Judgment at Red Creek (5 page)

Later, in the cookshack, munching on stringy beef and tor tillas that Tanner told him he could expect “real reg'lar-like,” Clayt did some more listening. When he finished he settled back.

“What do you know about Harmer?” he asked.

Buck Tanner probed his ear with a forefinger, examined the result, and cocked his head dubiously.

“You'll only know what he cares to tell ya. Let's go back and set on the bunks for a spell. I'll tell ya what I know.”

Settled in the bunk house again, Tanner glanced around and moved closer. “He only talks when he's had a few snorts. One of his fav'rite occ'pations.”

Clayt remembered the long draught the man took out of the common pulque bottle at Santos' place.

“Oakley brung him up from Texas. He claims he rode with that wild-eyed, murderin' son-of-the-Devil school teacher, Bill Quantrill and his Confederate guerillas at Lawrence, Kansas. That's where they shot up a hundred and fifty men, women, and children jus' fur the hell of it, and then wrecked the town.

“Jake claims Jesse and Frank James and Cole Younger rode with him. He sez he was in the outfit when Quantrill finally got his from the Federal troops in Kentucky in May of Sixty-five.”

Buck Tanner explored his ear again.“I'll tell ya one thing, Clay, if Jake's got an ounce of the milk 'a human kindness in him, it's long since clabbered.”

“He must be a good man with cows,” Clayt said.

Tanner nodded his agreement. “He's that 'right enough, otherwise Oakley wouldn't have brung him up.”

“What about Oakley?”

“No man t'cross. Don't trust him, son. He come up from Texas, too—six months back. El Paso. Word is, he bossed a half million acre spread around Big Spring. His ma was half Choctaw, makin' him a quarter-breed. He don't talk much, but the word is that Charlie Goodnight himself calls him one of the sawiest cattlemen around. I kin believe it. Guess the Chicago and English owners agree. Word is, he gits a good payday, and an overwrite of a dime a head on every head he delivers to the railroad in good shape. Harmer's his man, an' from the way ole Jake's been spendin' lately, I'd say he's gittin' a good payday, too.”

Buck frowned. “Only thing I can't figger out—Oakley's bone dry. He'd kill a guy caught drinkin' on a drive. But he puts up with Harmer. 'Coarse, s'fur as I know, he only drinks at night.” He chuckled. “One thing's fur sure, Clay, ya didn't hire on to no Sunday school picnic! With Quantrill fur a teacher, ole Jake's already made his deal with the Devil.”

Clayt had no reason to believe that the old trail boss was exaggerating.

“Buck—how many hands are you short now?”

Tanner shrugged. “Ten now. Twice that fer a full crew. A couple left this week. Didn't stay. Musta fell out with Jake.”

Clayt pretended mild interest. “Harmer and I led in two horses from Tres Dedos tonight.”

“I know. I seen ya,” Tanner replied. “I know them horses.”

“Oh?”

“Two fellas named Fowler and Stucey come down here about ten days ago and signed on. Jake found 'em in Vegas. Them and Jake went off on some kinda job a few nights back. Jake never did say what happened, but he come back alone. Nobody who's savvy will go askin' why. What he tells ya is all he wants ya to know.” He chuckled. “If you want to stay healthy and eat reg'lar, son, that's all ya want to know.”

Clayt encouraged some aimless palaver, then got up to spread his bedroll on the straw-filled bunk and turned in. He was restless, troubled by the visions of the carnage on the dam and his father's dying injunction. Hatred burned in his throat. He could kill Jake Harmer with vicious pleasure, empty all six rounds into his rotten head. The more he thought of the pleasure it would give him, the more he knew he could not promise himself that one day he wouldn't, given the opportunity. “God knows,” he whispered to himself, “I've got the reason!”

Clayt rose before daylight and worked for an hour on a new corral. Breakfast was eaten in silence. When he returned to the job he grew aware of Jake Harmer's continued scrutiny. Just before noon dinner break, the foreman found some work to do nearby.

“Never did ask what side ya was on durin' the war,” he said. “Mebbe ya was too young.”

“Part of my family fought with Sibley,” Clayt replied. “I didn't ask for it but they put me in the Quartermaster Corps.”

Harmer snorted. “An eatin' outfit, not a fightin' outfit! By the time I was the age I figger you t'be now, I was ridin' with Quantrill. There wasn't no tougher, harder ridin', straighter shootin' outfit on two legs or four.”

Clayt clamped his jaws to keep from responding. The double-bitted ax he was using to trim the corral poles burned in his hand. Harmer was about to launch into a detailed description of his infamous career when Buck Tanner called from across the yard.

“Hey, Jake! T.K. wants t'see ya, pronto!”

Clayt's lips were compressed in a thin, hard line as he watched the foreman hurry over to the house. He was about to resume his work when some movement in back of the house attracted his attention. A moment later a slender young girl with long dark hair emerged from behind a line of laundry. He watched as she disappeared carrying an empty hamper.

After the noon meal Buck came by the corral wearing an expression of abject disgust. Clayt glanced up, gave him a second look, and said, “What's the matter with you?” Buck spat. “I gotta ride inta Vegas in the mornin'—an' have you got any idea what fur?”

“ 'Fraid not.”

“T.K.'s got me ridin' inta town to buy—ya ain't gonna believe this—dresses and things fur his housegirl!” He threw up his hands. “Kin you imagine what sorta talk I'm gonna hear when it gits around that I'm playin' nursemaid fur some poor kid he bought off'n the comancheros a couple a' weeks ago?” He thrust his head forward. “Kin ya, Clay?”

In spite of himself Clayt smiled. “Well, there's worse work.” He glanced in the direction of the house. “You said, ‘house girl.' I thought she must be Oakley's daughter.”

“Daughter, hell! She ain't even no kin! He bought her off'n them comancheros fur a sack a' pronghorn jerky, some ammunition, and an old Smith and Wesson rimfire thirty-two.”

He snorted in disgust. “Before he gits through with that poor chile, she's gonna wish she was anywhere but in that house. When an old guy like that starts fancyin' up a purty little thing, the plans he's got fur her ain't kindly mentioned in the Bible!”

He was still shaking his head as he left for the bunkhouse.

In midafternoon Jake Harmer came to the corral to saddle up. “I'm gonna look at some unbranded stock up on the edge of the mesa,” he said. “When you finish them rails, Oakley wants to talk to ya.”

“What's he want?”

“I don't ask him no questions like that.” Smirking, he added, “An' if you got any sense, you ain't gonna, neither!”

He aimed a warning finger. “An' I'll tell ya sumpthin' else—when I git back I'm gonna ask ya what he wanted, and yer gonna tell me—real truthful! Git it?”

Clayt looked him in the eye, smiled, and turned back to his work without answering.

Harmer started to jab a finger into his back and thought better of it. “Ya hear what I said, Clayton?”

Without turning, Clayt replied, “I heard you.”

“Well now, that's real smart,” the foreman said, “ ‘cause mostly the ones who is deef is dumb, too, an' like snakebit steers an' horses with busted legs, we gen'lly gotta shoot ‘em.”

When he heard Harmer ride out, Clayt turned and watched him. Half aloud he said, “I swear to God, mister, Hell's going to seem like paradise before I get through with you!”

A half hour before sundown, Clayt put his tools in the shed, dusted off, and cleaned his hands and face in the trough. Blotting dry with a bandana, he headed across the barren, hard packed yard to the house.

When T.K. Oakley saw him coming he stepped out on the porch. Indicating a chair he said, “Sit down, Clayton. I want to talk to you.”

When he had settled on the chair, the superintendent stood facing him. For a disconcerting time, he studied Clayt with eyes as impersonal as a desert reptile deciding the fate of a prey. Finally, his manner eased and he pulled over a chair.

“Jake tells me that so far you're a good hand—mind your business and do your work.”

Clayt nodded. “I came here looking for work. I do what he gives me as best as I can.”

“Seems so,” Oakley agreed. “But would you call yourself an all-around hand?”

“I've worked cattle some. What I don't know I can learn. Mostly, I did contract hunting for the Kansas Pacific.”

“Why'd you quit?”

“Railroads drove out the buff herds, and I got tired of killing.”

“Does the sight of blood bother you, Clayton?”

“Depends on whose blood it is,” Clayt responded mildly.

Oakley was amused. “That can make a difference alright,” he agreed. Crossing his long legs and settling his trouser over a pair of black snakeskin boots as he spoke he said, “Did Jake tell you we're going to take up a lot more range?”

“He said something about ten thousand head by next summer.”

“He told you right. That means I'm going to need men I can depend on. I've been watching you. Jake says you've had schooling. He says you're good with your head and your hands. If you pan out, Clayton, there'll be good work for you here, and a good payday. For special work, I pay bonus gold.”

He studied Clayt again, briefly. “It don't take a crack shot to hit a buffalo, even on the run. Just how good are you with a rifle?”

Clayt inclined his head. “Most generally I manage to hit what I'm aiming at.”

“How about a six-gun?”

“I can use one. I like my Winchester sixty-six better.”

Oakley was silent for a time but his gimlet eyes never left Clayt's face. “What about whiskey?”

“Don't drink it. A little beer now and then—if it's handy.”

“Whiskey and cows don't mix,” Oakley said. It was a flat-out statement. “If I catch a hand drinking on a drive, he takes off right where he is with no back pay. He don't even ride back to get his belongings.” He leaned forward. “The way you talk it seems that would suit you fine.”

“It would,” Clayt replied.

Oakley uncrossed his legs.

“Alright, Clayton, you've got a place here. Jake gets a little snarly now and then, but if you mind your own business you'll have no trouble with him—or with me. Is that understood?”

Clayt's cryptic smile puzzled Oakley. “The safest bet you'll ever make, mister, is that I'll be finishing the business I set out to do.”

Oakley's face hardened for an instant, then his manner eased. “Good!” He turned and glanced through the open parlor door. “How's the bunkhouse coffee?”

“Better than Tres Dedos.”

The answer surprised him. He turned back and laughed, displaying a set of even white teeth, whiter still against his dark skin.

“That's probably still an insult but I'll let it pass.” Turning back again he called, “Girl, fetch two coffees.”

The man's cold, preemptory tone troubled Clayt.

They sat in silence until the young woman reappeared with the coffee. When she was about to set them on the table beside the superintendent he pointed. “Give the man one.”

Clayt accepted the cup and said, “Thank you, Miss.” The girl hesitated for an instant, as though the response had surprised her. When she returned to the parlor, Clayt was aware that Oakley was studying him intently. His eyes belied the smile.

“Guess you haven't seen a pretty lady for a while. Right?” There was no mistaking the implication behind his apparent amusement.

“I haven't been served by a lady in a good while,” Clayt responded. “Guess I'm not used to it by now.”

“That's just fine, Clayton,” Oakley replied, “because depending on what kind of service you have in mind, don't count on getting any of it around here. Is that clear?”

Clayt's half smile was humorless. “That's plain enough.”

The new man's responses made Oakley a bit uneasy but he dismissed his vague annoyance. Ranch hands were not often as well-spoken as this one. If it turned out that he could be trusted, he'd be given work that Harmer's explosive temper made him unsuited to handle.

Settling back, Oakley lifted his cup. “Drink your coffee now, Clayton, and tell me what you know about the territory between here and Raton.”

A half hour later, outside the bunkhouse, Clayt was stopped by Buck Tanner. The old trail boss looked pleased.

“Purty good, socializin' with Oakley already,” he said. “Not even Jake gits an invite t'do that!” A quid shifted from one cheek to the other and his manner changed.

“Say, Clay, mind if I talk sorta private-like?”

“I suppose not. Walk with me to the corral shed.” Tanner fell into step. When they entered the small building where the saddles were stored, Clayt left the door open. He stopped Buck when he started to close it. “Just leave it open unless you've got something to hide.”

“I got nothing to hide, Clay,” he replied in a defensive tone, “only I don't want nobody to hear.”

Clayt braced himself on the edge of the harness-maker's stool. From the first he had pegged the old trail boss for a talker but so far he had not repeated anything that smacked of malicious gossip.

“What's on you mind, Buck?”

Tanner hesitated uncertainly, then flapped his hands.

“Well, fur openers, they's bin some big changes in the Gavilan since I come here back in 'fifty-eight. I hired on then as a flank rider and done good at it. But when the old trail boss didn't know how to turn a stampede in on itself, or how to give Injuns a steer to butcher fur not botherin' us, I got to be boss.”