Deadman Canyon (7 page)

Not Damson. He had no use for Clay’s mountainous land. Not when he already had his big hand squeezed down on a good piece of the valley. Not when he had a silver mine to bring him in all the money he needed.

Clay turned restlessly in his blankets. That mine of Damson’s. Everytime he thought about it it seemed to him that there was something wrong with it. Or maybe he was just envious because a man like Damson had struck it rich. Whatever it was lay tantalizingly just beyond the reach of his mind. He finally fell asleep, the hours of wakefulness having accomplished nothing.

C
LAY AWOKE
with the first light and drove himself throughout the cool, sunlit day to round up the last of the judge’s stock and pen them with the others corralled behind the brush fence that closed off the mouth of Deadman Canyon.

After eating his noon dinner, Clay noticed a weak spot in the fence. But the cattle were all grazing at the upper end of the canyon and he decided it was safe to leave repairs until he had the last animal inside. The fence only had to hold one more night anyway. Tomorrow he planned to get Tom Roddy and drive the whole herd down to Winged L graze.

Clay was ready to return to work when he heard horsemen coming up the trail to the bench. Quickly he put the dun in the protective angle of rock where he had his camp. He drew his rifle and laid it across his legs. Then he watched the spot where the trail came onto the bench and waited.

He let tension run out of him as he saw Roy Ponders come into view. Thrusting the rifle back in its boot, he rode out to meet the sheriff.

Ponders looked grave and drawn, as if he had been up a good part of the night. “I came to see those heelprints,” he said. He indicated Bert Coniff’s boot hanging from his saddlehorn.

Clay nodded and reined the dun around. “Follow me,” he said briefly.

He led the way to the high meadow country. They rode single file along the narrow trails, not speaking but concentrating on helping their horses keep solid footing. Only after Clay had shown the sheriff the deadfall with its view of the dugout trail across the gorge, and the clear heelprint in the stand of pines, did Ponders break his silence.

He said, “You’ve heard the stories going around town about Judge Lyles?”

“From Tom Roddy, last night,” Clay said.

The sheriff nodded. “The latest story seems to be that the judge hired Bert to kill you so he could keep on using your summer pasture.”

“What does Coniff have to say?” Clay asked.

“That’s his story too,” Roy Ponders said heavily. “He wouldn’t say a word last night after you left. But later, when I got back from having my dinner at the hotel, he started talking. He didn’t come right out and admit anything, but he hinted pretty strong that the judge had paid him extra to be the sniper.”

“That’s crazy!” Clay exclaimed. “My guess is that Vanner or Damson got to Coniff and promised they’d get him free if he told you that.”

“I had the same thought,” Ponders admitted. “Only Vanner was with me in the hotel all the time I was there. And when I went looking for Damson, I found him sleeping off a bottle of whiskey in his room at the Cattlemen’s.”

“What about those men of Damson’s — Marnie and Pike?” Clay asked.

“They were at the saloon,” Ponders said. “Molly Doane told me they’d been there since shortly after you left the place.”

“Has the judge seen Coniff yet?” Clay asked.

“This morning,” Ponders replied. “All Bert would say to him was, ‘You better get me out of here.’ The judge didn’t seem to know what Bert meant, and after I explained what Bert had told me last night, he just went to his house without saying a word.”

A shadow of worry passed over the sheriff’s face. “The judge collapsed when he got home. He’s down in bed right now.” He shook his head. “He isn’t the strongest man in the world. Doc Fraley told me his heart is weak. Another shock like this could kill him, Doc says. Tonia and Roddy are keeping the judge quiet. They all aim to stay in town.”

Clay said, “When you go back, tell the judge this. Maybe it’ll help make him feel a little better.” He explained his plan to divert water to the judge’s dry section and so solve the problem of what to do with the extra cattle.

“He and Roddy were talking about that when I was at the house,” the sheriff said. “It seemed to cheer the judge considerably.” He added almost slyly, “And Tonia too.”

“Maybe you and Tom can get the word around town,” Clay said. “Let’s see if that won’t stop the rumors Vanner started.”

“If Vanner started them,” Ponders said.

“Who else would?” Clay demanded. “Haven’t you seen and heard enough to know Judge Lyles wouldn’t hire Bert to kill me!”

“The job of the law is to consider all possibilities,” Roy Ponders said. “I know what a fine man the judge has always been. But people change — especially where money is concerned. And there’s just enough truth to the rumors to make a man stop and think. Your building a ranch up here could have ruined the judge. He’s that much in debt to the bank.”

“But that’s all changed,” Clay pointed out. “Once his south section gets water, he won’t have to worry.”

“But he didn’t know that until today,” Ponders said. He looked closely at Clay. “You and I both know the judge well, but didn’t the idea he might be behind Bert Coniff ever cross your mind?”

“It did,” Clay admitted. “But not for long.”

“I feel the same way, but as the law I can’t throw the idea aside,” the sheriff said. He turned his horse. “I’ll be getting back. With the evidence I just saw, there’s no doubt Bert will have to stand trial. I might as well get the proceedings going.”

Clay stayed where he was. “Tell Tom I could use some help tomorrow. I’ll have all the stock ready to drive down to the valley.”

The sheriff nodded. Clay watched him until he disappeared and then went higher up to scour the mountain for the last few cattle.

He was tiring as he drove the final six head through gathering dusk toward the bench. He pushed them faster than he liked, fighting the chill of the quickening October night. When he reached the bench, it was that hour between dark and moonrise when everything seemed blackest and nothing had a solid shape about it. Clay could barely make out the tall spires of rock marking the mouth of Deadman Canyon.

He breathed weary relief as he made a small opening in the fence and drove the cattle through it and into the rest of the gather waiting at the upper end of the blind draw. He was about halfway up it when he heard the two sharp, quick rifle shots.

They had come from behind him, from somewhere outside the meadow. He turned in the saddle but could see nothing in the darkness. Suddenly a hand gun tore apart the cool quiet of the night. Clay swung back toward the end of the canyon. A second shot blossomed fire against the darkness. A voice whooped wildly and the gun fired again.

Clay reached for his rifle. He heard the cattle stirring and realized what was happening. Who ever had fired those rifle shots had done so to warn someone waiting up at the far end of the canyon that Clay was coming. Then the man inside had used his handgun to start the cattle moving down the canyon.

In the hope, Clay thought, of catching him in a stampede of wild cattle running in panic through the dark night!

The cattle were moving about nervously, pawing at the grass, surging this way and that in a formless mass. The man with the handgun fired again. His voice rose in a shrill, frightening whoop. Clay lifted his rifle and set a flurry of shots into the darkness above the cattle. He heard the growing thunder of their hoofbeats. The ground began to tremble. A final shot roared against the night and the cattle broke into a terror-driven stampede.

Clay turned the dun and raked his heels across its flanks. The horse broke into a hard run toward the mouth of the draw, desperately seeking to keep ahead of the surging wave of crazed beeves.

Clay and the dun reached the opening in the brush fence less than a dozen feet ahead of the first cattle. Clay put the horse through the narrow opening and reined it to the left, in an attempt to angle across the bench and reach the protection of the big rock by his camp. The dun stumbled as one hoof hit soft dirt at the edge of a chuckhole. It lost its stride and nearly went down as the herd hit the brush fence.

Clay jerked the dun’s head up. “Run!” he shouted over the crackling of the shattered fence.

The dun caught its stride and raced for the far side of the bench. A long-legged steer came out of nowhere and cut across the horse’s path. The dun pulled up short, neighing in terror. The abrupt stop lifted Clay out of the saddle. He hit the ground with his shoulder, grunting with shock as the air was driven out of his lungs. The dun galloped for the safety of the camp.

Clay scrambled to his feet and ran after the horse. Cattle were flowing over the bench now, scattering in blind panic. A head-tossing cow struck Clay’s back a glancing blow as she ran past. He stumbled and pitched forward. He hit the shoulder of rock, fell back, and staggered forward. He went to his knees at the edge of his cold campfire and then slid onto his face and lay still.

He could feel the dun’s moist nose nuzzling his neck and he sat up dazedly. Clay looked around and realized he must have blacked out. The moon had come up and the bench was flooded with its cold white light.

He staggered to his feet and went to his water supply. He poured icy water over his face and neck and took a long, deep drink. He walked to the edge of his camp and looked at the silent, empty bench. The cattle had disappeared. There was only the broken fence and the torn grass to show they had ever existed.

Days of work lost, Clay thought bitterly. Maybe a lot of the judge’s prime beef lost. He knew he would be lucky if he didn’t find more than one animal with a broken leg or worse come daylight.

As his head cleared, anger worked into him more deeply. He recalled the two rifle shots that came just before the stampede started. It was plain enough that someone had been watching him from the hills alongside the bench, and had sent a signal to whoever waited inside as soon as Clay rode into the canyon. Then the trap had been sprung.

The stampede could have been started for only one reason — to kill him and make his death look like an accident. And Clay knew only one man in the Wildhorse country who would have bothered with such a devious scheme — Kemp Vanner.

Clay caught the dun and climbed into the saddle. He headed the horse angrily down the trail leading to the hill road and Bick Damson’s house.

D
AMSON’S
house lay dark and silent under the bright moon. Clay was about to ride past and on to town when a flicker of lantern light reflecting from the tops of pine trees caught his attention. He turned the dun to the left, up the rutted road that led to Damson’s mine.

He slowed the horse as he started up a low rise. If Damson knew that he was still alive, this could be a trap. The lights could have been put here by the mine to make him do just what he was doing — trespassing.

Damson and Vanner would like that, Clay thought. It would put him in a position where they could shoot him with justification. He shook his head, still unable to understand why Vanner was willing to go to such lengths to drive him out of the valley or kill him.

He neared the top of the rise and reined in the dun. Quietly, he slid to the ground and walked forward, moving in the shadow of tall pines lining the side of the road. He pulled up short when he could see down into the hollow where Damson had his mine.

Damson was there, framed in the light from a trio of lanterns hanging from the barren branch of a lightning-struck tree. He was stripped to the waist and his powerfully-muscled body gleamed with sweat as he swung a shovel rhythmically, filling the big box of an ore wagon.

Damson’s apparent lack of concern warned Clay to caution. The big man seemed to be completely alone, and his gun and belt lay with his shirt some distance away, out of reach. Yet he moved as confidently as though his crew were protecting him. Or as if he had nothing to worry about because Clay was dead.

Clay looked carefully around. The lanterns cast a wide swath of light, showing him the pile of ore where Damson worked, the big freight wagon he was loading, the hand-driven ore car that sat at the mouth of the mine entrance. Beyond the light, shadows lay thick and heavy and motionless. If anyone was around, he was too well hidden for Clay to find.

He turned his eyes back to the pile of ore. As it had before, a feeling of wrongness tugged at his mind. His gaze traveled from the ore to the tunnel entrance of Damson’s mine. It was no more than a hole cut out of a mound of the heavy clay soil that formed this part of the foothills.

Heavy clay soil! An idea danced tantalizingly on the edge of Clay’s mind. He stared at the empty ore car, with its rusted wheels sitting on narrow, rusted tracks.

And then he knew. The pile of ore Damson was shoveling hadn’t come from his mine. It hadn’t come from anywhere close to here. Two years of swinging a pick in silver mines had taught Clay a good deal of practical geology. And one thing he had learned — metal bearing ores didn’t exist in the heavy clay Damson had here.

Clay retreated, slipping quietly from tree to tree until he reached the dun. He led it down the road until he was sure he was out of Damson’s earshot. Then he mounted and headed the dun back along the wagon road to his own land.

He rode a half mile before he found a deer trail leading up into the hills. He followed it, going slowly now as the ground grew steep. He reasoned that Damson was bringing in ore from someone else’s land and claiming it had come from his own mine. But Damson couldn’t haul the ore openly, and that meant he had to have a back trail over which he could carry the ore to the mine.

Clay swung the dun in an arc, working into the hills and, at the same time, back in the general direction of Damson’s mine. Exultation swept over him as he broke down a slope and onto a wide trail. It was of fairly recent construction and had been used a good deal lately. The prints of pack animals showed clearly in the bright moonlight. He turned away from the mine and rode in a southerly direction, backtracking the pack road.

The trail was fairly level, following canyon bottoms where it could, crawling over hills only when there was no way around them. Finally it began to rise, twisting its way upward to break suddenly through thick timber and onto the wagon road that led over the pass and out of the valley.

Clay hurried the dun across the wagon road and looked back. There was no sign of the trail he had just left. The stand of trees hid it completely. He turned and scanned the timber lining the near side of the wagon road. If he hadn’t been looking for the trail to start up again, he wouldn’t have seen it at all. The beginning had been cleverly camouflaged by brush and timber so that it was almost invisible.

Clay pushed the dun through the brush and went on. He judged that the trail crossed the pass road about halfway to the summit, and now he saw that it was climbing again.

Clay came out onto a wide flat and stopped. There was no need to go farther. Not tonight. He was on his own land. From here this trail could lead to only one place — the great tumble of rocks above the rear of Deadman Canyon.

Anger shook Clay. Damson had grown rich and powerful from silver that belonged to him! Now Clay understood what a man like Vanner was doing in Wildhorse. A scheme as difficult to carry out as this one needed the kind of mind Damson didn’t have. And Damson was just smart enough to figure that out. He’d deliberately brought Vanner here to help him rob Clay of silver while making it look as though the ore came from Damson’s own mine.

Either that or Vanner had found the silver first and picked Damson as the man best suited to front for him. It didn’t make much difference which one had the idea first. Clay figured Roy Ponders’ jail was big enough to hold them both.

He pushed the dun back the way he had come. He rode past the point where he’d first found this trail. A short distance beyond he could see the lantern lights reflecting off the trees again. He was almost back to Damson’s mine. But this time he was coming in from a different direction.

The trail led around a timbered hill, went over a short rise, and dropped abruptly into the hollow where Damson was working. Clay rode into the circle of lantern light and pulled the dun up short, drawing his gun.

Damson was standing with his shovel half-raised, a puzzled expression on his face as he squinted toward Clay. The shovel fell out of his hands and he took a backward step.

“Belden! I thought — ”

“Your boys told you wrong,” Clay interrupted. “Vanner’s scheme misfired. Sorry to disappoint you, Damson.”

Damson ran his tongue over his lips. His eyes moved past Clay to the trail Clay had left. The question he wanted to ask lay openly on his heavy face.

Clay said obligingly, “I found your pack trail.” He glanced at the pile of ore beside Damson. “That looks pretty rich from here. How much do you figure I’m worth — counting what you’ve already turned into money?”

“It’s mine!” Damson shouted at him. “I found it. By God, you’ll get nothing from me.”

He made a move toward his gun. “Hold it right there!” Clay ordered sharply. Damson took a stride forward. Clay fired. His bullet hit Damson’s gun and sent it flying off the darkness. Damson dropped to the ground as if he thought the bullet had hit him.

Clay said with disgust, “Get to your feet. We’re riding to town.”

Damson got up and walked toward Clay. He held both hands at his sides, his huge fists clenched. Suddenly he lifted his right arm and swung it. Clay saw the chunk of ore Damson held in his striking hand and knew that the big man had pretended fear at Clay’s shot, but had fallen to the ground as a blind. Clay ducked to shield himself from the chunk of ore, but he was too slow. The rock caught his gun arm at the elbow, numbing it. He felt the gun slide from his fingers.

Damson made a dive for the gun as it struck the ground. Clay left the saddle in a leaping dive that brought him down on Damson’s back.

Damson straightened up, flinging Clay off. Clay hit the ground and rolled. Damson turned and gave a gusty laugh. He came at Clay with a shoulder-swinging rush. Muscles bulged under his sweat-streaked skin. He moved quickly on his thick, solid legs, his fists clenched into hard boulders of bone and flesh.

Clay felt a sudden savage pleasure. He measured himself against Damson and he knew that Damson had never stood a better chance of whipping him than now. The long hard day in the saddle and the bruising he had taken during the stampede had honed away the sharp edge of his strength. But still he relished this chance to fight Damson without interference from anyone.

He set himself as Damson’s bull-like rush picked up speed and power.

Damson reached Clay and swung a heavy right first. Clay side-stepped. Too late he saw that Damson’s left fist held a piece of ore as well. Damson threw the rock. Clay flung an arm up over his eyes. The ore struck the arm a glancing blow and went on to slam against his forehead, right between his eyes. For an instant he was blinded. He staggered backward.

Damson’s gusty laugh came again. He stepped in and rapped a fist over Clay’s heart. He swung from far down and crashed his fist to Clay’s temple.

Clay went to his knees, blinking against the blinding tears scalding his eyes. He saw Damson through a haze of moisture. Damson came slowly toward him, lifting a leg to drive a boot toe into his face. Clay twisted aside as the boot gouged air beside his head. He reached up and caught Damson’s ankle. He jerked, twisting backwards.

Damson fought to hold his balance, lost it, and crashed to the ground. Clay climbed to his feet and rubbed his eyes. He saw Damson rise slowly, stand for a moment shaking his head like a wounded bull, and then move slowly forward.

Clay could see more clearly now, and he let Damson come almost up to him before he moved. He side-stepped as Damson swung. This time he ducked his head and moved in, rapping his left hand against Damson’s nose. He danced back and let Damson rush again. Clay blocked a right and drove two solid blows to Damson’s heart. Damson gave ground, pain whitening his heavy mouth. Clay pressed him, chopping both fists into Damson’s eyes.

Damson got in one more swing, a hard chop to the side of Clay’s head that sent him spinning off balance. And then Clay knew it was over. His crashing fall and Clay’s coldly calculated fists had broken Damson. His movements were slow; his eyes had begun to glaze.

Clay drove him across the hollow until he had Damson against the side of the freight wagon. Damson made a feeble effort to bring up his guard but Clay brushed it aside and chopped as methodically as a surgeon at Damson’s unprotected face.

Damson swung wildly, blinded by blood streaming from cuts above his eyes. Clay split his lips open and blood dribbled down over his chin and onto the hair matting his chest. Relentlessly, Clay continued swinging. He felt bone and cartilage give as his fists found Damson’s nose. He swung a final harsh blow against the side of Damson’s head and then stepped back, waiting for Damson to fall.

Damson pawed at the air but stayed upright, his back pressed to the side of the freight wagon. Clay stepped in and hit him in the Adam’s apple. Damson retched. Clay drove a fist under Damson’s breastbone.

Damson went down to his knees. He stayed that way, his head hanging, blood dripping from his battered face. After a long moment he lifted his head and wiped a little of the blood away from his eyes so he could see Clay.

“I’ll kill you for this. So help me.”

“Your privilege,” Clay said. “If you’re still young enough when you get out of jail.”

Damson cried out wildly and pushed himself forward in a diving charge that struck Clay around the legs. Clay went over backward with Damson clinging to him. He twisted free and rolled to where his gun had fallen. Damson scrambled to his feet and staggered to Clay’s dun. He flung himself on its back and kicked it savagely. The horse bolted along the rutted road.

Clay got the gun and surged to his feet. He fired once, aiming high. The dun skittered sideways. Damson, barely in the saddle, lost his grip and went down in the brush along the road. He picked himself up and ran over the rise and out of sight.

Clay reached the top of the rise in time to see Damson out of gun range now, stagger across the hill road and down toward his house. Clay heard the tired dun hammering its way toward town. Swearing, he started wearily after it.