Shock had given way to anger now and his voice was under better control. “If we’d gone down there tomorrow night, neither of us would have come out alive.” He aimed a finger at the foreman who still kept the gun aimed at his head.
“Instead of shooting me and having a swarm of men on your tail in ten minutes, you’d better thank God—and me—that I did sneak down there.”
When Harmer made no response, Clayt pressed his advantage.
“They’ve got a guard at the bottom day and night, and a half dozen others must be taking turns waiting at the top. There’s only one chance and now I know how to handle it.”
Still holding his Colt, but lower now, Harmer jutted his face down at Clayt.
“How do I know you ain’t lyin’?” he demanded.
“You don’t, Harmer, so why don’t you go tippy-toeing down there like I just did and find out? Go on. Do it! I’m too old to be a young fool and too young to be a dead one. Go on, Harmer. I’ll wait right here.”
“You was a fool to do it,” Harmer countered. Pointing to the trail head with his six-gun, he added, “How many men have they got standin’ watch?”
“As far as I could tell from where I could get without being caught, they’ve got one standing down the trail about twenty yards behind some cover. They probably have one at the bottom, too. I know for sure there’s one at the top. I hid while they changed the midnight watch.”
Reluctantly, Harmer returned the Colt to its holster. He knew he needed help and Clayton had been down there in daylight. If he bungled the job this time he’d be finished with Oakley. He could probably get on with John Chism at South Spring again but the work was not nearly as good as at the Gavilan spread.
Harmer dismounted and stretched. “How come ya didn’t let on that ya wanted to go scoutin’ in the first place?”
“I was going whether you liked it or not, Harmer. It’s my hide and I don’t ask anybody’s permission to keep it whole.”
The foreman continued to wrestle with doubt. Finally he eased and leaned against his horse. “All right, let’s git on back and figger out how we kin handle the ones that’s settin’ up waitin’ fur us.”
“I’ve got that worked out,” Clayt replied, “but it’s going to take both of us to do it—and we might have to forget putting a charge on the far side of the dam. Too near the houses. If we light even a long fuse and anybody sees it burning, we might have to shoot our way out.” Remounting, he said, “Let’s get back.”
Both riders and their mounts were worn and the sun’s rays had already begun to slant through the low places in the dark silhouette of hills to the east. They turned their horses into the corral and headed for the cookshack.
Oakley had been standing on the veranda having his first coffee when he saw them ride in. He set the mug aside and crossed the yard.
Calling from the door, he said, “I want to see you, Jake.”
The foreman freed his legs from under the table.
“Yes sir?”
“What were you and Clayton doing riding in all wore out at sunup? Where did you go?”
Harmer glanced at Clayton who seemed not to have heard.
“I wanted to scout Red Crick again. Good thing I did. They got guards on the dam now.”
In a voice edged with sarcasm, Oakley said, “It takes real brains to figure that out, don’t it?”
Harmer looked crestfallen. “Well, T.K....uh...what I really wanted t’figger out was how to git rid of ’em real quiet so we kin plant the charges.”
“Did you come up with something?”
“Yes sir. I’ve got it figgered real good.” Oakley walked over to the table and stood opposite Clayt.
“Did you hear what Jake said?”
“Sorry,” Clayt replied. “I wasn’t paying attention to anything but this.” He tapped scrambled eggs and a slab of ham with his knife. Oakley knew better and smiled.
“Jake says he’s got things figured out. Do you agree?”
Clayt pretended to be considering his answer. After a short silence, he nodded. “We’ll get done what has to be done.”
“Good,” Oakley replied. Then, speaking pointedly to Harmer, he added, “And for your sake, Jake, I hope you’re both right.”
“Don’t worry none, T.K.,” the foreman replied, struggling to keep the persistent doubt from his voice, “We’ll git to it t’night and bring it off jes’ like ya planned.”
“Just like you planned,” Oakley corrected. “I didn’t tell you how....” His sudden smile chilled Harmer. “I just told you where—and when.”
Clayt smiled to himself. There it was again—another admission that was also a confession—and this time from the superintendent himself!
Chapter Ten
Jake Harmer and Clayton Adams slept in until noon. In midafternoon, they rode to the nearby flood wash and tested the burning time on the fuses. Using approximate distances, they rehearsed their strategy until they were satisfied.
At sundown, T.K. Oakley came to the corral. Ignoring Harmer, he said, “You do this job right, Clayton, there’ll be better work for you. I’m going to need smart hands when we start driving north to the railroad next spring. Prove out and like I said, you’ve got a good future here.”
Clayt managed a smile. “That’s the second time you’ve said that. I guess you must mean it.”
The superintendent’s long, angular face hardened for a moment, then he matched Clayt’s smile.
“I always do. I’ll be looking for both of you around sunup. If the water comes through, Clayton, you’ll be able to buy that big chestnut you seem to favor now.” He nodded at Harmer. “You might even have enough left over to ride to Vegas and get rigged out fancy like Jake.” His smile faded, “If you’re stupid enough.”
Nursing his resentment, Jake Harmer rode north on the Las Vegas road with Clayt. Something about this new hand still troubled him. It wasn’t so much the man’s unexpected skill with the Winchester and six-gun. The uneasiness had started from the very beginning at Tres Dedos. But there was more to it than that. There was something threatening in the man’s quiet self-possession and in the mystery of his early years.
Clayt glanced over at him and Harmer’s preoccupied expression made him smile inwardly.
It was shortly after ten o’clock when they reined in at the top of the trail and turned their horses into the dense growth of bushy piñon trees. Jake Harmer glanced around uneasily as he dismounted. With elaborate unconcern he probed here and there, looking. When he saw Clayt watching him he said, “Just wanta poke around a little—make sure this is the best place t’leave the horses.”
He shouldered his way through the thick cover and Clayt could make out that he was stooping to examine something. He had dumped the bodies of the two gunslingers there. It was obvious that he was looking for signs. In the darkness he wouldn’t find any. The men had buried the bodies carefully to discourage prowling animals. When he returned, Clayt asked, “Find what you were looking for?”
“Just studyin’,” Harmer replied with his back turned.
Clayt walked to his horse and removed the explosives from his saddlebag. Harmer took the rest of them and tied the two small cans of black powder from which he had improvised hand bombs and fastened them to his gun belt. Clayt unbuttoned his shirt and slipped the dynamite sticks inside. Snugging his rifle under his arm, he moved from the cover to the trail head.
“I’m going down and get the first lookout. Then I’ll see if I can locate another one.”
“Yer gonna make a hell of a lot of noise doin’ that,” Harmer warned.
“I’ll get it done,” Clayt promised, “and it will be done with no shooting and no knifing. There’s going to be no killing this time. We agreed on that.”
Struggling to control his nervousness, Harmer replied, “I know, an’ I was a damned fool. I still think what we oughta do is just go in shootin’, surprise ’em, short fuse the spillway, and git the hell outa there before they know what’s hit ’em. If some
gits kilt in the explosions, we never figgered it thata way.” He shook a finger at Clayt. “You know damn good and well they’re gonna ride up after us anyhow.”
Clayt turned and walked a step toward him. “You change things now, Harmer, and I’m riding. We won’t have a chance!”
Before the foreman could argue, he disappeared down the trail.
Clayt reached the bottom quickly. A soft night-bird call brought Oss out.
“Thank God you made it. Where’s Harmer?”
“Up top waiting for me to fetch that body I promised. Where are the others?”
“Two men are below the dam with shotguns. You passed right by two more. They’re hiding along the edge of the trail.”
“Good,” Clayt said. His voice echoed the relief he felt. “Let’s get on with it.”
They hurried across the dam to the Deyer house. Henry was waiting for them. Oss seated himself and tapped his forehead.
“All right, Pop, do your scratching.”
The older man wiped the point of a skinning knife on a damp cloth and held his son’s temple taut under a calloused thumb. Quickly, he drew the point diagonally down from Oss’ hairline to the corner of his eyebrow.
“Make it bleed good, Pop. It don’t hurt. It only sort of stings.”
“It’s bleeding plenty,” his father replied.
“Enough to smear me up good?”
“There’s more than enough,” Clayt assured him. “Now, let’s ditch this dynamite and get it over with.”
He slipped the fused explosives from his shirt and handed them to Henry. He and Oss left then. Ten minutes later Clayt reappeared at the head of the trail.
“It’s done,” he said to Harmer. “There was only one. He’s out. Help me get him up here.”
They found Oss sprawled on his back. Harmer jammed a filthy bandana in his mouth for a gag while Clayt removed two rawhide thongs from his pocket and bound his friend’s hands and ankles with slip knots deliberately tied to be loosened.
Together they picked up Oss’ limp body and hauled him up to the piñons.
“Lean him against this tree,” Clayt said. When he saw Harmer fingering the leather bound handle protruding from the left side of his belt, he snapped, “Leave that blade where it is, Jake! He’s not going to come to for a half hour yet, and if he does he’s not going anywhere and he’s not going to say anything.”
Unhappy, the foreman relaxed. “With his throat cut, he sure as hell ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he grumbled.
Clayt rose. “Quit jabbering, for God’s sake, and let’s get on with it!”
At the near end of the dam, they could see the flood control gate box.
“Get into it, Jake. I’ll take care of the other end.”
“You got plenty of matches?” he asked.
“Plenty. Now get in and keep down. I’ll set the charges and light them. Don’t you get jumpy and light yours until I get back here. Somebody might be up late. If you see any lights come up in windows, or any lanterns moving outside, stay down. I’ll be able to see them, too, and I’ll stay put until they’ve gone.” He started to leave and stopped. “Remember, don’t light your charges until I get back. You’ll see my matches. When you do, I’ll be coming fast. That’s when you light off—and not before. Don’t make a mistake. Wait!”
Before he had gone ten feet, Clayt was a vanishing shape in the canyon’s deep darkness. Harmer pressed his fist against his middle to relieve the unaccustomed tightness. Silently, he damned himself for letting Clayton do all of the planning even though he understood that he himself was better suited to the head-on tactic of direct assault he had learned with Quantrill.
At the far end flood gate, Clayton found Henry Deyer waiting with Vic Bodine. Both were armed with powerful ten-gauge shotguns.
“Let’s go over this again,” he said. “When I light my matches Harmer will think I’ve lit the fuse. He won’t try to light his until I get back in the gate box with him. He won’t get a chance because I’ll bash his stupid head.”
“When I’m sure he’s out, I’ll fire one shot. You fire your signal to the men and close in fast. If it all works, we’ll have our man.” He paused. “If I have to, I’ll break my promise and kill him and do my worrying about consequences later.”
Henry Deyer reached out and gave Clayt’s arm an encouraging squeeze. “Light up, Clayt, and God help us!”
Crouched in the shelter of the gate box, Jake Harmer stared tensely, watching for the match flare. After what seemed an eternity, he saw it. The flare was followed by the heavy thud of running boots. He was in the act of moving aside to make room for Clayt when the rattle of heavy boards reached him. Immediately the footsteps ceased and he heard a muffled groan.
Henry Deyer and Vic Bodine heard it too.
“Something’s happened to him,” Henry said in an anxious whisper. “Let’s hold it a minute longer.” When everything on the dam top remained ominously silent, he said, “Clayt’s got trouble! I’m going out there!” Ignoring Bodine’s protest, he crouched and ran. He had gone only a few yards when he found Clayt struggling to drag himself back.’ ’Hurt my leg!” he gasped.
In the gate box Jake Harmer was close to panic. The charge should be about ready to blow. Where in hell was Clayton?
Henry kneeled down close. “What happened, Clayt?”
“I stumbled over those planks. I can’t get back to Harmer!”
Hidden behind a boulder near the foot of the trail, Oss also realized something had gone wrong. He had seen Clayt’s matches flare and had waited tensely for the revolver report from the gate box and Henry’s answering signal.
When it didn’t come he fingered the trigger of his own shotgun and tried to keep a hold on himself. He hoped the others waiting on the trail higher up would understand, too, and wait.
Still kneeling beside Clayt, Henry Deyer saw the hopelessness of reviving the plan. “We can’t let that murdering animal get away,” he said. Before Clayt realized what he was about to do, the older man raised the shotgun and fired it into the air.
“For good God’s sake, Henry,” Clayt shouted, “don’t charge him! You haven’t got a chance now!”
Jake Harmer froze as he recognized Clayt’s voice. Realizing that he had been led into a hopeless trap, he let out a wild scream of rage and began blazing away indiscriminately.
Henry Deyer flattened against Clayt to protect him and reloaded his ten-gauge.
Screaming curses now, Harmer emptied his Colt. Shielded behind the heavy planks, he was reloading when Oss called out from the cover of a boulder above and behind him. “Drop your guns! You’re trapped! There’s twenty men here looking for an excuse to kill you! Drop them, Harmer! You’re finished!”
Harmer felt his gun belt. It held thirty-one rounds.
“Come an’ git me, ya mizzable, water hoggin’ hay shakers!” Twisting in the box, he emptied a second cylinder of shots randomly scattered in the direction of the voice. They slammed into the face of the boulder and into the cliff behind Oss, sprinkling him with sandstone dust.
Shouting, in the hope that Henry and Clayt would hear him out on the dam, he warned, “Keep him pinned down! We’re closing in on him from the trail!” His own voice echoed back from the canyon walls.
Henry Deyer, still flat next to Clayt, whispered, “Can you get yourself back there? I’m going to crawl some closer and blast him a time or two.”
“He’ll see your muzzle flash, Henry! You’ll be a sitting duck! Don’t try it!” Vic Bodine echoed the warning.
“I’ll get below the dam face. I can get a toehold on the stones. He can’t get a clean shot and we can keep him wasting ammunition.”
The silence from the flood gate meant Harmer was reloading. As he crawled back toward the west bank of Red Creek, Clayt tried to estimate how many rounds Harmer had wasted. Twelve, for sure. That meant he would have at least four more full loads, plus his rifle. They’d have to chance it and keep him shooting. He couldn’t set off his own dynamite charges with
out blowing himself to hell. Oss seemed cool. He had proved he could be when he blundered into a confrontation with Harmer at the Gavilan.
Before Clayt and Bodine could reach the safety of the other end of the dam, Henry’s ten-gauge shotgun shattered the silence. Instantly, Harmer fired where he had seen the flash. When there was no answering shot, he clamped his lips in grim satisfaction. “I got one of ’em,” he thought.
His answer was another blast from the same position. Frustrated, he fired three more rounds. The last one struck a rock and went whining off into the night.
The echos were still dying out between the canyon walls when another heavy shotgun blast came from above and behind him. Twisting in the uncomfortable confinement of the box, he got off the remaining two rounds at a supposed target, and reloaded.
Oss called out again. “We’re counting your rounds, Harmer. You better start counting your minutes! You don’t have many of either left. Give up, you damned fool! Throw your Colt and your Winchester into the pond. We know what you’ve got. Give up and you won’t be killed. You’ll be taken to the law for a fair trial. We don’t want to kill you, Harmer, but we will if you make us!”
Jake Harmer knew the voice was coming from behind good cover—far better than his. He realized too, that even if he conserved his ammunition, his time would soon be up. He felt the reassuring weight of the two small black-powder hand bombs hanging on his belt. They were his only chance of getting to the trail alive, and he could only manage that slim chance if he could keep them pinned down—and that cost rounds. They knew he had a Colt and a Winchester. Clayton knew that, too. Curses at himself, his own stupidity, mingled with the others.
“Ya want me, ya come an’ git me!” he shouted. “Let’s see jes’ how brave y’are! Dirty, sneaky, chicken-livered sodbusters—wud’nt give a man a chance!”
Judgment at Red Creek Page 9
