Judgment at Red Creek

by Leland Frederick Cooley

  Holding his sprained leg, Clayt’s mind raced. Both sides were pinned down. The only thing they could do was keep him wasting ammunition and hope that they had judged his supply correctly.

  Almost simultaneously, two ten-gauge shots blasted the box, one from Henry Deyer’s weapon and another from Oss’. With insane recklessness, Harmer spent rounds in answering fire, and both men smiled grimly and reloaded. In a cross fire, Harmer knew he could lose his last gamble.

  Two more clusters of buckshot slammed into his hiding place but he did not answer their fire. In a minute he’d need all of his Colt rounds. The Winchester would have to be left behind. He slipped the six-shooter into its holster and loosened the two small black-powder bombs. Their fuses would ignite the explosive in ten seconds.

  He estimated the distance to the men hiding behind him and to those who were still out on the dam. No use wasting a charge on them. Escape was the other way. The man who had been shouting and shooting above and behind was out of throwing range. His only chance would be to steal from his cover, crawl close enough, light both fuses, heave them, and shoot his way to the foot of the trail. Once there, he’d try to outrun them to the top and get to his horse.

  For several nerve-racking minutes the only sounds in Red Creek Canyon were the familiar ones, the soft rush of water over the spillway, the occasional calls of a night bird, and the hollow, metalic clang of cowbells coming from the pasture downstream.

  Harmer could feel the pulse throbbing in his neck as he leaned to check the short fuses. The block of phosphorus matches was in his shirt pocket. He pulled it out and broke off four. Once out on the dam, if he took time to light both fuses, the flare would give him away. Half sick and soaked with anxious sweat, he decided to leave one behind rather than risk a flesh-riddling cluster of buckshot.

  Holding the matches in his mouth, he eased over the edge of his protective planking and flattened against the earthen dam. Inching along, he propelled himself with his left forearm to stay as low as possible. The hand bomb was clutched under his arm and the Colt was ready in his hand. If he could make it half the distance from the flood gate to the foot of the trail he’d be within throwing distance.

  He stopped twice, afraid that the scrape of his boots as he pushed would give him away. Just then, the long silence was shattered by a buckshot blast just a few yards above him and he heard Oss’ voice again.

  “I hope you’re thinking it out, Harmer. You can’t get out of here. Give up. You’ll get fair treatment. You’ll get the chance you didn’t give our people—fourteen of them—dead! Give up, Harmer, or we’re coming for you!”

  Again, no answer, only the ominous silence. From behind his cover, Oss peered into the darkness. He could just barely make out the squat, square shape of the floodgate housing. On the far side of the dam, the houses were still obscured in the deeper shadows of the west canyon wall.

  He turned to John Bates who was crouching beside him.

  “What do you think he’s up to?” he whispered.

  “I don’t think we could hit him in there,” Bates answered. “... an’ I don’t hardly think he’s used up his loads. There’s been no rifle fire yet.”

  Oss knew that, too, and it worried him. “The only thing is,” he replied, “to use it, he’s got to show more of himself for a target. We might get lucky, but we want him alive.”

  Unseen on the dam top, Harmer positioned himself to take his last chance for escape. His mouth was cottony dry and his hands were slippery with dirty sweat. Breathing like a cornered animal, he gathered his legs under him, took the matches from his mouth, struck them, and touched them to the fuse.

  The instant it started to splutter, he jumped up, took aim, and threw it toward the place he thought his tormentor was hiding. Flattening again, he stoppered his ears and waited.

  When Oss saw the trail of sparks arcing in his direction, he froze for an instant, then shouted to John Bates to get down. Pressing himself against the boulder, he covered his face. Seconds later a two-pound can of black powder exploded at the base of his hiding place. The shock deafened him momentarily and both men were showered with bits of rock.

  Harmer charged at the base of the trail with his Colt blazing away at unseen attackers. When Oss realized what was happening, he yelled, “He’s trying to blast his way out of here!” Leaving his cover, he rushed to the trail in time to make out Harmer’s indistinct figure driving up the steep slope. Shouting a second warning to the men concealed along the lower end of the trail, Oss aimed the heavy shotgun from his hip and pulled the trigger. Harmer stumbled and sharp bits of rock bit into the palm of his left hand. The heavy load of buckshot shredded some scrub brush not two feet away.

  His breath exploded in lung-searing gasps as he redoubled his effort to outclimb the man behind him. Another, lighter shotgun blast slammed into his ears ahead of him and a bit to his right. When that load went wide, too, a glimmer of hope gave him renewed strength.

  Oss had to slow to reload and lost several yards. He heard rather than saw the running figure. Taking time to aim, he pulled the trigger and in an instant Harmer’s sharp outcry reached him. A nettle sting of nearly spent pellets had struck him in the back. He knew he was bleeding but he continued to drive himself like a madman.

  Oss shouted at him again. “We’re waiting for you up top, too, Harmer. Give up!” With no breath to waste on retorts, he forced himself to keep scrambling. If he could last another few yards he would make it to the rim and freedom.

  The hornet sting of another blast made him cry out, but he kept going. Ahead and a little above, he could make out the dark shapes of the piñons. In a superhuman effort he stumbled to them and let out a cry of relief when he saw the animals. Staggering, he reached his horse, pulled the reins free, and grasped the saddle horn.

  Summoning the last ounce of strength born of hope, he jammed his left boot in the stirrup and started to pull himself up. Suddenly the deliberately loosened saddle slipped forward and came off. As he fell backwards with the saddle on top of him, his Colt slipped free of the holster.

  From out of nowhere four men appeared. Jakob Gruen put the barrel of his shotgun against Harmer’s temple.

  “I’d risk going to hell to kill you,” he said, “if I wasn’t afraid I’d meet you there! Don’t you make a move or I’ll take that chance!”

  Fighting for breath, Oss came up. For a long moment he stood looking down at Harmer. “We’ll be finished with you in a bit,” he said between breaths. “You make a wrong move and you’re dead.”

  Harmer’s eyes swung wildly from one to the other of men whose faces he could scarcely make out in the dark. He knew his Colt was missing. Out of the corner of his eye he could see it lying within reach. As he made a dive for it, Oss swung around and smashed the heavy barrel of his shotgun into the side of Harmer’s head. His knees buckled and he went down.

  Trussed up, they draped his unconscious body over his horse. A half hour later, in the soot-dimmed glow of their lanterns, the settlers watched as the man who had brought unspeakable tragedy on them was carried into the small adobe strong house that would be his prison until he confessed and could be taken to Las Vegas and the law.

  In the meeting house, tall, gaunt John Stark spoke to Henry Deyer who had asked them to gather there.

  “I know what Asa wanted,” he said in a voice still dulled by grief, “but there ain’t no law there now, you say. And even if there was, it’s common talk that nobody in the territory gets justice against the railroads and the cattlemen who ship with them. If we take the man to the law, it could go hard with us and we’d be forced out anyhow.”

  Henry Deyer listened patiently, then nodded.

  “I know, John. There’s always such talk. Ever since the ’fifties and gold in California, more and more family folks are coming west. When that happens the law always comes with them. Asa was right and we’ll keep to his wishes.”

  “What if you can’t get the man to admit anything?” Stark asked, “even if in Go
d’s eyes we know it’s the truth?”

  “During the war, John, you know we had certain sure ways to make prisoners talk. We’ll not be wasting much time on this one. I promise you, he’ll talk!”

  Trying not to limp, Clayt came in and joined Henry.

  “I want to say something. We owe Harmer’s capture to Oss. When I went down and couldn’t keep to our plan, Oss stepped in and did the best that anyone could do—and we’ve got Harmer, alive. We can all thank God and Oss for that.”

  A murmur of gratitude ran through the settlers.

  “I know,” he continued, “that Harmer’s boss ordered him to blow up the dam. I don’t know for sure whether he ordered killing. We’ll find that out, too. And we’ll find out if the new owners had a hand in it. Whoever did will pay.” He lifted a cautioning finger. “When Harmer and I don’t come riding in by sunup, or a little later, Oakley is going to send somebody to see what the trouble was, especially if he doesn’t see more water coming downstream. We’ve got two of his horses now. They’ve got to be kept out of sight in the barn.” He nodded at Kate who was sitting with his mother and sister.

  “The girl’s got to be kept out of sight until this is settled. Oakley had a special interest in this little lady.”

  Henry Deyer reached over and rested a hand on Clayt’s arm.’ ’And you’ve got to stay out of sight, too. If they come looking and Oakley is with them, it’s best you’re not seen.”

  “We’ll clean up the spent shells and things so it’ll look like nothing happened down here. Oakley himself is not likely to come down looking, but he might send one of his men down to ask around. We want to have him leave wondering.” He looked at the weary faces. “That’s all. You can rest now.”

  As they rose, Nelda took Kate’s hand and led her to Clayt. “My dear brother, Kate and I are going to ease that knee with hot cloths and arnica”—she glanced at Oss’s forehead and the alarming smear of dried blood—“after we patch up my husband-to-be because you used him for cut bait.”

  Clayt slipped an arm around his sister and took Kate’s hand. “Sure a clumsy fool with two left feet deserves patching up?”

  Nelda gave Kate a questioning look. “What do you think?”

  Kate lowered her eyes and her fingers tightened around Clayt’s. In a barely audible voice, she said, “I think I’m the luckiest person born—no matter how many left feet he has.”

  Chapter Eleven

  T.K. Oakley grimaced as he tasted the coffee he had warmed over from the night before. He glanced at the cookhouse and saw smoke from a newly lit fire curling up from the chimney. Tucking in his shirttails as he went, he crossed to the bunkhouse and peered in. Buck Tanner, in the midst of a huge yawn, was seated on the edge of his bedding. When he saw the superintendent in the doorway, he straightened and got up.

  “Mornin’, T.K.”

  Ignoring the greeting, Oakley aimed a finger at Clayt’s empty bunk. “Did he come in last night?”

  “No sir—’less he come in and went agin’ ’tween the time I went to sleep and woke up...jus’ now....”

  Oakley’s response was a grunt. He turned away and paused just outside the door.

  “Before you eat, check Jake’s bunk, then come over to the house.”

  “Yes sir,” Buck replied. “Be there in two shakes.”

  As he left he saw the cook come out of the cookshack carrying a large pot of coffee. Buck Tanner smiled. Half to himself, he said, “Guess ole’ T.K.’s missin’ havin’ a lotta handy things done fur him now that the girl’s flew off.”

  He passed the cook coming back empty-handed. The Mexican cocinero scowled. “Siempre lo mismo! Mas trabajo. Mas trabajo, “he grumbled. The old man grinned. “Ya come here lookin’ fur work, amigo. A little more now an’ then won’t hurt ya none.”

  The door to the main room was open. Peering through as he knocked, he saw Oakley pouring two cups of fresh coffee.

  “Come and get yours,” he called. “I want to talk to you.”

  The superintendent indicated a chair.

  “Jake and Clayton rode out last night to finish off the job at Red Creek. They should have been back here well before sunup. Jake’s bunk was not mussed either, was it?”

  “Didn’t look slept in to me.”

  Oakley nodded and regarded his coffee mug thoughtfully. After another sip he looked up.

  “If they don’t show by noon, I’ve got to know what happened. I believe Jake is dumb enough to rope his own hind leg but I don’t think that Clayton fellow is.”

  Buck Tanner could guess what was coming. The wait was not long. Oakley took several more sips at his coffee then set it aside. Studying the old hand carefully, he said, “Have you been up to Red Creek? Do you know the lay of the place?”

  Buck Tanner blotted his drooping moustache with the back of his hand. “When they was first settlin’ there, I rode by a time or two—cut off from the Vegas road—jes outa curiosity.”

  “Did you ever ride down and talk to them?”

  “Never did. Didn’t seem like p’ticular friendly folks.”

  “Did they see you—I mean were any of them riding around up top when you came by?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  Oakley toyed with the handle of the mug for a moment.

  “In other words, if you rode over to do a little looking around and you ran into any of them, you think they wouldn’t know you?”

  Buck shook his head. “No sir. Not if I didn’t want ’em to.”

  Bracing his hands on the kitchen table, Oakley got up.

  “Alright, Buck, there’ll be extra gold on payday if you can go up there and get me some idea of what happened.”

  “I kin do that all right, I reckon, T.K.... But what if I meet ’em comin’ back?”

  Oakley smiled. “There’ll still be some bonus gold in your poke. What I want now is an answer—from you or from them.”

  “When do you want me to light out?”

  “On second thought, better get your grub now and ride out. I want you back here by sundown—with or without them. Bring them back belly down on their saddles if that’s how you find them.”

  Buck Tanner reached the trail head well before midday. Dismounting, he walked to the rim and looked down. Nothing had happened to the dam. A half dozen men were still working on repairs. In the saddle again he rode around through the cover to see if Jake and Clayt had tethered their horses. There was no evidence beyond some recent droppings.

  Not knowing what to expect, he decided to ride down the trail a bit. About two thirds of the way he stopped when several men working on the dam top discovered him and set aside their tools for their guns.

  Cupping his mouth with his hands, Buck shouted at them.

  “Don’t git jumpy! I’m Buck Tanner. I gotta see Clay.”

  When the men stood, still holding their weapons half ready, he continued. “I’m a friend. If Clayton’s there tell him it’s Buck Tanner—from the Gavilan. He’ll know.”

  One of the men left the group and walked quickly to the nearby Adams house. In a moment, Buck saw Clayt come out walking with a marked limp. He waved and called again. Instantly, Clayt broke into a relieved grin. Motioning, he shouted, “Come on down, Buck. You’re welcome. We’ve got some interesting company here—a man you know named Harmer!”

  When Buck reached the bottom of the trail, half of the settlement was there, watching him curiously. Clayt was just finishing his fast introductions when Oss emerged from the Deyer house followed by Nelda and Kate. Buck hardly recognized the girl. He broke into a broad grin and ducked his head self-consciously. “Well, I’m sure glad t’see the little lady’s safe, too.” Then, frowning as he swung down from the saddle, he indicated Clayt’s leg. “Looks like you got a bit stove up, son.”

  Clayt put an arm around Buck’s shoulder. “It’s nothing. I can guess what brings you here, friend. Oakley wants to know what happened to his two trusted hands.”

  “That-there man’s full up with nervous wonderin’, Cla
y. He sure wants to know what’s happened.” He grinned, “An’ y’know, I’d sorta like to know myself.”

  “Alright, Buck, let’s put your horse in the corral and get over to the meeting house.” He turned and pointed to a small, strongly built storage building near the barns. “Jake’s going to be spending some time with us, and after he talks, which he’s surely going to do, he’s going to be spending some time in a federal prison—if he lives to get there.”

  The entire community gathered to listen as Clayt told Buck of the nearly messed up plot. The old man listened with wonderment and his head never stopped wagging. When Clayt finished, he ran a callused hand over the stubble on his cheek.

  “After I found out what happened here, I come near believin’ that the Good Lord was lookin’ t’other way. Now I sure feel better—except that I wouldn’t trust T.K. Oakley as far as I could throw a dead longhorn.”

  Henry Deyer, who was sitting beside Clayt, leaned forward.

  ’You’re going to have to ride back with a story for Oakley, aren’t you?” Buck grinned and scratched the stubble on his cheek.

  “Yes siree!” he replied, “and I’m sure lookin’ forward. He told me to bring ’em belly down on their saddles if that was how I found ’em.” Henry’s smile was humorless.

  “Well, my friend, you’ll be riding back alone. But you can tell Oakley that you saw a couple of fresh graves up on top.” He paused. “And tell him his horses are missing.”

  The old trail boss beamed with anticipation.

  “...an I’m gonna hafta carry the sad news that ole Jake and young Clay here is probab’ly occupyin’ same.”

  “For a minute,” Clayt observed, “that was real close to the truth.” Kate Williams’s shoulders sagged and she lowered her head in an act of prayerful gratitude.

  Rising, Clayt turned to his mother and Nelda. “Buck’s got a hard ride and a hard time ahead of him. Let’s send him on his way with a good noon dinner.”

  The meal was not hurried. After a bit of initial shyness at a properly set and served family meal, Buck answered questions easily about Oakley and Harmer without allowing his own growing hatred to color his responses. But it remained for Clayt to tell them of Buck Tanner’s early life, of his dreams, his kindness at the hands of the Mormons, their slaughter, the mistaken death of his small son and later, his wife’s death.