Judgment at Red Creek Read online

  “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....”

  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 Oak
ley 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!”

  Chapter Eight

  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.