Deadman Canyon (5 page)

Now he moved swiftly again, following the faint track as it twisted dangerously down through thick brush and then across a barren stretch and finally joined with another, equally faint trail.

From here he could see a corner of his swampland and the judge’s dry south section. He looked down at the trail and elation surged in him. The surface of the ground showed the fresh tracks of the sniper’s horse clearly. They pointed uphill, telling Clay the man had come this way.

He felt the dun stir under him and he leaned forward, listening. He could hear the sounds of someone riding hard, coming from well above him. Clay smiled with soft savagery. Now it was his turn.

H
E BACKED
the dun into a screen of trees and returned to the trail on foot. He crossed to the other side and climbed a low mound. He squatted down, keeping the hump of the mound between himself and the upper side of the trail.

He breathed softly, curbing his eagerness as he listened to the hoofbeats coming nearer. Now they were just a short distance above him. He lifted his head. The horseman was just a few feet away, riding with his head down and his hat pulled low. He was pushing his horse at a dangerous pace on the narrow, faint surface of the rough trail.

Clay drew his handgun and sent a shot in front of the racing horse. He called loudly, “You there! Hold it!”

The man jerked at the reins and lifted his head. He twisted toward Clay. Surprise froze Clay as he stared up at the slack features of Bert Coniff, one of the Winged L’s top hands.

Clay saw Coniff slap his hand down to his side and come up with his gun. Clay’s inclination was to shoot Coniff out of the saddle. Common sense kept him from doing it. He wanted the man alive. He dropped his gun and dove for Coniff’s leg. Coniff shouted as he lost his balance and slid out of the saddle.

Clay let his weight ride Coniff to the ground. He felt a shod hoof tick his hat as Coniff’s horse took fright and dashed down toward the valley.

Clay felt Coniff twist frantically under him in an effort to bring up his gun. He caught Coniff’s wrist in his fingers and squeezed down. Coniff cried out as the gun dropped to the dirt. Clay let loose of Coniff’s wrist and drove his fist into the slack-featured face, feeling cartilage and bone give under the angry force of his blow. Coniff threw up a knee in an agonized effort to shake Clay off him. Clay swung his fist again, burying it in the softness of Coniff’s stomach. Coniff gagged with pain and sagged back.

Clay crawled to his feet and picked up Coniff’s gun. Coniff rolled over and came to his knees. He stayed that way, his head hanging, while he gagged, gasping for air.

Clay got his own gun and put it in his holster. He turned back to Coniff. “On your feet,” he said.

Coniff lifted his head slowly. Blood ran from his nose down over his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his sleeve and stared at Clay. His eyes mirrored fright and pain.

Clay said softly, “Who hired you, Bert?”

Coniff shook his head slowly like an injured dog and got awkwardly to his feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said thickly. “What’s the idea of jumping a man like that? You gone crazy?”

Clay hesitated, for the first time wondering if he might have made a mistake. He hadn’t known Bert Coniff long before he left the valley, but he remembered a pleasant enough man who did his work well with no more than the usual cowhand’s complaining. He could find no reason why a man like that, with a good job as long as he cared for it, would take the risks necessary to kill a man from ambush.

Clay said, “Step back in that soft spot over there, Bert, and I’ll let you know if I’m crazy or not.”

Coniff gaped at him. Clay took a step forward and Coniff backed up. Clay said, “Stop right there. All right, now move away.”

Coniff wiped his sleeve across his face again and did as he was told. Clay looked down at the bootprints he had made in the soft dirt. One heel left a mark that was an exact match for the worn ones Clay had seen before.

“Look for yourself,” Clay said softly. “You left that heelprint with the little puncture in the middle back up by the deadfall today. And you left another one just like it near where you tried to shoot me the other night. Take a good look, Bert. That worn-down heel is going to put a rope around your neck.”

“You’re crazy!” Coniff blurted. “Why would I shoot at you? I was up here hunting deer.”

Anger drove Clay forward. He grabbed Coniff by the shirt front. “I want to know who hired you!” he yelled.

Coniff’s slack features went white with fear. He lifted his hands and batted at Clay’s wrist. “Leave me alone,” he cried. “You got no call to treat a man this way. I ain’t armed and you are. What chance have I got?”

Clay let loose of Coniff and stepped back. “If that’s the only thing bothering you, we’ll fix it,” he said. He tossed Coniff’s gun aside and unbuckled his own belt. He dropped it on the ground.

He started toward Coniff at a slow, deliberate walk. Coniff held his ground for a moment and then turned. He broke into a shambling run down the trail.

Clay took a long stride and launched himself in a tackle. He caught Coniff around the waist and swung him to the ground. Coniff twisted about and began to flail wildly with his fists. Clay slapped his arms aside and pinned them to the trail. His anger turned to disgust as he stared down into the fearridden features. This was a far cry from the Bert Coniff he had known, and he wondered what had happened to turn what had once been a man into this craven animal.

Clay said slowly, “Let’s start all over, Bert. Who hired you to keep people off my land? Damson? Did Bick Damson’s money get to you?”

Coniff shook his head.

Clay cocked a fist. Coniff said, “It won’t do you no good to beat me up. I ain’t got nothing to say. If you think I been shooting at you, run me down to the jail and bring charges.” Confidence surged into his voice as he talked. “Sure, that’s it. You got a case against me, bring a charge.”

Clay thought Coniff’s eagerness a little overdone. He was too anxious to put himself in Roy Ponders’ hands.

But there was nothing else he could do, Clay realized. Even if he had thought it would make Coniff talk, Clay knew beating the man would only make him despise himself. This was a job for the law now — Roy Ponders and Judge Lyles.

Clay could imagine how the judge would feel when he saw how one of his trusted hands had betrayed him. Clay sighed. Then he got up and pulled Coniff roughly to his feet. He pushed the man up the trail, “Let’s go,” he said angrily.

Coniff seemed to realize that he was no longer in danger of a beating. “You’re wasting your time,” he said. “I was up here to get me a deer and you can’t prove otherwise.”

Clay stopped to put on his gun and belt. “We’ll let the law decide,” he answered. He herded Coniff ahead of him to where the dun waited. He climbed into the saddle. “Now start walking.”

Coniff turned and stepped back onto the trail. He glanced back at Clay and then broke into a run, seeking to climb the low bank on the far side of the trail and reach the protection of the timber.

Clay urged the dun out of the trees, untying his rope from his saddlehorn as he rode. He fashioned a loop and threw it just as Coniff scrambled to the top of the bank. The rope settled around Coniffs body, pinning his arms to his sides. The force of his run pulled the loop taut. He snapped upright then went over backwards, tumbling down the bank and sprawling on the trail.

He surged to his feet and tried to run again. Clay brought the dun alongside him and took a few more turns about Coniff with the rope. He tied the free end to his saddlehorn.

“Walk or get dragged,” Clay said flatly. “It makes no difference to me.”

“I ain’t going to walk all the way to town,” Coniff cried. “It’s five miles.”

“Maybe your horse waited for you down the trail,” Clay said dryly. He kicked the dun into motion. Coniff waited until the rope stretched taut, then he started reluctantly forward.

They found his horse at the foot of the slope, eating rank grass growing along the edge of Clay’s swampland. Clay pulled Coniff’s rifle from the boot and then let Coniff work his way into the saddle.

“You try any fancy tricks and you’ll learn what a roped steer feels like,” Clay said. “Start riding.”

Coniff squirmed his arms around in front of his body and managed to get the reins into his hands. He started his horse forward sullenly.

“You make a man feel like dirt,” he complained.

Clay said only, “Just head for town.”

He glanced around as they came into the valley. He could see some of the Winged L men haying in a distant pasture, but they were too far away to see what was going on.

They neared the new fencing which marked the edge of Damson’s land. Clay saw the bulky figure of Ben Pike some distance ahead. Pike was working on a corner fence post with a hammer and a bag of staples, but he stopped quickly enough when he saw Clay and Coniff coming steadily down the road.

He took a long, gape-mouthed look and then broke for his horse. Clay reached down for his rifle. He let it fall back into the boot as he saw Pike rein his horse around and head for Damson’s big house.

Trouble
, Clay thought. Pike would have gone to tell Damson or Vanner what had happened.

Clay urged the dun to more speed. Coniff tried to hold his horse back, and Clay swung around to him. “Don’t count on Damson helping you,” he said. “If you’re working for him and he gets the idea you might talk, he’ll shoot you first and think up a reason later.”

Coniff kicked frantically at his horse, sending it galloping up the road.

B
ICK
D
AMSON
drove his big palomino at top speed the three miles from his place into town. He followed the hill road, making a wide swing so that he came into the alley behind the Cattlemen’s Bar from the far side of town. He rode the horse into a small barn and got hurriedly out of the saddle. He strode across the alley and into the rear door of the Cattlemen’s.

He was in a narrow hallway with the door to the barroom straight ahead and a flight of stairs leading upward on his left. He climbed the stairs two at a time and entered a door at the top.

The room was fitted out as a combination parlor and office. Molly Doane was seated behind a desk, making entries in a ledger. She looked up coldly as Damson shut the door behind him.

“This is my room,” she said. “You’ve been told to come in here only when you’re invited. You have a room of your own. Use it.”

“Where’s Vanner?” he demanded. “I got to talk to him.”

“Downstairs eating his supper,” she answered. She went back to her work. “Now get out of here.”

“Don’t get so high and mighty with me,” Damson shouted. “It’s my money that put you here. Go tell Vanner I want him and be quick about it!”

She paid no attention to him and he strode angrily to the desk, one hand lifted. Molly opened a desk drawer and brought out a small gun. Only then did she lift her head and look at Damson.

He stopped abruptly. “By God,” he whispered. “I think you’d like a reason for shooting me.” He took a backward step. “Put that thing away and listen to me. All hell’s going to bust loose pretty soon. Get Vanner up here.”

Molly stood up. “Go to your own room and I’ll bring him.” She looked around at the expensive furniture. “I don’t want you in here, dirtying up the only decent things I ever owned.”

Damson backed to ward the door. “Someday Vanner’ll get tired of you. Then you’ll be glad to have me around. And anyone else you can get.”

Fear touched Molly Doane’s eyes briefly. She turned hurriedly away from Damson’s gaze. “Just get out,” she said.

Damson jerked open the door and strode down the hall to a room that had been set aside for him. He hurried to a sideboard and poured himself a big drink of whiskey. He downed it and took the bottle and glass to a chair. He poured a second drink and gulped it angrily. Then he slumped back, staring impatiently at the door.

Vanner came into the room quietly. He glanced at Damson and took a chair near him. “You were told to keep out of Molly’s room,” he said.

“Whose money bought this place for her?” Damson demanded. “Who — ” He waved the question aside. “Listen,” he said. “Clay Belden’s got Bert Coniff hog-tied and he’s bringing him into town. I told you we shouldn’t wait to get rid of Belden.”

He poured himself a third drink and swallowed it jerkily. “Coniff’ll talk and then what?” He pushed himself forward in the chair, glaring at Vanner. “You’re always bragging about how many brains you got. How you made me rich and you’re going to fix it so one of these days I’ll own the whole valley. All right, if you’re so smart, figure out what we do right now.”

“I’ve thought of a number of solutions if Coniff should get caught,” Vanner said coolly. “The simplest one is to kill Coniff before he gets a chance to talk.”

“He’s probably told everything he knows to Belden already,” Damson said. “I say get rid of Belden and Coniff both.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Vanner said acidly. “It’s too late to do anything to Belden. It has been too late ever since you got drunk and made those threats against him. Why do you think I ordered Coniff to wait until he had a chance to drive Belden and his horse off a cliff and make his death look like an accident? Any other way and you’d be the first man everyone would suspect. You or I. We can’t afford that.”

Damson poured himself another drink. “You think we can afford to have Coniff shoot off his mouth?” he demanded.

“How much does Coniff know?” Vanner asked quietly. “Now put that bottle down. We have work to do.”

Damson glared at him with drunken stubbornness. “We got work to do,” he mimicked. “You don’t do nothing but sit around and think of ways for me and the boys to wear ourselves out.”

“And where would you be if it weren’t for my thinking?” Vanner said.

He got up and took the bottle away from Damson. He said, “Everything that’s been done to make you a big man, I thought up.” His voice cut mercilessly at Damson. “The few times you’ve acted on your own, you got into trouble. You threatened Belden — behind his back. You told Coniff to shoot him the first night he came back into the valley. You sent Marnie and Pike to chase him away. All you’ve accomplished is to build up evidence that not even the sheriff will ignore one of these days.”

“He sure ain’t going to ignore what Bert Coniff has to say,” Damson grunted.

“Anything Coniff has told Belden, we can claim is a lie,” Vanner answered quietly. “Our job is to keep Coniff from talking to the judge or Ponders. Bert doesn’t know why we have to keep Belden from settling on that land of his, so he can’t hurt us by saying anything about that.”

“Sure,” Damson jeered. “Go tell Roy Ponders you want to talk to Coniff real quick.”

“You’re the one who’s going to talk to him,” Vanner said in his quiet way. “After it gets dark, you go to the window of his cell. I’ll make sure the sheriff isn’t in his office. When he goes to the hotel for his dinner, I’ll hold him there someway. You find out just how much Coniff has said. Then promise we’ll have him out in a couple of days —
if
he keeps his mouth shut.”

A glimmer of understanding touched Damson’s eyes. “Then tonight one of the boys shoots him?”

“Not tonight,” Vanner said quickly. “Tomorrow. It’s Saturday and I can arrange for it better then. A dozen men have been drifting in these past few days. By tomorrow, they’ll all be here. So leave things to me. Go eat something to soak up that whiskey inside you.”

Damson lurched out of the chair. “That takes care of Coniff and the town, maybe, but Belden is still running around loose. He’s no fool. One of these days he’s going to figure out why we got to get him out of the valley for good.”

“I’ve already planned a way to get rid of Belden,” Vanner said.

Damson walked slowly and carefully to the door. “You better make it quick,” he warned. “And remember, we ain’t got the sheriff in our hip pocket just because he don’t like Belden.”

“I know what kind of man Roy Ponders is,” Vanner answered shortly. “I know just how far we can count on his dislike of Belden and on his desire to keep a peaceful town here. You let me worry about such things.”

“I don’t like it,” Damson complained. “I say let’s get rid of Coniff tonight and Belden too.”

“No,” Vanner said flatly. “Somebody has to take the blame for killing Coniff.” He stood and smiled his cold, thin smile. “I’ve already prepared for the possibility someone would catch Coniff and bring him in to jail.”

Damson made a snorting sound. “You mean that story you started around town that the judge was worried about going broke if Belden came back and started his ranch?”

“Exactly,” Vanner said.

Damson shook his head. “Ain’t nobody going to believe that,” he said decisively. “Everyone in town knows the judge’d give his right arm away to help someone he likes. And he likes Belden. Always did,” he added in a surly voice. “Besides, how will a rumor like that help us?”

“It’s very simple,” Vanner explained with soft patience. “We’ve got a lot of people thinking we’re all right just because I made you lend money to the little ranchers and because we bought the Cattlemen’s and turned it into a place where a man could come and get good food and liquor cheap and find an honest game of cards.” He paused and added, “Not to mention the pretty girls Molly brings in to dance with the men on Saturday nights. That means these people are on our side right now.”

He stood thoughtfully and then said, “Now all I have to do is make the rumors a little stronger — get the story started that the judge is really worried that Belden is going to be a success. People will figure out for themselves that the judge paid Coniff — his own top hand — to get rid of Belden.”

“What difference does that make?” Damson shouted. “Coniff didn’t do it. Belden ain’t dead!”

“No, but Coniff will be by tomorrow night. And who’ll get the blame for killing him?”

“Belden,” Damson said hopefully.

“Not Belden,” Vanner answered. “He won’t be around to be accused of killing anybody. But Tom Roddy will.”

“Roddy!” Damson cried. “Why waste time on an old fool like that?”

“Because Roddy pokes his nose into everything,” Vanner said. “And ever since Belden came back, he’s been poking deeper. If he gets even a little smell of what we’re doing, he’ll guess the rest. I’ve been meaning to take care of him for a long time. Now I’m going to do it.”

Damson snorted. “You’re crazy! Nobody in Wildhorse would ever believe Roddy killed anybody.”

“They will when I start some more stories moving,” Vanner said confidently. “Who does Coniff work for? Judge Lyles. Everybody knows that. And everybody has heard the story we started the day Belden came back — that the judge will be bankrupt if he loses the use of all that good, grazing land Belden owns.”

“You’re still crazy,” Damson said. “Sure everybody’s heard the story. But that don’t mean they believe it.”

“Plenty of them do,” Vanner said. “What do you think the dealers and waiters and the dancing girls do here? They listen to the talk. And they tell me what they hear.”

He shook his head at Damson. “I’ve told you before that I use my head. I don’t make a move until I’m sure. And right now I’m sure of the temper of the local people who come in here. It won’t take much more talk to light a fuse under them. Figure it out for yourself. Who does Tom Roddy think is the greatest man alive? Judge Lyles! Roddy likes Belden, yes. But he’ll protect the judge’s interests first.”

Damson said slowly, “You’re going to fix it to look like Roddy shot Coniff to keep him from telling Belden it was the judge hired him to do the sniping?”

“I’m going to do more than that,” Vanner said. “By the time I’m finished, you won’t own just a part of the valley. You’ll own the whole of it — and the town as well.”

He stepped closer to Damson and lowered his voice. “Why do you think I’ve had men coming in here these last few days? By tomorrow night we’ll have a dozen top gunhands working for us. If the locals won’t start a vigilante committee to get rid of Roddy, then the new men will. I have it all arranged.”

“I don’t like this bringing in hardcases,” Damson grumbled. “What happens if they get out of hand?”

“I can control men!” Vanner said flatly. He looked coldly at Damson. “Have you a better idea? Can you think of another way to protect all the work we’ve done so far? Maybe you’re satisfied to take what you’ve got now and let Belden have the rest?”

“No, by God!” Damson shouted. “If we don’t do nothing else, I want Belden out of the way.”

“I told you that I’m taking care of him too,” Vanner said. “You send Marnie and Pike in to see me. I have a job for them.”

He smiled his thin, cold smile. “There’s one thing you can count on — by moonrise tomorrow night, Belden will be dead.”