Judgment at Red Creek

by Leland Frederick Cooley

  They had scarcely echoed his “Amen” when Oss burst into the room.

  “Father!” he shouted, “please come quick. It’s Ned!”

  Clayt got to the Deyer house first, Oss on his heels. Henry and Nelda were close behind. Ned had been sleeping under a heavy dose of laudanum after a compress apparently had stopped most of the external bleeding. Drenched with perspiration, the youth was delirious now.

  Nelda blotted his forehead. “He’s blazing hot,” she whispered. Henry Deyer pulled down the cover and examined the clean flannel pad. Some blood had seeped through but the glancing rifle slug had not come out the other side. Henry had seen similar wounds after battles. Fever had been a dependable sign of infection, particularly if the gut had been perforated and feces had leaked into the belly cavity. Inevitably, it proved to be a death warrant. Without exception, surgeons refused to operate. The end could come in hours or, more often, after agony-filled days.

  Closing his eyes to blank out visions remembered so vividly, battlefield scenes he had witnessed so often with Asa, Henry prayed silently for his younger son’s recovery, knowing as his lips moved that he was asking for the impossible.

  Four days later the last wagon to make the sorrowful journey moved from the Deyer house. Oss rode beside his father.

  Once again, Henry read the graveside service from the worn Bible he had carried into a score of battles. He chose the twenty-eighth Psalm, David’s prayer against his enemies. He read it in a voice that betrayed little of his cold desire for revenge.

  When he and Oss had committed Ned’s body to the rich earth in Red Creek Canyon, he repeated Asa Adams’ dying injunction.

  “I swear again,” he said in a voice flat with cold purpose, “that in the name of God, with no blood of vengeance on our hands, we will hunt down the murderers and, if it’s the Almighty’s Will, if proved guilty in His sight, we will bring them to justice.” He searched the faces before him. “I ask you to pledge again now with your ‘amens.’”

  A low murmur ran through the ranks of the settlers whose bowed heads concealed eyes newly filled with tears.

  That evening, Henry Deyer convened the families in the meeting house.

  “There is no power,” he began, “that can bring our loved ones back. But there is power in just purpose. We shall use it in the name of justice.” He paused and his knuckles whitened as he grasped the edge of the wooden lectern. “Men who can willfully slaughter innocent people are generally hard-drinking men—and boastful. They talk where they drink, in saloons. We don’t know where they came from, but chances are they passed through Vegas.”

  He indicated Clayt and Oss. “The boys have asked to go looking. They leave in the morning to find the Marshall there. Send them off with your blessings. If they happen onto the killers—and from the shell casings there was more than one, most prob’ly two or three—they’ll be desperate men. If they get wind of who the boys are, there’ll be trouble.” He nodded, “For sure. It doesn’t seem likely that such men will come back, but you can’t tell about the likes of them. So I’m asking for volunteers with rifles and shotguns to stand watch on the dam, and up at the trail head. Each man will stand four hours from sundown to sunup. I’ll take the first watch up top.” His gaze moved back and forth across the faces.

  “I’m asking for help now.”

  A dozen hands went up. Deliberately, he chose the eldest men. “You younger ones are needed for the heavy work to repair the dam,” he explained. “We’ve got to mend it before storms come in the mountains.”

  Before him, on the front bench, Mary Adams, Nelda and Jakob Gruen sat with the others, numb and immobile with grief. Clayt and Oss sat by themselves. Both understood the cold, vengeful murder in the older man’s heart. It could not be otherwise than it was in their own.

  “As for you women,” Henry continued, “you can make up refreshments and carry them to the lookouts. Decide among you who will do what and do it quick and quiet.” He paused. “That’s all, except to ask God’s blessings on the boys.”

  Chapter Three

  A clear, red dawn was breaking when Clayt and Oss, followed by Henry Deyer, reached the top of the trail. Henry had insisted on riding that far with them to have a look around.

  Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Clayt’s horse shied.

  “That’s funny,” he said, “that’s never happened before.” Oss pointed to their left. “I think something ran into the brush over there.” He reined up and slipped his rifle from the buckskin boot.

  “Hold up, son, Henry said as he dismounted. “Let me take a look first.” He had moved only a few steps into the thick stand of piñon when he stopped short.

  “Boys! Come over here and take a look at this!” A moment later they stood beside him staring down in disbelief at two bodies. Both had been dead long enough for rigor mortis to set in.

  “Whoever shot us up must have done this,” Henry said. “Maybe these boys surprised them and got killed for it. But on second thought, why would they be comin’ our way in the middle of the night?”

  Clayt bent down for a better look. One of the men was obviously a half-breed. His body was slim and lean. Stringy, dirt-laden black hair partially covered his pockmarked face. Clayt stepped over him to give the second man a closer look. He seemed younger, at the most in his early twenties. His hair was light red and his complexion was pale and freckle splashed. His skin bore signs of long exposure to the sun. Unlike the hawk-faced half-breed, the redhead was pudgy with a belly already running to fat.

  Henry stooped beside Clayt and picked up the half-breed’s stiffening hand. “He’s no cowhand. Neither is this fatty,” he added, feeling the palm. “These men are saddle tramps and gunslingers. The territory’s full of them.”

  He straightened. “They’re the sort who could do what was done to us. No question about that. But the real question is, who killed them and why?”

  “More than two men did the shooting, Father,” Oss said. “I gathered up Henry casings and Winchester casings. There were a whole slew of them.”

  During the speculation, Clayt was going through the men’s pockets.

  “They’ve been stripped clean,” he said, “guns, belts, money, knives. Somewhere around there’ll be two branded horses on the loose. If we run across them, that may tell us something.”

  Henry Deyer pushed one of the bodies with his boot.

  “I think we’ve been told something already. My guess is they were killed by somebody they knew. The signs say they were dragged here and stripped and left for the buzzards. They’re beginning to stink already.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “You boys ride on now. I’ll go down and bring up a couple of men to help bury them. There’ll be a wheel of buzzards over them by noon. When we finish, I’ll look around for tracks and see if they say anything.”

  He returned their nods and watched as they rode off at an easy lope to the northeast in the direction of the old Santa Fe Trail and the growing pueblo of Las Vegas.

  Three hours of riding brought Clayt and Oss to the west bank of the Gallinas River, a small stream that flowed into the Pecos a few miles south of the Gavilan spread. They followed it into town and turned left to the plaza.

  It was little more than a crude rectangle of packed earth that had been roughed out in the 1830s. A half dozen buildings were scattered around it. Two of them at the south end were hotels. A saloon and dance hall adjoined the Exchange Hotel. On the west side of the plaza, a few doors north of the American Hotel, a sign read, DICE APARTMENTS.

  Clayt and Oss rode along until they came to a sign identifying the stage stop. As they were tying to the rail an old man lounging in a barrel chair out front called to them, “They ain’t no stage in today, boys.”

  Clayt stepped over to him. “We’re looking for the United States Marshall. Can you tell us where to find him?”

  “I shore kin,” the old fellow replied. “You’ll find him six feet under. Got himself kilt over on the Conchas a week back, tryin’ t’round up
rustlers workin’ the Goodnight-Lovin’ Trail.”

  Oss joined Clayt. “Has a new one been appointed yet?”

  “Nope, Sonny,” he replied, deliberately exploring a wiry tangle of gray beard, “an’ they ain’t gonna be no law here fur quite a spell—though I did hear tell from the stage driver that a new man an’ a couple ’a dep’ties is comin’ over from Santa Fe next month.”

  Clayt frowned and moved closer. “Are you saying there’s no law at all in Las Vegas now?”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’, mister, ’cept fur the no ’count constable that ain’t never here if they’s local trouble.”

  He pushed himself upright and resettled his weather-wilted felt hat. “You boys needin’ the law?”

  “Could be,” Clayt replied.

  Interest kindled in the man’s rheumy old eyes.

  “Sure ’nuff? What happened?”

  Clayt ignored the question. “I expect a man like you would know about most everything that goes on here.”

  “ ’Spect I do, mostly.”

  “Have you see any strangers in town lately?”

  “Well now, mister, that depends. What kind of strangers?”

  Clayt concealed his annoyance. “Outsiders...cow hands ...saddle tramps...anybody new.”

  Anxious to prolong a rare opportunity for conversation, the old man scratched his cheek and pretended to think.

  “Well now, seems I do call t’mind two boys come in from Kansas some days back.” He broke off and frowned. “An’ before them, a lone fella rode in. He put up at the ’merican Hotel an’ got some new duds. Went out the next day.”

  “Did you find out who he was?”

  “Nope. Never seen him before. None of my concern anyways.”

  “What about the Kansas boys?”

  “Trail dusters. Never seen ’em before, neither. They put up at the hotel, too. Second day they was there that same fella come back. He put up one night and the next day all three of ’em rode south together.”

  “Any idea where they were heading?”

  “Nope. Didn’t talk to ’em. Jes’ rode right on by. It don’t bother me none. I work the stage two days—one day comin’ an’ t’uther goin’.” He brightened. “My real job’s guardin’ the safe here in the ’spress office.” He indicated an old shotgun leaning against the wall beside him. “I sleep in the back, but so fur nuthin’s happened.” He chuckled. “I guess this ’dobe heap’s too small fur the likes of th’ Youngers.”

  Managing a wistful expression, he added, “Sometimes I sorta wish sumpthin’ would happen. Then mebbe folks wouldn’t walk right on past without even seein’ me.”

  Clayt gave him a reassuring smile. “I’ll tell you one thing, my friend, we’re real glad we didn’t walk by you. Thank you for talking with us.” He took a step and turned back.

  “By the way, would you remember what those two riders looked like—the ones you say rode in from Kansas?”

  “Glad to oblige, mister. I didn’t talk to ’em, like I said, but I heard one of ’em say when he rode by, ’This place ain’t no Dodge City.’ Never bin there myself but from what I hear tell, that’s where the Devil goes to practice up on bein’ orn’ry.”

  “But you really didn’t get a good look at them. Is that it?”

  “Oh, I seen ’em clear ’nuf. Took one t’be injun lookin’ and the other one was sorta young...red haired...light skinned...tubby, runnin’ t’ belly. Neither of ’em looked like they’d of knowed a day’s work if they was standin’ in the middle of it.”

  Clayt and Oss thanked the old man, remounted, reined their horses left, and rode south down the plaza. The weathered, poorly painted sign read, AMERICAN HOTEL.

  “Let’s put up here for the night,” Clayt said. “We’ll get some grub and talk to the bartender. Remember what your father said about the kind of men who talk in saloons?”

  “Sounds like these birds might,” Oss agreed.

  They paid fifty cents for a poor excuse of a room, washed in the grimy basin, and went in to eat.

  The bartender studied them curiously when they took a table. “Howdy,” he said. “If yer settin’ I guess yer eatin’?”

  “We’d like some supper...and some breakfast in the morning,” Clayt said.

  The man nodded. “T’night it’s pork chops, fries, and sauerkraut.”

  Later, Oss regarded his plate with grim displeasure. “Beats all get-out what a fellow can get outside of if he’s hungry enough.”

  Clayt’s chuckle was mirthless. “Please God, I’ll never be hungry enough to eat here again!”

  The coffee the bartender brought proved to be a muddy mix of chicory and stale army-post beans. It was filled with grounds.

  “D’ya figger to set and drink a while before ya turn in?”

  “Not tonight,” Clayt replied. “We’ve got a lot of trail time.”

  “Oh? Where’d you ride in from?”

  “Down valley.”

  The bartender pushed an annoying moustache hair from the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t be part of the new Gavilan outfit, would ya?”

  “No,” Clayt answered. “Didn’t know the old place was still running cattle.”

  “They will be. New owners. New super and new foreman. If you’re lookin’, they’re hirin.’ ”

  Clayt nudged Oss’s leg under the table. “Could be interesting.”

  “Foreman’s a man name of Harmer. New to these parts. He was in sometime back. Come in ag’in a few days past an’ hired two boys that was stayin’ here. Next day they all rode out.” He laughed. “An’ I’ll be damned if he didn’t come back a couple of days ago. Musta had a real good payday ’cause he come in to the bar carryin’ a new silver-mounted saddle. He even took the thing into the room to sleep with it.”

  He laughed and shook his head in wonder. “He was sure all Sunday-go-t’-meetin’ gussied up. Figgered he musta stopped in t’see Inez. She’s our fancy lady. A buck a throw, an’ worth it too....” He cleared his throat apologetically. “At least so they tell me. I git all mine at home.”

  “What about the boys who stayed here? Harmer must have hired them.”

  The bartender nodded. “That’s what he done alright, done it right here in the bar. Bought ’em drinks, then give twenty in gold against forty dollars a month. Top pay, I’d say.”

  He wiped his hands on a dirty apron. “They didn’t drop a penny of it. Harmer even stood their grub and room.”

  “I wonder,” Clayt said, “if you remember what they looked like?”

  Apparently reluctant to reply, the man shrugged. “Ord’ nary, I’d say. Somebody you’re lookin’ fur?”

  “Not especially. Just curious.”

  Relieved, the bartender relaxed. “One was a half-breed. Th’other wasn’t much more’n a kid—pale skin, mess of red hair, runnin’ t’fat. Wore his rig under his belly. The skinny one wore a bandoleer... ’bout half full. Didn’t see the make of the rifle.” He turned as two men entered and stood at the end of the bar. Clayt and Oss assumed they were regulars. The bartender acknowledged them with a nod, set out a bottle and glasses, and returned immediately.

  “The three of them done more drinkin’ than talkin’, ’specially after this Harmer fella started standing them my best two-bit bourbon.”

  “I couldn’t pick up too much without buttin’ in, but from what I could hear, they were talkin’ cows. From the looks of the pair, I figgered he was hirin’ them on as outriders guardin’ aginst rustlers. Thousand-head herds are on the trail. With new spreads startin’ up, it’ll git worse before it gits better.”

  He turned to look as another man entered. Moving away, he said, “That’ll be four bits fur the grub, boys. See ya in the mornin.’ ”

  When the bedroom door was locked, Clayt eased onto a rickety chair and pulled off his boots. Keeping his voice low he said, “We’re as good as sure now. All we’ve got to do is prove it. With the Gavilan in new hands I can guess what’s behind it.”

  “Water?” Oss asked.
>
  “For sure. With thousand-head herds trailing up every good stream in the territory, that’s got to be it.”

  “Good God, Clayt, they can’t drink the rivers dry!”

  “In the middle of summer—and that’s when they’ll be driving—a lot of those rivers aren’t rivers for a couple or three months,” Clayt replied. “Let’s turn in. I want to get a sunup start.”

  Oss tested his side of an old iron bed that had tormented a thousand bodies. “If supper was any sample, I’m for skipping breakfast.”

  On the ride back to Red Creek, Oss studied Clayt with a troubled look. Seldom demonstrative ever since the fever had taken his childhood sweetheart and intended bride, eighteen-year-old Hazel Coates, two years earlier, Clayt seemed unusually quiet now. Hazel’s death had left a lingering trace of sadness in his eyes and had touched with grimness the lines around his strong mouth that once had so easily broken into an engaging smile.

  They rode side by side in silence for a time, then Oss could no longer contain his curiosity.

  “You sure look like you’re chewing on something, Clayt. Care to talk a little?”

  “Nope. I want to ponder on it first,” he replied. “I think maybe I’ve got an idea that’ll work.”

  It was just past midday when they turned their horses into the corral and followed the men over to the meeting house. In less than five minutes Clayt and Oss gave Henry Deyer and the others a full account. When they finished Henry braced an arm on the back of the bench and frowned thoughtfully.