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Authors: Leland Frederick Cooley

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Anxious to avoid a long-winded yarn, Clayt cut in. “Good, Buck, but what do you want to talk private about?”

“About the changes goin' on since the new owners took over, a Chicago packin' man name of Tom Garner an' a real fine English gent name of Freebairn. They call him ‘Sir Charles,' sort of a respectable way of usin' his first name, I guess....”

“What changes?”

“Well, when Oakley come up from Texas after Jake come first to git things set up—that's when the firin' started.” He nodded toward the bunk house. “Only five of us left, an' the biscuit shooter—not countin' you.”

“If they're going to build up herds, why would they let good hands go?”

“That's what I'm drivin' at. Jake sez Oakley may send fur some Texas hands that works his way. Prob'ly git 'em mostly from John Chism's spread at South Spring. If thatthere's true, then they's about as rough a bunch of gunslingers callin' themselves cowhands as ever's bin seen in these parts.”

“How does any of that rub off on you or me?”

“Mebbe it don't, Clay,” he admitted. “But I heard sumpthin' that might be interestin' to you.” He explored the salt-and-pepper stubble on his cheek. “Oakley an' Harmer don't pay much mind to me when I'm working around and they's talkin'. I didn't snoop a' purpose, but I heard Oakley askin' Jake how good you was with a gun. He said he never seen ya wearin' one, only yer rifle in the boot.”

“Usually I don't wear a rig,” Clayt said. “I'm comfortable with the Winchester.” He frowned. “What do you make of it?”

“I don't know fur sure, Clay. Oakley told Jake two things. He said to keep an eye on ya 'cause ya don't act or talk like a cowhand so he ain't sure of ya. An' he told him to fix it up so he could see ya shoot.”

“What else?”

“Nuthin', 'cept one thing. Oakley and Harmer make no bones about hirin' only men who are gun-handy. They gotta be dead shots. Jake told me that one time.” He shifted uncomfortably.

“I figger the trouble is, nobody's seen ya wearing a rig.”

“I own a forty-four. You could say I'm handy with it.”

The old man looked relieved. “That's what Jake'll expect alright.” He reached for Clayt's hand. “Son, I'm sure glad I spoke my piece! Me and the boys's is glad yer here, Clay. Yer way of talkin', an' all, makes ya differ'nt, but the crew likes that. It's only Oakley and Jake that's nervous.”

Clayt gave Buck Tanner's upper arm a friendly squeeze. Easing off the stool, he said, “They'll find out about me in good time. I'm much obliged to you.” In the doorway he paused. “And if Harmer gives me proper cause to shoot, I'll try real hard not to miss.”

Clayt's quiet, matter-of-fact tone, left no room for doubt in the old trail boss's mind.

Chapter Six

Jake Harmer returned as the ember glow of sunset was fading. He put his horse in the corral and went directly to the main house. A few minutes later he appeared in the cookshack. Clayt was eating with Buck Tanner and the four remaining hands.

“I want to see you, Clayton, when you finish supper.” He aimed his thumb in the direction of the corral. “There.”

A few minutes later he found Harmer in the saddle shed.

“You seen T.K.?”

“Yes.”

“What did he talk about with ya?”

“He asked me some questions.”

“What kinda questions?”

“The kind you asked me. I got the feeling he was checking to see if I told the same story twice.”

Harmer snorted. “If you was as fast with a six-gun as y' are with yer mouth, Clayton, you'd be worth somethin' to this outfit.”

Clayt's bleak smile was unsettling. “Well, I just may be.”

“Be what?”

“Be worth something to this outfit.”

Harmer smirked. “Mebbe. Anyways, saddle up at first light and git the cook to make up some grub for both of us. Me and you's ridin' out right after chow.”

The next morning after breakfast, Clayt took his rifle and two packages of food and walked to the saddle shed. It was still dark inside. He lit the lantern and set the packages on a shelf. As he reached for the saddle slung over its rail, a start went through him. Hanging on the horn was his holster and cartridge belt with the forty-four in place.

“What in hell is going on here?” he said aloud. Harmer answered from the deep shadows behind him.

“Ya hadn't oughta leave a fine rig like that hangin' around, Clayton. Somebody might take a fancy to it.”

Controlling himself, Clayt wheeled around. “I didn't leave it there! It was buckled in my saddle bag.”

Harmer laughed. “I know. That's where I found it.”

Anger flared in Clayt's eyes. “What call have you got to go through my gear?”

Still amused, the foreman moved into the dim light of the doorway. “I've bin wonderin' what that big bulge was. Thought it might be sumpthin' t'interest me if we was ridin' together. An' ya know sumpthin', it was.”

Suddenly he was threatening. “Ya lied to me, Clayton. Ya said ya didn't favor no six-shooters—only rifles.”

When Clayt moved a step closer, Harmer's hand dropped to his holster. “Before you go calling me a liar, mister, you better get the facts straight.” Clayt's voice was cold and level. ' 'I never said I didn't own a six-gun, and I never said I can't use one. I told you I favor my Winchester. There are seventeen shots in it and if a man knows how to handle a lever action, he can get them off straighter and as fast as any of your fancy gun slingers. Now you stop and think. Do you remember what you asked me?”

There was something about this new man's manner, the unafraid look in his eyes, that made Harmer control his desire to draw. Instead, he smirked.

“I did ask if ya could handle a six-gun,” he admitted.

“And what did I say?”

Harmer shrugged. “Sumthin' like, 'depends.' “

“That's right. And what else did I say?”

“You favored your Winchester.”

Clayt's manner eased a bit. “You got it right this time, Harmer. I favor my rifle. I can use it. And I can use a sixgun. When Oakley asked me which I favored, I told him the same thing.”

Spreading his hands, Harmer said, “Now don't git no burr under yer tail, Clayton. I jes wanta know ever'thin 'bout a man 'afore I trust 'im.”

“Well,” Clayt said, “to ease your mind a little more, Harmer, I've never shot a man in the back and I've never shot helpless people.”

Harmer tensed. “Jes' what does that figger t'mean?”

“You rode with Quantrill, you say. If you did, you've got to remember those hundred and fifty men, women, and children—or was that just a big lung-airing?”

“It wasn't no big talk,” Harmer snapped defensively. “When there's a war on, innocent folks git in the way. I swear not a man of us—not even Bill Quantrill himself—set out to shoot women and children. Mebbe there's some that would, but ya'd never catch me doin' that!”

Clayton smiled at the man's choice of words. “Well Harmer, if anyone ever did catch you doing it, I'm sure the Good Lord would catch up with you, too. Life's like that!”

“I got no worry on that 'count, Clayton. Now, let's quit gabbin' and git goin.' “

For the first time since he had started working at Gavilan, Clayt buckled on his rig. Harmer watched him uneasily.

By midmorning the cloud cover had moved east and the sun burned down on the piñon-dotted mesa. Both men shed their vests and drank from canteens carried so their bodies would shade them.

The dry, erosion-fluted watercourse they were following became wider and shallower as they neared the river. Farther south the Pecos itself would widen some, but now it was a shallow, meandering stream divided by sand bars and shaded here and there by stands of gnarled cottonwoods that had survived the rush of spring floods.

When the horses smelled the water they quickened their paces and their heads tossed impatiently. Harmer cursed and jerked so hard the sharp tongue spade on the Spanish bit bloodied the animal's mouth. Clayt had a hard time containing his disgust.

Downstream several hundred yards, a small gather of longhorns were loafing at the water's edge. Harmer pointed to them.

“Them'll be Gavilan stock soon. We'll bring 'em in. If they ain't branded, they'll soon be!”

They rode down the shallow bank and reined up. Harmer dismounted and handed the reins to Clayt. “Hold him fur a minute. I wanta go lookin' fur something.”

His needle-sharp Mexican rowels made pin prick tracks in the sandy mud as he jangled upstream a few yards. Clayt watched curiously as he stopped at the water's edge, then turned and walked to the nearby bank. A few more yards upstream he repeated the same move. Each time Clayt could see that he was examining a stone cairn piled around a limb that had been forced into the damp soil.

Harmer returned shortly and growled. “Those thievin' water hogs didn't waste no time fixin' their dam.” He pointed to the rough monuments. “In normal times, them markers is almost at the water's edge. Now, they's high and dry and ten yards back!”

He remounted and let his horse join Clayt's who was nuzzling and slobbering the water. “That's a hell of a lot of water gone,” he grumbled.

When they had approached the river, Clayt noticed the recent high watermark. So far there had been no summer storms of any consequence in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The new line was formed by the sudden release of water from their dam. As he read the clear evidence again, Clayt's right hand found its way involuntarily to the stock of the Winchester resting against his leg. He wished again that he could gun Harmer down, go back and take out Oakley, and be done with it. The trouble was, if the Gavilan people wanted to drive his people off Red Creek there would soon be another Harmer to do their dirty work.

When he reined his horse's head up to keep him from over drinking he became aware that Harmer was standing watching him with an oddly twisted smile.

“Seen yer hand restin' on the Winchester, Clayton,” he said. “Never did see ya shoot, did I?”

Inwardly startled, Clayt shook his head. “Guess not. Nothing worth wasting shells on.”

Harmer's smile broadened and Clayt's stomach knotted as the foreman's Colt suddenly appeared. When the hammer clicked into cocked position, his scalp crawled.

Pointing with his weapon, Harmer said, “See that hunk of dead limb on the far bank? 'Bout man-sized, wouldn't ya say?”

An instant later the horses reared, a flock of birds exploded from a nearby cottonwood, and small animals scurried to burrows as Harmer fanned off three shots. The slugs all ploughed into the wood at extreme range. He ejected the casings and said, “Let's see you put three inta it from here, fast-firin' yer rifle.”

The tension drained from Clayt as he unsheathed the Winchester. He checked the chamber, dismounted, and dropped the reins. As a target, the tree trunk Harmer chose was an easy shot for a rifle, even in unskilled hands. The foreman knew it. Smiling inwardly, Clayt sighted and put three shots into it with no special attempt at speed.

After the shower of rotting wood splinters settled, Harmer smirked. “Fair shootin', Clayton. Try sumthin' smaller.” He pointed. “Git me one a' them groundhogs settin' away over yonder wonderin' what the hell's happenin'.”

Clayt chose the most distant of three and without seeming to take special care with his aiming, fired. The small animal disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“Them groundhogs is fast,” Harmer said. “Could be he seen the bullet comin', but ya skun up his dirt pile so I'm givin' ya the benefit of the doubt.”

Indicating Clayt's forty-four, he said, “Y'seen me fan off three at what I was lookin' at. How about you returnin' the favor?”

Clayt glanced at him, then took his time slipping the Winchester into its boot. As he lowered his arm, he turned and drew in a single fluid movement. Three bullets slammed into three separate targets on the far side of the stream.

When the horses settled down, Harmer stood staring, slackmouthed. “Where'n hell did you learn to handle a gun like that?” he demanded.

Clayt smiled. “Where I learned is not important. The only important thing is that I
did
learn.”

“Ya said ya was a buff hunter. I kin see ya learnin' to handle a rifle, even ridin' flat out. But you didn't learn to draw an' shoot like that practicin' on dead whiskey bottles.”

Clayt reloaded and returned the forty-four.

“You can't kill anything that's already dead, can you?” Harmer's reaction to the question was a nervous smile.

There was very little talk on the ride back to the ranch as Jake Harmer undertook a quiet reassessment of this disconcerting stranger.

When they returned, Harmer went directly to the main house. A half hour later he appeared in the bunkhouse door.

“We got another job t'do, Clayton. When I told Oakley the water's not comin' through like it oughta, he said for us to ride in the mornin' and see how far along them sodbusters has got with fixin' their dam. This time he wants it blown to hell fur keeps.” He jerked a thumb toward the main house. “He wants me and you to figger out the best way t'do it.”

Cold anger and determination filled Clayt. If there's a God in heaven, he thought, He'll show me a way to stop these mad dogs—a way to finish them for good. After a long pause, he said, “We can ride to the rim and look down without being seen, for all the good that will do. But is that man really fool enough to believe that they're going to leave their dam unprotected so we can go riding down there anytime we please?”

Harmer shot him a warning look. “You watch that loose tongue of yours, Clayton. Oakley don't take kindly t'bein' called a fool!”

BOOK: Judgment at Red Creek
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