Judgment at Red Creek (19 page)

“None of ours got hurt, Buck.”

“Thank God fur that! Where are they?”

“Inside.”

Without waiting, he pushed his way through to the door and entered. Mike Whittaker looked at him and frowned.

“Who are you?”

Before Buck could answer, Clayt broke in. “He's a friend, Mr. Whittaker. A good friend. He's the trail boss at the Gavilan. Buck Tanner.”

The publisher's eyebrows lifted. “Well now, seems I have got a big city story!” Turning to Buck, he said,”How do you figure in this? Those two out there were your bosses. Right?”

“Yes sir. That's right—only now you might say they was my bosses. I've got new ones now—down at the hotel.” Without waiting for another question, Buck turned to Clayt. “I think mebbe ya oughta talk to 'em, Clay. They don't know none of this yet."

“I want to talk to them,” Clayt replied, “just as soon as we're through here.” He reached over and gave Buck's shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Do something for me. Go back to the hotel and tell them I need to see them. Don't tell them what's happened yet. I want to ask them some questions. I need to know if they had any hand in this.”

Buck's sun-squinted eyes reflected real concern. He ducked his head uncertainly.

“My guess is they's not the kind, Clay. Leastwise, that's how I figger 'em right now."

“Go on anyway, Buck. Set it up. I'll tell you what happened before I talk to them. I'll be there in a little bit.”

Buck left immediately. When the door closed behind him Mike Whittaker turned to Clayt and to Oss who had come in with the constable.

“I take it the 'they' you're talking about are the new owners, the Chicago packer and the titled Englishman?"

“That's right."

“Do you know their names?” A pen was poised as he asked.

“Garner and a Sir Charles—I didn't get the last name. You can get them for yourself and ask some other questions if you want. I'd like you there.” He nodded toward the rig. “Let's get them under cover first.”

Mike Whittaker shook his head. “They'll keep for a few minutes more. First give me a rundown on what happened.”

While the publisher took notes, Clayt described the events of the past hour. When he finished, Mike Whittaker relaxed and rubbed his cramped fingers. Blotting the scrawled notes, he said, “All of a sudden I believe in divine retribution!”

The publisher questioned Clayt and Oss for another ten minutes, while the constable grunted and fidgeted, then he put aside his notes.

“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 the 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.”