Judgment at Red Creek (8 page)

The pair lapsed into a thoughtful silence, then Clayt stirred and got up.

“You want to know why I know it's the truth. Right?”

“I said I b'lieve ya, Clay. I do.”

“Well, friend, so there won't be even the smallest bit of doubt, I was down in Red Canyon when it happened.”

Buck sat bolt upright. “Am I hearin' right? You was there?”

“I was there. They killed my father and my sister...and twelve others.”

The old man jumped up. “My Gawd A'mighty, Clay, you gotta be one of 'em!”

“I am, Buck. I rode in here pretending to look for work after I found out in Las Vegas that Harmer hired on these two killers there. Nobody knew them in Vegas. They were strangers. My friend and I found their stripped bodies at the top of our trail.”

Clayt paused to let the words sink in. “I came here to get proof. I've got it now, but I need someone to help me.”

Buck Tanner reached out and took Clayt's hand in both of his.

“You got 'im, son! You got 'im! I swear on my baby boy's grave, you got 'im!”

For the first time since Harmer had arrived at the Gavilan Buck Tanner felt he had a reason for being. “Ya knnow sumpthin' Clay, even though I knowed that Jake Harmer learned killin' with Quantrill, I never really figgered him fur cold-blooded murder. I figgered it was sumpthin' ya had t'do durin' a war, an' then ya got a bellyful and was glad t'quit.”

“That's how my people felt, Buck. They had enough fighting the Union troops.” The old man aimed a finger at him.

“But Harmer ain't cut like that! So now he wants t'go down there and finish the job, an' that black-eyed diamondback 'spects ya to help him!” He dry-spat in disgust.

“I'm going to help alright—help both of those murdering monsters stick their necks right into a noose,” Clayt replied, “and that's why I'm going to need some help from you.”

“Jes' tell me what, son.”

“My people will go to the law as soon as I can trap Harmer in the act and we can force a confession out of him—one that will trap Oakley and maybe the new owners, too.”

Tanner cocked his head and frowned. “Can't say I know about Tom Garner and this Sir Charles fella. I seen 'em, of course, but I didn't drink no tea with 'em.”

Clayt smiled. “You said people were all you really have to know in this life. Didn't you size them up at all?”

“They's diff'rint, one from t'other, fur sure, but they's the same in their talk about what they want fur the ranch. When they first come, an' I drove 'em down from Vegas, they talked business. I got the notion that they want a top notch, money-makin' spread, but they was talkin' more about the quality of the stock than almost anything else. They was talkin' real serious about bringin' over from Europe some shorthorn breedin' stock that wasn't so tall and stringy-meated as longhorns. In the three hours I drove 'em, I didn't hear nuthin' that made me think they would kill t'git their way.” He paused thoughtfully. “I gathered they was happy to git Oakley 'cause of his rep'tation as a stockman. I didn't hear 'em mention a word 'bout Harmer.”

'Well, Buck, if I can trap Harmer and get him to talk—and he will, as God is my witness—he'll spread the blame. We'll find out about the others later. In the meantime, when and if we get Harmer to the law, we're going to need proof that somebody who works for Oakley and Harmer knew about their plans to drive out my people. That means testifying in court.”

Clayt saw a fleeting shadow of uneasiness in Tanner's eyes.

“That's what I want you to promise me you'll do.”

“Well now, Clay,” the old man temporized, “ya know I didn't ach'ally see no killin'....”

“I know that, Buck. But you did hear them planning to drive out the settlers by blowing up their dam.”

“Yes, sir, I did!”

“And you are willing to tell the court that much—only the truth—nothing else?”

Buck Tanner thrust out his hand. “That's eg-zac'ly what I'll do, son. Eg-zac'ly!”

Clayt spent the rest of the day finishing some work on the corral gate. After supper he discouraged Buck from more reminiscing. He needed time to think. The odds against getting down in the canyon to warn his people were far worse than he had allowed himself to believe. More than that, the chances of working out an effective trap were less than marginal. He wondered at the providence that had led his father and Henry Deyer to the canyon in the first place.

“You can't make things un-happen,” his mother had observed once when an earlier bit of ill fortune had beset them. “All you can do is dig in and start over.”

But there would be no new beginning unless there was a certain and lawful end to Oakley and to Harmer and to anyone else who might have influenced their attempt to run off his people. As impatient as he was, Clayt knew that his father's counsel had been right. Perhaps another sort of providence had led him to share a bunk house with old Buck Tanner.

If Buck did speak up in court against the new Gavilan plan, there would be no place for him here under any circumstances. He had given that some thought too. But Buck would have a place with his people if he wanted one. He'd see to that.

Moseying to the corral, Clayt fondled the buckskin mare's velvety nose. She gave him a thank-you nuzzle as he climbed up to perch on the top rail.

He sat there going over possible alternatives until it was full dark. Deeply engrossed in decisions that could spell life and death for himself and the others, he did not see a small figure come out of the darkness on the far side of the corral, pause for a moment, then scurry silently to the deep shadow of the hay barn.

Clayt yawned, eased to the ground, and took a step or two toward the bunk house. Except for the crystal glitter of the stars, the night was velvety black. The evening breeze was cool now but strong enough to rustle the big leaves on the sycamores by the bunk house. In the distance, the main house was dark except for the pale orange glow of a lamp in a side window.

He could see the open door of the bunkhouse. No smokey lamp glow was visible. He hoped he would hear Buck's peculiar tattered snoring. The four remaining hands would probably be sleeping too. For several days, Harmer had set them to riding some miles up and down the river in search of stray longhorns who would be rounded up and branded, or whose brands would be changed, as Oakley began to build up his first herd.

Harmer had told him that T.K. Oakley lived by himself for the time being, that his wife in El Paso would join him when she was ready.

“I know the lady,” Harmer had said, “an' I'll gar'ntee it aint no love match between them two. She likes her fancy friends an' her fancy clothes, an' ya oughta see her struttin' 'em around!”

The light was probably in the room where Oakley's housegirl stayed. From the amount of work she had to do, she'd be up late, he thought.

Clayt turned when he heard the little buckskin move away to the far side of the corral and whinney softly. He wondered about it. Sometimes a stray burro or even a hungry pronghorn would wander over looking for fallen hay. Curious, he walked around the railings. As he reached the far side of the enclosure, he stopped short and listened. Something had let out a plaintive cry. Possibly it was a ranch cat.

A moment later he heard the sound again and this time it was clearly made by a human—a frightened, childish sob. The mare was listening with her ears cocked and her head turned to the left. Speaking softly to her, Clayt moved cautiously through the deep shadows. The sobbing sound had stopped. He moved a few more steps and suddenly, not six feet from him, a small female figure leaped up with a panicky cry and fled toward the barn.

In a half dozen long strides, Clayt caught her by the arm. He stifled the beginning of a scream with his hand. “Be quiet!” he ordered in a hoarse whisper. “I'm not going to hurt you. You'll be all right.”

The girl twisted her face free and gasped, “Please don't take me back—don't let him get me. Oh, God, please...” Clayt muffled her face against his shirt. “You're all right, Miss! Nobody's going to hurt you.” He pressed her head closer and slipped an arm around her tiny waist to stop the trembling. Her skin was damp with perspiration and he could feel that her dress was torn at the top of the skirt.

“You're Oakley's housegirl,” he whispered. “What happened?”

A violent shudder shook her but she did not answer.

“Did he hurt you?”

The girl nodded and turned to press her cheek against his chest. Cradling her head, Clayt said, “You're all right now, Miss. I'm not going to let anybody hurt you. Was it Oakley who frightened you?”

Her head moved under his hand. “He wanted to use me...” She began to shake again, violently, and pressed her face closer.

The girl's plight awakened an old protectiveness in Clayt, one that he had not felt since his young sister, Nelda, had come running to him to be saved from a dozen imaginary dangers.

“Please,” the girl pleaded, “I can't go back. It was all right at first“—she broke off and shuddered—”but tonight he...” She broke off again and lapsed into dry sobs.

All at once it seemed to Clayt that providence was still conspiring to complicate his life. He knew that if he turned the girl over to Oakley she would fare little better than if she had remained with the comancheros. If he allowed her to flee wearing only a torn dress and kaibab moccasins, Clayt was certain she would not last the night on the mesa. If by some chance she did, Oakley would set a crew to tracking and they'd find her—or what was left of her.

In the midst of his quandry he heard a door slam at the main house. Three hundred yards away Oakley appeared carrying a lantern. Clayt held his breath for a few seconds, then lifted the girl's chin and pressed his fingers against her lips. “Be quiet now,” he warned. “Don't make a sound!” He glanced back then picked her up like a child and hurried to the barn.

Inside, he pointed to the hay loft. “Climb up there real quick! Cover your face with your skirt and bury yourself in the hay. He's coming. He'll likely look for you in here. Don't move. Don't make a sound,” he repeated. “I'll be back in a little while. Can you ride?”

“Yes....”

“Good! If Oakley gives up looking there'll be a mare with a bridle and a surcingle waiting. I'll get you on it and tell you where you can go to be safe. Do you understand?”

“Yes...yes,” she whispered, “...Oh, God...thank you!”

“If this works,” Clayt whispered, “thank God, not me!” He boosted her up. “Now get in there and cover up. When I get back I'll call out, 'Everything's ready!' Don't you make a peep for any other voice.”

Clayt waited until he heard the scrambling stop, then he hurried to the barn door. T.K. Oakley, in trousers and an unbuttoned undershirt, was holding the lantern high to peer inside the cookhouse. Clayt ran to the back door of the barn, skirted the corral by a wide margin, cut to the rear of the bunkhouse, and ducked into the privy. He lit the candle there and prepared to wait. If Oakley looked in the bunkhouse and found his bed empty, he would avoid any questions by returning in full view.

Clayt watched from the outhouse door. When he saw Oakley disappear into the barn he held his breath. After an anxious several minutes, the man reappeared and carried the lantern around the corral, then cut across the yard to his house.

Clayt waited until he saw him go inside. The chances were that the superintendent was going to put on more clothes and search a wider area. When he was reasonably certain he could get away with it, he ran to the saddle shed, took down a spare bridle and gathered up a length of halter rope.

When the mare heard him approach, she came to the gate. He let himself in, gentle-talking her as he moved, and slipped the bit into her mouth. Next he tied a figure eight double loop for a handhold and threw the improvised surcingle over her back. Then, moving carefully, he cinched the ends under her belly, led her to the gate, and fastened the reins to the rail.

Satisfied, he hurried around the corral to the barn and stepped up on the edge of the manger.

“Everything's ready,” he called in a loud whisper. When there was no answer he pulled himself up into the loft and called again.

Just beyond him there was a rustling in the hay and the girl appeared. He slipped a hand under her arm.

“Hurry up now. There's a good mare waiting for you. I'll get you on her. Ride easy until you're clear of the main ranch gate, then give her her head. Ride straight up the Vegas road to Tres Dedos. The place is just an adobe on the right and a couple of sheds and a corral. Have you got that?”

“Yes, I think so ”

“About a mile beyond, a trail takes off on the left for the river. It's just a few yards past a stand of three big junipers. It's not well marked but the mare will find it. Stay on that trail. Cross the river—it's shallow now—and give the mare her head—follow the trail up the bank and stay on it until you get to the rim of Red Canyon. Go down that trail. Again, let her have her head. There may be guards. If you are stopped, tell them that Clayton sent you. Remember that name—Clayton—tell them Clayton Adams wants you to go to his mother's house and wait there. I promise you'll be welcome.”

He went over the directions again, then lifted her down from the loft. At the corral, after a precautionary look around, he boosted her on the mare and whispered,' 'With good luck you'll make it about sun up.”

Clayt slapped the mare gently on the rump and started it off at an easy trot. When the girl disappeared in the darkness, he returned to the bunk house, slipped off his boots, and stretched out on the straw mattress. For the next few minutes he came as close as he ever had to praying.

Nineteen-year-old Kate Williams rode the mare with the ease of one who had been raised to ride since childhood. She let the mare find its own quickened pace. In two hours she reached Tres Dedos. No light was showing but she held her breath when one of the horses in the corral whinnyed softly. In a few more minutes she was out of sight.