Judgment at Red Creek (3 page)

Clayt and Oss rode along until they came to a sign identifying the stage stop. As they were tying to the rail an old man lounging in a barrel chair out front called to them, “They ain't no stage in today, boys.”

Clayt stepped over to him. “We're looking for the United States Marshall. Can you tell us where to find him?”

“I shore kin,” the old fellow replied. “You'll find him six feet under. Got himself kilt over on the Conchas a week back, tryin' t'round up rustlers workin' the Goodnight-Lovin' Trail.”

Oss joined Clayt. “Has a new one been appointed yet?”

“Nope, Sonny,” he replied, deliberately exploring a wiry tangle of gray beard, “an' they ain't gonna be no law here fur quite a spell—though I did hear tell from the stage driver that a new man an' a couple 'a dep'ties is comin' over from Santa Fe next month.”

Clayt frowned and moved closer. “Are you saying there's no law at all in Las Vegas now?”

“That's what I'm sayin', mister, 'cept fur the no 'count constable that ain't never here if they's local trouble.”

He pushed himself upright and resettled his weather-wilted felt hat. “You boys needin' the law?”

“Could be,” Clayt replied.

Interest kindled in the man's rheumy old eyes.

“Sure 'nuff? What happened?”

Clayt ignored the question. “I expect a man like you would know about most everything that goes on here.”

“ 'Spect I do, mostly.”

“Have you see any strangers in town lately?”

“Well now, mister, that depends. What kind of strangers?”

Clayt concealed his annoyance. “Outsiders...cow hands ...saddle tramps...anybody new.”

Anxious to prolong a rare opportunity for conversation, the old man scratched his cheek and pretended to think.

“Well now, seems I do call t'mind two boys come in from Kansas some days back.” He broke off and frowned. “An' before them, a lone fella rode in. He put up at the 'merican Hotel an' got some new duds. Went out the next day.”

“Did you find out who he was?”

“Nope. Never seen him before. None of my concern anyways.”

“What about the Kansas boys?”

“Trail dusters. Never seen 'em before, neither. They put up at the hotel, too. Second day they was there that same fella come back. He put up one night and the next day all three of 'em rode south together.”

“Any idea where they were heading?”

“Nope. Didn't talk to 'em. Jes' rode right on by. It don't bother me none. I work the stage two days—one day comin' an' t'uther goin'.” He brightened. “My real job's guardin' the safe here in the 'spress office.” He indicated an old shotgun leaning against the wall beside him. “I sleep in the back, but so fur nuthin's happened.” He chuckled. “I guess this 'dobe heap's too small fur the likes of th' Youngers.”

Managing a wistful expression, he added, “Sometimes I sorta wish sumpthin' would happen. Then mebbe folks wouldn't walk right on past without even seein' me.”

Clayt gave him a reassuring smile. “I'll tell you one thing, my friend, we're real glad we didn't walk by you. Thank you for talking with us.” He took a step and turned back.

“By the way, would you remember what those two riders looked like—the ones you say rode in from Kansas?”

“Glad to oblige, mister. I didn't talk to 'em, like I said, but I heard one of 'em say when he rode by, 'This place ain't no Dodge City.' Never bin there myself but from what I hear tell, that's where the Devil goes to practice up on bein' orn'ry.”

“But you really didn't get a good look at them. Is that it?”

“Oh, I seen 'em clear 'nuf. Took one t'be injun lookin' and the other one was sorta young...red haired...light skinned...tubby, runnin' t' belly. Neither of 'em looked like they'd of knowed a day's work if they was standin' in the middle of it.”

Clayt and Oss thanked the old man, remounted, reined their horses left, and rode south down the plaza. The weathered, poorly painted sign read,
AMERICAN HOTEL
.

“Let's put up here for the night,” Clayt said. “We'll get some grub and talk to the bartender. Remember what your father said about the kind of men who talk in saloons?”

“Sounds like these birds might,” Oss agreed.

They paid fifty cents for a poor excuse of a room, washed in the grimy basin, and went in to eat.

The bartender studied them curiously when they took a table. “Howdy,” he said. “If yer settin' I guess yer eatin'?”

“We'd like some supper...and some breakfast in the morning,” Clayt said.

The man nodded. “T'night it's pork chops, fries, and sauerkraut.”

Later, Oss regarded his plate with grim displeasure. “Beats all get-out what a fellow can get outside of if he's hungry enough.”

Clayt's chuckle was mirthless. “Please God, I'll never be hungry enough to eat here again!”

The coffee the bartender brought proved to be a muddy mix of chicory and stale army-post beans. It was filled with grounds.

“D'ya figger to set and drink a while before ya turn in?”

“Not tonight,” Clayt replied. “We've got a lot of trail time.”

“Oh? Where'd you ride in from?”

“Down valley.”

The bartender pushed an annoying moustache hair from the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn't be part of the new Gavilan outfit, would ya?”

“No,” Clayt answered. “Didn't know the old place was still running cattle.”

“They will be. New owners. New super and new foreman. If you're lookin', they're hirin.' ”

Clayt nudged Oss's leg under the table. “Could be interesting.”

“Foreman's a man name of Harmer. New to these parts. He was in sometime back. Come in ag'in a few days past an' hired two boys that was stayin' here. Next day they all rode out.” He laughed. “An' I'll be damned if he didn't come back a couple of days ago. Musta had a real good payday 'cause he come in to the bar carryin' a new silver-mounted saddle. He even took the thing into the room to sleep with it.”

He laughed and shook his head in wonder. “He was sure all Sunday-go-t'-meetin' gussied up. Figgered he musta stopped in t'see Inez. She's our fancy lady. A buck a throw, an' worth it too....” He cleared his throat apologetically. “At least so they tell me. I git all mine at home.”

“What about the boys who stayed here? Harmer must have hired them.”

The bartender nodded. “That's what he done alright, done it right here in the bar. Bought 'em drinks, then give twenty in gold against forty dollars a month. Top pay, I'd say.”

He wiped his hands on a dirty apron. “They didn't drop a penny of it. Harmer even stood their grub and room.”

“I wonder,” Clayt said, “if you remember what they looked like?”

Apparently reluctant to reply, the man shrugged. “Ord' nary, I'd say. Somebody you're lookin' fur?”

“Not especially. Just curious.”

Relieved, the bartender relaxed. “One was a half-breed. Th'other wasn't much more'n a kid—pale skin, mess of red hair, runnin' t'fat. Wore his rig under his belly. The skinny one wore a bandoleer... 'bout half full. Didn't see the make of the rifle.” He turned as two men entered and stood at the end of the bar. Clayt and Oss assumed they were regulars. The bartender acknowledged them with a nod, set out a bottle and glasses, and returned immediately.

“The three of them done more drinkin' than talkin', 'specially after this Harmer fella started standing them my best two-bit bourbon.”

“I couldn't pick up too much without buttin' in, but from what I could hear, they were talkin' cows. From the looks of the pair, I figgered he was hirin' them on as outriders guardin' aginst rustlers. Thousand-head herds are on the trail. With new spreads startin' up, it'll git worse before it gits better.”

He turned to look as another man entered. Moving away, he said, “That'll be four bits fur the grub, boys. See ya in the mornin.' ”

When the bedroom door was locked, Clayt eased onto a rickety chair and pulled off his boots. Keeping his voice low he said, “We're as good as sure now. All we've got to do is prove it. With the Gavilan in new hands I can guess what's behind it.”

“Water?” Oss asked.

“For sure. With thousand-head herds trailing up every good stream in the territory, that's got to be it.”

“Good God, Clayt, they can't drink the rivers dry!”

“In the middle of summer—and that's when they'll be driving—a lot of those rivers aren't rivers for a couple or three months,” Clayt replied. “Let's turn in. I want to get a sunup start.”

Oss tested his side of an old iron bed that had tormented a thousand bodies. “If supper was any sample, I'm for skipping breakfast.”

On the ride back to Red Creek, Oss studied Clayt with a troubled look. Seldom demonstrative ever since the fever had taken his childhood sweetheart and intended bride, eighteen-year-old Hazel Coates, two years earlier, Clayt seemed unusually quiet now. Hazel's death had left a lingering trace of sadness in his eyes and had touched with grimness the lines around his strong mouth that once had so easily broken into an engaging smile.

They rode side by side in silence for a time, then Oss could no longer contain his curiosity.

“You sure look like you're chewing on something, Clayt. Care to talk a little?”

“Nope. I want to ponder on it first,” he replied. “I think maybe I've got an idea that'll work.”

It was just past midday when they turned their horses into the corral and followed the men over to the meeting house. In less than five minutes Clayt and Oss gave Henry Deyer and the others a full account. When they finished Henry braced an arm on the back of the bench and frowned thoughtfully.

“You've flushed them out alright,” he said, “but we can't go riding down there and accuse this man Harmer and whoever he takes orders from. There's no doubt he shot those two men without a chance, probably because he knew he couldn't trust them as far as he could throw a steer uphill.”

John Bates glanced at Jakob Gruen who had been working beyond his capacity to contain his grief. “Jakob and I have been thinking too,” he said. “Even if we get proof, what can we do against the likes of them, what with the marshall dead?”

“It's a problem,” Clayt agreed, “but suppose we find a way to get proof first, then figure the best way to get it to the law.”

Henry was skeptical. “How do you figure on just getting the evidence?”

“Before I tell you,” Clayt replied, “I want you to know that I don't want to hear any arguments. Unless you shoot me in my tracks, I'm going to try it.”

Henry seemed about to protest but Clayt's grim, set mouth made him pause. “Well, get it said. After we hear it we'll figure out whether to back you or pray for you.”

“First off,” Clayt began, “we know they're hiring at the Gavilan. If I show up, they won't know me from Adam's off ox. I'm just a stranger looking to hire on somewhere. I'm a buff hunter for the railroads. With the herds cut to ribbons now, I'm out of work.” He paused half expecting some reaction. None came as the men listened in silence.

“I'm going to ride in and make it easy for Harmer to put on a new hand. Once on, I'll work and listen. When I've got enough to stand up with the law—if I do—then I'll drift on south, circle around, just in case, and get back here. Then we can figure out the best way to use what I've found out.”

He paused again, and again there was no reaction. Henry and the others seemed to be assessing his chances for success.

“We've got to get the goods on Harmer and whoever gives him his orders. That's the first thing. If we don't do that, and follow father's advice, than all we can do is wait for more of the same.” He looked at each man in turn. “If we wait for that, we might as well pack up and move on—and if we do that, they win and we'll lose and keep on losing. That's the size of it, no matter how we look at it.”

Oss couldn't believe his ears. “Good God, Clayt! No wonder you didn't want to tell me what you were chewing on! Are you loco? You'll be dead the first day. You're no cowhand!”

On his feet, he thrust out a threatening finger.

“You don't want any back talk? Well, Clayton Adams, you just wait and see what you're going to get from your mother and Nelda when you bust out this hornet's nest! Your Dad gone. Fern gone, and you a likely next. What right have you got to think that you won't get flushed out and killed, too?”

Henry Deyer rose and rested a hand on Oss' shoulder. He had known Clayt since his early teens. He had never met a more modest, self-possessed, and confident lad. From the time he had learned to handle a repeating rifle, Clayt had been the best game hunter in the party as their wagon train made its way north along the Pecos from Texas. Clayt had ridden point with him. He was a born scout. When he got his Smith and Wesson forty-four, he practiced drawing until he was much better than just good. Several of the men had said to Asa, “That boy of yours is a natural. Let's hope he don't get too all-fired handy with it.” Asa knew his son and he had no cause to worry. Clayt may have been born to guns but he was no compulsive killer.

When Oss seemed about to berate Clayt again, Henry took him by the arm. “Cool down now, boy. Clayt's making the only sense there is. I don't expect those mad coyotes are going to come down here and ask if we've had enough. They'll be back again when the dam's fixed, but one thing's for sure: They won't surprise us twice!” Urging Oss to follow him, he added, “Let's have no more talk now.”

At the midday meal Clayt's decision brought wails of protest.

“You're head of the family now,” his mother pleaded. “If anything happens to you there's only Henry and Oss and Nelda. Fourteen are dead. Mike Nathanson and Thad Jones are just barely hanging on. Five others are only able to work part time. I'd rather walk away from all of this than face the chance of you getting hurt. Half the families are sick to death and frightened. If you didn't come back, they'd pack up and leave. That would be the end of your father's dream!”