Judgment at Red Creek Read online

  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!”

  “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.”

  Chapter Seven

  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.”