Deadman Canyon (8 page)

D
AMSON
staggered into his house and found a rifle. He went out on the veranda and searched the moonlit yard for signs of Clay. He saw nothing and he stumbled across the yard and plunged his face into the horse trough.

He came up blowing, cursing at the sting of the water on his cuts. He pumped fresh water and let it stream over his head. His eyes cleared and he went back into the house. He put on a shirt and buckled on a gun and belt. Then he hurried to the barn and saddled his palomino. He kicked it savagely down to the valley road and toward town.

He swung to the west so that he would come up to the Cattlemen’s Bar by way of Ted Petrie’s livery stable and not have to pass the jail. He reached the saloon by the back alley and put the horse in the small stable there. He ran into the building through the rear door and climbed the stairs to the hallway.

He went down the hall to Vanner’s room and tried the door. It was locked. He rapped on it and heard only a hollow echo. Swearing, he retreated to Molly’s door. He flung it open. She was at her desk as she had been the last time he came in here. She looked up questioningly.

Surprise widened her eyes. “What happened to you!”

“Never mind. Get Vanner up here and be quick about it. And don’t give me none of your lip this time!” he shouted.

Molly made no move to get up and he cried, “I said, be quick!” He turned and hurried to his own room where he could get a drink.

He was a little calmer when Vanner came into the room. Vanner shut the door. “What is it this time? I told you — “He stopped and stared at Damson’s battered face. “What kicked you?”

“Belden!” Damson said. “Marnie tells me Belden’s dead. So I go on doing just what you said for me to do — shoveling ore, making myself handy for anyone who wants to find out where I am.”

He broke off and took another drink. “And who comes riding up our trail but Belden!” He glared at Vanner. “He found out about the mine. He knows what we been up to. He tried to take me to jail, by God!”

Vanner pursed his lips thoughtfully. “And you had a fight,” he murmured. Then he looked at Damson sharply. “What did you do with his body, leave it lying where the sheriff can find it?”

Damson cursed him viciously. “There ain’t no body,” he shouted. “He beat me, whipped me into the dirt. I was lucky to get away.”

Vanner paled. “You let Belden loose — to come into town and tell the law what he found out?”

“I stole his horse and then lost it,” Damson said. “I figure I got here first. Leastways I didn’t see a whisker of Belden on my way into town.” He took a deep breath. “What are you going to do now?”

Vanner clenched his fists and then slowly relaxed them. His lips moved but no sound came out. Finally he said, “I’ll have to hurry our plans.” His voice was bitter. “That fool Marnie told
me
Belden was dead, too.”

“Wait’ll I get my hands on him!” Damson began.

“He’s gone,” Vanner said shortly. “I fixed it with Molly so she’ll swear he and Pike have been locked in a room here ever since late afternoon. The story is they came in and got drunk and she put them away to sleep it off. That was to protect them if there was any question about Belden’s death. And to keep them from being accused of shooting Bert Coniff. That’s where Marnie’s gone now. He’s waiting to shoot Coniff.”

“Once Belden sees the sheriff, Ponders will know who did it, all right!” Damson cried.

“It’s too late now,” Vanner said. He looked at his pocket watch. “In just three minutes, two drifters are going to start a fight down by Petrie’s livery stable. That will draw the sheriff out of the jail. Then Marnie’ll shoot Coniff and come back here.” He shrugged and smiled thinly. “And what can the sheriff prove? Molly’ll stick to the story I gave her to tell.”

“To hell with Marnie!” Damson shouted. “Let him hang. It’s Belden I want taken care of.”

Vanner turned toward the door. “I’ll handle that right now,” he said. “I have a dozen men downstairs mixing with the town men, buying them drinks, letting them win poker hands. The locals are all pretty drunk now. It won’t take much to fire them up when they hear Coniff’s been shot.”

He nodded. “We’ll have to do more than we planned,” he murmured. “Just throwing suspicion on Judge Lyles and threatening to lynch Roddy won’t be enough — not with Belden still alive.”

“Stop talking and do something!” Damson yelled.

“I am doing something,” Vanner said. “I’m thinking.” He nodded again. “My plan was to take over the town gradually as people gained confidence in us and lost confidence in Judge Lyles. But we haven’t time for that.” He struck his fist into his palm. “We’ll take over tonight!”

Damson stared at him. “Take over what?”

“The town,” Vanner said contemptuously. “I’ll make a real lynch mob out of those fools downstairs. Drunk as they are, and with my men pushing them, they’ll do our work for us.”

He smiled his cold, thin smile at Damson. “By morning,” he said softly, “this town will need a new judge and a new sheriff.”

“What about Belden?” Damson demanded.

“Stop harping on Belden,” Vanner said. “What can he do to us? By tomorrow, there won’t be any sheriff for him to complain to. And if you don’t want to wait for tomorrow, go kill him yourself when he comes into town. Go do it now!”

“By God,” Damson said, “I will!”

He took another drink and strode to the door. He paused, frowning. Then he jerked the door open suddenly and looked into the hall.

“I thought I heard someone out there.”

“You’ve had too much whiskey as usual,” Vanner said. “The bartender has orders to let no one up here without permission.”

“What about that woman of yours?” Damson demanded.

“Molly? What would she be listening at doors for?” Vanner asked.

“I don’t trust her,” Damson grunted.

“Because she doesn’t like you?” Vanner’s voice was thinly contemptuous. “Can you blame her, after the way you mauled her around? I understand Belden beat you worse when he caught you at it than he did tonight.”

Damson took an angry stride forward, his arm raised. He let it drop and walked back to the sideboard for another drink.

Vanner glanced at his watch again. “Don’t get impatient,” he said. He went to a window and pulled the curtain aside carefully. From the window he had an angle view to the street running in front of the jailhouse. He glanced from his watch to the building and back.

“Just about now,” he said softly.

Damson joined him as the sound of gunshots rose over the babble of voices and music coming from the saloon below. “What’s that?”

“That’s the fight the sheriff is going to attend to in a minute,” Vanner said with satisfaction. “Look there!”

A man appeared from the direction of the lower part of town. He ran across the street and into the jailhouse. He reappeared with Roy Ponders. They moved quickly across the street and out of sight.

“By god,” Damson said. “I — ”

“Be quiet and listen!” Vanner commanded.

A gun barked sharply from somewhere behind the jail. A horse neighed shrilly and its hoofbeats hammered the night air as it ran south at full gallop.

“There!” Vanner said with satisfaction. “Give Marnie a few minutes to get back here. Then you can go hunt for Belden.”

“Back here?” Damson echoed. “It sounded to me like he was heading the other way.”

Vanner chuckled. “That was Tom Roddy’s old white horse you heard. One of my men stole it earlier. Marnie turned it loose after he took care of Bert Coniff. If there are any doubts, we’ll be able to find plenty of witnesses who can say they saw Roddy’s horse running down the back alley for its home stall. Roddy can claim he wasn’t in the saddle, but by the time he thinks of a way to prove that, it will be too late.” He nodded at Damson. “Far too late for him.”

A short, sharp sound as of someone sliding up a window made Damson turn. “Marnie,” Vanner said. “Now I have work to do.” He started for the door.

“By God, you better do it good for a change,” Damson said warningly. “Or it’s the last chance we get.”

“You take care of Belden and let me worry about the rest of it,” Vanner said as he walked out.

C
LAY
found the dun grazing by the side of the road a good two-thirds of the way to town. He climbed wearily into the saddle and urged the horse forward. He had lost too much time. Damson would have got to town and warned Vanner some time ago.

Weary as Clay was, he rode alertly, his rifle across his knees, peering ahead at every shadow along this last mile to town. He more than half-expected an ambush from Damson or his men, and he was surprised when he reached the turn-off to the judge’s house without having seen anyone.

He rode downslope into the judge’s rear yard. His first impulse had been to go on to the jail and report to Roy Ponders, but when he saw light spilling from the big house, he decided to stop there first. This time he wanted no misunderstandings. He would tell the judge first what happened before taking his story to the sheriff.

He reined the dun in near the back veranda and climbed the steps to the kitchen door. His knock brought quick footsteps. Tonia flung open the door.

She stared at him, her eyes widening with concern. “Clay, what happened? You look …” She broke off and tugged him inside. “But thank heaven you’re here. There’s something strange going on in town.”

Clay followed her into the parlor. The judge was sitting in a wheel chair by the fireplace. His face was white and drawn from his illness, but, when he looked up, Clay saw that his eyes had the same vital force as always.

“You look like you’ve been fighting wildcats,” he observed dryly.

“Bick Damson,” Clay said briefly.

He found a chair and sat down. Dropping his hat to the floor, he began to shape a cigarette. “I found out tonight why Damson and Vanner drove people off my land,” he said.

“You’re convinced that Damson and Vanner were behind Bert Coniff?” the judge asked in a strange voice.

Clay lifted his eyes from the cigarette paper and met the judge’s gaze squarely. “If you mean, did I believe those stories going around that you wanted me out of the way — the answer is no.”

He looked toward Tonia. “I thought before it was Damson, And now I’m sure of it.”

Tonia flushed as she realized the words were meant for her. She said in a low voice, “How did you find out — beat the truth out of Damson?”

“Tonia!” her father said sharply. He shook his head at Clay. “One minute she’s mad at you for challenging Damson; the next she talks about how you can whip him.” He waved a hand, brushing the matter aside, and studied Clay with troubled eyes.

“Just what did you find out?”

Clay told them briefly about the stampede and how he had found the trail from Damson’s mine to his own land. He said, “I tried to bring Damson in to jail, but he got away on my horse and had a good start before he lost it. He must have been a good half-hour ahead of me getting to town. Vanner’s been warned.”

The judge glanced up at Tonia. “I wonder if those shots we heard awhile ago have any connection with this?”

“What shots?” Clay demanded.

“A while ago — maybe twenty minutes or so — we heard some shots,” the judge explained. I sent Tom to investigate. What worries me is he hasn’t come back, but his old white horse came running into the yard still saddled and bridled. Tonia and I were just wondering what we’d better do about it when you came.”

“Horse might have thrown him,” Clay said. He got to his feet.

Tonia said, “But Tom didn’t take his horse. He walked. He rubbed the horse down this afternoon and put it in the stable. That’s what we can’t understand — how it got out with his saddle on it.”

The judge worried the edge of the robe covering his legs. “If Doc Fraley didn’t have me rooted in this contraption, I’d go see for myself. I — ” He stopped abruptly as the rear door was flung open and someone ran toward the parlor.

It was Tom Roddy. He came in, red-faced and panting. He held his ancient long-barreled rifle in his hand. He ran to a desk and rummaged through a drawer.

“Tom, where have you been? What’s happened?” Tonia demanded.

He got a box of cartridges from the drawer and pushed them into his pocket. “All hell’s busted loose in town,” he gasped. “Someone shot Bert Coniff right in his cell and they’re saying it was me did it.”

He seemed to see Clay for the first time. “Me and you,” he corrected. “Ted Petrie and a bunch of those other fools that hang around the Cattlemen’s is drunk and ornery. And all those strangers that drifted in here the last few days is egging ‘em on to get the sheriff to arrest us.”

“Where is the sheriff?” Clay demanded. “Where was he when Coniff was shot?”

“Some drifters started a fight down by Petrie’s livery stable,” Roddy answered. “Roy went down to stop it, and while he was gone someone rode up to the cell window and shot Bert dead. I seen it,” he added.

“Who was it?” the judge demanded.

Roddy shook his head. “I was at the end of the alley, too far away to recognize anybody. But he came riding up on a horse that looked just like my old white. He takes one shot through the window and then jumps to the ground. He slapped the horse off in one direction and started running away in the other.”

“It
was
your horse, Tom,” Tonia said worriedly. “It came home a little while ago, saddled and bridled.”

“Vanner!” Clay exclaimed. “That’s just the kind of scheme he’d think up. He had Tom’s horse stolen so people would see it right after the shooting and think Tom was the one who killed Bert.”

Roddy hoisted his old rifle. “It don’t much matter who thought up the idea,” he said. “It’s got out of hand now. I tried to follow the killer. I ain’t so spry any more and he outran me. But he was heading for the Cattlemen’s and I snuck up to the back door. What I heard sounded more like a meeting than respectable drinking. That’s when I found out those strangers are stirring up the town to get you and me arrested.”

“Where do you think you’re going with that rifle?” the judge asked.

“I figure to give Roy Ponders a hand,” Roddy said. “I saw him after I left the Cattlemen’s. He’s pretty wound up and he ain’t about to let no mob tell him who to arrest.”

Clay said flatly, “You stay here, Tom.” He jerked his head in the direction of the judge sitting helplessly in his wheel chair. He started for the back door.

“Where are you going?” Tonia cried.

“I’m going to get the man who shot Bert Coniff and take him to the sheriff,” Clay said. “I’ve seen drunken mobs in action before. There’s a chance of stopping them if we can show them the real killer.”

He strode on out and jumped into the saddle. He rode to the alley that paralleled the main street, running behind the judge’s property and the jail. He pushed the dun along until he was within a block of the center of town. Then he rode in a wide loop that brought him to the back of the Cattlemen’s along much the same route Bick Damson had taken earlier.

Clay left the dun in the alley and went in through the back door. He moved quietly down the small hallway, past the stairs and the storeroom, to the door that opened into the saloon.

He could hear no sounds at all — no voices, no music, no stomping of dancers. Frowning, he pulled the door open a crack and peered into the big room. It was deserted. No bartender stood behind the empty bar. No dealers shuffled cards at the tables. The four girls who were hired to dance with the men on Saturday nights weren’t waiting in chairs against the wall. The room was empty.

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.