Judgment at Red Creek (7 page)

“And I don't care to be taken for the kind of fool who would walk into a sure trap,” Clayt replied. His quiet voice and humorless smile once again angered Harmer but moved him to restraint.

“Nobody but them knows if they's a guard set, an' all we're gonna do now is scout the place. I done a lot of scoutin' fur Quantrill 'fore we rode in. 'Bloody Bill' Anderson and me scouted fur Red Legs before we hit Baxter Springs. We found 'em, took 'em out from behind, surprised over a hunn'erd Federals, an' kilt sixty-five of 'em. We was there and gone 'fore they knew which end of their guns did the shootin'. All T.K. wants now is fur us to look. The figgerin' kin be done later.”

Clayt's mind raced. Two things were clear. He would have to find a way to warn his people and figure out a way to trap Harmer in the act and hold him. There was no question that the foreman had acted under orders, but unless he could be forced into a confession that would stand up, it would simply be word against word and there was good reason to feel that the benefit of any doubt would go to the cattlemen. Oakley would have to be implicated, and perhaps the new owners as well.

“If there's a chance to do it and get out alive, when do you plan to try it?”

“It's dark moon in three nights,” Harmer replied. “That's when Oakley wants it done. And,” he added, “there's bonus gold.”

Clayt thought for a moment. “I'll ride,” he agreed, “but understand this—he can bust my pockets with gold, but if I think there's no way to get down there and out again, he can bribe somebody else to ride with you.” Pointedly, he added, “Gold's no good in a dead man's pocket.”

Clayt's afterthought made Harmer start. “What's that kinda talk mean?” He groped for words for a moment, then added, “My deal with Oakley don't include gittin' shot fur a fool, neither.”

As Clayt walked away, Jake Harmer stood looking after him. Then he went to his own bunkhouse, lit the lamp, and poured himself a double shot of straight whiskey. From the first day, there had been something inexplicable about Clayton. He couldn't put a finger on it but he was certain now, especially after watching the man handle the Winchester and the heavy forty-four, that if he couldn't draw on him and surprise him, Clayton might be the one to walk away from that encounter, too. That T.K. Oakley was interested enough in the man to ask him to talk sociablelike, didn't bode well for him, either.

Oakley had education. He read books. He could talk to any man, high or low. Clayton could too. He'd given Clayton the job of figuring out the best way to wipe out the Red Creek people as though he himself couldn't do it alone.

Harmer took another four-finger shot of whiskey and smiled.

“Well, Mister Clayton, you ain' no cowhand and I know it, an' that means on a drive a lotta things kin happen very nat'chly to a greenhorn who don't know the ways of the trail. Be a cryin' shame if I had to bring yer flea trap and things back to T.K. t'look fur yer next a' kin.”

They passed Tres Dedos at dawn. Riding at a lope, they turned west at the three large junipers that marked the littleused trail to the ford over the Pecos and on to the rim of Red Creek Canyon.

A few yards back from the head of the trail down to the settlement, they tethered their horses to some piñon trees and walked to the rim.

For a time they studied the scene below them. It was barely visible in the deep shadows. Lights were showing in the houses. Almost in answer to a prayer, as Clayt watched his own house, Nelda and Kate appeared in the doorway. Carrying a bucket, they went to the well. A minute or so later, Oss came out with his father. Clayt watched with a catch in his throat as they stopped to speak. Oss went on to the barn while Henry gathered an armload of stove wood.

“Look at 'em,” Harmer growled, “goin' on like nuthin' happened.” He pointed to the little burial ground almost directly below them on the near side of the creek. The moist earth of newly dug graves was clearly visible. Raw hatred boiled through Clayt again. He closed his eyes tightly to block out the horror of the vividly remembered scene.

“Jes look at 'em down there,” Harmer sneered, “buryin' an' still patchin' like nuthin' happened. Well, purty quick you an' me's gonna be diggin' graves fur the rest of them stinkin' water thieves, just outta common decency.”

Standing close, Harmer felt Clayt's right arm jerk. “What in hell's th' matter with you, Clayton? You gettin' the nervous jumps already?”

Turning his back, Clayt stood in silence for a moment, trying to control a murderous rage. One push and he could send Harmer's ugly, squat body hurtling down into the canyon. That would be too good for him. If there was any justice at all, the vicious bastard would soon be doing the Mexican rope dance and he'd be there enjoying it down to the last twitch.

He glanced back at Harmer and returned to the horses. He was joined immediately. “What's the rush?”

“I've seen all I have to see. I've been down there.”

Harmer bunched the reins and mounted. “D'ya think ya know what to do?”

Up beside him, Clayt turned his horse back to the trail.

“I know exactly what to do. Exactly!”

“Well, work fast! We only got a couple a' days.”

Shortly after the midday meal, Clayt and Jake Harmer rode into the ranch headquarters. The cook rustled up bowls of tough beef chili and tortillas. Harmer wasted no time bolting the fiery concoction and stopped in the doorway.

“I'm gonna cut some fuse and time it,” he said. “Oakley's got some of that new dynamite. I'm a black powder man. I don't cotton to that new stuff, but Oakley sez it's a hell of a lot stronger than powder.” He stepped outside and turned back. “I want enough fuse to git clear. We gotta do this job right this time. T.K.'s real plain on that.” He started to go and another thought stopped him again. ”By the way, I told Oakley you was a purty good shot.”

Clayt smiled as he watched him leave. He would have given a lot to have heard Harmer's response if Oakley had questioned him closely.

In the hot bunkhouse he found Buck Tanner stretched out on the top of his blankets. The old man propped himself up on an elbow.

“Seen ya ridin' out before sun up this mornin',” he said. “Looked like mebbe you and Jake was goin' some'ers.”

Clayt smiled at Buck's usual attempt at fishing. They were harmless expeditions. In a dozen ways the old trail boss, who felt like a loner now, had let it be known that he wanted to be friends. There was no point in being evasive.

“We rode up to Red Creek.”

Buck pushed himself upright and sat on the edge of the bunk. “Ya don't say! Jake's checkin' up on the dam, aint he?”

“That's right.”

Buck wagged his head and chuckled. “He must be gittin lonesome in his old age—needin' company.”

“I doubt it,” Clayt replied. “Oakley told him to take me along to look at the layout.”

“Oh ho, there! That's right, Clay. You was down there. Ya borryed that horse.” He frowned. “Wonder what them two is up to now? More trouble fur them settlers, I s'pose.”

“That's right, Buck.” Clayt decided to risk a leading question. “Tell me, do you believe they're hogging water?”

“Hell no! Onc't their pond's full, the same amount's gonna go spillin' over and run on downstream. If Oakley's worried, all he's gotta do is throw a couple 'a small dams across them fingers on the river durin' low water. He kin water a thousand head easy. Besides, them folks got rights, too.”

“Forgetting the water,” Clayt said, “do you think those people are in a position to hurt the Gavilan in any other way?”

Tanner was incredulous. “Why, you'd hafta be loco t'think that, Clay! I never did see no sense in harmin' them folks. I never met any of 'em, but livin' down there peaceful an' all, it stands t'reason they's the kind that wants to be left alone to mind their own Ps an' Qs.”

“That's how I size them up too, Buck.”

“Tell ya one thing, Clay, I'd trust 'em a whole lot further than Oakley and Harmer and their kind!”

“From what I know of them, I expect the settlers would trust you, too.” Clayt replied.

It was obvious the old man was pleased. “How come ya say that?”

Clayt smiled. “Let's say I know people.”

Buck Tanner's pleased look blossomed into a smile and he sawed at the base of his nose with a forefinger. “Well, 'cept fur the weather, an' cranky steers, people's all ya ach'ally gotta t'know real good t' git along in this world.”

Clayt sat down beside him, tugged gently at the toes of his heavy gray wool socks. His sister Fern had knitted them for him and it looked like they'd soon need a little darning. After her death he had considered tucking them away as a keepsake but practical necessity ruled that out for now.

In the silence that followed, Clayt mulled over the possibilities he had considered on the ride back to the Gavilan. If no other chance remained to warn his people, then he would break his pledge. He knew there was no way he could leave both Oakley and Harmer alive to murder and destroy a second time.

If he was forced to kill both men, they would still have to go to the law, but it would be useless one-sided testimony unless somebody from the Gavilan who knew what was going on could be induced to speak up as a witness.

“Buck,” he said, “I've got another question for you.”

“Fair 'nuff, Clay. Spill it.”

“Do you really know what went on down at the Red Creek settlement, beyond the blowing of their dam?”

Tanner thought a moment then shook his head. “Nope.”

“You didn't know that Harmer and his two gunslingers not only blew up the dam but murdered fourteen of the settlers in cold blood?”

The old trail boss looked as though he hadn't heard correctly. His face screwed up and he leaned closer. “Fourteen—killed?”

“Fourteen men, women, and children, Buck, shot dead in the middle of the night when they came running out to see what had happened. Fourteen dead, Buck—a dozen others wounded. Some will die.”

Tanner closed his eyes and ran a horny hand over his face. “Lord A'Mighty, Clay,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “that-there's a massacree!” Opening his eyes he added, “Y'mean t'tell me that Harmer and them two done a thing like that—almost like Lawrenceville all over?”

“That's right.”

“But how d'ya know that? Fur sure, I mean?”

“You take my sworn word, Buck. Now here's another question. Why do you think those two men Harmer hired went out with him and didn't come back—only their horses?”

“Yeah, Clay—I know.” The old man's voice was still choked with disbelief. “I thought on that, but I sure as hell wasn't gonna ask Jake Harmer no questions.” He drew in a deep breath and leaned back. “I 'spect ya know why Stucey an' Fowler—them's the names they give—didn't come back?”

“They didn't come back, Buck, because Harmer shot them dead in the saddle, probably to keep their mouths shut after they helped him. He took their horses and their guns and stripped their pockets. I know he gave them each twenty dollars in gold against a promised forty dollars a month. He rode into Vegas a day or so later and used the money he had paid them and bought himself that fancy saddle and bridle.”

Unable to accept such depravity, even in a frontier territory where he knew from bitter personal experience that violence was not uncommon, the old trail boss wagged his head as though trying to reject the obvious truth.

“I repeat, Buck, it's the truth. The God's honest, hardto-swallow truth,” Clayt said gently. “I hope you believe that.”

Buck looked up and the sudden hopelessness he felt could be clearly read in his eyes. “I b'lieve ya, Clay, even though in the beginnin' ya played close to the vest. I b'lieve ya, son. I sure do.”

“You believe me enough to keep a promise if I ask you to?”

“They ain't no question, son.”

Clayt rested a hand on his shoulder and shook it affectionately. “Tell me something, Buck, why do you call me 'son'?”

Buck took so long to answer that Clayt came close to regretting the question.

“Well,” he said, “onc't, a long time ago, back home—'twas eighteen-an'-thirty-three—I had me a fine wife an' she soon give me a fine boy. We decided t' move west to Missoura t'make a better life. I worked the sun up and down and got me a stout wagon and a sound team. In the spring of 'thirty-eight we set out.”

“By fall we had got as fur as a little place called Haun's Mill. Already it was bitter cold, so we decided to winter there near some Mormon folks who'd settled.

“They was fine, hard workin' people an' they liked the way I worked. So one day they come over and asked me an' the wife t' join 'em. We thought serious about it. Then one mornin' before they knew what struck 'em, a mob come ridin' in and kilt off half of 'em—mostly men and boys. My little son was playin' with some a' theirs“—his voice came near breaking—“an' they kilt him too.”

Suddenly, all of the repressed pain and anger flooded through Clayt and he wondered how long it would be before he could forget. Buck Tanner was still hurting after thirty years.

Forcing himself to continue, the old trail boss said, “I didn't have no idea at the time that th' Mormon people was ran outa ever' place they settled. Seems the governor of Missoura hated 'em, too—so much he give an order to kill 'em off and drive 'em out wherever they was found.”

“My little wife didn't last long after that.” He folded his arms and pressed them hard against his middle. “My son, Tom, woulda bin some older'n ya, Clay,” he said in a barely audible voice, “an' I'll tell ya the truth, I'da bin mighty happy if he'da growed up bein' some like ya....”