Clay shut the door carefully and hurried softly to the rear stairs. He went up them quietly and padded down the hall to a small window that looked down on the street. A low muttering rose, swelling like a rising wind running through a pine forest. Clay pulled the curtain aside and peered out.
The town square was filled with restlessly surging men. Clay recognized many of them — small ranchers, cowhands, local businessmen, the one’s who always brought their trade to the Cattlemen’s Bar. The rest were strangers, hard-faced, sullen-lipped men moving purposefully through the crowd, stopping to whisper something to a local man and then moving on to another.
Clay searched the crowd for Damson or Vanner. But there was no sign of either man, or of Marnie and Pike.
A low cry came from one of the rooms opening onto the hall. Clay turned. The cry grew louder and he recognized Molly’s voice. He walked quickly back toward the stairs. A crash came from the end room and then the sound of a hand brutally striking flesh.
Clay jerked at the latch on the door. It refused to give and he drew back his leg and rammed his boot heel into the wood beneath the lock. The door frame splintered and Clay stumbled forward. He had a glimpse of Molly Doane sprawled on the floor, one hand to her cheek. Pike was behind Molly’s desk, his feet on the top, scarring the gleaming wood. He held a gun in one big hand. Marnie stood over Molly, his arm raised.
Pike’s feet came down with a crash as Clay came into the room. Marnie turned, one hand reaching for his gun. Pike surged out of the chair, bringing his gun to bear on Clay. Clay’s arm moved in a swift draw. He dropped to his knees and cleared leather just as Pike fired. The bullet ripped out a piece of the door casing.
Clay fired his .44 twice. A hole appeared where Pike’s nose had been and he went over the desk chair and fell heavily to the floor. Molly cried, “Clay, watch out!”
He turned to see Marnie drawing a fine bead on him. The little man’s lips were pulled back over his teeth in an eager grimace. He fired just as Molly Doane reached out and jerked at his leg.
Marnie’s shot plowed into the floor as he lost his balance. He caught himself like a cat and fired again before Clay could swing around in his direction. The bullet raked Clay along the thigh, driving him off his feet.
Molly was clawing at Mamie’s leg, trying to pull him down. Clay rolled to his knees in time to see Mamie lift his gun in order to bring the barrel down on Molly’s head. Clay snapped a single quick shot. It caught Mamie in the side of the throat. He stood upright for a moment with the grimace still pulling at his lips. Then he fell, his gun arm doubling under him.
Clay got up and hurried to Molly. She looked at the bullet burn on his thigh. “Just a scratch,” she said in relief. She pushed him toward the door. “Get out of here,” she cried, “before someone comes up and finds you!”
Clay said, “There isn’t anybody downstairs. They’re all out in the street.”
She stared down at Mamie and then turned, burying her face in Clay’s chest. A shudder ran through her.
“What’s been going on in here?” Clay demanded. “What were those two doing in your room?”
She said swiftly, “I overheard Kemp and Bick Damson planning to turn the mob loose on you and Tom Roddy. I tried to make Kemp stop, but he wouldn’t listen.”
She stepped back and lifted her head, looking searchingly into Clay’s face. “Kemp knows how I’ve always felt about you, Clay and he hates you because of that. When you first came back here, he told me I could take my choice. I could leave him or I could stay — and help him. But I couldn’t have him and go on wanting you too!”
Her voice dropped. “I made my choice. Kemp gave me things. The things I never had before and never hoped to get. I — I thought I wanted that more than anything. But when I heard him planning to get rid of you and Tom Roddy and then take over the town, I knew I couldn’t just stand by and let it happen.”
“Where is Vanner now?” Clay asked.
“Out where he can make things happen without being involved himself,” she said bitterly. “When he wouldn’t listen to me, I tried to run — to get to Roy Ponders and warn him. Kemp caught me and turned me over to Marnie and Pike for safekeeping. Marnie put his hands on me. I fought him and he knocked me down.”
Clay said gently, “It’s all over now. All you have to do is tell the mob the truth and they’ll forget about making the sheriff arrest Tom and me. Once they hear how Damson’s been stealing silver from my land, they’ll go looking for him, not us.”
“You don’t understand,” she cried. “Those men Kemp brought into town filled Ted Petrie and the other local men full of whiskey and talk. They aren’t just getting them to have you and Tom arrested. They want you lynched! And they know the sheriff and the judge will try to protect you — and be destroyed. That’s Kemp’s idea — to let the mob get rid of everyone who stands in his way. By tomorrow, he plans to control the valley!”
A swelling roar from the mob outside turned Clay. He could hear his name and Tom Roddy’s being shouted. He limped into the hall and down to the window at the end. Molly followed quickly.
Clay drew aside the curtain and looked out. The mob had shifted its position. It flowed in a great shapeless mass down the street, the men in front almost opposite the jailhouse door. Roy Ponders stood there, his legs planted firmly, a shotgun in his gnarled fists.
“Stay back!” he cried. “I told you men I’d do my arresting after I make an investigation. Now get back to your drinking and let me go about my business.”
Ted Petrie stood swaying in the front rank of the mob. He waved a big fist in the air. “You know as well as we do that Roddy or Belden shot Bert Coniff in the back, Sheriff! What are you waiting for — advice from their friend the judge?”
A man at the rear of the crowd shouted, “I say let’s get Roddy and Belden ourselves. If the sheriff won’t jail ‘em, we will.”
“Jail, hell!” another man bellowed. “Let’s take care of the dirty murderers right now!”
“That’s right,” the first man called loudly. “We know where Roddy is. Let’s hang him!”
The crowd began to chant Roddy’s name. Men in the rear pressed forward, pushing the local men in the front ranks down the dusty street.
Ponders raised his gun higher. “Stand back!” he cried. “I’ll shoot the first man who goes south of this doorway.”
A gun barked above the shouts of the mob. Ponders staggered and spun sideways, hitting the doorframe with his shoulder. The shotgun fell from his hands. He dropped to his knees, groping blindly for it.
The local men stopped, staring, momentarily hushed. But pressure from behind forced them slowly forward. Voices began to cry out again, calling Roddy’s name in an effort to whip the drunken men back to their former frenzy.
Clay said swiftly, “Give me a minute to get out of here. Then open the window and try to make that mob listen to you. Tell them I’m in here. Then when it’s safe, get away. Come to the Winged L.”
Molly caught his arm. “Clay, no! They’ll catch you. They’ll kill you!”
“It’s the only chance we have of keeping that mob away from the judge’s place until we can all get out to his ranch,” Clay told her. “In another minute they’ll run for his house. Now do as I say.”
He turned and limped down the hall. Molly cried, “Clay, be careful. Bick Damson is outside somewhere waiting to kill you.”
Clay hurried on. He was at the foot of the stairs when he heard Molly’s voice crying out above him. “Clay Belden is here! Hurry, before he gets away!”
Clay ran out the back door and leaped onto the dun.
XV
CLAY rode the dun in a wide swing that avoided the center of town and brought him into the narrow lane running behind the jailhouse. For a moment he lost track of the mob but now he could hear it surging back up the street to the Cattlemen’s Bar.
The voices became muted, and Clay knew the crowd had reached the saloon. But they wouldn’t stay there long, he thought. O
nce they found Marnie and Pike dead and him gone, they would head for the judge’s house with renewed fury.
Clay slowed the dun as he neared the patches of yellow light spilling from cell windows. He remembered Molly’s last warning and he searched the shadows beyond the light, seeking some sign of Damson or Kemp Vanner. He kept his .44 in his hand.
But the night was still. Clay reined the dun in at the rear door of the jail and left the saddle. He hurried into the sheriff’s office. He saw the blanket-covered mound in Bert Coniff’s cell but went on without pausing.
Roy Ponders was on his knees in the doorway, his shotgun held firmly to his shoulder. He swept the empty street with deliberate eyes, as if he hoped to find some movement to shoot at.
Clay said, “Roy, get out of here quick. That mob will be starting for the judge’s place any time now.”
Ponders turned around and stared at Clay with glazed eyes. Blood ran down the side of his face from a bullet burn along his temple. Clay reached out to help him to his feet, but he pushed himself up, knocking aside Clay’s hand. He turned away and staggered through the door.
“They went back to the Cattlemen’s,” he said. “His voice was thick. “I knew I could stop them!”
“You stopped nothing!” Clay told him. “They went there to find me. When they see I’m gone, they’ll run for the judge’s place to get Tom Roddy. Now get out of here before they go crazy enough to kill you.”
A sudden roar from the Cattlemen’s beat against the air. The doors crashed open and men streamed into the street. Roy Ponders took another step forward. “I’m the law!” he cried. “And they’ll do as I say.”
Clay grabbed at Ponders’ arm, but the sheriff had started to stagger across the sidewalk. Clay swore and limped after him. “Roy, get back in here!”
He heard someone shout, “There’s Belden now! By the jailhouse!”
Clay caught the sheriff at the edge of the board sidewalk. He said, “Sorry, Roy,” and hit Ponders on the jaw. Ponders gazed at him in stupified surprise and then his knees buckled. Clay caught him under the armpits and dragged him back into the jail.
A gun went off and then another. Wood splintered from the jailhouse doorframe. Clay dropped Ponders and slammed shut the door, throwing the heavy locking bar across it. The hard, sharp bark of a rifle sounded and the glass in the barred front window went in with a crash. Clay bent down and jerked the sheriff to his feet. He lifted the stocky body onto his shoulder and ran for the rear door.
He could hear men running toward the alley as he flung Ponders belly-down in front of his saddle. He climbed onto the dun and kicked it into a swift jog. A voice shouted his name as he rode through the patches of light coming from the cell windows. A gun began hammering, forcing the dun to a panicky gallop that drew it swiftly out of range.
Clay rode into the judge’s rear yard and pulled up the dun by the small stable near Tom Roddy’s dark and silent cottage. He slid Ponders to the ground and then slapped the dun on the flank, sending it into the safety of the stable. He bent down, intending to pick up the sheriff’s limp body, when he saw a shadow move by the corner of Roddy’s cottage. He straightened up and swung around, his hand reaching for his gun.
Bick Damson’s heavy voice stopped him when his fingers were only inches from his gun butt. “You move again, Belden, and I’ll put a bullet in your friend there. And in you too.”
Damson stepped forward, into the bright moonlight. He motioned at Clay with the barrel of his gun. “Pull your gun out real easy and throw it away,” he ordered. He watched Clay narrowly. “And no tricks. I know Roy ain’t hurt too bad. I already had a look at him. So if you want him to stay alive a while longer, do as I say.”
Clay could sense tension threading through Damson’s voice. Damson wasn’t used to this kind of violence, Clay decided. He was a man who had always done his fighting with his fists. He didn’t seem to feel easy with a gun in his hand.
Slowly, Clay drew his .44, holding the butt with the tips of his fingers. He tossed the gun toward Damson and let his arm fall back. He glanced toward the lighted house, thinking that Tom Roddy might have heard Damson and come out to investigate. But the yard was a big one, and there was no sign of anyone moving about in it.
Clay looked at Damson. “If you’re going to shoot me, get it over with,” he said quietly.
Damson laughed. “Why should I kill you when I can get your old friends to do it for me? Listen!”
The sound of the mob coming down the street was clear now, a ragged thudding of running feet, the crying out of drunken, angry voices.
Damson’s voice thickened. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen to you, Belden. You and me, we’re going into that stable where it’s nice and quiet. I’m going to pay you back them beatings you gave me. Then I’ll let you listen to Ted Petrie and all them other fine citizens take care of your friends in the house. After that, they can have you.”
Despite the bluster in Damson’s voice, Clay thought he detected something like fear beneath it. Vanner had swept him into a current a little too strong for him to swim against. And now he was giving under the strain. Whey else would he risk his chance of success by taking time out to revenge himself on Clay for two bad beatings?
But, Clay realized, Damson had the time to spare, while he didn’t. Every minute the crowd was drawing closer. Unless Clay could warn those inside the judge’s house that the crowd wasn’t demanding Tom Roddy’s arrest but had come to attack and destroy, they would be unprepared. Judge Lyles was like Roy Ponders in that he assumed every man had respect enough for the law to listen to it.
Clay took a step toward the stable, at the same time moving closer to the sheriff’s limp body. “If you want a fight, let’s get at it,” he said.
Damson brought his free hand up from his side. A rope was held in it. “You just drop down on your knees, Belden, so I can throw a loop over you. Then we’ll be ready to fight.” His laugh had a high shrillness in it. “And don’t get no ideas. I can throw a one-handed loop better’n any man in the valley.”
Clay turned and watched Damson switch his gun to his left hand while he built a loop with his right. Moonlight slanted down on Damson’s face, revealing the madness which had driven him to revenge himself on Clay in a bare-hand beating.
“On your knees!”
Clay took another step forward and went to his knees beside the sheriff. He leaned forward, dropping his arms down in a strangely submissive attitude. He heard the whine of the loop as Damson whirled the rope around, ready to drop it over him and pin his arms to his sides. He inched his fingers forward over the dew-damp grass. They touched the cold butt of Roy Ponders’ gun.
The rope swished toward Clay. He drew the sheriff’s .44 and threw himself to one side, rolling in an effort to come around facing Damson. He heard a wild curse of anger and then Damson fired. His bullet thudded into the grass where Clay had been kneeling. Clay brought the sheriff’s gun up across his chest and fired while he was still moving.
Damson went backwards, striking the wall of Roddy’s cottage with his heavy shoulders. He lifted his gun slowly, bringing it to bear on Clay with a steady sweep. Clay stopped rolling and fired twice. Damson’s body jerked. His arm dropped toward the ground and he staggered, trying to thrust himself toward Clay. His finger pulled convulsively at the trigger of his gun, emptying its bullets into the ground. He made a final effort to lift the gun, and then he collapsed, falling with his arms bent under him.
Clay got to his feet and picked up his own gun. He heard the voices of the mob coming from less than half a block up the street. He turned quickly to Roy Ponders.
The rear door of the house had been flung open and light streamed across the veranda and into the yard. “What’s going on there!” Tom Roddy called.
Clay hurried into the light carrying the sheriff. “Tom,” he called, “get the judge and Tonia and come on. That’s a lynch mob coming!”
Tonia appeared in the doorway. “Clay?” she asked worriedly.
Clay said, “Get your father while I hitch up the team!”
A sudden burst of gunfire rattled in the air. It was followed by the sound of breaking glass and a cry of rage from Tom Roddy.
“It’s too late!” he shouted. “Tonia, go get them guns out of the rack!”
Clay swore in bitter anger. He managed to run unevenly to the house, carrying the sheriff.
XVI
CLAY stood at the small window set in the front door and watched the mob outside. They had been quiet since the first flurry of shots, and now some of the local men in the front rank were shifting their weight awkwardly, as if they were beginning to wish they hadn’t come this far. Attacking Clay Belden or Tom Roddy was one thing, their movements seemed to say; attacking a man like Judge Lyles was something else. But Vanner’s men were at work, building up drunken anger again.
Clay looked around the room behind him. Judge Lyles, his lips white-rimmed with helpless anger, was staring across the room at the shattered front window. Tom Roddy stood out of sight at the corner of the other window, his jaws working steadily on a quid of tobacco. Tonia was finishing the bandage around Roy Ponders’ head. The lamps were out but moonlight came through the broken window to light much of the room.
Clay had told them what had happened. Now the sheriff said, “Let me be, Tonia. I want to go out and talk to those fools.”
“It’s too late for talk,” Clay said flatly. “Even if Tom and I gave ourselves up, Vanner would find a reason to get rid of the rest of you. He worked that mob up for only one reason — to take over the town and the valley with it.”
Outside, someone shouted Bick Damson’s name in an angry voice.
“They’ve found Damson’s body,” Clay said. “One of us had better watch the back of the house.”
Tom Roddy turned from the front window and padded silently out of the room. Roy Ponders hesitated, and then picked up a carbine. He took Roddy’s place.
Deadman Canyon Page 10