“That’ll do it for now. I can get the rest of the story—if there is any—from the new owners.”
Outside, Mike Whittaker took Boyd Jones by the arm.
“Mr. Constable,” he said loud enough for the crowd of curious citizens to hear, “Mr. Constable, why don’t you climb up in the rig and ride the gentlemen over to your morgue shed?”
The local lawman pulled free. “I ain’t ridin’ with no corpses! That there’s ’Digger’s’ job. I’m walkin’ and they can folia!”
Mike Whittaker turned to Clayt. “’Digger,’ is Billy Donahoo. He runs the feed store, but lately he’s been doing better as the undertaker. Five dollars a corpse, including the digging, but no marker. The concerned can put up their own.”
Henry glanced back at his unwelcome passengers and cursed under his breath. “Let’s get on with it. They’re beginning to stiffen up. I’ll put out the ten dollars but I want them down tonight, or in the cool of the morning.”
The constable, already a few steps away, stopped. “They’ll be down t’night. In this weather I’d a lot rather have ’em low than high!”
Clayt turned to Oss. “Ride with your father and give him a hand. I’ll be back here in a half hour and tell you what happened. I want to ride back this afternoon.”
Unhappy, Oss climbed into the rig. Clayt and Mike Whittaker watched as the crowd gave way to let the surrey pass. A few bystanders followed behind to get a look at the corpses.
“They’ve seen enough of them around here this past year or so,” the publisher observed, “but I’ll never understand why they want a close look."
“Where Harmer’s concerned,” Clayt said, “they’d better have strong stomachs!”
Buck Tanner was waiting for them in front of the hotel.
“They’re in the bar,” he said. “I didn’t tell ’em they’re fresh out of a superintendent an’ a foreman."
“Do they know what you do?” Clayt asked.
“I told ’em I was the oldest hand on the spread, trail boss. They remembered ’cause I drove ’em when they first come here."
“Have they asked where Oakley is... or when he’s coming in?”
Buck Tanner shook his head. “Nope. But I was ready fur ’em... in case. I figgered to not say anythin’ ’cept that Oakley was some delayed.”
Mike Whittaker managed a diy smile.’ ’In a land of understatement, Mr. Tanner, you’ve just won a prize.”
The old trail boss frowned and cocked his head, then shrugged. “I do thank ya,” he said somewhat uncertainly.
Clayt put a hand on Buck’s shoulder and urged him to the bar.
They found the new owners seated at a table for four toward the back. Clayt remembered the table. The bartender who had been at the newspaper office was not there. An older man with rheumy eyes and a bulbous nose spiderwebbed with tiny varicose veins, presided.
When the new owners saw Buck enter, they rose smiling. The shorter of the two men reached for a fifth chair and pulled it close. Signaling, he called, “Come have a seat.”
Buck’s introductions were straight to the point.
“Folks,” he said, “shake hands with Clay Adams. He wants t’talk to ya.” Turning to Mike Whittaker, he was equally to the point.’ ’I only jes met this gentleman. He prints the newspaper but you kin shake with him too. He’s a friend.”
Clayt saw a flicker of concern in both men’s eyes. The new owner from Chicago extended a hand. “I’m Tom Garner and this is my partner, Sir Charles Freebairn.” The Englishman’s smile was open and very friendly. Indicating the chairs, he said, “Please be seated, gentlemen. We’re very happy to have an opportunity to talk with you.” He motioned to the bartender. “My good man,” he called in a pleasantly deep, well-modulated voice, “will you see what our friends will have to drink?”
Clayt and Mike Whittaker both ordered beers. When Buck glanced at Clayt uncomfortably, Sir Charles laughed softly.
“Perhaps our Mister Tanner would prefer something with... uh... a bit more authority?”
Relieved to be included, Buck held up a staying hand.
“Thankee, sir. I’ll jes’ wet my whistle with a little beer. I save whiskey fur snake bites and weddin’s—which I’ve neither had any truck with so fur.”
Tom Garner smiled across the table. “Well, Buck, you’re off to a good start with us, at least. When do you expect T.K. Oakley?”
Buck Tanner swallowed hard and looked uncomfortable.
“Mr. Tanner,” Clayt began, “You and...” When he hesitated and glanced at the other owner, the Englishman’s smile broadened.
“Sir Charles will do, Mr. Adams."
“You and Sir Charles,” Clayt continued, “are not going to be happy with the news today. That is why I asked Mike Whittaker to join us. He can confirm some of the details.”
Tom Garner and Sir Charles exchanged fleeting glances. Turning back to Clayt, Garner said, “Well, life in our business is not without surprises. What’s happened?”
Clayt laid it on the table without apparent emotion.
“Your man Oakley and his foreman, Jake Harmer, are dead.” Both Clayt and Whittaker expected a shocked reaction. Instead, the new owners showed not the least surprise. Tom Garner, a strongly built, smooth-shaven man in his middle years, brushed a lock of black wavy hair from his forehead and nodded. The Englishman’s eyebrows lifted slightly but nothing else could be read on his clean-lined, aristocratic face.
Finally, after a long pause, he leaned forward.
“Do I understand, Mr. Adams, that their demise was rather recent—and unexpected?”
Clayt’s eyes moved from one to the other and he settled himself in the chair.
“You will understand very clearly, gentlemen, when you hear why and when all of this happened. And if you have any doubts about the ’why’ part of it“—he reached into his pocket and pulled out the remaining confession—”I think this paper will clear it up.”
Garner, concerned now, reached for the paper.
“Let me see it, Adams.”
Clayt continued to hold it for a moment. “The paper’s a confession, signed by your recent foreman, and what he confessed to will also clear up Oakley’s part in the matter.”
Garner read the confession through twice and handed it to Sir Charles. The Englishman’s expression underwent a slow change to near disbelief. He took his time handing it back to Clayt.
“I think you should have your say, Mr. Adams, and I assure you, you’ll have an attentive audience. Go on, please.”
The drinks sat untouched as Clayt began at the beginning. He described the trip up from Texas after the war, the establishing of the colony and its purpose, the peaceful life that his father and Henry Deyer had dedicated them all to live, the building of the dam, just large enough to meet their own simple irrigation requirements, and the feeling of accomplishment that came with the passing years.
The men listened, engrossed. Not wishing to distract by taking notes, Mike Whittaker made careful mental notes that he meant to confirm later.
During Clayt’s simple description of the horror of the night attack and the wanton slaughter of men, women, and children, Sir Charles could not conceal his shock. “Horrible!” he whispered. “Unbelievable!” Several times he asked, “In the name of God, why?” Tom Garner, head lowered and eyes closed, sat lost in thought.
When Clayt recited the events that led to his decision to hire on to confirm Harmer’s guilt, Buck Tanner’s head nodded in agreement. Clayt made it clear to the new owners that his only purpose was to satisfy his people of Harmer’s guilt, to fix the responsibility of anyone else involved, and to see that they were properly prosecuted under the law.
“In the end,” he said, “we did not take the law into our hands. We kept our pledge to my father. We proved Harmer’s guilt, and Oakley’s. Oakley tried to kill Harmer to keep him from talking. When Harmer seemed to be getting away, he turned his gun on me and Henry Deyer was forced to kill him. We would have much preferred t
he law did that for us. We want an end to violence.” He made a fist and struck it sharply on the table. “We mean to have it!”
He had been talking for nearly a half hour and his throat was parched. Some of the old outrage had come back with the retelling. When he reached for the warm beer, the others eased back, sat for a moment without words, then reached for their own drinks.
The silence was broken by Sir Charles. He set his stein on the table and pushed it away. After a long moment of introspection he glanced at Tom Garner then back to Clayt.
“Mr. Adams,” he began in a tone that Clayt felt could not be other than sincere, “Tom and I see eye to eye on most things and I can assure you, that we’ll see as one on this matter.”
He paused to gather his words. “First of all, let me say, there can be no thought that a price in gold can ever be put on a human life by honorable people. Tom and I are honorable people, honorable in business and in our personal dealings. That can be easily confirmed. That is why I say that we will insist on doing all possible to reimburse you and your people for the physical damage Oakley and Harmer inflicted on you. But do understand that in doing so, we are in no way attempting to assuage your grief or make reparations for the loss of your loved ones. We knew nothing of Harmer. We knew Oakley for the expert cattleman he apparently was. Beyond that, we knew nothing of his personal life. Harmer was his choice. We wanted him to be easy with the men he would have to rely on. That is just good business practice. Apparently, on that count, we have made a ghastly mistake. There are no words to express our shock and our sorrow.” He paused and looked deeply into Clayt’s eyes, cold and still reflecting remembered pain and anger. “I beg you, Mr. Adams, to believe that as the truth before God.”
The meeting ended in silence. Another round of beer was brought to the table but each man drank slowly, without relish. There were no easy words.
Clayt felt that he had made it plain that if the new owners had been in any way responsible for Oakley’s decision, they would have to answer, too. The confession was all that would be required to bring them to court. Under oath they would either clear themselves or suffer the consequences. But even as he considered that possibility, he could not bring himself to believe that either Garner or the Englishman would resort to what amounted to insane violence to get their way.
Clayt glanced outside and saw Henry and Oss driving up in the ranch rig. It was midafternoon, later than he wanted to start back, but he was anxious to get home. He turned to Buck.
“Henry will turn the team over to you now. We’re going to ride back to Red Creek. We’ll return the Gavilan horses tomorrow or the next day.”
Before Buck could reply, Tom Garner spoke up. “You keep those animals, Clayton. They’re yours now.”
“We insist,” Sir Charles broke in. “If they’re good mounts, you keep them."
“You heard the gentlemen, Clay,” Buck said. “You keep that little buckskin that the girl rode off, too. We got a good caballada. Enough fur now."
“I trust Tanner’s judgment,” Garner added. “You keep any ranch stock you’ve been riding. Don’t bring it around.”
Buck turned to him. “I do thank ya, Mr. Garner.” He cocked his head and squinted at Clayt. “Only one thing—I know you like t’be called ’Clayt—with a’t’ on the end—and I hope you’ll be easy until I git used to puttin’ it there.”
Clayt pushed back his chair.’ ’With or without the’t’ Buck, you’re one of the best men I know. You remember what I said to you. You will always be welcomed at Red Creek—for as long as you want to stay.”
Sir Charles rose, smiling. “I don’t want to impose my will on Buck,” he said, “but I’m sure he’s going to be needed and equally welcome at the Gavilan—just as you will be, Clayt with a’t.’”
The small joke eased the air. Tom Garner came around the table and offered his hand. “Unless Buck has other plans, he’s going to have important work at the Gavilan. Very important,” he said, “and that goes for you too, Clayt. We hope to have reason to see you soon.” He turned to Mike Whittaker. “I’m very glad that you could be with us, Mike. We’ll answer your questions about our plans—and none of them have anything to do with disturbing the peace here or anywhere else. We hope you’ll come to believe that.”
The publisher nodded and smiled. ’ ’I find I sort of tend to.”
Chapter Seventeen
They had pushed their animals on the return trip. It was well after sundown when they stopped at the top of the trail and “hallooed.” Immediately settlers began emerging from their homes carrying lanterns. By the time the three riders reached the bottom of the trail and crossed the dam, the last of the settlers had entered the big meeting house.
Mary was waiting for them with Nelda and Kate. When she saw Oss leading Harmer’s horse with its empty saddle, she breathed a great sigh of relief.
“Oh, Clayt! Thank God you turned that filthy beast over to the law!” Nodding toward the meeting house, she added, “They’re all there, full of fidgets and waiting to hear what happened. But I’ve kept your suppers warm. I want you to wash up and eat first.”
Clayt turned questioning eyes to Henry and Oss.
“We’ll eat some later,” he replied, “after we’ve talked. We’d rather get the telling done first.”
Henry nodded. “Oss and I will put up the horses and wash. We’ll meet you over there.” Clayt eased out of the saddle and handed the reins to him. Disappointed, Mary nodded to the girls. “Things will keep for an hour or so.” Turning to Nelda, she said, “Why don’t you get some towels for your brother?”
Clayt stripped off his shirt and shook a small cloud of dust from it. While he was plunging his face and most of his head in the small wash trough, Mary brushed it and shook it some more. When he half submerged his upper body one last time and came up blowing, both girls laughed.
Nelda forced a towel into his groping hands and put a second one over his dripping shoulders.
“You sound like an old bull in a buff wallow,” she said. Clayt’s response was muffled in the towel.
Refreshed, he gave his shirt one last shake and pulled it on. A few minutes later, followed by his mother and the girls, he entered the meeting house. Somehow, the lanterns hanging from their pegs around the walls, seemed brighter than usual.
Oss had been holding places on the front bench for them. Henry was waiting at the lectern. When they were seated, he looked over the assembled settlers. Finally he spoke in a voice rough with fatigue. “I’m suffering some from a troubled conscience. This afternoon, I had to break our pledge to Asa.” He paused and let his eyes wander over the upturned faces. “I’m not going to apologize.”
“If you killed Harmer you don’t have to!” a voice shouted. Ignoring the man, Henry continued, “A lot of things could have changed today. We’re not sure yet. But that’s for Clayt to tell you“—he paused again and began to move from the platform—“which he is going to do now.”
Moving slowly, Clayt stepped up on the platform and took his place behind the lectern. Since his father’s death it had been Henry Deyer’s territory. Now some, including Henry himself, were saying that it was his place. It was not a place that he would ever aspire to occupy.
Clutching the edge of the lectern, he looked down at his mother and sister and at Oss and Kate. When Henry took a place beside them, he deliberately studied the anxious faces. For the first time since the tragedy wreaked on them by Harmer, he saw a glimmer of hope in eyes dulled by fear, anger, and sorrow without end.
Speaking matter-of-factly, he recited the events just as they had happened from the time they had ridden into Las Vegas in search of the marshall. As their frustration had mounted with each new obstacle, those who could not yet know the result of the trip murmured in sympathy and shared frustration.
Though he made no attempt to dramatize the climax of the trip, anticipation mixed with rising anxiety brought the settlers to the edge of their benches. In spite of himself, Clayt’s voice tighten
ed as he told of the encounter with Oakley, the burning of the confession, the superintendent’s attempt to kill Harmer to keep from being incriminated, and his final end as Henry’s rifle slug saved their lives.
Fervent “Thank Gods” mingled with anxious questions as men called, “What happened to Harmer? Did you kill him, too?”
Clayt held up a hand for quiet.
“No, we didn’t kill him. We didn’t have to. The Good Lord took a hand in that.”
Pressed for details, Clayt decided to spare them nothing. When he finished, the room was dead silent as each one who had suffered at Jake Harmer’s hands, or who had comforted others who had, said their own private prayers of gratitude. Clayt straightened on the lectern and seemed about to leave when Jakob Gruen stood up.
“Henry said a lot of things could have changed today but you’re not sure yet? Do you mean you don’t know about the new owners and whether or not they had a hand in it?”
Clayt turned to Henry. “Am I right when I say that they seemed very upset when they heard what happened?”
“I judged them to be,” he replied.“Also, Buck Tanner’s known them since they bought up the place. He figures them for decent people.”
Clayt nodded.“And so does Mike Whittaker apparently.”
“What about you, Clayt?” his mother asked.
Clayt took his own time answering. “I’d like to believe that. It would mean an end to our trouble, but I want to do a little more nosing around.”
Mary’s expression changed from hope to grave concern.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to go riding down there again!”
“I am,” Clayt replied. “They said we could keep their horses. They also said they would pay us for the damage to the dam. I want to listen to them talk some more before I fix them in my mind.”
Thad Jones, whose shoulder had been shattered by a rifle slug, jumped up.
“Don’t you be a damned fool, Clayton Adams! Money don’t mean a thing to the likes of them. Neither does talk. They hired Oakley to run their spread. They sure knew what kind of a snake he was!”
Judgment at Red Creek Page 15
