by Jory Sherman
"They're wrong."
Ken said nothing. Clay could see that he had suspicions of his own. One of the vigilantes tied him up again, even tighter than before, and he was left alone. He would freeze to death if he were left there overnight. Even though it had finally stopped snowing, it was still cold.
Clay studied his cell more carefully now. There were two small windows. They were still big enough for a man to climb through. These were on either side of the shed. The iron straps were on the outside, probably secured by large bent-over nails. The front door was made of two layers of 1x6s, whipsawed and overlapping. Braced on both sides by 1x2s. Strong enough for a door, but weakened from moisture. This could be kicked down, but it would make a lot of noise. He peered through the cracks and saw men across the street with rifles. They were drinking, too, which might be in his favor. They were not paying much attention to the shed, at least.
He walked around the shed, looking for something. He found what he sought: nails driven into the logs. Stooping, he checked the corners of the room. Another nail. He backed up and fumbled for it. He picked it up, feeling its point. Sharp enough.
He backed up to one of the nails driven into the logs. He had to stand on tiptoe to reach it. He worked the thong over the head of the nail. He pulled to one side, stretching the thong. The other side bit into his flesh, but it gave him a start on what he had to do. Working the loose nail into position, he began to work on the stretched thong, scratching the sharp nail head back and forth, trying to weaken the leather.
It was slow and painful work. The hand holding the nail became numb. He had to stop and flex his fingers a lot. He felt of the stretched leather thongs; it was weakening. He had scratched the leather enough to feel the roughness where the nail gouged.
He concentrated on one spot, the roughest and weakest. The nail kept slipping, but he felt progress. Soon, the leather on the fixed nail stretched tighter. He strained with all his might, wincing as tendrils of pain probed his muscles. Finally, the leather gave and snapped. He turned as his bonds loosened. Working with his fingers and the loose nail he slid the thong free of the others. It was a key piece with a knot nearby. He worked furiously now, twisting his wrists, feeling each thong, pulling until one wrist came free.
He brought both hands in front of him and took the rest of the leather off. There were deep impressions, bloody and sore, in both wrists. He flexed his fingers and massaged the cuts until feeling returned.
He had a plan now. If it worked, he'd be free. If it didn't, he'd be dead.
He stood by the door, watching. Someone, he reasoned, would bring him his evening meal, perhaps some blankets. If they did, he was ready for him or them.
He didn't want to wait for a kangaroo court to find him guilty and stretch his neck. He wanted to find the men who had robbed the stage and killed two of his closest friends.
* * *
Kathleen sat in the chair at the Wilsons', wringing her hands. She could hardly believe what Garrison had been saying. Clay a murderer? Killing her own father? Yet, Garrison had insisted this was true.
"He'll hang," he told her, "as soon as some of the snow melts. Some of the men are going to try and get the dead back to town. They've got shovels and a wagon with my best team taking them down the trail."
"I don't believe Clay would do anything like that," she said, her mind numb, her voice small and far away.
"He did it, all right. He's a drifter, Kathleen. I tried to tell you that. He's a saddlebum who lives by the gun. They didn't have a chance, your father, Pops, Jenks, or Van Hoke. He shot them down like dogs and stole the gold."
"You don't know that," she snapped.
"Please, Garrison," said Laura Wilson. "Don't torture the poor girl. I agree with you, however. A man who uses his gun for profit doesn't draw the line when enough money was involved. Clay was the only one who could have done it."
"He's right," said Henry Wilson, his face drawn from coughing a few moments before.
"Don't be too hasty," put in Clare Wilson. "A man's innocent until you prove him guilty."
"I'll say no more of this now," said Garrison, "but I just wanted to prepare you for the worst, Kathleen. Your father's dead and Clay did it."
Kathleen rose from the chair, tears running down her cheeks. She ran outside, into the snow, trying to shut out the words she had heard. "Leave me alone," she shouted, her voice husky with sobs. "Just leave me alone!" She let the tears come as she stood just beyond the Wilsons' front porch.
She knew that she had to find Clay and talk to him. Garrison said he was locked up in that little shed they sometimes used to put prisoners before they hanged them. And, she knew, they always hanged them. Some of the men they'd hanged were probably guilty, but not all. It was a savage practice and she hated it. Her father had never sat in judgment on the men they'd hanged. He'd seen too much of that in Ireland.
Well, no matter what they said, Clay couldn't have done those things. It was true he carried a gun. But he was a man who had lived with danger, where a gun was all that stood between him and violent death. Her father had understood that. So did she.
Clay wasn't a man changed by the gun. It was a part of him, like it was for a great many men. This was a lawless land, the West, and men like Clay helped keep whatever peace existed. No, she knew Clay couldn't have done the things he was accused of, no matter what Garrison thought.
She felt calm suddenly, and went back into the house. "I want to go home," she told Garrison and the Wilsons.
"But the drifts must be four feet high, maybe higher, on the road to the Shamrock," Garrison said.
"I can make it. My father would want me to be home. I don't want to see him like he is now. I want to remember him as he was."
"I—I'll take you," said Garrison. "Maybe a buckboard can get through."
"No," she said. "I want to be alone. Please. Can you saddle me a horse?"
Garrison started to protest, but saw that her mind was made up. "I'll saddle the big sorrel. His legs are long enough to get you through the drifts."
"Thank you, Garrison. Thanks, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, Laura, for putting me up. I'll have to repay you for your hospitality."
"Now, child, don't you fret about it," said Clare. "We just wish you'd stay until . . . until things clear up a bit."
Kathleen didn't know whether the woman was talking about the weather or the situation with Clay. Maybe Clare didn't know herself. Several minutes later, she rode toward Belleville, alone. The horse stayed in the bare spots where the wind had swept the road. The sun had broken through and was now beginning to drift behind the trees. She felt chill in the heavy bearskin jacket she wore. It would be dark before she got to town, she knew.
She was going home, she told herself, but first she had to see Clay. She hated to think of him locked up like a common criminal. Was it only that, she asked herself. Or did she want to find out if Garrison had told her the truth? She swept this thought out of her mind.
No, she believed in Clay Brand. Garrison was mistaken, that was all. It was a horrible mistake and she must help Clay to prove his innocence. She must let him know that in spite of the charges, she loved him.
Tears stung her eyes once again and she jogged the horse to go faster. Suddenly she felt terribly lonely and afraid.
* * *
The sun drifted west and Clay knew it would be dark before long. It sat now on a peak near where Holcomb had his claim to the north of Osborne Flats. As Clay watched, a chunk of the sun began to disappear. There were still a few clouds to the east, but they didn't seem as threatening as the ones of the day before. It was starting to get cold. Clay was glad for his sheepskin jacket.
He peered through the open spaces in the door at Octagon House and his guards. He kept back in the shadows, waiting. There had been a great deal of commotion over there earlier. Men had been going and coming all afternoon. Many of them, leaving, looked his way with angry stares. One man had been stopped from letting go a scattergun blast at him. He was drun
k.
Finally he saw Lunt come and speak to the two guards in front of Octagon House. One of them went inside. He came back carrying a bucket and a blanket. Both men came across the street. Clay was glad Ken wasn't with them. He didn't want to have to hurt him.
Clay studied the men who were bringing him his grub. One was a fair-sized man wearing buckskins and fringes. He wore a Bowie knife on his belt, a revolver, and carried a Sharps carbine, .52 caliber. The other, shorter and stockier, with a heavy beard, wore a pistol shoved in his belt and carried a long rifle. It looked to be Eastern made, out of Pennsylvania or Ohio.
He knew that if he could get hold of their weapons, he could stand anyone off long enough to make his escape. It would all depend on how alert these two were and how fast he could get Jimmy to saddle him a horse. He didn't want to be on foot in a town full of angry and half-drunk miners. The best thing to do, he figured, was to put some miles between him and Belleville and let these galoots cool off. He needed time to find the men who were really guilty. It was too bad he might have to hurt someone in order to get away.
He heard the padlock rattle as he stepped back into the shed. He found the hand grip on an overhead beam that he had discovered earlier, and pulled himself up.
The door opened. "Brand?" one of the men called out. "Come and get yore grub."
Clay kept silent.
"Brand," said the other. "Grub fer ye else we feed it to the coyotes."
The men peered into the cabin. "Hell, he ain't in there," said the bigger of the two.
"The hell he ain't!"
That's what Clay was waiting for. Both men rushed into the shed. He drew his legs back and kicked out with all his strength.
"Whoof!" grunted the big man as Clay's boots caught him in the head and side. The stocky man went down in the tumble.
Clay was on them in a twinkling, his fists chopping hard. He caught the stocky short man with a powerful rabbit punch just behind his ear. He groaned and fell over, unconscious.
The bigger man rose to his feet, drawing his Bowie. They circled in the small space. "Give it up, Brand," panted the miner. "Too many out there fer ye to fight."
Clay kicked the man in the groin. As he doubled up in pain, Clay waded in, fists flying. They grappled for the knife. Clay felt the man respond to a sudden surge of strength. He felt himself being driven backward. The knife came up to his throat. He snapped his hand up and gripped the miner's wrist.
His right shoulder began to give way . . . the one with the wound in it. He knew he couldn't hold out against the bigger man's force. He decided on a bold move. He suddenly let his whole body go limp and released his grip on the man's wrist. He let himself fall to the floor in a squatting position.
The miner, not expecting such a move, found he was pushing on thin air. He sprawled headlong when his support gave way, his head crashing into the side of the shed. Clay was on him like a cat. He snatched the knife from his hand and put it to the man's throat. "Not a sound or I draw this across your Adam's apple."
The man nodded dumbly. Clay took the pistol out of his holster and gave him a sound whack across the temple. The man went limp. Clay grabbed the Sharps and the possibles bag from the big miner's unconscious hulk. He wrapped a blanket around him and stuck one of the hats that had fallen to the floor on his head.
Then, as dark slipped its shadows into the town, he crept out the door and behind the shed. He raced behind shacks, stealing along in deep shadows until he came opposite the stables. The pistol fit his holster and the Bowie his knife sheath. He cocked the Sharps and raced across the street and into the stables. Inside, he threw off the blanket and hat. Jimmy looked at him in surprise.
"Don't ask questions, Jimmy. Just saddle me a horse, quick as you can." He found his own hat hanging on the wall. Jimmy must have picked it up when Clay had been jumped that afternoon. In moments, he was mounted. "Give me five minutes, Jimmy, then you can yell your head off." The stable boy nodded. But it was not necessary. The yelling started in the shed when the miners both came to. Their shouts mingled with those of others who came running across from Octagon House.
One of the voices was Kathleen O'Keefe's. She had ridden up just in time to see that Clay had escaped. Her first scream came because she thought he had been killed. Now that she knew the truth, she fled from the crowd as fast as she could. As the angry crowd milled around and shouted for blood, she rode out of town, heading for the Shamrock, her home. "Oh, Clay," she whispered to herself, "where are you?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Clay knew they couldn't trail him far. Besides, the outfit should be back with the bodies of the men killed on the stage just about now. Something else to keep them busy while he made his own plans. He heard the shouts just as he cleared the fork where Van Dusen Canyon road met the Gold Fever Trail. The horse Jimmy had saddled for him was strong, rested, and well-fed. It was one of the string Garrison kept for him to ride, but he had never used it before.
When he had gone a couple of miles, he pulled up to listen. There were no sounds of pursuit. Now, he checked the pistol he'd taken off the miner. It was a good one, a .44 caliber Walker, the biggest pistol ever made. Clay wondered where the old miner had gotten it. It felt just right in a man's hand. There was powder and ball for the Sharps as well as for the Walker. Clay didn't feel so naked anymore.
He rode on, then, regretting that he was leaving tracks. Tonight they'd freeze solid and be visible for anyone on his trail in the morning. He had to get to shelter, though. He couldn't take a chance on going down Van Dusen Canyon to Bear Valley. He might get over if he took the Polique Canyon trail, but he didn't know it well and might get lost. It was a hell of a night to spend out in the open. The sky was frosty with stars and the rising moon looked even colder.
He knew where he was going, but he had to build a false trail before he could head in that direction. It might take him two more hours, but it would be worth it. He had to get rest and tend to his wound. There was only one place where he knew he'd be safe.
Long before he reached the Hitchcock Ranch, Clay turned south through the woods. He made a wide circle, backtracking several times to make it difficult for his pursuers. He kept to ridges where he could, to save his horse. When he found rocks that could be easily climbed, he rode over those. Always, he watched the sky for his bearings. Soon he came to the road he had sought. Tracks of another horse showed him that he would not be alone in the place where he was going.
* * *
Jingo sat in a barrel-stave chair and spun the rowels on his spurs. They were freshly oiled and gleamed in the lamplight of the cabin. They rang when he held a silver coin to them. He drank his whiskey and smoked a thin cigar he had been saving.
Nat Leffler finished oiling his rifle, nibbled at his drink as though preoccupied.
The other man, Jess Purdy, was nervous. He didn't drink. He kept looking out the window at the moonlit meadow that seemed ghostly at that time of night. The light bounced off the snow like pale smoke.
"Do you think I killed Brand?" Leffler asked Jingo.
"I don't know, amigo. Maybe he froze to death. You hit him hard?"
"He hit him hard," said Purdy, pacing the floor. "I hate being cooped up like this."
Jingo gave him a look that had arrows in it. "We must wait, Purdy. Like the vulture, the coyote outside the camp."
"Dammit, why?" asked Nat. "We got gold enough to lay low in warm country."
Jingo got up from his chair, his spurs jingling from the movement. "Both of you," he said, "are like children. You want things now. Later is best. The gold is safe in the lake. We will go from here when the snow melts enough. But, we will stay together, eh, amigos? Such gold can work on the mind. It is not good."
Nat uttered an oath. Purdy continued to pace and look out the window.
"You see, you are both anxious," Jingo said. "We have plenty of food. This was planned well. We did our job. There will be riches for all of us when the waiting is over. Have patience."
The
light played over Jingo's face, accenting the high red cheekbones, the Indian blood. He seemed to be mocking the two men with him, but he was serious, as his eyes showed whenever he looked at them. He stretched, then sat down to bring the drink back to his lips.
"I hear someone," said Nat, walking to the door.
"Me, too," echoed Purdy, reaching for his pistol.
"Early," said Jingo. "But maybe not. Wait here. I'll go outside."
"Is that your man ?" asked Nat.
Jingo waved him back and looked out the front window. A horseman was floundering up the path to the cabin. They were on the edge of Starvation Flats. The man who owned the cabin had been killed a week before, his body buried two hundred yards away. It was part of the plan. The horseman pulled off the path and waited, his mount blowing vapors that shone in the bright moonlight.
"I will go now," said Jingo. "That is our man."
He walked out through the drifts. Purdy and Leffler watched him go. "Close the door, Purdy," Nat said. "It's colder'n a miner's butt in here."
The man called Purdy closed the door and paced over to the front window. He couldn't see Jingo anymore. Nor the man on the horse.
Purdy had been brought into the deal by Nat. He was a man who ran horses from Arizona to California and from California to Arizona. These horses were all stolen. Nat had met him before in Buffums' saloon in Los Angeles. He had seen him again in Barstow, then in San Bernardino, with the law after him. When they had needed another man, Jingo had told him to ride for him. Now, Purdy's usefulness was over. Soon, he would join the dead miner up on the hill. After Jingo talked with the man outside, Nat would know when to kill Purdy. Maybe, he thought, that's why Purdy was so nervous. Maybe he could feel death stalking him.
Jingo was back within twenty minutes. The horseman had gone.
"Well, Jingo, what's up?" asked Purdy.
Nat looked at the Californio, his visage apprehensive. "Clay Brand is alive," he said. "He will be hunting us."
"Let's get out of here," said Purdy, making for the door.
