Judgment at Red Creek (12 page)

Clayt walked to his horse and removed the explosives from his saddlebag. Harmer took the rest of them and tied the two small cans of black powder from which he had improvised hand bombs and fastened them to his gun belt. Clayt unbuttoned his shirt and slipped the dynamite sticks inside. Snugging his rifle under his arm, he moved from the cover to the trail head.

“I'm going down and get the first lookout. Then I'll see if I can locate another one.”

“Yer gonna make a hell of a lot of noise doin' that,” Harmer warned.

“I'll get it done,” Clayt promised, “and it will be done with no shooting and no knifing. There's going to be no killing this time. We agreed on that.”

Struggling to control his nervousness, Harmer replied, “I know, an' I was a damned fool. I still think what we oughta do is just go in shootin', surprise 'em, short fuse the spillway, and git the hell outa there before they know what's hit 'em. If some gits kilt in the explosions, we never figgered it thata way.” He shook a finger at Clayt. “You know damn good and well they're gonna ride up after us anyhow.”

Clayt turned and walked a step toward him. “You change things now, Harmer, and I'm riding. We won't have a chance!”

Before the foreman could argue, he disappeared down the trail.

Clayt reached the bottom quickly. A soft night-bird call brought Oss out.

“Thank God you made it. Where's Harmer?”

“Up top waiting for me to fetch that body I promised. Where are the others?”

“Two men are below the dam with shotguns. You passed right by two more. They're hiding along the edge of the trail.”

“Good,” Clayt said. His voice echoed the relief he felt. “Let's get on with it.”

They hurried across the dam to the Deyer house. Henry was waiting for them. Oss seated himself and tapped his forehead.

“All right, Pop, do your scratching.”

The older man wiped the point of a skinning knife on a damp cloth and held his son's temple taut under a calloused thumb. Quickly, he drew the point diagonally down from Oss' hairline to the corner of his eyebrow.

“Make it bleed good, Pop. It don't hurt. It only sort of stings.”

“It's bleeding plenty,” his father replied.

“Enough to smear me up good?”

“There's more than enough,” Clayt assured him. “Now, let's ditch this dynamite and get it over with.”

He slipped the fused explosives from his shirt and handed them to Henry. He and Oss left then. Ten minutes later Clayt reappeared at the head of the trail.

“It's done,” he said to Harmer. “There was only one. He's out. Help me get him up here.”

They found Oss sprawled on his back. Harmer jammed a filthy bandana in his mouth for a gag while Clayt removed two rawhide thongs from his pocket and bound his friend's hands and ankles with slip knots deliberately tied to be loosened.

Together they picked up Oss' limp body and hauled him up to the piñons.

“Lean him against this tree,” Clayt said. When he saw Harmer fingering the leather bound handle protruding from the left side of his belt, he snapped, “Leave that blade where it is, Jake! He's not going to come to for a half hour yet, and if he does he's not going anywhere and he's not going to say anything.”

Unhappy, the foreman relaxed. “With his throat cut, he sure as hell ain't goin' nowhere,” he grumbled.

Clayt rose. “Quit jabbering, for God's sake, and let's get on with it!”

At the near end of the dam, they could see the flood control gate box.

“Get into it, Jake. I'll take care of the other end.”

“You got plenty of matches?” he asked.

“Plenty. Now get in and keep down. I'll set the charges and light them. Don't you get jumpy and light yours until I get back here. Somebody might be up late. If you see any lights come up in windows, or any lanterns moving outside, stay down. I'll be able to see them, too, and I'll stay put until they've gone.” He started to leave and stopped. “Remember, don't light your charges until I get back. You'll see my matches. When you do, I'll be coming fast. That's when you light off—and not before. Don't make a mistake. Wait!”

Before he had gone ten feet, Clayt was a vanishing shape in the canyon's deep darkness. Harmer pressed his fist against his middle to relieve the unaccustomed tightness. Silently, he damned himself for letting Clayton do all of the planning even though he understood that he himself was better suited to the head-on tactic of direct assault he had learned with Quantrill.

At the far end flood gate, Clayton found Henry Deyer waiting with Vic Bodine. Both were armed with powerful ten-gauge shotguns.

“Let's go over this again,” he said. “When I light my matches Harmer will think I've lit the fuse. He won't try to light his until I get back in the gate box with him. He won't get a chance because I'll bash his stupid head.”

“When I'm sure he's out, I'll fire one shot. You fire your signal to the men and close in fast. If it all works, we'll have our man.” He paused. “If I have to, I'll break my promise and kill him and do my worrying about consequences later.”

Henry Deyer reached out and gave Clayt's arm an encouraging squeeze. “Light up, Clayt, and God help us!”

Crouched in the shelter of the gate box, Jake Harmer stared tensely, watching for the match flare. After what seemed an eternity, he saw it. The flare was followed by the heavy thud of running boots. He was in the act of moving aside to make room for Clayt when the rattle of heavy boards reached him. Immediately the footsteps ceased and he heard a muffled groan.

Henry Deyer and Vic Bodine heard it too.

“Something's happened to him,” Henry said in an anxious whisper. “Let's hold it a minute longer.” When everything on the dam top remained ominously silent, he said, “Clayt's got trouble! I'm going out there!” Ignoring Bodine's protest, he crouched and ran. He had gone only a few yards when he found Clayt struggling to drag himself back.' 'Hurt my leg!” he gasped.

In the gate box Jake Harmer was close to panic. The charge should be about ready to blow. Where in hell was Clayton?

Henry kneeled down close. “What happened, Clayt?”

“I stumbled over those planks. I can't get back to Harmer!”

Hidden behind a boulder near the foot of the trail, Oss also realized something had gone wrong. He had seen Clayt's matches flare and had waited tensely for the revolver report from the gate box and Henry's answering signal.

When it didn't come he fingered the trigger of his own shotgun and tried to keep a hold on himself. He hoped the others waiting on the trail higher up would understand, too, and wait.

Still kneeling beside Clayt, Henry Deyer saw the hopelessness of reviving the plan. “We can't let that murdering animal get away,” he said. Before Clayt realized what he was about to do, the older man raised the shotgun and fired it into the air.

“For good God's sake, Henry,” Clayt shouted, “don't charge him! You haven't got a chance now!”

Jake Harmer froze as he recognized Clayt's voice. Realizing that he had been led into a hopeless trap, he let out a wild scream of rage and began blazing away indiscriminately.

Henry Deyer flattened against Clayt to protect him and reloaded his ten-gauge.

Screaming curses now, Harmer emptied his Colt. Shielded behind the heavy planks, he was reloading when Oss called out from the cover of a boulder above and behind him. “Drop your guns! You're trapped! There's twenty men here looking for an excuse to kill you! Drop them, Harmer! You're finished!”

Harmer felt his gun belt. It held thirty-one rounds.

“Come an' git me, ya mizzable, water hoggin' hay shakers!” Twisting in the box, he emptied a second cylinder of shots randomly scattered in the direction of the voice. They slammed into the face of the boulder and into the cliff behind Oss, sprinkling him with sandstone dust.

Shouting, in the hope that Henry and Clayt would hear him out on the dam, he warned, “Keep him pinned down! We're closing in on him from the trail!” His own voice echoed back from the canyon walls.

Henry Deyer, still flat next to Clayt, whispered, “Can you get yourself back there? I'm going to crawl some closer and blast him a time or two.”

“He'll see your muzzle flash, Henry! You'll be a sitting duck! Don't try it!” Vic Bodine echoed the warning.

“I'll get below the dam face. I can get a toehold on the stones. He can't get a clean shot and we can keep him wasting ammunition.”

The silence from the flood gate meant Harmer was reloading. As he crawled back toward the west bank of Red Creek, Clayt tried to estimate how many rounds Harmer had wasted. Twelve, for sure. That meant he would have at least four more full loads, plus his rifle. They'd have to chance it and keep him shooting. He couldn't set off his own dynamite charges without blowing himself to hell. Oss seemed cool. He had proved he could be when he blundered into a confrontation with Harmer at the Gavilan.

Before Clayt and Bodine could reach the safety of the other end of the dam, Henry's ten-gauge shotgun shattered the silence. Instantly, Harmer fired where he had seen the flash. When there was no answering shot, he clamped his lips in grim satisfaction. “I got one of 'em,” he thought.

His answer was another blast from the same position. Frustrated, he fired three more rounds. The last one struck a rock and went whining off into the night.

The echos were still dying out between the canyon walls when another heavy shotgun blast came from above and behind him. Twisting in the uncomfortable confinement of the box, he got off the remaining two rounds at a supposed target, and reloaded.

Oss called out again. “We're counting your rounds, Harmer. You better start counting your minutes! You don't have many of either left. Give up, you damned fool! Throw your Colt and your Winchester into the pond. We know what you've got. Give up and you won't be killed. You'll be taken to the law for a fair trial. We don't want to kill you, Harmer, but we will if you make us!”

Jake Harmer knew the voice was coming from behind good cover—far better than his. He realized too, that even if he conserved his ammunition, his time would soon be up. He felt the reassuring weight of the two small black-powder hand bombs hanging on his belt. They were his only chance of getting to the trail alive, and he could only manage that slim chance if he could keep them pinned down—and that cost rounds. They knew he had a Colt and a Winchester. Clayton knew that, too. Curses at himself, his own stupidity, mingled with the others.

“Ya want me, ya come an' git me!” he shouted. “Let's see jes' how brave y'are! Dirty, sneaky, chicken-livered sodbusters—wud'nt give a man a chance!”

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.”