Oss touched her arm. “When we get through with him, you’re going to feel as clean as a hound’s tooth. We all are.”
“You’ve still got Oakley.”
“Sure we have,” Clayt answered, “but when he finds out we’ve got his dead foreman very much alive, we’re not going to have much trouble with him for a long time.”
“That’s more hope than we’d have with Harmer on the loose. It’s a chance we’ve got to take, I guess,” Nelda replied.
The exchange was interrupted by the loud squeaking of rusty old handmade square nails pulling away.
Harmer broke off prying, afraid to breathe. When he heard nothing outside, he went to work again. In spite of his caution, the old nails groaned as they began to move.
It took him ten minutes to get the first plank loosened enough to move it to the side. The second one would be easier. He’d have an edge to pry against. Trying to be as quiet as possible, he wedged the flattened end of the bar beneath the edge of the second plank and the floor joist. It would not go easily. Using his hand for a maul he pounded against the notched nail’s pulling end and managed to get a little leverage. When he applied downward pressure on it the first nail came loose with a dry screech.
Harmer cursed under his breath and held the bar in place, not daring to move it. Just as he was about to continue, he heard footsteps outside. Freezing, he listened and a cold sweat broke out on his face when he realized that someone was coming to the door.
“Harmer! What’s going on in there?” It was Clayton!
“You having a restless last night on earth?”
Terrified, Harmer dropped the pinch bar through the opening and reset the plank. Frantically, he tried to fit the nails back into their original holes. Bent in the prying, they wouldn’t go. When he heard the padlock open and the chain hang free, he had no recourse but to stand on the planks to try to bend them flat.
When Clayt entered with the lantern in one hand and his six-shooter in the other, Oss was right behind him, carrying a hammer.
For a moment, Clayt held the lantern high, looking around.
“Go sit down, Harmer. We were on our way to fix up a little something for your going away in the morning and we thought we heard some nails pulling loose. Don’t usually hear that around here after quitting time.”
Lowering the lantern to inspect the floor, he pretended surprise to find a loose plank. “Good thing we came by,” he said. “If you’d kept your eyes open, you might have found this one and missed your necktie party.”
Oss kneeled down and spiked the plank back in place.
As he got up, he turned to Harmer. “Unless you’ve got real good fingernails we’ll expect to find you here just before sunup. We thought about hanging you by lantern light tonight to save a breakfast, but it seemed like a waste of good oil.’
For one fleeting moment, Harmer braced his muscles for a suicide attack. Clayt smiled. “Don’t try it, Jake. We want a good turnout for your last trip!”
When they had gone and the lock had been reset, Harmer sank on the bunk, sick with disappointment. The pressure of frustration and unscreamed threats filled his eyes with tears. Sitting hunched over, he jammed his fists viciously into his middle to keep from sobbing. There was no chance to loosen the planks again. His fingers moved involuntarily to his throat. The hangman’s knot would come up behind his left ear. They’d stand him on the cart—probably on top of his own coffin to get a longer drop—then jerk it from under him. He’d drop no more than six feet—not enough to break his neck—and they’d stand there enjoying their hatred of him as he slowly strangled doing the Mexican rope dance.
He jumped up, shaking his fists over his head. “Oh, God!” he moaned, “gimme one more chance at ’em. Just one more chance!”
The stream of half sobbed curses that followed was interrupted by another pebble. Harmer jumped up on the bunk and jammed his face against the bars.
“Are you down there?” he gasped.
“I’m here,” the voice answered. “It’s all clear. You can go now. Hurry up!”
“I can’t!” he cried in a broken voice. “They almost caught me. I had to drop the bar under the floor!”
For several minutes there was silence, then he heard the voice again. “I’ve got it. Take it!”
He grabbed the tool and with near recklessness, he pried both planks loose and lowered himself to the ground under the house. It was pitch black.
For a long moment he stayed dead still getting his wind. Then he began to crawl to his right as the voice had instructed. In the clear, staying low, he scurried along the creek bank. He passed two houses. Both were dark. Beyond them was another house. A light shone in the window. Undecided, he stayed stock still, crouched below the bank. Just as he was about to continue, he heard a door open. A moment later Jakob Gruen emerged carrying a lantern. Harmer watched as he moved to the outhouse. It was part of the plan to add to Harmer’s frustration. Jakob left the door open, lingered briefly, then returned to the house. Instead of reentering, he carried the lantern around, deliberately pretending to be looking for something.
For Harmer it was an eternity. When the man finally returned to the house, he got up. Abandoning caution, he all but ran to the dark stand of willows.
Pushing through them, he found the promised horse tethered there already saddled. With a stifled cry of relief, he undid the halter, gathered the reins, and mounted.
Again, he would have to use restraint until he could get to the trail. The creek in front of the willows was shallow and wide. Fording it would be no trouble if the animal didn’t stumble. Tightening the reins a bit, he dug his heels into its sides. The horse tried to move but behaved strangely. Harmer kicked him. The animal tried to rear and nearly fell. Cursing it aloud now, he kicked even harder. This time the animal let out a short whinny of protest as its legs buckled and collapsed onto its front knees.
Harmer leaped from the saddle, grabbed the bit ring and tried to pull the horse back to its feet. The animal reared its head and tried to paw itself upright. It was then that Harmer realized that it was hobbled.
Frantically, he loosened the hobble and remounted. This time the animal reared and fell. Screaming curses, Harmer saw that its rear legs had been chained around the base of the willows and padlocked.
Suddenly, beyond control now that he realized how well he had been tricked, he charged out of the cover. Screaming curses, he plunged into the waist-deep current. Behind him lanterns appeared. Turning, he screamed, “Come an’ git me, ya dirty rotten, double-crossin’ skunks! Come an’ git me an’ git it over with!”
There was no answer behind him. Suddenly, in front of him as he struggled to reach the far bank, lanterns flared and he saw six men armed with shotguns and rifles waiting for him. In the forefront stood Clayt and Oss with Henry Deyer.
Letting out an insane scream that echoed down the canyon, Harmer suddenly collapsed at the water’s edge. As the current began moving his legs downstream, Clayt and Oss waded in and dragged him onto the shore.
Minutes later, bound hand and foot, Harmer was returned to the strong room. The last of his will crushed, he broke down sobbing, then rolled over and buried his face in the sweat-fouled blanket.
Chapter Fifteen
It was still dark when Harmer heard the padlock being opened. An endless nightmare, as frightening during his restless wakeful hours as it was during his intermittent sleep, had reduced him to an unreasoning wreck.
Beyond caring, he waited.
Armed, Clayt entered the room, followed by Oss and his father, both carrying shotguns. Setting the lantern down he said, “Alright, Harmer, it’s time to go.”
When there was no response, Clayt repeated the words. When there was still no reply, he nodded to Oss. While Henry Deyer stood guard, they bound Harmer’s arms to his torso with the fettering rope that Oss carried, rolled him face down on the bunk, and bound his hands behind him. Using a longer length of rope, they took several turns around his waist and pulled
him upright.
“Get on your feet, Harmer!” Clayt ordered.
Again, there was no response.
“Get up on your feet!” Clayt snapped.
After a long moment, with Oss’s help he pulled Harmer erect and forced him stumbling, through the door. As they rounded the side of the house toward the hanging tree, Harmer saw a large group of settlers there. Lit by their lanterns, they made an eerie assemblage. Dimly, he understood they were waiting to watch him die.
When they were close enough for him to see, he discovered the work cart and coffin were gone. In their place were four saddled horses.
Clayt grasped his shoulder and shook him.
“We’ve had a change of plans, Harmer. The four of us are going for a little ride.” He steered the foreman toward a horse wearing only a saddle, a halter, and a long lead.
Holding him on each side by the shoulders, Clayt and Oss boosted him high enough for two men from the gathering to get a boot in a stirrup, then they forced his leg over the cantle. The men then shoved his right boot into the stirrup and lashed it there. When Clayt finished with the left foot, he threaded a length of lariat through the bonds that bound Harmer’s upper arms to his side, then brought the free ends around his body and around the cantle, securely fastening him into the saddle. One turn was then taken around Harmer’s slumping upper body to hold him in an upright position.
Satisfied that all was in order, Clayt and the two Deyers mounted. Oss rode beside Clayt holding the halter lead on Harmer’s mount. His father brought up the rear. When he was in place he repeated a command he had given so many times in the past, “Alright men, move out!”
As they started for the dam top and the trail at the far side of the creek, not a word was spoken by the spectators who, filled with cold hatred, watched until the Gavilan foreman and his captors disappeared in the darkness.
The ride to Las Vegas went slowly at first, but with a blood-red sunrise lightening as they rode and the first long, slanting rays of the new day tinting the Sangre de Cristo range off to the northwest, the pace quickened. Conversation had been sporadic and none of it touched on their plans.
Harmer, relieved that he was apparently being given a temporary reprieve, grunted complaints about the tightness of his bonds and occasional veiled, half-hearted threats. All were ignored.
The constable, whose absenteeism was a common cause for complaint, was found in his cubbyhole of an office shortly after eight o’clock.
Clayt, who had inquired and was told the man’s name was Boyd Jones, introduced himself and explained their business.
“The marshall shoulda bin here two weeks ago,” the constable replied. “Any business you got is territory business. I don’t have no authority, except on town matters.”
“Are you saying that nobody knows when a new marshall will be here?” Clayt asked.
“That’s what I’m sayin’, and I’m also sayin’ real clear, that I won’t give your prisoner the time of day...and you folks neither.”
Clayt thought for a moment. “Alright. We understand that.”
Henry moved up beside Clayt. “Look, mister, we don’t want you to do a damned thing you shouldn’t do. All we want is a responsible officer of the law to witness this man’s confession of murder. You’re an officer of the law, aren’t you?”
“I’m constable, mister. I guess that says it.”
“Fine,” Henry replied, “then there’s no reason why you can’t legally witness a confession of murder I have here when the prisoner signs it.”
Suddenly revived, Harmer shouted, “I ain’t signin’ nuthin’ these rotten, double-crossin’ water thieves has writ down! Nuthin’!”
Ignoring him, Clayt dismounted and walked up to the constable who had been nervously polishing his badge on the underside of his sleeve.
“This man has confessed to us—and so has his boss—that he was ordered to kill our people and blow up our dam down on Red Creek.”
The constable’s narrow brow wrinkled into a frown and his heavy jowls shook jellylike as he pretended to think, “Never heard of the place.”
“That’s because we mind our own business,” Clayt replied. “But you’re going to hear about us now because we’ll never quit until we see this murdering madman brought to justice and hanged.” He moved a half step closer and the town constable backed off.
Thrusting his face closer, Clayt said, “Mister, I demand that you do your duty and witness this man’s confession. That’s all we want from you. We’ll do the rest of our business with the territorial marshall whenever he shows up.”
Harmer, aware now that if the constable would not take him into custody in the local jail, he would remain a prisoner of the settlers, shouted, “They got nuthin’ on me, mister! Nuthin! You take care of me and git them outa here and back to their water-stealing settlement and I’ll prove it to ya!”
A knot of curious people had begun to gather around as soon as they saw a prisoner lashed to a saddle. One of the men stepped forward and addressed Clayt.
“I’m Mike Whittaker, mister. I publish the local weekly.
I know the constable. It’s not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but I got him appointed.” He turned to the law officer.
“Boyd, this man is making a perfectly legal request of you. Now you help these folks out and witness the confession after it is signed.” He paused. “Do it, Boyd!”
Clayt offered his hand. “I’m Clayton Adams.” He indicated his companions. “This is Henry Deyer and his son, Oscar.” Turning to the prisoner, he added, “And this man is Jake Harmer. He’s foreman of the Gavilan spread downriver of us. He and two of his gunslingers murdered fourteen of our people and tried to blow up our Red Creek dam. There’s more than enough water for all. The Gavilan’s got new owners and it seems the new superintendent thinks he’s going to need all of the water in the valley for his herds.”
Sudden interest shone on Mike Whittaker’s lean, aware face. “Well now, I don’t exactly have to compete with the big city papers for stories around here, but every so often I file a telegraph cattle story for Horace Greeley in New York. Tell you what I’ll do—I’ll see that old Boyd here gets over his skittishness and witnesses the confession for you and I’ll cosign it with him, just to make him comfortable.” He raised a cautioning finger. “But there’s a catch.”
“What’s that?” Clayt asked.
“That you give me the whole story, all the details—names, everything—and if it comes to a trial, which it probably should, I’ll cover that, too, ’though I don’t need any authority to do that. No matter which way it goes, I get all of the statements.”
He paused and waited.
Clayt smiled. “Mr. Whittaker, if a handshake is a good enough contract, you’ve got it.”
Obviously pleased, the newspaper publisher turned and said, “Alright, Mr. Constable, I’m going to invite all of us to my office. We’ll look into a confession, see that it’s all right and proper, then you and I are going to witness it, without prejudice, for these people.”
* * *
A few doors north along the plaza, Clayt and Oss waited on their horses while Henry Deyer followed Mike Whittaker into the combination office and pressroom. The newsman cleared a table of a clutter of proofs. He pulled a compositor’s stool close and indicated the lone chair. “Sit down and let me see the confession you set up.”
Henry handed over the folded paper he had in his shirt pocket. The newsman studied it briefly and handed it back.
“It won’t do the trick. You make it sound like that fellow out there acted entirely on his own. You mentioned new owners and a new superinteedant. Where are the owners from?”
“We understand one is from Chicago, a packer, and the other is an Englishman, Sir something-or-other.”
Mike Whittaker’s interest quickened.
“Well now,” he said half to himself, “this could have the makings of a telegraph wire story.” He looked across the table.
“Would yo
u like me to see if I can come up with a confession that will cover the likelihoods?”
“Be much obliged,” Henry replied.
Ten minutes passed while the newsman scribbled with a pen, crossed out, and rewrote. Finally, he handed the copy to Henry.
“See if this will cover it.”
Henry read the clear sentences and handed the paper back with a wry smile. “There are a lot of things that I can do passing fair—cutting military orders and the like—but this kind of writing isn’t one of them. You’ve got it all down and we thank you.”
“Good! I’m going to make three copies and then let’s get your man in here and see if he can be persuaded to sign them.” He reached for some clean sheets and wiped the pen.
“Meantime, why don’t you get him down. You’ve got him trussed up about as well as I’ve ever seen a hog tied.”
By the time they finally got Harmer off the horse and hobbled, the newsman was just blotting the last of the copies. He looked up at Harmer whose bloodshot eyes were once again filled with savage defiance.
“I think these people are being more than fair with you, mister. If they are even telling half the truth, and I’d been the one to make the decision, I’d have had you swinging high weeks ago.”
“Nobody’s gonna stretch this neck! Least of any, these...”
Clayt drew his Smith and Wesson and prodded Harmer in the ribs. “I don’t want to hear any more about stealing water or about the kind of people we are, Jake. And if you try one trick, we won’t wait any longer for the marshall. We’ll take you back and hang you like we should have done this morning.”
“You’ll never git me back there!” Harmer rasped. “You take me back to that stinkin’ sweatbox, it’ll be dead!”
“If that’s how you want it, Jake, we’ll be happy to accommodate you,” Henry said with a dry smile.
“I won’t sign no damned paper, I don’t care what the writin’ says. I didn’t do nuthin’ on my own. I had orders.”
Mike Whittaker’s eyebrows lifted in pleased surprise.
“Well now, that’s a sort of confession in itself, Mr. Harmer. Would you care to elaborate—tell us who ordered you? Was it a man named T.K. Oakley, the name we have written down here?”
Judgment at Red Creek Page 13
