Deadman Canyon

by Louis Trimble

  IV

  A WOMAN’S voice shattered the taut silence in the barroom. “Kemp, no!”

  Both Clay and Vanner looked up to the top of the stairs that rose at the far end of the bar. Clay stared in amazement as he recognized the woman who stood on the landing. It was Molly Doane. She was wearing a gold dress of the kind he associated with dance-hall women. She had become well filled out for her small size. She wore her blond hair swept up on top of her head so the round prettiness of her face was accentuated. Elaborate diamond earrings sparkled on each ear.

  He found it hard to connect this sleek, well-fed woman with the Molly Doane he remembered. He had last seen her fighting Bick Damson’s drunken maulings in the alley behind this very saloon. She had been pinched from hunger then, a still-proud girl who hated the hand-me-downs the town ladies gave her for cleaning their houses or tending their children.

  Molly walked down the stairs with her head held high. She looked scathingly at the two drifters. “Get out of here,” she ordered. The pair broke and ran for the door. Molly stepped between Clay and Vanner and stopped.

  “Both of you, put those guns away,” she said. She turned to Clay as he got up off his knees and holstered his gun. Her hands came out, capturing his. He saw warmth spring into her eyes and he knew that in some ways she had not changed. Because he had been one of the few in town who treated her as a person and not as “that poor daughter of Jake Doane,” she had been grateful to him. Uncomfortably he remembered that once she had mistaken her gratitude for love, despite the fact he had shown no more than friendliness toward her.

  She had a ghost of that affection on her face now as she murmured, “It’s good to see you, Clay. You’re looking fine.”

  “So are you, Molly,” he said. “Real good.” His eyes went past her shoulder to where Vanner still sat. Clay saw the man’s hatred standing naked on his face and thought, He’s in love with Molly Doane! A glimmering of understanding about Vanner’s hatred of him appeared in Clay’s mind. Molly would have chattered about him to Vanner. Clay couldn’t know what Molly had said, but he knew it was enough to make Vanner think of Clay as a man to hate.

  Clay slipped his hands free. “I owe you a favor now, Molly,” he said.

  “Let’s just call it part payment for all the things you did for me,” she answered.

  Vanner’s chair scraped back. He strode across the room and up the stairs, carrying his hat in his hand. He stopped on the landing and looked down. “When you’re through with Belden, come up here!” It was an order.

  His head swiveled toward Clay. “You’ve had my warning, Belden.” Then Vanner turned and disappeared up the stairs.

  “Does he try to run you too?” Clay asked, looking down at Molly.

  Her cheeks turned pink. “I work for him,” she said. She stepped back, letting her hands fall to her sides. “I guess I should say I work for Bick Damson really. He owns the Cattlemen’s now, you know. But Kemp is the one who comes here and watches over the business.”

  That explained the bartender’s backing Vanner, Clay thought. He glanced at the bar. There was no sign of the shotgun. There was no sign of the barkeep, either. There was only Tom Roddy, pouring himself a drink from a bottle of whiskey. He tossed it down and carefully laid his money on the bar.

  Molly said suddenly, “Kemp has been good to me, Clay.” Her eyes swept down the expensive dress she wore and lingered on the diamond rings glittering on her small hands. “Awfully good,” she murmured.

  “I’m glad for you,” Clay said. He stood awkwardly, not knowing what to say next.

  A shout rose from the street outside. Tom Roddy trotted to the front window and squinted out. “Stage coming!”

  Clay said hurriedly, “Thanks again, Molly. I’ll see you sometime soon.”

  He ran for the door with Roddy at his heels. He heard Molly’s despairing cry, “No, Clay, don’t be foolish! Leave Bick Damson alone, please!” And then he was outside.

  Clay saw the stage coming into town with its usual flourish, raising a cloud of dust as it careened around the square to make its swinging stop in front of the hotel. He was on the wooden sidewalk before the concord had stopped rocking on its braces.

  Roddy pulled Clay’s arm. “Ain’t you seen enough trouble for one day, boy?”

  “I’ve seen the beginning,” Clay said flatly. “I want to see the end — now.”

  The stage door swung open and Bick Damson stepped out. He was a heavy man, thick through the body and legs. He was dressed in a dark suit and fine boots with silver threads chased through their soft leather tops. As he stepped to the street, his coat fell open to show the silvered gunbelt he wore around his waist. Clay wasn’t fooled by the fancy clothes. Underneath them he could see the same man he had beaten into the dirt five years ago. The fleshy features still shouted their arrogance; the big, solid body still moved with a bully’s swagger.

  Clay jerked his arm from Roddy’s grasp and stepped down from the sidewalk. “I hear you wanted to see me, Damson.”

  Damson had been facing the stage with one hand out as if to help someone to the ground. His hand dropped down and he swung around to Clay. “By God!” he whispered. “Belden!”

  Clay could feel the crowd that had gathered stiffen in anticipation. Someone called nervously, “Better get the sheriff, quick!”

  “He’s coming,” another voice called back.

  Clay kept his eyes on Damson. “Are you going to run me out now like you said, or are you going to wait for Boy Ponders’ help?” he demanded tauntingly.

  A savage grin twisted Damson’s heavy mouth. He took one step toward Clay and then another. Suddenly he broke his stride and lunged forward, reaching for Clay with his huge hands.

  Clay tried to side-step Damson’s rush, but the crowd had pressed in too close. He bounced off someone’s shoulder and half fell toward Damson. He felt the strong hands catch him around the waist.

  “I’ve been waiting a long time for this!” Damson grunted. He jerked Clay up against him and began to squeeze with his thick arms.

  Clay could feel Damson’s thumbs digging into his backbone. He thought, Someone taught his some tricks since the last time we fought. He tried to surge back, to break that rib-crushing grip, to get away from the pressure of those paralyzing thumbs. His heart began to hammer as his breath gushed out of him and a numbness spread through his muscles.

  With a final effort, he twisted sideways and broke Damson’s hold. Damson brought up a knee, driving it for Clay’s groin as he staggered away. Clay turned, taking the punishing blow on the point of his hip. He fell into the crowd again, but this time when he bounced back, he had his balance.

  He rocked on his toes, watching Damson step slowly toward him. Beyond Damson’s triumphant face, he saw Judge Lyles standing in the stagecoach door. There was no expression on the long, austere face, no hint of partisanship in the blue eyes. The judge was just waiting.

  Clay sucked air into his lungs and stepped temptingly toward Damson, letting both hands hang at his sides. The numbness had left his muscles but he knew that if Damson got him in a grip once more, it would be all over.

  Damson broke his stride and rushed. Clay danced away and drove a hard fist into Damson’s mouth. Damson stopped and shook his head, spitting blood. He made a thick sound deep in his throat and lashed out at Clay with a wild fist.

  He’s lost his temper, Clay thought. Deliberately, he waited for Damson to lift his guard and swing again. Then he stepped in close and hit Damson twice, twisting his fists in an effort to cut the skin over Damson’s eyes.

  Damson raised both hands and reached for Clay as he stepped back. The judge said sharply, “Here comes Roy Ponders!”

  Damson stopped, shaking his head. Clay let his arms fall to his sides. He stood breathing deeply while Damson took out a fancy handkerchief and wiped blood from the corner of his swollen lower lip.

  Damson put away the handkerchief and, without a word, drove himself against the crowd, splitting it apart. He stalk
ed onto the sidewalk and into the lobby of the hotel.

  Roy Ponders came around the side of the stage, a foolish look on his face. “You’re early,” he said angrily to the stage driver. He looked apologetically at Judge Lyles. “I was across town on business or I’d have been here sooner.”

  The judge merely nodded and stepped down from the stage door. Ponders turned on Clay. “I warned you, Belden.”

  “Did you warn Damson too?” Clay asked softly.

  The sheriff reddened and put a hand out to take Clay’s arm. Judge Lyles moved forward. “Be careful, Roy,” he warned. “To arrest a man, you have to have something to charge him with.”

  Ponders’ hand fell back. “I thought …” he began. He compressed his lips, cutting off the flow of words.

  Judge Lyles nodded to Clay. “I think we have something to talk about.” He was a tall man and his eyes moved easily above the crowd. “And I see Tonia came with the rig. Shall we ride to the house? It should be about dinnertime.” He spoke easily, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  Clay felt the curious stares of the crowd and sensed some of them were hostile. A lot of people remembered him as a wild kid who’d been run out of town five years ago. Like the sheriff, they expected the worst from him.

  “I could use something to eat,” Clay said.

  “I’ll fetch your horse to the house,” Tom Roddy called. He gave Clay a heavy wink and cocked his head at the sheriff, who was walking away with as much dignity as he could manage.

  Clay walked with the judge to the edge of the square where Tonia was waiting with a small rig. She leaned out and kissed her father as he climbed up beside her. She slid over on the seat, leaving the reins for Clay. He could feel the warmth of her close to him with the three of them squeezed together. He heard her murmur, “You should know better than to let Bick Damson get his arms around you that way.”

  Clay clacked the team into motion.

  Judge Lyles snorted. “A lady isn’t supposed to watch a fight, let alone enjoy one.”

  “I didn’t enjoy it until Clay started winning,” she retorted. She laughed, the husky, tomboyish laugh Clay remembered from their childhood. “I’m sorry Roy Ponders stopped it. I think it’s about time Bick Damson had another beating.”

  The judge said, “If it was only another fight, that would be fine. But you know it won’t be. Bick Damson won’t stand being reminded of what Clay once did to him. Not now.”

  “I thought you two were friends, Judge,” Clay said quietly.

  “If you mean that my traveling to Helena on business with him makes us friends, then I am,” the judge said. “If you mean do I want him as a guest in my house, the answer is, not yet. He’s neither friend nor enemy. I can’t afford to have either one, Clay. I’m still a judge and I’m supposed to be impartial. I’ll give Damson the same chance I would anyone else to make himself into a good citizen. But that doesn’t stop me from expressing an opinion on something that everyone in town knows already.”

  “You aren’t on the bench now, Dad,” Tonia said. “Can’t you admit that Bick Damson started that fight?”

  “No,” the judge answered. “Clay provoked him into making the first move.”

  The judge’s voice carried no accusation, but Clay had no illusions about the way the older man felt. At their meeting in Helena, he had made it plain that he was reserving judgment until he was serious about coming home and settling down. But, Clay thought, the judge had put enough trust in him to ask for his help.

  Nothing more was said on the subject until they finished dinner. Tonia left the men to their coffee and cigars. Then the judge said, “Did you get up to your place last night, Clay?”

  Clay told him in a few words what had happened. When he finished, Tom Roddy said, “Judge, that’s the first time the sniper ever tried to do more’n scare anybody off. But this sounds like he was out for blood.”

  “I thought that myself,” the judge admitted. He glanced at Clay. “You didn’t get a clear look at him?”

  “No, sir,” Clay admitted. “But I have an idea who might have hired him.” He recounted his meeting with Kemp Vanner.

  “I warned Clay about that coyote,” Tom Roddy said angrily. “If it hadn’t been for Molly Doane, Vanner would have used that hide-out gun of his for sure.” He bit into the end of his cigar. “And me standing there armed with nothing but a belt knife,” he said disgustedly. “A man my age ought to know better than to run around naked when Vanner and his kind are in town.”

  The judge frowned. “I’m surprised Vanner would resort to using a gun,” he said. “Before, he’s always been very careful not to do anything to call attention to himself — especially the law’s attention.”

  “It wouldn’t help much if he was arrested,” Clay said frankly. “Not the way Roy Ponders is favoring Bick Damson.”

  The judge’s lips thinned out. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he snapped. “Roy Ponders is still a good, fair lawman. But he has a peaceful town here and he wants to keep it that way in the few years left to him before he retires. And you can’t blame him for expecting you to cause trouble,” he added pointedly.

  “All I ask is an even chance,” Clay said. He waved a hand, brushing the matter aside. “But that’s neither here nor there right now, Judge. The problem is to get those cattle of yours down to the valley before snow comes in the mountains.”

  The judge said grudgingly, “I could pull my crew away from haying. The sniper wouldn’t bother that many men.”

  “We made an agreement, sir,” Clay pointed out. “Part of that agreement was for me to round up your stock and get them back to the home ranch. He pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “You need a little help?” Tom Roddy asked hopefully.

  Clay shook his head. “Not up there. But I could use a pair of ears in town — to find out what Damson and Vanner are doing.”

  “I can tell you what Vanner will be doing,” Tom Roddy said flatly. “You pretty well tipped your hand to him today. He’ll be figuring a way to get you killed — if he has to hire a half-dozen snipers for the job.”

  “You have no proof that Vanner is behind the snipings,” the judge said stiffly.

  “I got no proof, Judge,” Roddy agreed, “but I get a pretty strong feeling every time I see him.”

  Clay moved toward the door. “If there is any proof, I’ll bring it to you,” he told the judge.

  “If you stay alive long enough,” Roddy said gloomily.

  The judge said quickly, “Let me sent my crew up, Clay. There’s no need for you to risk yourself this way.”

  “No, sir,” Clay said flatly. “I want the man who shot at me last night. And I want to know why he’s been keeping people off my land.”

  “Just remember that he has the advantage of surprise,” the judge warned. “You’ll be in the open and he won’t.”

  “I thought of that,” Clay admitted. He opened the door and went out.

  V

  CLAY RODE into town and bought a week’s supplies. He was tying his pack behind his saddle when he saw Roy Ponders coming stiffly down the sidewalk. Clay finished his tying and then rolled a cigarette while he waited for the sheriff to reach him.

  Ponders stopped on the edge of the sidewalk and studied the full pack. “Leaving us, Clay?”

  Despite what Judge Lyles had said, Clay didn’t feel sure enough of the sheriff to confide in him. He said warily, “I have business to attend to.”

  Ponders pushed out his lower lip thoughtfully. He said in a reluctant voice, “I’ve been told you didn’t start that fight with Damson today.”

  Clay swung into the saddle. “That’s one way of looking at it, Sheriff. Damson rushed me as soon as he got off the stage.” He looked down, meeting Ponders’ gaze steadily. “But I didn’t give him much choice, did I? And that’s another way of looking at it. Take your choice.”

  Ponders flushed. He said, “Either way, Damson didn’t lick you. But you’re leaving.” His voice was sharp wi
th suspicion.

  Clay said with quick anger, “We all have work to do, Sheriff. I believe in getting mine done as quick as possible.”

  The flush on Ponders’ face deepened. “I warned you before about riding me.”

  Clay leaned forward. “I own a piece of land in this valley, Sheriff, and every year I’ve mailed in my tax money for it. I always thought that gave me as much right to protection as the next man.”

  “If you need protection, you’ll get it,” Ponders answered.

  “You were quick enough to try to keep Damson and me from fighting,” Clay said. “But I haven’t noticed you riding into the mountains to check on the sniper who tried to kill me last night.”

  The color drained from Ponders’ cheeks, leaving them a dirt white under their tan. “If there was a sniper,” he said angrily.

  “You could have tried to find out before he had a chance to get back up there and brush out any signs he left,” Clay retorted.

  Clay saw the anger glitter in Roy Ponders’ eyes. It faded slowly. “Maybe I made a mistake,” Ponders said. His gaze moved beyond Clay as if he were commenting on something removed from the subject at hand. He turned away suddenly and walked stiffly on down the sidewalk toward the hotel.

  Clay started the dun down the street. He noticed little as he rode. His mind well out into the valley before he became aware of his surroundings.

  He looked back as some one called his name. He saw Tonia coming toward him on a sleek sorrel. She rode at a wild gallop, but she sat the horse as if she were part of it.

  Clay reined in and waited, watching in admiration. The wind had whipped color into her cheeks and a glow into her eyes. For a moment he was content to stare in wonder at the beautiful woman she had become.

  She was dressed in a split riding skirt and a colorful shirt. She wore a wide-brimmed hat crammed down over her dark hair. Her clothes hadn’t changed in five years but she filled them out quite differently. He kept his eyes on her as she came abreast and slowed her horse to a walk.