Harmer's eyes darted from one to the other and back down to the papers. Breathing heavily, he let a few seconds pass. Finally, he blurted, “I'll sign 'em an' I'll see you all in hell!”

Jake Harmer scratched his labored signature on the copies and watched as they were witnessed.

“I'll keep one copy here in my safe,” Whittaker said. “You'd better take the other two for your own safekeeping.”

Clayt folded them and put them in his shirt pocket.

Harmer's free hand was bound again and he was returned to his horse. A crowd, much larger now, stood back asking each other half whispered questions that could not be answered.

Mike Whittaker waited until Clayt and the others were mounted. Then he sauntered over and rested a hand on Clayt's saddle skirt.

“A story without an end is not much of a story, Adams, so I'll help out a little. As soon as the marshall gets here, I'll tell him what happened—the confession and the rest. Then I'll send somebody down to tell you when it's time to bring this jasper in again. Just tell me how to get to your trail and I'll keep my word.”

Well aware of the good it might do him as constable, Boyd Jones moved up beside him.

“I sure was glad to help, even it wasn't strictly in my line of duty,” he said in a voice loud enough to be overheard.

Before Clayt could reply, Mike Whittaker shot him an incredulous look and let out a derisive hoot.

“Good Gawd a'Mighty, Jones! I'll bet you a ten-cent cigar and throw in a bottle of Kentucky straight to boot that there's not another alleged lawman in the entire territory to match the likes of you!”

The constable grinned sheepishly and backed away as several bystanders guffawed.

When they passed the hotel on the way out of town, Buck Tanner hurried out to intercept them. He stabbed a finger at Harmer. “I see ya got ole Jake rigged out in some very becomin' ropes.”

The foreman's mouth flew open.

“You was with 'em all the time, wasn't ya?” he blurted.

“I sure was,” Buck agreed, “an' I'm mighty glad of it, too!”

Before Harmer could explode in a volcano of curses, Clayt drew his revolver and grasped it clublike by the barrel.

Dropping back from the lead he pushed in close to Harmer. “Keep your rotten mouth shut, Jake, or I'll bust your head wide open!” He raised the butt. “Shut up and stay shut up!” Harmer clamped his jaws and glowered in red-eyed hatred at both men.

Buck grinned and returned his attention to Clayt.

“I seen ya ridin' in but I was busy fixin' things up fur the new owners in the hotel. Garner and that Sir Charles fella come in on a special rig early this mornin'. Oakley's drivin' in with the surrey to pick 'em up. Should be along pretty quick now.” He turned and glanced down the road. “We'll stop over t'night and ride back in the mornin'.” A sudden thought amused him. “I reckon I'm ridin' shotgun in case there's a uprisin' of rattlesnakes or sumpthin.'

He stood with a hand raised as Clayt moved out with Oss behind him holding Harmer's halter lead. Henry Deyer, riding with his repeating rifle resting across the pommel, brought up the rear.

They had been on the road about a half hour when Clayt saw a dust cloud moving toward them. Slowing to a walk they rode on for another few minutes until they could make out a surrey drawn by two horses approaching at a good clip.

Clayt rode on ahead a bit and came back.

“It's Oakley all right. No use trying to avoid him. Let's meet him head on and settle it.”

When Harmer recognized the ranch rig he was filled with grim elation. There was no question in his mind that when Oakley saw him bound to the saddle there was sure to be a showdown. Depending on the first few minutes, if he figured out the right move, he could create a ruckus and cause Oakley to draw to defend him. In that case he could haze his horse and spoil Clayt's aim. It was three against one. The young guy was no gunslinger, and the old man would not be too fast with his rifle. T.K. would have a betterthan-even chance to get all of them and he'd be free.

When his rig was close enough to identify the two men he thought were dead and buried, Oakley jerked the team to a stop and stood up.

“What in hell is going on here?” he shouted.

At the top of his lungs, Harmer screamed, “They trapped me, T.K.! Clay is one of 'em! They locked me up and then made me sign a paper that you and me is responsible for killin' them and blowin' their dam! I swear to God, T.K., they made me sign the papers!”

“Are you telling me they made you sign a confession?” Oakley asked as, very subtly, he eased the flap of his long black dress coat open and urged the team closer.

“As God is my witness, T.K.—in front of the constable and a guy who prints newspapers in Vegas!”

Oakley's eyes swept across the men from Red Creek.

“Where's the paper? Let's see what you signed.”

“He's got it!” Harmer cried, twisting in the saddle to nod at Clayt.

Oakley shook his head. “I don't believe you're that stupid, Jake.”

“If you want some proof,” Clayt said, reaching into his pocket for one of the folded confessions, “here it is.” He held it out. Oakley hesitated for a moment, fearing a trap, then reached for it warily with his left hand.

He read it several times, then wagged his head in disbelief and smiled. Very slowly, he reached into the top pocket of his brocade vest and removed a match. Leaning forward, with the confession in his left hand, he scratched the match on the dashboard and set fire to a corner. When it caught, he angled the paper until it was fully aflame then dropped it into the dust alongside the surrey.

“Well,” he said with a satisfied smile, “I guess that settles this nonsense, doesn't it?”

“He's got more of 'em!” Harmer yelled in a hoarse voice, “He's got two more!”

Alarmed now, Oakley glanced at Clayt.

“He's right, T.K.—two more of them, all signed and witnessed, and stored in a safe in town.” Oakley tensed and his eyes, calculating now, darted from one to the other. Suddenly the skirt of his long black coat flew aside.

“Don't do it!” Clayt shouted, but too late. Oakley's ivory-handled six-gun appeared from nowhere and swung point-blank at Harmer. Before he could pull the trigger, Clayt drew and shot the gun from his hand. In the next instant, Harmer kicked his heels into his mount. The startled animal bolted to the left, pulling the halter lead from Oss's grip. Henry shouted a warning as Oakley drew a second revolver from his belt. The first shot missed Harmer and struck the wildly dodging horse in the right rump as it raced across the mesa. The animal stumbled as Harmer, helpless to guide it, kept kicking it savagely. Oakley's second shot went wild when Clayt spurred his animal broadside into the team, jerking the rig. A third shot from Oakley's numbed hand seemed to have hit Harmer in the lower back. His scream could be heard across the mesa as he continued to punish the animal.

Without warning, Oakley swung toward Clayt. Before he could pull the trigger, a forty-four caliber slug from Henry Deyer's repeating rifle exploded through Oakley's chest. For an instant he remained upright, then slowly his legs buckled and his long body collapsed and sagged over the seat back.

Stunned for a moment, Clayt recovered, shouted to Oss to follow, and raced off across the mesa in pursuit. They could see Harmer, still bound securely to the saddle, trying to stay upright as the animal dodged through the thick scrub growth of oak, pinon, and sage.

Urging their own mounts to the utmost, Clayt and Oss managed to gain a little ground by riding as straight as possible. They could see Harmer clearly now. His lower back was bleeding.

“He's been hit pretty bad,” Clayt called across to Oss. “There's no way he can control that animal. If we don't catch him he can die on us before we get him to the law.”

“At least Oakley's out of the way now,” Oss shouted.

“He is, but we still don't know anything about the new owners. If Oakley took his orders from them, there's still a mess of trouble. We need Jake alive. If he talks he can stop them.”

They were still gaining a little when suddenly they saw Harmer's horse slide to a brace-legged stop and wheel left.

“It's got to be a deep barranca,” Clayt called. “Let's angle north a little!”

They'd gone only a few yards when Oss shouted. “Look at that! Harmer's horse! No saddle!”

Both men pulled up to a rearing stop and stared after the animal that had now doubled back toward the road.

“That saddle didn't just fall off!” Clayt said. “It had a double cinch! Come on. Let's see what happened.”

They had moved only a few yards when Oss pointed off to his left. “Good God, Clayt! Look!”

Clayt pulled up short and followed his arm. For an instant he did not believe his eyes. Only partially visible through the dense stand of piñon, they saw Harmer apparently suspended in midair, still lashed to the saddle.

Dismounting, both men ran into the thicket, let out shocked cries, and stopped, staring in mute horror as Harmer's thick body jerked in spasmodic death throes. Protruding from his back was the sharp, jagged, spearlike point of an old, sunhardened piñon limb that had impaled him. Glistening in the sun were elastic strands of gut that had been forced out with the point.

Oss turned away, on the verge of nausea. “Great God,” he gasped, “what a horrible way for anything to die!”

Clayt moved up close and forced himself to look. As he watched, Harmer's head lolled onto his shoulder and blood began spilling down his cheek. Clayt spat and his hand moved to the butt of the Smith and Wesson. For a moment he considered doing what he would do for any mortally wounded animal but the need ended when Harmer's body gave one last violent shudder and he was gone.

He turned away and walked back to Oss.

“Mount up and see if you can catch his horse. If you can't we'll double up on mine and take him back on yours.”

When Oss hesitated, Clayt insisted. “Go on now! I'll get him down and cut him loose. When you get back we'll put him across his saddle—or yours. Go on now, Oss. Please.”

Oss hesitated for a moment, then turned, glad to leave. When he was out of sight Clayt remounted. Riding close, he looped one end of his seldom used rawhide lariat over the base of the limb and secured it. Then, taking a turn around his saddle horn, he urged his horse to pull until the brittle old limb snapped and fell to the ground with its gruesome burden.

Closing his eyes as he grasped the deadly piece, he pulled it free of Harmer's body, walked off a few yards, and threw it as far as he could. Grimacing at the thought, he visualized the animals that would sniff it out and fight over it in the night.

It was well past noon when Henry, driving the rig with its macabre cargo lashed on the back seat, rolled into the plaza with Clayt and Oss riding alongside. The old fellow who guarded the express office saw them first. Uttering a wheezing, “Whoo—ee!” he scooted into two adjoining doorways to pass the news. By the time the rig pulled to a stop in front of the newspaper office, customers, store keepers, women, and children were converging on the plaza.

Clayt quieted them down a little with raised hands. When the clamor of questions subsided enough to be heard he said, “The dirty business that brought us to town a couple of hours ago just got settled back there.” He indicated the road with a nod. “The man who murdered our people and the man who set him to it, are both here.... ” He pointed to the bodies covered by Oakley's long coat. “The one who did the killing killed himself by accident. The other one got killed trying to shut him up.” His eyes moved across the faces and came to rest on the bartender whose information had set them on the right track. Pointing, he said, “Sorry I don't know this man's name, but we can thank him for helping us find the mad coyotes.”

As he hoped it would, the attention was diverted to the bartender who by now was wearing his importance on his sleeve.

Wiping ink from his hands, Mike Whittaker pushed through the crowd. He regarded the tacit answers to his question that were loaded in the surrey, then looked up at Clayt.

“We'll put them in the town morgue, but you-all had better come inside first.”

Henry Deyer shook his head. “I'll wait here. Oss will go look for the constable.” A voice on the edge of the crowd called, “He's comin' now.”

The newspaper man craned his neck and pushed out to meet him.

“What's goin' on?” Boyd Jones asked.

“What's going on,” Mike Whittaker replied, “is some business for your town morgue.”

The constable thrust out his cushioned chin. “Now you lookee here, Mike, I already done more'n I should of. I ain't gonna store no stiffs in my shed. Who are they and who's gonna put 'em down?”

“They're better stiffs than you usually stash there, Jones, and you're going to keep them there until some proper disposition can be made.”

When the constable started to protest again, the newspaper publisher reached out and tapped the badge. “You're going to do that, Boyd Jones, if I have to swear that the killing took place right here in town. That'll make it your business.” He gave the badge another poke. “You stay here and come on inside while we figure out what to do!”

They had been in the cluttered little office for only a minute or two when Buck Tanner came running up from the hotel. He pushed his way close enough to the surrey to see what had happened then looked anxiously up at Henry, still on the seat. “Are you folks alright?” he asked.